“Let us understand each other,” she said, trembling violently. “How dare you talk as if there was any community of feeling between us? How dare you presume upon my patience, Mr. Santley? It is wretched; it is abominable! When you talk of killing yourself, when you assume that I have any serious interest in you, or any right over you, you insult me and degrade yourself. We are nothing, and can be nothing to each other.”
“I know that,” he replied. “Do you think I am so mad as not to know that?”
“Then why do you come here to torture me, and to tempt me?”
The word came from her before she knew it, and her face became scarlet; but he uttered no protest, and raised his white hand in deprecation.
“Tempt you? God forbid!”
“I did not mean that,” she murmured, in confusion; “but you must know, you cannot fail to know, that it is not right for a married woman to receive such expressions of sympathy, however spiritual. It is that which makes me hate the Catholic Church. The priest promises you his office, and too often makes mischief under the guise of religion.”
“Do you accuse me of doing so?” he demanded, in the same sad, calm voice.
“No; but you should remember that you have not the custody of my soul, and I have no right to influence your actions. Come,” she continued, with rather a forced laugh, “talk to me like a true English clergyman. Tell me of the old women of the village, and their ailments; ask me for a subscription to give to your new soup kitchen; talk to me as if Mr. Haldane were listening to us—of your schools, your parish troubles—and you shall find me an eager listener!”
“I will talk of anything, Ellen, so long as I may talk to you.”
Again that manner of despairing certainty, of assured and fatal sympathy. The man was incorrigible.