“Because I see that only misfortune—ah! death—can arise. You know full well the promise I have made. You know, too, what has been told me in confidence, because—because my profession happens to be what it is—a humble servant of God.”
“Yes,” she faltered, “I know—I know! Forgive me if I have spoken harshly, Mr. Shuttleworth. I know you are my friend—and you are Owen’s. Only—only it seems very hard that you should thus put this ban upon us—you, who preach the gospel of truth and love.”
Shuttleworth drew a deep breath. His thin lips were pursed; his grey eyebrows contracted slightly, and I saw in his countenance a distinctly pained expression.
“I have spoken with all good intention, Sylvia,” he said. “Your love for Mr. Biddulph must only bring evil upon both of you. Surely you realize that?”
“Sylvia has already realized it,” I declared. “But we have resolved to risk it.”
“The risk is, alas! too great,” he declared. “Already you are a marked man. Your only chance of escape is to take Sylvia’s advice and to go into hiding. Go away—into the country—and live in some quiet, remote village under another name. It is your best mode of evading disaster. To remain and become the lover of Sylvia Pennington is, I tell you, the height of folly—it is suicide!”
“Let it be so,” I responded in quiet defiance. “I will never forsake the woman I love. Frankly, I suspect a hidden motive in this suggestion of yours; therefore I refuse to accept it.”
“Not to save your own life?”
“Not even to save my life. This is surely my own affair.”
“And hers.”