He heard and groaned, then he tried another argument.

“Listen,” he said:  “you have been good enough to tell me—­several times—­well, that you loved me, and, forgive me for alluding to it, but I think that once you were so foolish as to say that you cared for me so much that you would give your very existence if it could make me happy.  Now, I ask you for nothing half so great as that; I ask you to submit to a trifling inconvenience, and, so far as you are personally concerned, to waive a small prejudice for my sake, or, perhaps I had better say, to give in to my folly.  Can’t you do as much as that for me, Jane?”

“Ernest,” she answered hoarsely, “if you asked anything else of me in the world I would do it—­yes, anything you can think of—­but this I can’t do and won’t do.”

“In God’s name, why not?” he cried.

“Because to do it would be to declare my father a quack and a liar, and to show that I, his daughter, from whom if from anybody he has a right to expect faith and support, have no belief in him and the doctrine that he has taught for twenty years.  That is the truth, and it is cruel of you to make me say it.”

Ernest Merchison ground his teeth, understanding that in face of this woman’s blind fidelity all argument and appeal were helpless.  Then in his love and despair he formed a desperate resolve.  Yes, he was very strong, and he thought that he could do it.

Catching her suddenly round the waist he thrust her into a cottage armchair which stood by, and, despite her struggles, began to cut at the sleeve of her dress with the lancet in his hand.  But soon he realised that the task was hopeless.

“Ernest Merchison,” she said, as she escaped from him with blazing eyes and catching breath, “you have done what I will never forgive.  Go your own way in life and I will go mine.”

“——­To death, Jane.”

Then she walked out of the house and through the garden gate.  When she had gone ten or fifteen yards she looked back to see her lover standing by the gate, his face buried in his hands, and his strong frame shaking with sobs.  For a moment Jane relented; it was terrible to see this reserved and self-reliant man thus weeping openly, and she knew that the passion must be mighty which would bring him to this pass.  In her heart, indeed, she had never loved him better than at this moment; she loved him even for his brutal attempt to vaccinate her by force, because she understood what instigated the brutality.  But then she remembered the insult—­she to be seized like a naughty child who will not take its dose, and in the presence of another woman.  And, so remembering, she hardened her heart and passed out of his sight towards the gateways of the grave.