You are so like your father!’

‘Well, I can’t help it,’ said Ellen. ‘I don’t like those foolish old stories about people who never did anything useful, and hadn’t an idea in their heads except being in love and killing somebody! They had no sense, and no courage, and no decency!’

Her mother tried to win her to some admission of merit in his other work.

‘It’s no use, mama! You may have your poet, and get all the esthetic satisfaction you can out of it. And I’ll be polite to him, of course. But I don’t like his stuff.’

‘Not his “Lyrics of the Day,” dear? And “The Woods”?’

‘No, mumsy, not even those. I don’t believe he ever saw a sunrise – unless he got up on purpose and set himself before it like a camera! And woods! Why he don’t know one tree from another!’

Her mother almost despaired of her; but the poet was not discouraged.

‘Ah! Mrs Osgood! Since you honor me with your confidence I can but thank you and try my fate. It is so beautiful, this budding soul – not opened yet! So close – so almost hard! But when its rosy petals do unfold –’

He did not, however, give his confidence to Mrs Osgood beyond this gentle poetic outside view of a sort of floricultural intent. He told her nothing of the storm of passion which was growing within him; a passion of such seething intensity as would have alarmed that gentle soul exceedingly and make her doubt, perhaps, the wisdom of her selection.

She remained in a state of eager but restrained emotion; saying little to Ellen lest she alarm her, but hoping that the girl would find happiness with this great soul.

The great soul, meanwhile, pursued his way, using every art he knew – and his experience was not narrow – to reach the heart of the brown and ruddy nymph beside him.

She was ignorant and young. Too whole-souled in her indifference to really appreciate the stress he labored under; much less to sympathize. On the contrary she took a mischievous delight in teasing him, doing harm without knowing it, like a playful child. She teased him about his tennis playing, about his paddling, about his driving; allowed that perhaps he might play golf well, but she didn’t care for golf herself – it was too slow; mocked even his walking expeditions.

‘He don’t want to walk!’ she said gaily to her mother one night at dinner. ‘He just wants to go somewhere and arrange himself gracefully under a tree and read to me about Eloise, or Araminta or somebody; all slim and white and wavy and golden-haired; and how they killed themselves for love!’

She laughed frankly at him, and he laughed with her; but his heart was hot and dark within him. The longer he pursued and failed the fiercer was his desire for her. Already he had loved longer than was usual to him. Never before had his overwhelming advances been so lightly parried and set aside.

‘Will you take a walk with me this evening after dinner?’ he proposed. ‘There is a most heavenly moon – and I cannot see to read to you. It must be strangely lovely – the moonlight – on your lake, is it not, Mrs Osgood?’

‘It is indeed,’ she warmly agreed, looking disapprovingly on the girl, who was still giggling softly at the memory of golden-haired Araminta. ‘Take him on the cliff walk, Ellen, and do try to be more appreciative of beauty!’

‘Yes, mama,’ said Ellen, ‘I’ll be good.’

She was so good upon the moonlit walk; so gentle and sympathetic, and so honestly tried to find some point of agreement, that his feelings were too much for his judgment, and he seized her hand and kissed it. She pushed him away, too astonished for words.

‘Why, Mr Pendexter! What are you thinking of!’

Then he poured out his heart to her. He told her how he loved her – madly, passionately, irresistably. He begged her to listen to him.

‘Ah! You young Diana! You do not know how I suffer! You are so young, so cold! So heavenly beautiful! Do not be cruel! Listen to me! Say you will be my wife! Give me one kiss! Just one!’

She was young, and cold, and ignorantly cruel. She laughed at him, laughed mercilessly, and turned away.

He followed her, the blood pounding in his veins, his voice shaken with the intensity of his emotions. He caught her hand and drew her toward him again. She broke from him with a little cry, and ran. He followed, hotly, madly; rushed upon her, caught her, held her fast.

‘You shall love me! You shall!’ he cried. His hands were hot and trembling, but he held her close and turned her face to his.

‘I will not!’ she cried, struggling. ‘Let me go! I hate you, I tell you. I hate you! You are – disgusting!’ She pushed as far from him as he could.

They had reached the top of the little cliff opposite the house. Huge dark pines hung over them, their wide boughs swaying softly.

The water lay below in the shadow, smooth and oil-black.

The girl looked down at it, and a sudden shudder shook her tense frame. She gave a low moan and hid her face in her hands.

‘Ah!’ he cried. ‘It is your fate! Our fate! We have lived through this before! We will die together if we cannot live together!’

He caught her to him, kissed her madly, passionately, and together they went down into the black water.

‘It’s pretty lucky I could swim,’ said Ellen, as she hurried home.