"Can you not forgive me, Ida? If you knew what the sacrifice cost me, how much I have suffered. See here, dearest"—he drew still closer to her—"let the past go. It shall, I swear! There is a limit to a man's endurance, and I have passed it. I love you, Ida, I want you! Come back with me and let us live for each other, live for love. Dearest, I will teach you to forget the wrong I did you. It's very little I have to offer you, a share in the hard life of a farmer out there in the wilds; but if you were still the mistress of Herondale, instead of poor—"
Half unconsciously she broke in upon his prayer.
"I am still—what I was. I am not poor. My father was a rich man when he died."
Stafford regarded her with surprise, then he moved his hand, as if he were waving away the suggestion of an obstacle.
"I am glad—for your sake, dearest; though for my own I would almost rather that you were as poor as I thought you; that I might work for you. Why do you stand and look at me so hopelessly. What else is there to divide us, dearest?"
Her lips opened, and almost inaudibly she breathed:
"Your honour."
He winced and set his teeth hard.
"My honour!"
"Yes. You have pledged your word, you have made your bargain—the price was paid, I suppose; you say so. Then in honour you belong to—her."