“I did not know it,” replied she. “I did not think I could move you in the least—beyond a friendly liking.”
An inflection in her voice made me suddenly realize. “You came because it made you happy to come!” I cried triumphantly. I caught her hand. “You do care, Mary!”
She drew her hand away resolutely. “I shall keep my promise,” she said coldly. “I wish to hear no more.”
“You will not keep your promise. If necessary I’ll go to him and tell him—and he’ll release you.”
She gave me a look that withered. “You—do a cowardly thing like that!”
“No,” said I. “But you will ask him to release you. You have no right to marry him. And I—I love you—and must live my life with you, or—I can think of nothing more futile and empty than life without you. And your life—would it not be futile and empty, Mary, if you tried to live it without me, when we might have been together? Together!—you and I! Mary, my love!”
“Why do you say those things, Godfrey?” she cried passionately. “To make me wretched? To make it harder for me to do what I must?”
“To make it impossible for you to do what you must not. Marry a man you don’t love—marry him when you love another! You’d be doing him the worst possible injury. No matter how much he loves you, he can recover from the blow of losing you. But the day to day horror of such a loveless marriage would destroy you both. He is a sensitive man. He would feel it, in spite of all your efforts to pretend. You—pretend! You could not do it.”
“After what has passed between him and me—the promises we’ve exchanged—the plans we’ve made—there is no going back! I don’t wish to go back. I——”
“Mary—I love you!” I cried. “I love you—and you love me. That’s the wall between you and any other man, between me and any other woman.”