"Oh! cease for pity's sake," implored the girl, and her hands go up to her face and shut out that angry one before her, with the lightning-flashes of wrath in the blue eyes, and that agony of soul in every quivering feature. "If you only knew how sorry I am—how I pity you—myself——"
Her voice breaks. For a moment everything is forgotten—her strange absence—her mother's uneasiness—the wondering comments of the guests—of these she never thinks. Just for one single moment they stand face to face, and soul to soul, and see before them the awful shipwreck of two young despairing lives!
"Pity me! Ah, you well may," cries Keith, softening a little at the low, tender voice, and the misery on the young, white face. "God knows I need it. Go—go, while I have strength to let you. If you knew what a hell is in my heart at this present moment, you would wonder I could bid you leave me now. It would be easier to kill you than know I send you back to your—husband."
She shudders as he says those words. He has turned away, so that he may not see the fatally fair face—the drooping grace of the lovely figure round which the costly satin falls in gleaming folds. She moves away; then looks back. His head is bent down on his arms—a sob shakes the strong young frame. It goes to her heart like a knife. Impulsively she approaches, and lays one little hand caressingly on his arm.
"Dear Keith, don't grieve—don't fret for me. You are right. I was never worth your love—never! I deserve all the unhappiness that Fate can bring. But first say you forgive me this once; I cannot bear to part in anger from you."
Dangerously soft, dangerously sweet is the pretty voice. It goes straight to the aching heart to which she appeals. With a strong effort he conquers his emotion and looks up—how haggard, how altered is the bright young face she remembers!
"I was a brute to say what I did just now," he exclaims, with rapid contrition. "I am half-mad with pain. Yes, Lorry, I will try and forgive you, though it is horribly hard. You are not a man; you don't know—oh God! how can I bear it!"
She trembles violently as she stands beside him; the folds of her dress sweep across his feet, the faint, sweet perfume of the orange-flowers steals over his senses. He bows his burning forehead down upon her hands, and for a moment is silent too.
"I must go," whispers the girl desperately, at last. "Good-bye, Keith—darling Keith. For my sake, try and bear up now; and oh, promise me you won't carry out your awful threat; you won't go to the—bad."
"I can't promise any such thing," he says, relapsing into gloom and anger once more. "You don't know what you've done to me. I never was particularly good, and if I tried to be, it was simply for your sake. Now my anchor is gone, and I am cut adrift. Whatever evil I do lies at your door, as I said before!"