I hurried into my bedroom and locked and
bolted the door.

But the heart knows nothing of locks and bolts, and a moment afterwards
my spirit was following Martin to his room. I was seeing him as I had
seen him last, with his face full of despair, and I was accusing myself
of the pain I had caused him.

I had conquered Martin, but I had conquered myself also. I had compelled
him to submit, but his submission had vanquished me.

Even if I had a right to impose renunciation on myself, what right had I
to impose it upon him, who did not desire it, did not think it
necessary, was not reconciled to it, and only accepted it out of
obedience to my will?

He loved me. No man ever loved a woman more dearly. He deserved to be
loved in return. He had done nothing to forfeit love. He was bound by no
ties. And yet I was driving him away from me. What right had I to do so?

I began to see that I had acted throughout with the most abominable
selfishness. In his great love he had said little or nothing about
himself. But why had _I_ not thought of him? In the struggles of my
religious conscience I had been thinking of myself alone, but Martin had
been suffering too, and I had never once really thought of that? What
_right_ had I to make him suffer?

After a while I began to prepare for bed, but it took me long to
undress, for I stopped every moment to think.

I thought of the long years Martin had been waiting for me and while I
was telling myself that he had kept pure for my sake, my heart was
beating so fast that I could hardly bear the strain of it.

It cut me still deeper to think that even as there had been no other
woman for him in the past so there would be no other in the future.
Never as long as he lived! I was as sure of that as of the breath I
breathed, and when I remembered what he had said about wearing the
willow for me as if I were dead I was almost distracted.

His despairing words kept ringing mercilessly in my ears--"It's all as
one now"; "How happy we might have been." I wanted to go to him and tell
him that though I was sending him away still I loved him, and it was
_because_ I loved him that I was sending him away.

I had made one step towards the door before I remembered that it was too
late to carry out my purpose. The opportunity had passed. Martin had
gone to his room. He might even be in bed by this time.

But there are spiritual influences which control our bodies
independently of our will. I put