As irresistibly as ever he drew her.
“Jerome! Jerome! Where are you going?”
“To ruin!” exclaimed he, turning upon her with that barbaric fierceness which seems to underlie everything strong in nature—“to ruin, where you women without principle, have sent many a better man! To ruin, and to hell, if I choose,” he added, with fearful emphasis. “My going and my coming are no longer any concern of yours!”
“Yes, they are, Jerome,” she assured him, deprecatingly. “Don’t leave me in anger, Jerome!”
“Not in anger? Then, how—in delight?” There was now a menacing gleam in his eye which more than ever alarmed her. “My cause is lost. You have done me all the wrong you could, and now that I am dismissed, set aside, told to begone, debased, and dethroned, you expect me to be delighted over it, do you?”
“No, Jerome; but do not leave me feeling so. Promise me to do nothing rash.”
“I will not promise you anything! You have not spared my feelings, why should I spare yours? Since your affection for me has moderated into that platonic kind, which admits of your happiness in union with another, I will do whatever I please to do, knowing no act of mine, however dreadful, will affect you.”
“Oh, Jerome, do not say that! You must see, you must know in your heart, that I do still care for you—Oh, God! more than I ought.”
“And yet not enough to make you do what is right!”
“But to right you, will wrong Rube,” she answered in confusion.