“Then,” she said with a slight, the very slightest, quiver in her voice— “then you have come to say good-bye.”
“Not for long, I hope,” he answered. “I am very loth to go, but I think it is my best course. In a week or two I hope to be back again, and if I succeed in what I am going to try for, I shall, you may be sure, make no delay in finding my way here again. I cannot explain to you, Miss Freer—Marion. I cannot explain to you at present my strange, inconsistent conduct. But I could not bear to go away without asking you not to think worse of me than you can help—to trust me for a little. Just now I cannot defend myself, but I beseech you to think gently of me. If indeed”—and here in spite of himself his voice grew husky—” indeed, I am not mistaken in thinking you are likely to have me in your thoughts at all. If I am mistaken I can only ask you to forgive my presumption.
“You are not mistaken,” said Marion, gently, but very clearly. “You are not mistaken, and now I am not ashamed to tell you so. I do not altogether understand you, but I do not ask for any explanation till you can give it me. And if that time should never come I will still not blame you, and I will not, even then, feel ashamed of having told you so. I know that in some way you are not your own master, not free to act as you wish. But I would not feel towards you as I do, if I did not believe you cared for one thing more than for me.”
“One thing?” asked Ralph.
“Yes,” she said. “Doing right, I mean.”
“Thank you,” he replied. “Thank you for all you have said. Above all, for trusting me. You are right in what you suspect. I am indeed not free, but it will not be my fault if I do not succeed in becoming so. I may fail; in that case I must not ask you to remember me. But, in any ease, Marion, my dear, true-hearted little friend, thank you for all you have been to me; and, above all, for not, misjudging me now.”
He had risen and come nearer her. She too stood up, and did not withdraw the hand he had taken. But suddenly she started back, snatching it away almost violently.
“No, no!” she cried; “I am not as good as you think me. I am not worthy of you. I have deceived you in letting you think me— Oh, what shall I do? Must I tell you? Please, don’t ask me to tell you yet. Some day it may be different, but not just now. You would blame me so.”
“Hush, Marion; hush, my dear child. I don’t understand you. We both have mysteries, you see. But don’t distress yourself so. Tell me nothing you would rather not tell. Some day, as you say, when I can explain all my strange behaviour to you, you shall then tell me what you please. Do you think, my poor darling, that I cannot trust you as you trust me? Only tell me this much. It is nothing that need come between us two, if, as I hope, in a week or two from now I can see my way clearly.”
Marion looked relieved, but anxious.