She came up on her elbow--all weak and shaking. She had on that gray
silk kimono that I love--the one with the wistaria blossoms embroidered
on it. I felt her eyes searching my thoughts, and I could only look at
the soft gray blossoms on her sleeve and study out the pattern.
“Anthony,” she was saying, with something of that musical “edge” in her
voice--“Anthony, what have you done?”
I told her. I even moved my chair aside and let her gaze past me and
through the open doorway into my room, where she could see bits of the
broken cylinders scattered about the floor.
Was I pleading the cause of my love for her, of my--yes--of my desire
for her, in thus giving way to the unexpected impulse to have her see
those broken cylinders with her own eyes? God pity me, I do not know!
All I am sure of is that I suddenly wanted her to know all about
those miserable, weak hours of mine. And a strange, tremulous hope was
fluttering to life in my heart. It was possible that we should again
work together, she and I!
This hope fluttered and grew. I felt my heart beat more quickly, and a
touch of that odd dryness in the throat that comes to me when Heloise
and I are close, when I touch her hand or her sleeve and know at the
same moment that she is thinking of me and that her feelings are in some
mysterious way interwoven with mine.
I recall that I moved forward on my chair I moved still farther, and
sat on the edge of the bed. I slipped my arm behind her head. I drew her
lovely, dark head against my breast. I bent over and kissed her fragrant
hair and rubbed my cheek against it.
I was stroking her hair and her soft cheek. I bent lower and kissed her
forehead. Then I kissed her cheek.
I could not help it. I did not know I was going to do it. I know now
that she had stopped resisting before this. She let me kiss her.
Slowly this fact made itself felt in my mind and in my heart. She had
let me kiss her, but she had been unable to respond. And I remembered
what she had said, hours or years ago, and the poignant sadness of it--
“Something has died in me. I don't believe I can ever love a man again.”
I lowered her head against the pile of pillows. I held the thick braid
of her hair for a moment, then let it fall over her shoulder. I looked
into her eyes, hoping against hope that I might find a responsive light
there.
Then I sank back on my chair, and covered my face with my hands.
She reached out and laid her hand on my arm.
For a little time we sat that way. I could not look at her. I could not
say anything. I was glad of the gentle touch of her hand.
It was she who broke the silence.
“Oh, Anthony,” she breathed. “If I only could!”
Then we were still again.
But this would not do. I was all egotism--I, who had so wished to help
her.
Finally I looked up, and took her hand in mine and stroked it. I even
smiled at her. At least, it seemed to me that I smiled.
It was one of those moments that come, in our times of greatest
bewilderment, when for a space we see clearly. I suddenly felt that I
could think again.
“I don't know what is to become of us, Heloise dear,” I said. “You have
been close to the end of your life. But I think that you will have to
let me help you. For I know now that I shall not want to live unless
I can help you. And I shall not leave you alone in Peking. I think you
will have to bear with me, at least until I can know that you have got
back into the current of your life and work.”
She compressed her lips, and her dear eyes glistened. Then I felt her
fingers tighten around mine.
“Anthony,” she said, low and uncertain, “I would do anything. I would
love you if I could. I would go to you without love if I thought I could
make you happy, or even help you. You gave me hope by helping me to
work. Now, in spite of the dreadful facts of my life that I know so well
to be true, you are stirring me to hope again. But all the time I know
that the dreadful facts are there, that they will be there when this
hope is faded.”
“I think,” said I, “that we can triumph over those dreadful facts.”
“Oh, Anthony,” she murmured, “if you only knew how dreadful they are.
I wondered before whether I ought to tell you. I lay awake here night
after night, trying to think it out--whether I ought to tell you. And
then even worse news came. It was too much for me. I gave up, Anthony.
It seemed to me, only a few hours ago, that the kindest thing I could
do--the kindest thing I could do to you, dear--would be to leave this
world. I brought only trouble into it. I thought it would be best to
leave it.”
She paused. She looked past me, toward the window. Her brows were knit.
She was very sober. And her reticence, that I had always felt, was gone.
She continued:
“And now I've made a failure even of that. And here I am again,
disturbing your life, a burden--”
I leaned forward and took her other hand and looked at her. She
faltered. She stopped. I held her two hands firmly. For a moment I
considered telling her that I knew her story. Then I knew that I could
n't tell her. To-morrow, perhaps; but not now. This hour was hers and
mine. Crocker had no place in it. I would not so much as have his name
spoken. Further than this, my mind, that had failed me so miserably of
late, was working again; and a plan was forming there.
I could not yet see all the way. But from moment to moment I could feel
my habitual confidence in my mental processes coming back to me. I was
beginning to believe, as I always used to believe, that I should prove
equal to the situation, as it might develop. And the first thought of
renunciation was coming to me like a clear light.
It is obvious, of course (even in this tense moment the fact became
reasonably clear to me) that where personal desire is the major premise,
logic is impossible.
It was time I came; in some degree to my senses.
She must have seen something of all this in my face, when I bent forward
and took her two hands so firmly and looked into her eyes.
“Heloise dear,” I said, “you are not going to die. You are going
to live. For the present you are going to let me help you start at
rebuilding your life. You will do this because I love you, and because
it is unthinkable that I should not help you. One way or the other”--I
repeated this phrase with a peculiar emphasis that, I could see, puzzled
her--“one way or the other I am going to help you. It may be that I can
never stir you to love me. I shall do this if I can, Heloise; but it
may be that I shall not succeed. I am glad that I have”--my voice broke
here, so confusing is love--“have kissed you, but I shall not kiss you
again. Not again, dear. We shall work this out, however. You and I, one
way or the other, we shall work it out.”
“But Anthony,” said she. “You must let me tell you! It is--I am not
free--there is--”
“You shall not tell me to-night,” I said to her. “You shall tell me
nothing. I will not permit it. I will not listen. Free or bound, however
dreadful the facts may seem--these things are nothing. Nothing!” My
voice rose a little, I fear, at this point. “They can not possibly
concern us now, you and me. For one way or the other--”
“But, dear, you don't understand--you don't know!”
“I know enough,” said I. “I know all that need concern me and the woman
I love more than my life, more than my work, more than everything else
in the world and the sky.”
She seemed almost to shudder at this.
“Anthony! Please, dear!” She was whispering these broken sentences.
“This is all wrong! Please!”
Her voice trailed off. I was still bending forward, all eager and
flushed with the great thoughts that were stirring within me. Her eyes
seemed almost to cling to mine. She stirred a little, but did not turn
away. Her hands were still in mine.
It seemed to me that I ought to surrender her hands and sit back in my
chair.
Her eyes were glistening wet, the outlines of her mouth softened from
the sadness that had been there. It almost seemed to me that she was
drawing me forward with her hands.
Certainly something--some quality of the spirit, perhaps, was draw ing
me nearer and nearer to her. I knew that my head was bending closer. I
thought of resisting, but I did not resist.
My lips met hers.
Her hands slipped out of mine, and slowly--oh, so slowly!--slid up on my
shoulders.
Then her arms were about me, and my arms were about her; and our hearts
were beating together, very fast.
“Listen!” she whispered, all breathless, turning her head.
Some one was knocking at my door.
I stood up, irresolute. I was bewildered. She looked wan and weak, lying
back there against the pillows. I was choking back the sobs that nearly
came.
“Oh, Heloise,” I managed to say. “I meant not to. Forgive me, dear!”
But she was not looking at me. “See who it is,” was all she said.
So I went through to my own room, closing the connecting door behind me.
I hurriedly brushed my hair, then opened the door.
It was the physician from the English mission. He was a young man, who
looked at me coolly and with some curiosity.