Clarke, Marcus Andrew Hislop, 1846-1881 / 2008-11-12 00:00:00
You know me. I keep my word. I return in an hour, madam; let me
find him gone."
He passed them, upright, as if upborne by passion, strode down the garden
with the vigour that anger lends, and took the road to London.
"Richard!" cried the poor mother. "Forgive me, my son! I have ruined you."
Richard Devine tossed his black hair from his brow in sudden passion
of love and grief.
"Mother, dear mother, do not weep," he said. "I am not worthy of your tears.
Forgive! It is I--impetuous and ungrateful during all your years
of sorrow--who most need forgiveness. Let me share your burden
that I may lighten it. He is just. It is fitting that I go.
I can earn a name--a name that I need not blush to bear nor you to hear.
I am strong. I can work. The world is wide. Farewell! my own mother!"
"Not yet, not yet! Ah! see he has taken the Belsize Road. Oh, Richard,
pray Heaven they may not meet."
"Tush! They will not meet! You are pale, you faint!"
"A terror of I know not what coming evil overpowers me. I tremble
for the future. Oh, Richard, Richard! Forgive me! Pray for me.
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