“Oh no, no,” she cried, with a childish eagerness that was entirely unlike her, “don’t go.”
“Do you really care so very much?” he asked, with a deep flush of pleasure.
“Of course I do, of course.” Her thoughts wandered off through strange by-ways. At times, they would pass some black cavernous entrance to unknown labyrinths, and the frightened thoughts would hurry by. Sometimes they would be led decorously along a smooth highway, pacing quietly; sometimes they would rise to the sunlight and spread their wings, and then perhaps take sudden flight, like a flock of startled birds.
Yes, he needed sympathy, and faith, and love. He had never had anyone to believe in him before. He had met with hardness and distrust all his life. She would trust him. He had conquered, step by step, his inimical conditions. He was lonely, unused to real affection. Let her try to make up for what he had lost. Let her forget herself and her own little woes, in the effort to fill his life with all that he had been forced to forego. (An impish thought danced before her for a second—“Fine talk, but you know you love to be loved.”) If her love were worth anything, that must be her impulse. Let her beware of considering her own feelings, her own wishes and fears. If she loved, let it be fully and freely, generously and without reserve. That or nothing. (“Probably it will be nothing,” jeered the imp.) “Then what, in heaven’s name, is it that I feel?” the other self seemed to cry in desperation.
“An idea has struck me,” said the Professor, taking her hand and holding it closely in his, “Why should you not come up to town, say on Friday—don’t start, dearest—it would be quite simple, and then for once in our lives we should stand, as it were, alone in the world, you and I, without this everlasting dread of curious eyes upon us. Alone among strangers—what bliss! We could have a day on the river, or I could take you to see—well, anything you liked—we should be free and happy. Think of it, Hadria! to be rid of this incessant need for caution, for hypocrisy. We have but one life to live; why not live it?”
“Why not live it, why not live it?” The words danced in her head, like circles of little sprites carrying alluring wreaths of roses.
“Ah, we must be careful; there is much at stake,” she said.
He began to plead, eloquently and skilfully. He knew exactly what arguments would tell best with her. The imps and the other selves engaged in a free fight.
“No; I must not listen; it is too dangerous. If it were not for my mother, I should not care for anything, but as it is, I must risk nothing. I have already risked too much.”
“There would be no danger,” he argued. “Trust to me. I have something to lose too. It is of no use to bring the whole dead stupid weight of the world on our heads. There is no sense in lying down under a heap of rubbish, to be crushed. Let us go our way and leave other people to go theirs.”