“Let me go, let me go!” she implored. She escaped him. Her skirts swept his feet in going. The curtains whispered where her passage stirred them. A fragment of lace was in his fingers. The hollow wood of the piano seemed to hold the echo of the last note sung.
He stared at the floor, seeing her last look. How it had despised him! Worse—it had despised herself. The past hour had been but a succession of violent emotions and inconsequent actions. He had rushed along with them, without the ability to think; and here was the climax—the result! He had wounded the one whom, above all others, he wanted to protect. Why had his tongue hesitated with a scruple? It was too late then! Better have lied to Florence than let a false honor hold back the truth from the woman he loved.
Loved! He stared at this fact—recognized it, astounding, impossible as it seemed. This fiery girl had disenchanted him of every other thing but her own passionate presence.
He knew he had asked Florence to marry him; and yet he revolved desperately some way of making Julia believe that he loved her. He would pay any price for that.
Could he pay the price of playing false, of telling Florence that since he had asked her to marry him he had fallen in love with another woman? It was better than that Julia should remember him all her life with loathing. That was insupportable. But could his freedom, now, bring her back? That he could ever explain his hesitation was preposterous. He could not hope she would understand it. And not understanding, how could she forgive? Hopeless! How she must hate him! She could not hate him more than he hated himself.
He walked to the window. The wind puffed the thin curtains against his face. The whispering silk was like the soft rush of her from the room.
She was a child. She would not remember too long. A hard thought. Perhaps this whole inexplicable business was a madness of this latter spring, a thing of blood.
But now, here, it was a torment. The thing was to get away—anywhere, instantly! But there was Florence.
He came back sullenly enough to that thought. He knew he must see her before he went. She had always stood to him for what was honorable and reasonable against what was impulse. Duty was the word above all others he hated, but he was bound to it now. He had never pictured Florence so palely as at this moment. She had been a fascination, an inspiration, a companion. She had been everything to him. There had been a moment, a transfiguration; and she was an obligation, a debt unpaid. She deserved a hundredfold more than he could give, and he almost hated her for it.
Yet—he reasoned resolutely, as he crossed the library—she, who had given so much, who had centered her life in his interests, had the greatest right to his honor and faith. And she should have them, he thought. But he must see her at once.