“To what?”
“To get married at all—let me be, let me go.”
“What for?”
“Oh—for my sake.”
“You mean you don’t love me?”
“Love—love—I don’t know anything about it. But I can’t—we can’t be—don’t you see—oh, what do they say,—flesh of one flesh.”
“Why?” he whispered, like a child that is told some tale of mystery.
She looked at him, as he lay propped upon his elbow, turning towards hers his white face of fear and perplexity, like a child that cannot understand, and is afraid, and wants to cry. Then slowly tears gathered full in her eyes, and she wept from pity and despair.
This excited him terribly. He got up from his chair, and the cushions fell on to the grass:
“What’s the matter, what’s the matter!—Oh, Lettie,—is it me?—don’t you want me now?—is that it?—tell me, tell me now, tell me,”—he grasped her wrists, and tried to pull her hands from her face. The tears were running down his cheeks. She felt him trembling, and the sound of his voice alarmed her from herself. She hastily smeared the tears from her eyes, got up, and put her arms round him. He hid his head on her shoulder and sobbed, while she bent over him, and so they cried out their cries, till they were ashamed, looking round to see if anyone were near. Then she hurried about, picking up the cushions, making him lie down, and arranging him comfortably, so that she might be busy. He was querulous, like a sick, indulged child. He would have her arm under his shoulders, and her face near his.