“Why—why,” she stammered, “Mr. Baker told me some one wanted to see me. I—I had no idea that you—”
“I want to see you bad enough, God knows, Cynthia,” Floyd found himself saying, “but I did not tell him so. That, you know, would not be respecting the message you sent me.”
“The message?” she said. “I'm sure I don't understand you.”
“I mean the message you sent me by your mother,” Floyd explained.
“But I didn't send you any message,” Cynthia said, still mystified, as she stared frankly into his eyes.
“I mean the—the night I came for you,” Floyd pursued, “the night I was so presumptuous as to think you'd run away with me.”
“Oh, did she—did my mother tell you—” Cynthia was beginning to understand. “Did she say that I—”
“She told me you said you wanted me never to bother you again.”
The girl lowered her head, the fire lighted up her face as she stood, her eyes on the rough floor. She was silent a moment as if in deep thought, then she looked into his eyes again. “I begin to see it all now,” she said. “I wondered why you—how you could have treated me that way after—after all you'd said.”
“Cynthia, what do you mean? Do, do tell me!” He leaned closer to her—she could feel his quick, excited breath. “Surely you could not believe I'd have left if you hadn't wished it. Oh, little girl, I have been the most miserable man alive over losing you. I know I am unworthy of you—I always shall be that—but losing you has nearly killed me. Your mother told me that awful night that you not only wanted me to let you alone, but that you were going to marry Hillhouse.”