"Oh, no! no! do not do that," cried Leam, trying to unclasp his hands.
"Do not kneel to me. I ought to kneel to you," she added with a little
cry that struck with more than pity to Edgar's heart, and that nearly
broke her down for so much relaxing of the strain, so much yielding to
her grief, as it included.
"Leam, tell me you are joking--tell me that you did not do this awful
thing," he cried again, his handsome face, blanched and drawn, upturned
to her in agony.
She put her hands over her eyes. "I cannot lie to you," she said. "And I
must not degrade you. Do not touch me: I am not good enough to be
touched by you."
He loosened his arms, and she shrank from him almost as if she faded
away.
"Why did you deceive me?" he groaned. "You should not have let me love
you, knowing the truth."
"I did not know that you loved me, or that I loved you, till that
night," she pleaded piteously. "If I had known I would have prevented
it. I have told you as soon as I remembered."
"You have broken my heart," he cried, flinging himself on the sofa, his
face buried in the cushions. And then, strong man as he was, a brave
soldier and an English country gentleman, he burst into a passion of
tears that shook him as the storm had shaken the earth last
night--tears that were the culmination of his agony, not its relief.
Leam stood by him as pale as the shattered lilies in the garden. What
could she do? How could she comfort him? Tainted and dishonored, she
dared not even lay her hand on his--her infamous and murderous hand, and
he so pure and noble! Neither could she pray for him, nor yet for
herself.
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