“It isn’t really a lie,” said Edith. “I really do go to the French
class.”
“It’s too near a lie to suit me,” said Hardy bluntly. “I’m sick of this
hole-and-corner business. It’s--can’t you see for yourself that it’s
degrading to both of us? Edith, can’t we be honest about this? Let me go
and see your aunt, and tell her the whole thing. If she makes a row, I
dare say I can live through it.”
“I dare say _you_ could,” Edith answered briefly.
They were coming near to one of the gates of Central Park. Their walk
together was almost at an end--a walk which only a few weeks ago would
have been a delight almost unsupportable, a thing to lie awake at night
remembering, to think of all through a busy day. Now that rapture, that
glamour, was gone. With all their love, their hope, their blind
tenderness for each other, they were bitter at heart.
It was a wild, bright October evening. The moon seemed rocking in the
fitful clouds, the wind sprang like a kitten along the paths after the
dry leaves, the bare trees creaked stiff and resistant. All the world
was in motion, restless, hurried. All things were free--except
themselves. It was intolerable to Hardy, an affront to his fine young
pride in himself, his magnificent assurance. It was petty, base,
shameful!
“Edith!” he said suddenly. “I won’t go on like this!”
She stopped short in the middle of the path.
“I’m tired of hearing that,” she replied, in a queer, unsteady voice.
“You’re always saying that--always blaming me; and you know we’ve got to
go on like this--or not go on at all!”
“We haven’t. That’s what I’m always trying to tell you,” he said
stormily. “We don’t have to meet this way--in this beastly, lying
way--pretending to your aunt that your French lesson is for two hours
instead of one, so that we can have one hour a week alone together. Tell
her! Let her be upset! She’ll have to know some time. Then at least I
can come to see you in your own place, decently and honorably.”
“I will not tell her now! You don’t realize what it’ll mean to Aunt
Bessie. You don’t care. She hasn’t any one but me. I _won’t_ tell her
now, and let her have all that long time to think about--losing me.
She’s going to be happy as long as possible.”
Hardy took her arm.
“Come on,” he said, “or you’ll be ten minutes late, and she’ll have a
nervous attack and keep you up all night, as usual!”
But when he felt how she was shivering in her thin jacket, a terrible
compunction seized him.
“Oh, Edith!” he cried. “Edith, never mind all that! Darling little
Edith, it’s only our affair, after all! Let’s get married now, before I
go!”
“You know we can’t,” she said, with a sob. “Not when you’re so obstinate
and--and unkind. You know we couldn’t manage for ourselves and Aunt
Bessie, too, in any place where she’d be comfortable, just on your
salary; and you’re so unreasonable about my job!”
“Look here, Edith--I’ll sell that blamed stock, and that’ll provide for
Aunt Bessie until I’ve got my raise.”
“You won’t! You shan’t!” She pulled her arm away from him, and roughly
wiped away the tears running down her cheeks. “Don’t you dare to mention
such a thing! I’m not going to ruin your whole life just for--”
“Well, you’ve ruined it!” said Hardy. “I can tell you that, if it’s any
satisfaction to you. I don’t care now what happens to me, or whether I
go on or not. You’ve shown me how little you care for me.
You’ve--Edith!”
She had started running along the path, but he easily overtook her. All
at once their arms were about each other, Edith’s wet cheek against his,
and all their pain, their bitterness, lost in a passion of tenderness
and remorse.