Part 31 (2/2)

”You have done nothing wrong; I do not--”

Words failed me. I hadn't the temerity to speak John's name. And Ned-- could he not see?--only stood there saying:--

”Why I've wrecked Milly's life and mine and turned your friends against you, only G.o.d knows, who made men what they are; only G.o.d knows--I don't.

Can you forgive me?”

Didn't he love me? His despair was beating conviction into me. He was pale, his lip quivered. Why was he humbled and ashamed? I was palsied with doubt, and the golden moments were fleeting, were fleeting. I must act!

But I felt as if I were dead and could not, though that strangling cloud still hurt me.

”There is nothing to forgive,” I faltered at last. ”Or--you must forgive me. Perhaps I should understand, but--oh, I'm not wise. Indeed I have not meant to--to--Shall I speak to Milly for you? But that would only make matters worse. They may take me--to Bermuda--anywhere; or--I will leave this house; she'll forget if I go away.”

At the last words my tremulous voice broke almost into a scream. Must I go away--go away that he may make Milly happy?

”You will stay here,” he said, his lips quivering more and more. ”Why should I drive you from home? I have lost Milly. She understands no more than you, and I hope she never may! You need not fear that I shall trouble you. I shall not see you again. You are maddening--no, not that--but I am mad. Mad!”

He turned abruptly to go, came back as hastily, caught my hand and pressed hot kisses on it. His burning eyes looked pa.s.sionately into mine. He was indeed like one insane.

Then with a great groan of contrition he put his hands before his face and rushed blindly from the room.

”Ned! Ned!” I cried out, but it was too late; he didn't hear me.

I don't know how I reached my chamber. I fell in a heap on the floor, s.h.i.+vering, laughing, sobbing, moaning for death.

Going away! I was going away from Ned! My beauty had meshed him; I almost hated it. I saw his haggard face, I heard again his voice, solicitous for Milly's grief. I know now that pain cannot kill, or I should have died.

Going away! He did not love me. He cared nothing for my hurt, only for Milly's. He loved that little white piece of putty that hadn't life enough to love any man!

I heard rain against the windows and felt a sudden fierce longing to go out and fight the storm. Could not a strong woman compel love? No other woman since the world began had been so fit for love, had yearned for it so hungrily.

Going away! Yet I felt his kisses upon my hand. Are men so different? What is a man, that he should love and not love?

How cold the old Nelly was! Since coming to the city, I had never let John kiss me; yet I thought I loved him. I thought love was a brook to make little tinkling music, and it had become a mighty ocean sweeping over me, sweeping over me!

But I must act at once, I thought; I must go away. I must find my aunt, must tell her--what? Where could I go? Not back to Kitty; she had left the den. Not to Miss Baker, who would share Aunt's wrath. Where could one such as I find refuge? A woman whom all women must hate for her loveliness?

”Ned! Ned! I am alone!” I cried in my agony of soul. ”You must--you will!--come back to me, come back to me.”

I bathed my eyes and hurried from the house to forget the thought, but it followed everywhere. The rain had not stopped, but it suited me to be drenched, to hold my face to the whiplash of the water snapped by the wind. I went to Meg Van Dam, who had long urged me to pay her a visit.

This time I was ready to consent, for she at least was glad to have me; and before I left her I had agreed to go to her.

It was dinner time when I reached home, glad that it was to be home to me no longer; the house made me shudder as a dungeon might. It was so changed since morning, seen now with different eyes. The dining room was so heavily respectable, with its fussily formal arrangements--like Uncle, for it's big; like Aunt, for it's crotchety.

I suppose there must have been a scene with Ned. Aunt Frank was depressed, fitfully talkative. Milly scarcely spoke, but in the curtness with which she turned her sullen head when poor Ethel asked some question, I wasn't slow in finding a meaning.

Joy begged in vain for her nightly lullaby. I couldn't respond to her ”Thing, Cothin Nelly!” I'd never before noticed how like she is to her sisters. With her snubby nose and her yellow braids, she'll grow into just another white-faced doll as Milly.

Miss Baker talked persistently about Bermuda; as if my exile had ever been a possibility! In all my blind whirlwind of pain, I was glad that this was the last night I should have to writhe under the click of her knitting needles, and sit opposite her large, solemn features.

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