“I am very sorry; but it cannot be helped.”
“How can you be sorry for me, when you wilfully keep open the grave?”
“Oh no—that’s not so,” returned Grace, quickly, and moved to go away from him.
“But, dearest Grace,” said he, “you have condescended to come; and I thought from it that perhaps when I had passed through a long state of probation you would be generous. But if there can be no hope of our getting completely reconciled, treat me gently—wretch though I am.”
“I did not say you were a wretch, nor have I ever said so.”
“But you have such a contemptuous way of looking at me that I fear you think so.”
Grace’s heart struggled between the wish not to be harsh and the fear that she might mislead him. “I cannot look contemptuous unless I feel contempt,” she said, evasively. “And all I feel is lovelessness.”
“I have been very bad, I know,” he returned. “But unless you can really love me again, Grace, I would rather go away from you forever. I don’t want you to receive me again for duty’s sake, or anything of that sort. If I had not cared more for your affection and forgiveness than my own personal comfort, I should never have come back here. I could have obtained a practice at a distance, and have lived my own life without coldness or reproach. But I have chosen to return to the one spot on earth where my name is tarnished—to enter the house of a man from whom I have had worse treatment than from any other man alive—all for you!”
This was undeniably true, and it had its weight with Grace, who began to look as if she thought she had been shockingly severe.
“Before you go,” he continued, “I want to know your pleasure about me—what you wish me to do, or not to do.”