“But—he didn't suspect—he trusted you,” began Broomhurst. “He had every reason. No woman was ever so loyal, so——”
“Hush,” she almost screamed. “Loyal! it was the least I could do—to stop you, I mean—when you——After all, I knew it without your telling me. I had deliberately married him without loving him. It was my own fault. I felt it. Even if I couldn't prevent his knowing that I hated him, I could prevent that. It was my punishment. I deserved it for daring to marry without love. But I didn't spare John one pang, after all,” she added bitterly. “He knew what I felt towards him—I don't think he cared about anything else. You say I mustn't reproach myself? When I went back to the tent that morning—when you—when I stopped you from saying you loved me, he was sitting at the table with his head buried in his hands; he was crying—bitterly: I saw him—it is terrible to see a man cry—and I stole away gently, but he saw me. I was torn to pieces, but I couldn't go to him. I knew he would kiss me, and I shuddered to think of it. It seemed more than ever not to be borne that he should do that—when I knew you loved me.”
“Kathleen,” cried her lover again, “don't dwell on it all so terribly——don't——”
“How can I forget?” she answered despairingly, “and then”—she lowered her voice—“oh, I can't tell you—all the time, at the back of my mind somewhere, there was a burning wish that he might die. I used to lie awake at night, and do what I would to stifle it, that thought used to scorch me, I wished it so intensely. Do you believe that by willing one can bring such things to pass?” she asked, looking at Broomhurst with feverishly bright eyes. “No?—well, I don't know—I tried to smother it. I really tried, but it was there, whatever other thoughts I heaped on the top. Then, when I heard the horse galloping across the plain that morning, I had a sick fear that it was you. I knew something had happened, and my first thought when I saw you alive and well, and knew that it was John, was, that it was too good to be true. I believe I laughed like a maniac, didn't I?... Not to blame? Why, if it hadn't been for me he wouldn't have died. The men say they saw him sitting with his head uncovered in the burning sun, his face buried in his hands—just as I had seen him the day before. He didn't trouble to be careful—he was too wretched.”
She paused, and Broomhurst rose and began to pace the little hillside path at the edge of which they were seated.
Presently he came back to her.
“Kathleen, let me take care of you,” he implored, stooping towards her. “We have only ourselves to consider in this matter. Will you come to me at once?”
She shook her head sadly.
Broomhurst set his teeth, and the lines round his mouth deepened. He threw himself down beside her on the heather.
“Dear,” he urged still gently, though his voice showed he was controlling himself with an effort. “You are morbid about this. You have been alone too much—you are ill. Let me take care of you: I can, Kathleen—and I love you. Nothing but morbid fancy makes you imagine you are in any way responsible for—Drayton's death. You can't bring him back to life, and——”