“But you certainly are not going to leave me to go up that long avenue in the rain,” burst out Lucy.
“You said you didn’t mind rain,” retorted the man ironically.
He stood immovable in the torrent, but the lantern glow showed his face to be working convulsively.
Lucy, who could not believe that in the present emergency his stubbornness would persist, waited.
“I ain’t comin’,” he remarked half to himself with dogged determination, as if he were bolstering up some inward wavering of principle. “I ain’t comin’.”
The touch of her hand still vibrated upon his arm, and he could feel the flutter of her dress against his body.
“I ain’t comin’,” he repeated between his closed teeth.
“Very well.”
With dignity, Lucy picked up her limp skirts, preparatory to breasting the storm. 131 “I can’t go with you,” he suddenly burst out. “Don’t you see I can’t?”
A wailing cry from the wind seemed to echo the pain in his voice. The girl did not answer. Refusing both the light and shelter he offered her, she stepped resolutely forth into the blackness of the night. Helplessly he watched her go, the lantern’s rays reflecting her white gown.