She met my gaze. “This is the last time,” she said. She looked away,
repeated softly, thoughtfully, “the last time.”
“The last time?”
“We are not going to see each other any more. It is being
misunderstood.”
I glanced quickly at her, and I knew she had read the paragraph. “That
miserable scandal sheet!” said I. “No one sees it--and if they did why
should we notice anything so ridiculous?”
She did not answer immediately. After a while she said: “Perhaps I
ought not to say it, but--Hartley is sensitive. A copy of the paper got
to him.”
“One to me. One to you. One to him.”
“No matter,” said she. “The mischief is done.”
“You do not give up a friend lightly,” rejoined I. The time to speak
was at hand; I welcomed it.
“_He_ has asked me to give you up,” said she simply. “And I shall do
it.”
“But he has no right to ask such a thing,” protested I.
“Yes--he has. He and I are engaged--you knew that?”
“I imagined there was some sort of an engagement,” said I, still
waiting for the right opening.
“There is only one sort of engagement possible with me,” replied she,
with a certain gentle reproach.
“I know that,” said I. “But I remember the talk we had on the yacht.”
A flush overspread her paleness for a moment. Then she rose from the
little rustic iron chair. “We must go,” said she.
“Wait,” said I. And I made a tactless, a stupid beginning: “You can’t
deny that you do not love him.”
She turned coldly away and walked on, I following. “I think I’ll not
stop for tea,” she said. “Will you hail the first taxi we meet?”
“You are offended--Mary?” I said. What a blundering fool love does make
of a man!--unless he makes a fool of it.
She shook her head. “No--not offended. But when a subject comes up
about which we may not talk there is nothing to do but drop it.”
In my desperation I reached for the right chord and struck it. “Do you
know,” said I, “why I left the yacht abruptly?”
She halted, gave me a swift, frightened glance. The color flooded her
face, then fled.
“Yes--that was why,” said I. “And--I’ve come as soon as I could.”
“Oh, why, why didn’t you _tell_ me?” cried she. Then, before I could
answer, “I don’t mean that. I understand.” Then, with a wild look
around, “_What_ am I saying?”
“I’ve come for you, Mary,” I went on. “And you are not going to rush
into folly a second time--a greater folly. For--you do not love
him--and you will care for me. You are right, we can’t discuss him--you
and him. But we can, and must, discuss you and me.”
“I shall not see you again,” said she, looking at me with tranquil eyes
that would have daunted me had I not known her so well, understood her
so well--which is only another way of saying, had I not loved her so
well.
“Why have you been seeing me day after day, when you knew that I loved
you----”
“I did not know it,” replied she. “I did not think I could move you in
the least--beyond a friendly liking.”
An inflection in her voice made me suddenly realize. “You came because
it made you happy to come!” I cried triumphantly. I caught her hand.
“You do care, Mary!”
She drew her hand away resolutely. “I shall keep my promise,” she said
coldly. “I wish to hear no more.”
“You will not keep your promise. If necessary I’ll go to him and tell
him--and he’ll release you.”
She gave me a look that withered. “You--do a cowardly thing like that!”
“No,” said I. “But _you_ will ask him to release you. You have no right
to marry him. And I--I love you--and must live my life with you, or--I
can think of nothing more futile and empty than life without you. And
your life--would it not be futile and empty, Mary, if you tried to live
it without me, when we might have been together? Together!--you and I!
Mary, my love!”
“Why do you say those things, Godfrey?” she cried passionately. “To
make me wretched? To make it harder for me to do what I must?”
“To make it impossible for you to do what you must not. Marry a man
you don’t love--marry him when you love another! You’d be doing him
the worst possible injury. No matter how much he loves you, he can
recover from the blow of losing you. But the day to day horror of such
a loveless marriage would destroy you both. He is a sensitive man. He
would feel it, in spite of all your efforts to pretend. You--pretend!
You could not do it.”
“After what has passed between him and me--the promises we’ve
exchanged--the plans we’ve made--there is no going back! I don’t wish
to go back. I----”
“Mary--I love you!” I cried. “I love you--and you love me. That’s the
wall between you and any other man, between me and any other woman.”
She had waved to a passing taxi. It swept into the edge of the drive.
She opened the door. “You are not coming with me,” she said. “And I
shall not see you again.”
I laid my hand on her arm and forced her to meet my gaze. “You are
hysterical now,” I said. “But you will be calm, and----”
She gave me a cold smile--it would have deceived those who do not
understand the temperaments that can conceal themselves. “I am
perfectly calm, I assure you,” said she.
“As you were the first time we ever met,” said I. “You’ve no
right to marry any man but me, Mary. If you did you’d be wronging
yourself--me--him most of all. That is the truth, and you will see it.”
She dragged her arm away, burst into violent sobs, sank upon the seat
of the cab. I hesitated--obeyed a right instinct, closed the door,
gave her address to the ignoring chauffeur, stood watching the cab
whisk away. I was shaking from head to foot. But I had no fear for the
outcome. I knew that I had won--that _we_ had won.