"Yes, it is. No _man_ would do it. Pugs and Persian cats do that
sort of thing. For men there are proper times for giving out. But there
is one thing I should like to say--that is, that my life is yours. This
skeleton belongs to you, and the soul that goes with it. Henceforth I
shall be your slave. I do not aspire to be treated as your equal; just
an abject, reverent, willing slave."
She smiled and played with the ears of the sleeping Solomon.
"I am serious," and Pats raised himself on one elbow. "Just from plain,
unvarnished gratitude--if from nothing else--I shall always do whatever
you command--live, die, steal, commit murder, scrub floors, anything--I
don't care what."
"Do you really mean it?"
"I do."
"Then stop talking."
With closed eyes he fell back into his former position. But again,
partially raising himself, he asked, "May I say just one thing more?"
"No."
Again he fell back, and there was silence.
For a time Elinor sat with folded hands gazing dreamily beyond the point
over the distant gulf, a dazzling, vivid blue beneath the July sun. When
at last she turned with a question upon her lips and saw the closed eyes
and tranquil breathing of the convalescent, she held her peace. Then
came a drowsy sense of her own fatigue. Cautiously, that the sleeper
might not awake, she also reclined, at full length, and closed her eyes.
Delicious was the soft air: restful the carpet of pine-needles. No
cradle-song could be more soothing than the muffled voices of the pines:
and the lady slept.
But Pats was not asleep. He soon opened his eyes and gazed dreamily
upward among the branches overhead, then moved his eyes in her
direction. For an easier study of the inviting creature not two yards
away, he partially raised himself on an elbow. The contemplation of this
lady he had found at all times entrancing; but now, from her unconscious
carelessness and freedom she became of absorbing interest. Her dignity
was asleep, as it were: her caution forgotten. With captivated eyes he
drank in the graceful outlines of her figure beneath the white dress,
the gentle movement of the chest, the limp hands on the pine-needles.
Some of the pride and reserve of the clean-cut, patrician face--of which
he stood in awe--had melted away in slumber.
Maybe the murmur of the pines with the drowsy, languorous breeze relaxed
his conscience; at all events the contours of the upturned lips were
irresistible. Silently he rolled over once--the soft carpet of
pine-needles abetting the manoeuvre--until his face was at right
angles to her own, and very near. Then cautiously and slowly he pressed
his lips to hers. This contact brought a thrill of ecstasy--an
intoxication to his senses. But the joy was brief.
More quickly than his startled wits could follow she had pushed away his
face and risen to her feet. Erect, with burning cheeks, she looked down
into his startled eyes with an expression that brought him sharply to
his senses. It was a look of amazement, of incredulity, of contempt--of
everything in short that he had hoped never to encounter in her face
again. For a moment she stood regarding him, her breast heaving, a stray
lock of hair across a hot cheek, the most distant, the most exalted, and
the most beautiful figure he had ever seen. Then, without a word, she
walked away. Across the open, sunlit space his eyes followed her, until,
through the doorway of the cottage, she disappeared.
For a moment he remained as he was, upon the ground, half reclining,
staring blankly at the doorway. Then, slowly, he lowered himself and lay
at full length along the ground, his face in his hands.
Of the flight of time he had no knowledge: but, at last, when he rose to
his feet he appeared older. He was paler. His eyes were duller. About
the mouth had come lines which seemed to indicate a painful resolution.
But to the shrunken legs he had summoned a sufficient force to carry
him, without wavering, to the cottage door. He entered and dropped, as a
man uncertain of his strength, into the nearest chair--the one beside
the doorway. Solomon, who had followed at his heels, looked up
inquiringly into the emaciated face. Its extraordinary melancholy may
have alarmed him. But Pats paid no attention to his dog. He looked at
Elinor who was ironing, at the heavy table--the dining-table--in the
centre of the room. Her sleeves were rolled back to the elbow; her head
bent slightly over as she worked.
The afternoon sun flooded the space in his vicinity and reached far
along the floor, touching the skirt of her dress. Behind her the old
tapestry with the two marble busts formed a stately background. To the
new arrivals she paid no attention.
After a short rest to recover his breath, and his strength, Pats cleared
his throat:
"Miss Marshall, you will never know, for I could not begin to tell
you--how sorry--how, how ashamed I am for having done--what I did. I
don't ask you to forgive me. If you were my sister and another man did
it, I should--" He leaned back, at a loss for words.
"I don't say it was the claret. I don't try to excuse myself in any way.
But one thing I ask you to believe: that I did not realize what I was
doing."
He arose and stood with his hand on the back of the chair. As he went on
his voice grew less steady. "Why, I look upon you as something sacred;
you are so much finer, higher, better than other people. In a way I feel
toward you as toward my mother's memory; and that is a holy thing. I
could as soon insult one as the other. And I realize and shall never
forget all that you have done for me."
In a voice over which he seemed to be losing control, he went on, more
rapidly:
"And it's more than all that--it's more than gratitude and respect. I--"
For an instant he hesitated, then his words came hotly, with a reckless
haste. "I love you as I never thought of loving any human being. It
began when I first saw you on the wharf. You don't know what it means.
Why, I could lay down my life for you--a thousand times--and joyfully."
From Elinor these words met with no outward recognition. She went
quietly on with her ironing.
Pats drew a deep breath, sank into his chair and muttered, in a lower
tone, "I never meant to tell you that. Now I--I--have done it."
During the pause that followed these last words she said, quietly,
without looking up:
"I knew it already."