“I cannot,” said she; her voice was very faint and low.

“It is sudden for you, my dearest.  But be calm.  It will all be easily managed.  Leave it to me.”

“I cannot,” repeated she, more distinct and clear, though still very low.

“Why! what on earth makes you say that?” asked he, in a mood to be irritated by any repetition of such words.

“I do not love you.  I did once.  Don’t say I did not love you then! but I do not now.  I could never love you again.  All you have said and done since you came with Mr. Bradshaw to Abermouth first has only made me wonder how I ever could have loved you.  We are very far apart.  The time that has pressed down my life like brands of hot iron, and scarred me for ever, has been nothing to you.  You have talked of it with no sound of moaning in your voice—­no shadow over the brightness of your face; it has left no sense of sin on your conscience, while me it haunts and haunts; and yet I might plead that I was an ignorant child—­only I will not plead anything, for God knows all——­But this is only one piece of our great difference——­”

“You mean that I am no saint,” he said, impatient at her speech.  “Granted.  But people who are no saints have made very good husbands before now.  Come, don’t let any morbid, overstrained conscientiousness interfere with substantial happiness—­both to you and to me—­for I am sure I can make you happy—­ay! and make you love me, too, in spite of your pretty defiance.  I love you so dearly, I must win love back.  And here are advantages for Leonard, to be gained by you quite in a holy and legitimate way.”

She stood very erect.

“If there was one thing needed to confirm me, you have named it.  You shall have nothing to do with my boy, by my consent, much less by my agency.  I would rather see him working on the roadside than leading such a life—­being such a one as you are.  You have heard my mind now, Mr. Bellingham.  You have humbled me—­you have baited me; and if at last I have spoken out too harshly, and too much in a spirit of judgment, the fault is yours.  If there were no other reason to prevent our marriage but the one fact that it would bring Leonard into contact with you, that would be enough.”

“It is enough!” said he, making her a low bow.  “Neither you nor your child shall ever more be annoyed by me.  I wish you a good evening.”

They walked apart—­he back to the inn, to set off instantly, while the blood was hot within him, from the place where he had been so mortified—­she to steady herself along till she reached the little path, more like a rude staircase than anything else, by which she had to climb to the house.