There was no reply to his apology. He repeated it in a tone of more
elaborate courtesy, “I _beg_ your pardon.”
When he was again greeted with silence, he added: “I thought it was
empty. I didn't do it on purpose. I hope you're not hurt.”
In the mildewed square of blackness, rank with the smell of stables, he
held his breath, trying to detect whether sleep would account for the
taciturnity of the other occupant. He could detect nothing; all lesser
sounds were drowned in the rattle of their progress. Groping, he felt a
woman's dress. Hollowing his hand to shade the flame, he struck a match.
For a brief moment his eyes met hers, opened wide and gazing at him.
Instantly she leaned forward, pursing her lips. The flame went out.
“What's the meaning of this?” He had been startled and spoke with
sharpness.
“There was only one cab, so I----” She yawned luxuriously. “So I waited.
I didn't want to lose you.”
It was his turn to be silent. After a pause, while she gave him a chance
to reply, she continued: “You'd have been stranded if I'd taken the only
cab. And then I didn't want to lose you. Not that losing me would have
meant anything to you--not now. It wouldn't, would it?”
There was no escape. However she chose to accuse him, he would be forced
to listen. But it couldn't be far to the hotel. Speaking reasonably, he
attempted to appease her. “I've given you no occasion for supposing----”
She laughed softly. “Don't you think so? On the boat you were burning up
for me. You were molten--incandescent. Now you're dark and dank--through
with me.”
She caught her breath. Though he could not see her, he knew that her
small, clenched fists were pressed against her mouth. Again she was
speaking.
“Why is it? If you'd only give me a reason! While I've been sitting here
alone, I've kept asking myself: 'Why is it? Am I less beautiful, less
kind, less good? Does he think that he's discovered something evil about
me? What have I done that he should have changed so suddenly?'”
With a cry of pain, she turned. “What have I done? It's just that you
should tell me. If you'll take me back, I'll be anything for you. I'll
try so hard to be more beautiful.”
“You couldn't be more beautiful.”
It was said without enthusiasm. The suspicion still possessed him that
she was play-acting. Last evening she had practiced these same wiles on
the man who had vanished. Did she intend that he should vanish, too?
It was horrible that he should ask himself such a question, and yet he
could not rid his imagination of the snow-white hound, plunging to death
and pointing at her like the finger of conscience. The happenings of
that night had been sufficiently dramatic, so why this second rehearsal?
He was too humble in his self-esteem to believe that his own attractions
could account for such a storm of passion.
“Santa, you're exaggerating.” He spoke cautiously. “You never belonged
to me. Until now you've given no hint that you wanted to belong to me.
On the contrary, you've trifled with me and shown a distinct preference
for another man. It's preposterous for you to talk about my taking you
back when I never had you. We've been companions for a handful of hours.
We've liked being together--at least, I have. But to create such a scene
is absurd. Nothing warrants it. In the ordinary course of events, our
liking might strengthen into love--there's no telling. But everything'll
end right here and now if you force matters. What d'you know about me?
About you I know even less. If any one were to ask me, I couldn't tell
him whether you were a Pole or a Persian, or whether you were single,
divorced, or married. I haven't the least idea of your social standing
or why, while appearing so prosperous, you travel without a maid and by
yourself. For all I know----”
“A man needs to know nothing about a woman,” she interrupted, “except
that he loves her. She might be a thousand things; if he loved her, none
of them would count. If she were bad, he would hope to make her good
with his own goodness. Men always expect women to do that; why shouldn't
a woman expect it of a man? If you loved me--and you did love me--no
matter how wicked you thought me, even though you believed I'd killed
some one, you wouldn't care. You'd find some splendid motive and
persuade yourself that I'd done it for the best.” She broke off. Then
she added, “Of course, I haven't.”
“Haven't!”
“Haven't killed somebody.”
It was an extraordinary disclaimer--as though it were always within the
bounds of possibility that nice, conventional women might have killed
somebody. She had said it as casually as another woman might have said,
“I don't powder,” or “I don't smoke.”
He scarcely know whether to be shocked or amused. He was loath to take
her seriously. Behind the thinning darkness he was trying to discover
her expression, when his calmness was swept away by a new disturbance.
She had slipped to her knees in the narrow space. By the dim light that
streaked the panes he could just make out her figure, bowed against him.
The next moment her tears were falling, and she was kissing his hands.
“You mustn't, Santa.”
He tried to withdraw his hands. She clung to them. Failing in that,
he attempted to raise her face. She kept it obstinately averted. The
bumping of the cab on the uneven paving jostled her against him;
he feared lest inadvertently he might bruise her. The situation
was grotesque. It stirred both his pity and his anger. If this were
play-acting, then it was laughter and not sobbing that was shaking her.
But if her grief were real----
At that thought the shy, lonely tenderness of the man overwhelmed him.
Here at last was a fellow-creature who needed his affection. She was so
fragile, so capricious, so rapturous!
“Poor Santa! I didn't mean---- Somehow I've hurt you.”
She didn't speak, but she stayed her sobbing.
“Let me see your face.”
He stooped lower. The scent of her hair was in his nostrils. His
reluctant arms went about her. Their embrace strengthened.
With a moan she lifted up her face, white and ghostly as the dawn that
was all about them. In a frenzy of silent longing their lips met.