She would not marry him, because she loved him.
Lane read this truth, and it wrung a deeper reverence from him.

And he saw, too, the one way in which he could break her spirit, make her surrender, if he could stoop to it.

If he could take her in his arms, and hold her tight, and kiss her dumb and blind, and make her understand his own love for her, his need of her, she would accede with the wondrous generosity of a woman's heart.

But he could not do it.
In the end, out of sheer pity that overcame the strange delight he had in torturing her, he desisted in his appeals and demands and subtle arguments.

The long strain left him spent.