I DARE AND AM FORGIVEN.
FOR a moment she did not stir, only sat there crushed and dazed,
staring straight before her, as though not understanding what had
happened. And looking down at her my mood of exultation in my triumph
changed suddenly to one of pity for her weakness. I had felt precisely
the same emotion many times before, when, having brought down a bird or
a rabbit by some daring or difficult shot, I came to the spot where my
victim lay bleeding its life out. Pity for my victim always outweighed
the satisfaction which the successful shot had given me, and I would
tramp sadly home, resolved to hunt no more.
So, gazing down at that bowed head, I felt pity for her rise warm
within my heart. She was right. Men were brutes--crushing women by
their strength, pulling them down, taking their will of them, then
faring gaily on without a thought for the shame and suffering they left
behind. So it had always been.
At last she looked up at me, and her eyes were very cold.
“Was that the act of a gentleman?” she asked.
“It was not,” I said, and at my tone I saw her start and look up at me
more keenly. No doubt she had expected to hear in my voice a note of
triumph.
“You are ready, then, to apologize?” she continued, after a moment.
“I sincerely beg your pardon, mademoiselle.”
“You see I was wrong to trust you--to come here into the garden with
you. But I thought you a man of honor!”
“I thought myself so,” I said.
“And your excuse?”
“I was tempted and I fell.”
“That has been man’s retort since the days of Adam!” she said with
scorn. “A retort which I consider ungenerous and ungentlemanly.”
“Well, it has not been without some justification,” I said, my
spirits rising, as I saw that here, at least, was a victim capable of
self-defense. “But I apologize.”
“You promise that the act shall never be repeated?” she asked with
great severity.
“I promise that freely.”
“But will you keep the promise? You see I have a reason to distrust
you, M. de Tavernay.”
“Yes, I will keep it,” I said. “I have the memory of this night to
live on;” and my heart warmed at the thought. “Always I shall have the
memory of this night to live on!”
She flushed slightly and her eyes softened and wavered, but only for an
instant.
“And what of your loyalty to your betrothed?” she queried with biting
irony.
But even that failed to wound me, to pierce the garment of joy in
which I was once again enveloped.
“It shall never again be broken,” I said. “But nothing she can do will
change the past.”
“You mean you would not have it changed?”
“No!” I cried. “No! It is the dearest thing I have. I am proud of it! I
glory in it! I shall keep it always warm against my heart.”
“Do you know, I suspect you are something of a poet, M. de Tavernay?”
she said, after a moment’s inspection of my face from under half-closed
lids.
“Oh, no!” I protested. “It is love makes me appear so.”
Again she contemplated me for a moment, a puzzling smile playing about
her lips.
“Come, monsieur,” she said suddenly, “I am going to be generous. Sit
down again. You see, I have faith in you. Besides, I wish to keep my
friend, if I can. After all, perhaps you _may_ care for me--although, I
repeat, it is only for the moment.”
“You do not really think so,” I interrupted; “but let it pass.”
“Besides, you are very young.”
“Not so young as you, mademoiselle.”
“Oh, I am immensely older. I am an elder sister who must take you in
hand and form you.”
“Oh, everybody wishes to form me,” I cried, impatiently. “I have no
desire to be formed--I will form myself.”
“Who wished to form you?” she demanded quickly with a peremptoriness
that astonished me.
“Why, old Dubosq,” I answered. “The fellow who halted me just out of
Tours.”
She breathed a sigh of relief which astonished me even more than had
her question.
“He was a man, that fellow,” I added. “I should like to meet him
again--a dashing rascal.”
“Of course--he flattered you,” she said, looking at me coolly. “I know
what he said to you as well as though I had heard him say it.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘All you need, my friend, is a little more polish, and you
will be a perfect devil with the ladies.’”
I stared at her, my mouth open, for she had caught Dubosq’s intonation
to a shade.
“And then he leered,” she added, “and twisted his mustaches. But the
most disgusting thing is that you believed him, and you smirked and
would have twisted your mustaches too, but that you are too young to
have any. Oh, men are all alike--foul, despicable creatures! And then
you come here, riding very erect, those words repeating themselves over
and over in your bosom--and you pretend----” She broke off suddenly,
and turned upon me furiously. “Are you in the habit of attacking young
women in that fashion?” she demanded.
“No, mademoiselle,” I stammered, shrinking from this terrific assault
which touched every joint in my armor. “I have never before kissed a
young woman.”
She looked at me again, caught her breath, her hand against her heart;
and then she blushed and smiled and her eyes grew very tender. By some
miracle I had found the answer that turned away wrath.
“There, M. de Tavernay,” she said, holding out her hand impulsively,
“I forgive you from my heart. We shall be friends. And forget that
nonsense I was talking.”
I bent and kissed the fingers, so warm, so soft, so fragrant.
“If I might have a pledge of it,” I said, with sudden boldness. “That
flower at your breast----”
“Nonsense!” she cried. “You need no pledge of it. And now,” she added,
“I must be going in. Madame will be terribly scandalized.”
“Oh, do not go,” I protested, and retained her hand in mine. “Think--we
may never again be alone together--certainly never like this, in an
enchanted garden, with the moon looking down upon us, full of counsel
and encouragement.”
“The moon has never been noted for the wisdom of its counsel,” she
retorted; “and as for encouragement, you certainly need none.”
“But give me a little longer,” I pleaded, trembling at the thought of
parting from her. “Sit here beside me and let me look at you. Ah, I
already know every feature, every curl of the hair. It is not at that I
wish to look, but at the soul in your eyes. I know you do not love me,
and yet it seems to me that your soul and mine were destined for each
other. I cannot really believe that we are to be kept apart. I hear
within myself a voice which says that there can be no happiness for me
apart from you. I ask for nothing more than to sit on here forever with
you beside me, your hand in mine.”
She leaned away from me into the corner of the seat, and I fancied she
shivered slightly.
“You are cold,” I said remorsefully. “I have been thoughtless. The air
is chilly and a mist is rising from the river. May I get my cloak for
you?”
“No, M. de Tavernay,” she answered, rising to her feet somewhat
unsteadily. “I must really leave you. Remember, we are to start for
Poitiers in the morning, and I have many things to do.”
It would have been selfish to protest, heartless to expose her longer
to the dampness of the night.
“At least,” I said, “I shall ride by the window of the coach to-morrow,
where I can still see you.”
“Yes,” she laughed, “and I think I can promise that madame will even
permit you to speak to me, if you are very good. Come.”
I walked beside her along the gravelled path, drinking in her beauty,
exulting in my passion, pressing to my heart the cross which tore me.
Past the tower we went, past the hedge which framed the garden. I
paused for a last look back at it--ah, I had spent a happy hour there!
“There will never be another night like this!” I said. “Never, never
can there be another night like this!”
“Dear garden!” my companion murmured, and threw a kiss to it.
“Then you will remember it, too?” I asked, scarce breathing.
“Oh, yes,” she answered, very softly. “It is the place where I have
gained a--friend!”
It was not the word I had hoped for, but the most, no doubt, I could
expect. I went on beside her, my head bowed. A friend! A friend! Ah, it
was something more than that my heart desired.
At last we came to the broad flight of steps which led upward to the
terrace.
“I must leave you here, monsieur,” she said, and mounted a step or two,
then turned and looked down at me with eyes that glowed and glowed with
a strange inward light.
A mad impulse seized me to fling honor to the winds, to throw myself
upon my knees, to implore her to flee with me somewhere--anywhere--to a
wilderness, a desert island, where there would be only we and our love.
Perhaps she guessed my thought, for she smiled tremulously and held out
her hand to me very tenderly.
“Take courage, my friend,” she said. “There is a voice speaking to
me also. It tells me that fate will not be so cruel as you think; it
promises that your future shall, after all, be happy.”
I bent and kissed her hand with lips that trembled so I could scarce
control them. For an instant she laid her other hand lightly upon my
head, as though in benediction, then turned and went on up the steps.
But at the top she paused, looked down at me, leaned toward me.
“My love! My love!” I murmured, a mist before my eyes.
She gazed down at me a moment longer--into my eyes, into my soul. Then,
with a sudden movement, she took the rose from her bosom, kissed it and
flung it down to me with a gesture divine, adorable. When I raised my
head from the flower she was gone.