He made no excuse for himself; he continued the plain tale of how, his
ambitions still holding him, he had selfishly tried to keep both joy and
them, by asking her--she who was so infinitely above him--to descend to
the invidious position of a secret wife.
She knew the rest until it came to the cause of his accident, and, when
she heard it occurred because of his haste to get to her before she
should reach the house, she gave a little moan of anguish and leaned her
head against his breast.
So the story went on--of his agonized thoughts and fever and fears--of
his comprehension that she had been taken from him, and of the utter
hopelessness of his financial position, and the whole outlook, until he
came to the night of his engagement; and here he paused.
"Do not try to tell me any of this part, John, my dear lover," she said.
"I know the standard of honor in a man is that he must never give away
the absent woman, and I understand--you need not put anything into
words. I knew you were unhappy and coerced. I never for a moment have
doubted your love. You were surrounded with strong and cruel forces, and
all my tenderness could not reach you quite, to protect you as it should
have done, because I was so full of foolish anguish myself.
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