"It is growing late, Edith," she said gently, "and you must be tired after your journey. You will go up to your room now. I will watch with Victor to-night."
But Edith only drew him closer, and looked up with dark, imploring eyes.
"No," she said, "no, no! I will never leave him again. I am not in the least tired, Lady Helena; I will stay and share your watch."
"But, my dear—"
"O Lady Helena—aunt—don't you see—I must do something—make reparation in some way. What a wretch—what a wretch I have been. Oh, why did I not know all sooner? Victor, why did I not know you? To remember what my thoughts of you have been, and all the time—all the time—it was for me. If you die I shall feel as though I were your murderess."
Her voice choked in a tearless sob. She had hated him—loathed him—almost wished, in her wickedness, for his death, and all the time he was yielding up his life in his love for her.
"You will let me stay with you, Victor?" she pleaded almost passionately; "don't ask me to go. We have been parted long enough; let me be with you until—" again her voice choked and died away.
With a great effort he lifted one of her hands to his lips—that radiant smile of great joy on his face.
"She talks almost as if she loved me," he said.
"Love you! O Victor!—husband—if I had only known, if I had only known!"