Part 53 (1/2)
CHAPTER x.x.xIX.
A CLIMAX.
She was alone in the drawing-room. She heard the bell ring, and the sound of some one being let in by the front door. Then there was a man's step in the pa.s.sage outside. The craven heart grew still with dread.
But it was with a great gentleness that he came forward to her, and took both of her trembling hands, and said,--
”Gerty, you do not think that I have come to be angry with you--not that!”
He could not but see with those anxious, pained, tender eyes of his that she was very pale; and her heart was now beating so fast--after the first shock of fright--that for a second or two she could not answer him. She withdrew her hands. And all this time he was regarding her face with an eager, wistful intensity.
”It is--so strange--for me to see you again,” said he, almost in a bewildered way. ”The days have been very long without you--I had almost forgotten what you were like. And now--and now--oh, Gerty, you are not angry with me for troubling you?”
She withdrew a step and sat down.
”There is a chair,” said she. He did not seem to understand what she meant. He was trying to read her thoughts in her eyes, in her manner, in the pale face; and his earnest gaze did not leave her for a moment.
”I know you must be greatly troubled and worried, Gerty; and--and I tried not to come; but your last letter was like the end of the world for me. I thought everything might go then. But then I said, 'Are you a man, and to be cast down by that? She is bewildered by some pa.s.sing doubt; her mind is sick for the moment; you must go to her, and recall her, and awake her to herself; and you will see her laugh again!' And so I am here, Gerty; and if I am troubling you at a bad time--well, it is only for a moment or two; and you will not mind that? You and I are so different, Gerty! You are all-perfect. You do not want the sympathy of any one. You are satisfied with your own thinkings; you are a world to yourself. But I cannot live without being in sympathy with you. It is a craving--it is like a fire--Well, I did not come here to talk about myself.”
”I am sorry you took so much trouble,” she said, in a low voice--and there was a nervous restraint in her manner. ”You might have answered my letter, instead.”
”Your letter!” he exclaimed. ”Why Gerty, I could not talk to the letter.
It was not yourself. It was no more part of yourself than a glove. You will forget that letter, and all the letters that ever you wrote; let them go away like the leaves of former autumns that are quite forgotten; and instead of the letters, be yourself--as I see you now--proud-spirited and n.o.ble--my beautiful Gerty--my wife!”
He make a step forward and caught her hand. She did not see that there were sudden tears in the imploring eyes. She only knew that this vehemence seemed to suffocate her.
”Keith,” said she, and she gently disengaged her hand, ”will you sit down, and we can talk over this matter calmly, if you please; but I think it would have been better if you left us both to explain ourselves in writing. It is difficult to say certain things without giving pain--and you know I don't wish to do that--”
”I know,” said he, with an absent look on his face; and he took the chair she had indicated, and sat down beside her; and now he was no longer regarding her eyes.
”It is quite true that you and I are different,” said she, with a certain resolution in her tone, as if she was determined to get through with a painful task--”very seriously different in everything--in our natures, and habits, and opinions, and all the rest of it. How we ever became acquainted I don't know; I am afraid it was not a fortunate accident for either of us. Well--”
Here she stopped. She had not prepared any speech; and she suddenly found herself without a word to say, when words, words, words were all she eagerly wanted in order to cover her retreat. And as for him, he gave her no help. He sat silent--his eyes downcast--a tired and haggard look on his face.
”Well,” she resumed, with a violent effort, ”I was saying, perhaps we made a mistake in our estimates of each other. That is a very common thing; and sometimes people find out in time, and sometimes they don't.
I am sure you agree with me, Keith?”
”Oh yes, Gerty,” he answered, absently.
”And then--and then--I am quite ready to confess that I may have been mistaken about myself; and I am afraid you encouraged the mistake. You know, I am quite sure, I am not the heroic person you tried to make me believe I was. I have found myself out, Keith; and just in time before making a terrible blunder. I am very glad that it is myself I have to blame. I have got very little resolution. 'Unstable as water'--that is the phrase: perhaps I should not like other people to apply it to me; but I am quite ready to apply it to myself; for I know it to be true; and it would be a great pity if any one's life were made miserable through my fault. Of course, I thought for a time that I was a very courageous and resolute person--you flattered me into believing it; but I have found myself out since. Don't you understand, Keith?”
He gave a sign of a.s.sent; his silence was more embarra.s.sing than any protest or appeal.
”Oh, I could choose such a wife for you, Keith!--a wife worthy of you--a woman as womanly as you are manly; and I can think of her being proud to be your wife, and how all the people who came to your house would admire and love her--”
He looked up in a bewildered way.
”Gerty,” he said, ”I don't quite know what it is you are speaking about.
You are speaking as if some strange thing had come between us; and I was to go one way, and you another, through all the years to come. Why, that is all nonsense! See! I can take your hand--that is the hand that gave me the red rose. You said you loved me, then; you cannot have changed already. I have not changed. What is there that would try to separate us? Only words, Gerty!--a cloud of words humming round the ears and confusing one. Oh, I have grown heart-sick of them in your letters, Gerty; until I put the letters away altogether, and I said, 'They are no more than the leaves of last autumn: when I see Gerty, and take her hand, all the words will disappear then.' Your hand is not made of words, Gerty; it is warm and kind, and gentle--it is a woman's hand. Do you think words are able to make me let go my grasp of it? I put them away--I do not hear any more of them. I only know that you are beside me, Gerty; and I hold your hand!”
He was no longer the imploring lover: there was a strange elation, a sort of triumph, in his tone.