When he has read it, he drops it with a groan, and covers his face with his hands. To him, too, the evidence seems clear and convincing.
"I told you to avoid me. I warned you," she says, presently, with a wan smile. "I am born to ill-luck; I bring it even to all those who come near me—especially, it seems, to the few who are unhappy enough to love me. Go, Cyril, while there is yet time."
"There is not time," desperately: "it is already too late." He moves away from her, and in deep agitation paces up and down the secluded garden-path; while she, standing alone with drooping head and dry miserable eyes, scarcely cares to watch his movements, so dead within her have all youth and energy grown.
"Cecilia," he says, suddenly, stopping before her, and speaking in a low tone, that, though perfectly clear, still betrays inward hesitation, while his eyes carefully avoid hers, "listen to me. What is he to you, this man that they say is still alive, that you should give up your whole life for him? He deserted you, scorned you, left you for another woman. For two long years you have believed him dead. Why should you now think him living? Let him be dead still and buried in your memory; there are other lands,"—slowly, and still with averted eyes,—"other homes: why should we not make one for ourselves? Cecilia,"—coming up to her, white but earnest, and holding out his arms to her,—"come with me, and let us find our happiness in each other!"
Cecilia, after one swift glance at him, moves back hastily.
"How dare you use such words to me?" she says, in a horror-stricken voice; "how dare you tempt me? you, you who said you loved me!" Then the little burst of passion dies; her head droops still lower upon her breast; her hands coming together fall loosely before her in an attitude descriptive of the deepest despondency. "I believed in you," she says, "I trusted you. I did not think you would have been the one to inflict the bitterest pang of all." She breathes these last words in accents of the saddest reproach.
"Nor will I!" cries he, with keen contrition, kneeling down before her, and hiding his face in a fold of her gown. "Never again, my darling, my life! I forgot,—I forgot you are as high above all other women as the sun is above the earth. Cecilia, forgive me."
"Nay, there is nothing to forgive," she says. "But, Cyril,"—unsteadily,—"you will go abroad at once, for a little while, until I have time to decide where in the future I shall hide my head."
"Must I?"
"You must."