“But,” she cried imploringly, “your life would not be safe if they knew of your being here.”
“Indeed? Well, what of it? My presence is a torture to you. I am a torture and misery to myself. They would not dare to kill me. I don’t know, though,” he said, with a mocking laugh, “by accident, perhaps.”
“Dr Chester,” cried Marion, appealingly, “does it please you to inflict this agony upon me?”
“No, no,” he said, snatching at her hand. “I would give my life to save you pain.”
“Then go. Leave me and forget me. I am not the true, innocent woman you think. I am not fit to be your wife.”
“What!” he cried, turning ghastly pale, while as she saw his agony her face grew convulsed and she half raised her hands to him pleadingly, but let them fall.
He saw the movement and snatched them to his breast.
“It is not true,” he cried proudly. “Some false sentiment makes you say this. I will not believe it of the woman I love.”
She did not resist until he tried to take her to his heart. Then she shrank away.
“No,” she said. “You must not touch me like that. Once more, believe me, all this must end. You must think of me no more—you must go at once, and we must never meet again.”