“Not my rudeness that has vexed you so?” asked Geoffrey, gently, but feeling already a slight, premonitory chill.
“No, you must not think me so silly,” she replied. “It is” —and she hesitated.
“What?” he persisted.
“Oh, I don’t know—I can’t tell you,” she exclaimed, passionately. “It is not any one thing. It is just everything.”
“Oh,” said Geoffrey, with a whole world of mingled feeling in his voice. “Ah! I feared so. Poor child,” he said again, but with more of bitterness than tenderness this time. “Even my pity I suppose would be odious to you otherwise I might be fool enough to show you how genuine it is. But it is better not.” And he was turning away, when her voice recalled him.
“No, no,” she cried, “Geoffrey, don’t be so hard. Think how very lonely I am, how friendless! However I may have tried you, however you may think I have deceived you, surely my utter loneliness and wretchedness should soften you to me. I don’t want your pity. I want what now it is too late to ask for—I know it is too late. I know that you would hate me, only you are good, and so you don’t. But I can’t bear you to speak so hardly and bitterly.”
Her sobs broke out more wildly. Every word she had uttered was a fresh stab to Geoffrey, interpreted by him as it was. But he controlled his own feelings and spoke very gently to the poor child in her sore distress.
“Forgive me if what I said sounded hard and hitter, Marion. Heaven knows I am far from ever intending to hurt you. It is, as you say, too late to undo what is done; but do not make things worse by fancying I would ever intentionally add by even a word to all you suffer. Do me justice at least. So much, I think, I have a right to expect.”
His words were gentle but cold. Marion’s sobs grew quiet and her tears ceased. She was hurt, but her pride forbade her to show it except by silence.
In a moment Geoffrey spoke again, in a different tone.