“Poor unhappy woman,” sighed Robert sympathetically.
She looked at him quickly, her face flushing, her eyes earnestly searching his face. “Then you would have pitied her?” she asked almost breathlessly.
“He cannot be a man who would not pity a woman under such circumstances,” he replied simply and thoughtfully.
“She loved him devotedly, recklessly,” she continued, her voice trembling with suppressed emotion; “but she had no moral right to do so,” she continued. “She was a wife, a miserable, unhappy wife; she deserved much pity, but he was pitiless and uncharitable. He despised her weakness, and so—she drowned herself.” Her voice sank into a strained, unnatural whisper.
“Poor unhappy woman!” he repeated compassionately. “She was over-hasty, I fear.”
“You would not have consigned her to such a fate, would you?” she faltered, laying her soft feverish hand on his.
He started violently and was silent for a time. Then, slowly, sorrowfully he turned and looked into her tell-tale face; for a moment she gazed at him, her eyes glittering with an unholy light, her bosom heaving tumultuously. Then she slowly drooped her head.
“’Twould be a heavy load to have on one’s conscience,” he replied constrainedly.
He rose from his seat and stood looking thoughtfully across to where Edinburgh castle loomed up on the hill, so cold and gloomy, outlined against the blue sky.