“Earle,” she said, with a calmness born of despair, yet speaking authoritatively, “you must let me go.”
He instantly released her—he could not disobey her when she spoke in that tone, but the look on his face made her cry out with pain.
“Forgive me,” she almost sobbed. “I would not wound you, but we must end this for the sake of both. Will you do as I wish? Will you go back to Wycliffe at once?”
“I will do anything that you bid me, Editha,” he answered, in a hollow tone, but with a look such as she hoped never to see again on any mortal face.
“Thank you, Earle—I do bid you go—it is right—it will be best, and—and——”
She had risen, and was standing before him, looking almost as wan and ghastly as she had looked on that night when he had found her in the power of Tom Drake.
She had stopped suddenly, catching her breath, and she reeled like a person drunken with wine; but, pressing her hand to her side, as if to still her fierce heart-throbs she strove to go on, though every word came with a pant:
“And, Earle, do not mourn—do not grieve any more than you can help; it would not be right—you have a noble career before you, and you must do honor to the name you bear——”
“What are honors to me? What is anything in the world worth to me now?” he interrupted, hoarsely.
“You must conquer that reckless spirit, Earle—try not to think of me any more than it is possible to help; I shall do very well, I hope. I shall stay with papa, and strive to win him to better things.”