“Marry me, dear. Let me prove my love to you. No matter what lies back there, I forgive everything! That is what love means to a woman like me.”
Love! This poor, shabby counterfeit.
With a sickening sense of repulsion Northrup drew back, and maddeningly his book, not Kathryn, seemed to fill his aching brain. With this conception of love revealed––how blindly he had misunderstood. He tried to speak; did speak at last––he heard his words, but was not conscious of their meaning.
“You are wrong, child. Whatever folly was committed in King’s Forest was mine, not that girl’s. I suppose I was a bit mad without knowing it, but I will not accept your sacrifice, Kathryn, I will not ask for forgiveness. When I come home, if you still love me, I will devote my life to you. We will start afresh––the whole world will.”
“You are going at once?” Kathryn clutched at what was eluding her.
“Yes, my dear.”
“And you won’t marry me? Won’t––prove to me?”
“No.”
“Oh! how can you leave me to think–––”