"Roger, you don't think I've done anything wrong, do you?"
"I don't know what to think," he said. "It is a revelation to me that
you were capable of deceiving me at all."
"But I am only _engaged_ to Bob; that's all."
"Only _engaged_! In heaven's name! what do you mean? Do you intend to
marry this man?"
"No, I never did; but--"
I was beginning to soften a bit to him. I could see his point of view.
He was holding me by the arms so I couldn't get away from him, and when
you are very close like that to a man you love (almost in his arms) you
cannot help being moved. I was, anyway, and I said:
"I'll try and explain everything to you, if you won't be too angry with
me."
"Go on."
"Well, you know when I got that fifty dollars, and gave up my position?
Well, I spent it all and got down to ten cents, and I couldn't get
work, and I was nearly starving--honestly I was. That last day I didn't
have any dinner and hardly any luncheon or breakfast. Well then, I met
Bob, and I told him--that very first night--and he lent me ten dollars,
and insisted that I should take something from him each week till I got
a position."
"In God's name, why did you not ask _me_?"
"I _couldn't_, Roger; I couldn't."
"Why not? Why not?"
"Because--because--I _loved you_. I could take help from a man I didn't
love, but not from one I did."
I began to sob, and he sat down in the Morris chair, and lifted me up
on his knee, but he held me off, so I could continue with my story.
"Go on now."
So then I told him everything: how, later, when I at last returned
the money to Bennet, he had proposed to me, and how I couldn't help
accepting him. "And, anyway," I finished, "engagements are nothing. I'm
engaged to two other men as well."
I thought this was my chance to make a reckless clean breast of
everything.
He tumbled me out of his lap at that, stared at me, gasped, threw back
his head, and burst into a sort of wild laughter, almost of relief.
Then suddenly he pulled me up into his arms, and held me hard against
his breast for the longest time, just as if he were never going to let
me go again, and then I knew just as well as anything that he did love
me, even though he wouldn't admit it. So, with that knowledge, I was
ready to forgive him for anything or everything.
You see, things were all turned about now, and I was in the position of
the accuser and not of the accused, and that despite the attitude he
pretended to assume. He wanted to know if all three of my friends had
kissed me, and I had to admit that they had, and tell him just how many
times. Dick had kissed me just that one time, Bob four times, and the
Western editor just once. It was a bitter pill for Roger to swallow,
and he said:
"And I have been afraid to touch you."
"That's not my fault," I said. "You can kiss me any time you wish."
He didn't accept my hint or invitation. He was walking up and down now,
pulling at his lip, and at last he said:
"Nora, get your things all packed. I'll have to take you with me."
"Where?"
"I'm obliged to go abroad on a certain pressing matter. I came here
to-day specially to be with you before leaving. I see I can't leave you
behind."
"Do you mean--" I said, and for one delirious moment I imagined
something that was impossible.
"I mean simply that, though it will be devilishly inconvenient, I shall
be obliged to take you with me. I can't trust you here."
That thought still persisted in my foolish head, and I said:
"Roger, do you mean that we are going to be married?"
He stared at me a moment, and then said shortly:
"No. That's impossible."
I swallowed a lump that came up hard in my throat, and I could not
speak. Then after a moment I said:
"You want to take me, then, because you are afraid some other man might
get me, not because you want me yourself."
He said, with a slight smile:
"The first part of your statement is certainly true; the second part is
questionable."
"I'm not going," I told him.
"Oh, yes, you are."
"Oh, no, I'm not."
"Are we to have another combat?"
"I'm not going."
"Can't leave your fiancé?" he asked.
"I'm just not going, that's all."
"What do you intend to do, then, while I'm gone?"
"Just what I'm doing now."
"You intend to continue your--er--engagement?"
"No; I'll break that off." I looked at Roger. "I owe that to _him_."
"H-m! Owe nothing to me, eh?"
My eyes filled up. I did owe much to him. He came over, picked my face
up by the chin, and then drew me back to the seat by the fireplace,
seating himself in the Morris chair, with me on the stool. He talked
very gently to me now, and as if he were speaking to a child; but I
could think only of one thing--that he was going away and I _could_ not
go with him. Why, he had not even told me he loved me, and though a few
moments before I had believed he did, now the torturing doubts came up
again. If he loved me, would he not want to marry me? Other men, like
Bob and Dick, did.
"Roger, tell me this," I said. "Suppose I went to school and then to
college, would I be like--other girls--I mean society girls--girls in
your class?"
"You're better than they are now. You are in a class all by yourself,
Nora."
"Don't answer me like that. You know what I want to know. Would I be
socially their equal, for instance?"
"Why, naturally. That's a foolish question, Nora."
"No, it isn't. I just want to know. Now, supposing I got all
that--that--culture--and everything, and I had nice manners, and
dressed so I looked pretty and everything--and you wouldn't be a bit
ashamed of me, and we could say my people were all sorts of grand
folks,--they really are in England--my father's people,--well, suppose
all this, and then suppose that you really loved me, just as I do you,
then wouldn't I be good enough to be your wife?"
"Nora, why do you persist about that? I tell you once and for all that
that is absolutely out of the question. I'm not going to marry you. In
fact, I can't."
"Why?"
"I won't go into details. Let it suffice that there are reasons, and
put the idea out of your head."
So, after that, there was nothing more for me to say; but he realized
I would not go with him. When he at last resigned himself to this,
he made me promise that while he was gone I would not only break my
engagements with Bennet and the Western editor and Dick, but that I
would in no circumstances let any man kiss or touch me, or make love to
me in any way. He said if I'd promise him that, he'd be able to make
his trip to Europe without undue anxiety, and that he would come back
just as soon as he could.
"All right, then," I said; "I cross my neck."
I wrote three letters that night, all of which he read. If he had had
his way, I would have rewritten them and worded them differently. He
thought I ought to say: "Dear Mr. Bennet," "Dear Mr. Lawrence," etc.,
instead of "Dear Bob," "Dear Dick." My letters were virtually the same
in each case. I asked to be released from my engagement; but I begged
Bob to forgive me, and I said I should never forget him as long as I
lived. Roger argued with me a whole half-hour to take that out. But I
didn't, and I even cried at the thought of how I was hurting this boy
who loved me. I was so miserable, in fact, that Roger said we'd go out
and hear some music, and that would cheer me up.
Conscience is a peculiar thing. We can shut it up tightly, and delude
ourselves with diversions that infatuate and blind us. I did not think
of Bob while Roger was with me. I put on my prettiest dress, one of
the dresses I now knew that he had paid for! It was a shimmering,
Oriental-looking thing that had the stamp of Paquin upon it, and I had
a wonderful emerald necklace, and a wreath of green leaves, with little
diamonds sprinkled like dew over it, in my hair. Roger said that there
was no one in the world like me. I suppose there was not. I certainly
hope there was not. I was a fine sort of person!
I think it was the Thomas Orchestra we heard. I forget. I should have
enjoyed it, I suppose, in ordinary circumstances, but I could not
think of anything that night except that Roger was going away and that
I might never see him again. And I thought of all the accidents that
occurred at sea, and even though he was holding my hand under the
program, I felt that I was the most unhappy girl in the world.
We couldn't stop to have even a little supper after the theater, for he
was taking a train to New York, whence he was to sail.
His man Holmes (it was the first time I had ever seen him) was at the
house when we got back, and had his bag and everything ready, waiting
for him. I thought as he was going away on such a long trip he would
at least kiss me good-by, and I could not keep from crying when, after
we got in, he said right before Holmes, who _wouldn't_ leave the room:
"I'll have to rush now. Be a good girl."
Then he said I was to go down to Mr. Townsend's (his lawyer's) office,
and he would tell me about some arrangements he himself had made for
me, and I was to write to him every day, though he said nothing about
writing to me. He wrote down an address in London where I was to send
my letters. The only thing he did that approached a caress was that,
when his man went ahead of him down the stairs, he stopped in the upper
hall, lifted my face, and gave me a long, searching look. Then he said:
"I'm not likely to think about anything but you, darling." Then he went
quickly down the stairs, leaving me sobbing up there.