Part 18 (2/2)

One effort more, and Duty would be satisfied.

”It is gone.”

In the slow darkness that came to her she covered her face, knowing and hearing nothing. When she looked up, Holmes was standing by the window, with his face toward the gray fields. It was a long time before he turned and came to her.

”You have spoken honestly: it is an old fas.h.i.+on of yours. You believed what you said. Let me also tell you what you call G.o.d's truth, for a moment, Margret. It will not do you harm.”--He spoke gravely, solemnly.--”When you loved me long ago, selfish, erring as I was, you fulfilled the law of your nature; when you put that love out of your heart, you make your duty a tawdry sham, and your life a lie. Listen to me. I am calm.”

It was calmness that made her tremble as she had not done before, with a strange suspicion of the truth flas.h.i.+ng on her. That she, casing herself in her pride, her conscious righteousness, hugging her new-found philanthropy close, had sunk to a depth of n.i.g.g.ardly selfishness, of which this man knew nothing. n.o.bler than she; half angry as she felt that, sitting at his feet, looking up. He knew it, too; the grave judging voice told it; he had taken his rightful place.

Just, as only a man can be, in his judgment of himself and her: her love that she had prided herself with, seemed weak and drifting, brought into contact with this cool integrity of meaning. I think she was glad to be humbled before him. Women have strange fancies, sometimes.

”You have deceived yourself,” he said: ”when you try to fill your heart with this work, you serve neither your G.o.d nor your fellow-man. You tell me,” stooping close to her, ”that I am nothing to you: you believe it, poor child! There is not a line on your face that does not prove it false. I have keen eyes, Margret!”-- He laughed.--”You have wrung this love out of your heart? If it were easy to do, did it need to wring with it every sparkle of pleasure and grace out of your life! Your very hair is gathered out of your sight: you feared to remember how my hand had touched it? Your dress is stingy and hard; your step, your eyes, your mouth under rule. So hard it was to force yourself into an old worn-out woman! Oh, Margret! Margret!”

She moaned under her breath.

”I notice trifles, child! Yonder, in that corner, used to stand the desk where I helped you with your Latin. How you hated it! Do you remember?”

”I remember.”

”It always stood there: it is gone now. Outside of the gate there was that elm I planted, and you promised to water while I was gone. It is cut down now by the roots.”

”I had it done, Stephen.”

”I know. Do you know why? Because you love me: because you do not dare to think of me, you dare not trust yourself to look at the tree that I had planted.”

She started up with a cry, and stood there in the old way, her fingers catching at each other.

”It is cruel,--let me go!”

”It is not cruel.”--He came up closer to her.--”You think you do not love me, and see what I have made you! Look at the torpor of this face,--the dead, frozen eyes! It is a 'nightmare death in life.' Good G.o.d, to think that I have done this! To think of the countless days of agony, the nights, the years of solitude that have brought her to this,--little Margret!”

He paced the floor, slowly. She sat down on a low stool, leaning her head on her hands. The little figure, the bent head, the quivering chin brought up her childhood to him. She used to sit so when he had tormented her, waiting to be coaxed back to love and smiles again. The hard man's eyes filled with tears, as he thought of it. He watched the deep, tearless sobs that shook her breast: he had wounded her to death,--his bonny Margret! She was like a dead thing now: what need to torture her longer? Let him be manly and go out to his solitary life, taking the remembrance of what he had done with him for company. He rose uncertainly,--then came to her: was that the way to leave her?

”I am going, Margret,” he whispered, ”but let me tell you a story before I go,--a Christmas story, say. It will not touch you,--it is too late to hope for that,--but it is right that you should hear it.”

She looked up wearily.

”As you will, Stephen.”

Whatever impulse drove the man to speak words that he knew were useless, made him stand back from her, as though she were something he was unfit to touch: the words dragged from him slowly.

”I had a curious dream to-night, Margret,--a waking dream: only a clear vision of what had been once. Do you remember--the old time?”

What disconnected rambling was this? Yet the girl understood it, looked into the low fire with sad, listening eyes.

”Long ago. That was a free, strong life that opened before us then, little one,--before you and me? Do you remember the Christmas before I went away? I had a strong arm and a hungry brain to go out into the world with, then. Something better, too, I had. A purer self than was born with me came late in life, and nestled in my heart. Margret, there was no fresh loving thought in my brain for G.o.d or man that did not grow from my love of you; there was nothing n.o.ble or kindly in my nature that did not flow into that love, and deepen there. I was your master, too. I held my own soul by no diviner right than I held your love and owed you mine. I understand it, now, when it is too late.”--He wiped the cold drops from his face.--”Now do you know whether it is remorse I feel, when I think how I put this purer self away,--how I went out triumphant in my inhuman, greedy brain,--how I resolved to know, to be, to trample under foot all weak love or homely pleasures? I have been punished. Let those years go. I think, sometimes, I came near to the nature of the d.a.m.ned who dare not love: I would not. It was then I hurt you, Margret,--to the death: your true life lay in me, as mine in you.”

He had gone on drearily, as though holding colloquy with himself, as though great years of meaning surged up and filled the broken words.

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