“No!” she gasped, trying to break free. Still he held her, but she persisted. “It’s not right.”
At last he released her. With this action he too seemed to remember himself, and to refrain,
though his reasons were vastly different.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I’m afraid you quite carry me away.” She gazed back at him, his features half hidden in the gloom, trying to understand the source and meaning of his words. It was impossible.
“Oh,” she said in despair. “I didn’t want it to end like this. Couldn’t you just embrace me, as you would a friend, and say good-night?”
“As a friend?” So sharp and demanding was his voice, his whole bearing, that she found herself saying, quite against her will:
“Please, just give me a little more time. I’m not ready.....”
And these words, like so many other innocent acts, seemed to achieve an end of their own, altogether separate from what she had intended. Stephen was strangely soothed, and gratified, as if hearing exactly what he wanted to. She felt, as much as saw him smile. He came to her, and embraced her gently.
“Oh, Mary,” he whispered, as he kissed her cheek. “Thank you for this. Thank you for not giving in. I’ve been waiting all my life for a feeling, like this.” And he kissed her again with heart-breaking softness.
Then he stepped away and swiftly mounted. “I’ll be back three days hence. We will ride again, and make our love in the fields.” And he rode off, leaving her bewildered and unable to reply.