Part 51 (1/2)
She had crept closer and closer as she spoke, her hands had risen to his shoulder, and, after trembling there for a few moments, they clasped his neck, and she buried her face in his breast, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Then her tears seemed to freeze in their source, and she shrank away horrified and chilled by his manner; for he thrust her from him with an angry gesture, and his face was convulsed as he made as if to rush from the room.
But he turned back to her, and she sank upon her knees before him.
”Malcolm,” she said gently, ”am I so loathsome in your sight?”
”No, no,” he groaned, and he tore at his throat as if something choked him. ”For Heaven's sake, go. Myra, I am not master of my actions. If you stay I shall forget all but that you are here.”
She started to her feet in horror and alarm at his words, and his looks seemed to endorse their truth, but a calm smile came upon her lips, and she went to him again.
”I know,” she said tenderly. ”They have told me all that. You have been ill and delirious. Well, who should be your nurse and comforter?
Malcolm--come to me again. My father will listen to my prayers, and all the past shall be forgotten. Take me with you away somewhere till you are well again. Only tell me now that you have forgiven me--that I am to be your wife, Malcolm--my own.”
A spasm of horror convulsed his face again, and he shrank from her when she would have once more laid her head upon his breast.
”No; you do not know; you cannot know,” he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. ”Myra, there is a gulf between us that can never more be crossed. Go, dearest, for Heaven's sake, and try and forget that I ever said words of love.”
She looked at him in wonder more than dread, but the prime object of her mission came now to mind.
”No,” she said; ”your mind is disordered with grief. I cannot leave you like this. Tell me, I beg, Malcolm: you do repel me because of my past?”
”No--no!” he said wildly. ”For that? Great Heavens, no!”
”Then you must--you shall tell me.”
”Tell you?” he cried.
”Yes: what you have kept back from your firmest friend. It must be some terrible trouble--some great agony of spirit--that should induce you to raise your hand against your own life.”
”They told you that!” he said bitterly.
”Yes: they were obliged. But the reason, dear? Did you not tell me I should share your very being--that I should be your other self?
Malcolm, tell me. I claim it as my right. Why are you like this?”
He caught her hands fiercely, and held her at arm's length.
”Tell you?” he said; ”that you may loathe as well as hate. Myra, in the horror of the long black nights since I saw you last I have clung to the hope that, some time in the future, repentance, sorrow for what was thrust upon me, might be sufficient penance for the past; but it is all one black cloud of despair before me. There is no hope. You and I must never meet again. Go, while I can speak to you the words of a sane man, before that which they have thought of me becomes true. For Heaven's sake, go. G.o.d have mercy; my punishment is greater than I can bear.”
He reeled, and would have fallen heavily, but Myra held on to the hands which clutched hers so fiercely; and, as a wild appeal for help escaped her lips, she saved him from striking his head violently as he sank insensible to the floor.
”What is it?” cried Guest excitedly.
She told him in a few words, and he ran into the other room for water, but Stratton was already coming to, and after drinking with avidity from the gla.s.s Guest held to his lips, he rose shuddering and pale.
”Take her home,” he said in a husky whisper as he rose. ”Quick. It is too horrible. Weak and faint, I cannot bear it.”
He motioned toward the door, and Guest turned a look full of perplexity toward Myra.