“There, there. Never mind,” she pleaded.
“I killed her, but I loved her,” he went on implacably.
And he told them something of his sorrow afterward, and told them how he had stifled his remorse by telling himself that Mary was false; how he had kept his soul alive with that poor unction. He was weakening fast; the terrific battering which he had endured was having its effect upon even his great strength; but his voice went steadily on.
He came to Darrin, came to that scene with Darrin the night before, by the spring; and so told how Darrin had proved to him that Mary was—Mary. And at last, as though they must understand, he added, “So then I knew.”
They did not ask what he knew; these two did understand. They knew the man as no others would ever know him—knew his heart, knew his unhappiness. There was no need of his telling them how he had passed the night, and then the day. He did not try.
Ruth was comforting him; and he watched her with a strange and wistful light in his eyes.
“You’ve hated me, Ruthie,” he reminded her. “Do you hate me now?”
There was no hate in her, nothing but a flooding sympathy and sorrow for the broken man. She cried, “No, no!”
“You’re forgiving——”
“Yes. Please—please know.”