“Torment! Gough bless me! Why torment?” and a fugitive flame shot up at him.
“Because”—he stammered, and she could see that his lips quivered; then calmly, very calmly, pronouncing the words slowly, and in a voice as cold as ice—“because I love you!”
“You!”
“Didn't you know that?” His voice was guttural. “Haven't you known it all along? What's the use of pretending? You've dragged it out of me. Was that only to show your power over me?”
“Oh!”
She had heard what her heart wanted to hear, and not for worlds would she have missed hearing it, yet she was afraid, and trembling all over.
“We two are of different natures, Glory, that's the trouble between us—now, and always has been. We have nothing in common, absolutely nothing. You have chosen your path in life, and it is not my path. I have chosen mine, and it is not yours. Your friends are not my friends. We are two different beings altogether, and yet—and yet I love you! And that's why I can not come again.”
It was sweet, but it was terrible. So different from what she had dreamed of: “I love you!—you are my soul!—I can not live without you!” Yet he was right. She had slain his love before it was born to her—it was born dead. In an unsteady voice, which had suddenly become husky, she said:
“No doubt you are right. I must leave you to judge. Perhaps you have thought it all out.”
“Don't suppose it will be easy for me, Glory. I've suffered a good deal, and I dare say I shall suffer more yet. If so, I'll bear it. But for the sake of my work——”