CHAPTER XVIII
Desboro passed a miserable afternoon at the office. If there had beenany business to take his mind off himself it might have been easier forhim; but for a long time now there had been nothing stirring in WallStreet; the public kept away; business was dead.
After hours he went to the club, feeling physically wretched. Man afterman came up and congratulated him on his marriage--some whom he knewscarcely more intimately than to bow to, spoke to him. He was a verygreat 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 theclock. For at five he was to meet Jacqueline.
Toward five his demeanour had altered to that gravely urbane and toocourteous manner indicative of excess; and his flushed face had becomewhite and tense.
Cairns found him in the card room at six, saw at a glance how mattersstood with him, and drew him into a corner of the window with scantceremony.
"What's the matter with you?" he said sharply. "You told me that youwere 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 seriousproblem confronts us, John. Having located a clock with a certain amountof accuracy, what is the next step to take in finding out the exacttime?"
"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. Atpresent I am perfectly cognisant of contemporary events now passing inmy immediate vicinity----"
"Where were you to meet your wife?"
"At the depository of her multitudinous and intricate affairs ofbusiness--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 tomassage the edge off you. I'm going to speak to your wife."
So Desboro sauntered off toward the elevator and Cairns called upJacqueline's office.
It appeared that Jacqueline had left. Should they switch him on to herprivate apartments above?
In a moment his call was answered.
"Is this Mrs. Desboro?" he asked. And at the same instant recognisedCynthia Lessler's voice.
She returned his greeting briefly.
"Jacqueline thought that perhaps she had misunderstood Mr. Desboro, soshe 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 wifeand 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 fromthe cloak room.
The starter had a taxi ready. Except for the usual block on FifthAvenue, they would have made it in four minutes. It took them ten.
Cynthia met him on the landing and silently ushered him intoJacqueline's pretty little parlour. She still wore her hat and coat; afur boa lay on a sofa.
"'Now,' she said, leaning forward ... 'what is themeaning 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 tosee 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 clevermaneuvering were terrible to me--heart-breaking. She is dreadfullyunhappy. 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'tyou?"
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 itdoes he ever do that. And he's perfectly mad about his wife. Don't makeany mistake there; he's dead in love with her--crazy about her. But--hecame into the office about one to-day, looking like the deuce--sochanged, so white, so 'all in,' that I thought he had the grippe orsomething."
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'tbear 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'sa--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 wishshe had never seen him, never heard of him! He is a thousand, thousandmiles 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 toa girl like Jacqueline! Of what use is that sort of man anyway! I knowthem," she said bitterly, "I've had my lesson in that school. One andall, young and old, rich or poor--_comparatively_ poor--they are thesame. The same ideas haunt their idle and selfish minds, the samemotives move them, the same impulses rule them, and they reason withtheir emotions, not with their brains. Arrogant, insolent,condescending, self-centred, self-indulgent, and utterly predatory! Thatis the type! And they _belong_ where people prey upon one another, notamong the clean and sweet and innocent. They belong where there is noquestion of marriage or of home or of duty; they belong where lights aremany and brilliant, where there is money, and plenty of it! Where thereis 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_!" Herlip quivered and she choked back the tears.
"And--and now--such a man has taken my little friend--my littlegirl--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 sographically describing?"
She did not answer.
"Am I not included?"
She shook her head slightly.
"Why not? If your descript
ion fits Jim Desboro and Reggie Ledyard, andthat 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, shehad made excuses for all that he should have been and was not. It wasnot a matter for discussion; she and her heart had settled it betweenthem without calling in Logic as umpire, and without recourse to Reasonfor an opinion.
"The worst of it is," he said, rising and picking up his hat, "some ofyour 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 likeother 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 werefriends."
"_Real_ friends. I know it now. Because the world is full of the otherkind. 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 asleepat 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-timestair-well until she heard the lower door clang. Then, grieved andangry, she seated herself and nervously awaited Jacqueline'sreappearance.
The girl returned ten minutes later, pale and plainly worried, butcarrying it off lightly enough.
"Cynthia!" she exclaimed, smilingly. "_Where_ do you suppose thathusband 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 couldhave happened to him--any accident--because the motor drivers are soreckless----"
"You darling thing!" laughed Cynthia. "Your young man is perfectlysafe----"
"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 hisoffice, feeling a bit under the weather----"
"Is he _ill_?"
"No, no! He was merely tired, I believe. And he stretched out and fellasleep 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 husbandtelephone? Cynthia--look at me!"
Cynthia met her eye undaunted.
"Why," repeated Jacqueline, "didn't my husband telephone to me? Is hetoo ill? Is _that_ it? Are you concealing it? _Are_ you, Cynthia?"
Cynthia smiled: "He's a casual young man, darling. I believe he's takinga cold plunge or something. He'll probably be here in a few minutes. SoI'll say good-night." She picked up her fur neckpiece, glanced at themirror, fluffed a curl or two, and turned to Jacqueline. "Don't spoilhim, ducky," she whispered, putting her hands on the young wife'sshoulders 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 besidegiving 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 shespoils him sometimes; when she doesn't she sometimes spoils him. It'shard 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 tolearn," murmured Cynthia. "But--the main thing--the important thing, isto love him, I think. And I suppose we have to take our chances ofspoiling 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? Whatexperience has she? What does she know? Ah, we _don't_ know. There liesthe trouble. By instinct, disposition, natural reticence, and training,we are disposed to offer too little, perhaps; But often, in fear thatour 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 thestronger character. Perhaps he needs more than you give."
"What!"
"I--I think that perhaps he is not the kind of man to be spoiled bygiving. And--it is possible to starve some men by the well-meantkindness of reserve."
"All women--modest women--are reserved."
"Is a mother's reserve praiseworthy when her child comes to her forintimate companionship--for tenderness perhaps--and puts its little armsaround 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 beexquisitely 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 aremerely atoms in the molecule--a tiny fragment of perfection. To be tooconscious of them makes them too important; to accept them with therest 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 Idon't go to parties any more; I try to educate myself. There arecultivated people in the company. They have been very kind to me. And mycarelessness in English--my lack of polish--these were not inherited. Myfather was an educated man, if he was nothing else. You know that. Yourfather 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 herhead.
"No self-deception can aid us to lie down to pleasant dreams,Jacqueline. And the most terrible of all deceptions isself-righteousness. Let me know myself, and I can help myself. And Iknow now how it would be with me if the happiness of marriage ever cameto me. I would give--give everything good in me, everythingneeded--strip myself of my best! Because, dear, we always have more togive 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 indeep 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 wentto the window. The street lamps were shining over pavements andsidewalks deserted. Very far in the west she could catch the low roarof Broadway, endless, accentless, monotonous, interrupted only by thewhiz of motors on Fifth Avenue. Now and then a wayfarer passed throughthe silent street below; rarely a taxicab; but neither wayfarer norvehicle stopped at her door.
She did not realise how long she had been standing there, when frombehind the mantel clock startled her again, ringing out nine. She cameback into the centre of the room, and, hands clasped, stared at thedial.
r /> She had not eaten since morning; there had been no opportunity in thepress of accumulated business. She felt a trifle faint, mostly from avague anxiety. She did not wish to call up the club; instinct forbadeit; but at a quarter to ten she went to the telephone, and learned thatDesboro 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 roomagain, and stood there, staring at the clock.
What had happened to her husband? What did it mean? Had she anything todo with his strange conduct? In her deep trouble and perplexity--stillbewildered by the terrible hurt she had received--had her aloofness, hersadness, impossible to disguise, wounded him so deeply that he hadalready turned away from her?
She had meant only kindness to him--was seeking only her ownconvalescence, desperately determined to love and to hold this man.Hadn't he understood it? Could he not give her time to recover? Howcould he expect more of her--a bride, confronted in the very firsthours of her wedded life by her husband's self-avowed mistress!
She stood, hesitating, clenching and unclenching her white and slenderhands, striving to think, succeeding only in enduring, until enduranceitself was rapidly becoming impossible.
Why was he hurting her so? Why? _Why?_ Yet, never once was her angeraroused against this man. Somehow, he was not responsible. He was a manas God made him--one in the endless universe of men--the _only_ one inthat limitless host existing for her. He was hers--the best of him andthe worst. And the worst was to be forgiven and protected, and the bestwas to thank God for.
She knew fear--the anxious solicitude that mothers know, awaiting thereturn 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 everydragging second.
Her servant came, asking in an awed whisper whether her mistress wouldnot eat something.
Jacqueline's proud little head went up.
"Mr. Desboro has been detained unexpectedly. I will ring for you when hecomes."
But at midnight she rang, saying that she required nothing further, andthat the maid could retire after unhooking her gown.
Now, in her loosened chamber-robe, she sat before the dresser combingout the thick, lustrous hair clustering in masses of gold around herwhite face and shoulders.
She scarcely knew what she was about--knew not at all what she wasgoing to do with the rest of the night.
Her hair done, she lay back limply in her chintz armchair, haunted eyesfixed on the clock; and, after staring became unendurable, she picked upa book and opened it mechanically. It was Grenville, on Spanish Armour.Suddenly she remembered sitting here before with this same volume on herknees, the rain beating against the windows, a bright fire in thegrate--and Fate at her elbow, bending in the firelight beside her as oneby one she turned the illuminated pages, only to encounter under everyjeweled helmet Desboro's smiling eyes. And, as her fingers crisped onthe pages at the memory, it seemed to her at one moment that it had alltaken place many, many years ago; and, in the next moment, that it hadhappened only yesterday.
How young she had been then--never having known sorrow except when herfather died. And that sorrow was different; there was nothing in ithopeless or terrifying, believing, as she believed, in the soul'ssurvival; nothing to pain, wound, menace her, or to awake in depthsunsounded a hell of dreadful apprehension.
How young she had been when last she sat here with this well-worn volumeon her knees!
Nothing of love had she ever known, only the affection of a child forher father. But--now she knew. The torture of every throbbing minute wasenlightening her.
Her hands, tightly clasped together, rested on the pages of the openbook; and she was staring at nothing when, without warning, the doorbellrang.
She rose straight up and pressed her left hand to her side, pale lipsparted, listening; then she sprang to the door, opened it, pulled thehandle controlling the wire which lifted the street-door latch. Farbelow in the darkness she heard the click, click, click of the latch,the opening and closing of the door, steps across the hall on thestairs, mounting nearer and nearer. And when she knew that it was he sheleft the door open and returned to her armchair and lay back almoststifled by the beating of her heart. But when the shaft of light acrossthe corridor fell on him and he stood on her threshold, her heart almoststopped beating. His face was drawn and pinched and colourless; his eyeswere strange, his very presence seemed curiously unfamiliar--more sostill when he forced a smile and bent over her, lifting her limp fingersto his lips.
"What has been the matter, Jim?" she tried to say, but her voice almostbroke.
He closed the door and stood looking around him for a moment. Then, witha glance at her, and with just that shade of deference toward her whichhe never lost, he seated himself.
"The matter is," he said quietly, "that I drank to excess at the cluband 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 knewit would be for the last time; I knew you would never again have toendure 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 iswhy 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 camehere. 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 onlything 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 concerningme. 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 amand 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 andshame 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 Ifirst saw you has been reflected there in its real colours.
"I stepped across the straight, clean pathway of your life, tellingmyself the lie that I had no intentions of any sort concerning you. And,as time passed, however indefinite my motives, they became at leastvaguely sinister. You were aware of this; I pretended not to be. And atlast you--you saved me the infamy of self-revelation by speaking as youdid. You engaged yourself to marry me. And I let you. And, not daring tolet you stand the test which an announcement of our engagement wouldsurely mean, and fearing to lose you, dreading to see you turn againstme, I was cowardly enough to marry you as I did, and trust that love anddevotion 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 aboutme would alter you toward me. I should have told you that I dared notstand the test. But all I said to you was that it was better for us tomarry as we did. And you trusted me."
Her pale, fascinated face never moved, nor did her eyes leave his for asecond. He sustained her gaze gravely, and with a drawn composure thatseemed 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 underfalse pretenses, married you as I did because I was afraid I'd lose youotherwise. My justification was that I loved you--as though that couldexcuse anything. Only could I be excused for marrying you if ourengagement had been openly announced
and you had found it in you towithstand and forgive whatever ill you heard of me. But I did not giveyou that chance. I married you. And within that very hour you learnedsomething--whatever it was--that changed you utterly toward me, and isthreatening to ruin your happiness--to annihilate within you the veryjoy of living."
He shook his head again, slowly.
"That won't do, Jacqueline. Happiness is as much your right as is lifeitself. 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 youhonours you and loves you. It is such a woman as you who is ofimportance in the world. Men and women are better for you. You areneeded. 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 roomsto-night. There will be no more trouble, no anxiety for you. I'll stepout of your life very quietly, Jacqueline, without any stir or fuss orany inconvenience to you, more than waiting for my continued absence tobecome 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 Ihave 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 herattitude suddenly weakened her, and she slowly sank back into the depthsof her big chair.
"And that," she said aloud to herself, "is what he has come here to tellme."
"Yes, Jacqueline."
She turned her head toward him, her cheek resting flat against theupholstered 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, hesaid:
"Do you mean that the damage I have done is irreparable?"
"What you have done cannot be undone. You have made me--love you." Herlip trembled in a pitiful attempt to smile. "Are you, after all, aboutto 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--livingalone or married to another woman--or whether you are living at all, ordead, it will always be the same with me. Love is love. Nothing you saynow 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 knowthat, now. They can slay only me, not my love, Jim--for I think, withme, it is really and truly immortal."
His head dropped between his hands. She saw his body trembling atmoments. After a little while she rose, and, stepping to his side, bentover him, letting her hand rest lightly on his hair.
"All I ask of you is to be patient," she whispered. "And you don'tunderstand--you don't seem to understand me, dear. I am learning veryfast--much faster and more thoroughly than I believed possible. Cynthiawas here this evening. She helped me so much. She taught me a greatdeal--a very great deal. And your goodness--your unselfishness in comingto me this way--with your boyish amends, your unconsidered and impulsiveoffers of restitution--restitution of single blessedness----" Shesmiled; and, deep within her breast, a faint thrill stirred her like afar premonition.
Timidly, scarcely daring, she ventured by degrees to encircle his headwith her arm, letting her cool fingers rest over the tense, and feverishhands 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 tiredone!"
And, once more hesitating, and with infinite precaution, lest he becomesuddenly too conscious of this new and shy demonstration, she venturedto 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 tome and go back to--to pleasant dreams. And to-morrow we will go toSilverwood for over Sunday. Two whole days together, dear----"
Her soft cheek rested against his; her voice died out. Slowly, guided bythe most delicate pressure, his head moved toward her shoulder,resisted, fell forward on her breast. For one instant's ecstasy she drewhis face against her, tightly, almost fearfully, then sprang to herfeet, 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. Youare making me happier every moment. Only--be patient with me. And itwill all come true--what we have dreamed."
Her fragrant hands were crushed against his lips, and her heart wasbeating 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 andpatient with me--only that--only that."
"How can I take you this way--and keep you--after what I have done?" hestammered. "How can I let your generosity and mercy rob you of what isyour due----"
"Love is my due, I think. But only you can give it. And if you withholdit, 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 liedown 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.