Of the past we had not spoken. She had been too full of grief, too utterly overcome by the tragedy of the situation. Her mournful figure struck a sympathetic chord in my heart. Perhaps I had misjudged her; perhaps I had attributed to her sinister motives that were non-existent. Alas! wherever mystery exists, little charity enters man’s heart. Jealousy dries up the milk of human kindness.
“Dearest,” I said, rising and taking her slim white hand that lay idly in her lap, “in this hour of your distress you have at least one person who would console and comfort you—one man who loves you.”
She raised her eyes to mine quickly, with a strange, eager look. Her glance was as though she did not fully realize the purport of my words. I knew myself to be a sad blunderer in the art of love, and wondered if my words were too blunt and abrupt.
“Ah!” she sighed. “If only I believed that those words came direct from your heart, Ralph!”
“They do,” I assured her. “You received my letter at Hereford—you read what I wrote to you?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I read it. But how can I believe in you further, after your unaccountable treatment? You forsook me without giving any reason. You can’t deny that.”
“I don’t seek to deny it,” I said. “On the contrary, I accept all the blame that may attach to me. I only ask your forgiveness,” and bending to her in deep earnestness, I pressed the small hand that was within my grasp.
“But if you loved me, as you declare you have always done, why did you desert me in that manner?” she inquired, her large dark eyes turned seriously to mine.
I hesitated. Should I tell her the truth openly and honestly?
“Because of a fact which came to my knowledge,” I answered, after a long pause.