“Haven't I?” She smiled—a small, wise, wonderful smile that began somewhere deep in her heart and touched her lips and lingered in her eyes.
“Tell me,” she said. “Are you married, Garth?”
He started.
“Married! God forbid!”
“And if you married me, would you be wronging any one?”
“Only you yourself,” he answered grimly.
“Then nothing else matters. You are free—and I'm free. And I love you!”
She leaned towards him, her hands outheld, her mouth still touched with that little, mystic smile. “Please—tell me all over again now much you love me.”
But no answering hands met hers. Instead, he drew away from her and faced her, stern-lipped.
“I must make you understand,” he said. “You don't know what it is that you are asking. I've made shipwreck of my life, and I must pay the penalty. But, by God, I'm not going to let you pay it, too! And if you married me, you would have to pay. You would be joining your life to that of an outcast. I can never go out into the world as other men may. If I did”—slowly—“if I did, sooner or later I should be driven away—thrust back into my solitude. I have nothing to offer—nothing to give—only a life that has been cursed from the outset. Don't misunderstand me,” he went on quickly. “I'm not complaining, bidding for your sympathy. If a man's a fool, he must be prepared to pay for his folly—even though it means a life penalty for a moment's madness. And I shall have to pay—to the uttermost farthing. Mine's the kind of debt which destiny never remits.” He paused; then added defiantly: “The woman who married me would have to share in that payment—to go out with me into the desert in which I lie, and she would have to do this without knowing what she was paying for, or why the door of the world is locked against me. My lips are sealed, nor shall I ever be able to break the seal. Now do you understand why I can never ask you, or any other woman to be my wife?”