The storm passed. She lay quiet now, all but the sobs that shook her whole slight frame. He said, at last, very gently:
'If I had known—you should have told me. He was my best friend.' His voice trembled a little. 'I know how I must seem to you. His murderer, perhaps; surely the murderer of your happiness.' A deeper quaver in the sorrowful tones. 'It is too late now, I know; but if it would help you ever so little to be released from your promise—'
There was no reply.
'You are free. I am going now.' He bent over her for a breath, making a heart picture of the tired face, the closed eyes, and grieved mouth. Only to take her up for a moment, with power to comfort her—he would have given his life for that—and turned away with a great, yearning pain snatching at his breath. In the hall he paused a moment, trying to think. A light step, a frail hand on his arm, a wistful face lifted to his.
'Forgive me; I have been very unkind. You are so good and noble. I will be your wife, if you will be any happier.'
He looked down at her pityingly. 'You are very tired. Shall you say that when you are rested again? Remember, you are free.'
'If not yours, then never any one's.'
His arm fell about her, his lips touched her forehead quietly; he led her back to her couch, and arranged her pillow, smiling a little at his one awkward hand.
'I shall not see you again before I go back, unless you send for me.'
She put out her hand and touched the bowed face quickly and lightly; and with that touch thrilling in his veins he went away.