He stood up hastily.
“Don’t touch me!” he cried; “I have done you a fearful wrong; there was only one atonement I could make, and that you have prevented. Emilia, leave me. You should not have come.”
I forget how I told him; but I told him then how, in joining their hands together, I had meant them to understand that I resigned him to her. I told him how long I had known of their most natural love, confessed my struggles, my defeat, and acknowledged to the full the sin I had committed in marrying him in spite of what I knew. I reminded him, too, of our covenant, of the beliefs and aspirations we had shared, and implored him to accept his liberty.
“I know little of the laws,” said I, “but if they refuse to part us, why, we must part ourselves. If human justice is so far removed from righteousness, why, we must rise above it, and never mind the world. ‘Tis a wide place. Take her and make her happy where none knows. The worst of my pain is past.”
But Gabriel still insisted on the necessity of his death. “Your dreams are wild!” he cried. “There’s but one way. I have robbed you of all you had, of husband and friend. If I die, you, at least, have reparation. I have thought it well over; I am as calm as you. My poems lie in ashes in the grate. My life is done.”
We talked very long, very quietly, until the dawn peeped through the cracks of the shutters. And at last he gave me his word that he would live.
Having this promise, I rose.
“It is morning,” said I; “we are not fit to talk further. To-morrow we must seek our way. Go, Gabriel, and try to sleep; I will go upstairs to Jane.”
As we crossed the hall, he ran out into the garden, and I followed him. It was very cold, and I shivered, chilled by the dawn of a hopeless day.
He stooped on the path before me, and picked up the revolver he had dropped, looking at me with a queer smile. But the thought that he might even then be lying lifeless was brought to my mind with sickening vividness. I reeled, and would have fallen, had he not caught me in his arms.