Kingcote’s eyes held themselves fixed upon her face. The silence seemed to be long; he was conscious of prolonging it purposely. He saw her put her hand upon the table and lean heavily on it.
“Will you answer me?” she uttered in an agitated whisper.
“Surely it is needless to answer in words,” he said at length. “Why have you come to offer me that which you know I cannot accept?”
The evil spirit stirred in his breast, and, with scarcely a pause, he continued vehemently:
“Why did you not spare both of us this? Do you think so basely of me? Cannot I read in your face that you believed it to be your duty to make this offer to me, at whatever cost to yourself? You are conscious that your unkindness drove me to part from you in frenzy, and what has happened seemed to impose a necessity of restoring to me a piece of good fortune which I had thrown away. And you have feared lest I should take you at your word! If you had ever loved me you would know me better.”
Her head bowed itself before his violence; he could scarcely catch the words when she said:
“I did love you.”
“For a day—for an hour; I believe it. You gave me your love in recklessness. It was a fatal gift.”
“I think you should not reproach me,” she said, in the same faint voice. “I gave you the one love of my life. I would have married you then. It would have been truer kindness to take me—to have given me something to live for. My love would not have failed you.”
For an instant he could have implored what fate had written unattainable. He knew the unreality of the vision that tempted him, and could not have uttered the words his tongue half-formed. But the mood showed itself in gentler speech.