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 noble 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 passionately. "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.
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