He had not thought of connecting Ray Dering with the attempted murder of Sherwood until this explanation made it clear to his mind.
And it did not give him a very pleasant feeling to know how narrowly he had escaped death at the hands of an impetuous lover driven mad by jealousy.
Had this been their first meeting he must have shrunk from Dering in horror and repulsion.
But weeks of intimate companionship had shown him the real worth of the young man’s nature, marred only by the jealous passion that had driven him to crime. He knew that he was capable of noble things, understood also that he was the victim of an undying remorse. His revenge had recoiled upon himself, and the serpents of remorse were coiled in his heart to sting him to death.
All this rushed over the mind of Dallas as he gazed at the pale, handsome face and the somber, dark eyes, where the fires of remorse and regret smoldered under the heavy lashes.
“You despise me!” exclaimed Ray Dering hoarsely. “Who can blame you? I, for one, do not. I am even glad I told you, for it made me restless, your kindness, when I knew I did not deserve it. I have sinned so deeply against you that your goodness has heaped coals of fire upon my head. I can only give you my miserable secrets, suspected by no one on earth before, except Annette, and thank you before we part.”
He scarcely expected anything but reproof and desertion, and cowered before the thought, for he had grown to love Dallas Bain, and coveted his good opinion; but the manliness within him would not permit him to claim it unworthily, so he bowed his head and waited sadly enough for the end.
But into the mind of Dallas surged a great wave of pity.
Impulsively he held out his hand.
“I forgive you, my friend,” he said cordially.