"The very question insults me! Let my pony go."
"You never met him in Fern Wood—never engaged yourself to him—never corresponded with him?"
"Colonel Fairlie, you have no earthly right to put such questions to me," interrupted Geraldine, with her hot geranium color in her cheeks and her eyes flashing fire. "I honor the report, whoever circulated it, far more than it deserves, by condescending to contradict it. Have the kindness to unhand my pony, and allow me to continue my ride."
"You shall not go," said Fairlie, as passionately as she, "till you have answered me one more question: Can you, will you ever forgive me?"
"No," said Geraldine, with an impatient shake of her head, but a smile nevertheless under the shadow of her hat.
"Not if you know it was jealousy of him which maddened me, love for you which made me speak such unpardonable words to you?—not if I tell you how perfect was the tale I was told, so that there was no link wanting, no room for doubt or hope?—not if I tell you what tortures I had endured in losing you—what bitter punishment I have already borne in crediting the report that you were secretly engaged to my rival—would you not forgive me then?"
"No," whispered the young lady perversely, but smiling still, the geraniums brighter in her cheeks, and her eyes fixed on the bridle.
Fairlie dropped the reins, let go her hand, and left her free to ride, if she would, away from him.
"Will you leave me, Geraldine? Not for this morning only, remember, nor for to-day, nor for this year, but—for ever?"
"No!" It was a very different "No" this time.