"Before you left Pullingham?"
"No! oh, no!—not then," exclaims Ruth, eagerly. "I did not believe it then. Do not judge me more harshly than you can help."
The dull agony that flashes into her eyes quickens into life some compassionate feeling that still lies dormant in Clarissa's breast.
"I do not judge you at all," she says, with infinite gentleness. Then, with an impulsive movement, she turns and lays her hand upon her shoulder. "Come home with me—now!" she says. "Leave this place, Ruth, I implore you, listen to me!"
"Do not," says Ruth, shrinking from her grasp; "I am not fit for you to touch. Remember all that has passed."
"Do you think I shall ever forget!" says Clarissa, slowly. "But for your father's sake: he is ill,—perhaps dying. Come. For his sake you will surely return?"
"It is too late!" says the girl, in a melancholy voice. And then, again, "It is impossible." Yet it is apparent that a terrible struggle is taking place within her breast: how it might have ended, whether the good or bad angel would have gained the day, can never now be said; a sigh, a broken accent, decided her.
"My head!" murmurs the sick man, feebly, drawing his breath wearily, and as if with pain. "Ruth, Ruth, are you there?" The querulous dependent tone rouses into instant life all the passionate tenderness that is in Ruth's heart. Having soothed him by a touch, she turns once more to Clarissa.
"He too is sick,—perhaps dying," she says, feverishly. "I cannot leave him! I have sacrificed all for him, and I shall be faithful unto the end. Leave me: I have done you the greatest wrong one woman can do another. Why should you care for my salvation?" Through all the defiance there is bitter misery in her tone.
"I don't know why; yet I do," says poor Clarissa, earnestly.