The two walked on side by side, neither speaking for some time after this. Perhaps Lorna Bolivick was frightened,—perhaps she was wondering how she could at once be kind, and still make him see the foolishness of what he had said.
'I am glad you are silent,' went on Edgecumbe, 'for your silence helps me. Do you know, when I came to England,—that is, when I saw Luscombe for the first time, I had no thought of God except in a vague, shadowy way. Something, I don't know what, had obliterated Him from my existence,—if ever He had an existence to me, and for months afterwards I never thought of Him. Then I went into a Y.M.C.A. hut in France, where a man spoke about Him, and I caught the idea. It was wonderful,—wonderful! Presently I found Him, found Him in reality, and He illumined the whole of my life. I read that wonderful story of how He sent His Son to reveal Him,—I saw His love in the life and death of Jesus Christ,—and life has never been the same to me since then. But something was wanting, even then; something human, something that was necessary to complete life. Then I saw you, and you completed it.
'I don't know whether men call you beautiful, or not,—that doesn't matter. You have not come into my life like an angel, but as a woman, a human woman. I know nothing about you, and yet I know everything. You are the one woman God meant for me, you fill my life,—you glorify it. You mustn't think of marrying anybody else, it would be sacrilege if you did. Such a love as mine wasn't intended to be discarded,—mustn't be,—can't be.'
'Mr. Edgecumbe,' she said quietly, 'I think we had better return to the house.'
'No, don't let us go back yet; there are other things I want to say'; and he walked steadily on. She still kept by his side,—perhaps she was not so much influenced by his words, as the way he said them, for I knew by the look in his eyes when he told me his story, and by what I felt at the recital of it, that there was a strange intensity, a wonderful magnetism, in his presence.
'I am very ignorant,' he continued presently, 'about the ways of the world. I suppose I must have known at one time, for Luscombe tells me that I generally do what might be expected of a gentleman, although sometimes I make strange mistakes. The loss of one's memory, I suppose, has a curious effect, and I cannot explain it to you. There are certain things which are very real, and very plain,—others are obscure. For example, I speak German perfectly; but until I read it a few months ago, I knew nothing of German history. Forgive me for saying that,—it has nothing to do with what I want to tell you, and yet perhaps it has. Anyhow, it makes plain certain things I do and say. You are going to be my wife——'
'Really, Mr. Edgecumbe,—please,—please——'
'You are going to be my wife,' he went on, as if she had not spoken; 'some day, if not now, you are going to wake up to the fact that you love me, as I love you,—that just as you are the only woman in the world to me, so I am the only man in the world to you. That is not because of my worthiness, because I am not worthy, but because the fire which burns in my heart will be kindled in yours. This seems like madness on my part, doesn't it?—but I am not mad. I am only speaking because of a great conviction, and because my love envelops me, fills me, overwhelms me. Don't you see? Then this has come to me: I am poor, I am nameless, homeless,—but what of that? Love such as mine makes everything possible, and I am going to make a name, make wealth, make riches;—it won't take me long. Why,' and he laughed as he spoke, 'what is a great love for, but to conquer difficulties, to sweep away impossibilities?'
'But this is madness, Mr. Edgecumbe,' replied the girl, finding her voice at last. 'I can't allow you to speak in such a way any longer; it would be wrong for me to do so. I do not wish to hurt you, and indeed I am very sorry for you. I never thought that you would think of me in this way; if I had, I would never have asked you to come here. But you must see how impossible everything is; our habits of life, our associations, everything, make it impossible. Besides, I don't love you,—never can love you.'
'Oh, yes, you can,' replied Edgecumbe, 'and you will. It may be you will have a great battle to fight,—I think you will; but you will love me. When I am away from you,—when I am over in France, facing death, you will think of me, think of this hour, and you will remember that wherever I am, and whatever I am, I am thinking of you, loving you,—that my one object in life will be to win a position for you, to win a name for you. No, no, do not fear that I would ask you to marry me until, even in that sense, I am worthy of you. But you are young, and can wait, and, as you remember, perhaps in the silence of the night, that there is a man whom God made for you, thinking for you, striving for you,—you will learn the great secret.'