She did not answer him, but stood still, her hand quivering in his grasp. They were alone under the trees, and the sun, breaking suddenly through the clouds again, illumined the moist atmosphere until it seemed shot with golden motes.
“I’ve no right to say it,” he went on passionately; “but I’m human, and I can’t keep silence! Diane, I’d rather have died down there in the ice and snow, where he left me, than to have come back to lose you!”
Still she said nothing, but her head drooped, and she could no longer look up. She knew now why she had left her husband. Her whole subconscious being cried out:
“It was this—this! You loved this man, and not your husband!”
“I’ve always loved you, Diane!” he went on madly. The restraint he had set on himself had broken, and nothing now could stem the current of his emotion. “I loved you before I went away, but I wasn’t sure of you; I didn’t dare to risk too much. Diane, if I had spoken then, would you have listened, would all this have been saved?”
She broke down herself.
“Don’t ask me—don’t—it’s no use! It’s done—don’t you see it’s no use to ask me now?”
“It’s not done, if you’ve left him! Your father says you’ve left him. If you have, if you’re going to be free, Diane, it’s not wrong for me to speak. I can’t be silent; I’m human. I’m as bad as he is—I’m worse, for you’re his wife. But I——” He stopped, and then went on in a low voice: “Will you answer me, Diane, just one word. Did you then—before I went away—did you care?”
She looked up into his face and saw it transfigured with deep emotion—the face of the man she loved, for whom she had left her husband. She was trembling, but his eyes held hers, and she yielded.
“Yes!” she sobbed below her breath.