“I know that well,” he replied. “But that reminds me,” he went on, “I have never thanked you for it all. What a boor I am! In the first place your goodness in writing to me, and now for your goodness in taking my poor child in, as you have done. I am so stupid, Miss Freer, at thanking people. But you know what I mean, I am sure you do. Something more I would ask of you. Miss Freer, can you forgive me for having forgotten myself as I did last night?”
The last words he spoke very low, as if he could hardly force himself to utter them. Marion did not speak for a moment, and he went on.
“You must think me mad—mad with presumption and folly, as indeed I think myself. I thought I had mastered myself, Miss Freer, knowing all I do, both to myself, and you. You, I trust, will be very happy in the life you have chosen—much happier than if—ah! I must take care or I shall have to ask you to forgive me again. Can you do so, Miss Freer—Marion?” he added softly, as if in spite of himself.
And Marion looked up in his face, and said the one little word, “Yes.”
He wrung her hand and left her.
And she laid herself down beside the innocent little child he had given into her care, and tried to sleep. But in vain! All night long she tossed about, imagining herself kept awake by her anxiety about Sybil, but in reality going over and over to herself his words, his looks, his tones. And wondering why he behaved so strangely, and how it would all end?
[CHAPTER] XI.
THE LAST AFTERNOON ON THE TERRACE
“O Erd, O Sonne!
O Glück, O Lust!
O Lieb. O Liebe!
So golden Schön
Wie Morganwolken
Auf jenen Höhn.”
GÖTHE.