Only once before had he “dared” to speak; that was when she so unexpectedly ran into his arms. Then it had not been of his seeking; but now? An anxious look gathered in the sweet brown eyes.
“Will you, please?” he asked.
The tone as well as the words were full of entreaty, so, silently she moved forward a step and bent her head in token of acquiescence. A glad light for a moment lit up his eyes, then stepping to Alice he said:
“You will excuse us? I will try and not keep her long.”
A look of wonderment filled her eyes. When had Lawrence ever paid open attention to Imelda? Again the question arose in her mind, “What does, what can it all mean?” But she readily answered, “Certainly, I will excuse you. I shall do very well. I feel so much better now.” With a low “Thank you,” he turned from her to Imelda whose hand he took and placing it on his arm led her to the open window leading to the veranda, followed by the eyes of the surprised Alice.
Imelda understood, but only the quick indrawing of her breath gave token that the idea of going out into the open air under the starlit heavens had anything unpleasant in it for her. Slight as had been the sound and involuntary the action, Lawrence Westcot had taken note of it. His teeth sank into his lips but otherwise he gave no sign. Down the garden pathway to the fountain’s edge whose silvery sparkling waters had witnessed so many and so very different scenes he led her, and then quietly dropped her hand. Stepping back a pace or two he folded his arms and confronted her. For a minute or more he did not speak, although his lips twitched nervously. Was he waiting for her to utter the first words? If so, he was doomed to disappointment for the proud lips did not open.
“Miss Ellwood!”
A slight uplifting of the head, that was all. Whatever he had to say, she would not help him one iota.
“Miss Ellwood, a man does not often find himself placed in a position quite so awkward as that in which I find myself this evening, in having asked you for this interview.” He paused a moment ere he went on. “Some two months ago I spoke words to you that tonight I feel ashamed of. I approached you in a manner that was ungentlemanly—unmanly. For the feelings that had crept into my heart I make no excuse. I simply had no control over them. A hot, fierce desire and longing for something that was denied me; a confused comprehension of what that something was, made me unjust—and—cruel to the woman who is so unfortunate as to be my wife. Having through the merest chance overheard a conversation of yours and hers, thereby gathering something of your strange ideas and opinions, but utterly failing to comprehend them, I permitted the passion that had taken possession of me to have full sway. A woman who does not believe in marriage, what would you?
“In my insufferable conceit I supposed I had but to stretch out my covetous hand in order to satisfy the fire of my passion. I was rudely brought to my senses by the reproof of a pure mind and by the righteous scorn of insulted purity. In an instant, almost, I came to understand my mistake and would have given much to have been able to recall my words. But you had dealt my pride an ugly blow. It was not an easy matter to humble myself to the woman who had treated me to well merited scorn. I had hoped time would close the breach and that this painful scene would be spared me. Men of world are not wont to retract insulting words, especially when defeated in their object. But something besides wounded pride would not let me rest. There is something here,”—touching his breast, “a painful aching void that makes life a mockery, a misery. The unmanly act of that evening is a burden which at times is almost unsupportable. Will you help me remove it? Will you say that you forgive?”