“Hush, woman!” cried Humphrey, hoarsely; “and for pity’s sake—the pity of which you speak—let us part and meet no more. I cannot, I will not listen to your words. Give me my liberty, and let me go.”
“To denounce me and mine?”
“Am I such a coward, such a wretch, that I should do this?” he cried, passionately.
“Then stay. Listen: I will give you love such as woman never gave man before. I loved your cousin as a weak, foolish girl loves the first man who whispers compliments and sings her praises. It is to her all new and strange, the realisation of something of which she had dreamed. But as the veil fell from my eyes, and I saw how cowardly and base he was, that love withered away, and I thought that love was dead. But when you came my heart leaped, and I trembled and wondered. I shrank from you, telling myself that it was a momentary fancy; and I lied, for it was the first strong love of a lonely woman, thirsting for the sympathy of one who could love her in return.”
“Oh! hush—hush!” cried Humphrey. “I have told you that it can never be.”
“And she will never love you as I would—as I do,” came in a low, imploring whisper.
“Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” cried Humphrey.
“Even if it were not so I could not—No, I will not speak. I only say, for pity’s sake let us part.”
He paused, for there was no reply.
“You do not answer,” he said, gently. “Think of what I say. I cannot give you love. I should be unworthy of yours if I could. My friendship I can give, and it shall be devoted to saving you from this life.”