And so, all at once, he broke down her resistance. What had swayed him had been the thought of her suffering; and the thought of his suffering now conquered her.
Only she did not take days to debate it. She fled to him instantly, and wrapped her arms about him.
“Thyrsis,” she whispered, “listen to me! I had no idea of that!”
“No, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m sorry—I’m ashamed of myself—”
“No, no!” she cried, vehemently. “Don’t say that! I love you, Thyrsis! I love you, heart and soul!”
He turned and gazed at her with his haggard eyes.
“I will do anything for you,” she rushed on. “You shall have me! I will be your wife!”
Then, however, as he clasped her to him, there came once more the shrinking. “Only give me a little time, dear,” she whispered. “Let me get used to it. Let it come naturally.”
But the only way he could have given her time would have been to go away. Here he was, in her room—with every reminder of her about him, with every incitement to his desire. And he had but two things to choose between—to go out and walk and think about her, or to come home and sit with her and talk about their love.
They had their supper, and then again she was in his arms. He told her about this trouble—he showed how the love of her was consuming him. Far into the night they sat talking, and he poured out his heart to her, he bore her with him to the mountain-tops of his desire. He took down a book of Spenser’s, and read her the “Epithalamium”; he read her Shelley’s “Epip sychidion,” which they both loved. All the power of Thyrsis’ genius was turned now to passion, and the hidden forces of him were revealed as never had they been revealed to her before. He became eloquent; he talked to her as he had lived with himself; he awed her and frightened her, as he had that evening upon the hill-top. Then at last, as the tide of his feeling swept him away again, he clasped her to him tightly, and hid his face in her neck. “I love you! Oh, I love you!” he cried.