The Dominant Dollar Part 20

"No. It's I who have changed, have grown away from you."

"Since when? Let's have it all. Let's understand everything. Since when?"

"I don't know when, can't set a date. I merely know."

"That--that you don't care for me any more?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Steve!" The girl was on her feet. "I never dreamed, never--You poor boy!" (_Page 153_)]

A halt, a long, long halt.

"Yes, Elice," said a voice at last. "I've found out that I don't care for you any more."

As before, the girl said nothing, never stirred.

"I shan't try to defend myself, try to explain," stumbled on the man. "I couldn't if I would. The thing has simply come about--I wish to ask you to release me."

"Steve!" Of a sudden the girl was on her feet, the forced composure of a moment ago in tatters, the tiny hands locked tight. "I can't believe it, can't credit it. I love you, Steve, in spite of all you've told me; more, because you need me more now." The locked fingers opened. She came a step forward in mute appeal. "Tell me that you don't mean it, that you're merely acting, that, that--" As suddenly she halted. Her face hidden in her hands, she dropped back into the seat. "Forget, please," she halted, "that I did that. I didn't mean to. I--I--forget it."

"Elice--dear!" Aroused beyond his purpose, his determination, the man sprang from his seat, his eyes ablaze, glorious. "Elice--"

"No, not pity! Never, a thousand times no! Leave me alone a minute. I release you, yes, yes; but don't come near me now. I'm hysterical and irresponsible. Don't, please!"

Precisely where he stood Armstrong paused, looking down. After that first involuntary sound he had not spoken or come closer. He merely remained there, waiting, looking; and as he did so, though the room was far from close, drops of sweat gathered on his forehead and beneath his eyes. With a restless hand he brushed them away and sat down. Another minute pa.s.sed, two perhaps; then suddenly, interrupting, incongruous, there sounded the strained rasp of his laugh.

"Elice," followed a voice, "aren't you through--nearly?" Again the laugh; grating, unmirthful. "I've done this sort of thing identically in novels several times, done it realistically, I thought; but it never took this long by minutes. Aren't you almost through?"

Surprised out of herself the girl looked up, incredulous.

"Something must be wrong, art or reality, one or the other. I--I wonder--which was wrong, Elice?"

As suddenly as the mood of abandon had come it pa.s.sed; incredulity, its successor, as well. In the s.p.a.ce of seconds the miracle was wrought, and another woman absolutely sat there looking forth from the brown eyes of Elice Gleason.

"Steve! I thought I was ready for anything after what you just told me, what you just asked. But this deliberate--insult.... Did you mean it, Steve, really; or are you merely acting?... Don't look away; this means the world to you and me, and I want to be sure, now.... Did you mean it, Steve, the way you did it, deliberately? Tell me."

"Mean it? Certainly. It's important, what I asked, from an artist's point of view. Either I was wrong or else reality is--overdone.... Repression's the word, all critics agree, repression invariably."

"Steve Armstrong! Stop! I won't stand it. Listen. It's unbelievable, but I must take you at your word--your own word. Do you mean exactly what you've said, and done?"

Again the moisture sprang to Armstrong's face, but this time there was no attempt at procrastination.

"Yes, Elice," he said, and looked her fair.

"Yes? Think. This is final."

"Yes."

An instant the look held; the brown eyes dropped.

"I repeat, then, you are released, free." She sat very still. "Is there anything else you wish to say?"

"Perhaps. I don't know.... You mean, if I have I'm to say it now. I can't come again.... You're not going to forgive me?"

"Forgive? Certainly, if there is anything to forgive. I had no thought otherwise."

"I'm not to come again, though. You mean that?"

"I fail to see the object.... To use an expression of your own, it's desecration to disturb the corpse."

"Even if--"

"Let's not argue about nothing. I'm not cursed with nerves ordinarily, but there are times--" She arose slowly, stood there beside her chair, gracefully slender, gracefully imperious. "You've chosen deliberately, you know."

"Yes, I know." Armstrong too had arisen in his dismissal, involuntarily obedient. "But you said, before I told you, before you understood, that afterward, perhaps--You remember you said that?"

"Yes; I remember. Things are changed now, though. What I had in mind you've answered yourself.... One thing I would like to ask, however, one thing that I hope you will answer truly, no matter whether it hurts me or not. It's this: Was I to blame in any way whatever, by word or act or suggestion, for your losing your place in the University? Will you answer me that--and truly?"

From the chair where he had thrown it down Armstrong took up the long ulster and b.u.t.toned it mechanically to his throat.

"No, Elice," he repeated; "you're not at fault in any way, by word or act or suggestion. There's no one at fault except myself."

"Thank you. I would always have feared, if I hadn't asked, that somehow unintentionally--" She was silent.

Armstrong hesitated, waiting until there was no longer hope.

"You have nothing else you wish to say, then?" he asked at last.

"Nothing; unless it is this, that you know already: I shall always believe in you, Steve, always."

"Believe in me!" The shade of the old ironic smile did duty. "You think I shall still become wealthy and famous?"

"Perhaps not," swiftly. "I never demanded either qualification of you.

Why should I lie now? Both are right and desirable in their place, provided they come normally; but their place is second, not first. You know what I mean. I believe that you will always be clean and fair and likeable--always."

Involuntarily the man turned away, until his face was hidden.

"You believe this, and still--you don't give advice or--or warning?"

"I repeat, I believe in you. Even if it weren't an insult advice would not be necessary."

A last second they stood there, so near, so very near together and still so infinitely far apart. Dully, almost ploddingly, the man turned to leave.

"Thank you, Elice," he said. "That's probably the last kind word I'll hear for a long time. Perhaps, too, it's justified, perhaps--who knows?

Good-night and--good-bye."

The girl did not follow him, did not move.

"Good-bye, Steve," she echoed.