Well, perhaps,
you are right," he added, after a moment's pause; "it may be better that
I should not say what I was hoping to say. It cannot mend existing
things; it cannot undo the past. I dare not ask your forgiveness: it
would seem too much like an insult; nevertheless, I would rather have it
than any earthly gift. Fare you well, Anne! I shall sometimes hear of
your happiness."
"Have you been ill?" she asked in a kindly impulse, noticing his altered
looks in that first calm moment.
"No--not as the world counts illness. If remorse and shame and repentance
can be called illness, I have my share. Ill deeds of more kinds than one
are coming home to me. Anne," he added in a hoarse whisper; his face
telling of emotion, "if there is one illumined corner in my heart, where
all else is very dark, it is caused by thankfulness to Heaven that you
were spared."
"Spared!" she echoed, in wonder, so completely awed by his strange manner
as to forget her reserve.
"Spared the linking of your name with mine. I thank God for it, for your
sake, night and day. Had trouble fallen on you through me, I don't think
I could have survived it. May you be shielded from all such for ever!"
He turned abruptly away, and she looked after him, her heart beating a
great deal faster than it ought to have done.
That she was his best and dearest love, in spite of his marriage, it
was impossible not to see; and she strove to think him very wicked for
it, and her cheek was red with a feeling that seemed akin to shame.
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