“You are hurt,” she cried. “What shall I do? Richard—dear Richard! He’s dying. Oh, my love—my love!”
“Hush!” he cried huskily, as she was raising his head in her arms; “for God’s sake don’t speak to me like that. There—there—you see I am better. The pony kicked me. It made my head swim. There,” he cried, rising to his knees, “you see it is all right. I quite frightened you.”
He stood up now and offered her his hand to rise; but she did not take it, for she covered her face with her hands and crouched lower and lower on her knees, sobbing wildly in a passion of grief, for his words had been as cold and distant as if they had been strangers.
“Miss Dean—Miss Dean—pray let me help you to your carriage,” he said; but she shrank from him.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried bitterly; “you made me love you—you made me disgrace myself like this, and now I am to be your laughing-stock and scorn.” She looked up at him with her eyes full of rage, which died out on the instant as she cried to him wildly, “I wish you had let me drown!”
He stood looking at her for a few moments, and then glanced along the winding lane; but they were quite alone. Then, taking her hand, he made her rise, for she submitted to his will without a trace of resistance.
“I am very sorry,” he said at last simply.
“Sorry!” she cried angrily. “Oh, why am I such a mad fool? Why did I betray myself like this?”
“Hush!” he said softly, as he held her hand between both of his; “listen to me. Do you think I have not seen for long enough that you are beautiful, and that—”
“How dare you?” she cried fiercely. “It is not true.”