“But at least we will write,” she said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It would be almost the same as seeing you. There would come a day when the sight of your writing would shake my resolve. You, if you wrote, could only tell me all that was in your heart. What use else to write? I should hear your heart calling mine, as mine will call to you. And then one day my resolution would fail. And if it did I should hate myself, and count myself unworthy to come near you again.”
“Then never, dear heart,” she whispered.
And there was a little silence too sad for words or tears. It was Sara who broke it.
“Christopher used to say,” she said, with a little shaky laugh, “that I could cheat the Fates. This time I cannot. They have dealt me a hand full of little spades, and every one of them is digging the grave of my happiness.”
“Ah, my dearest,” he said.
She disengaged herself gently from him.
“And since for a time at least we both must die,” she said, “we had better die at once. A lingering death is so painful.” Her voice shook. “Good-bye, Paul. Don’t come with me. I want to go home alone.”