She could not conjecture, she could not even pause to
think who had revealed, or how he had discovered her acquaintance
with Harry Carson. It was but too clear, some way or another, he
had learnt all; and what would he think of her? No hope of his
love,--oh, that she would give up, and be content: it was his
life, his precious life, that was threatened! Then she tried to
recall the particulars, which, when Mrs. Wilson had given them, had
fallen but upon a deafened ear,--something about a gun, a quarrel,
which she could not remember clearly. Oh, how terrible to think of
his crime, his blood-guiltiness; he who had hitherto been so good,
so noble, and now an assassin! And then she shrank from him in
thought; and then, with bitter remorse, clung more closely to his
image with passionate self-upbraiding. Was it not she who had led
him to the pit into which he had fallen? Was she to blame him? She
to judge him? Who could tell how maddened he might have been by
jealousy; how one moment's uncontrollable passion might have led him
to become a murderer! And she had blamed him in her heart after his
last deprecating, imploring, prophetic speech!
Then she burst out crying afresh; and when weary of crying, fell to
thinking again.
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