Surely my heart is not quite unworthy of you, when it is all yours.
I have lived such a lonely, miserable life--and you might so easily
brighten it. You are kind to everybody else, Isabel. Tell me, dear, why
are you so hard on _me?_"
His voice trembled as he appealed to her in those simple words. He had
taken the right way at last to produce an impression on her. She really
felt for him. All that was true and tender in her nature began to rise
in her and take his part. Unhappily, he felt too deeply and too strongly
to be patient, and give her time. He completely misinterpreted her
silence--completely mistook the motive that made her turn aside for a
moment, to gather composure enough to speak to him. "Ah!" he burst out
bitterly, turning away on his side, "you have no heart."
She instantly resented those unjust words. At that moment they wounded
her to the quick.
"You know best," she said. "I have no doubt you are right. Remember one
thing, however, that though I have no heart, I have never encouraged
you, Mr. Moody. I have declared over and over again that I could only
be your friend. Understand that for the future, if you please. There are
plenty of nice women who will be glad to marry you, I have no doubt.
You will always have my best wishes for your welfare. Good-morning.
Her Ladyship will wonder what has become of me. Be so kind as to let me
pass."
Tortured by the passion that consumed him, Moody obstinately kept his
place between Isabel and the door.
Pages:
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46