How little she knew what she was doing! Even as she spoke she was in my arms. The next moment she was trembling violently, and then she strove to tear herself away. But I was inexorable, and folded her close for yet an instant longer, till she was still. I raised my head and pushed her a little away, holding her by both arms that I might see her face.
“Oh,” she gasped, “you are cruel! I did not mean that you should kiss me so—so hard.”
“My—wife!” I whispered irrelevantly.
“Let me go, sir,” she said, with her old imperious air, trying to remove herself from my grasp upon her arms. But I did not think it necessary to obey her. Then her face saddened in a way that made me afraid.
“You have done wrong, Paul,” she said heavily. “I meant you should just touch me and go. You took unmanly advantage. Alas! I fear I have a bad heart. I cannot be so angry as I ought. But I am resolved. You know, now, that I love you; that no other can ever have my love. But that knowledge is the end of all between us, even of the friendship which might, one day, have comforted me. Go, I command you, if you would not have me an unhappy woman forever!”
She wrenched herself free. Then, seeing me, as she thought, hesitate for an answer, she added firmly:
“I love you! But I love honour more, and obedience to the right, and my plighted word. Go!”
“I will not go, my beloved, till you swear to tell the Englishman to-morrow that you love me and intend to be my wife.”
“Listen,” she said. “If you do not go at once, I promise you that I will be George Anderson’s wife to-morrow.”
I stared at her dumbly. Was it conceivable that she should mean such madness? Her eyes were fathomlessly sorrowful, her mouth was set. How was I to decide?