Part 47 (1/2)

”Yes.”

She spoke almost mechanically.

”I--I should have guessed it before. Had I been able to see, I should have known.”

”That is why I did n't wish you to see me--so soon,” Marjory said.

”Covington!” he repeated. ”But what of the other woman?”

She took a long breath.

”I--I'm the other woman,” she answered.

”Marjory!” he cried. ”Not she you told me of?”

”Yes.”

”His wife!”

”No--not that. Merely Mrs. Covington.”

”I don't understand. You don't mean you're not his wife!” He checked himself abruptly.

”We were married in Paris,” she hastened to explain. ”But--but we agreed the marriage was to be only a form. He was to come down here with me as a _compagnon de voyage_. He wished only to give me the protection of his name, and that--that was all I wished. It was not until I met you, Peter, that I realized what I had done.”

”It was not until then you realized that you really loved him?”

”Not until then,” she moaned.

”But, knowing that, you allowed me to talk as I did; to hope--”

”Peter--dear Peter!” she broke in. ”It was not then. It was only after I knew he had gone out of my life forever that I allowed that. You see, he has gone. He has gone to England, and from there he is going home.

You know what he is going for. He is never coming back. So it is as if he died, isn't it? I allowed you to talk because I knew you were telling the truth. And I did not promise much. When you asked me never to go from you, all I said was that I 'd try. You remember that? And I have tried, and I was going to keep on trying--ever so hard. I had ruined my own life and his life, and--and I did n't want to hurt you any more. I wanted to do what I could to undo some of the harm I'd already done. I thought that perhaps if we went on like this long enough, I might forget a little of the past and look forward only to the future. Some day I meant to tell you. You know that, Peter. You know I would n't be dishonest with you.” She was talking hysterically, anxious only to relieve the tenseness of his lips. She was not sure that he heard her at all. He was looking at her, but with curious detachment, as if he were at a play.

”Peter--say something!” she begged.

”It's extraordinary that I should ever have dared hope you were for me,”

he said.

”You mean you--you don't want me, Peter?”

”Want you?” he cried hoa.r.s.ely. ”I'd go through h.e.l.l to get you. I'd stay mole-blind the rest of my life to get you! Want you?”

He stepped toward her with his hands outstretched as if to seize her. In spite of herself, she shrank away.

”You see,” he ran on. ”What difference does it make if I want you? You belong to another. You belong to Covington. You have n't anything to do with yourself any more. You have n't yourself to give. You're his.”

With her hand above her eyes as if to ward off his blows, she gasped:--

”You must n't say such things, Peter.”