Words failed me. I hadn't the temerity to speak John's name. And Ned—could he not see?—only stood there saying:—
"Why I've wrecked Milly's life and mine and turned your friends against you, only God knows, who made men what they are; only God knows—I don't. Can you forgive me?"
Didn't he love me? His despair was beating conviction into me. He was pale, his lip quivered. Why was he humbled and ashamed? I was palsied with doubt, and the golden moments were fleeting, were fleeting. I must act! But I felt as if I were dead and could not, though that strangling cloud still hurt me.
"There is nothing to forgive," I faltered at last. "Or—you must forgive me. Perhaps I should understand, but—oh, I'm not wise. Indeed I have not meant to—to—Shall I speak to Milly for you? But that would only make matters worse. They may take me—to Bermuda—anywhere; or—I will leave this house; she'll forget if I go away."
At the last words my tremulous voice broke almost into a scream. Must I go away—go away that he may make Milly happy?
"You will stay here," he said, his lips quivering more and more. "Why should I drive you from home? I have lost Milly. She understands no more than you, and I hope she never may! You need not fear that I shall trouble you. I shall not see you again. You are maddening—no, not that—but I am mad. Mad!"
He turned abruptly to go, came back as hastily, caught my hand and pressed hot kisses on it. His burning eyes looked passionately into mine. He was indeed like one insane.
Then with a great groan of contrition he put his hands before his face and rushed blindly from the room.
"Ned! Ned!" I cried out, but it was too late; he didn't hear me.
I don't know how I reached my chamber. I fell in a heap on the floor, shivering, laughing, sobbing, moaning for death.