He stammered. She looked up at him with wide eyes, and her lips were
slightly parted. He went on mumbling--
". . . Pain. . . . Indignation. . . . Sure to
misunderstand. I've
suffered enough. And if there has been nothing irreparable--as you
assure me . . . then . . ."
"Alvan!" she cried.
"What?" he said, morosely. He gazed down at her for a moment with a
sombre stare, as one looks at ruins, at the devastation of some
natural disaster.
"Then," he continued after a short pause, "the best thing is . . . the
best for us . . . for every one. . . . Yes . . . least pain--most
unselfish. . . ." His voice faltered, and she heard only detached
words. ". . . Duty. . . . Burden. . . . Ourselves. . . . Silence."
A moment of perfect
stillness ensued.
"This is an
appeal I am making to your
conscience," he said, suddenly,
in an explanatory tone, "not to add to the wretchedness of all this:
to try loyally and help me to live it down somehow. Without any
reservations--you know. Loyally! You can't deny I've been cruelly
wronged and--after all--my
affection deserves . . ." He paused with
evident
anxiety to hear her speak.
"I make no reservations," she said, mournfully. "How could I? I found
myself out and came back to . . ." her eyes flashed scornfully for an
instant ". . . to what--to what you propose. You see . . . I . . . I
can be trusted . . . now."
He listened to every word with
profound attention, and when she ceased
seemed to wait for more.
"Is that all you've got to say?" he asked.
She was startled by his tone, and said
faintly--
"I spoke the truth. What more can I say?"
"Confound it! You might say something human," he burst out. "It isn't
being
truthful; it's being brazen--if you want to know. Not a word to
show you feel your position, and--and mine. Not a single word of
acknowledgment, or regret--or
remorse . . . or . . . something."
"Words!" she whispered in a tone that irritated him. He stamped his
foot.
"This is awful!" he exclaimed. "Words? Yes, words. Words mean
something--yes--they do--for all this
infernal affectation. They mean
something to me--to everybody--to you. What the devil did you use to
express those sentiments--sentiments--pah!--which made you forget me,
duty, shame!" . . . He foamed at the mouth while she stared at him,
appalled by this sudden fury. "Did you two talk only with your eyes?"
he spluttered
savagely. She rose.
"I can't bear this," she said, trembling from head to foot. "I am
going."
They stood facing one another for a moment.
"Not you," he said, with
conscious roughness, and began to walk up and
down the room. She remained very still with an air of listening
anxiously to her own heart-beats, then sank down on the chair slowly,
and sighed, as if giving up a task beyond her strength.
"You
misunderstand everything I say," he began quietly, "but I prefer
to think that--just now--you are not accountable for your actions." He
stopped again before her. "Your mind is unhinged," he said, with
unction. "To go now would be adding crime--yes, crime--to folly. I'll
have no
scandal in my life, no matter what's the cost. And why? You
are sure to
misunderstand me--but I'll tell you. As a matter of duty.
Yes. But you're sure to
misunderstand me--recklessly. Women always
do--they are too--too narrow-minded."
He waited for a while, but she made no sound, didn't even look at him;
he felt
uneasy,
painfullyuneasy, like a man who suspects he is
unreasonably mistrusted. To
combat that exasperating
sensation he
recommenced talking very fast. The sound of his words excited his
thoughts, and in the play of darting thoughts he had glimpses now and
then of the inexpugnable rock of his convictions,
towering in
solitary
grandeur above the
unprofitable waste of errors and passions.
"For it is self-evident," he went on with
anxious vivacity, "it is
self-evident that, on the highest ground we haven't the right--no, we
haven't the right to
intrude our miseries upon those who--who
naturally expect better things from us. Every one wishes his own life
and the life around him to be beautiful and pure. Now, a
scandal