"Oh, what a wretched ending! I positively hate to read a book like
that. It gives me the blues for a week afterward. I don't see why
writers can not have some respect for the nerves of their readers and
not upset them with a jar that echoes through every fiber of the body."
Carlita flung the book from her, crossed her pretty feet, and leaning
back in her chair, folded her hands behind her head and looked at Olney
Winthrop, who was spending one of many evenings with her while the
others were at the opera.
He smiled rather gravely.
"I don't see how else it could have ended. She couldn't have married
the Disagreeable Man, you know."
"Why not?"
"Oh, who would want to? A sickly, treacherous-tempered beast like that."
"He wasn't anything of the kind. Do you think a 'sickly
treacherous-tempered beast' could ever have written that exquisite
letter which he tore up? He was only fretted into irascibility by the
idiocy of others who had not sense enough to appreciate him. No man
could have been as fond of his mother as he was and not be genuinely
good. I don't see why he could not have been happy as well as any one
else."
"He was treacherous-tempered or he wouldn't have torn up the letter,
you see," argued Olney, mildly. "I don't see how she could have cared
anyway for a great, gaunt, sickly fellow like that."
"That is like you men. You never seem to think a woman can like any
one but a Hercules. For my own part, I perfectly detest the conceited
creatures who think they are gods of creation, and let you see it in
every word they speak, in love with themselves and unrivaled by any
woman in the universe, men like--like--well, Leith Pierrepont for
example."
Winthrop flushed eagerly, never observing the curious break in her
voice, then a sort of generous remorse took possession of him that he
had found pleasure in that unjust criticism passed upon his friend.
"Oh, really, you mustn't say that!" he stammered, helplessly. "It isn't
true of Leith, not the least in the world. I don't know a fellow more
lacking in conceit than he. He is as generous and--"
"Pouf!" exclaimed Carlita, with the freedom of a privileged friend. "Do
you think you can make me believe that? He thinks that every woman who
looks at him is ready to fall into his arms if he would but say the
word. There are times when I positively detest him, and--"
Singularly enough, she did not complete her sentence. She suddenly
realized with a surprise that was intense that there were tears in her
eyes, hot, angry tears, though why she should be angry, she had not the
remotest idea. She hated herself for her absurd weakness, and sprang
up swiftly and went to the piano, and rattled off a waltz that came
more nearly being without time or melody than anything she had ever
attempted in her life before.
She excused herself to herself by mentally asserting that the book,
"Ships that Pass in the Night," had upset her, and then turned into a
song that trembled upon her lips with a sweetness and pathos that her
voice had never contained before.
It was only an old song, such an old one, with the music entirely
unworthy of the exquisite words, but she sang it with a depth of
feeling that made it sublime.
"How tired we feel, my heart and I,
We seem of no use in the world;
Our fancies hang gray and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently;
Our voice, which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet;
What do we here, my heart and I?"
But the last words were not spoken. They ended in a little sob, a
little sob that would not be drowned by the power of the will. She
would have risen and escaped from the room, but that Olney caught
her about the waist, his face white and wistful and filled with
apprehension.
"Carlita," he exclaimed, his voice low and soft with tenderness, "what
is it? What has distressed you? You trust me--"
"It is nothing," she cried, endeavoring gently to free herself. "I am
too stupid for anything. I really believe I am hysterical over that
absurd book, and it is something new to me, too. You mustn't mind me,
Mr. Winthrop, for--"
"But I do," he interrupted, huskily. "Anything that pains you is
exquisite torture to me. I love you Carlita, love you so that I can not
conceal it as the Disagreeable Man did. I must tell you. It is so much
better than that I should keep it to myself until too late, if there
should be any hope for me. I am not conceited enough to think there
is--you mustn't believe that--but if love really begets love, as they
tell us it does, mine ought to meet with some return, for Heaven knows
it is great enough. I feel as if I were the Disagreeable Man myself, so
gaunt and wasted through illness, so unworthy of your sweet trust and
affection, and yet--Oh, Carlita, I don't want to wait as he did, when
there might be hope. I know you don't love me. I know I am the most
presumptuous man alive, that I can even speak upon the subject to you,
but--but won't you say something--something kind?"
She was standing and he sitting, holding her by one hand, his other
arm about her waist. He was leaning toward her with his face lifted--a
face so true, so honest, so sincere, so wistfully pleading, she almost
imagined there was a moisture in the frank blue eyes.
She didn't say anything. She was surprised, and stood there staring
down at him, her tears dried suddenly. It seemed to her that she had
never felt so strangely in her life. He was the first man who had
ever whispered that magic word in her ear. It moved her--moved her
peculiarly. She felt the strongest inclination to bend down and kiss
him, kiss him upon those blue eyes as she would a little boy. He looked
so pale and wan, so haggard through the illness which he did not seem
able to shake off. Sympathy quivered in her heart like the flutter of a
dove's wings, but she could not frame words to save her life, and stood
there staring down at him dumbly.
A great anguish arose in his eyes under her silence. A cold dew
gathered upon his brow and stood upon his mouth. He dropped his arm
from about her waist and bowed his head.
"Forgive me," he said, hoarsely. "I ought to have known, and not have
distressed you with a sentiment which I might have known you could
not reciprocate. I might have been satisfied with your generosity in
allowing me the privilege of your society without presuming upon that
generosity. I suppose now I am to be banished, but I deserve it for
my presumption. All the sweet, long evenings that have meant so much
to me must be at an end. I must go back to the old emptiness, the old
unrest."
"Why?"
The word escaped her unawares, but she was glad that she had spoken it
when she saw him fling up his head, saw the eager light that came to
his eyes, the flush that colored his pale cheeks.
"Carlita," he whispered, hoarsely, "that moment was like--hell!
Speak quickly! Can you be my wife? Could you find in your pure heart
toleration for a fellow such as I? I will worship you to the day I die!
Speak and relieve me of this awful suspense!"
"I have--have been very happy during these evenings that we have spent
together."
She never quite knew how she happened to say that either, whether it
was sympathy, whether it was that she loved him, or--Oh, yes, she was
quite sure she loved him when she saw that wild joy of expression. She
did not shrink from him in the very least when he arose suddenly to
his feet and drew her passionately to his breast. It was really very
comforting to think that she belonged to some one, and that some one
belonged to her, and--loved her.
It was even pleasant to be passionately, lovingly kissed, and as she
looked with a smile into his eager, craving eyes, she even lifted her
mouth to him of her own accord, and returned the caress while she
listened to the burning words that fell from his lips.
"My darling, my wife, I can scarcely believe in the reality of my own
happiness. I can scarcely believe it is true, that you love me, that
you are mine. It seems to me that I must be dreaming. My God! if it be,
let the dream last forever, forever!"
Jessica and Mrs. Chalmers returned before he left her, but there was no
announcement made to them that night. They said good-night formally
and separated, Carlita going to her room, and Olney returned to his
bachelor apartments.
He found Leith there before him, and went immediately to his old friend
and put out his hand.
"Congratulate me, old man," he said, with a grin which was half idiotic
in its happiness.
"Upon what?" inquired Leith, lazily.
"Miss de Barryos has promised to be my wife."
Leith did not even change color. He put out his hand and took that of
his friend cordially.
"Certainly I congratulate you, if you wish it," he said, with his
accustomed nonchalant indolence. "But what is the use? The marriage
will never take place."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say."
Olney laughed lightly, disbelievingly, but there was not the shadow of
a smile upon Leith's perfectly indifferent lips.
And Carlita had gone to her room, happy in the happiness she had given,
believing that she had answered to the dictates of her heart, and then
slowly the expression of content faded from her eyes, a white-lipped
horror drew the corners of her mouth. She looked into space dully,
hopelessly, stupidly.
She had suddenly remembered the curse of Pocahontas.