She did as he bade her, and stood, leaning on the table with both her hands, looking at him with eyes from which the tears were streaming.
"Mabel, you asked me to marry you. I said I would, and I will."
"But--what's the use of it now? You don't understand."
"Oh, yes, I do; I don't know if I can get you to believe me, but I do understand much better than you suppose; and, indeed, I rather fancy even better than you do. Anyhow, the supposition is that we're to be bride and bridegroom, dear, to-morrow; let's for goodness' sake be friends to-night. Let's try to say, at any rate, one or two pleasant things, as, not so very long ago, we used to do. What's going to come of it all you seem doubtful, and I can hardly pretend that I'm quite sure. I don't suppose, Mabel, that you ever read Dante, or, perhaps, even heard of him. But, in a tolerably well-known poem by Dante, there is this story. He goes down, with a party named Virgil, into one of the lowest depths of hell, and there he meets a poor devil who seems to be having an uncommonly bad time. They ask him what he has done that he should suffer so, and he answers something to this effect. He has it that his creed was a very simple one. He believed, and he acted on his belief, that one moment of perfect bliss was worth an eternity of hell, He had that perfect moment, the lucky bargee! And now for ever he's in hell. Yet, do you know, he isn't sorry; he thinks that moment was worth the price he paid. That's a moral story, and I don't pretend that I've got it quite right; but that's what it comes to; and, upon my word, I'm sometimes half disposed to think that that man's creed is mine. I guess it would be rather too much to ask you to make it yours; but--this you'll grant--we have had our moments of bliss, which was nearly perfect. Now, haven't we?"
"I--I don't know why you're talking to me like this. I--I know we have. Oh, Rodney, how--how I wish we hadn't!"
"Well, I don't--and I rather fancy I'm in a worse fix than you. But, as I live, when I think of the fun we've had, I don't care--that." And he snapped his fingers. "They can do as they please, but they can't take from me my memories; and if I'm face to face with hell--I'll carry them there."
He held out his hands to her with a little gesture of appeal. "Lady, talking will do no good, so let's say pretty things. Sweetheart, I'll be shot if I won't call you sweetheart, look you never so sourly at me!"
"Oh, Rodney, I--I don't want to look sourly at you! Sourly! Oh, my dear, if you only knew!"
"I do know, and that's just it. I want you to know. Sweetheart, good night!"
He still held out his hands to her. As she looked at him, with straining eyes, she seemed to waver.