“George, if I were not convinced, do you think I would grieve you, and sacrifice all I have of earthly happiness? I cannot reason upon this question. My conscience has answered it for me.”
“So be it. Let conscience be your guide, and not love. I have done.”
He took both her hands in his, and held them long, looking in her face as he went on with what he had to say to her, gravely, without anger, but with a touch of coldness that placed her very far away from him, and marked the beginning of a life-long strangeness.
“It is settled, then,” he said; “we part for ever; but we are not going to air our story in the law-courts, or fill latest editions of evening papers with the details of our misery. We don’t want the law to annul our marriage upon the ground of a forbidden affinity, and to cast a slur upon our child in her grave.”
“No, no, no!”
“Then, though we are to spend our lives apart henceforward, in the eyes of the world you will still be my wife; and I would not have the lady who was once my wife placed in a false position. You cannot wander about the Continent alone, Mildred—you are too young and too attractive to travel without companionship. I have brought Pamela to be your companion. The presence of my niece at your side will tell the world that you have done no wrong to me or my name. It may be fairly supposed that we part from some incompatibility of temper. You need give no explanations; and you may be assured I shall answer no questions.”
“You are very good,” she faltered. “I shall be glad to have your niece with me, only I am afraid the life will be a dreary one for her.”
“She does not think that. She is much attached to you. She is a frank warm-hearted girl, with some common sense under a surface of frivolity. She is at my hotel near at hand. If you think your aunt will give her hospitality, she can come to you at once, and you and she can discuss all your plans together. If there is anything in the way of business or money matters that I can arrange for you—”
“No, there is nothing,” she said in a low voice; and then, suddenly, she knelt at his feet, and clasped his hand, and cried over it.
“George, tell me that you forgive me, before we part for ever,” she pleaded; “pity me, dear; pity and pardon!”