"Fairly."
"No. Not fairly."
Briefly, but in vehement words, Mark told the story of the sermons, concluding with Betty's discovery of the truth.
"And now," he demanded, stretching out his shaking hands, "do you see the real Mark Samphire? Is your finger on the pulse of a poor wretch who tried to do his duty and—here's the rub, David—who was punished the more heavily on that account? If I had played the world's game, Betty would be my wife. Archibald would be still minor canon of Westchester."
Ross took the outstretched hands.
"My poor Mark," he murmured.
"Thanks, David; but don't pity me! I envy no man living. You have listened to my story, patiently. One thing more remains to be said. If Betty had not discovered the truth, I could have held aloof from her to the end. On her account, not because she was my brother's wife, I respected the law. But now," his voice was triumphant, "she wants me. Do you hear? She wants me. I'm necessary to her. And because of that, and for no baser reason, I am going to her—to-night."
Ross met his eyes.
"In a word," said he, "you refuse to protect the woman you love against herself?"
"Once, I should have used that very phrase. What an ocean flows between us, David!"