“My dear young lady,” I cried, horror-struck at the supposition. “Why should I? What makes you think I should dream of . . . ”
She had raised her head at my vehemence. She did not understand it. The world had treated her so dishonourably that she had no notion even of what mere decency of feeling is like. It was not her fault. Indeed, I don’t know why she should have put her trust in anybody’s promises.
But I thought it would be better to promise. So I assured her that she could depend on my absolute silence.
“I am not likely to ever set eyes on Captain Anthony,” I added with conviction—as a further guarantee.
She accepted my assurance in silence, without a sign. Her gravity had in it something acute, perhaps because of that chin. While we were still looking at each other she declared:
“There’s no deception in it really. I want you to believe that if I am here, like this, to-day, it is not from fear. It is not!”
“I quite understand,” I said. But her firm yet self-conscious gaze became doubtful. “I do,” I insisted. “I understand perfectly that it was not of death that you were afraid.”
She lowered her eyes slowly, and I went on:
“As to life, that’s another thing. And I don’t know that one ought to blame you very much—though it seemed rather an excessive step. I wonder now if it isn’t the ugliness rather than the pain of the struggle which . . . ”
She shuddered visibly: “But I do blame myself,” she exclaimed with feeling. “I am ashamed.” And, dropping her head, she looked in a moment the very picture of remorse and shame.