Cold--if he could only read my heart! I never read it myself
till now, when we must be parted forever."
Is it pleasant, think you, to listen to such words as these, uttered by
the woman that you have worshiped, even if it be hopelessly, for years?
Men have gone mad under lighter tortures than those that Mark Waring was
then forced to endure. But he knew that it was the extremity of her
anguish that had hardened for a season Cecil's gentle, generous, nature,
and made her heedless of the pain she inflicted. So he answered in a
slow, steady voice, such as we employ when trying to calm the ravings of
a fever-fit:
"Hush! you speak wildly. My presence here does you no good. You may
think of me as hardly as you will; perhaps time will soften your
judgment; if not--I shall still not repent to-night's work. I will come
for your letter at the moment of your departure. Good-night; I pray that
God may help you now, and guard you always." He raised her hand and just
touched it with his lips, with the same grave courtesy that had marked
his manner when they parted last, three years ago, and in another second
Cecil was alone again.
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