“For ever,” added Dick.
“For ever,” she repeated mechanically.
“I have had hard measure,” he continued. “In time, I believe I could have shown you I was worthy, and there was no time long enough to show how much I loved you. But it was not to be. I have lost all.”
He relinquished her hand, still looking at her, and she turned to leave the room.
“Why, what in fortune’s name is the meaning of all this?” cried Van Tromp. “Esther, come back!”
“Let her go,” said Dick, and he watched her disappear with strangely mingled feelings. For he had fallen into that stage when men have the vertigo of misfortune, court the strokes of destiny, and rush towards anything decisive, that it may free them from suspense though at the cost of ruin. It is one of the many minor forms of suicide.
“She did not love me,” he said, turning to her father.
“I feared as much,” said he, “when I sounded her. Poor Dick, poor Dick! And yet I believe I am as much cut up as you are. I was born to see others happy.”
“You forget,” returned Dick, with something like a sneer, “that I am now a pauper.”
Van Tromp snapped his fingers.