, so that he
could not have _you_.'

"She seemed half mad; I think, at the moment, she was half mad, owing to
the shock, and to the dumb grief which was consuming her.

"'It would have been a strange life we should have led,' she went on. 'I
would not have left him even for a moment; he should have put on my
shawl and carried me to and fro just the same, and I should have kissed
him always when he went out and came in, as though we loved each other.
I know his nature. It is--O God! I mean it _was_--the kind I could have
worked upon. He was generous, very tender to all women; he would have
yielded to me always, so far as bearing silently all my torments to the
last.'"

Here Dexter interrupted the speaker. "You will acknowledge _now_ what I
said concerning her?"

"No," replied Anne; "Helen imagined it all. She could never have carried
it out. She loved him too deeply."

Her eyes met his defiantly. The old feeling that he was an antagonist
rose in her face for a moment, met by a corresponding retort in his.
Then they both dropped their glance, and she resumed her narrative.

"It was here that she cried out, 'Yes, he has borne it so far, and now
he is dead. But if he were alive, I should have taunted him with it. Do
you hear? I say I should have taunted him.' This also Bagshot overheard.
And then--" She paused.

"And then?" repeated Dexter, his eyes full upon her face.

"She grew calmer," said the girl, turning her face from him, and
speaking for the first time hurriedly; "she even kissed me. 'You were
always good and true,' she said. 'But it was easy to be good and true,
if you did not love him.' I suppose she felt my heart throb suddenly
(she was lying in my arms), for she sprang up, and wound her arms round
my neck, bringing her eyes close to mine. _Did_ you love him? she asked.
'Tell me--tell me; it will do no harm now.'

"But I drew myself out of her grasp, although she clung to me. I crossed
the room. She followed me. 'Tell me,' she whispered; 'I shall not mind
it. Indeed, I wish that you _did_ love him, that you do love him, for
then we would mourn for him together. I can be jealous of his love for
you, but not of yours for him, poor child. Tell me, Anne; tell me. I
long to know that you are miserable too.' She was leaning on me: in
truth, she was too weak to stand alone. She clung to me in the old
caressing way. 'Tell me,' she whispered. But I set my lips. Then, still
clinging to me, her eyes fixed on min