He sat for a few moments, in a sombre reverie.
“Once,” he said, “when I was young, I loved a woman—a quadroon girl. That was in New Orleans; it is a custom we have there. They have a world of their own, and we take care of them, and of the children; and every one knows about it. I was very young, only about eighteen; and she was even younger. But I found out then what women are, and what love means to them. I saw how they could suffer. And then she died in childbirth—the child died, too.”
Montague’s voice was very low; and Mrs. Winnie sat with her hands clasped, and her eyes riveted upon his face. “I saw her die,” he said. “And that was all. I have never forgotten it. I made up my mind then that I had done wrong; and that never again while I lived would I offer my love to a woman, unless I could devote all my life to her. So you see, I am afraid of love. I do not wish to suffer so much, or to make others suffer. And when anyone speaks to me as you did, it brings it all back to me—it makes me shrink up and wither.”
He paused, and the other caught her breath.
“Understand me,” she said, her voice trembling. “I would not ask any pledges of you. I would pay whatever price there was to pay—I am not afraid to suffer.”
“I do not wish you to suffer,” he said. “I do not wish to take advantage of any woman.”
“But I have nothing in the world that I value!” she cried. “I would go away—I would give up everything, to be with a man like you. I have no ties—no duties—”
He interrupted her. “You have your husband—” he said.
And she cried out in sudden fury—“My husband!”
“Has no one ever told you about my husband?” she asked, after a pause.