“How dare you speak of him like that?” she cried, angrily. “He is all that is wise and good.”
“And worships you so dearly that he has gone away for three years, at least, to prove to you his love.”
“It is a great act of noble forbearance,” she said, proudly, “and you slander him by your words.”
“I hope I do,” he said; “but they were wrung from me by my misery and suffering. But no, I will not believe you can be so cruel to me. I know that I may hope.”
They were nearing the gate leading into the great home field, and Sage, trembling and agitated to a terrible degree, hurried on, feeling that, once within sight of the house, Cyril Mallow would leave her. Her mind was confused, and the struggle going on between duty and inclination was terrible; while the knowledge that she was so weak and yielding towards her companion half maddened her for the time.
“Why do you hurry on so?” he pleaded. “Am I to be driven away? Am I to leave home, and go anywhere that fate may drift me?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she moaned. “This is too cruel to me. Pray, pray leave me now.”
“Then I may hope?”
“No,” she cried, with a fresh accession of strength, as she laid her hand upon the gate; “I have promised to be Luke Ross’s wife.”
“His you shall never be,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. “You do not love him, and you shall not fling yourself away. Sage, you shall be mine, and—”