"Whatever happens to either of us, we belong to each other for ever," he had said, and I had answered, "For ever and ever."
It was a fearful shock to think of this now. I saw that if I did what I had come out to do, not only would Mary O'Neill be dead to me after to-night, but Martin Conrad would be dead also.
When I thought of that I realised that, although I had accepted, without question, the newspaper reports of Martin's death, he had never hitherto been dead to me at all. He had lived with me every moment of my life since, supporting me, sustaining me and inspiring me, so that nothing I had ever done—not one single thing—would have been different if I had believed him to be alive and been sure that he was coming back.
But now I was about to kill Martin Conrad as well as Mary O'Neill, by breaking the pledge (sacred as any sacrament) which they had made for life and for eternity.
Could I do that? In this hideous way too? Never! Never! Never! I should die in the streets first.
I remember that I was making a movement to go back to Ilford (God knows how), when, on the top of all my brave thinking, came the pitiful thought of my child. My poor helpless little baby, who had made no promise and was party to no pledge. She needed nourishment and fresh air and sunshine, and if she could not get them—if I went back to her penniless—she would die!
My sweet darling! My Isabel, my only treasure! Martin's child and mine!
That put a quick end to all my qualms. Again I bit my lip until it bled, and told myself that I should speak to the Very next man who came along.
"Yes, the very next man who comes along," I thought.
I was standing at that moment in the shadow of one of the pilasters of the loggia, almost leaning against it, and in the silence of the street I heard distinctly the sharp firm step of somebody coming my way.