Part 57 (2/2)
He stood like one detected in a crime, and stammered the words.
”Ida, I am not free.”
He had risen. Ida sprang up, and moved towards him.
”_This_ was your secret? Tell me, then. Look--_I_ am strong! Tell me about it. I might have thought of this. I thought only of myself. I might have known there was good reason for the distance you put between us. Forgive me--oh, forgive the pain I have caused you!
”You asking for forgiveness? How you must despise me.”
”Why should I despise you? You have never said a word to me that any friend, any near friend, might not have said, never since I myself, in my folly, forbade you to. You were not bound to tell me--”
”I had told your grandfather,” Waymark said in a broken voice. ”In a letter I wrote the very day he was taken ill, I begged him to let you know that I had bound myself.”
As he spoke he knew that he was excusing himself with a truth which implied a falsehood, and before it was too late his soul revolted against the unworthiness.
”But it was my own fault that it was left so long. I would not let him tell you when he wished to; I put off the day as long as I could.”
”Since you first knew me?” she asked, in a low voice.
”No! Since you came to live here. I was free before.”
It was the part of his confession which cost him most to utter, and the hearing of it chilled Ida's heart. Whilst she had been living through her bitterest shame and misery, he had given his love to another woman, forgetful of her. For the first time, weakness overcame her.
”I thought you loved me,” she sobbed, bowing her head.
”I did--and I do. I can't understand myself, and it would be worse than vain to try to show you how it came about. I have brought a curse upon my life, and worse than my own despair is your misery.”
”Is she a good woman you are going to marry?” Ida asked simply and kindly.
”Only less n.o.ble than yourself.”
”And she loves you--no, she cannot love as I do--but she loves you worthily and with all her soul?”
”Worthily and with all her soul--the greater my despair.”
”Then I dare not think of her one unkind thought. We must remember her, and be strong for her sake. You will leave London and forget me soon,--yes, yes, you will _try_ to forget me. You owe it to her; it is your duty.”
”Duty!” he broke out pa.s.sionately. ”What have I to do with duty? Was it not my duty to be true to you? Was it not my duty to confess my hateful weakness, when I had taken the fatal step? Duty has no meaning for me.
I have set it aside at every turn. Even now there would be no obligation on me to keep my word, but that I am too great a coward to revoke it.”
She stood near to him.
”Dear,--I will call you so, it is for the last time,--you think these things in the worst moment of our suffering; afterwards you will thank me for having been strong enough, or cold enough, to be your conscience. There _is_ such a thing as duty; it speaks in your heart and in mine, and tells us that we must part.”
”You speak so lightly of parting. If you felt all that I--”
”My love is no shadow less than yours,” she said, with earnestness which was well nigh severity. ”I have never wavered from you since I knew you first.”
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