then, if He was angry, might Hepunish me forever, afterward?" She drew her shoulders together with afrightened, childish movement. "I'm afraid of forever," she said.
The rain beat in noisily against the parish house wall; the wet vinesflung about wildly; a floating end blew in at the window and the youngman lifted it carefully and put it outside again. Then, "Can you tellme why you want to kill yourself?" he asked, and his manner, free fromcriticism or disapproval, seemed to quiet her.
"Yes. I want to tell you. I came here to tell the rector." The graveeyes of the man, eyes whose clearness and youth seemed to be such anage-old youth and clearness as one sees in the eyes of the sibyls inthe frescoes of the Sistine Chapel--eyes empty of a thought of self,impersonal, serene with the serenity of a large atmosphere--theunflinching eyes of the man gazed at the girl as she talked.
She talked rapidly, eagerly, as if each word lifted pressure. "It'sthis way--I'm ill--hopelessly ill. Yes--it's absolutely so. I've gotto die. Two doctors said so. But I'll live--maybe fiveyears--possibly ten. I'm twenty-three now--and I may live ten years.But if I do that--if I live five years even--most of it will be as ahelpless invalid--I'll have to get stiff, you know." There was arather dreadful levity in the way she put it. "Stiffer andstiffer--till I harden into one position, sitting or lying down,immovable. I'll have to go on living that way--years, you see. I'llhave to choose which way. Isn't it hideous? And I'll go on livingthat way, you see. Me. You don't know, of course, but it seemsparticularly hideous, because I'm not a bit an immovable sort. I rideand play tennis and dance, all those things, more than most people. Icare about them--a lot." One could see it in the vivid pose of thefigure. "And, you know, it's really too much to expect. I _won't_stiffen gently into a live corpse. No!" The sliding, clear voice waslow, but the "no" meant itself.
From the quiet figure by the window came no response; the girl couldsee the man's face only indistinctly in the dim, storm-washed light;receding thunder growled now and again and the noise of the rain camein soft, fierce waves; at times, lightning flashed a weird clearnessover the details of the room and left them vaguer.
"Why don't you say something?" the girl threw at him. "What do youthink? Say it."
"Are you going to tell me the rest?" the man asked quietly.
"The rest? Isn't that enough? What makes you think there's more?" shegasped.
"I don't know what makes me. I do. Something in your manner, Isuppose. You mustn't tell me if you wish not, but I'd be able to helpyou better if I knew everything. As long as you've told me so much."
There was a long stillness in the dim room; the dashing rain and themuttering thunder were the only sounds in the world. The white dresswas motionless in the chair, vague, impersonal--he could see only theblurred suggestion of a face above it; it got to be fantastic, a dream,a condensation of the summer lightning and the storm-clouds;unrealities seized the quick imagination of the man; into his fancycame the low, buoyant voice out of key with the words.
"Yes, there's more. A love story, of course--there's always that.Only this is more an un-love story, as far as I'm in it." She stoppedagain. "I don't know why I should tell you this part."
"Don't, if you don't want to," the man answered promptly, a bit coldly.He felt a clear distaste for this emotional business; he would muchprefer to "cut it out," as he would have expressed it to himself.
"I _do_ want to--now. I didn't mean to. But it's a relief." And itcame to him sharply that if he was to be a surgeon of souls, whatbusiness had he to shrink from blood?
"I am here to relieve you if I can. It's what I most wish to do--forany one," he said gently then. And the girl suddenly laughed again.
"For any one," she repeated. "I like it that way." Her eyes,wandering a moment about the dim, bare office, rested on a calendar inhuge lettering hanging on the wall, rested on the figures of the dateof the day. "I want to be just a number, a date--August first--I'mthat, and that's all. I'll never see you again, I hope. But you aregood and I'll be grateful. Here's the way things are. Three years agoI got engaged to a man. I suppose I thought I cared about him. I'm afool. I get--fads." A short, soft laugh cut the words. "I got aboutthat over the man. He fascinated me. I thought it was--more. So Igot engaged to him. He was a lot of things he oughtn't to be; mypeople objected. Then, later, my father was ill--dying. He asked meto break it off, and I did--he'd been father and mother both to me, yousee. But I still thought I cared. I hadn't seen the man much. Myfather died, and then I heard about the man, that he had lost money andbeen ill and that everybody was down on him; he drank, you know, andgot into trouble. So I just felt desperate; I felt it was my fault,and that there was nobody to stand by him. I felt as if I could pullhim up and make his life over--pretty conceited of me, I expect--but Ifelt that. So I wrote him a letter, six months ago, out of a blue sky,and told him that if he wanted me still he could have me. And he did.And then I went out to live with my uncle, and this man lives in thattown too, and I've seen him ever since, all the time. I know him now.And--" Out of the dimness the clergyman felt, rather than saw, a smilewiden--child-like, sardonic--a curious, contagious smile, whichbewildered him, almost made him smile back. "You'll think me a pitifulperson," she went on, "and I am. But I--almost--hate him. I'vepromised to marry him and I can't bear to have his fingers touch me."
In Geoffrey McBirney's short experience there had been nothing whichthrew a light on what he should do with a situation of this sort. Hewas keenly uncomfortable; he wished the rector had stayed at home. Atall events, silence was safe, so he was silent with all his might.
"When the doctors told me about my malady a month ago, the one light inthe blackness was that now I might break my engagement, and I hurriedto do it. But he wouldn't. He--" A sound came, half laugh, half sob."He's certainly faithful. But--I've got a lot of money. It'sfrightful," she burst forth. "It's the crowning touch, to doubt evenhis sincerity. And I may be wrong--he may care for me. He says so. Ithink my heart has ossified first, and is finished, for it is quitecold when he says so. I _can't_ marry him! So I might as well killmyself," she concluded, in a casual tone, like a splash of cold wateron the hot intensity of the sentences before. And the man, listening,realized that now he must say something. But what to say? His mindseemed blank, or at best a muddle of protest. And the light-heartedvoice spoke again. "I think I'll do it to-night, unless you tell meI'd certainly go to hell forever."
Then the protest was no longer muddled, but defined. "You mustn't dothat," he said, with authority. "Suppose a man is riding a runawayhorse and he loses his nerve and throws himself off and is killed--isthat as good a way as if he sat tight and fought hard until the horseran into a wall and killed him? I think not. And besides, any second,his pull on the reins may tell, and the horse may slow down, and hislife may be saved. It's better riding and it's better living not togive in till you're thrown. Your case looks hopeless to you, butdoctors have been wrong plenty of times; diseases take unexpectedturns; you may get well."
"Then I'd have to marry _him_," she interrupted swiftly.
"You ought not to marry him if you dislike him"--and the young parsonfelt himself flush hotly, and was thankful for the darkness; what afool a fellow felt, giving advice about a love-affair!
"I _have_ to. You see--he's pathetic. He'd go back into the depths ifI let go, and--and I'm fond of him, in a way."
"Oh!"--the masculine mind was bewildered. "I understood thatyou--disliked him."
"Why, I do. But I'm just fond of him." Then she laughed again. "Anywoman would know how I mean it. I mean--I am fond of him--I'd doanything for him. But I don't believe in him, and the thought of--ofmarrying him makes me desperate."
"Then you should not."
"I have to, if I live. So I'm going to kill myself to-night. You havenothing to say against it. You've said nothing--that counts. If yousaid I'd certainly go to hell, I might not--but you don't say that. Ithink you can't say it." She st
ood up. "Thank you for listeningpatiently. At least you have helped me to come to my decision. I'mgoing to. To-night."
This was too awful. He had helped her to decide to kill herself. Hecould not let her go that way. He stood before her and talked with allhis might. "You cannot do that. You must not. You are overstrainedand excited, and it is no