“Would it—could you have blamed me?”
I swallowed a lump in my throat.
“No. It would have served me right. I was a fool, a dolt!” I said, bitterly, leaning over the rail in a dejected manner.
Perhaps I fondly hoped she might find it in her heart to forgive me then and there—perhaps I was even fool enough to think a pair of soft, clinging arms might come stealing around my neck as of yore. Ye gods! how I would have turned and taken her in my arms and crushed her to my heart, for I was hungry with love toward this dainty woman who had controlled my past, and, as I now knew full well, must direct my future until death came.
But she made no move to do such a thing. Indeed, she had become reserved, as though afraid she might overstep some line that had been marked out for observance.
There was a dignity, a womanly pride about her that chilled my ardor.
Evidently I had not yet been able to atone for my misdeeds; my penance must continue indefinitely.
“I have often thought we were both very headstrong in those days, Morgan. You have suffered remorse no more than I. Perhaps it was right we separated, since we failed to come up to each other’s ideals. But it is folly to lament over what is past. We shall go our ways—I will not intrude upon your good nature longer than is necessary, and shall keep to my room always.”
This was said with severe firmness. I took it to mean she did not care to meet Thorpe and his wife, to experience their sympathy and satisfy the natural curiosity Diana must show.
It was that and more—much more than a simple man could understand.