He paused again. Still no sign, and then he went on:
"I let you go. I did not dare reveal myself, but I kept my promise. Hate me, Mollie, as you will; despise me, as you must—but try and think how dearly I love you. I would lay down my life for you, my darling Mollie. That would be an easy sacrifice; it remains for me to make a greater one. A divorce shall set you free. I myself will obtain that divorce. No one knows of our marriage—no one ever shall know. I will leave you free—free as the wind that blows—to go forth and make happy a more honorable and deserving man. Only, Mollie, no man ever will love you as I love you!" His voice failed. He turned abruptly away, and stood as if waiting for her to speak. But she never uttered a word.
He took her silence for a token of her utter scorn and hate.
"Farewell then, Mollie," he said. "I go, and I will never molest you more. The carriage that brought you here will fetch you home again. But before we part forever, let me say this—if you ever want a friend, and can so far forgive me the wrong I have done you as to call upon me for help, then, Mollie, I will try to repair my unpardonable offense."
He walked to the door, he turned the handle, he gave one last, despairing look—and what did he see? A little, white hand extended imploringly, and a pathetic little voice, tremulously speaking:
"Hugh, don't go!"
He stopped, turning ghastly white.
"Mollie! For God's sake—"
"Don't—don't go, Mr. Ingelow! Don't go, for I forgive you—I love you!"
Hugh Ingelow gave one amazed cry—it was more like a shout—and in the next ecstatic moment Miss Dane was in his arms, held there as if he never would let her go.