'I think I am afraid of you,' she whispered. 'Oh, Michael, if this be true! But I cannot—cannot believe it! Why have you never told me this before? Why have you let me——'
And then she stopped, as though a sob impeded her utterance.
'I was never in a position to tell you so,' he returned, with his old gentleness. 'For years I doubted whether I should ever be well enough to marry. Do you think I would have condemned my wife, even if I could have won her, to a life of nursing? I was far too proud to demand such a sacrifice of any woman. And then I was a poor man, Audrey.'
'What did that matter?' she replied, with a touch of scorn in her voice; 'Cyril was poor too.'
'You must not think I blame him, if I say we were very different men. I was prouder than he, and I knew your generous nature too well to take advantage of it. When the money came it was too late: you were engaged to him. I had only to hide my pain, so that you should not be made unhappy by it. I thought I was a bad actor; but you never guessed my secret—you would not have guessed it now.'
'How could I?' she returned simply; 'I was only thinking of Cyril.'
'Yes, and you are thinking of him now; he is as much my rival now he is dead as when he was living. That is why I am going away, because I can bear it no longer.'
'Must you go?'
Audrey's voice sank so that he could hardly hear the faint words. Perhaps she herself did not know what they implied; she was too shaken and miserable. That Michael, her own dear Michael, should have suffered all these years, and that she had never known it! Cyril was in his grave—he no longer needed her—what did it matter if the idea of another man wooing her so soon gave her pain, if she could only comfort Michael? But happily for them both, Michael guessed at that secret thought, and as he caught the words the flush mounted to his brow.'
'Yes, I must go,' he said firmly; 'it is my best, my only chance. In my absence you will think of me more kindly. The old Michael—who was your friend, your faithful, devoted friend—will unconsciously blend with the new Michael, who you know is your lover. There,' he continued in a pained voice, 'as I speak the word you shrink again from me; and yet I am asking you nothing. Dear, if you were to promise me this moment that you would be my wife, if you were to tell me that you would try to love me as I wish to be loved, I would not marry you! No—though you are dearer to me than anything in life—I would not marry you!'