, and the iron law of her Church will
not permit her to escape from it, what crime does she commit if
she . . ."

"Well?" I asked, though I saw what he was going to say.

"Mary," he said, breathing, hard and fast, "you must come to me."

I made a sudden cry, though I tried not to.

"Oh, I know," he said. "It's not what we could wish. But we'll be open
about it. We'll face it out. Why shouldn't we? I shall anyway. And if
your father and the Bishop say anything to me I'll tell them what I
think of the abominable marriage they forced you into. As for you, dear,
I know you'll have to bear something. All the conventional canting
hypocrisies! Every man who has bought his wife, and every woman who has
sold herself into concubinage--there are thousands and thousands of them
all the world over, and they'll try . . . perhaps they'll try . . . but
let them try. If they want to trample the life out of you they'll have
to walk over me first--yes, by God they will!"

"But Martin . . ."

"Well?"

"Do you mean that I . . . I am . . . to . . . to live with you without
marriage?"

"It's the only thing possible, isn't it?" he said. And then he tried to
show me that love was everything, and if people loved each other nothing
else mattered--religious ceremonies were nothing, the morality of
society was nothing, the world and its back-biting was nothing.

The great moment had come for me at last, and though I felt torn between
love and pity I had to face it.

"Martin, I . . . I can't do it," I said.

He looked steadfastly into my face for a moment, but I dare not look
back, for I knew he was suffering.

"You think it would be wrong?"

"Yes."

"A sin?"

I tried to say "Yes" again, but my reply died in my throat.

There was another moment of silence and then, in a faltering voice that
nearly broke me down, he said:

"In that case there is nothing more to say. . . . There isn't, is
there?"

I made an effort to speak, but my voice would not come.

"I thought . . . as there was no other way of escape from this terrible
marriage . . . but if you think . . ."

He stopped, and then coming closer he said:

"I suppose you know what this means for you, Mary--that after all the
degradation you have gone through you are shutting the door to a
worthier, purer life, and that . . ."

I could bear no more. My heart was yearning for him, yet I was compelled
to speak.

"But would it be a purer life, Martin, if it began in sin? N