Page:Comin' Thro' the Rye (1898).djvu/341

Rh me no better, not if you were my own true wife, love, and bore my name I believe I thanked God." The reverent, simple voice ceases for a moment. "And now," he says, drawing my hands gently away from my eyes with one hand, while he gathers me to him with the other, "I have my reward; have I not, my darling?"

Ay! he has his reward, as I recoil from his embrace, slip away out of his arms, and stand looking at him with a measureless suffering in my eyes, with a deadly pallor on lips and cheek. A faint dread comes into his face, and dashes the surpassing brightness out, a terrible suspicion grows in his eyes, and dwells there. With that look upon him I can tell him better than I could a moment ago, when his beautiful face was all transfigured with its great happiness.

"I do not love you," I say in a whisper; "but love has come to my heart." And then I cover up my face that I may not see his, and turn away.

For a moment there is a deadly waiting silence; then

"Some one has stolen her from me!" he cries, in a fierce awakened voice. "God!"—and falls downwards like a dead man on the grass.

He does not speak or move, not even when I go and kneel down by his side and entreat him to answer my voice, to make some sign.

"George, George!" I cry through my shuddering sobs; and then ("for he may be dead," I say to myself in my wretchedness), I lay my hand upon the golden-tressed head that lies so stirlessly on his folded arms.

"Do not touch me," he cries; "do not dare."

Oh! the relief it is to me to hear his hoarse voice.

"I might have borne it yesterday but not to-day—not to-day