His mind, his brain, worked on—but now suddenly in turmoil and misery despite all effort of his to hold himself in check.
Polly! Polly Gray!
She loved this monster—that she thought a man, and called her guardian. Not the love of a maid for lover; but with the love, the honour, the respect and gratitude that she would give a cherished father.
The truth would break her heart. The love her friends had given her, turned to their own undoing! The shame would be torture; the self-degradation, the abasement that she would know, would be beyond the bearing. Her faith would be a shattered thing!
Locke's clenched hands lay outspread across the table. He drew them suddenly together and dropped his head upon them.
"And you love her," he whispered to himself. "Do you know what that is going to mean? You did not count on that, did you? Do you know where that will lead? Do you know the consequences?"
He answered his own questions.
"No," he said numbly; "I don't know what it is going to mean. I know I love her."