SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
Next morning, at half-past eight, my Martin left me.
We were standing together in the boudoir between the table and the fire, which was burning briskly, for the sultry weather had gone in the night, and the autumn air was keen, though the early sun was shining.
At the last moment he was unwilling to go, and it was as much as I could do to persuade him. Perhaps it is one of the mysteries which God alone can read that our positions seemed to have been reversed since the day before.
He was confused, agitated, and full of self reproaches, while I felt no fear and no remorse, but only an indescribable joy, as if a new and gracious life had suddenly dawned on me.
"I don't feel that I can leave England now," he said.
"You can and you must," I answered, and then I spoke of his expedition as a great work which it was impossible to put off.
"Somebody else must do it, then," he said.
"Nobody else can, or shall," I replied.