“You are safe,” he repeated, indignantly.
“No, I shall know no safety, no peace, no rest, until I am in my grave,” she said, mournfully. “My doom is on me—I cannot evade it.”
“Mrs. Payton,” said Kenelm, “I am not what the world calls a lady’s man, but will you trust me? Will you tell me your story, and let me see if I can find some means of helping you?”
She looked at him long and mournfully; her dark eyes grew soft and tender, her beautiful lips quivered.
“No, I will not tell you,” she replied, sadly, “not because I cannot trust you, but because I will not bring you into conflict with a coward and villain.”
“I am equal to it,” he said.
“Yes, you are a hero, but you shall risk nothing for me, neither character, peace nor life.”
“I would risk all for you, Mrs. Payton.”
She had ceased to tremble, and stood before him in all the dignity of despair. Her voice was like the saddest, sweetest music of an æolian harp. She held out her hand with a gesture of farewell.
“No,” she said, “the temptation is strong. I have never had a strong arm to lean on, or a strong heart to trust. I have been alone all my life. No, you shall risk nothing for me.”