If he would but show the least sign of relenting, or of his by-gone affection for her, she would have told him joyfully.
But he did not, he had none to show, and his next words extinguished every hope.
“Marion, there is no use in prolonging this interview; what you wish cannot be.”
Reader, did you ever see any one grow instantly old—the light, and life, and joy fade forever out of a face that had been fresh and lovely in one moment of time; and lines of age, misery, and care settle where there had been nothing but beauty before? If so, you may know something of how Marion Vance looked as she listened to what George Sumner told her on that dismal night in January, as she sat in that little reception-room at the end of the passage.
“Can I believe you?” she said. “Can I believe any one would ruin a young and trusting girl like that? You mean to tell me that it was only a mock marriage—that ceremony and certificate that the pretended old man gave me only a sham?”
“That was all,” George Sumner confessed, feeling strangely uneasy with those unearthly eyes fixed so steadily upon him.
“That was all!” she repeated, with bitter emphasis. “I have but one more question to ask you,” she continued, still unnaturally calm, but looking like a dead person, all but her burning, restless eyes. “Once for all, will you marry me now, legally and honorably?”
“I cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because, as I told you, it is absolutely necessary that the woman I marry should have plenty of money and an established position in the world,” he said, flushing beneath her look.