She had risen and was standing beside her chair, one hand on its back. He came close to her and rested his hand near hers. She was conscious too that his other arm was outstretched behind her, hovering close, ready to sweep her into his embrace. The struggle in her heart, longing to heed the call of his, quick with desire to make amends for the injustice she had done him, tumultuous with rejoicing that his love had been all she had thought it, was almost more than she could bear. He was so near—she had only to lean toward him a little, and his arm would be around her and her head upon his breast. Ah, the blessed peace there would be in that haven of repose! Already she could feel its stilling waters wrapping round her, numbing the power of resistance.
He leaned a little nearer and his voice was low and compellingly sweet, “Rhoda! Come to my arms, where you belong! Do not deny our love any longer!”
She saw his hand on the back of the chair moving instinctively toward her own,—a sinewy, brown, masterful hand, which held her eyes as it drew nearer, little by little, as if drawn by some irresistible attraction. She knew that his eyes in that same way were fixed upon her own, long, slender, nervous, the sort of hand that works out the behests of a strenuous soul. And she knew, also, as she waited, silent, trying to force herself to voice once more the dictates of her conscience, she knew that, if his hand touched hers before she could bring herself to speak, she could resist no longer. Still she stood, speechless, her fascinated eyes upon his masterful hand, her body thrilling with the surety that if she did not speak now, at once, in another moment she would be in his arms, and the struggle over.
“Oh, my poor Nellie Gray,
They have taken her away,
And I’ll never see my darling any more!”
The words of the negro song, in a negro woman’s voice, came floating into the room, mingled with the sounds of broom and scrubbing brush. They brought to Rhoda instant memory of Mary Ellen’s melodious tones, singing in happy unconsciousness of peril, and of her own strained and fearful attention as she listened to the footsteps steps of the marshal’s posse. And then like a flash passed before her mind’s eye the ashen face and shaking figure of Mary Ellen, as her father and Jim lifted her from the box that had almost been her deathbed.
The numbing waters fell away, she raised her hand and pressed it against her heart with the impulsive, unconscious gesture he knew so well, and moved apart.
“Jeff, it’s no use talking any more about this,” she said in tremulous accents. “The last time we said all that is to be said.”
“Don’t say that! It makes everything so bare and hopeless! It makes me fear that you have killed your love. Rhoda, you do love me, yet?”