All this passed in rapid review before his mind while his lips
uttered the words which had so delighted Richard, and when he saw
the shadow on Edith's face, his poor, aching heart throbbed with a
joy as wild and intense as it was hopeless and insane. This was
Arthur St. Claire with Edith present, but with Edith gone, he was
quite another man. Eagerly he watched her till she disappeared
from view, then returning to the library he sat down where she had
sat--laid his head upon the table where her hands had lain, and
cursed himself for daring to dream of love in connection with
Edith Hastings. It would be happiness for a time, he knew, to hang
upon her smile, to watch the lights and shadows of her speaking
face, to look into her eyes--those clear, truthful eyes which had
in them no guile. All this would be perfect bliss, were it not
that the end must come at last--the terrible end--remorse bitterer
than death for him, and for her--the pure, unsullied, trusting
Edith--ruin, desolation, and madness, it might be.
"Yes, MADNESS!" he exclaimed aloud, "hateful as the word may
sound.
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