"Have you made sure of that? Have you written to your father—explained?"
"I sent him a special delivery three days ago, and—and yesterday a telegram. I knew it wouldn't do any good, but I ... I told him everything. He didn't answer. He won't, ever."
From what Whitaker knew of Thurlow Ladislas, he felt this to be too cruelly true to admit of further argument. At a loss, he fell silent, knitting his hands together as he strove to find other words wherewith to comfort and reassure the girl.
She bent forward, elbows on knees, head and shoulders cringing.
"It hurts so!" she wailed ... "what people will think ... the shame, the bitter, bitter shame of this! And yet I haven't any right to complain. I deserve it all; I've earned my punishment."
"Oh, I say—!"
"But I have, because—because I didn't love him. I didn't love him at all, and I knew it, even though I meant to marry him...."
"But, why—in Heaven's name?"
"Because I was so lonely and ... misunderstood and unhappy at home. You don't know how desperately unhappy.... No mother, never daring to see my sister (she ran away, too) ... my friendships at school discouraged ... nothing in life but a great, empty, lonesome house and my father to bully me and make cruel fun of me because I'm not pretty.... That's why I ran away with a man I didn't love—because I wanted freedom and a little happiness."
"Good Lord!" he murmured beneath his breath, awed by the pitiful, childish simplicity of her confession and the deep damnation that had waited upon her.