Christine gave him the kiss, and it was as he had said. The stress upon her heart was loosened. She felt that she had told him all.
“You are mine,” he said, in a calm, low voice of controlled exultation, although, even as he said it, he loosed her from his arms and suffered her to move away from him and sink into a chair. He came and sat down opposite her, repeating the words he had spoken.
“No,” she said, “I am my own! I am the stronger to be so, now that the whole truth is known to you. Mr. Noel, I have only to tell you good-by. To-night must be the very last of it.”
“Mr. Noel!” he threw the words back to her, with a little scornful laugh. “You can never call me that again, without feeling it the hollowest pretence! I tell you you are mine!”
The assured, determined calm of his tones and looks began to frighten her. She saw the struggle before her assuming proportions that made her fear for herself—not for the strength of her resolve, but for her power to carry it out. She could only repeat, as if to fortify herself:
“I will never marry you.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because—ah, because I love you too much. Be merciful, and let that thought plead for me.”
“It is for the same reason that I will never give you up. It is no use to oppose me now, Christine. You are mine and I am yours.”