“But comparatively rich, love. I only said that so that those who would see evil in my acts may meet something to act as a shield to cast off these malicious darts. No, no, don’t withdraw your hand, dearest. I know how you have suffered. I have suffered too—sorrow for you—bitter jealousy of that man.”
“Chris,” she whispered, with a look of appeal, “for pity’s sake! I am weak and ill—I cannot bear it.”
“Forgive me,” he cried; “what a selfish brute I am! There, I hold your dear hand once more, and I am satisfied. I will not say another word, only go and wait patiently. My Claude cannot be anything but all that is kind and just to me. I’ll go and wait.”
She stood looking in his eyes, and he clasped her hand, while the soft, ruddy glow which struck right up the glen seemed to bathe them both in its warm light. Her lips moved to speak, but no sound came, though her eyes were full of joy and pride in the brave, manly young fellow whose words had thrilled her to the core.
“If it could have been,” she felt. And then a pang of agony shot through her, and she shuddered.
“How worn and thin you look, darling,” he said tenderly. “My poor, poor girl.”
This seemed to unloose the frozen words within her; the tears gushed from her eyes, and she tried to withdraw her hand, but it was too tightly held.
“Chris,” she said at last, and she clung to his hand as she spoke, “I do not doubt you. I know all you say is the simple truth, but it seems cruel to me now.”
“Cruel! My darling!”
“Hush, pray hush. It would be cruel, too, in me to let you speak like this about what can never, never be.”