“Yes,” she gasped, “but—”
He held out his hand. Morrison was at the door.
“Morrison,” he said, “you will order the motor to be round in half an hour to take Lady Ruth to Truro, She has to catch the London express. You will go with her yourself, and see that she has a reserved carriage. If, by any chance, you should miss the train, order a special.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And tell the cook to send in tea and wine, and some sandwiches, in ten minutes.”
Once more they were alone. Lady Ruth rose slowly to her feet and, trembling in every limb, she walked down the room and fell on her knees before Wingrave.
“Wingrave,” she said, “I will go away. I will do all that you tell me; I will wear my chains bravely, and hold my peace. But before I go, for heaven’s sake, say a kind word, look at me kindly, kiss me, hold my hands; anything, anything, anything to prove to me that you are not a dead man. I could bear unkindness, reproaches, abuse. I can bear anything but this deadly coldness. It is becoming a horror to me! Do, Wingrave—do!”
She clasped his hand—he drew it calmly away.
“Lady Ruth,” he said, “you have spoken the truth. I am a dead man. I have no affections; I care neither for you nor for any living being. All that goes to the glory and joy of life perished in that uncountable roll of days, when the sun went out, and inch by inch the wall rose which will divide me forever from you and all the world. Frankly, it was not I who once loved you. It was the man who died in prison. His flesh and bones may have survived—nothing else!”
She rose slowly to her feet. Her eyes seemed to be dilating.