“I will tell you,” he said gently; “you are going like some good angel to solace a man dying of misery and despair. I do not know the cause of all this, but I do know that Malcolm Stratton, who has always been as a brother to me, loves you with all his heart.”
“Yes—yes,” whispered Myra excitedly.
“And that some terrible event—some sudden blow, caused him to act as he did on his wedding morning. Myra Jerrold,” he continued solemnly, “knowing Malcolm as I do, I feel that he must have held back for your sake, taking all the burden of his shame upon him so that you should not suffer.”
“Yes,” she said in her low, excited whisper; “that is what I have been feeling all these weary, weary days. It is that thought which has sustained me, and made me ready to sacrifice so much—pride, position, the opinion of my friends—in coming here like this.”
“Your cousin is here,” said Guest quickly. “We shall not leave.”
“No, you will not leave me,” she said, holding his arm with both her hands.
“Now, be firm,” whispered Guest, “and think of why you have come.”
“To forgive him,” she said slowly.
“I believe there is nothing to forgive,” said Guest warmly. “No: you come as his good angel to ask him by his love for you to be open and frank, and tell you why he has acted thus. He will not speak to me, his oldest friend: he cannot refuse you. But mind,” he continued earnestly, “it must not be told you under the bond of secrecy; he must tell you truly, and leave it to us afterward to decide what is best to be done.”
“Yes,” she said, speaking more firmly now, “I understand. I have come to help the man who was to have been my husband, in his sore time of trial. The feeling of shame, degradation, and shrinking has passed away. Percy Guest, I am strong now, and I know. It is no shameless stooping on my part: I ought to have come to him before.”