‘Ambrose, why are you so strange? Have we not sworn to be all in all to one another? Have I not said that your people shall be my people, your God my God? Do not speak as if there was any change. Whatever persecution you suffer I have a right to share.’
He seemed to shrink from her in terror, and tried to disengage himself from her embrace.
‘Don’t, my darling! I can’t bear it! I need all my strength, and you make me weak as a child. All that is over now. I have no right to love you.’
‘No right?’
‘None. I thought it might have been, but now I know it is impossible. And I am not worthy of you; I was never worthy.’
‘Ambrose! has your heart then changed?’ ‘It will never change. I shall love you till I die. But now you must see that all is different, that our love is without hope and without blessing. There, there; don’t weep!’ ‘You will always be the same to me,’ she cried. ‘Whatever happens, or has happened, nothing can part you and me, if your heart is still the same.’
‘You do not understand!’ he returned, and as he spoke he gently put her aside. ‘All must be as if we had never met. God help me, I am not so lost, so selfish, as to involve you in my ruin, or to preserve your love with a living lie. Have compassion on me! I will see you again, or better still, I will write to you—and then, you will understand.’
Before she could say another word to him he was gone. She stood alone on the dark road, not far from the lights of the lodge. She called after him, but he gave no answer, made no sign. Terror-stricken, appalled, and ashamed, she walked on homeward, and entering the house, passed up to her room, locked the door, and had her dark hour alone.
The next day Alma rose early after a sleepless night. She found awaiting her on the breakfast table a letter which had been brought by hand. She opened it and read as follows: