“Ah, don’t, don’t—­dear!  Geoffrey!  Put me down!  Where are you taking me?  If any one sees us—­”

“Let them!” he muttered grimly; “you’re my wife!”

So he bore her across the garden into the arbour and laying her upon the divan, sank beside it on his knees, panting a little.

“A little weak—­still!” said he, “but not so bad—­you’re no scraggy sylph, thank heaven!  Hermione—­look at me!” But she turned and hid her face against him, for his clasp was close about her still.  So he stooped and kissed her hair, her glowing cheek, her soft white neck, and, in that instant—­wonder of wonders—­her arms were around him, strong, passionate arms that clung and drew him close—­then strove wildly to hold him away.

“Loose me!” she cried, “let me go!  Geoffrey—­husband, be generous and let me go!” But he lifted her head, back and back across his arm until beneath her long lashes her eyes looked into his.

“Hermione, when will you—­be my wife?”

Against him he could feel the sweet hurry of her breathing, and stooping he spoke again, lip to lip: 

“Hermione, when will you be my wife?”

But, even while he kissed her, between those quivering, parted lips came a murmur of passionate prayer and pleading.

“Oh, my love, wait—­wait!  Let me tell you—­ah, loose me and let me tell you.”

Slowly his hold relaxed, and, twisting in his arms, she slipped upon her knees beside him, and, crouching close, hid her face against him.

“Beloved,” she whispered quickly, breathlessly, “oh, dear man that I love so—­there is something between us, a shadow of shame and horror that is with me day and night and always must be.  While you lay sick it was there, torturing me with every moan and sigh you uttered.  It is with me wherever I go—­it is between us now—­yes, now—­even while I strain you in my arms like this.  I have watched you grow strong and well again, I’ve seen the love in your eyes, and I’ve yearned to be to you—­all you would have me, but because of this shadow I—­dare not.  Ah, God, how can I be wife to you when—­let this answer for me.”  And she placed in Ravenslee’s hand a coat button whereto a piece of cloth adhered.  “Dear love, I saw you throw it away,” she explained, “and I searched and searched until I found it.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew you would soon ask me—­this question, and I have kept it for my answer.  Ah, God! how can I be wife to you when my brother would have killed you—­murdered you!”

Ravenslee hurled the button far away, then lifting Hermione’s bowed head, spoke very tenderly.

“How does all this affect our love, Hermione, except to show me you are even sweeter and nobler than I had thought.  And as for the shadow, it is—­only a shadow after all.”

“But it is my shame!” she answered.  “You might have had for wife the sister of a thief, but not—­oh, God! not the sister of a would-be murderer.  If—­if I came to you now, I should come in shame—­Ah, Geoffrey, don’t—­shame me!”