Desboro passed a miserable afternoon at the office. If there had been
any business to take his mind off himself it might have been easier for
him; but for a long time now there had been nothing stirring in Wall
Street; the public kept away; business was dead.
After hours he went to the club, feeling physically wretched. Man after
man came up and congratulated him on his marriage--some whom he knew
scarcely more intimately than to bow to, spoke to him. He was a very
great favourite.
In the beginning, it was merely a stimulant that he thought he needed;
later he declined no suggestion, and even made a few, with an eye on the
clock. For at five he was to meet Jacqueline.
Toward five his demeanour had altered to that gravely urbane and too
courteous manner indicative of excess; and his flushed face had become
white and tense.
Cairns found him in the card room at six, saw at a glance how matters
stood with him, and drew him into a corner of the window with scant
ceremony.
"What's the matter with you?" he said sharply. "You told me that you
were to meet your wife at five!"
Desboro's manner became impressively courteous.
"Inadvertently," he said, "I have somehow or other mislaid the clock.
Once it stood somewhere in this vicinity, but----"
"Damn it! There it is! Look at it!"
Desboro looked gravely in the direction where Cairns was pointing.
"That undoubtedly _is_ a clock," he said. "But now a far more serious
problem confronts us, John. Having located a clock with a certain amount
of accuracy, what is the next step to take in finding out the exact
time?"
"Don't you know how to tell the time?" demanded Cairns, furious.
"Pardon. I know how to _tell_ it, provided I once know what it is----"
"Are you drunk?"
"I have never," said Desboro, courteously, "experienced intoxication. At
present I am perfectly cognisant of contemporary events now passing in
my immediate vicinity----"
"Where were you to meet your wife?"
"At the depository of her multitudinous and intricate affairs of
business--in other words, at her office, dear friend."
"You can't go to her this way."
"It were unwise, perhaps," said Desboro, pleasantly.
Cairns gripped his arm: "You go to the baths; do you hear? Tell Louis to
massage the edge off you. I'm going to speak to your wife."
So Desboro sauntered off toward the elevator and Cairns called up
Jacqueline's office.
It appeared that Jacqueline had left. Should they switch him on to her
private apartments above?
In a moment his call was answered.
"Is this Mrs. Desboro?" he asked. And at the same instant recognised
Cynthia Lessler's voice.
She returned his greeting briefly.
"Jacqueline thought that perhaps she had misunderstood Mr. Desboro, so
she has gone to the station. Did he go there?"
"N--no. He had an appointment and----"
"Where?"
"At the club--the Olympian Club----"
"Is he there?"
"Yes----"
"Then tell him to go at once to the station, or he will miss his wife
and the 6:15 train, too!"
"I--he--Jim isn't feeling very well----"
"Is he _ill_!"
"N--no. Oh, no! He's merely tired--over-worked----"
"What!"
"Oh, he's just taking a cold plunge and a rub-down----"
"Mr. Cairns!"
"Yes."
"Take a taxi and come here before Jacqueline returns."
"Did you wish----"
"Yes. How soon can you get here?"
"Five minutes."
"I'll wait."
"A rotten piece of business," muttered Cairns, taking hat and stick from
the cloak room.
The starter had a taxi ready. Except for the usual block on Fifth
Avenue, they would have made it in four minutes. It took them ten.
Cynthia met him on the landing and silently ushered him into
Jacqueline's pretty little parlour. She still wore her hat and coat; a
fur boa lay on a sofa.
[Illustration: "'Now,' she said, leaning forward ... 'what is the
meaning of this?'"]
"Now," she said, leaning forward in her chair as soon as he was seated,
"what is the meaning of this?"
"Of what?" he asked, pretending mild surprise.
"Of Mr. Desboro's behaviour! He was married yesterday to the dearest,
sweetest, loveliest girl in the world. To-day, I stop at her office to
see her--and I find that she is unhappy. She couldn't hide it from _me_!
I _love_ her! And all her smiles and forced gaiety and clever
maneuvering were terrible to me--heart-breaking. She is dreadfully
unhappy. Why?"
"I didn't know it," said Cairns honestly.
"Is that true?"
"Absolutely."
"Very well. But you know why he didn't meet Jacqueline at five, don't
you?"
He looked at her miserably: "Yes, I know. I wouldn't let him."
"Is he intoxicated?"
"No. He has had more than he should have."
"What a cur!" she said between her teeth.
Cairns bit his lip and nervously twirled his walking stick.
"See here, Cynthia, Jim isn't a cur, you know."
"What do _you_ call a man who has done what he's done?"
"I--I tell you it has me guessing. Because it isn't like Jim Desboro.
He's never that way--not once in years. Only when he's up against it
does he ever do that. And he's perfectly mad about his wife. Don't make
any mistake there; he's dead in love with her--crazy about her. But--he
came into the office about one to-day, looking like the deuce--so
changed, so white, so 'all in,' that I thought he had the grippe or
something."
Cynthia said: "They've had a quarrel. Oh, what is it--what could it be,
Jack? You know it will break her heart. It's breaking mine now. I can't
bear it--I simply can't----"
"Haven't the least idea what's wrong," said Cairns, leaning forward,
elbows on his knees, and beating the hearth with his walking stick.
"Can't Mr. Desboro come here pretty soon?"
"Oh, yes, I think so. I'll go back and look him over----"
Cynthia's eyes suddenly glistened with tears, and she bowed her head.
"My dear child," expostulated Cairns, "it's nothing to weep over. It's
a--one of those things likely to happen to any man----"
"But I can't bear to have it happen to Jacqueline's husband. Oh, I wish
she had never seen him, never heard of him! He is a thousand, thousand
miles beneath her. He isn't worth----"
"For heaven's sake, Cynthia, don't think that!"
"_Think_ it! I _know_ it! Of what value is that sort of man compared to
a girl like Jacqueline! Of what use is that sort of man anyway! I know
them," she said bitterly, "I've had my lesson in that school. One and
all, young and old, rich or poor--_comparatively_ poor--they are the
same. The same ideas haunt their idle and selfish minds, the same
motives move them, the same impulses rule them, and they reason with
their emotions, not with their brains. Arrogant, insolent,
condescending, self-centred, self-indulgent, and utterly predatory! That
is the type! And they _belong_ where people prey upon one another, not
among the clean and sweet and innocent. They belong where there is no
question of marriage or of home or of duty; they belong where lights are
many and brilliant, where there is money, and plenty of it! Where there
is noise, and too much of it! That is where that sort of man belongs.
And nobody knows it as well as such a girl as I! Nobody, _nobody_!" Her
lip quivered and she choked back the tears.
"And--and now--such a man has taken my little friend--my little
girl--Jacqueline----"
"Do you think he's as rotten as what you say?"
"Yes. _Yes!_"
"Then--what must you think of me?"
She glanced up, blotting her wet lashes with her handkerchief.
"What do you mean, Jack?"
"I suppose I'm included among the sort of men you have been so
graphically describing?"
She did not answer.
"Am I not included?"
She shook her head slightly.
"Why not? If your description fits Jim Desboro and Reggie Ledyard, and
that set, it must naturally fit me, also."
But she shook her head almost imperceptibly.
"Why do you exclude me, Cynthia?"
But she had nothing to say about him. Long ago--long, long since, she
had made excuses for all that he should have been and was not. It was
not a matter for discussion; she and her heart had settled it between
them without calling in Logic as umpire, and without recourse to Reason
for an opinion.
"The worst of it is," he said, rising and picking up his hat, "some of
your general description does fit me."
"I--did not mean it that way----"
"But it does fit, Cynthia; doesn't it?"
"No."
"What!" incredulously.
She said in a low voice: "You were very kind to me, Jack; and--not like
other men. Do you think I can ever forget that?"
He forced a laugh: "Great actresses are expected to forget things.
Besides, there isn't anything to remember--except that--we were
friends."
"_Real_ friends. I know it now. Because the world is full of the other
kind. But a _real_ friend does not--destroy. Good-bye."
"Shall I see you again?" he asked, troubled.
"If you wish. I gave you my address yesterday."
"Will you really be at home to me, Cynthia?"
"Try," she said, unsmiling.
She went to the landing with him.
"Will you see that Mr. Desboro comes here as soon as he is--fit?"
"Yes."
"Very well. I'll tell Jacqueline he was not feeling well and fell asleep
at the club. It's one of those lies that may be forgiven--" she shrugged
"--but anyway I'll risk it."
So he went away, and she watched his departure, standing by the old-time
stair-well until she heard the lower door clang. Then, grieved and
angry, she seated herself and nervously awaited Jacqueline's
reappearance.
The girl returned ten minutes later, pale and plainly worried, but
carrying it off lightly enough.
"Cynthia!" she exclaimed, smilingly. "_Where_ do you suppose that
husband of mine can be! He isn't at the station. I boarded the train,
but he was not on it! Isn't it odd? I--I don't suppose anything could
have happened to him--any accident--because the motor drivers are so
reckless----"
"You darling thing!" laughed Cynthia. "Your young man is perfectly
safe----"
"Oh, of course I--I believe so----"
"He _is_! He's at his club."
"What!"
"It's perfectly simple," said Cynthia coolly, "he went there from his
office, feeling a bit under the weather----"
"Is he _ill_?"
"No, no! He was merely tired, I believe. And he stretched out and fell
asleep and failed to wake up. That's all."
Jacqueline looked at her in relieved astonishment for a moment.
"Did he telephone?"
"Yes--or rather, Mr. Cairns did----"
"Mr. Cairns! Why did Mr. Cairns telephone? Why didn't my husband
telephone? Cynthia--look at me!"
Cynthia met her eye undaunted.
"Why," repeated Jacqueline, "didn't my husband telephone to me? Is he
too ill? Is _that_ it? Are you concealing it? _Are_ you, Cynthia?"
Cynthia smiled: "He's a casual young man, darling. I believe he's taking
a cold plunge or something. He'll probably be here in a few minutes. So
I'll say good-night." She picked up her fur neckpiece, glanced at the
mirror, fluffed a curl or two, and turned to Jacqueline. "Don't spoil
him, ducky," she whispered, putting her hands on the young wife's
shoulders and looking her deep in the eyes.
Jacqueline flushed painfully.
"How do you mean, Cynthia?"
The latter said: "There are a million ways of spoiling a man beside
giving up to him."
"I don't give up to him," said Jacqueline in a colourless voice.
Cynthia looked at her gravely:
"It's hard to know what to do, dear. When a girl gives up to a man she
spoils him sometimes; when she doesn't she sometimes spoils him. It's
hard to know what to do--very hard."
Jacqueline's gaze grew troubled and remote.
"How to love a man wisely--that's a very hard thing for a girl to
learn," murmured Cynthia. "But--the main thing--the important thing, is
to love him, I think. And I suppose we have to take our chances of
spoiling him."
"The main thing," said Jacqueline slowly, "is that he should know you
_do_ love him; isn't it?"
"Yes. But the problem is, how best to show it. And that requires wisdom,
dear. And where is a girl to acquire that kind of wisdom? What
experience has she? What does she know? Ah, we _don't_ know. There lies
the trouble. By instinct, disposition, natural reticence, and training,
we are disposed to offer too little, perhaps; But often, in fear that
our reticence may not be understood, we offer too much."
"I--am afraid of that."
"Of offering too much?"
"Yes."
They stood, thoughtful a moment, not looking at each other.
Cynthia said in a low voice: "Be careful of him, ducky. His is not the
stronger character. Perhaps he needs more than you give."
"What!"
"I--I think that perhaps he is not the kind of man to be spoiled by
giving. And--it is possible to starve some men by the well-meant
kindness of reserve."
"All women--modest women--are reserved."
"Is a mother's reserve praiseworthy when her child comes to her for
intimate companionship--for tenderness perhaps--and puts its little arms
around her neck?"
Jacqueline stared, then blushed furiously.
"Why do you suppose that I am likely to be lacking in sympathy,
Cynthia?"
"You are not. I know you too well, ducky. But you might easily be
exquisitely undemonstrative."
"All women--are--undemonstrative."
"Not always."
"An honest, chaste----"
"No."
Jacqueline, deeply flushed, began in a low voice:
"To discourage the lesser emotions----"
"No! To separate them, class them as lesser, makes them so. They are
merely atoms in the molecule--a tiny fragment of perfection. To be too
conscious of them makes them too important; to accept them with the
rest as part of the ensemble is the only way."
"Cynthia!"
"Yes, dear."
"Who has been educating you to talk this way?"
"Necessity. There is no real room for ignorance in my profession. So I
don't go to parties any more; I try to educate myself. There are
cultivated people in the company. They have been very kind to me. And my
carelessness in English--my lack of polish--these were not inherited. My
father was an educated man, if he was nothing else. You know that. Your
father knew it. All I needed was to be awakened. And I am awake."
She looked honestly into the honest eyes that met hers, and shook her
head.
"No self-deception can aid us to lie down to pleasant dreams,
Jacqueline. And the most terrible of all deceptions is
self-righteousness. Let me know myself, and I can help myself. And I
know now how it would be with me if the happiness of marriage ever came
to me. I would give--give everything good in me, everything
needed--strip myself of my best! Because, dear, we always have more to
give than they; and they need it all--all we can give them--every one."
After a silence they kissed each other; and, when Cynthia had departed,
Jacqueline closed the door and returned to her chair. Seated there in
deep and unhappy thought, while the slow minutes passed without him,
little by little her uneasiness returned.
Eight o'clock rang from her little mantel clock. She started up and went
to the window. The street lamps were shining over pavements and
sidewalks deserted. Very far in the west she could catch the low roar
of Broadway, endless, accentless, monotonous, interrupted only by the
whiz of motors on Fifth Avenue. Now and then a wayfarer passed through
the silent street below; rarely a taxicab; but neither wayfarer nor
vehicle stopped at her door.
She did not realise how long she had been standing there, when from
behind the mantel clock startled her again, ringing out nine. She came
back into the centre of the room, and, hands clasped, stared at the
dial.
She had not eaten since morning; there had been no opportunity in the
press of accumulated business. She felt a trifle faint, mostly from a
vague anxiety. She did not wish to call up the club; instinct forbade
it; but at a quarter to ten she went to the telephone, and learned that
Desboro had gone out between eight and nine. Then she asked for Cairns,
and found that he also had gone away.
Sick at heart she hung up the receiver, turned aimlessly into the room
again, and stood there, staring at the clock.
What had happened to her husband? What did it mean? Had she anything to
do with his strange conduct? In her deep trouble and perplexity--still
bewildered by the terrible hurt she had received--had her aloofness, her
sadness, impossible to disguise, wounded him so deeply that he had
already turned away from her?
She had meant only kindness to him--was seeking only her own
convalescence, desperately determined to love and to hold this man.
Hadn't he understood it? Could he not give her time to recover? How
could he expect more of her--a bride, confronted in the very first
hours of her wedded life by her husband's self-avowed mistress!
She stood, hesitating, clenching and unclenching her white and slender
hands, striving to think, succeeding only in enduring, until endurance
itself was rapidly becoming impossible.
Why was he hurting her so? Why? _Why?_ Yet, never once was her anger
aroused against this man. Somehow, he was not responsible. He was a man
as God made him--one in the endless universe of men--the _only_ one in
that limitless host existing for her. He was hers--the best of him and
the worst. And the worst was to be forgiven and protected, and the best
was to thank God for.
She knew fear--the anxious solicitude that mothers know, awaiting the
return of an errant child. She knew pain--the hurt dismay of a soul,
deep wounded by its fellow, feeling a fresher and newer wound with every
dragging second.
Her servant came, asking in an awed whisper whether her mistress would
not eat something.
Jacqueline's proud little head went up.
"Mr. Desboro has been detained unexpectedly. I will ring for you when he
comes."
But at midnight she rang, saying that she required nothing further, and
that the maid could retire after unhooking her gown.
Now, in her loosened chamber-robe, she sat before the dresser combing
out the thick, lustrous hair clustering in masses of gold around her
white face and shoulders.
She scarcely knew what she was about--knew not at all what she was
going to do with the rest of the night.
Her hair done, she lay back limply in her chintz armchair, haunted eyes
fixed on the clock; and, after staring became unendurable, she picked up
a book and opened it mechanically. It was Grenville, on Spanish Armour.
Suddenly she remembered sitting here before with this same volume on her
knees, the rain beating against the windows, a bright fire in the
grate--and Fate at her elbow, bending in the firelight beside her as one
by one she turned the illuminated pages, only to encounter under every
jeweled helmet Desboro's smiling eyes. And, as her fingers crisped on
the pages at the memory, it seemed to her at one moment that it had all
taken place many, many years ago; and, in the next moment, that it had
happened only yesterday.
How young she had been then--never having known sorrow except when her
father died. And that sorrow was different; there was nothing in it
hopeless or terrifying, believing, as she believed, in the soul's
survival; nothing to pain, wound, menace her, or to awake in depths
unsounded a hell of dreadful apprehension.
How young she had been when last she sat here with this well-worn volume
on her knees!
Nothing of love had she ever known, only the affection of a child for
her father. But--now she knew. The torture of every throbbing minute was
enlightening her.
Her hands, tightly clasped together, rested on the pages of the open
book; and she was staring at nothing when, without warning, the doorbell
rang.
She rose straight up and pressed her left hand to her side, pale lips
parted, listening; then she sprang to the door, opened it, pulled the
handle controlling the wire which lifted the street-door latch. Far
below in the darkness she heard the click, click, click of the latch,
the opening and closing of the door, steps across the hall on the
stairs, mounting nearer and nearer. And when she knew that it was he she
left the door open and returned to her armchair and lay back almost
stifled by the beating of her heart. But when the shaft of light across
the corridor fell on him and he stood on her threshold, her heart almost
stopped beating. His face was drawn and pinched and colourless; his eyes
were strange, his very presence seemed curiously unfamiliar--more so
still when he forced a smile and bent over her, lifting her limp fingers
to his lips.
"What has been the matter, Jim?" she tried to say, but her voice almost
broke.
He closed the door and stood looking around him for a moment. Then, with
a glance at her, and with just that shade of deference toward her which
he never lost, he seated himself.
"The matter is," he said quietly, "that I drank to excess at the club
and was not fit to keep my appointment with you."
"What!" she said faintly.
"That was it, Jacqueline. Cairns did his best for us both. But--I knew
it would be for the last time; I knew you would never again have to
endure such things from me."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I have said, Jacqueline. You won't have it to endure again.
But I had to have time to recover my senses and think it out. That is
why I didn't come before. So I let Cairns believe I was coming here."
"Where did you go?"
"To my rooms. I had to face it; I had to think it all over before I came
here. I would have telephoned you, but you could not have understood.
What time is it?"
"Two o'clock."
"I'm sorry. I won't keep you long----"
"What do you mean? Where are you going?"
"To my rooms, I suppose. I merely came here to tell you what is the only
thing for us to do. You know it already. I have just realised it."
"I don't understand what----"
"Oh, yes, you do, Jacqueline. You now have no illusions left concerning
me. Nor have I any left concerning what I am and what I have done.
Curious," he added very quietly, "that people had to tell me what I am
and what I have done to you before I could understand it."
"What have you--done--to me?"
"Married you. And within that very hour, almost, brought sorrow and
shame on you. Oh, the magic mirror has been held up to me to-day,
Jacqueline; and in it everything I have done to you since the moment I
first saw you has been reflected there in its real colours.
"I stepped across the straight, clean pathway of your life, telling
myself the lie that I had no intentions of any sort concerning you. And,
as time passed, however indefinite my motives, they became at least
vaguely sinister. You were aware of this; I pretended not to be. And at
last you--you saved me the infamy of self-revelation by speaking as you
did. You engaged yourself to marry me. And I let you. And, not daring to
let you stand the test which an announcement of our engagement would
surely mean, and fearing to lose you, dreading to see you turn against
me, I was cowardly enough to marry you as I did, and trust that love and
devotion would hold you."
He leaned forward in his chair and shook his head.
"No use," he said quietly. "Love and devotion never become a coward.
Both mean nothing unless based on honesty. And I was dishonest with you.
I should have told you I was afraid that what might be said to you about
me would alter you toward me. I should have told you that I dared not
stand the test. But all I said to you was that it was better for us to
marry as we did. And you trusted me."
Her pale, fascinated face never moved, nor did her eyes leave his for a
second. He sustained her gaze gravely, and with a drawn composure that
seemed akin to dignity.
"I came here to tell you this," he said, "to admit that I cheated you,
cheated the world out of you, robbed you of your independence under
false pretenses, married you as I did because I was afraid I'd lose you
otherwise. My justification was that I loved you--as though that could
excuse anything. Only could I be excused for marrying you if our
engagement had been openly announced and you had found it in you to
withstand and forgive whatever ill you heard of me. But I did not give
you that chance. I married you. And within that very hour you learned
something--whatever it was--that changed you utterly toward me, and is
threatening to ruin your happiness--to annihilate within you the very
joy of living."
He shook his head again, slowly.
"That won't do, Jacqueline. Happiness is as much your right as is life
itself. The world has a right to you, too; because you have lived nobly,
and your work has been for the betterment of things. Whoever knows you
honours you and loves you. It is such a woman as you who is of
importance in the world. Men and women are better for you. You are
needed. While I----"
He made a quick gesture; his lip trembled, but he smiled.
"So," he said, "I have thought it all out--there alone in my rooms
to-night. There will be no more trouble, no anxiety for you. I'll step
out of your life very quietly, Jacqueline, without any stir or fuss or
any inconvenience to you, more than waiting for my continued absence to
become flagrant and permanent enough to satisfy the legal requirements.
And in a little while you will have your liberty again; the liberty and,
very soon, the tranquillity of mind and the happiness out of which I
have managed to swindle you."
She had been seated motionless, leaning forward in her chair to listen.
After a few moments of silence which followed, the constraint of her
attitude suddenly weakened her, and she slowly sank back into the depths
of her big chair.
"And that," she said aloud to herself, "is what he has come here to tell
me."
"Yes, Jacqueline."
She turned her head toward him, her cheek resting flat against the
upholstered chintz back.
"One thing you have not told me, Jim."
"What is that?" he asked in a strained voice.
"How I am to live without you."
There was a silence. When his self-control seemed assured once more, he
said:
"Do you mean that the damage I have done is irreparable?"
"What you have done cannot be undone. You have made me--love you." Her
lip trembled in a pitiful attempt to smile. "Are you, after all, about
to send me forth 'between tall avenues of spears, to die?'"
"Do you still think you care for such a man as I am?" he said hoarsely.
She nodded:
"And if you leave me it will be the same, Jim. Wherever you are--living
alone or married to another woman--or whether you are living at all, or
dead, it will always be the same with me. Love is love. Nothing you say
now can alter it. Words--yours or the words of others--merely wound
_me_, and do not cripple my love for you. Nor can deeds do so. I know
that, now. They can slay only me, not my love, Jim--for I think, with
me, it is really and truly immortal."
His head dropped between his hands. She saw his body trembling at
moments. After a little while she rose, and, stepping to his side, bent
over him, letting her hand rest lightly on his hair.
"All I ask of you is to be patient," she whispered. "And you don't
understand--you don't seem to understand me, dear. I am learning very
fast--much faster and more thoroughly than I believed possible. Cynthia
was here this evening. She helped me so much. She taught me a great
deal--a very great deal. And your goodness--your unselfishness in coming
to me this way--with your boyish amends, your unconsidered and impulsive
offers of restitution--restitution of single blessedness----" She
smiled; and, deep within her breast, a faint thrill stirred her like a
far premonition.
Timidly, scarcely daring, she ventured by degrees to encircle his head
with her arm, letting her cool fingers rest over the tense, and feverish
hands that covered his face.
"What a boy is this grown man!" she whispered. "What a foolish,
emotional, impulsive boy! And such an unhappy one; and _such_ a tired
one!"
And, once more hesitating, and with infinite precaution, lest he become
suddenly too conscious of this new and shy demonstration, she ventured
to seat herself on the arm of his chair and bend closer to him.
"You must go back to your rooms, dear," she murmured. "It is morning,
and we both are in need of sleep, I think. So you must say good-night to
me and go back to--to pleasant dreams. And to-morrow we will go to
Silverwood for over Sunday. Two whole days together, dear----"
Her soft cheek rested against his; her voice died out. Slowly, guided by
the most delicate pressure, his head moved toward her shoulder,
resisted, fell forward on her breast. For one instant's ecstasy she drew
his face against her, tightly, almost fearfully, then sprang to her
feet, breathless, blushing from throat to brow, and stepped back.
He was on his feet, too, flushed, dazed, moving toward her.
She stretched out both hands swiftly.
"Good-night, dearest--dearest of men. You have made me happy again. You
are making me happier every moment. Only--be patient with me. And it
will all come true--what we have dreamed."
Her fragrant hands were crushed against his lips, and her heart was
beating faster and faster, and she was saying she scarcely knew what.
"All will be well with us. _I_ no longer doubt it. _You_ must not. I--I
_am_ the girl you desire. I will be, always--always. Only be gentle and
patient with me--only that--only that."
"How can I take you this way--and keep you--after what I have done?" he
stammered. "How can I let your generosity and mercy rob you of what is
your due----"
"Love is my due, I think. But only you can give it. And if you withhold
it, Jim, I am robbed indeed."
"Your pity--your sweetness----"
"My pity is for myself if you prove unkind."
"I? Unkind! Good God----"
"Oh! He _is_ good, Jim! And He will be. Never doubt it again. And lie
down to pleasant dreams. Will you come for me to-morrow at five?"
"Yes."
"And never again distrust yourself or me?"
He drew a deep, unsteady breath.
"Good-night," she whispered.