Part 7 (1/2)
”Think well of what I have said. Reflect upon my words. Surely it is best to end our friends.h.i.+p when you know how impossible it is for me to love you in return.”
”Then you will not allow me to take the place in your heart that your lost lover once occupied?” I said, with deep disappointment.
”It is impossible!” she answered, shaking her head gravely. ”The love which comes to each of us once in a lifetime is like no other. If doomed to misfortune, it can never be replaced. None can fill the breach in a wounded heart.”
”That is only too true,” I was compelled to admit. ”Yet I cannot relinquish you, Aline, because I love you.”
”You are infatuated--like other men have been,” she said, with a faint, pitying smile. ”Holding you in esteem as I do, I regret it.”
”Why?”
”This is but the second time we have met, and you know nothing of my character,” she pointed out. ”Your love is, therefore, mere admiration.”
I shook my head. Her argument was unconvincing.
”Well,” she went on, ”_I_ only desire that you should release me from this bond of friends.h.i.+p formed by your kindness to me the other night.
It would be better for you, better for me, if we parted this evening never to again meet.”
”That's impossible. I must see you from time to time, even though you may endeavour to put me from you. I do not fear this mysterious evil which you prophesy, because loving you as firmly as I do, no harm can befall me.”
”Ah, no!” she cried. ”Do not say that. Think that the evil in the world is far stronger than the good; that sin is in the ascendency, and that the honest and upright are in the minority. Remember that no man is infallible, and that ill-fortune always strikes those who are least prepared to withstand the shock.”
I remained silent. She spoke so earnestly, and with such heartfelt concern for my welfare, that I was half-convinced of her sincerity of purpose. The calmness of her words and her dignity of bearing was utterly mystifying. Outwardly she was a mere girl, timid, unused to the world and its ways, honest-eyed and open-faced; yet her words were those of a woman who had had a long and bitter experience of loves and hatreds, and to whom a lover was no new experience. Beneath these strange declarations there was, I felt certain, some hidden meaning, but its nature I utterly failed to grasp.
I was young, impetuous, madly in love with this mysterious, beautiful woman who had come so suddenly into my otherwise happy, irresponsible life, and I had made my declaration of affection without counting the cost.
”I care not what evil may fall upon me,” I said boldly, holding her hand in tightening grip. ”I have heard you, and have decided that I will love you, Aline.”
Again I raised her hand, and in silence she allowed me to kiss her fingers, without seeking to withdraw them.
She only sighed. I thought there was a pa.s.sing look of pity in her eyes for a single moment, but could not decide whether it had really been there or whether it was merely imaginary.
”Then, if that is your decision, so let it be!” she murmured hoa.r.s.ely.
And we were silent for a long time.
I looked into her beautiful eyes in admiration, for was I not now her lover? Was not Aline Cloud my beloved?
The dying day darkened into night, and Simes entering to draw down the blinds compelled us to converse on topics far from our inmost thoughts.
She allowed me to smoke, but when I invited her to dine, she firmly declined.
”No,” she answered. ”For to-day this is sufficient. I regret that I called to visit you--I shall regret it all my life through.”
”Why?” I demanded, dismayed. ”Ah, don't say that, Aline! Remember that you've permitted me to love you.”
”I have only permitted what I cannot obviate,” she answered, in a hard, strained voice. I saw that tears were in her eyes, and that she was now filled with regret.
Yet I loved her, and felt that my true, honest affection must sooner or later be reciprocated.