_Re-enter ARMSTRONG, R., followed by MARGERY._
Come with me, Colonel. If you'll step indoors, I'll give you a glass of ale that'll do your heart good.
COLONEL [_putting his arm through ARMSTRONG'S_].
No, no, no! I was talking to myself. [_Exit ARMSTRONG, C., roaring. Aside, glancing at LADY WARGRAVE._] Nurse!
Aunt. Come and sit down by me. [_Draws her towards seat under the tree, L. LADY WARGRAVE sits--MARGERY at her feet._] Yes, Margery, to scold you. Why did you not confide in me? If you had only told me of your troubles, this would never have happened. It was undutiful.
No, aunt. There are some troubles one can confide to nobody--some griefs which are too sacred to be talked about.
And is yours one of them? You are young, Margery; and youth exaggerates its sorrows as well as its joys. Nothing has happened that cannot be put right, if you will only trust me and obey me.
No; but I read his thoughts--just as you used to say I could read yours--and I obeyed his wishes.
Then if he wished you to return, you would come back?
Not if he'd been talked over; not if he asked me to go back to him because he thinks it his duty, or I want him. I don't want duty; I want love.
You wouldn't see him, if I sent him to you?
What is the use of seeing him? You can send Gerald, but not Gerald's heart. I have done all I can--I can't do any more. I've saved his honour--I've resigned his love. All I ask is, to be left alone with mine.
[_LADY WARGRAVE rises, and as GERALD advances, retires into the house, C._
I am not here to ask you to come back to me. How can I say what I have come for? I have come--because I cannot keep away from you. To ask for your forgiveness----
And, if it's possible, some place in your esteem. Let me say this, and I will say no more. If, for a little space, my heart strayed from you, Margery--if, for a moment, words escaped my lips which cannot be recalled, that is my only infidelity. You understand me?
Not all I want to say, but all I must. I am no longer a free man. My lips are sealed.
Haven't you heard? Sylvester's left his wife--and it is all my doing.
I may tell you now. He left his wife, not through your fault or hers, but to make love to me.
Free to say how I love you--how I have always loved you! Yes, Margery, I loved you even then--then when I spoke those unjust, cruel words; but love's so weird a thing it sometimes turns us against those we love. But when I saw you, there upon the ground, my heart turned back to you--no, it was not my heart, only my lips that were unfaithful! My heart was always yours--not half of it, but all--yours when I married you, yours when you said good-bye, and never more yours, never as much as now, now I have lost you.