[CHAPTER XXXII.]
It was rather an embarrassing position to be placed in both for Lancelot and the handsome widow. After some little desultory conversation they both relapsed into silence and walked soberly on their way.
Mrs. Vance at length broke the silence in a low and very faltering voice.
"Lance," she murmured, "I must avail myself of this, the only opportunity I have had, to crave your pardon and forgetfulness for a confession which I too sadly remember with blushes of shame for my madness and folly. Forgive me for recurring to that moment of frenzy and shame. I only do so to entreat your pardon and crave your forgetfulness."
He felt the small hand trembling within his arm where it rested, like a fluttering bird; looking down in the brilliant moonlight he saw tears shining like drops of dew on her down-drooped lashes.
He did not answer, and she continued, in a voice full of sadness and shame:
"Words cannot paint my grief and shame for that deeply deplored confession. Not shame that I love you, Lance, but shame that in an hour of impulsive and passionate abandonment, I showed you the secret of my heart and gained in return your bitterest scorn."
"No, no, you mistake me, dear madam," said he, struggling for words to reassure her. "It was not scorn—it was grief that moved me to speak as I did. I felt your words dimly as an outrage on the modesty of womanhood—oh, forgive me, I do not know how to express myself," cried he, feeling himself floundering into deeper depths with every effort he made to extricate himself.
"You express yourself only too clearly," she cried with inexpressible bitterness; "I see that my fault will never be forgiven or forgotten."