Two miserable men are wandering in the
darkness up the miles of road from Camelton to Endelstow.
'Has she broken her heart?' said Henry Knight. 'Can it be that I
have killed her? I was bitter with her, Stephen, and she has died!
And may God have NO mercy upon me!'
'How can you have killed her more than I?'
'Why, I went away from her--stole away almost--and didn't tell her
I should not come again; and at that last meeting I did not kiss
her once, but let her miserably go. I have been a fool--a fool! I
wish the most abject confession of it before crowds of my
countrymen could in any way make amends to my darling for the
intense cruelty I have shown her!'
'YOUR darling!' said Stephen, with a sort of laugh. 'Any man can
say that, I suppose; any man can. I know this, she was MY darling
before she was yours; and after too. If anybody has a right to
call her his own, it is I.'
'You talk like a man in the dark; which is what you are. Did she
ever do anything for you? Risk her name, for instance, for you?'
Yes, she did,' said Stephen emphatically.
'Not entirely. Did she ever live for you--prove she could not
live without you--laugh and weep for you?'
'Yes.'
'Never! Did she ever risk her life for you--no! My darling did for
me.'
'Then it was in kindness only. When did she risk her life for
you?'
'To save mine on the cliff yonder. The poor child was with me
looking at the approach of the Puffin steamboat, and I slipped
down.
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