"I would forgive her," said Earle. "She could do no wrong so great but that I could pardon her."
"You are true and noble; you are of the kind whom women torture and kill. Tell me, have you no idea where she is?"
"I have not the faintest," he replied, "I cannot tell even in what quarter of the world she is; but I have confidence in my own will—I shall find her."
"Suppose," said the lady, "that you succeed, that you find her, and that she is unwilling to marry you—what shall you do then?"
His face darkened—a new expression such as she had never seen came over it.
"That is between Heaven and myself," he replied. "Until I am tried and tempted I cannot tell you what I should do."
"You would not harm her!" she cried, laying her hand on his arm.
"Harm her! hurt Doris! Oh, no! how could I harm her? She is life of my life, heart of my heart! How could I harm her?"
"That is well. I am weak and easily frightened; I have lived for nearly twenty years in one long dream of terror. I was a girl of eighteen when my fear began—I am a woman of thirty-eight now, and I have never known one moment's cessation of fear. Do you pity me?"
"With all my heart," said Earle.