“I hoped until the end—even after I knew that hope was folly and that I was a fool to cling to it. I always meant to come back to you when I got the chance, but not like this—not like this.”
At the pain in his eyes the girl caught her breath with a sob that shook her from head to foot. Pity moved her with a passion stronger than mere love, and she put out her protecting arms with a gesture that would have saved him from the world—or from himself.
“No, like this, Dan,” she answered, with her lips upon his coat.
He kissed her once and drew back.
“I never meant to come home this way, Betty,” he said, in a voice that trembled from its new humility.
“My dear, my dear, I have grown to think that any way is a good way,” she murmured, her eyes on the blackened pile that had once been Chericoke.
“It is not right,” he went on; “it is not fair. You cannot marry me—you must not.”
Again the humour quivered on the girl's lips.
“I don't like to seem too urgent,” she returned, “but will you tell me why?”
“Why?” he repeated bitterly. “There are a hundred why's if you want them, and each one sufficient in itself. I am a beggar, a failure, a wreck, a broken-down soldier from the ranks. Do you think if it were anything less than pure madness on your part that I should stand here a moment and talk like this?—but because I am in love with you, Betty, it doesn't follow that I'm an utter ass.”