"I'm trying to let you know the sort of person I am."
"Well," he said, leaning back again, and studying her with attention,
noting the picture she unconsciously made in her blue robe, with the
brown braids hanging over her shoulders, "I've been observing you with
somewhat close scrutiny for about three years now, and it occurs to me
that I'm fairly conversant with your moods and tenses. Perhaps I ought
to be warned, but--I'm not."
"I've always been told that sort of thing grows upon one," she
observed.
"What sort of thing? Having one's own way?"
She nodded.
"You're right there," he agreed. "I've been wanting mine, more or less
strenuously, for three years."
"Elaine Dennison," she observed--somewhat irrelevantly, it might
seem--"is the dearest, most amiable girl. She loves to make people
happy."
"Yes--and doesn't succeed. And you--don't want to make them
happy--and--could."
She shook her head. "No--I never could. Anybody who had much to do
with me would have to learn at once that I must have my own way."
"And if he should chance to be the sort of person who always wants his
own way, it would be disastrous. Yes--I see. And I comprehend your
ideal. I saw such a man once. It was in a railway station. He stood at
one side holding all the luggage, and his wife bought the tickets. She
was larger than he--I should say about one hundred and fifty pounds
larger. To take and hold such an enviable position as this woman held
needs, I think, an excess of avoirdupois."
He was laughing down at her, for she had got to her feet, and he had
risen with her. One hundred and twenty pounds of girlish grace and
slenderness looked even less beside one hundred and eighty of
well-distributed masculine bulk. But it was only his lips which
laughed. His eyes dwelt on her with no raillery in their depths, only
a longing which grew with each jesting word he spoke.
"Will you let me carry you in?" he asked, as she moved slowly toward
Betty. She shook her head. She laid a caressing hand on the mare's
smooth nose and whispered in her ear.
"Good-night, Betty," she said.
"You ought not to walk, with that knee. You can't fool with a
knee--it's a bad place to get hurt. I'm going to carry you."
She stood still, looking up at him at last. "Good-night, Mr. Jarvis,"
she said.
He came close. "See here," he said, rapidly, under his breath, "I
can't stand this any longer. You've put me off and put me off--and
I've let you. You've had your way. Now I'm going to have mine. You
shall answer me, one way or the other, to-night--now. I love you--I've
told you so--twice with my lips--a hundred times in every other way.
But I'm not going to be played with any longer. Will you take
me--now--or never?"
"What a singular way--what a barbaric way," she said, with proud eyes.
"It may be singular--it may be primitive--it's my way--to end what I
must. Will you answer me?"
"Yes, I'll answer you," she said, with uplifted head.
"Look at me, then."
She raised her eyes to his. Given the chance he so seldom got from
her, he gazed eagerly down into their depths, revealed to him in the
half light, half shadow, of the strange place they were in. She met
the look steadily at first, then falteringly. At length the lashes
fell.
In silence he waited, motionless. She tried to laugh lightly. "You're
so tragic," she murmured.
There was no answer.
"We should never be happy together," she began, slowly. "You've a will
like iron--I've felt it for three years. Mine is--I don't know what
mine is--but it's not used to being denied. We should quarrel over
everything, even when I knew, as I did to-day, that you were right.
I--don't know how to tell you--but--I----"
She hesitated. He made no answer, no plea, simply stood, breathing
deep but steadily, and steadily watching her.
"You're such a good friend," she went on, reluctantly, after a little.
She was drooping against the door of the box stall like a flower which
needs support, but he did not offer to help her. "Such a good friend I
don't want to lose you--but I know by the way you speak that I'm going
to lose you if--I----"
She raised her eyes little by little till they had reached his
shoulders, broad and firm and motionless.
"Good-by, Mr. Jarvis," she said, very low, and in a voice which
trembled a little. "But please don't mind very much. I'm not--worth
it. I----"
She lifted her eyes once more from his shoulder to his face, to find
the same look, intensified, meeting her with its steady fire. She
paled slowly, dropped her eyes and turned as if to go, when a great
breath, like a sob, shook her. She stood for an instant, faltering,
then turned again and took one uncertain step toward him.
"Oh--I can't--I can't----" she breathed. "You're the stronger--and
I--I--want you to be!"
With one quick stride he reached her. "Of course you do," he said, his
voice exultant in its joy.
Behind them brown Betty watched with dumb eyes, wondering, perhaps,
how so stormy a scene could be succeeded by such motionless calm. As
for her, this new, strange way of standing, always standing, too full
of pain to sleep, was a thing to be endured as best she might.