"'It is not that I've done anything that could not be told to a woman,' he replied, getting up from the ground and standing over me. 'Oh! why cannot you understand that it is to you, and you only, that I may not speak, because to tell you would be to make things worse, not better?'
"'Whatever are you talking about?' I cried. 'Tell me at once what you mean. You have said either too much or too little, and I am justified in asking you to explain fully; or if you prefer to keep your secret from me, it must be at the cost of our friendship.'
"'Vera,' he said, bending over me, 'have you not seen--do you not know that I love you? Love you so deeply that, had it been possible, I should long ago have torn myself away from the scene of temptation; but oh! my love, I could not! I have striven to hide my feelings so that you might never know, and I, fool that I am! believed it was possible. All I asked was to be near you, to worship you; and what is the result? You will now despise and hate me. Had you loved your husband it would have been different, for till I knew that he had treated you badly--till I felt that you were in the sight of heaven not really his wife--I only admired you, and thought what a fortunate man he must be. But when you trusted me with this sorrow, a new feeling sprang up--a fire that could not be quenched. Oh, I know how vile I must seem in thus taking advantage of your confidence. Have I not thought over it day and night, saying to myself it is her very loneliness which should make the thought of love impossible! But I deceived myself with that old and oft-repeated deception of friendship, of self-renunciation, of living for you. Oh, Vera, I could not help it. If you could only know how sweet, how lovely you are, you would forgive.'
"He knelt down and kissed me on the forehead; then, apparently losing all further power of control, before I could decide what to say or do, he put his arm round me and kissed me on the lips and on the eyes. I leapt up, terrified by his passion, and conscious of a strange mixture of anger and pride: anger that he should have dared thus to insult me; pride that my beauty should so far overcome his reserve and honour.
"'Captain Frint!' I said, trembling so that I could hardly speak, 'I hate you--hate you! I thought you were a man to be trusted. I hope we shall never meet again.'
"He stood before me, looking on the ground. His face was deadly pale; his features were drawn and pinched as though he were suffering from acute bodily pain.
"'You are right,' he said at last, though in so low a tone that I could barely catch the words. 'I am a brute--the vilest of men! There is no excuse, so I will not make things worse by speaking. The only thing that is possible I will do. You shall not see me again after to-day.'
"As he spoke I could hear the strange sound which his parched lips made while he stammered out the words. When he had finished, for a moment I thought he would have fainted, but after a pause he seemed to recover somewhat, and continued--
"'Vera, you can never know how I have tried to be honourable, and though you will not believe me, had I foreseen that this could have happened, I would willingly have suffered the pain of parting from you before, rather than thus have given you cause for hating me. Oh, to think that I, who worship you so, should have dared to profane those pure, sweet lips, have dared to offer you my cursed love! Why is fate so cruel? If we had met a year ago, that which is now sin might have been so different! I cannot tell--I dare not even think of it--you might have loved me! This law which now separates us would have come no longer like the angel of death between us, and what is a curse would have proved a blessing! Hell, the eternity of which stretches before me, might have been changed to the gate of heaven. Why are things so ordered that fate has made my love poison, and turned that which should have been the greatest of earth's blessings into a curse? I must never see you again--must try even not to think of you. To do the latter is impossible, but the former I will do.'
"There was no mistake possible. The words he spoke were not caused by an exaggerated impulse of the moment; still less was he acting a part. He loved me, as I thought no one had ever done before, unselfishly yet passionately. I felt certain that if I said nothing, he would keep his word, and that this would be the last time I should have an opportunity of speaking to him. I did not like the idea of thus losing his companionship, but what was to be done? After thinking a minute, I said--