‘Better not; let me go.’
‘I say I must speak to you.’
‘We cannot talk here; let me go.’
‘I must! I must! come with me.’
She pitied him, and although she did not consent she did not refuse. He called a cab, and in ten minutes, not a word having been spoken during those ten minutes, they were at St Paul’s. The morning service had just begun, and they sat down in a corner far away from the worshippers.
‘Oh, Madge,’ he began, ‘I implore you to take me back. I love you. I do love you, and—and—I cannot leave you.’
She was side by side with the father of her child about to be born. He was not and could not be as another man to her, and for the moment there was the danger lest she should mistake this secret bond for love. The thought of what had passed between them, and of the child, his and hers, almost overpowered her.
‘I cannot,’ he repeated. ‘I ought not. What will become of me?’
She felt herself stronger; he was excited, but his excitement was not contagious. The string vibrated, and the note was resonant, but it was not a note which was consonant with hers, and it did not stir her to respond. He might love her, he was sincere enough to sacrifice himself for her, and to remain faithful to her, but the voice was not altogether that of his own true self. Partly, at least, it was the voice of what he considered to be duty, of superstition and alarm. She was silent.
‘Madge,’ he continued, ‘ought you to refuse? You have some love for me. Is it not greater than the love which thousands feel for one another. Will you blast your future and mine, and, perhaps, that of someone besides, who may be very dear to you? Ought you not, I say, to listen?’