All I know is that I next became suddenly filled with shame. I knelt
then before her, asking forgiveness, kissing her hands, her dress, her
feet, pouring out to her in all the eager impetuousness of my nature the
rapture, the woe, the sorrow, the shame and the remorse that turn by
turn had taken possession of my heart.
"I love you, Ella!" I cried. "I love you and as I love am I jealous.
Mine is no soulless vagary or mindless folly. You are mine--mine though
you may be bound to this blackguard whose victim you have fallen. I am
jealous of you, jealous of the wind that touches you, of the sun that
shines upon you, of the air you breathe, of the earth you tread, for
they are with you while I am not."
Her head was bowed. She shut her ears to the pleading of my heart. She
wrenched her hands from me, crying:--
"No, no, Godfrey! Enough--enough! Spare me this!"
And she struggled from my arms.
"My darling!" I cried, "I know! I know! Yet you cannot realise all
that I suffer now that we are to part again and for ever. I hate that
man. Ah! light of my eyes, when I think that you are to be his I--I
would rather a thousand times see you lying cold and dead at my feet,
for I would then know that at least you would be spared unhappiness."
It seemed that she dared not trust herself to look on me. She flung
back her head and eluded my embrace.
"My love!" I cried, "all life in me is yearning for your life; for the
softness of silent kisses; for the warmth of clasped hands; for the
gladness of summer hours beside the sea. Do you remember them? Do you
remember the passion and peace of our mutual love that smiled at the
sun, and knew that heaven held no fairer joys than those which were its
own, at the mere magic of a single touch?"
"Yes, dear," she sighed, "I remember--I remember everything. And you
have a right to reproach me as you will," she added very gently.
She was still unyielding; her burning eyes were now tearless, and she
stood motionless.
"But you have forgiven me, my love?" I cried humbly. "I was mad to
have uttered those words."
"I have forgiven, Godfrey," she answered. A heavy sigh ran through the
words and made them barely audible.
"And you still love me?"
All the glow and eagerness and fervour or passion had died off her face;
it grew cold and colourless and still, with the impenetrable stillness
of a desperate woman's face that masks all pain.
"Do you doubt I loved you--I?"
That reproach cut me to the quick. I was passionate with man's passion;
I was cruel with children's cruelty.
My face, I felt, flushed crimson, then grew pale again. I shrank a
little, as though she had struck me a blow, a blow that I could not
return.
"Then--then why should we part?" I asked, as all my love for her welled
up in my faint heart. "Why should we not defy this man and let him do
his worst? At least we should be united in one sweet, sacred and
perfect faith--our love."
For a few moments she made no reply, but looked at me very long--very
wistfully, with no passion in those dear eyes, only a despair that was
so great that it chilled me into speechless terror.
"No, no," she cried at last, covering her face with her white hands, as
though in shame, and bursting into a flood of tears. "You do not know
all--I pray that you, the man I love so fondly, may never know! If you
knew you would hate me and curse my memory. Therefore take back those
words, and forget me--yes, forget--for I am not fit to be your wife!"