‘And will you go on dreaming? Will you not rather try to awaken?’
Sara looked at him, and thought of Jerome—of the love she bore him. Subdue that, make it bondslave to her art, second to something else? She knew that if she meant to be what she had all along striven for—a great artist, that she must do so; the question was, could she? Had she not been in reality the slave of her love for Wellfield, since it had arisen, since he had told her he loved her? Not confessedly so, but indeed, and in fact? Yes, it was so. It suddenly dawned upon her mind that such love might be absorbing—might be exquisite at the time; but her nobler self told her that it was not good to be bound hand and foot in the bonds of this passion, that it was unworthy, that she had yielded to the infatuation that paralyses, not the love that inspires.
‘I cannot be free in a moment,’ said she, ‘but I can endeavour to be so. I will try, and I give you my hand upon it.’
With a simple, proud gesture, she placed her hand in his. He knew what she meant. That love of hers was not to be given up; she held it holy, justifiable. But she was no longer to be its bondslave.
‘Well,’ he thought, ‘it is doubtful, but if there is a woman who can do it, she can.’
He grasped her hand firmly.
‘And our friendship?’ he asked.
‘Do you still wish for my friendship, Herr Falkenberg?’
‘Now, more than ever, your friendship appears precious and desirable to me.’
‘It is yours, so long as you care to keep it,’ she answered. ‘At least, do not desert me till I have found the strait and narrow path again.’