She clasped his head passionately to her bosom in a rapture, her eyes sparkling, and a flush tinging the azalea whiteness of her cheeks. But his eyes met hers with a look of anguish.
"You are an angel, Eva; you are an angel. But I can not claim you. For, listen now to me. The real truth—"
"Well, what is the truth?"
"Bertie was not a scoundrel. He was nothing but a man, a very weak man. That is the truth. Listen to me, Eva; let me speak. I thought a great deal—at Scheveningen—among the sandhills—you know. I thought over everything I could remember of what he had said to me in those last moments, in self-defense; and by degrees all his words came back to me, and I felt that he had been in the right."
"In the right? Oh, Frank! I do not know what he said in self-defense; but now, still, shall Bertie's influence come between us to part us?" she cried, in bitter despair.
"No, it is not that," he replied. "Make no mistake; it is not Bertie's influence which divides us; it is my guilt."
"Your guilt?"
"My guilt, which rises up before me from time to time, reminding me of what I have done, so that I can not forget it, shall never forget it. Let me tell you. He was right in what he said at last. He was a weak creature, he said, flung into life without any strength of will. Was that his fault? He despised himself for having done so mean a thing about those letters. But he had not known what else to do. Well, and I forgive him for being weak, for he could not help it; and we are all weak—I am weak, too."
''But you would never have done such a thing?" cried Eva.
"Because I, perhaps, am different. But I am weak all the same. I am weak when I am angry. And then—then in my fury, I was utterly, utterly weak. This is the truth. This is what is crushing me; and, broken as I am, I can not be your husband. Oh, what would I not give to have him still alive! I was fond of him once, and now I could say to him that I do understand—that I forgive him."
"Frank, do not be so foolish—so foolishly good," she exclaimed.
"Oh, it is not foolish goodness," he said, with a melancholy smile. "It is philosophy."
"Well, then," she cried, in a hard, rough tone, "I am no philosopher; I am not foolishly good; I do not forgive him for being a villain, and for making us miserable. I hate him, hate him, dead as he is. I hate him for coming between us, and haunting us now that you have killed him, and for the diabolical influence he still brings to bear on you and on me. But, I say, I will not have it," she shrieked despairingly, starting to her feet, but still clinging to him. "I tell you that I will not lose you for the second time. I swear that if you try to leave me here, I will stand, holding you fast in my arms, clasping you to me till we both are dead. For I will not let him part us; I hate him! I am glad you murdered him, and if he were living now, I would do it myself. I would kill him, strangle him, strangle him!" She clenched her hands as if she gripped his throat, and held Frank in her embrace as though he were her prey.
Out of doors it was growing darker every minute.
He gently released himself, supporting her, indeed, for he felt that she was tottering in her overtension of energy and courage. She was staring out at the weather with her sunken gray eyes, and she shivered from head to foot. He led her back to the sofa, made her sit down, and again knelt before her in more passionate devotion than ever.
"Eva!" he whispered.
"Oh, look at the clouds!" she cried. "It is pouring a deluge."
"Yes," said he. "What does that matter?—I love you."
"I can not bear up against such weather," she moaned. "It oppresses me and frightens me— oh, it terrifies me so! Protect me, Frank, shelter me; come close!"
She drew him to her on the sofa, and, opening his coat, nestled against him.
"I am so frightened. Hold me tightly—wrap your coat round me. Oh, do not let it come upon me I Lord have mercy, and do not let it come over me again, I beseech Thee!"
It was the visionary thunder she prayed to be spared. And she threw both arms round her lover, clinging to him as if to hide herself. So she remained, while he held her close; when, presently, twisting her fingers into his waistcoatpocket, she murmured:
"What is this? what have you here?"
"What have you found?" he said, in alarm.
"This, in your waistcoat-pocket?"
"Nothing—a little vial," he muttered. "Somd drops for my eyes. I have been troubled by my eyes lately."
She took out the vial. It was a tiny, dark blue bottle, with a cut-glass
