“I couldn’t despise you,” said Montague. “I am simply pained, because I have made you unhappy. And I did not mean to.”
Mrs. Winnie sat staring ahead of her in a sombre reverie. “Don’t think any more about it,” she said, bitterly. “I will get over it. I am not worth troubling about. Don’t you suppose I know how you feel about this world that I live in? And I’m part of it—I beat my wings, and try to get out, but I can’t. I’m in it, and I’ll stay in till I die; I might as well give up. I thought that I could steal a little joy—you have no idea how hungry I am for a little joy! You have no idea how lonely I am! And how empty my life is! You talk about your fear of making me unhappy; it’s a grim jest—but I’ll give you permission, if you can! I’ll ask nothing—no promises, no sacrifices! I’ll take all the risks, and pay all the penalties!”
She smiled through her tears, a sardonic smile. He was watching her, and she turned again, and their eyes met; again he saw the blood mount from her throat to her cheeks. At the same time came the old stirring of the wild beasts within him. He knew that the less time he spent in sympathizing with Mrs. Winnie, the better for both of them.
He had started to rise, and words of farewell were on his lips; when suddenly there came a knock upon the door.
Mrs. Winnie sprang to her feet. “Who is that?” she cried.
And the door opened, and Mr. Duval entered.
“Good evening,” he said pleasantly, and came toward her.
Mrs. Winnie flushed angrily, and stared at him. “Why do you come here unannounced?” she cried.
“I apologize,” he said—“but I found this in my mail—”
And Montague, in the act of rising to greet him, saw that he had the offensive clipping in his hand. Then he saw Duval give a start, and realized that the man had not been aware of his presence in the room.
Duval gazed from Montague to his wife, and noticed for the first time her tears, and her agitation. “I beg pardon,” he said. “I am evidently trespassing.”
“You most certainly are,” responded Mrs. Winnie.
He made a move to withdraw; but before he could take a step, she had brushed past him and left the room, slamming the door behind her.
And Duval stared after her, and then he stared at Montague, and laughed. “Well! well! well!” he said.
Then, checking his amusement, he added, “Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” said Montague.
He was trembling slightly, and Duval noticed it; he smiled genially. “This is the sort of material out of which scenes are made,” said he. “But I beg you not to be embarrassed—we won’t have any scenes.”
Montague could think of nothing to say to that.
“I owe Evelyn an apology,” the other continued. “It was entirely an accident—this clipping, you see. I do not intrude, as a rule. You may make yourself at home in future.”
Montague flushed scarlet at the words.
“Mr. Duval,” he said, “I have to assure you that you are mistaken—”
The other stared at him. “Oh, come, come!” he said, laughing. “Let us talk as men of the world.”
“I say that you are mistaken,” said Montague again.
The other shrugged his shoulders. “Very well,” he said genially. “As you please. I simply wish to make matters clear to you, that’s all. I wish you joy with Evelyn. I say nothing about her—you love her. Suffice it that I’ve had her, and I’m tired of her; the field is yours. But keep her out of mischief, and don’t let her make a fool of herself in public, if you can help it. And don’t let her spend too much money—she costs me a million a year already.—Good evening, Mr. Montague.”
And he went out. Montague, who stood like a statue, could hear him chuckling all the way down the hall.
At last Montague himself started to leave. But he heard Mrs. Winnie coming back, and he waited for her. She came in and shut the door, and turned toward him.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He—was very pleasant,” said Montague.
And she smiled grimly. “I went out on purpose,” she said. “I wanted you to see him—to see what sort of a man he is, and how much ‘duty’ I owe him! You saw, I guess.”
“Yes, I saw,” said he.
Then again he started to go. But she took him by the arm. “Come and talk to me,” she said. “Please!”
And she led him back to the fire. “Listen,” she said. “He will not come here again. He is going away to-night—I thought he had gone already. And he does not return for a month or two. There will be no one to disturb us again.”
She came close to him and gazed up into his face. She had wiped her tears away, and her happy look had come back to her; she was lovelier than ever.
“I took you by surprise,” she said, smiling. “You didn’t know what to make of it. And I was ashamed—I thought you would hate me. But I’m not going to be unhappy any more—I don’t care at all. I’m glad that I spoke!”
And Mrs. Winnie put up her hands and took him by the lapels of his coat. “I know that you love me,” she said; “I saw it in your eyes just now, before he came in: It is simply that you won’t let yourself go. You have so many doubts and so many fears. But you will see that I am right; you will learn to love me. You won’t be able to help it—I shall be so kind and good! Only don’t go away—”
Mrs. Winnie was so close to him that her breath touched his cheek. “Promise me, dear,” she whispered—“promise me that you won’t stop seeing me—that you will learn to love me. I can’t do without you!”
Montague was trembling in every nerve; he felt like a man caught in a net. Mrs. Winnie had had everything she ever wanted in her life; and now she wanted him! It was impossible for her to face any other thought.
“Listen,” he began gently.
But she saw the look of resistance in his eyes, and she cried “No no—don’t! I cannot do without you! Think! I love you! What more can I say to you? I cannot believe that you don’t care for me—you HAVE been fond of me—I have seen it in your face. Yet you’re afraid of me—why? Look at me—am I not beautiful to look at! And is a woman’s love such a little thing—can you fling it away and trample upon it so easily? Why do you wish to go? Don’t you understand—no one knows we are here—no one cares! You can come here whenever you wish—this is my place—mine! And no one will think anything about it. They all do it. There is nothing to be afraid of!”
She put her arms about him, and clung to him so that he could feel the beating of her heart upon his bosom. “Oh, don’t leave me here alone to-night!” she cried.
To Montague it was like the ringing of an alarm-bell deep within his soul. “I must go,” he said.
She flung back her head and stared at him, and he saw the terror and anguish in her eyes. “No, no!” she cried, “don’t say that to me! I can’t bear it—oh, see what I have done! Look at me! Have mercy on me!”
“Mrs. Winnie,” he said, “you must have mercy on ME!”
But he only felt her clasp him more tightly. He took her by the wrists, and with quiet force he broke her hold upon him; her hands fell to her sides, and she stared at him, aghast.
“I must go,” he said, again.
And he started toward the door. She followed him dumbly with her eyes.
“Good-bye,” he said. He knew that there was no use of any more words; his sympathy had been like oil upon flames. He saw her move, and as he opened the door, she flung herself down in a chair and burst into frantic weeping. He shut the door softly and went away.
He found his way down the stairs, and got his hat and coat, and went out, unseen by anyone. He walked down the Avenue-and there suddenly was the giant bulk of St. Cecilia’s lifting itself into the sky. He stopped and looked at it—it seemed a great tumultuous surge of emotion. And for the first time in his life it seemed to him that he understood why men had put together that towering heap of stone!