"I would have forfeited half my future life, I would have given all its benefits to be able to call you mine. The blow upon me has been very bitter."
"What blow?" she murmured.
"I cannot tell it you," he cried, after a struggle. "Not to you can I speak of it."
"But you must," she rejoined, the words breaking from her in her agony. "You have said too much, or too little."
"I have--Heaven help me! Can you not guess what it is that has caused this?"
"N--o," she faltered. But even as the word left her lips there rose up before her the secret of that dreadful night--with the suspicion that Oswald had in some unaccountable manner become cognisant of it.
"I loved you as I believe man never yet loved, Sara; I looked forward to years of happiness with you; I expected you to be my wife. And--and--I cannot go on!" he broke off. "I cannot speak of this to you."
The tears were rolling down her pale face. "You must not leave me in suspense, Oswald. It may be better for us both that you should speak out freely."
Yes, it might be better for them both; at any rate he felt that no choice was left to him now. He drew nearer to her and lowered his voice to a whisper.
"Is there no--Heaven pardon me for speaking the word to you, Sara!--disgraceful secret attaching now to--to your family? One which would render it impossible for a man of honour to----"