“Never?” inquired Latimer.
“What I have thought was that you had suffered much more than you wished your mother to know; that—perhaps—your sister had suffered more than you would reveal; and that you dreaded with all your being the telling of the story. But never such tragedy as this—never—never!”
“The man—the man who wrought that tragedy,” began Latimer, staring darkly before him, “somewhere he stands to-night—unless his day is done. Somewhere he stands—as real a man as you.”
“With all his load upon him,” said Baird; “and he may have loved her passionately.”
“It should be a heavy load,” said Latimer, with bitter gloom; “heavy—heavy.”
“You have not once uttered his name,” said Baird, the thought coming to him suddenly.
“No,” said Latimer; “I never knew it. She prayed so piteously that I would let her hide it. She knelt and sobbed upon my knee, praying that I would spare her that one woe. I could spare her no other, so I gave way. She thanked me, clinging to me and kissing my hand. Ah, her young, young heart wrung with sobs and tears!”
He flung himself forward against the table, hiding his face upon his arms, and wept aloud. Baird went and stood by him. He did not speak a word or lay his hand upon the shaking shoulders. He stood and gazed, his own chest heaving and awful tears in his eyes.