“For good,” he answered firmly. She turned from him quickly to hide the tears that blinded her. But a strangled sob she had not the strength to restrain betrayed her. Almost inaudible it was but he heard it.
“Marny!” The cry was wrung from him. And the next moment she was in his arms, clinging to him despairingly, weeping as he had not believed it possible for a woman to weep. Unmanned by her sudden breakdown, aghast at the terrible sobs that seemed to be tearing the slender little body to pieces, he strained her to him with passionate strength. “Marny, Marny, for God’s sake—don’t cry like that. Your tears are torturing me.” But conscious only of the shelter of his arms, too weak to struggle against the feelings she had so long suppressed, she was powerless to check the storm of emotion that overwhelmed her. Lying inert against him, her face hidden in his robes, she sobbed her heart out on his till the violence of her grief terrified him and he caught her closer, bending his tall head till his cheek was resting on her tumbled hair, whispering words of love and entreaty.
“Have pity on me, child, you are breaking my heart. Do you think I can bear to see you weep—Marny, my love, my love.”
Her arm slid up and round his neck. “Oh, let me cry,” she moaned, “for five years I’ve had to be a thing of stone. If I don’t cry now I shall go mad.” A spasm swept across his face and his own eyes were dim as he ceased to urge her, waiting patiently till the tempest of her tears should pass. And gradually the tearing sobs ceased and she regained control of herself. Exhausted and ashamed, not daring to meet his eyes, almost dreading the sound of his voice, she clung to him in silence, wishing passionately that her life could end, thus, in his arms.
And to Carew the close contact of her trembling limbs was a mingled rapture and pain that was agony. His face buried in her fragrant hair, he prayed desperately for strength to leave her, for strength to meet the parting that must come.
Still holding her he raised her head with gentle force. Her eyes were closed, the thick, dark lashes lying wet on her tear-stained cheek, and the hungry longing to touch them with his lips was almost more than he could withstand.
“Won’t you look at me, Marny? Am I never to see your dear eyes again?” he murmured huskily.
A tremor passed through her and for a moment she did not respond. Then the dusky lashes fluttered faintly and slowly the heavy lids unclosed. For long they looked, staring as though into each other’s souls, and against her tender breasts she felt the violent beating of his heart.
A quivering sigh escaped her. “Gervas—oh, Gervas, Gervas,” she whispered, and lifted her face to his. The sadness in his eyes deepened into anguish and his firm mouth trembled as he shook his head.
“I mustn’t kiss you, dear. Your lips are his—not mine, God help me. I haven’t even the right to touch you. I’m a cur to hold you in my arms like this, but I can’t let you go—not yet, not yet, my darling.” His voice broke, and insensibly his arm tightened round her, crushing her to him with a force of which he was unaware. She turned her head with a little sob. “How could we know that this would come to us—how could we know that we would care,” she cried. “I never thought you loved me. I thought it was only I who—who—” She clenched her teeth on her lip, fighting the sobs that were rising in her throat. “Oh, why was it you that came that night near Blidah!” she burst out passionately. “What did my life matter? And I—I who would die for you, I’ve brought you unhappiness. Gervas, why don’t you hate me!”