Part 63 (2/2)

”Come out on the west veranda,” she said; ”I know what you wish to say to me. Besides, I have something to confide to you, too. And I'm very impatient to do it.”

He followed her to the veranda; she seated herself in the broad swing, and moved so that her invitation to him was unmistakable. Then when he had taken the place beside her she turned toward him very frankly, and he looked up to encounter her beautiful direct gaze.

”What is disturbing our friends.h.i.+p?” she asked. ”Do you know? I don't. I went to my room after luncheon and lay down on my bed and quietly deliberated. And do you know what conclusion I have reached?”

”What?” he asked.

”That there is nothing at all to disturb our friends.h.i.+p. And that what I said to you on the beach was foolish. I don't know why I said it; I'm not the sort of girl who says such stupid things--though I was apparently, for that one moment. And what I said about Gladys was childish; I am not jealous of her, Captain Selwyn. Don't think me silly or perverse or sentimental, will you?”

”No, I won't.”

She smiled at him with a trifle less courage--a trifle more self-consciousness: ”And--and as for what I called you--”

”You mean when you called me by my first name, and I teased you?”

”Y-es. I was silly to do it; sillier to be ashamed of doing it. There's a great deal of the callow schoolgirl in me yet, you see. The wise, amused smile of a man can sometimes stampede my self-possession and leave me blus.h.i.+ng like any ninny in dire confusion... . It was very, very mean of you--for the blood across your face did shock me... .

And, by myself, and in my very private thoughts, I do sometimes call you--by your first name... . And that explains it... . Now, what have you to say to me?”

”I wish to ask you something.”

”With pleasure,” she said; ”go ahead.” And she settled back, fearlessly expectant.

”Very well, then,” he said, striving to speak coolly. ”It is this: Will you marry me, Eileen?”

She turned perfectly white and stared at him, stunned. And he repeated his question, speaking slowly, but unsteadily.

”N-no,” she said; ”I cannot. Why--why, you know that, don't you?”

”Will you tell me why, Eileen?”

”I--I don't know why. I think--I suppose that it is because I do not love you--that way.”

”Yes,” he said, ”that, of course, is the reason. I wonder--do you suppose that--in time--perhaps--you might care for me--that way?”

”I don't know.” She glanced up at him fearfully, fascinated, yet repelled. ”I don't know,” she repeated pitifully. ”Is it--can't you help thinking of me in that way? Can't you be as you were?”

”No, I can no longer help it. I don't want to help it, Eileen.”

”But--I wish you to,” she said in a low voice. ”It is that which is coming between us. Oh, don't you see it is? Don't you feel it--feel what it is doing to us? Don't you understand how it is driving me back into myself? Whom am I to go to if not to you? What am I to do if your affection turns into this--this different att.i.tude toward me? You were so perfectly sweet and reasonable--so good, so patient; and now--and now I am losing confidence in you--in myself--in our friends.h.i.+p.

I'm no longer frank with you; I'm afraid at times--afraid and self-conscious--conscious of you, too--afraid of what seemed once the most natural of intimacies. I--I loved you so dearly--so fearlessly--”

Tears blinded her; she bent her head, and they fell on the soft delicate stuff of her gown, flas.h.i.+ng downward in the sunlight.

”Dear,” he said gently, ”nothing is altered between us. I love you in that way, too.”

”D-do you--really?” she stammered, shrinking away from him.

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