But Geraldine, sitting there wrapped in the red firelight, did not stir nor move. The color had gone from her face, her eyes were bright and her eyelids burned hot and dry. She saw the dark, dominating figure beside her, she heard the pleading and she understood; yet she remained silent and motionless before him.
He bent over and took her hand in his. "Geraldine," he whispered, close to her white face, "come to me."
Then the blood beat into her face and flushed it crimson red. Her tense muscles relaxed and she arose and stood before him. The warm firelight enfolded them, and the wind came to them in wailing sobs; but silence lay between them, and Geraldine was alone--alone as it comes to us all to be sometimes--many times, perhaps. No word of her aunt's warning came to her now; no thought of her uncle's unspoken wish was with her; the world, with its perplexities, was forgotten; life that had already grieved and distressed her was lost in oblivion and she was in the silence, the vastness, the grandeur of self--alone--and her pure heart, her woman's heart knew its own. There are voices that come to us sometimes, other than those that come over the vibrations of air waves. The deep, still voice of truth needs no material means through which to speak. A wordless message came to Geraldine, as she stood silent and alone; it called to the depth of her soul, and smote upon the sweet, vibrant chords of her womanhood.
"Max," she said, "I cannot--cannot--"
"Geraldine--oh, Geraldine!"
"I cannot, Max--I do not love you."
He looked at her then as one looks at a rare and beautiful gem, and a desire to possess her such as he had not felt before arose within him; and even the dark-faced girl that at one time he had fancied stood unseen beside him in the firelight was forgotten.
"Geraldine, it cannot be--you do not understand." He seized her hands and his eyes burned upon her compellingly, as he sought by the superior force of his will to dominate and control her. "My love, be kind; you would not cast me off, ruin my life--"
"I cannot, Max," she said. Her voice faltered and her eyes looked compassionately into his. "I do not love you."
How many women he had loved, or professed to love, and not one of them had answered him as he was answered now. What sort of woman, then, was this one, whom persuasion could not influence and passion could not sway? By what standard had her life been fashioned? What was its center and controlling power? With all that he had seen of life, could it be that he had failed in his judgment of womankind? Was there something in the nature of a woman, a good woman, that he had never known?