“Mr Dando has gone away,” I said, “if it was any hope of running across him that brought you here.”
She started—turned swiftly—and I saw that look on her face which I had seen once before.
“Ira,” I cried, “don’t say it!”
She threw away the dislocated umbrella, burst into tears, and ran out into the snow. But she had not gone ten paces, when she stumbled and sank to her knees. In an instant I was beside her. I did not know what had happened to me. Is this sort of thing after all a stroke—or perhaps a sudden possession? Something like a fiery pulse was hammering in my brain. I felt furious, savage, half suffocated—reckless with a lust of pain, to inflict it and invite it. We were Pan and Syrinx in the blasting weather. I was crazy to make a reed of her sweet red mouth, and breathe my soul of passion into it. This frenzy may have been long germinating in me. Its delivery came in a roar of flame—why at this moment more than at another I cannot say. Perhaps it was the sudden sense of my isolation, alone with her in that cold soft world—her helplessness—the appeal of her young troubled face—my own much troubled soul. I had no claim on her, nor hope nor right of claim that could be held to exonerate me. Who was I to cull such a flower to my bastardy? And yet I could not control this sudden insane feeling, nor deny myself the mad indulgence of it. Come what would, I would take for my own so much of her as my lips would carry. I lifted her in my arms, while she struggled weakly to repulse me.
“No use,” I said fiercely. “I am strong, and a brute perhaps, and I am going to use my strength to rob your lips. They have insulted me often enough to deserve that toll. Scream if you like. It can hurt no one but yourself. Why did you think I made that remark about Johnny Dando? I myself hardly knew at the moment; but now I know. I was jealous—wickedly, horribly jealous. I had no right to be, I own—no right to think at all of you. But I do, Ira—I can’t help it; no more can you. I think of you, I am thinking of you now, in a way that would make you blush if you knew. Be quiet; it is useless your struggling. I want just that much of you—your mouth, and I intend to have it. Then I will let you go, and you can punish me as you like. Only this one thing you will never be able to say again—that your lips are virgin lips to the man who shall come to court and win you. You had better say nothing about it to him. That will be always the secret between you and me, Ira; and I will promise for my part to hold it inviolate.”
Something in the word, perhaps, drove me beyond myself. I bent my face down towards hers.
She had lain all this time like a wounded fawn in my arms, her eyes closed, her lips a little parted, the breath fluttering in her tender side. Now suddenly, to my wonderment, she looked up at me with a wistful smile.
“Richard,” she said, “you do not want me to die, do you? I thought I was going to; and then you came, and I could have cried with delight. I was so cold, and I had lost myself, and my heart seemed to fly out to your warmth and strength; and I thought, He is going to help me, though I have been so foolish; and suddenly I felt quite safe and happy.”
The madness died down in me, like a flame on which fragrant spices have been thrown. I seemed to myself to gasp for breath. She had seen me coming to her in her peril, and had felt safe.
“No, Ira,” I said, in a low choking voice, “I do not want you to die.”