"And if I go ahead, and do what you don't like—and make you—suffer—would you—would you rather be free?" Her voice was very low and shaken, but he heard her well enough.
"Free of you? Free of you?" He caught her and held her and kissed her over and over.
"You are mine!" he said. "You have given yourself to me! You cannot leave me. Neither of us is free—ever again." But she struggled away from him.
"Both of us are free—to do what we think right, always Ross! I
wouldn't try to stop you if you thought it was your duty to go to the
North Pole!" She held him a little way off. "Let me tell you, dear.
Sit down—let me tell you all about it." But he wouldn't sit down.
"I don't think I want to know the details," he said. "It doesn't much matter what you're going to do—if you really go away. I can't stop you—I see that. If you think this thing is your 'duty' you'll do it if it kills us all—and you too! If you have to go—I shall do nothing—can do nothing—but wait till you come back to me! Whatever happens, darling—no matter how you fail—don't ever be afraid to come back to me."
He folded his arms now—did not attempt to hold her—gave her the freedom she asked and promised her the love she had almost feared to lose—and her whole carefully constructed plan seemed like a child's sand castle for a moment; her heroic decision the wildest folly.
He was not even looking at her; she saw his strong, clean-cut profile dark against the moonlit house, a settled patience in its lines. Duty! Here was duty, surely, with tenderest happiness. She was leaning toward him—her hand was seeking his, when she heard through the fragrant silence a sound from her mother's room—the faint creak of her light rocking chair. She could not sleep—she was sitting up with her trouble, bearing it quietly as she had so many others.
The quiet everyday tragedy of that distasteful life—the slow withering away of youth and hope and ambition into a gray waste of ineffectual submissive labor—not only of her life, but of thousands upon thousands like her—it all rose up like a flood in the girl's hot young heart.
Ross had turned to her—was holding out his arms to her. "You won't go, my darling!" he said.
"I am going Wednesday on the 7.10," said Diantha.