Part 57 (1/2)
This did not humble her. Her first clean, unguarded emotion was one of pride. Had it been her privilege to let herself go, she would have taken her place near him with her eyes afire--with her head held as proudly as any queen. Gladly would she have rested by his side in an olive orchard or a fisherman's hut or a forest or on the plains or anywhere fortune might take him. By his side--that would have been enough. If she were his woman and he her man, that would have been enough.
If she could only let herself go! As she came into the smoky old tavern room and he stepped forward to meet her, she swayed a little.
He looked so big and wholesome and eager with his arms outstretched!
They were alone here. It would have been so easy just to close her eyes and let her head rest against his shoulder--so easy and restful.
He would have kissed her hair, and the ache would all have gone from her body and heart. He would draw her close and hold her tight--yes, for a day or two or a month or two. Then he would remember that week in which she had trifled with him, and he would hate her.
She pulled herself together.
”Is supper ready?”
It was such an inane remark! He turned aside like a boy who has been snubbed.
Monsieur Soucin had provided bread and cheese, a salad, and coffee. It was enough. She had no appet.i.te. She took much more satisfaction in watching Monte and in pouring his coffee. His honest hunger was not disturbed by any vain speculations. He ate like a man, as he did everything like a man. It restored her confidence again.
”Soucin lent a mattress, which I have arranged just the other side of the wall. That is your room. With plenty of blankets you should be comfortable enough there,” he said.
”And you?” she inquired.
”I am on this side of the wall,” he replied gravely.
”What are you going to sleep upon?”
”A blanket.”
If it had been possible to do so, she would have given him the mattress and slept upon the ground herself. That is what she would have liked to do.
”It's no more than I have done in the woods when I could n't make camp in time,” he explained. ”I had hoped to take you some day to my cabin near the lake.”
She could think of nothing better than another inane remark:--
”It must be beautiful there.”
He looked up.
”It always has been, but now--without you--”
”You must n't let me make any difference,” she put in quickly.
”Why not?”
”Because you must n't. You must go on just as if you had never met me.”
”Why?” He was as direct as a boy.
”Because that's best. Oh, I know, Monte. You must trust me to know what is good for you,” she cried.
”I don't believe you know even what is good for yourself,” he answered.
”I--I know what is right,” she faltered.