“Do not shrink from me. Indeed I will not intrude my presence on you more than is absolutely necessary,” he began, in low and deprecating tones.
But she shuddered and shrank into herself, more fearfully than ever.
He sat down at some little distance from her, sighed heavily, because he could not help doing so, drew out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead, which was beaded with a cold moisture, and paler now than it had ever been in his life before.
“I only wished to discover, if indeed I can do so, through you, whether you really knew what you were about when you came to me on the beach, when you accompanied me to the city here, and when you gave me your hand in the church?”
These words acted upon the motionless form with more power than a galvanic battery on a corpse.
She sprang from her seat to the middle of the floor and, confronting him with a wild and agonized face, she exclaimed:
“No, I did not know what I was doing! I was mad—mad—mad! and you ought to have known that I was mad to have done such an unheard-of thing. Oh, David Lindsay, if you ever loved me, have pity on me now and leave me! If you have a spark of mercy in your soul, grant my prayer, and leave me. If you have the least instinct of honor, do not insist on keeping the position that my act has given you. If you are a man and not a monster, and not a maniac, leave me and never let me see your face again.”
He gazed on her in anguish and amazement. Then he arose from his chair, crossed over to the fireplace, and stood upon the corner of the hearth, with his elbow leaning on the mantel-shelf, and his hand supporting his forehead. His eyes were fixed upon the floor, his face was white as death, and looked older by a dozen years than it should be. Yet he was very firm and patient. Boy as he was—but a few months past his twenty-first birthday—he could never descend to the weakness of pleading his suit, and playing upon the sympathies of his beloved, as older and wiser men have done, and still do. No. If her love could not approve him, her pity should not accept him. He adored her with his whole soul. He had married her, yet he would not persecute her with an unwelcome suit. But neither must he leave her now, in her childishness and helplessness. He must see her in some place of safety, and under some proper protection.
Such were the thoughts that passed rapidly through his mind, as he stood on the corner of the hearth, with his elbows resting on the mantelpiece, his head leaning on his hand, and his eyes fixed on the floor.
“David Lindsay, will you act the part of an honorable man, and leave me at once and forever, or will you stay here and drive me furious?” she demanded again, in a voice of anguish.