“No, no, no,” he cried, comprehending the mistake at last; “that is not hers—Heaven forbid! That is the madman's who did it; I knocked him down with his own cudgel.”
“God bless you! you've killed him, I hope.”
“Oh, sir, be more merciful, and then perhaps He will be merciful to us, and not take this angel from us.”
“No! no! you are right; good young man. I little thought I had such a friend in your house.”
“Don't deceive yourself, sir,” said Edward; “it's not you I care for:” then, with a great cry of anguish, “I love her.”
At this blunt declaration, so new and so offensive to him, Mr. Hardie winced, and stopped bewildered.
But they were at the gate, and Edward hurried him on. At the house door he drew back once more; for he felt a shiver of repugnance at entering this hateful house, of whose happiness he was the destroyer.
But enter it he must; it was his fate.
The wife of the poor Captain he had driven mad met him in the passage, her motherly eyes full of tears for him, and both hands held out to him like a pitying angel. “Oh, Mr. Hardie,” she said in a broken voice, and took him, and led him, wonder-struck, stupefied, shivering with dark fears, to the room where his crushed daughter lay.