"You cannot suppose that I mean to prevent you by force," said Wimpole, and he stood aside to let her pass if she would.
"You said that it was a trial of strength," she answered.
She hesitated one moment, and then turned and began to walk with him. They crossed the street to the side by which the river runs, away from the hotels and the houses. It was darker there and more quiet, and they felt more alone. It would seem easier, too, to talk in the open air, with the sound of the rushing water in their ears. He was the first to speak then.
"I suppose that there are times in life when it is better to throw over one’s own scruples, if one has any," he began. "I have never done anything to be very proud of, perhaps, but I never did anything to be ashamed of either. Perhaps I shall be ashamed of what I am going to say now. I don’t care. I would rather commit a crime than let you wreck your whole existence, but I hope you will not make me do that."
They had stopped in their walk, and were leaning against the railing that runs along the bank.
"You are talking rather desperately," said Helen, in a low voice.
"It is rather a desperate case," Wimpole answered. "I talk as well as I can, and there are things which I must tell you, whatever you think of me; things I never meant to say, but which have made up most of my life. I never meant to tell you."
"That I love you. That is the chief thing."
The words did not sound at all like a lover’s speech, as he spoke them. He had drawn himself up and stood quite straight, holding the rail with his hands. He spoke coolly, with a sort of military precision, as though he were facing an enemy’s fire. There was not exactly an effort in his voice, but the tone showed that he was doing a hard thing at that moment. Then he was silent, and Helen said nothing for a long time. She was leaning over the rail, trying to see the running water in the dark.
"Thank you," she said at last, very simply, and there was another pause.
"I did not expect you to say that," he answered presently.
"Why not? We are not children, you and I. Besides--I knew it."
"Not from me!" Wimpole turned almost sharply upon her.
"No. Not from you. You wrote Henry a letter, many years ago. Do you remember? I had to read everything when he went to the asylum, so I read that, too. He had kept it all those years."