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He sat up and stared at her humbly and stupidly.

“Eh?” he said at last.

“Theer’s not a mon i’ Arle as isna more to me now than tha art,” she said, “Some on ’em be honest, an’ I conna say that o’ thee. Tha canst get thee gone or I’ll go mysen. Tha knows’t me well enow to know I’ll ne’er f orgie thee for what tha’s done. Aye”–with the passionate hand-wringing again–“but that wunnot undo it.”

He rose and came to her, trembling like a man with the ague.

“Yo’ dunnot mean that theer, Meg,” he said slowly. “You dunnot mean it word fur word. Think a bit.”

“Aye, but I do,” she answered him, setting her white teeth, “word fur word.”

“Think again, wench.” And this time he staggered and caught hold of the door-post. “Is theer nowt as’ll go agen th’ wrong? I’ve lived wi’thee nigh a year, an’ I’ve loved thee twenty–is theer nowt fur me? Aye, lass, dunnot be too hard. Tha was allus harder than most womankind; try an’ be a bit softer like to’rds th’ mon as risked his soul because he wur a mon an’ darena lose thee. Tha laid thy head on my shoulder last neet. Aye, lass–lass, think o’ that fur one minnit.”

Perhaps she did think of it, for surely she faltered a little–what woman would not have faltered at such a moment?–but the next, the memory of the sunny, half-boyish face she had clung to with so strong a love rushed back upon her and struck her to the heart. She remembered the days when her life had seemed so full that she had feared her own bliss; she remembered the gallant speeches and light-hearted wiles, and all at once she cried out in a fierce, impassioned voice: “I’ll ne’er forgie thee,” she said–“I’ll ne’er forgie thee to th’ last day o’ my life. What fur should I? Tha’s broke my heart, thou villain–tha’s broke my heart.” And the next minute she had pushed past him and rushed into the house.

For a minute or so after she was gone the man stood leaning against the door with a dazed look in his pale face. She meant what she said: he had known her long enough to understand that she never forgave–never forgot. Her unbroken will and stubborn strength had held her to enmities all her life, and he knew she was not to be won by such things as won other women. He knew she was harder than most women, but his dull nature could not teach him how bitter must have been the life that rendered her so. He had never thought of it–he did not think of it now. He was not blaming her, and he was scarcely blaming himself. He had tried to make her happy and had failed. There were two causes for the heavy passion of misery that was ruling him, but neither of them was remorse.

His treachery had betrayed him, and he had lost the woman he had loved and worked for. Soul and body were sluggish alike, but each had its dull pang of weight and wretchedness.

“I’ve come to th’ eend now surely,” he said, and, dropping into her seat, he hid his face.

As he sat there a choking lump rose in his throat with a sudden click, and in a minute or so more he was wiping away hot rolling tears with the back of his rough hand.

“I’m forsook somehow,” he said–“aye, I’m forsook. I’m not th’ soart o’ chap to tak’ up wi’ th’ world. She wur all th’ world I cared fur, an’ she’ll ne’er forgie me, for she’s a hard un–she is. Aye! but I wur fond o’ her! I wonder what she’ll do–I do wonder i’ my soul what she’s gettin’ her mind on!”

It did not occur to him to call to her or go and see what she was doing. He had always stood in some dull awe of her, even when she had been kindest, and now it seemed that they were too far apart for any possibility of approach at reconciliation. So he sat and pondered heavily, the sea air blowing upon him fresh and sweet, the sun shining soft and warm upon the house, and the few common flowers in the strip of garden whose narrow shell walks and borders he had laid out for her himself with much clumsy planning and slow labor.