“You were free to decide; you used your own intellect, and you so decided. And I had no right to question you — I have no right now. I shall never question you again.

  “Then, because you loved me, and because it was the kind of love that ignored self, you offered me a supreme sacrifice. And I did not refuse; I merely continued to fight for what I thought ought to be — distressing, confusing, paining you with the stupid, obstinate reiterations of my importunities. And you stood fast by your colours.

  “Dear, I was wrong. And so were you. Those were not the only alternatives. I allowed them to appear so because of selfishness…. Alas, Valerie, in spite of all I have protested and professed of love and passion for you, to-day, for the first time, have I really loved you enough to consider you, alone. And with God’s help I will do so always.

  “You have offered me two alternatives: to give yourself and your life to me without marriage; or to quietly slip out of my life forever.

  “And it never occurred to you — and I say, with shame, that it never occurred to me — that I might quietly efface myself and my demands from your life: leave you free and at peace to rest and develop in that new and quieter world which your beauty and goodness has opened to you.

  “Desirable people have met you more than half-way, and they like you.

  Your little friend, Hélène d’Enver is a genuine and charming woman.

  Your friendship for her will mean all that you have so far missed in

  life all that a girl is entitled to.

  “Through her you will widen the circle of your acquaintances and form newer and better friendships You will meet men and women of your own age and your own tastes which is what ought to happen.

  “And it is right and just and fair that you enter into the beginning of your future with a mind unvexed and a heart untroubled by conflicts which can never solve for you and me any future life together.

  “I do not believe you will ever forget me, or wish to, wholly. Time heals — otherwise the world had gone mad some centuries ago.

  “But whatever destiny is reserved for you, I know you will meet it with the tranquillity and the sweet courage which you have always shown.

  “What kind of future I wish for you, I need not write here. You know. And it is for the sake of that future — for the sake of the girl whose unselfish life has at last taught me and shamed me, that I give you up forever.

  “Dear, perhaps you had better not answer this for a long, long time. Then, when that clever surgeon, Time, has effaced all scars — and when not only tranquillity is yours but, perhaps, a deeper happiness is in sight, write and tell me so. And the great god Kelly, nodding before his easel, will rouse up from his Olympian revery and totter away to find a sheaf of blessings to bestow upon the finest, truest, and loveliest girl in all the world.

  “Halcyonii dies! Fortem posce animum! Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit. Vale!

  “LOUIS NEVILLE.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE FIFTEENTH DAY of her absence had come and gone and there had been no word from her.

  Whether or not he had permitted himself to expect any, the suspense had been none the less almost unendurable. He walked the floor of the studio all day long, scarcely knowing what he was about, insensible to fatigue or to anything except the dull, ceaseless beating of his heart. He seemed older, thinner: — a man whose sands were running very swiftly.

  With the dawn of the fifteenth day of her absence a gray pallor had come into his face; and it remained there. Ogilvy and Annan sauntered into the studio to visit him, twice, and the second time they arrived bearing gifts — favourite tonics, prescriptions, and pills.

  “You look like hell, Kelly,” observed Sam with tactful and characteristic frankness. “Try a few of this assorted dope. Harry and I dote on dope:

  ”’After the bat is over,

  After the last cent’s spent,

  And the pigs have gone from the clover

  And the very last gent has went;

  After the cards are scattered,

  After I’ve paid the bill,

  Weary and rocky and battered

  I swallow my liver pill!’”

  — he sang, waltzing slowly around the room with Annan until, inadvertently, they stepped upon the tail of Gladys who went off like a pack of wet fire-crackers; whereupon they retired in confusion to their respective abodes above.

  Evening came, and with evening, letters; but none from her. And slowly the stealthy twilight hours dragged their heavy minutes toward darkness; and night crawled into the room like some sinister living thing, and found him still pacing the floor.

  Through the dusky June silence far below in the street sounded the clatter of wheels; but they never stopped before his abode. Voices rose faintly at moments in the still air, borne upward as from infinite depths; but her voice would never sound again for him: he knew it now — never again for him. And yet he paced the floor, listening. The pain in his heart grew duller at intervals, benumbed by the tension; but it always returned, sickening him, almost crazing him.

  Late in the evening he gave way under the torture — turned coward, and started to write to her. Twice he began letters — pleading with her to forget his letter; begging her to come back. And destroyed them with hands that shook like the hands of a sick man. Then the dull insensibility to pain gave him a little respite, but later the misery and terror of it drove him out into the street with an insane idea of seeking her — of taking the train and finding her.

  He throttled that impulse; the struggle exhausted him; and he returned, listlessly, to the door and stood there, vacant-eyed, staring into the lamp-lit street.

  Once he caught sight of a shadowy, graceful figure crossing the avenue — a lithe young silhouette against the gas-light — and his heart stood still for an instant but it was not she, and he swayed where he stood, under the agony of reaction, dazed by the rushing recession of emotion.

  Then a sudden fear seized him that she might have come while he had been away. He had been as far as the avenue. Could she have come?

  But when he arrived at his door he had scarce courage enough to go in. She had a key; she might have entered. Had she entered: was she there, behind the closed door? To go in and find the studio empty seemed almost more than he could endure. But, at last, he went in; and he found the studio empty.

  Confused, shaken, tortured, he began again his aimless tour of the place, ranging the four walls like a wild creature dulled to insanity by long imprisonment — passing backward, forward, to and fro, across, around his footsteps timing the dreadful monotone of his heart, his pulse beating, thudding out his doom.

  She would never come; never come again. She had determined what was best to do; she had arrived at her decision. Perhaps his letter had convinced her, — had cleared her vision; — the letter which he had been man enough to write — fool enough — God! — perhaps brave enough…. But if what he had done in his madness was bravery, it was an accursed thing; and he set his teeth and cursed himself scarce knowing what he was saying.

  It promised to be an endless night for him; and there were other nights to come — interminable nights. And now he began to watch the clock — strained eyes riveted on the stiff gilded hands — and on the little one jerkily, pitilessly recording the seconds and twitching them one by one into eternity.

  Nearer and nearer to midnight crept the gilded, flamboyant hour-hand; the gaunter minute-hand was slowly but inexorably overtaking it. Nearer, nearer, they drew together; then came the ominous click; a moment’s suspense; the high-keyed gong quivered twelve times under the impact of the tiny steel hammer.

  And he never would hear her voice again. And he dropped to his knees asking mercy on them both.

  In his dulled ears still lingered the treble ringing echo of the bell — lingered, reiterated, repeated incessantly, until he thought he was going mad. Then, of a sudden, he realised that the telephone was ringing; and he reeled from his knees to his feet, and crept forward into the shadows, feeling his way like a blind man.

  “Louis?”

  But he could not utter a sound.

  “Louis, is it you?”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “What is the matter? Are you ill? Your voice is so strange. Are you?”

  “No! — Is it you, Valerie?”

  “You know it is!”

  “Where — are you?”

  “In my room — where I have been all day.”

  “You have been — there! You have been here — in the city — all this time—”

  “I came in on the morning train. I wanted to be sure. There have been such things as railroad delays you know.”

  “Why — why didn’t you let me know—”

  “Louis! You will please to recollect that I had until midnight …

  I — was busy. Besides, midnight has just sounded — and here I am.”

  He waited.

  “I received your letter.” Her voice had the sweet, familiar, rising inflection which seemed to invite an answer.

  “Yes,” he muttered, “I wrote to you.”

  “Do you wish to know what I thought of your letter?”

  “Yes,” he breathed.

  “I will tell you some other time; not now…. Have you been perfectly well, Louis? But I heard all about you, every day, — through Rita. Do you know I am quite mad to see that picture you painted of her, — the new one— ‘Womanhood.’ She says it is a great picture — really great. Is it?”

  He did not answer.

  “Louis!”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to see that picture.”

  “Valerie?”

  “Yes?” — sweetly impatient.

  “Are we to see each other again?”

  She said calmly: “I didn’t ask to see you, Louis: I asked to see a picture which you recently painted, called ‘Womanhood.’”

  He remained silent and presently she called him again by name: “You say that you are well — or rather Rita said so two days ago — and I’m wondering whether in the interim you’ve fallen ill? Two days without news from you is rather disquieting. Please tell me at once exactly how you are?”

  He succeeded in forcing something resembling a laugh: “I am all right,” he said.

  “I don’t see how you could be — after the letter you wrote me. How much of it did you mean?”

  He was silent.

  “Louis! Answer me!”

  “All — of it,” he managed to reply.

  [Illustration: “She knelt down beside the bed and … said whatever prayer she had in mind”]

  “All!”

  “Yes.”

  “Then — perhaps you scarcely expected me to call up to-night. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “Suppose I had not done so.”

  He shivered slightly, but remained mute.

  “Answer me, Louis?”

  “It would have been — better.”

  “For you?”

  “For — both.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then — have I any choice except to say — good-night?”

  “No choice. Good-night.”

  “Good-night.”

  He crept, shaking, into his bed-room, sat down, resting his hands on his knees and staring at vacancy.

  Valerie, in her room, hung up the receiver, buried her face in her hands for a moment, then quietly turned, lowering her hands from her face, and looked down at the delicate, intimate garments spread in order on the counterpane beside her. There was a new summer gown there, too — a light, dainty, fragile affair on which she had worked while away. Beside it lay a big summer hat of white straw and white lilacs.

  She stood for a moment, reflecting; then she knelt down beside the bed and covered her eyes again while she said whatever prayer she had in mind.

  It was not a very short petition, because it concerned Neville. She asked nothing for herself except as it regarded him or might matter to his peace of mind. Otherwise what she said, asked, and offered, related wholly to Neville.

  Presently she rose and went lightly and silently about her ablutions; and afterward she dressed herself in the fragile snowy garments ranged so methodically upon the white counterpane, each in its proper place.

  She was longer over her hair, letting it fall in a dark lustrous cloud to her waist, then combing and gathering it and bringing it under discipline.

  She put on her gown, managing somehow to fasten it, her lithe young body and slender arms aiding her to achieve the impossible between neck and shoulders. Afterward she pinned on her big white hat.

  At the door she paused for a second; took a last look at the quiet, white little room tranquil and silent in the lamplight; then she turned off the light and went out, softly, holding in her hands a key which fitted no door of her own.

  One o’clock sounded heavily from Saint Hilda’s as she left her house; the half hour was striking as she stooped in the dark hallway outside the studio and fitted the key she held — the key that was to unlock for her the mystery of the world.

  He had not heard her. She groped her way into the unlighted studio, touched with caressing finger-tips the vague familiar shapes that the starlight, falling through the glass above, revealed to her as she passed.

  In the little inner room she paused. There was a light through the passageway beyond, but she stood here a moment, looking around her while memories of the place deepened the colour in her cheeks.

  Then she went forward, timidly, and stood at his closed door, listening.

  A sudden fright seized her; one hand flew to her breast, her throat — covered her eyes for a moment — and fell limp by her side.

  [Illustration: “She was longer over her hair … gathering it and bringing it under discipline.”]

  “Louis!” she faltered. She heard him spring to his feet and stand as though transfixed.

  “Louis,” she said, “it is I. Will you open your door to me?”

  The sudden flood of electric light dazzled her; then she saw him standing there, one hand still resting on the door knob.

  “I’ve come,” she said, with a faint smile.

  “Valerie! My God!”

  She stood, half smiling, half fearful, her dark eyes meeting his, two friendly little hands outstretched. Then, as his own caught them, almost crushed them:

  “Oh, it was your letter that ended all for me, Louis! It settled every doubt I had. I knew then — you darling!”

  She bent and touched his hands with her lips, then lifted her sweet, untroubled gaze to his:

  “I had been away from you so long, so long. And the time was approaching for me to decide, and I didn’t know what was best for us, any more than when I went away. And then! — your letter came!”

  She shook her head, slowly:

  “I don’t know what I might have decided if you never had written that letter to me; probably I would have come back to you anyway. I think so; I can’t think of my doing anything else: though I might have decided — against myself. But as soon as I read your letter I knew, Louis…. And I am here.”

  He said with drawn lips quivering:

  “Did you read in that letter one single word of cowardly appeal? — one infamous word of self? If you did, I wrote in vain.”

  “It was because I read nothing in it of self that I made up my mind,

  Louis.” She stepped nearer. “Why are you so dreadfully pale and worn?

  Your face is so haggard — so terrible—”

  She laid one hand on his shoulder, looking up at him; then she smoothed his forehead and hair, lightly.

  “As though I could ever live without you,” she said under her breath. Then she laughed, releasing her hands, and went over to the dresser where there was a mirror.

  “I have come, at one in the morning, to pay you a call,” she said, withdrawing the long pins from her hat and taking it off. “Later I should like a cup of chocolate, please…. Oh, there is Gladys! You sweet thing!” she cried softly, kneeling to embrace the cat who came silently into the room, tail waving aloft in gentle greeting.

  The girl lifted Gladys onto the bed and rolled her over into a fluffy ball and rubbed her cheeks and her ears until her furry toes curled, and her loud and grateful purring filled the room.

  Valerie, seated sideways on the edge of the bed, looked up at Neville, laughing:

  “I must tell you about Sam and Hélène,” she said. “They are too funny! Hélène was furious because Sam wrote her a letter saying that he intended to marry her but had not the courage to notify her, personally, of his decision; and Hélène was wild, and wrote him that he might save himself further trouble in the matter. And they’ve been telephoning to each other at intervals all day, and Sam is so afraid of her that he dare not go to see her; and Hélène was in tears when I saw her — and I think it was because she was afraid Sam wouldn’t come and resume the quarrel where she could manage it and him more satisfactorily.”

  She threw back her head and laughed at the recollection, stroking Gladys the while:

  “It will come out all right, of course,” she added, her eyes full of laughter; “she’s been in love with Sam ever since he broke a Ming jar and almost died of fright. But isn’t it funny, Louis? — the way people fall in love, and their various manners of informing each other!”

  He was trying to smile, but the gray constraint in his face made it only an effort. Valerie pretended not to notice it, and she rattled on gaily, detailing her small budget of gossip and caressing Gladys — behaving as irresponsibly and as capriciously as though her heart were not singing a ceaseless hymn of happiness too deep, too thankful to utter by word or look.

  “Dear little Rita,” she exclaimed, suddenly and tenderly solemn— “I saw her the morning of the day she departed with John. And first of all I asked about you of course — you spoiled thing! — and then I asked about John. And we put our arms around each other and had a good, old-fashioned cry…. But — don’t you think he is going to get well, Louis?”

  “Sam’s brother — Billy Ogilvy — wrote me that he would always have to live in Arizona. He can live there. But the East would be death to him.”

 

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