"And I am not good at telling stories."
"Then tell me the truth."
She tried to smile, but she was trembling. "Of course. Why should I
not?" She hesitated, and then added, with a forced attempt at petulance,
"But there is nothing so awkward as giving people more than they expect.
Is there?"
He understood her question, despite its apparent inconsequence, and his
heart quickened its beating: "Give me everything."
"I suppose I should be doing that if I gave you myself," she said
nervously.
"You know best," he answered; and for a moment she was puzzled by not
catching the affirmative for which she had angled.
"Do you want me very, very much?" she asked.
"So much that, as I told you yesterday, I could not ask for you twice.
Don't you understand?"
"Yes. I could not marry a man who had bothered me to be his wife. One
might as well be scolded into virtue. You want me, then, Hugh, and I
want you. But--"
Again she stopped, with sentences fluttering, as it seemed, on the very
edges of her lips. Her heart was at such fearful odds with her
conscience, that she felt as if he must hear the clashing of the swords.
And he did hear it. He would fain have cheered on both the combatants.
Which did he wish should be the conqueror? He hardly knew.
"Yes?" he said.
"It is always so difficult to finish a sentence that begins with 'but,'"
she began; and for the first time her voice sounded tremulous. "When two
people want each other very much, there is always something that ought
to keep them apart--at least, I think so. God must love solitude; it is
His gift to so many." There were tears in her eyes.
"Why should we keep apart, Eve?"
"Because we should be too happy together, I suppose."
He leaned suddenly forward and took both her hands in his. "How cold you
are!" he said, startled.
The words seemed to brace her like a sea-breeze.
"Hugh," she said, "I wish to tell you something. There is a 'but' in the
sentence of my life."
He drew her closer to him, with a strange impulse to be nearer the soul
that was about to prove itself as noble as he desired. But that very act
prevented the fulfilment of his wish. The touch of his hands, the
eagerness of his eyes, gave the victory to her heart. She shut the lips
that were speaking, and he kissed them. Kisses act as an opiate on a
woman's conscience. Only when Eve felt his lips on hers did she know her
own weakness. Sir Hugh having kissed her, waited for the telling of the
secret. At that moment he might as well have sat down and waited for the
millennium.
"What is it?" he said at last.
"Nothing," she answered, "nothing." She spoke the word with a hard
intonation.
Hugh held her close in his arms, with a sort of strange idea that to do
so would crush his disappointment. She was proving her love by her
silence. Why, then, did he wish that she should speak? At last she said,
in a low voice:--
"There is one thing you ought to know. If I marry you, I marry you a
beggar. I shall lose my fortune. I am not obliged to lose it, but I mean
to give it up. Don't ask me why."
He had no need to. He waited, but she was silent. So that was all. He
kissed her again, loosened his arms from about her and stood up.
"I have enough for both," he said.
He did not look at her, and she could not look at him.
"Are you going?" she said.
"Yes; but I will call this evening."
He was at the door, and had half-opened it when he turned back, moved by
a passionate impulse.
"Eve!" he cried, and his eyes seemed asking her for something.
"Yes?" she said, looking away.
There was a silence. Then he said "Good-bye!" The door closed upon him.
Mrs Glinn stood for a moment where he had left her. In her mind she was
counting the seconds that must elapse before he could reach the street.
If she could be untrue to herself till then, she could be untrue to
herself for ever. Would he walk down the stairs slowly or fast? She
wanted to be a false woman so much, so very much, that she clenched her
hands together. The action seemed as if it might help her to keep on
doing wrong. But suddenly she unclasped her hands, darted across the
room to the door, and opened it. She listened, and heard Hugh's
footsteps in the hall. He picked up his umbrella, and unfolded it to be
ready for the rain. The _frou-frou_ of the silk seemed to stir her to
action.
"Hugh!" she cried in a broken voice.
He turned in the hall, and looked up.
"Come back," she said.
He came up the stairs three steps at a time.
"Hugh," she said, leaning heavily on the balustrade, and looking away,
"I have a secret to tell you. I have tried to be wicked to-day, but
somehow I can't. Listen to the truth."
"I need not," he answered. "I know it already."