Without waiting for her permission, he went on with his reasons in such an eloquent voice that she could not doubt his truth.
“Do you think it does not stab me to the heart to look on my accursed work? Do you think I am so vile I cannot repent and wish to expiate the deed by a life’s devotion? Yes, I am a changed man, Annette. My former madness would not be possible to me now. I am a crushed and broken man, sin-stricken, sorrowful, repentant. I wish to devote my life to Royall Sherwood, so as to alleviate as far as possible the sufferings I have caused. Could remorse and repentance further go? I ask nothing of you or any one but the privilege to remain near him and give up the best that is in me for his comfort. Will you grant me that longed-for boon?”
“Yes,” she murmured, very low; then added: “But you and I, Ray Dering, must meet hereafter as the careless strangers we appear to our friends.”
“Oh, yes; I understand all that. I shall not presume, believe me, although,” with stifled bitterness, “there might be women tender enough to forgive even such sins as mine when a man was driven mad by love of them.”
“I am not one of them,” Annette answered, with cruel frankness. “You were not worthy of my love; you distrusted it, and now it lies cold and dead in my bosom, never to awake again!”
“I deserve your contempt and scorn. I cannot resent it,” he answered humbly; adding: “And you were noble enough to keep my secret. It was great in you. Let me thank you.”
“I did it because—I had loved you once!” she murmured, hastily leaving him to his own unpleasant reflections.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE CRUEL TRUTH.
That afternoon the sun came out as bright and warm as in April, and tempted Daisie and Annette to go out for a spin on their bicycles.
“And let us call for Lutie. Perhaps she will like to join us,” said Daisie, who had grown almost fond of the deceitful little widow who had chosen to be very kind to her since her treachery had succeeded so well.