“My poor Jack!” she said; “it was no use, dear. It is no use to fight against him.”
Here was her strange subjection to that influence again.
“You love me?” I cried, in my pain.
“Yes,” she said, “but I am very tired; and he will be good to me.”
Without another word I went from her, with the bitter knowledge that my great grief found but a pale reflection in her heart.
“I am ready to go,” I said to the President.
“Come, then,” he replied. “Here, take these, you may want them,” and he thrust a bundle of notes into my hand (some of my own from the bank I afterward discovered).
Arrived at the boat, I got in mechanically and made all preparations for the start.
Then the President took my hand.
“Good-by, Jack Martin, and good luck. Some day we may meet again. Just now there’s no room for us both here. You bear no malice?”