"Angus!" and putting Charlie gently down, she rose from her chair and came towards him, trembling—"Do you mean—do you really mean that all is over between us?—that you will not marry me?"
He looked at her straightly.
"I cannot!" he said—"Not if I am true to myself as a man!"
"You cannot be true to me, as a woman?"
He caught her in his arms and held her there.
"Yes—I can be so true to you, Mary, that as long as I live I shall love you! No other woman shall ever rest on my heart—here—thus—as you are resting now! I will never kiss another woman's lips as I kiss yours now!" And he kissed her again and again—"But, at the same time, I will never live upon your wealth like a beggar on the bounty of a queen! I will never accept a penny at your hands! I will go away and work—and if possible, will make the fame I have dreamed of—but I will never marry you, Mary—never! That can never be!" He clasped her more closely and tenderly in his arms—"Don't—don't cry, dear! You are tired with your long journey—and—and—with all the excitement and trouble. Lie down and rest awhile—and—don't—don't worry about me! You deserve your fortune—you will be happy with it by and by, when you find out how much it can do for you, and what pleasures you can have with it—and life will be very bright for you—I'm sure it will! Mary—don't cling to me, darling!—it—it unmans me!—and I must be strong—strong for your sake and my own"—here he gently detached her arms from about his neck—"Good-bye, dear!—you must—you must let me go!—God bless you!"
As in a dream she felt him put her away from his embrace—the cottage door opened and closed—he was gone.
Vaguely she looked about her. There was a great sickness at her heart—her eyes ached, and her brain was giddy. She was tired,—very tired—and hardly knowing what she did, she crept like a beaten and wounded animal into the room which had formerly been her own, but which she had so long cheerfully resigned for Helmsley's occupation and better comfort,—and there she threw herself upon the bed where he had died, and lay for a long time in a kind of waking stupor.
"Oh, dear God, help me!" she prayed—"Help me to bear it! It is so hard—so hard!—to have won the greatest joy that life can give—and then—to lose it all!"
She closed her eyes,—they were hot and burning, and now no tears relieved the pressure on her brain. By and by she fell into a heavy slumber. As the afternoon wore slowly away, Mrs. Twitt, on neighbourly thoughts intent, came up to the cottage, eager to hear all the news concerning "old David"—but she found the kitchen deserted; and peeping into the bedroom adjoining, saw Mary lying there fast asleep, with Charlie curled up beside her.