“Edith,” he said, “surely you did not mean what you said just now, that you are not fit to become my wife?”
“Yes,” she replied quickly; “I did mean it.”
She was glad that her face, was turned from him, and that the room was in partial darkness. She was glad that she was able to steady her voice, and to give a direct reply.
He did not answer; she felt he was waiting for her to speak on.
“Even if two people love each other,” she said, trembling, “or only think they do, which is too often the case, they have no right to thoughtlessly contract that holy tie. There cannot be perfect happiness in this world without perfect spiritual communion. I know—I feel sure—that this does not exist between you and me.”
The young man flushed, and his brow contracted somewhat angrily.
“Take time to think it over,” he said quickly; “this is not your own heart that is speaking now. The seeds which that man, your clergyman, has been sowing in your heart have borne fruit. Religion is changing your whole nature. It is alienating you hopelessly from all to whom you are so dear; it is making you unjust, cruelly unkind, to yourself, but doubly so to others, under the shallow pretence that you are serving God!”
She did not interrupt him; but when he ceased, she put out her hand and said, quickly but firmly—
“Good night.”
“Good night,” he repeated. “It is so early, surely you are not going to-your room already? This is our last night together, remember.”