He paused a moment, then broke out—
'And now you see—what you did!—what a horrible thing!—for the most ridiculous reasons! But after you'd left me—in that way—you couldn't expect me to give her up—her friendship—all I had. For nine or ten years, if I prospered at all, I tell you it was her doing—because she upheld me—because she inspired me—because her mere existence shamed me out of doing—well, what I could never have resisted, but for her. If I ever did good work, it was her doing—if I have been faithful to you, in spite of everything, it was her doing too!'
He sank down upon the window-seat—his face working. And suddenly
Phoebe was at his knees.
'Oh, John—John—forgive me!—do, John!—try and forgive me!' She caught his hands in hers, kissing them, bathing them with her tears. 'John, we can begin again!—we're not so old. You'll have a long rest—and I'll work for you night and day. We'll go abroad with some of my money. Don't you know how you always said, if you could study abroad a bit, what good it'd do you? We'll go, won't we? And you'll paint as well as ever—you'll get everything back. Oh, John! don't hate me!—don't hate me! I've loved you always—always—even when I was so mad and cruel to you. Every night in Canada, I used to long for it to be morning—and then in the morning I longed for it to be night. Nothing was any good to me, or any pleasure—without you. But at first, I was just in despair—I thought I'd lost you for ever—could never, never come back. And then afterwards—when I wanted to come back—when I knew I'd been wicked—I didn't know how to do it—how to face it. I was frightened—frightened of what you'd say to me—how you'd look!'
She paused, her arms flung round him, her tear-stained face upraised. In her despair, and utter sincerity, she was once more beautiful—with a tragic beauty of character and expression, not lost for one moment upon the man beside her.
He laid his right hand on her head amid the masses of her fair hair, and held it there, forcing her head back a little, studying her in a bitter passion—the upper lip drawn back a little over the teeth, which held and tormented the lower.
'Twelve years!' he said, slowly, after a minute, his eyes plunging into hers—'twelve years! What do you know of me now?—or I of you? I should offend you twenty times a day. And—perhaps—it might be the same with me.'
Phoebe released herself, and laid her head against his knee.
'John!—take me back—take me back!'
'Why did you torture me?' he said, hoarsely. 'You sent me Carrie six weeks ago—and then swept her away again.'