“If ever you think of riding the White Bluff road—straight for the cliff itself and over—tell me, and I’ll ride it with you. If it’s all wrong as it is, it’s all wrong for both, and, maybe, the worst of what comes after is better than the worst of what is here.”
They had been frank with each other in the past, but never so frank as this. He was determined that they should be still more frank; and so was she. “Alice,” he said—
“Wait a minute,” she interjected. “I have something to say, Tom. I never told you—indeed, I thought I never should tell you; but now I think it’s best to do so. I loved a man once—with all my soul.”
“You love him still,” was the reply; and he screwed and unscrewed the field-glass in his hand, looking bluntly at her the while. She nodded, returning his gaze most earnestly and choking back a sob.
“Well, it’s a pity, it’s a pity,” he replied. “We oughtn’t to live together as it is. It’s all wrong; it’s wicked—I can see that now.”
“You are not angry with me?” she answered in surprise.
“You can’t help it, I suppose,” he answered drearily.
“Do you really mean,” she breathlessly said, “that we might as well die together, since we can’t live together and be happy?”
“There’s nothing in life that gives me a pleasant taste in the mouth, so what’s the good? Mind you, my girl, I think it a terrible pity that you should have the thought to die; and if you could be happy living, I’d die myself to save you. But can you? That’s the question—can you be happy, even if I went and you stayed?”
“I don’t think so,” she said thoughtfully, and without excitement.