“You are not recovered yet, Jilian, and Lot hinted that I might find you a little changed. I am sorry; believe me, I am. Why, you don’t look so pale as I expected, nor yet so thin. We shall soon have you well and handsome again, and all the women round about will be for envying you.”
It was a poor and jerky apology enough, and Miss Hardacre was not for one moment deceived by it. The boy was shocked, disgusted, even as she had feared he would be, and no doubt he was wondering how he could marry such a painted hag. Jilian imagined that she understood the whole of Jeffray’s heart, and that he shrank from her just as the rest of the world might shrink. From humiliation her mood turned suddenly towards impatience, and from impatience to reproachful bitterness.
“It is very hard, Richard,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed upon her satin slippers.
“Hard, Jilian?”
She flashed up petulantly, her eyes beginning to glitter.
“To be sure, I am ugly now, an old fright; I shall never be pretty again. Don’t deny it, Richard; I saw it all in your eyes from the first moment. Yes, I am ugly, and very miserable, and it is hard and bitter and cruel. I am beginning to hate myself just as everybody else will hate me.”
Jeffray hung his head, looked as ashamed and contrite as though every word accused him of dishonor. Yet for the life of him he could not forget Bess Grimshaw’s face, the scent of her clothes, the glimmer of her hair. The generous hypocrisies died unuttered on his tongue. His sincerity grappled him; he was sorry for Jilian, but he could not do his pity justice.
“It is all my fault,” he said, dejectedly.
Miss Hardacre’s fingers were crushing her handkerchief into a ball. The interview was proving too bitter to her, and she was beginning to revolt against Jeffray’s apathy. Why did he not try to comfort her? She would never have believed that Richard had so hard a heart.
“You are very cold, cousin,” she said.