"I am sorry—very sorry! Yes!"
"Stop!" He laid his hand upon her forehead, gently pushing back her head until he virtually compelled her eyes to come up to the level of his own. "Margaret Hayley, too little may be said as well as too much. I am going to say what perhaps no other man in the world dare say. I love you, but that is not all. I cite your woman's heart and your immortal soul this moment before the sight of that God whose eye is looking down upon us in this sunshine, and I say that you love me! You may never forgive me the word, but you must tell me the truth! Do you deny it?"
"No!" The word was louder and clearer than any that she had spoken—louder and clearer than any that had been spoken during the interview. And yet it was not a lover's response.
"You admit this, and yet you say that my opening my heart to you separates us instead of drawing us together. Three days ago you told me that—that man"—he did not mention the name of Captain Hector Coles, nor did there seem to be any occasion—"was not and never could be your betrothed husband. What tie binds you? What am I to fear? What am I to think?"
"Think that what I say is true, Horace Townsend—that I love you, and yet that I do not love you—that your company is dearer to me, to-day, than that of any person on earth—that I respect you in every regard and hold you as one of the bravest and noblest of men—and yet that every word of love you utter makes it more evident that we must not meet again, and so separates us forever!"
"What is this riddle?" He asked the question in a tone of great anxiety, and he did not take away his eyes from the proud orbs that no longer sunk before them as he made the inquiry. How impossible to believe that the man who had but the moment before cited the heart and soul of Margaret Hayley before the very eye of God as a searcher of their entire truth and candor, could himself be guilty of deception at the same instant! And yet was he not? Was the riddle really so obscure to him as he pretended? Was the very name under which he wooed and sought to win, his own? Strange questions—stranger far than that he asked; and yet questions that must be asked and answered!
"Listen, Horace Townsend!" she said after one instant of silence. "You call this a riddle, and you force me to read it to you. I wish you had not done so, but I have no choice. I would have kept you as a friend—a dear friend, but you would not accept the place."
"Never—not for one moment!" he broke in, as if through set lips. Her hand was on his arm, and they were again walking listlessly on. She proceeded without any reference to his interruption.
"I have too many words to say—words that pain me beyond measure; but you have forced me to them, and I must finish, even if you think me mad before I have done. I do not know but I am mad—every thing about me sometimes seems to be so unreal and mocking."
Horace Townsend turned at that moment and looked her sidelong in the face, then withdrew his glance again as if satisfied, and she went on: