She had left them without a word, and Trennahan did not see her untilthe following evening, when she sent for him.
She received him in the room at the end of the hall, where they weresure not to be interrupted. As he entered he averted his face hastily,and cursed himself for a scoundrel. But he went straight to the point.
"I have made you suffer," he said, "and as only you can suffer. I haveno excuse to offer except my own weakness. Do you remember that I askedyou once if you thought you could love me did you come to understand allthe weakness of my nature, and that you replied you could? Will youforgive me this display of it? I have no desire--no intention ofmarrying any other woman."
"I have not doubted your honour. But I shall not marry you. I do notwant you without your love. I see now that I never had it."
"You did, and you have it still. It is impossible for a man to explainhimself to a woman. Will you let me decide for both? I am going away fora time. When I return I want you to marry me."
She shook her head. "There would be three people miserable instead ofone. If I had not gone there yesterday, perhaps I should never haveknown: I simply made up my mind after that night at Monterey that Iwould think no more about it. By and by you might have got over it andwe might have been happy in a way--I don't know. It is not your faultthat I found out. And I went to the Library by the merest chanceyesterday. It seems like fate, and I shall recognise it. If Helena didnot love you, it would be different; but I had a terrible scene with herlast night. I never thought even she could feel so. For the time I feltmuch sorrier for her than for myself--I felt rather dull, for thatmatter. After she went I thought all night. It was a terrible night."She stopped and shivered.
He took her hand, but she withdrew it. "I thought of everything. Youknow I once told you that my only religion was to do what I believed tobe right. If love means anything, it means that one should make theother person happy, not oneself. I thought and thought. You two weremore to me than any people living. I have not ever really loved anyoneelse, except my aunt, and her not half so much as Helena. Therefore mylove would not be worth much if I did not consider you two beforemyself. If Helena did not love you, it would be different. I would tryto forget that she had fascinated you, and I should see no reason why Ishould not marry you if you still wished me to. But she loves you. Inever expected to see such tragedy. But even if I did not believe shewould make you happy, I would not give you to her, for I vowed to livefor that--long before the night at Tiny's--in the garden. But Helenacould make any man happy. She has everything."
She paused again. He made no reply for a moment. He was staring at thecarpet, at a hideous green-and-yellow dragon. The comedy which cutsevery black cloud in thin staccato blades was suggesting that he hadsomething to be grateful for, inasmuch as the scene with Helena had beenspared himself.
"You are far more suited to me than she is," he said finally. "I am tooold for her. I am not for you. If we have souls, yours and mine weremade for each other. Years have nothing to do with us. They would meaneverything between Helena and myself."
She leaned forward and fixed her eyes on his, compelling his gaze.
"If you had never met me, would you not be engaged to Helena by thistime?"
"Doubtless, but that proves nothing."
"Will you give me your word of honour that you do not wish you werefree, that you would not gladly marry her now?"
He drew a long breath. He felt like a prisoner on the witness standdriven to save himself by incrimination of another. But he was in thatstate of mind when only the truth is possible.
"I will put it in another way. Do you want anything in the world as muchas Helena?"
"No," he said; "I do not."
She got up and walked to the window, and drew aside the curtains. Thesky was brilliant with moon and stars; the bay and hills lovely with themystery of night. California had never been more unsympatheticallybeautiful. She jerked the curtains together and went back to him. As shedid not sit down, he rose.
"That is all," she said, "except that you must let me explain to myfather."
"And let you bear the whole brunt of it. Not if I know myself."
"You must. I understand him, and you do not. Besides, if he knew thatyou and Helena had anything to do with the breaking of the engagement hewould never let me speak to either of you again, and I have no otherfriends. I shall tell him that I no longer wish to marry you, and hecannot compel me to give reasons. If he speaks to you about it, you musttell him that you will marry no woman against her will, and let him seethat you mean it."
"Magdalena, you are a grand woman."
"I am a very dull and stupid person who has made up her mind that theonly chance of making life bearable is to do what is right. I amterribly commonplace. I wonder you stood me as long as you did."
"You are the reverse of stupid and commonplace; and I am by no meanssure that you are doing right. I, too, have thought over this matter,for nearly as many days as you have hours. I have tried to get outsidemyself, to view the case quite dispassionately; and I honestly believethat--as you insist upon putting me before yourself--it would be betterfor me to marry you than Helena."
"I do not believe it. Nor could I marry you after what you justacknowledged. I have never had much pride with you, but I have thatmuch. Marry you when you said that you wanted nothing so much in theworld as to marry Helena Belmont? That was the end of everything."
He left the room and the house. Magdalena went up the stair slowly,assisting herself with the banister. Her limbs felt as if their muscleshad fallen to dust. Her heart seemed to have taken it outside of herselfaltogether; there was no sensation where sensation was supposed to sit,unless it were that of vacancy. Her brain was not confused; she did notfeel in the least as if she were going to be ill. She knew what she haddone, what she had to do in the future; and she wished that her heavylimbs were as dead as that something within her for which she had noname.