Part 15 (1/2)
They sat down on a bench, under those mournful boughs, under the lamentations of the oaks.
”Myra,” said Joe.
She murmured, ”Yes.”
His voice was charged with some of the strangeness of the night, some significance of the mystery of life and death.
”You read my letter ...”
”Yes.”
”And you understand ... at last?”
”I don't know ... I can't tell.”
He paused; he leaned nearer.
”Why are you going away?”
”I've been sick,” she whispered. ”The doctor told me to go.”
”For long?”
”For a rest.”
”And you go to-morrow?”
”I go to-morrow.”
”_Without forgiving me_?” He leaned very near.
There was a palpitating silence, a silence that searched their souls, and sharply then Myra cried out:
”Oh, Joe! Joe! This is killing me!”
”Myra!” he cried.
He drew her close, very close, stroking her cheek, and the tears ran over his fingers.
”Oh, don't you see,” he went on, brokenly, ”I can't ask you to come with me? And yet I must go?”
”I don't know,” she sobbed. ”I must go away and rest ... and think ...
and try to understand....”
”And may I write to you?...”