“Dolly,” I cried, “you are not well. Why won't you come back to Maryland?”
She did not reply to that. Then she faced me suddenly.
“Richard, I know now why you insisted upon going back. It was because you would not desert your sea-captain. Comyn and Mr. Fox have told me, and they admire you for it as much as I.”
What language is worthy to describe her as she was then in that pose, with her head high, as she was wont to ride over the field after the hounds. Hers was in truth no beauty of stone, but the beauty of force,—of life itself.
“Dorothy,” I cried; “Dorothy, I stayed because I love you. There, I have said it again, what has not passed my lips since we were children. What has been in my heart ever since.”
I stopped, awed. For she had stepped back, out on the balcony. She hid her head in her hands, and I saw her breast shaken as with sobs. I waited what seemed a day,—a year. Then she raised her face and looked at me through the tears shining in her eyes.
“Richard,” she said sadly, “why, why did you ever tell me? Why can we not always be playmates?”
The words I tried to say choked me. I could not speak for sorrow, for very bitterness. And yet I might have known! I dared not look at her again.
“Dear Richard,” I heard her say, “God alone understands how it hurts me to give you pain. Had I only foreseen—”
“Had you only foreseen,” I said quickly.