He looked at her in dismay, like a traveller who beholds from afar the summit that he cannot reach.
“You can’t control my memories,” he said.
“Then remember me without bitter thoughts, as if I were a sister that you had lost.”
“No, Margaret, not without bitterness. You lifted up my thoughts, elevated my heart. They will only fall back now.”
She was moved by this speech, and it was with a grave and almost solemn tone that she responded:
“If you loved me, if you truly loved me, you would give me the supreme joy of thinking that my vocation was not to be useless, for you no less than for others. You can’t be cast down forever over my refusal: it doesn’t really touch you. It can neither wound you nor take from you. My memory ought to be sweet to you, and not spoil your life. For I have loved you, Raymond, my friend. I looked forward contentedly to our wedding-day, and content is the confidence of the soul, our security for the future. An unexpected upheaval has separated us. I’ve seen God’s summons in it. If it is not His will that I should bring you happiness, if He has tested you in your turn, let me believe that this very trial will make you strong, make you grow, and ennoble you. If I, imperfect as I am, have served to elevate you, don’t tell me that you are going to slip back. I shall pray so hard for you.”
She was absorbed in her entreaty, and did not notice that he had slowly bent his knee before her, till suddenly she felt the young man’s lips pressed to her hand.
“What are you doing, Raymond? Get up, I beg of you,” she cried.
She saw him there at her feet and was surprised by this new resolution that he revealed to her. His face seemed no longer tortured and sorrowful, only serious and sad. He had succumbed in spite of himself to the stern and peaceful influence of her faith—that faith which is more potent even over others than ourselves.
“I was not worthy of you,” he murmured. “But I loved you so. No man is worthy of you. That is my consolation,” he added, as he rose, paying her this last homage.