“Don’t say ‘intrude,’ Hildegarde. You pain me when you speak in that way. I would give all I possess to prove to you how keenly I regret the past. I have never known peace of mind since,” I said, earnestly.
“Men find a solace that is denied poor women—travel and congenial company may cure the worst case of melancholy and remorse. But I am not going to reproach you, Morgan, God knows. The past is gone, never to return. I resolutely forbid myself to think of it.”
“But, Hildegarde, is it utterly impossible to make amends? I am ready to prove to you that though I gave you up in a nasty bit of passion, I have never ceased to love you—that in every way I have endeavored to forget I could not. Is it your will that we go our separate ways again and see each other no more? This time the decision rests upon you. God give you the wisdom to decide aright.”
I awaited her answer as a man might who had staked his all on the turn of a card.
She evidently was struggling with desire, and it was a question whether heart would come out victor, or reason.
The verdict must be given.
She took one step toward me.
I even opened my arms, and my heart beat tumultuously; but, alas, the hour was not yet come.
I saw her move back, one hand pressing against her heart; what would I not have given for light just then—light to reveal the love in her eyes!
“No, no, I could not trust you after this. And you might regret again. Morgan, I shall not take you from your—your pleasures. It is better we should part. Forget me, and be happy—as I—shall try—to be.”