“It is always with me. During my long, solitary wanderings here I think of you, and then it arises to overshadow me and crush out all my happiness,” she said in a tone of sorrow.
“Your life is dismal and lonely here,” I said. “You’ve become nervous and melancholy. Why not have a change? Persuade your aunt to bring you to Paris, or, if not, to some place near, where we may meet often.”
“No,” she replied in a harsh tone. “My presence in Paris is not wanted. You are better without me. You must leave England again to-morrow—and you must forget.”
“Forget!” I gasped. “Why?”
“It is best to do so,” she faltered with emotion. “I am unfitted to become your wife.”
“But you shall—you must!” I cried. “You have already given me your promise. You will not desert me now!”
She made no response. I pressed her again for an answer, but she maintained silence. Her attitude was one of firm resolve, and gave me the distinct impression that she had gained some knowledge of the reason of our brief estrangement.
“Tell me the reason of your sudden disbelief in my declarations,” I urged, looking earnestly into her eyes. “Surely I have given you no cause to regard our love as a mere irresponsible flirtation?”
“I have no reason to disbelieve you, Gerald,” she answered seriously; “yet I recognise the impossibility of our marriage.”
“Why is it impossible? We are both controllers of our own actions. You will not remain here with your aunt all your days?”