Floyd pushed back his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead; it was stifling.
22
The lovers stood together on a grassy plateau, the sun poured bright beams of light; below was a dense mist.
“How wonderful,” said Martin. “Nature has kept a sunny spot for us; we’ll stay here awhile.” He drew his “lodin” cape around him, stretched himself out on the grass, looking up at the golden clouds surrounding the sun, looking below at the rapidly rising veil of gray; it was glorious.
Julie took bread, fowl, wine out of the basket; they ate with their fingers and drank the wine out of the bottle. The sun glimmered red through the dark clouds. They were silent; then he spoke, quietly at first, becoming gradually very much excited.
“Why did you throw me over so heartlessly, after you promised me to prepare your mother? I knew it was useless; I had made all my arrangements—I had a cabin engaged on a French steamer—”
Julie tried to justify herself, then began to cry hysterically; she had never broken faith with him. He couldn’t imagine what she’d been through all her life. The pressure of those two terrible religions: her grandfather dragging her one way, her mother threatening her with eternal punishment.
He tried to soothe her.
“Don’t cry, Julie, I’ll make it up to you. You will be happy for the first time in your life.”
“But Floyd—he’s been so good—you always came between us, pushing him away.”