But the more he reproached himself, the greater her compassion grew; till at last, in an agony of sympathy and pain, she knelt down by his side, and, sobbing passionately, put her arms around him.
‘Ambrose,’ she murmured, ‘Ambrose, do not speak so! do not break my heart! That woman shall not come between us. I do not care for the world, I do not care for the judgment of men. Bid me to remain with you to the end, and I will obey you.’
And she hid her face, blinded with weeping, upon his breast.
For a time there was silence; then the clergyman, conquering his emotion, gathered strength to speak again.
‘Alma! my darling! Do not tempt me with your divine goodness. Do not think me quite so lost as to spare myself and to destroy you. I have been weak hitherto; henceforth I will be cruel and inexorable. Do not waste a thought upon me; I am not worth it. Tomorrow I shall leave London. If I live, I will try, in penitence and suffering, to atone; but whether I live or die, you must forget that I ever lived to darken your young life.’
As he spoke, he endeavoured gently to disengage himself, but her arms were wound about him, and he could not stir.
‘No,’ she answered, ‘you must not leave me. I will still be your companion, your handmaid. Grant me that last mercy. Let me be your loving sister still, if I may not be your wife.’
‘Alma, it is impossible. We must part!’
‘If you go, I will follow you. Ambrose, you will not leave me behind you, to die of a broken heart. To see you, to be near you, will be enough; it is all I ask. You will continue the great work you have begun, and I—I will look on, and pray for you as before.’
It was more than the man could bear; he too began to sob convulsively, as if utterly broken.