“But, Harry, dear, you are safe now.”
“Safe?” he groaned; “yes, to be taken by the first policeman I meet, and locked up in gaol.”
“But, Harry!” she cried, his agitation growing contagious, “I have promised. I will help you now. I’ll keep it a secret, if you think it best, dear. Harry, for Heaven’s sake be a man.”
“It’s all over now,” he groaned, “so better end it all. I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead.”
“But, Harry, dear,” she whispered, trembling now as much as he, “tell me what to do.”
“I can’t now,” he said; “I’m too weak and broken. All this has been so maddening that I’m like some poor wretch half-killed by drink. It’s too late now.”
“No, no, Harry, dear. It shall be our secret then. Up, and be a man, my brave, true brother, and you shall go and redeem yourself. Yes, I’ll suffer it all hopefully, for the future shall make amends, dear. You shall go across to France, and I will study my father’s comfort, and pray nightly for you.”
“Too late,” he moaned—“too late!”
She looked at him wildly. The long strain upon his nerves had been too great, and he was white as a sheet, and shaking violently.
“Harry, dear, tell me what to do.”