He might have been sinful enough in his own life, in the ordinary
way of men--and truly there were passages in his past that would
scarcely bear the light--but what were the worst of his misdemeanors
compared with this awful crime? No: he must resolutely crush the last
lingering impulse of tenderness, and leave her to work through her own
tribulation, as he also must work through his.
"But we must part," he said for a third time.
Her lips quivered. She did not answer, only bent her head in sign of
acquiescence.
"It is hard to say it, harder still to do; and I who loved you so
dearly!" cried Edgar with the angry despair of a man forced against
himself to give up his desire.
She put up her hands. "Don't!" she said with a sharp cry. "I cannot bear
to hear about your love."
He gave a sudden sob. Her love for him was very precious to him--his for
her very strong.
"Why did you tell me?" he then said. "And yet you did the right thing to
tell me: I was wrong to say that. It was good of you, Leam--noble, like
yourself."
"I love you. That is not being noble," she answered slowly and with
infinite pathos. "I could not have deceived you after I remembered."
"You are too noble to deceive," he said, holding out his hand.
Leam turned away. "I am not fit to touch your hand," she said, the very
pride of contrition in her voice--pride for him, if humiliation for
herself.
"For this once," he pleaded.
"I am unworthy," she answered.
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