“Don’t—don’t speak to me—don’t look at me with those appealing eyes. I cannot bear it. Pray—pray go.”
“Go?” she said, raising her hand to his arm, “when I have at all costs come to you like this!”
“Yes, yes, go—at once,” he cried, and he shrank from her as if in horror.
“Malcolm—dearest!” she moaned; “you shrink from me. What have I done?”
He was silent in the terrible struggle going on within his breast.
“You do not speak,” she whispered, as if in dread that her words should reach the ears of those without. “You cannot be so cruel as to cast me off for the past. I did not know then, dear—I was a mere girl—I accepted him heart-whole. It was my father’s and his wish; do not blame me for that.”
He turned from her as if to avoid her eyes, and her voice grew more piteous as she crept close to him and stood with her hand raised to lay it upon his arm, but dreading to touch him again after his cold rebuff.
“I tell you, dear, I did not know then—I believed you cared for Edie.”
“I? Never!” he cried, turning to her for the moment. “Why do you revive all that?”
“Because you are so cruel to me—so cold, Malcolm, I must speak now. You have made me reckless—ready to brave the whole world’s contempt, my father’s anger, for the sake of him who first taught me what it was to love. I tell you I must speak now, and I come to you humble and suppliant—the woman you would have made your wife. It was too cruel, but I forgive you, dear. Let all that be as if it had never happened.”