Now I realize the extent of my folly in expecting that she would understand. The two years I had been away had changed everything for me, even the meaning of the words I used. I had been out in a wider world than hers, had begun to meet the minds of men who thought. In that little mountain village, a second rate, rather mushy-brained rector had been her intellectual guide. It was insane for me to think she would sympathize with me. And yet, because I loved her, I did. I was only eighteen.
How the fright grew in her eyes as I went on declaiming my unbeliefs!
"It's wicked—what you are saying."
"It's true. Is truth wicked?"
"I won't listen to you any more."
She got up. Suddenly I realized that I was losing her.
"Margot," I pleaded, "you mustn't go. We're going to get married. I've got to tell you what I think."
"I'll never marry a man who doesn't believe in God."
We were both very heroic. There was no older, wiser person there to laugh at us. So we stood and glared at each other. She waited some minutes for me to recant. I could not. Then two tears started down her cheeks. I wanted desperately to say something, but there were tears in my eyes also and no words would come. She turned and walked away. I could not believe it. I do not know how long I waited for her to come back. At last I went home.
Sullen, bitter days followed. I suppose she hoped, as I did, that some way would be found to restore peace. But neither of us knew how.