She turned away her head. In that moment she went afresh through suffering as acute as on the evening of the ball,—the agony of humiliation, the misery of outraged trust, which, to a nature like hers, were by far the sorest parts of her trial.
“Who told you all this?” said Trevor hoarsely.
“Yourself,” replied Cicely, but still without looking at him. “I was in the fernery at Lingthurst the night of the ball, when you and Geneviève passed through. She was crying, and I heard what you said—what you promised her. I was hidden behind some large plants. I could not, of course, have let you know in time that I was there, but it was better that I heard what I did. I suppose you would have acted as you said but for what happened so soon—and then you shrank from adding to my sorrow; was it not so, Trevor?”
“No, not altogether. I did not mean what I said. I mean I did not wish it. I said it impulsively because—oh, because she cried and threw herself upon my pity! But even if I had wished to break with you, Cicely, I could not. I could not have done so when I learnt the change that had taken place in your position. Do you think I have no feeling of honour?”
“‘Honour’ has come to mean many things,” said Cicely sadly. “Has it nothing to tell you of what you owe to her?”
Trevor muttered something under his breath, which Cicely did not catch the sense of. “Besides,” she went on, “it is true, it must be true, that you care for her?”
“Not as I do for you, Cicely,” he ex claimed vehemently. “Will you not believe me—what can I say—good heavens! what can I say to make you believe me? I see it all now so plainly—what I fancied my love for her was a mere soulless infatuation, a thing that could not have lasted. I was no sooner out of her presence than I repented what I had said. I was mad I think—but at that time I had been worked upon to believe that it would cost you nothing to break with me. I did believe it, and I was reckless.”
“Trevor,” said Cicely, “it is frightful to me to hear you talk like this. I cannot believe it. Let me think as well of you as I can; do not try to deprive yourself of your only excuse—that you do love her.”
“I suppose I fancied I did—after a fashion,” he allowed. “But it was not the sort of love that should be taken up so seriously as you are doing. Would you take it up so if you cared for me, Cicely? It seems to me you are eager to catch at an excuse for throwing me off.”
“How can you, how dare you say so?” exclaimed Cicely, her eyes flashing. “Have you forgotten your own words? Nothing else would have made me doubt you, but can you deny your own words?”