Part 42 (2/2)

”I'd give anything I have,” she said with a sob; ”I'd give both my hands, I'd give my being pretty, which I think so much of, and he thinks so much of, I'd give anything if only I had not--done that, if I could only undo that. Sometimes I wake in the morning and think I haven't done it, that it's only a dream. And it's like Heaven! I cry for joy. And then the knowledge comes. I did not know, Michael, what I was doing.

But since you came back I've _seen_; since I loved Wentworth I've _seen_--what I've done to you; just brushed you aside when you got in the way, and left you to die.”

He looked at her in silence. It had come, the moment of anguished realisation that he had foreseen for her, but it had come to her through love for another. That to which his great love would fain have drawn her, she had reached at last by a lesser love than his.

”I have been cruel to Wentworth. I might have tried to get you out for his sake if not for yours. He never had a moment's happiness while you were shut up. But I didn't. I didn't really care for him then. I only tried at last to get you out, because I could not bear the misery of it any longer. I have never cared for anyone but myself--till now. I see now that I have been hard and cruel. I have always thought myself gentle and loving and tender-hearted, like you thought me, poor, poor Michael.

You have paid for that. Like Wentworth thinks me now. Oh, Michael, _must Wentworth pay too_?”

Michael looked at her with compa.s.sion. ”I am afraid he must. But do not let him pay a penny more than is necessary. You still have it in your power to save him part of the--the expense. Let him pay the lesser price instead of the greater. Tell him, instead of letting him find out.”

Silence.

”It is the only thing to do, Fay.”

No answer.

”I am afraid you do not love him after all,” said the inexorable voice.

Again silence.

Michael dragged himself feebly from his chair, and took her clenched hands between both of his.

”Love him a little more,” he said. ”Take the risk and tell him everything--while there is still time. Listen, Fay, and try to forgive me if I seem cruel. You thought you loved me once. But it was not enough to risk anything for me. You threw me away by your silence because you found the truth too difficult. Don't, don't throw Wentworth away too, because the truth is difficult. Fay, believe me,” Michael's voice shook, ”it's hard to find out you've been deceived. It's hard to be betrayed.”

His voice had sunk to a broken whisper. ”Don't put him through it. You wouldn't if you--if you knew what it was like.”

Magdalen, coming in half an hour later found Fay lying on her face on the sofa alone. She looked, poor little creature, with her outstretched arms, not unlike a cross on which Love might very well be crucified anew. It does not matter much whether it is on a cross of wood, or of fear, or of egotism, that we nail Love to his slow death.

Fay loved for the first time. Was she going to crucify that love, to pierce its upholding hands, to betray that benign saviour, come so late but come at last, to help her in her sore need?

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

His own thought drove him like a goad.--TENNYSON.

”Now,” said the great doctor to Michael next day, ”I have been hustled down here against my will by Mr. Maine. I'm wanted elsewhere. I calculate my time at a pound a minute. Out with it. What is it that's worrying you?”

Michael did not answer.

The great man groaned. But his eyes were kindly.

”You want something you have not got, eh? like the rest of us. We are all in the same steam launch.”

”I don't want anything, thanks.”

”In love?”

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