“I like Alice as a friend,” he said; “but I never could have loved her as a wife, and shall not try. I have tasted a little the sweets of loving you, and nothing will satisfy me now but the full fruition of that love. Gertie, you do love me; tell me that you do, and not shrink away from me as you are trying to do.”
He wound his arm around her, and drew her closely to him, while with a shudder she cried:
“Oh, Godfrey, don’t ask me; take the words back, please, and do not torture me so cruelly. I cannot be your wife. I cannot. It must never be,—never. I have given my solemn promise, and I must keep it.”
Then he released her, and springing to his feet, exclaimed:
“Your promise, Gertie! Your promise! What do you mean? Has any other man dared talk to you of love? Has Tom Barton——”
She saw that he misunderstood her, and said to him:
“No, Godfrey, it is not that. I am not promised in that way, but for gratitude, for honor. Your father asked it of me.”
“My father? What do you mean?” Godfrey said, resuming his seat beside her, and growing very indignant and very white about the lips when Gertie told him what she meant, and that she would not break her vow.
Nothing he could say to her moved her in the least. She had promised and she should keep her word, and he must go back to Alice, who would forgive him.
“I shall never go back to her. We settled that last night,” he said, and then added, quickly: “Gertie, I am not one who gives up easily, and I shall not give you up. My father himself shall remove the bar; only tell me, Gertie, truly, do you love me, and if it were not for the promise, would you be my wife?”