“How do you know you pushed him over? He may have fallen over. You don’t know it. He may have––”
“Hush, dearest. I did it. When I came to myself, it was in the night; and it must have been late, for the moon was set. I could only see faintly that something white lay near me. I felt of it, and it was Peter Junior’s hat. Then I felt all about for him––and he was gone and I crawled to the edge of the bluff––but although I knew he was gone over there and washed by the terrible current far down the river by that time, I couldn’t follow him, whether 164 from cowardice or weakness. I tried to get on my feet and could not. Then I must have fainted again, for all the world faded away, and I thought maybe the blow had done for me and I might not have to leap over there, after all. I could feel myself slipping away.
“When I awoke, the sun was shining and a bird was singing just as if nothing had happened, and I thought I had been dreaming an awful dream––but there was the wound on my head and I was alive. Then I went farther down the river and came back to the hiding place and crept in there to wait and think. Then, after a long while, the boys came, and I was terrified for fear they were searching for me. That is the shameful truth, Betty. I feared. I never knew what fear was before. Betty, fear is shameful. There I have been all day––waiting––for what, I do not know; but it seemed that if I could only have one little glimpse of you I could go bravely and give myself up. I will now––”
“No, Richard; it would do no good for you to die such a death. It would undo nothing, and change nothing. Peter was angry, too, and he struck you, and if he could have his way he would not want you to die. I say maybe he is living now. He may not have gone over.”
“It’s no use, Betty. He went down. I pushed him into that terrible river. I did it. I––I––I!” Richard only moaned the words in a whisper of despair, and the horror of it all began to deepen and crush down upon Betty. She retreated, step by step, until she backed against the door leading to her chamber, and there she stood gazing at him with her hand pressed over her lips to keep herself from crying out. Then she saw him rise and turn toward the door without looking at her again, his head bowed in grief, 165 and the sight roused her. As the door closed between them she ran and threw it open and followed him out into the darkness.
“I can’t, Richard. I can’t let you go like this!” She clung to him, sobbing her heart out on his bosom, and he clasped her and held her warm little body close.
“I’m like a drowning man pulling you under with me. Your tears drown me. I would not have entered the house if I had not seen you crying. Never cry again for me, Betty, never.”
“I will cry. I tell you I will cry. I will. I don’t believe you are a murderer.”
“You must believe it. I am.”
“I loved Peter Junior and you loved him. You did not mean to do it.”