The bitterness of his grief was over; the first burst was past; and he spoke calmer now, although his every word, the tone even of his voice, sank like ice into Frances' soul, convincing her how hopelessly she loved.
"Oh! say not so, Charles," she cried, "or you will crush me utterly. See,—see how I must love you to kneel here, and to humble my pride so entirely as to tell you I—I love you."
"Love! Does love break the heart of the loved one as you have broken mine? Call you such a deadly feeling as this, love? Say, rather, that you hate me."
"No, no; never! Whatever you do, whatever you say, I shall love you still,—love you for ever!"
"Give me your hate," he replied, "I would rather have that."
But Frances only answered by sobs and wringing her hands.
"If," he continued, "you have wrecked my happiness and hers through love of me, I wish to God you had hated me!"
"I could not," sobbed Frances, utterly overcome. "You—you won my love two years ago. Yes! you loved me then."
"Never!" he cried vehemently, almost savagely. "Never! I swear it!"
"Cruel!" murmured Frances.