The High Heart Part 68

I could hardly reply, my heart pounded with such fright.

"To--to New York, sir."

"What for?"

"Be-because," I faltered. "I want to--to get away."

"Why do you want to get away?"

"For--for every reason."

"But suppose I don't want you to go?"

"I should still have to be gone."

He said in a hoa.r.s.e whisper:

"I want you to stay--and--and marry Hugh."

I clasped my hands.

"Oh, but how can I?"

"He's willing to forget what you've said--what my daughter Ethel has said; and I'm willing to forget it, too."

"Do you mean as to my being in love with some one else? But I am."

"Not more than you were at the beginning of the evening. You were willing to marry him then."

"But he didn't know then what he's had to learn since. I hoped to have kept it from him always. I may have been wrong--I suppose I was; but I had nothing but good motives."

There was a strange drop in his voice as he said, "I know you hadn't."

I couldn't help taking a step nearer him.

"Oh, do you? Then I'm so glad. I thought--"

He turned slightly away from me, toward a huge ugly fish in a gla.s.s case, which Mr. Rossiter believed to be a proof of his sportsmans.h.i.+p and an ornament to the hall.

"I've had great trials," he said, after a pause--"great trials!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I'VE HAD GREAT TRIALS . . . I'VE ALWAYS BEEN MISJUDGED.

. . . THEY'VE PUT ME DOWN AS HARD AND PROUD"]

"I know," I agreed, softly.

He walked toward the fish and seemed to be studying it.

"They've--they've--broken me down."

"Oh, don't say that, sir!"

"It's true." His finger outlined the fish's skeleton from head to tail.

"The things I said to-night--" He seemed hung up there. He traced the fish's skeleton back from tail to head. "Have we been unkind to you?" he demanded, suddenly, wheeling round in my direction.

I thought it best to speak quite truthfully.

"Not unkind, sir--exactly."

"But what did Ethel mean? She said we'd been brutes to you. Is that true?"

"No, sir; not in my sense. I haven't felt it."

He tapped his foot with the old imperiousness. "Then--what?"

We were so near the fundamentals that again I felt I ought to give him nothing but the facts.

"I suppose Mrs. Rossiter meant that sometimes I should have been glad of a little more sympathy, and always of more--courtesy." I added: "From you, sir, I shouldn't have asked for more than courtesy."

Though only his profile was toward me and the hall was dim, I could see that his face was twitching. "And--and didn't you get it?"

"Do you think I did?"

"I never thought anything about it."

"Exactly; but any one in my position does. Even if we could do without courtesy between equals--and I don't think we can--from the higher to the lower--from you to me, for instance--it's indispensable. I don't remember that I ever complained of it, however. Mrs. Rossiter must have seen it for herself."

"I didn't want you to marry Hugh," he began, again, after a long pause; "but I'd given in about it. I shouldn't have minded it so much if--if my wife--"

He broke off with a distressful, choking sound in the throat, and a twisting of the head, as if he couldn't get his breath. That pa.s.sed and he began once more.

"I've had great trials. . . . My wife! . . . And then the burden of this war. . . . They think--they think I don't care anything about it but--but just to make money. . . . I've always been misjudged. . . .

They've put me down as hard and proud, when--"

"I could have liked you, sir," I interrupted, boldly. "I told you so once, and it offended you. But I've never been able to help it. I've always felt that there was something big and fine in you--if you'd only set it free."

His reply to this was to turn away from his contemplation of the fish and say:

"Why don't you come back?"

I was sure it was best to be firm.

"Because I can't, sir. The episode is--is over. I'm sorry, and yet I'm glad. What I'm doing is right. I suppose everything has been right--even what happened between me and Hugh. I don't think it will do him any harm--Cissie Boscobel is there--and it's done me good. It's been a wonderful experience; but it's over. It would be a mistake for me to go back now--a mistake for all of us. Please let me go, sir; and just remember of me that I'm--I'm--grateful."

He regarded me quietly and--if I may say so--curiously. There was something in his look, something broken, something defeated, something, at long last, kind, that made me want to cry.

I was crying inwardly when he turned about, without another word, and walked toward the door.

It must have been the impulse to say a silent good-by to him that sent me slowly down the hall, though I was scarcely aware of moving. He had gone out into the dark and I was under the Oriental lamp, when he suddenly reappeared, coming in my direction rapidly. I would have leaped back if I hadn't refused to show fear. As it was, I stood still. I was only conscious of an overwhelming pity, terror, and amazement as he seized me and kissed me hotly on the brow. Then he was gone.