“Must we part in this way, St. John?  And when you go to India, will you leave me so, without a kinder word than you have yet spoken?”

He now turned quite from the moon and faced me.

“When I go to India, Jane, will I leave you!  What! do you not go to India?”

“You said I could not unless I married you.”

“And you will not marry me!  You adhere to that resolution?”

Reader, do you know, as I do, what terror those cold people can put into the ice of their questions?  How much of the fall of the avalanche is in their anger? of the breaking up of the frozen sea in their displeasure?

“No.  St. John, I will not marry you.  I adhere to my resolution.”

The avalanche had shaken and slid a little forward, but it did not yet crash down.

“Once more, why this refusal?” he asked.

“Formerly,” I answered, “because you did not love me; now, I reply, because you almost hate me.  If I were to marry you, you would kill me.  You are killing me now.”

His lips and cheeks turned white —­ quite white.

“I should kill you —­ I am killing you?  Your words are such as ought not to be used:  violent, unfeminine, and untrue.  They betray an unfortunate state of mind:  they merit severe reproof:  they would seem inexcusable, but that it is the duty of man to forgive his fellow even until seventy-and-seven times.”

I had finished the business now.  While earnestly wishing to erase from his mind the trace of my former offence, I had stamped on that tenacious surface another and far deeper impression, I had burnt it in.

“Now you will indeed hate me,” I said.  “It is useless to attempt to conciliate you:  I see I have made an eternal enemy of you.”

A fresh wrong did these words inflict:  the worse, because they touched on the truth.  That bloodless lip quivered to a temporary spasm.  I knew the steely ire I had whetted.  I was heart-wrung.

“You utterly misinterpret my words,” I said, at once seizing his hand:  “I have no intention to grieve or pain you —­ indeed, I have not.”

Most bitterly he smiled —­ most decidedly he withdrew his hand from mine.  “And now you recall your promise, and will not go to India at all, I presume?” said he, after a considerable pause.

“Yes, I will, as your assistant,” I answered.

A very long silence succeeded.  What struggle there was in him between Nature and Grace in this interval, I cannot tell:  only singular gleams scintillated in his eyes, and strange shadows passed over his face.  He spoke at last.

“I before proved to you the absurdity of a single woman of your age proposing to accompany abroad a single man of mine.  I proved it to you in such terms as, I should have thought, would have prevented your ever again alluding to the plan.  That you have done so, I regret —­ for your sake.”