I yielded; he passed both his arms around me, looked down into my face and said abruptly—
"You know, Daisy, I am fond of you. I think I have shown it; I hope you believe it."
I said I did; but I could scarcely speak, my heart beat so. Why did he tell me of his affection?
"You have not been happy of late," he continued; "at times I have noticed, with pain, an expression of perfect misery on your face: I do not mean that it was justified, but it was there, and, even whilst I blamed you, it grieved me to think you should be unhappy in our home."
"Do not mind it, I don't," I exclaimed eagerly; "I do not mind being unhappy now and then—I would much rather be miserable here with you and Kate, than ever so happy elsewhere."
"Perhaps you would," he replied, "for if you have great faults, no one can say that want of affection is amongst them. You can love, too much perhaps; but that is not the question; on your own confession you are not happy, and to that there is but one remedy. I see in your face that you have guessed it—separation."
Yes, I had guessed it, but not the less acutely did I feel the blow; I did not answer; he continued—
"We must part. You do not know, perhaps you could not understand, how much it pains me to say so; and yet it must be. You are not happy yourself, and there is in the house a sense of unquietness, of strife, that cannot last any longer. But my chief reason for taking this determination concerns you wholly. You are not aware, my poor child, that the feeling you have been indulging is fast spoiling your originally good and generous nature. You are morally ill. I have done what I could to eradicate the disease, but it passed my power. There is but one cure— absence. And now one last remark: you cannot change my resolve; spare me the pain of refusing that which I cannot and must not grant."
I did spare him that pain. I lay in his arms mute and inanimate with grief. The blow had been inflicted by the hand I had trusted, and had reached me where I had always sought for refuge and consolation. I had been jealous, perverse; I had provoked and tormented him, but I had never thought he could have the heart to banish me. I believe Cornelius had expected not merely entreaties, but lamentations and tears; seeing me so quiet, he wondered.
"Did you understand?" he asked.