“Then you don't care?”
She looked at him earnestly, with moist eyes. There was a note of passion in her voice, to which Raine, sympathetic, found himself responding.
“What is the use of my caring, since she is going of her own accord without a word from me?”
“But a word from you would make her stay.”
“What do you know about all this?” he asked abruptly.
“I know that you have broken her heart,” said Felicia. “Oh! knowing her—and loving her—it is hard not to forgive.”
“There is no question of forgiveness,” replied Raine. “Did she tell you I would not forgive her?”
“No. A woman does not need to be told these things—she knows them and feels them. Must a woman always, always, always suffer? Why can't a man be great and noble sometimes—like Christ who forgave?”
“But, my dear child, you are talking wildly,” cried Raine earnestly. “God knows there is nothing to forgive. I knew long ago a shadow had been cast over her life—and I loved her. A strange freak of destiny brought the man here—last night, accidentally, he told me the details—and I loved her. I have not seen her. It is not I who drive her away. Read that, and you can see it is not I.”
He thrust the letter into her hand, and watched her as she read. Four-and-twenty hours ago, he would as soon have thought of crying his heart's secrets aloud in the public streets, as of delivering them into the keeping of this young girl. But now it seemed natural. Her exalted mood had infected him, lifted him on to an unconventional plane.