She smiled sadly, and put her handkerchief
over my face to hide for me the betrayal of my own weakness--the
weakness of all others which she knew that I most despised.
"Oh, Marian!" she said. "You crying! Think what you would say to
me, if the places were changed, and if those tears were mine. All
your love and courage and devotion will not alter what must
happen, sooner or later. Let my uncle have his way. Let us have
no more troubles and heart-burnings that any sacrifice of mine can
prevent. Say you will live with me, Marian, when I am married--
and say no more."
But I did say more. I forced back the contemptible tears that
were no relief to ME, and that only distressed HER, and reasoned
and pleaded as calmly as I could. It was of no avail. She made
me twice repeat the promise to live with her when she was married,
and then suddenly asked a question which turned my sorrow and my
sympathy for her into a new direction.
"While we were at Polesdean," she said, "you had a letter, Marian----"
Her altered tone--the abrupt manner in which she looked away from
me and hid her face on my shoulder--the hesitation which silenced
her before she had completed her question, all told me, but too
plainly, to whom the half-expressed inquiry pointed.
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