She was painfully weak and nervous. Successive waves of colour were hurrying over her face, and her breast rose and fell convulsively.
"I also remember," he said, masterfully, "and, Chelda, you must listen to me."
He took a seat near her and laid his hat on the table.
"I shall speak frankly," he said, "to you, the woman I love and am going to marry. No, do not take your hand from me. You are mine, if ever a woman belonged to a man. Let me tell you what has happened since I left you."
She allowed him to retain her hand, but kept her face averted while he gave her an account of his father's death and his reconciliation with his family.
"And," he went on, "when I once more saw eye to eye relatives who are dear to me, a great happiness came over me. Duty and the possession of wealth seemed to point to a life with these same relatives, but something urged me on. Chelda, I have at last found peace in religion,—the true, not the spurious religion. My heart became humbled. Not to crowded cities but to the wilderness a call came to me. I have been among the Indians in the West. If I could describe to you the joy of my life, the ecstasy, not of renunciation, but of participation in their lives! Only one thing could draw me from them. Do you know what that one thing was?"
She tried to answer him in a conventional tone, to assure him that she did not know, that she would be interested in hearing, but her breath came and went in fluttering gasps, and she could not speak.
"You, my darling. I have been kept informed of your movements. I know everything. At this juncture you need me. I am here,—here to take you back with me.
"My darling, my darling!" and gently putting his arm around her trembling form he kissed her feverish cheeks.
She drew away from him. "I murdered my aunt," she said, in a hollow voice.