“No, no,” she gasped. “It sounds hard, but I must tell you. I can’t, I can’t—be your wife.”
He quivered a little, then sat still as stone.
“Why not, Edith?” he asked, in a cold, unnatural voice.
“Oh! look in the glass and you will see—that horrible red hole, and the other all red also.”
“I was totally blind for a while, and I’m ashamed to say it, but grief for my mother has brought back inflammation. It may pass. Perhaps they can do something for my looks.”
“But they cannot give you back your foot, and I hate a cripple. You know I always did. Also, the thing is impossible now; we should be beggars.”
“What, then, do you wish me to do?” he asked.
“Rupert,” she replied, in an intense whisper, flinging herself upon her knees before him, and looking up at him with wild, appealing eyes, “Rupert, be merciful, you are dead, remain dead, and let me be.”
“Tell me one thing, Edith,” he said. “Did you ever love me?”
“No, I suppose not quite.”