Once in a while, in a brief flash, she half realized what she was doing. The memory of her mother came back to her—that gentle and quiet woman who had held so steadfastly to her own ideals.
No matter how ardent her desire for perfection in her beloved art, no matter how splendid her ambition, Ethel could not be rid of a secret and bitter sense of guilt. It was wrong—she knew it—it was wrong and unworthy to marry Ladislaw.
“But why?” she demanded of herself. “I don’t care anything about love, and men, and things like that. Ladislaw knows it, and if he doesn’t care, why should I? Anyhow, it’s too late now. I’ve promised, and I’m going to keep my word. Mother would want me to do that. Oh, but if mother had been here, she would have understood! She would never have let me get into such a dreadful, miserable, heartbreaking situation! If she could come now, just for one little minute, just to say one word—”
But there was no one there except Ladislaw. The lights of the railway station gleamed before them, and he drew close to her.
“Give me one kiss, Ethel!” he said, very low.
She hated his voice, she hated to have him so near her, she hated herself. The little wood seemed like a black and sinister forest.
“No!” she said brusquely, as she had often spoken to him before.
This time he was not patient and humble. He caught her arm, and tried to draw her to him.
“You shan’t treat me like a dog!” he muttered.
In growing alarm, she stared at him in the dark, and she fancied she saw his white teeth revealed by a wolfish grin. With a violent wrench, she freed herself. With the swiftness of terror, she ran out of that haunted wood into the safe, bright road before the station.