"One year!"
The sudden gleam of hope vanished from her eyes. For the third time I was failing her, yet my cursed prudence overrode me.
"Oh, it will pass swiftly, dear. You will be quite safe. I will be near you and watch over you."
I reassured her, anxiously explaining how much better it would be if we waited a little.
"One year!" she repeated, and it seemed to me her voice was toneless. Then she turned to me in a sudden spate of passion, her face pleading, furrowed, wretchedly sad.
"Oh, my dear, my dear, I love you better than the whole world, but I hoped you would care enough for me to marry me now. It would have been best, believe me. I thought you would rise to the occasion, but you've failed me. Well, be it so, we'll wait one year."
"Yes, believe me, trust me, dear; it will be all right. I'll work for you, slave for you, think only of you, and in twelve short months—I'll give my whole life to make you happy."
"Will you, dear? Well, it doesn't matter now.... I've loved you."
All that night I wrestled with myself. I felt I ought to marry her at once to shield her from the dangers that encompassed her. She was like a lamb among a pack of wolves. I juggled with my conscience. I was young and marriage to me seemed such a terribly all-important step.