But a very little space divides me from the edge, as his hand catches and closes on my arm and drags me roughly backwards.
"Are you mad?" he pants hoarsely, all the passion gone from his face, leaving only cold horror in its place. "Are you out of your senses? Come home directly. What! would you prefer death to a kiss from me? At last you have effectually put an end to my absurd infatuation. I have no great fancy for any woman's loathing."
So saying, he leads me homewards, tired, worn out with conflicting emotions. His hand still clutches my arm, as though he fears I will again break loose and try to accomplish my wicked purpose.
Silent and obedient I go with him, until we reach the small gate by which I generally leave and return.
Here he stops, and, putting me inside, shuts the wicket again between us, he being on the outside.
"Now go home," he says, sternly, "and go to bed. You are as white as death. Do you hear me?"
I answer, "Yes," very meekly, feeling somewhat frightened and subdued.
"As I shall take very good care not to put myself in your way again," he goes on, in the same tone, "I would wish to say, before leaving, that in the future, when you stigmatize me as mean and dishonorable, I would have you also remember that to-day I came to do you the kindest turn any man could do you under the circumstances."
After this remark, without further glance or gesture he turns and leaves me.