‘Oh, no,’ pleaded Rosalie, in tones as passionate as his, but infinitely piteous. ‘Do not say it, Richard—do not—do not put it into words!’ Her hand flew out involuntarily as though to stop his mouth: he caught it and kissed it though it fluttered in his grasp. ‘Why should I not say it—why should I not be brave enough to put into words the thought which has been in both our minds so often? When I saw your picture I fancied myself standing beside you, bending over you—’ ‘Oh, hush, hush!’ She had withdrawn her hand, and was covering her face. ‘I said to myself,’ he persevered, his words coming brokenly because of his quick breathing. ‘I said to myself, “If that woman lives she shall be my wife—I will search for her until I find her!” And then when I found you—I thought you were free.’ ‘But I was not free,’ she interrupted, dropping her hands and looking up with eyes fierce and wild like those of a hunted animal. ‘I am not free now, neither are you free. You are bound to him as much as I am—your duty stares you in the face—’ ‘It is too late to talk of duty! I ought never to have seen you. Do you suppose there is anything which you can tell me that I have not told myself a hundred times? He is my uncle—yes! He has been my benefactor always—more than a father to me—yes, yes! He is the kindest, the most warm-hearted, the most guileless of men. It would never enter his honest, innocent mind to suspect me of trying to supplant him; in acting as I do I am a traitor, a liar—vile, ungrateful, dishonourable, dishonest—Oh, there are no words strong enough, or black enough to paint me as I am! I know it and I agree to it; but I love you, Rosalie, and I will not give you up!’ Some of his words were scarcely audible as they came in gusts from his quivering lips; the veins on his forehead stood out; there was no mistaking the bitter contempt with which he stigmatised his own conduct, but there was even less possibility of misapprehending his deadly earnestness of purpose. ‘I mean to have you,’ he went on; ‘I mean to let everything go—except you.’ She was so much taken aback at the suddenness of the onslaught, so confounded at the quickness with which he had forestalled all she had intended to urge, that she stood before him for a moment absolutely mute; trembling, moreover, with the growing consciousness of her own weakness, and at his confident assumption of mastery over her. Meanwhile he, with his eyes fixed upon her face, read it like a book. His own suddenly changed. ‘It is useless to struggle, love,’ he said, speaking very gently and tenderly. ‘We have both done our best—we have tried to do right, but Fate has been too strong for us. We must just make up our minds to let ourselves go with the tide—and be happy.’