"Please don't!" And in spite of his mad desire, and the words he could have then sung like the poets, he hesitated, and for some reason, for which he could not quite fully account, allowed her to disengage herself.
Freed now, she took several steps, and when at some distance she paused, and regarded him with forced defiance; but behind it, he caught again that sad distraction. "What is it," he uttered, almost aloud. And then, intuitively, he knew she was unhappy—aye, miserable. "I must help her," said he beneath his breath; but before he had decided how, he seemed to hear a voice saying: "No, not yet because,—well, you can't!"
The strains of music again came floating through the open window. He was not aware of his gaze; but something in his expression seemed to inspire her confidence; for, involuntarily she turned and started in his direction. She took only a step or two, when she abruptly halted; paused hesitatingly, uncertainly, with her thin lips compressed, hands clinched, and her head thrown back in an obvious effort. But her throat swelled almost to choking, as she withheld something she seemed mad to say. An expression of superhuman effort seemed suddenly to be exerted, and suddenly whirling, without a word, she silently quit the room.
He was aroused now from his revery by "All a-bo-ar-d: Cincinnati and the South," and an hour later, he was whirling southward over snowladen fields to his Arcadia.
Cincinnati rose about him at eight o'clock that evening, as he emerged from the union station and started on his fateful quest. The snow, ground to slush by thousands of wheels, made the hard streets filthy. He scurried across, and caught a car that took him within two blocks of where she lived. Progress was slow, but only seemingly, for he was so impatient. It seemed fully an hour before he left it, although it was not fifteen minutes. Along the poorly lighted street he rushed in breathless haste. His heart kept up a tattoo that disturbed him, and he heard himself muttering: "Sidney Wyeth, what's the matter? Why do you feel this way? Pshaw! You ought surely to be happy, calm and imperious. Mildred Latham loves you—and she needs you; but much she does with such nerves!" He braced himself as he neared the house, and pictured himself in the next hour. She would be in his arms—and all would be over—but the happiness. This picture became so vivid, that for a time it served to make him forget his nerves.
And now he had come unto the house, the house of his treasure, and within all was silent. Strangely, a feeling came over him of an approaching doom. Before him, shivering in the cold night, sat an old woman, a hag. She looked at him out of one evil old eye, and he shuddered noticeably. She was uncouth and unwelcome. "What's she doing here?" he muttered.
"Does—ah—Miss Mildred Latham live here?" He ventured at last.
"Yes," snapped the hag, and appeared more evil still.