“It has been too much for you?”
“I am afraid so.”
It was Roger Upjohn who had asked the question; it was Violet who
answered. They had withdrawn from a crowd of dancers to a balcony,
half-shaded, half open to the moon,--a balcony made, it would seem, for
just such stolen interviews between waltzes.
Now, as it happened, Roger’s face was in the shadow, but Violet’s in the
full light. Very sweet it looked, very ethereal, but also a little wan.
He noticed this and impetuously cried:
“You are pale; and your hand! see, how it trembles!”
Slowly withdrawing it from the rail where it had rested, she sent one
quick glance his way and, in a low voice, said:
“I have not slept since that night.”
“Four days!” he murmured. Then, after a moment of silence, “You bore
yourself so bravely at the time, I thought, or rather, I hoped, that
success had made you forget the horror. I could not have slept myself,
if I had known--”
“It is part of the price I pay,” she broke in gently. “All good things
have to be paid for. But I see--I realize that you do not consider
what I am doing good. Though it helps other people--has helped you--you
wonder why, with all the advantages I possess, I should meddle with
matters so repugnant to a woman’s natural instincts.”
Yes, he wondered. That was evident from his silence. Seeing her as she
stood there, so quaintly pretty, so feminine in look and manner--in
short, such a flower--it was but natural that he should marvel at the
incongruity she had mentioned.
“It has a strange, odd look,” she admitted, after a moment of troubled
hesitation. “The most considerate person cannot but regard it as a
display of egotism or of a most mercenary spirit. The cheque you sent
me for what I was enabled to do for you in Massachusetts (the only one
I have ever received which I have been tempted to refuse) shows to what
extent you rated my help and my--my expectations. Had I been a poor girl
struggling for subsistence, this generosity would have warmed my heart
as a token of your desire to cut that struggle short. But taken with
your knowledge of my home and its luxuries, it has often made me wonder
what you thought.”
“Shall I tell you?”
He had stepped forward at this question and his countenance, hitherto
concealed, became visible in the moonlight. She no longer recognized it.
Transformed by feeling, it shone down upon her, instinct with all
that is finest and best in masculine nature. Was she ready for this
revelation of what she had nevertheless dreamed of for many more nights
than four? She did not know, and instinctively drew herself back till it
was she who now stood in the semi-obscurity made by the drooping vines.
From this retreat, she faltered forth a very tremulous No, which in
another moment was disavowed by a Yes so faint it was little more than a
murmur, followed by a still fainter, Tell me.
But he did not seem in any haste to obey, sweetly as her low-toned
injunction must have sounded in his ears. On the contrary, he hesitated
to speak, growing paler every minute as he sought to catch a glimpse of
her downcast face so tantalizingly hidden from him. Did she recognize
the nature of the feelings which held him back, or was she simply
gathering up sufficient courage to plead her own cause? Whatever her
reason, it was she, not he, who presently spoke saying as if no time had
elapsed:
“But first, I feel obliged to admit that it was money I wanted, that
I had to have. Not for myself. I lack nothing and could have more if I
wished. Father has never limited his generosity in any matter affecting
myself, but--” She drew a deep breath and, coming out of the shadow,
lifted a face to him so changed from its usual expression as to make him
start. “I have a cause at heart--one which should appeal to my father
and does not; and for that purpose I have sacrificed myself, in many
ways, though--though I have not disliked my work up to this last
attempt. Not really. I want to be honest and so must admit that much.
I have even gloried (quietly and all by myself, of course) over the
solution of a mystery which no one else seemed able to penetrate. I am
made that way. I have known it ever since--but that is a story all by
itself. Some day I may tell it to you, but not now.”
“No, not now.” The emphasis sent the colour into her cheek but did not
relieve his pallor. “Miss Strange, I have always felt, even in my worst
days, that the man who for selfish ends brought a woman under the shadow
of his own unhappy reputation was a man to be despised. And I think so
still, and yet--and yet--nothing in the world but your own word or
look can hold me back now from telling you that I love you--love you
notwithstanding my unworthy past, my scarring memories, my all but
blasted hopes. I do not expect any response; you are young; you are
beautiful; you are gifted with every grace; but to speak,--to say over
and over again, ‘I love you, I love you!’ eases my heart and makes my
future more endurable. Oh, do not look at me like that unless--unless--”
But the bright head did not fall, nor the tender gaze falter; and driven
out of himself, Roger Upjohn was about to step passionately forward,
when, seized by fresh compunction, he hoarsely cried:
“It is not right. The balance dips too much my way. You bring me
everything. I can give you nothing but what you already possess
abundance--love, and money. Besides, your father--”
She interrupted him with a glance at once arch and earnest.
“I had a talk with Father this morning. He came to my room, and--and it
was very near being serious. Someone had told him I was doing things on
the sly which he had better look into; and of course he asked questions
and--and I answered them. He wasn’t pleased--in fact he was very
displeased,--I don’t think we can blame him for that--but we had no open
break for I love him dearly, for all my opposing ways, and he saw that,
and it helped, though he did say after I had given my promise to stop
where I was and never to take up such work again, that--” here she stole
a shy look at the face bent so eagerly towards her--“that I had lost my
social status and need never hope now for the attentions of--of--well,
of such men as he admires and puts faith in. So you see,” her dimples
all showing, “that I am not such a very good match for an Upjohn of
Massachusetts, even if he has a reputation to recover and an honourable
name to achieve. The scale hangs more evenly than you think.”
“Violet!”
A mutual look, a moment of perfect silence, then a low whisper, airy as
the breath of flowers rising from the garden below: “I have never known
what happiness was till this moment. If you will take me with my story
untold--”
“Take you! take you!” The man’s whole yearning heart, the loss and
bitterness of years, the hope and promise of the future, all spoke in
that low, half-smothered exclamation. Violet’s blushes faded under its
fervency, and only her spirit spoke, as leaning towards him, she laid
her two hands in his, and said with all a woman’s earnestness:
“I do not forget little Roger, or the father who I hope may have many
more days before him in which to bid good-night to the sea. Such union
as ours must be hallowed, because we have so many persons to make happy
besides ourselves.”
The evening before their marriage, Violet put a dozen folded sheets of
closely written paper in his hand. They contained her story; let us read
it with him.