"I cannot." There was no hesitation in the answer.
"But if I ask you," she said; "if I beg you, if I entreat you--"
"It is of no use, Helen. I should do my best to keep you away from Harmon, even if I were sure that you would never speak to me nor see me again. I have said almost all I can, and so have you. You are half a saint, or altogether one, or you could not do what you are doing. But I am not. I am only a man. I don't like to talk about myself much, but I would not have you think that I care a straw for my own happiness compared with yours. I would rather know that you were never to see Harmon again than--" He stopped short.
"Than what?" asked Helen, after a pause.
He did not answer at once, but stood upright again beside her, grasping the rail.
"No matter, if you do not understand," he said at last. "Can I give you any proof that it is not for myself, because I love you, that I want to keep you from Harmon? Shall I promise you that when I have succeeded I will not see you again as long as I live?"
"Oh, no! No!" The cry was sudden, low, and heartfelt.
Wimpole squeezed the cold railing a little harder in his hands, but did not move.
"Is there any proof at all that I could give you? Try and think."
"Why should I need proof?" asked Helen. "I believe you, as I always have."