"I have suffered myself," she returned, coldly, wondering at her own
composure. She marvelled that she could speak at all.
"Twenty-five years ago," he continued in a parrot-like tone, "I asked
you to marry me, and you consented. I have never been released from my
promise--I did not even ask to be. I slunk away like a cur. The
honour of the spoken word still holds me. The tardy fulfilment of my
promise is the only atonement I can make."
The candle-light shone on his iron-grey hair, thinning at the temples;
touched into bold relief every line of his face.
"Twenty-five years ago," said Evelina, in a voice curiously low and
distinct, "you asked me to marry you, and I consented. You have never
been released from your promise--you did not even ask to be." The
silence was vibrant; literally tense with emotion. Out of it leaped,
with passionate pride: "I release you now!"
"No!" he cried. "I have come to fulfil my promise--to atone, if
atonement can be made!"
"Do you call your belated charity atonement? Twenty-five years ago, I
saved you from death--or worse. One of us had to be burned, and it was
I, instead of you. I chose it, not deliberately, but instinctively,
because I loved you. When you came to the hospital, after three
days----"
"I was ill," he interrupted. "The gas----"
"You were told," she went on, her voice dominating his, "that I had
been so badly burned that I would be disfigured for life. That was
enough for you. You never asked to see me, never tried in any way to
help me, never sent by a messenger a word of thanks for your cowardly
life, never even waited to be sure it was not a mistake. You simply
went away."
"There was no mistake," he muttered, helplessly. "I made sure."
He turned his eyes away from her miserably. Through his mind came
detached fragments of speech. _The honour of the spoken word still
holds him . . . Father always does the square thing_ . . .
"I am asking you," said Anthony Dexter, "to be my wife. I am offering
you the fulfilment of the promise I made so long ago. I am asking you
to marry me, to live with me, to be a mother to my son."
"Yes," repeated Evelina, "you ask me to marry you. Would you have a
scarred and disfigured wife? A man usually chooses a beautiful woman,
or one he thinks beautiful, to sit at the head of his table, manage his
house, take the place of a servant when it is necessary, accept gladly
what money he chooses to give her, and bear and rear his children.
Poor thing that I am, you offer me this. In return, I offer you
release. I gave you your life once, I give you freedom now. Take your
last look at the woman who would not marry you to save you from--hell!"
The man started forward, his face ashen, for she had raised her veil,
and was standing full in the light.
In the tense silence he gazed at her, fascinated. Every emotion that
possessed him was written plainly on his face for her to read. "The
night of realisation," she was saying, "turned my hair white. Since I
left the hospital, no human being has seen my face till now. I think
you understand--why?"
Anthony Dexter breathed hard; his body trembled. He was suffering as
the helpless animals had suffered on the table in his laboratory.
Evelina was merciless, but at last, when he thought she had no pity,
she lowered her veil.
The length of chiffon fell between them eternally; it was like the
closing of a door. "I understand," he breathed, "oh, I understand. It
is my punishment--you have scored at last. Good----"
A sob drowned the last word. He took her cold hand in his, and,
bending over it, touched it with his quivering lips.
"Yes," laughed Evelina, "kiss my hand, if you choose. Why not? My
hand was not burned!"
His face working piteously, he floundered out into the night and
staggered through the gate as he had come--alone.
The night wind came through the open door, dank and cold. She closed
it, then bolted it as though to shut out Anthony Dexter for ever.
It was his punishment, he had said. She had scored at last. If he had
suffered, as he told her he had, the sight of her face would be
torture. Yes, Evelina knew that she had scored. From her hand she
wiped away tears--a man's hot, terrible tears.
Through the night she sat there, wide-eyed and sleepless, fearlessly
unveiled. The chiffon trailed its misty length unheeded upon the
floor. The man she had loved was as surely dead to her as though he
had never been.
Anthony Dexter was dead. True, his body and mind still lived, but he
was not the man she had loved. The face that had looked into hers was
not the face of Anthony Dexter. It had been cold and calm and cruel,
until he came to her house. His eyes were fish-like, and, stirred by
emotion, he was little less than hideous.
Her suffering had been an obsession--there had been no reason for it,
not the shadow of an excuse. A year, as the Piper said, would have
been long enough for her to grieve. She saw her long sorrow now as
something outside of herself, a beast whose prey she had been. When
Anthony Dexter had proved himself a coward, she should have thanked God
that she knew him before it was too late. And because she was weak in
body, because her hurt heart still clung to her love for him, she had
groped in the darkness for more than half of her life.
And now he had come back! The blood of triumph surged hard. She loved
him no longer; then, why was she not free? Her chains yet lay heavily
upon her; in the midst of victory, she was still bound.
The night waned. She was exhausted by stress of feeling and the long
vigil, but the iron, icy hand that had clasped her .heart so long did
not for a moment relax its hold. She went to the window and looked
out. Stars were paling, the mysterious East had trembled; soon it
would be day.
She watched the dawn as though it were for the first time and she was
privileged to stand upon some lofty peak when "God said: 'Let there be
light,' and there was light." The tapestry of morning flamed
splendidly across the night, reflecting its colour back upon her
unveiled face.
From far away, in the distant hills, whose summits only as yet were
touched with dawn, came faint, sweet music--the pipes o' Pan. She
guessed that the Piper was abroad with Laddie, in some fantastic spirit
of sun-worship, and smiled.
Her little hour of triumph was over; her soul was once more back in its
prison. The prison house was larger, and different, but it was still a
prison. For an instant, freedom had flashed before her and dazed her;
now it was dark again.
"Why?" breathed Evelina. "Dear God, why?"
As if in answer, the music came back from the hills in uncertain
silvery echoes. "Oh, pipes o' Pan," cried Evelina, choking back a sob,
"I pray you, find me! I pray you, teach me joy!"