But in humbling himself Lawrence Gerald had not been unmindful of the one earthly duty remaining to him. “Are you willing to give me up entirely, Annette?” he asked her one day.
She answered with a brief affirmative. “Follow wherever God leads you,” she said; “and do not stop an instant to think of me.”
He was used to depending on her, and to being sure that she meant what she said, and could perform her promises. Yet he wished to make certain. “You have to go out alone, and have no protection but that of servants,” he said.
“I do not need any other protection; I am quite safe here,” she replied.
“You cannot marry again,” he went on.
“I have no wish to!”
Perhaps there could not have been a stronger proof of the purification which Annette Gerald's character had undergone than the fact that this reply was made without a tinge of bitterness or regret. She spoke with gentle sincerity—that was all. As an absorbing affection had made her consent to be taken without love, so now a pity and charity yet more engrossing enabled her to find herself discarded without anger.
“Follow God, and think no more of me,” she said. “I remain here. Go when and where you will.”
It was the first time they had spoken together for several days, and was more by accident, apparently, than of their seeking. Passing through the room where Annette was, Lawrence had seen her trying to open a window that resisted her slight hands, and had opened it for her. Then the sweet clangor of the Ave Maria breaking out from all the towers at once, they had paused side by side a moment.
Perhaps he had wished to speak, and seized this opportunity.