Part 40 (1/2)
The man smiled oddly; the look pa.s.sed.
”I have merely played the game fair,” he explained dispa.s.sionately, ”or tried to, according to my standard. Like yourself, I don't want to hate myself in the future, whatever comes. The hate of others--I'm indifferent to that, Elice.”
”And still you love me.”
”I shall never care for another, never. The time when I could, if it ever existed, is past.”
The white hands dropped helplessly into the girl's lap.
”I thought I understood you,” she said, ”and yet, after all--”
”We live but once,” gently. ”I wish you to be happy, the happiest possible. Does that help?”
”Yes, but--” In a panic the face, the hands, retreated back into the shadow again. ”Oh, I'm afraid of you once more, afraid of you,” she completed.
A moment the man sat still; then came his unexpected deliberate smile.
”No; not afraid. I repeat you know me absolutely, and we're never afraid of things we know. I explained once before that that's why I went through the detail of telling you everything. You're not afraid of me in the least, any more than I am afraid of you.”
”No?”
The smile still held.
”No.”
”And still--”
”I repeat, it isn't fear of me that prevents your answering.” Like a flash the smile vanished. Simultaneously the voice dropped until it was very low, yet very steady. ”You love me in return, Elice, girl. It isn't that!”
From the darkness silence, just silence.
”I say, you love me in return. Can you deny it?”
Still not an answering sound nor a motion.
Roberts drew a long breath. His big eloquent hands hung free. ”Shall I put in words the exact reason you won't answer, to prove I know?” he asked.
”Yes.” The voice was just audible.
A moment Roberts paused. ”It's because you are afraid, not of me, but of Steve Armstrong: afraid of the way the Lord fas.h.i.+oned him. Elice, come out into the light, please. We must face this thing. You're not his mother, and you don't love him otherwise. Tell me, is a sentiment dead greater than one living? Will you, must you, sacrifice the happiness of two for the happiness of one? Answer me, please.”
An instant the girl hesitated; obediently she came out into the light, stood there so, her hand on the pillar of the porch. She did not glance at her companion, did not dare to do so.
”I repeat, I can't answer you yet,” she said simply. ”It's bitter, cruel to you, I know, and to myself; but it would be infinitely worse if--if I made a mistake.” She paused, while a restless hand swept across her face. ”I can't help feeling that I'm to blame a good deal already, that if I hadn't changed, and shown the change--” She sat down helplessly, the sentence incomplete. ”Oh, I can't bear to think of it. It drives me mad.
To feel you have the responsibility of another's very soul on your hands, and to have failed in that trust--”
”Elice!”
”Don't stop me. It's true. If I had married him years ago when he first wished me to do so he'd never have gone down. I cared for him then, or fancied I did so; and I could have held him up. But instead--”