“No; you do not know; you cannot know,” he whispered hoarsely. “Myra, there is a gulf between us that can never more be crossed. Go, dearest, for Heaven’s sake, and try and forget that I ever said words of love.”
She looked at him in wonder more than dread, but the prime object of her mission came now to mind.
“No,” she said; “your mind is disordered with grief. I cannot leave you like this. Tell me, I beg, Malcolm: you do repel me because of my past?”
“No—no!” he said wildly. “For that? Great Heavens, no!”
“Then you must—you shall tell me.”
“Tell you?” he cried.
“Yes: what you have kept back from your firmest friend. It must be some terrible trouble—some great agony of spirit—that should induce you to raise your hand against your own life.”
“They told you that!” he said bitterly.
“Yes: they were obliged. But the reason, dear? Did you not tell me I should share your very being—that I should be your other self? Malcolm, tell me. I claim it as my right. Why are you like this?”
He caught her hands fiercely, and held her at arm’s length.