“Upstairs—and crying, I suppose. She doesn’t do anything else. It’s all she’s good for. Selfish, romantic—”
He got no further, for Captain Elisha sent him reeling with a push and ran to the elevator.
“Eighth floor,” he commanded.
The door of the apartment was not latched. Stephen, in his rage and hurry, had neglected such trifles. The captain opened it quietly and walked in. He entered the library. Caroline was lying on the couch, her head buried in the pillows. She did not hear him cross the room. He leaned over and touched her shoulder. She started, looked, and sat up, gazing at him as though not certain whether he was a dream or reality.
And he looked at her, at her pretty face, now so white and careworn, at her eyes, at the tear-stains on her cheeks, and his whole heart went out to her.
“Caroline, dearie,” he faltered, “forgive me for comin’ here, won’t you? I had to come. I couldn’t leave you alone; I couldn’t rest, thinkin’ of you alone in your trouble. I know you must feel harder than ever towards me for this afternoon’s doin’s, but I meant it for the best. I had to show you—don’t you see? Can you forgive me? Won’t you try to forgive the old feller that loves you more’n all the world? Won’t you try?”
She looked at him, wide-eyed, clasping and unclasping her hands.
“I forgive you?” she repeated, incredulously.
“Yes. Try to, dearie. Oh, if you would only believe I meant it for your good, and nothin’ else! If you could only just trust me and come to me and let me help you. I want you, my girl, I want you!”
She leaned forward. “Do you really mean it?” she cried. “How can you? after all I’ve done? after the way I’ve treated you? and the things I’ve said? You must hate me! Everyone does. I hate myself! You can’t forgive me! You can’t!”