CHAPTER XXIX.
A TERRIBLE SELF-SACRIFICE.
He looked at her for a moment, then turned away slightly, as if he could not meet the direct gaze of her lovely eyes, which said so plainly: “Let others think what they may, I know you are innocent!”
He did not offer to draw forward the only chair, but stood in silence while one could count twenty. By this time he had recovered his usual self-possession, and could speak to her without a quiver in his voice.
“You have been ill,” he said, gently. “You are ill and weak still, too unwell to—to come here. Why did you come?”
She sank into the chair, and looked up at him, leaning her arms on the table and clasping her hands. There was entreaty, and yet a touch of firmness and resolution in her attitude and her face.
“Yes, I have been ill,” she said. “I think I have been very near death. I tell you this that you may know why I have not sent a message to you, why I have not come.”
He fought hard against the thrill of joy which ran through him, and, keeping his eyes closely guarded, as it were, responded:
“Why should you send to me? I—I have no claim upon you.”
“Have you not?” she said at once, her eyes fixed on his with the light of a woman’s truth and devotion shining in their depths. “Are you not in trouble?”
“Yes,” he assented, “in great trouble, God knows!”