She was frightened when he said that, and muttered hurriedly, “I hope I haven’t done you any harm.”
“One doesn’t know what harm or good one does,” he replied, “working-man or grand lady. You’ll go your way. I’m asking you only whether you’ll remember me with pride, or whether you’ll think of yourself as one of the things that dragged me back, when I was always trying to escape? I’m not strong, you know. I’m not strong. I’m only cursed with a spirit that’s totally beyond my strength.”
“I don’t understand,” she said uneasily; she tried to tell herself that he was making a great fuss; but she could not get away from the idea that the “fuss” was tragically weighted.
“You’re quite safe,” he said, with extraordinary gentleness. “I never wanted to love, you know, either you or any one else; I often told you so; but it isn’t love that I abuse, only the weakness that submits to it. And I have to acknowledge that you are wise in getting rid of me. I’m all awry, you know; misbegotten; and folk like me are better left alone; their misfortune only rubs off on to other people. You are wise to protect yourself; that’s always a wise thing to do. I could wish only that you had done it earlier; you would have made it easier for me.”
The melancholy of his reproach surprised her into saying, “Is it at this moment that you’re speaking from your heart, or was it just now?” and she remembered the sharp finicky gestures he had made when he thanked her for the kindness she had shown him. “To what extent are you theatrical?” she asked, in a little outburst of bad temper.
“That isn’t a question I should answer, even if I had the answer at the tip of my tongue,” he replied. “You may think, if you choose, that I am never sincere.” (She thought, “He is going back to his old manner.” She was greatly thankful.) “Perhaps I am no more sincere,” he continued, standing there, “than any of your ladyship’s little gimcracks in this room.” His reference to her gimcracks was not contemptuous; he seemed rather to be translated into a region where a large gentleness held sway. Ironically enough, she thought that she had never seen him before, although this was the last time she was seeing him. A similar idea appeared to strike him at the same moment, for he said, “All along, I have fought against you, and tried to disguise myself from you. It doesn’t matter now. I seem always to be fighting,—floundering about,—don’t I? I wonder whether I shall ever get away? away from myself? Would your ladyship ring for Emma now? I should like to go.”
She got up wearily and crossed the room to the bell. He was standing there, no longer scathing, but quiet, patient, and tired. She looked at him; and, going swiftly to him, she caught his hand.
“Listen, Silas. Perhaps I’ve been too hasty. Listen to me. Perhaps I need not dismiss you altogether ... I might reconsider....”
“No,” he brought out with extreme firmness, as though he extorted from a long way off the last tragic effort of an overstrained will.
“As you please,” she said, dropping his hand, and in her angry haste she threw open the door to urge the maid who was coming to lead him away.