Not a word falls from her at this speech. She sits quite still and as white as snow, her hands clench together, and her breath comes quick and hard.
“But I couldn’t go away without coming to see you once more, Marguerite—without carrying away with me one more glimpse of your face.”
In spite of him he falters, and with the perverse nature of his sex, is angry with himself for rolling the stone to his own sepulchre.
“Why must you go?” she pleads, looking up wistfully. “Why can’t you stay? If you go I shall feel that I shall never, never see you again.”
“Are you sorry to lose me, Marguerite?” he asks softly. “I believe you are. I believe you really care for me just a little.”
“A little! Oh, Heavens!” she murmurs with her face all set and drawn, and her figure rigid, as if despair had turned her into stone. “You dare to say that!” she cries suddenly and fiercely. “You dare to say that, when you know—ay, must know—that all my life, all my love—ah! what am I saying?”
Then her passion, her bitterness, melts, and she wails out:
“Have you no mercy, Lord Delaval? Am I so low—so low, that you cannot even feel pity for me? See! I am praying here for clemency, for pity at your hands! Praying you not to break my heart!—not to ruin my life for ever and ever!” and she flings herself down on her knees and lifts up a face still more wondrously beautiful through the emotion that lives in every feature.
“Marguerite! Oh! what have I said?” he cries in an agony of remorse. “I would not give you a moment’s pain for the world. You say I deem you ‘low,’ Marguerite! Ah! if you could see into my heart, you would find that it is because I not only love you, but honour you, that I have come to say good-bye!”
He tries to draw away the hands with which she has hidden her face—the face that has undone him—but she droops her head, while her whole frame trembles with uncontrolled passion.