'The grasshopper so blithe and gay,
Sang the summer time away;
Pinched and poor the spendthrift grew,
When the keen north-easter blew.'
I am that poor Cigale. I have had my summer time, and now it is winter; and you would fain make me believe that one can conjure up a second summer from out the ruins of autumn's blasts; nay, that is impossible alike for you as for me. Believe me, no good has ever come from a passion so suddenly developed, as this you plead now. You will live to thank me for my words, even if now, at this very moment, you are not confessing their justice."
She rose as she finished, and moved somewhat away from him. The darkness of the early May evening had crept up and about them unnoticed; she had become indistinct and unreal, a part of the shadows that surrounded her; and Mr. Tremain, as he listened to the low, even notes of her voice, felt the unreality of his position grow more and more defined.
He had been mad—mad with a moment's passion; and yet—and yet, what was this impalpable, intangible influence that drew him to her with invisible cords, even while he realised the wisdom of her words, and rejoiced in the freedom she forced back upon him?
The silence and the darkness increased; she became but a dim outline against the deeper tones of shadow, her pale face alone showing in the gloom.
"You scarcely give me a choice, Adèle," he said; "and yet how is it possible for me to accept your decision?"
His words were followed by a light laugh; a chord struck sharply, and then from out the obscurity came her voice again. But what was this change in it? What was this undertone of mocking raillery that sounded so familiar and yet so incongruous?
"Said I not truly, Mr. Tremain, you are mad to ask me to listen to you; and yet—ah, Philip—perhaps it would be wiser for us both could I but yield."
"Then listen, I entreat, Adèle," he cried, impetuously, "do not make your decision a final one; leave it open as a possibility for future consideration. Do not let me ask in vain; only say that you will think twice before you refuse me definitely. Do I ask too much?"
"Too much!" she echoed, and her voice sank to a whisper. "Is it too much to put the cup of water to the parched lips of a dying man, and bid him drink? Will he refuse, think you? Do you know how greatly you tempt me? Shall not you and I come to repent with bitterness this parleying with the inevitable? Well, then, since you will have it so, and since my will is weak—ah, so very weak—and fate is strong, it shall be as you wish. I will make no final decision. I will wait. Surely this should be triumph enough, even for me, to know that I have won you from the remembrance—nay, from the very presence of—Patricia Hildreth!"