Part 49 (1/2)

”Certainly.” Van went to the front and waited at the foot of the stairs.

When Beth came down he was standing in the doorway, looking off at the shadowy hills. He heard her steps upon the stairs and turned, removing his hat.

For a moment Beth faced him silently, her color coming and going in rapid alternations. She had never seemed more beautiful than now, in her mood of worry and courage.

”Thank you for waiting,” she said to him faintly, her heart beating wildly in her bosom, ”I felt as if I had the right--felt it only right--won't you please tell me what I have done?”

It was not an easy matter for Van to hold his own, to check an impulse utterly incontinent, utterly weak, that urged him fairly to the edge of surrender. But his nature was one of intensity, and inasmuch as he had loved intensely, he distrusted now with equal force.

”What you have done?” he repeated. ”I'm sure I can't tell you of anything that you do not know yourself. What do you wish me to say?”

”I don't know! I don't know,” she told him honestly. ”I thought if I asked you--asked you like this--you'd tell me what is the matter.”

”There's nothing the matter.”

”But there is!” she said. ”Why not be frank? I know that you're in trouble. Perhaps you blame----”

”I told you once that taking trouble and having trouble supply all the fun I have,” he interrupted. ”The man without trouble became extinct before he was born.”

”Oh, please don't jest,” she begged him earnestly. ”You and I were friends--I'm sure we were friends--but now----”

”Now, if we are not, do you think the fault is mine?”

He, too, was white, for the struggle was great in his soul.

”It isn't mine!” she said. ”I want to say that! I had to say that. I stopped you--just to say that.” She blushed to say so much, but she met his stern gaze fearlessly with courage in her eyes.

He could not understand her in the least, unless she still had more to do, and thought to hold his friends.h.i.+p, perhaps for Searle's protection. He forced himself to probe in that direction.

”And you'd wish to go on being friends?”

It was a hard question--hard to ask and hard to answer. She colored anew, but she did not flinch. Her love was too vast, too strong and elemental to shrink at a crucial moment.

”I valued your friends.h.i.+p--very much,” she confessed steadily. ”Why shouldn't I wish it to continue?”

It was aggravating to have her seem so honest, so splendid, so womanly and fine, when he thought of that line in her letter. He could not spare himself or her in the agitation of his nature.

”Your way and mine are different,” he said. ”My arts in deceit were neglected, I'm afraid.”

Her eyes blazed more widely than before. Her color went like sunset tints from the sky, leaving her face an ashen hue of chill.

”Deceit?” she repeated. ”You mean that I--I have deceived you? What do you mean?”

He could bear no more of her apparent innocence. It was breaking his resolution down.

”Oh, we may as well be candid!” he exclaimed. ”What's the use of beating round the bush? I saw your letter--read your letter--by mistake.”

”My letter?”

”Your letter to your brother. Through some mistake I was given the final page--a fragment merely--instead of your brother's reply to be brought to you. I was asked to read it--which I did. Is that enough?”