Part 52 (2/2)

'No, Maude, I couldn't forget you,' he said; and without really knowing that he was doing it, he put his hand upon the little soft white one lying on the arm of the chair.

Every nerve in Maude's body thrilled to the touch of that hand upon which she involuntarily laid her other one, noticing as she did so the signs of toil upon it, and feeling sorry for him. One would have thought them lovers, sitting there thus together, but nothing could have been farther from Harold's mind. He was thinking only of Jerrie, and his resolve to confide in Maude, and get her opinion with regard to his chance.

'Now is as good a time as any,' he thought, wondering how he should begin, and finding it harder than he had imagined it would he.

At last after a few commonplaces, Maude told him again that he must not neglect her now that Jerrie was at home.

'Neglect you? How can I do that?' he said, 'when I look upon you as one of my best friends, and in proof of it, I am going to tell you something, or, rather, ask you something, and I hope you will answer me truly. Better that I know the worst at first than learn it afterward.'

Maude's face was aflame now with a great and sudden joy, and her soft eyes drooped beneath Harold's as he went on stammeringly, for he began to feel the awkwardness of telling one girl that he loved another, even though that other were her dearest friend.

'I hardly know how to begin,' he said, 'it is such a delicate matter, and perhaps I'd better say nothing at all.'

'Was he going to stop? Had he changed his mind--and would he not after all, say the words she had so longed to hear?' Maude asked herself, as she turned her eyes appealingly to him, while he sat silent and unmoved, his thoughts very, very far from her to whom he was all in all.

Poor Maude! She was weak and sick, and impulsive and mistaken in the nature of Harold's feelings for her; so judge her not too harshly, my prudish reader, if she at last did what Arthur would have called 'throwing herself at his head.'

'I can guess what you mean,' she said, after a long pause, during which he did not speak. 'I have long suspected that you cared for me just as I care for you, and have wondered you did not tell me so, but supposed that you refrained because I was rich and you were poor; but what has that to do with those who love each other? I am glad you have spoken; and you have made me very happy; and even if we can never be more to each other than we are now, because I may die, as I sometimes fear I shall--'

'Oh, Maude, Maude, you are mistaken. I--,' came from Harold like a cry of horror as he wrenched away his hand lying between hers, and to which her slender fingers hung caressingly.

What could she mean? How had she understood him? he asked himself, while great drops of sweat gathered upon his forehead and in the palms of his hands, as like lightning the past came back to him, and he could see as in a printed page that what he had thought mere friends.h.i.+p for himself was a far different and deeper feeling, while he unwittingly had fanned the flame; and was now reaping the result.

'What can I do?' he said aloud, unconsciously, while from the depths of the chair on which Maude was leaning back so wearily came a plaintive voice like that of a child:

'Ring the bell, and give me my handkerchief.'

He was at her side in a moment, bending over her, and looking anxiously into the pallid face from which the bright color had faded, leaving it gray, and pinched, and drawn, it seemed to him. Had he killed her by blurting out so roughly that she was mistaken; and thus filling her with mortification and shame? No, that could not be, for as he brought her handkerchief and bent still closer to her, she whispered to him:

'I am not mistaken, Hally. I am going to die, but you have made the last days of my life very, very happy.'

She thought he was referring to herself and her situation when he told her she was mistaken, and with a smothered groan he was starting for the camphor, as she bade him do, when the door opened, and Mrs. Tracy herself appeared.

'What is it?' she asked, sharply; then, as she saw Maude's face she knew what it was, and going swiftly to her, said to Harold:

'Why did you allow her to talk and get excited? What were you saying to her?'

Instantly Maude's eyes went up to Harold's with an appealing look, as if asking him not to tell her mother then--a precaution which was needless, as he had no intention to tell Mrs. Tracy, or any one, of the terrible blunder he had made; and with a hope that the reality might dawn upon Maude, he answered, truthfully:

'I was talking to her of Jerrie. I am very sorry.'

If Maude heard she did not understand, for drops of pinkish blood were oozing from her lips, and she looked as if she were already dead, as in obedience to Mrs. Tracy's command, Harold took her in his arms and carried her to the couch near the open window, where he laid her down as tenderly as if she were indeed his affianced wife.

'Thanks,' she sighed, softly, and her bright, beautiful eyes looked up at him with an expression which half tempted him to kiss the quivering lips from which he was wiping the stains so carefully, while Mrs. Tracy, at the door, gave some orders to a servant.

'You can go now,' she said, returning to the couch, and dismissing him with her usual hauteur of manner; while Maude put up her hand and whispered:

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