He was dizzy. The world swung under him.
“I’m not crying,” she panted brokenly. “I’m not glad, and I’m not sorry. No one ever kissed me like that.—Oh, please don’t touch me. I ought to send you away forever.”
He knelt beside her, conscience-stricken. It was as if he had done her a great wrong. Passion was tossed aside by compassion. As he knelt, he kissed timidly the quivering hands which hid her eyes from him.
“Forgive me, my darling. You couldn’t send me away. I shall never leave you.”
“Poor you! There’s nothing to forgive.” It was a little child talking. Making bars of her fingers, she peered out at him. “If I let you stay, will you promise not to blame me—never to think I’ve led you on when—when I don’t marry you?”
“I won’t blame you,” his voice was strained and husky, “but I’ll wait for you forever.”
“Will you? All men say that.” She shook her head wisely. “I wonder?”
She tidied her hair. It gave him a thrilling sense of possession to be allowed to watch her. When he had helped her to rise, he stooped to brush the snow from her. Suddenly he fell to his knees in a wild abandon of longing, and reverently kissed the hem of her gown.
“Meester Deek, don’t. To see you do that—it hurts.”
They walked through the wood in silence, retracing their old footsteps. At the point where it was lost to sight, they gazed back, hand-in-hand, to the sacred spot where all had happened. The snow would melt; they might come in search of the place one day—they might not find it. Would they come alone or together? Their hands gripped more closely; the present at least was theirs.