But Virginia scarcely hears him.  Her lips are burning to ask him that one question, and, not heeding what he is saying, she turns and in a tremulous voice that vibrates to his very soul, she says: 

“Why have you kept away from us all this time?”

Why?  And Vansittart catches his breath.  Then the gyves of his strong will give way as the withes fell from Samson.

“I will tell you,” he says.  “I love you so horribly, that it is pain and anguish to me to be with you, for then I feel that when I leave you I am ready to die of longing and misery.”

“Well?” she utters in a very low voice, bending her eyes on the ground.  It is only one little word, but it speaks such volumes!  “Why should you leave me?” it says.  “Is it not my case, too?  What need you more than speak!”

“You have heard,” he goes on, not daring to look at her, “that I have forsworn marriage.  Marriage,” passionately, “kills love, and I would rather, ten times over, suffer what I have suffered—­and God knows that is not a little!—­than a day should come when, having known such divine happiness as I should know were you mine, we should grow cold and weary; when our passions should turn to indifference, to disappointment and heart-burnings, and end, perhaps, in our cherishing feelings of vindictive spite and bitterness against each other, and in my thinking every woman pleasanter and fairer than you, end in your believing me to be the greatest brute under heaven!”

“Oh!” utters Virginia, as she raises her eyes to his face with a look of pained wonder.

“I have seen it a thousand times,” he continues vehemently.  “I have known men passionately, madly in love with women, ready to count ’the world well lost,’ to sacrifice all the future only to call that idol of the moment theirs.  I have seen them marry.  I have watched the weariness that comes from security even more than from satiety.  I have seen the links that were forged in roses become gyves of iron—­tenderness and courtesy give place to rudeness and contempt.  I never saw but two people perfectly happy, and they,” lowering his voice, “were not married.  I have sworn a thousand times never to court wretchedness for myself and a woman I loved by loading her and myself with chains.  My idea has been this.  Some day I may meet with a being who, under natural circumstances, she keeping her freedom and leaving me mine, I might love with all my heart and be faithful to until the day of my death.  I would give her all I possessed.  I would devote myself to making her happy; if she had to sacrifice anything for my sake, I would atone to her for it by my unwearying love.  But,” his voice mastered by emotion, “how dare I say such words to you?  In the sphere in which you live they would be considered a dastardly insult—­one must not dare to move one step from the beaten track of custom.  The world would scoff at the idea that my love for you is more sacred and reverent than that of a man who, inspired by a momentary passion for a woman and desiring her, obtains his end by a simple and speedy means, without reflection as to the possible misery of both in the future.  And yet,” his lips quivering, his face growing deathly white, “I believe I could love you more dearly, love you longer than husband ever loved wife.”