“You must hear me, then.”
“I wish to go.”
“You must stay to hear me.” He believed a fierce assault would now win the heights. He released her hand; but she was still his prisoner, and he leant towards her averted head.
“I'm going to tell you why I behaved like that that night. It was because I could not contain myself any longer. You had always been so icy to me; kept me at arm's-length, barely let me speak to you; and all the time I was burning to tell you that I loved you—there, you know it now. On that night you were still cold when you might have been only barely civil and I could have contained myself. But you would not give me a word, and at last all that was in me for you burst out and I could not hold myself. It was unkind; it was frightening to you, perhaps; but was it a crime?—is it a crime to love?”
His flow checked, waiting an impulse from her.
She was but capable of a little “Oh!”—the crest of a gasp.
He misread her emotion. “Has it all been pretence, your keeping me from you like this? I believe it has. But now that you know you will be kind. Tell me. Speak.”
Encouraged by her silence he took her hand.
That touch acted as a cold blast upon her fevered emotions. Now she was calm.
She shook off his hand. “Have you done?”