"Such love as yours!" said Gwladys coldly. "Such love, indeed! that could lead an innocent girl into the path of deceit and dishonour; that could leave her then to bear desertion and the cold scorn of the world, alone and friendless; and now to return, and expect to find her unchanged and still blinded to the truth!"
"Valmai!" said Cardo, his hot Welsh blood suffusing his dark face with passion, "you could never have loved me. Do the strong bonds that united us count for nothing? Does that little green mound in the churchyard count for nothing? No! you never could have loved me; and yet—you did!"
"If I ever did," said Gwladys, "the love is dead. I feel no more interest in you now than I do in yonder ploughman."
"Girl, you are my wife," said Cardo, who was trembling with a mixture of anger and wounded love. "You are mine by every law of God and man, and I will not let you go." Then suddenly changing into a tone of excited entreaty, he said, "Come, darling, trust me once more, and I will bring back the light of love into those frozen eyes, and I will kiss back warmth into those haughty lips."
"Away!" said Gwladys.
"Do you wish, then, never to see me again?"
"Never!" she said. "My greatest wish is never to see you or hear of you again!"
Cardo sank on the garden seat, feeling himself more perfectly unmanned than he had ever been before. He had built such fair castles of hope, the ruin was so great; he had dreamt such dreams of happiness—and the awakening was so bitter!
Gwladys saw the storm of feeling which had overwhelmed him, and for a moment her voice softened.
"I am sorry for you," she said; "but I have given you my answer."