He took the letter from me to look at it, as though my words had made him doubt that he had gathered its import.
‘But, Marian,’ said he, ‘he’ll be leaving the country next month.’
‘Well, dear?’
‘Isn’t that separation? I mean, it’s not like having him within reach of even a three-month visit.’
‘There’ll be no separation,’ said I.
‘You really mean to follow him?’ I viewed him steadily without speaking. ‘Alone, as you are?’ he continued. ‘All the way to the other side of the world, where you haven’t a friend and where the chances are—the chances are—’ he repeated slowly, then paused and cried out: ‘Why, yes, you have the love and spirit to do it, and when done it will be nobly done, to my way of thinking. But it will be like making a felon of yourself, Marian.’
I put my hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eyes.
‘You know, Will, I couldn’t live separated from Tom.’
‘Don’t stare so. What eyes you have! Do they shine in the dark?’
‘He is an innocent, suffering man, and I am as much his wife at heart as though his wedding-ring were on my finger. I mean to do more than follow him. If he goes in your ship I shall sail with him.’