“But you should understand, dear,” said he, most tenderly, with what voice he could command.  “God knows I would do anything to make you happy, but—­”

“Then,” she said tearfully, resigning her hand to his, “don’t bring this disappointment upon me.  Let them make war, if they please; you have your wife to consider, and your own future.  Whatever they fight about, ’tis nothing to you, compared with your duty to me.”

“But you don’t understand,” was all he could reply.  “If I could explain—­”

“Oh, Phil, dear,” she said, adopting again a tender, supplicating tone.  “You’ll not rob me of what I’ve so joyously looked forward to, will you?  Think, how I’ve set my heart on it!  Why, we’ve looked forward to it together, haven’t we?  All our happiness has been bound up with our anticipations.  Don’t speak of understanding or explaining,—­only remember that our first thought should be of each other’s happiness, dear, and that you will ruin mine if you don’t take me.  For my sake, for my love, promise we shall go to England in June!  I beg you—­’tis the one favour—­I will love you so!  Do, Phil!  We shall be so happy!”

She looked up at him with such an eager pleading through her tears that I did not wonder to see his own eyes moisten.

“My dear,” said he, with an unsteady voice, “I can’t.  I shouldn’t be a man if I left the country at this time.  I should loathe myself; I should not be worthy of you.”

She flung his hand away from her, and rose in another seizure of wrath.

“Worthy!” she cried.  “What man is worthy of a woman, when he cheats her as you have cheated me!  You are a fool, with your talk of loathing yourself if you left the country!  In God’s name, what could there be in that to make you loathe yourself?  What claim has the country on you, equal to the claim your wife has?  Better loathe yourself for your false treatment of her!  You’d loathe yourself, indeed!  Well, then, I tell you this, ’tis I that will loathe you, if you stay!  I shall abominate you, I shall not let you come into my sight!  Now, sir, take your choice, this instant.  Keep your promise with me—­”

“’Twas not exactly a promise, my dear.”

“I say, keep it, and take me to London, and keep my love and respect; or break your promise, and my heart, and take my hate and contempt.  Choose, I say!  Which?  This instant!  Speak!”

“Madge, dear, you are not yourself—­”

“Oh, but I am, though!  More myself than ever!  And my own mistress, too!  Speak, I bid you!  Tell me we shall go.  Answer—­will you do as your wife wishes?”

“I will do as your husband ought.”

“Will you go to England?”

“I will stay till I know the fate of the colonies; and to fight for them if need be.”

“You give me up, for the sake of a whim, of some silly fustian about patriotism, some fool’s rubbish of high-sounding words! Me, you balance against a crazy notion!  Very well, sir!  How I shall hate you for it!  Don’t come near me—­not a step!  Cling to your notion; see if it will fill my place!  From this moment, you’re not my husband, I’m not your wife—­unless you promise we shall sail in June!  And don’t dare speak to me, except to tell me that!”