In the heat of the next day the breaking-point came. They had each
guessed the truth about the other, but of the two she was the more ready
to admit the situation.
"There's no use going on," she said miserably, "you know you hate the
insurance business, and you'll never do well in it."
"That's not it," he insisted stubbornly; "I hate going on alone. If
you'll marry me and come with me and take a chance with me, I can make
good at anything, but not while I'm worrying about you down here."
She was silent a long time before she answered, not thinking--for she
had seen the end--but only waiting, because she knew that every word
would seem more cruel than the last. Finally she spoke:
"George, I love you with all my heart, and I don't see how I can ever
love any one else but you. If you'd been ready for me two months ago I'd
have married you--now I can't because it doesn't seem to be the sensible
thing."
He made wild accusations--there was some one else--she was keeping
something from him!
"No, there's no one else."
This was true. But reacting from the strain of this affair she had found
relief in the company of young boys like Jerry Holt, who had the merit
of meaning absolutely nothing in her life.
George didn't take the situation well, at all. He seized her in his arms
and tried literally to kiss her into marrying him at once. When this
failed, he broke into a long monologue of self-pity, and ceased only
when he saw that he was making himself despicable in her sight. He
threatened to leave when he had no intention of leaving, and refused to
go when she told him that, after all, it was best that he should.
For a while she was sorry, then for another while she was merely kind.
"You'd better go now," she cried at last, so loud that Mrs. Cary came
down-stairs in alarm.
"Is something the matter?"
"I'm going away, Mrs. Cary," said George brokenly. Jonquil had left the
room.
"Don't feel so badly, George." Mrs. Cary blinked at him in helpless
sympathy--sorry and, in the same breath, glad that the little tragedy
was almost done. "If I were you I'd go home to your mother for a week or
so. Perhaps after all this is the sensible thing----"
"Please don't talk," he cried. "Please don't say anything to me now!"
Jonquil came into the room again, her sorrow and her nervousness alike
tucked under powder and rouge and hat.
"I've ordered a taxicab," she said impersonally. "We can drive around
until your train leaves."
She walked out on the front porch. George put on his coat and hat and
stood for a minute exhausted in the hall--he had eaten scarcely a bite
since he had left New York. Mrs. Cary came over, drew his head down and
kissed him on the cheek, and he felt very ridiculous and weak in his
knowledge that the scene had been ridiculous and weak at the end. If he
had only gone the night before--left her for the last time with a decent
pride.
The taxi had come, and for an hour these two that had been lovers rode
along the less-frequented streets. He held her hand and grew calmer in
the sunshine, seeing too late that there had been nothing all along to
do or say.
"I'll come back," he told her.
"I know you will," she answered, trying to put a cheery faith into her
voice. "And we'll write each other--sometimes."
"No," he said, "we won't write. I couldn't stand that. Some day I'll
come back."
"I'll never forget you, George."
They reached the station, and she went with him while he bought his
ticket....
"Why, George O'Kelly and Jonquil Cary!"
It was a man and a girl whom George had known when he had worked in
town, and Jonquil seemed to greet their presence with relief. For an
interminable five minutes they all stood there talking; then the train
roared into the station, and with ill-concealed agony in his face George
held out his arms toward Jonquil. She took an uncertain step toward him,
faltered, and then pressed his hand quickly as if she were taking leave
of a chance friend.
"Good-by, George," she was saying, "I hope you have a pleasant trip.
"Good-by, George. Come back and see us all again."
Dumb, almost blind with pain, he seized his suitcase, and in some dazed
way got himself aboard the train.
Past clanging street-crossings, gathering speed through wide suburban
spaces toward the sunset. Perhaps she too would see the sunset and pause
for a moment, turning, remembering, before he faded with her sleep into
the past. This night's dusk would cover up forever the sun and the trees
and the flowers and laughter of his young world.