Part 42 (1/2)

”Perhaps. But tell me if you wish.”

Again the fantastic diffidence held Armstrong in its grip; and again he freed himself with an effort.

”It means, first of all, that at last I'm on my feet, where I've always wished to be. It means that I'm to have my chance--and that again means independence.” He overlooked absolutely the egotism of the statement, was unconscious of it. Success loomed too big and incontestible; possible future failure lay too remote to merit consideration. ”It means all of this; but beyond that it means that I have the right to tell you again that I love you. You know I love you, as always, Elice.”

”As always?”

”Forget, please. This is to-day; my day, our day. You don't doubt I love you?”

”No; I don't doubt it.”

Armstrong breathed deep. An instinct all but overwhelming impelled him to rise, to--he subst.i.tuted with his eyes.

”You realize all that I wish to say,” he said swiftly, ”so why make a farce of it by words? We've drifted apart for a long time, a hideously long time, and it's been my fault throughout; but now that it's over won't you come back to the beginning, Elice, to the place where we separated?” He halted for breath, for words where none were adequate. ”I want you, Elice, want you--now and always. Tell me, please, that you've forgiven me, that you'll come back.”

In the girl's lap the hands crossed steadily; again that was the only move she made.

”So far as I am concerned there's nothing to forgive, nor has there ever been,” she said gently. ”As for going back, though, I can't; because I can't. It's useless to lie, for you'd find me out. I've simply awakened.”

”You mean you--don't care for me any more?”

”No; I care for you very much; but not in that way. It was so before the end came. I awoke before that.”

”And still you would have married me then.”

”Yes,” simply.

”And now?”

The girl did not answer, did not even look up.

”And now,” he repeated insistently, ”tell me; and now?”

This time the brown eyes lifted, met his steadily.

”Unless something happens I can't marry you now,” she said.

Armstrong looked at her; at first dazedly, then with a trace of color gathering under his fair skin.

”Unless something happens?” he repeated. ”Pardon me, but what do you mean by that?”

”Nothing,” swiftly. ”I was thinking of something else. I hate to hurt you; but as I said before, it's useless to temporize. I can't marry you now, Steve.”

In his place Armstrong settled back dumbly. Unconsciously he pa.s.sed his handkerchief over his mouth. The hand that carried it trembled a bit.

”You really mean that, do you?” he groped, half to himself, ”mean the break to be really final this time?” He shut his eyes, like a child suddenly awakened in the dark and afraid. ”Somehow I hadn't expected that at all, hadn't planned on it. I suppose it was childish of me; but I've been taking things for granted, on the strength of the past, and--and--”

Of a sudden the rambling tongue halted. The eyes opened wide, unnaturally wide; and in their depths was again that new look of terror, but now magnified. ”Tell me that you don't mean it, Elice, really,” he pleaded.

”I was just beginning to live and hope again; and now--tell me!”

Long before this the girl had ceased looking at him. Instead, with the instinctive fascination an open fire exerts over all human beings, she had turned toward the tiny jets of gas in the grate; her face propped in her hands she sat staring into the depths of the flame. She scarcely seemed to breathe, even when she spoke.

”Yes, I meant it,” she repeated patiently.