CHAPTER I.
THE KISS THAT LIED.
East Sixty-seventh Street, Feb. 25.
He said he did not love me.
It is not true. I saw love when he spoke, when he kissed my hands. Hedoes love me, but he guards a man's honour.
I have broken John's heart, given up my home, estranged my friends; Ihave given up even Ned for love of him. But I'd have gone to the endsof the earth in gladness, I'd have given up for him all else inlife--even my beauty; which is dearer than life.
He'll come to me yet. Milly won't forgive, won't trust. She will nottry to understand. Her only thought will be to hurt, to punish. She'lldrive him to me again; but oh, the shame of taking him so, given to meby her severity!
I won't believe he doesn't love me.
What have I done to be so tortured? I didn't know it was cruelty not tobreak the bond with John earlier; I didn't know I gave him only agirl's passing fancy.
It was when I met Ned that my heart awoke.
I knew that he was Milly's betrothed and I had not thought of thusrepaying Aunt's kindness. Her kindness! Kind as a stone.
But it wasn't Ned's fault. He couldn't help himself. If he could haveleft me alone! If he could only have gone away!
I suppose he tried to control himself, but his eyes glowed when helooked on me; and I, thinking I knew what love was, because I wasaffianced, did not see--did not know what the wild joy meant that hislook woke in my heart.
To keep faith with John and Milly, should I have shunned him? But therewas nothing to warn me; he never spoke of love; I never thought of it.If he had spoken earlier, I might have known what to do. It might havebeen the danger signal. Why could he not have kept away? Why did he notspeak a word of love until it was too late--until--ah, I was so happy!
But he does love me. There's truer speech than that of words, and hislips--that kissed me, but said he did not love--have told two stories.I know which to believe!
And Milly knows. She is too wise to contend with Me.
I shall never know what brought Ned to the house--three weeks ago, butI haven't dared to write of it--I shall never know what happened beforeI saw him.
I ran into the library with a song bubbling to my lips--for I wasthinking of him--and the gladness of it was in my eyes when I found himthere. He started and turned to me a face of confusion--yes, and ofworship. He fumbled with a book on the table, and glanced toward thedoor as if he would have left me. I saw that, but I didn't think--therewas no time to think, but I must have felt that a crisis had come thatwould decide our lives. All the fear, all the sweet shame that I hadfelt before him vanished. My heart beat wildly for happiness, but I wascalm.
At last we were alone together!
I waited for him to speak. Slowly he turned as my questioning eyes hadwilled. His were black with passion and grief. A look of paincontracted his face, and he said, jerking the words out hoarsely:--
"I'm going away."
The suddenness of it almost took my breath. I had expected differentwords. Indeed his eyes had shot another message; _they_ said that hewould never leave me!
Confused by lips that lied and eyes that confessed, I stammered:--
"Going--not going away? Why? Why should you go?"
I couldn't keep appeal out of my tone, and I could see him bracehimself to resist. I think I knew that, if he could, he meant tosacrifice our love to John and Milly. I think I had seen this earlier;but I had thought the struggle past when he came to me and begged menot to leave the city. But perhaps, this time, I didn't understand him;perhaps I was simply confused by his distress.
I thought he tried in vain to look away from me. Then he moved a stepnearer, slowly, as if reluctant. His face was haggard.
"Tell me why you are going."
I scarcely knew I spoke. It was as if some will independent of my ownhad dictated the words. Yet I did not try to hide my heart's wish; itwas too late. He was my life, and in all but words--yes, and in wordseven--I told him so. We had confessed our love. It was his right.
"Listen," I said. "If anything is--is wrong, I must know it. I--I_must_ know it. Tell me. I must know everything. Ned, you must tell me."
A vein stood out upon his forehead, but still he gazed silently at me.After a time he said hoarsely:--
"I'm going because for your beauty I have thrown away the love of thewoman I was to marry. For you I have lost her, and yet--I loved Milly.My God, I love her!"
Once he had begun, the words came with fierce swiftness. He seemed tomean them to sting, to cut, to stab. It was hard not to cry out withthe pain of hearing them. All that I understood was that he meant towrench himself from me with a force that should make the breachimpassable. This I felt, though still his eyes gave the lie to hiswords; his eyes that said I was dear as life to him.
"Don't think I blame you for the inevitable," he went on. "You do notknow, and I pray God you may never understand, how contemptible I havebeen. And don't think me a fool; I'm not crying for the moon, nordreaming that a glorious creature like you--ah, you're as far above meas the stars above the sea--to you I have been only--"
"Don't speak like that!" I cried. White-faced, I stared at him,tremblingly, pleadingly. There was a cloud in my brain that seemed tobe coming down; it threatened to smother me--but I held fast to mycourage. It was life itself for which I was fighting.
"You have--you are--"
The truth was at my lips, but he interrupted:--
"I know you have reason to hate me, for I have done you wrong. Becauseof my folly, your place here is not what it was; and you love Burke,whom I have wronged, as I love Milly, whom I have estranged. I mustkeep away from you. You can see that. For the sake of all, I must keepaway from you."
The cloud was choking me, but I put forth my strength.
"You have done nothing wrong; I do not--"
Words failed me. I hadn't the temerity to speak John's name. AndNed--could he not see?--only stood there saying:--
"Why I've wrecked Milly's life and mine and turned your friends againstyou, only God knows, who made men what they are; only God knows--Idon't. Can you forgive me?"
Didn't he love me? His despair was beating conviction into me. He waspale, his lip quivered. Why was he humbled and ashamed? I was palsiedwith doubt, and the golden moments were fleeting, were fleeting. I mustact! But I felt as if I were dead and could not, though that stranglingcloud still hurt me.
"There is nothing to forgive," I faltered at last. "Or--you mustforgive me. Perhaps I should understand, but--oh, I'm not wise. IndeedI have not meant to--to--Shall I speak to Milly for you? But that wouldonly make matters worse. They may take me--to Bermuda--anywhere; or--Iwill leave this house; she'll forget if I go away."
At the last words my tremulous voice broke almost into a scream. Must Igo away--go away that he may make Milly happy?
"You will stay here," he said, his lips quivering more and more. "Whyshould I drive you from home? I have lost Milly. She understands nomore than you, and I hope she never may! You need not fear that I shalltrouble you. I shall not see you again. You are maddening--no, notthat--but I am mad. Mad!"
He turned abruptly to go, came back as hastily, caught my hand andpressed hot kisses on it. His burning eyes looked passionately intomine. He was indeed like one insane.
Then with a great groan of contrition he put his hands before his faceand rushed blindly from the room.
"Ned! Ned!" I cried out, but it was too late; he didn't hear me.
I don't know how I reached my chamber. I fell in a heap on the floor,shivering, laughing, sobbing, moaning for death.
Going away! I was going away from Ned! My beauty had meshed him; Ialmost hated it. I saw his haggard face, I heard again his voice,solicitous for Milly's grief. I know now that pain cannot kill, or Ishould have died.
Going away! He did not love me. He cared nothing for my hurt, only forMilly's. He loved that little white piece of putty that hadn't lifeenough to love any man!
I heard rain against the wind
ows and felt a sudden fierce longing to goout and fight the storm. Could not a strong woman compel love? No otherwoman since the world began had been so fit for love, had yearned forit so hungrily.
Going away! Yet I felt his kisses upon my hand. Are men so different?What is a man, that he should love and not love?
How cold the old Nelly was! Since coming to the city, I had never letJohn kiss me; yet I thought I loved him. I thought love was a brook tomake little tinkling music, and it had become a mighty ocean sweepingover me, sweeping over me!
But I must act at once, I thought; I must go away. I must find my aunt,must tell her--what? Where could I go? Not back to Kitty; she had leftthe den. Not to Miss Baker, who would share Aunt's wrath. Where couldone such as I find refuge? A woman whom all women must hate for herloveliness?
"Ned! Ned! I am alone!" I cried in my agony of soul. "You must--youwill!--come back to me, come back to me."
I bathed my eyes and hurried from the house to forget the thought, butit followed everywhere. The rain had not stopped, but it suited me tobe drenched, to hold my face to the whiplash of the water snapped bythe wind. I went to Meg Van Dam, who had long urged me to pay her avisit. This time I was ready to consent, for she at least was glad tohave me; and before I left her I had agreed to go to her.
It was dinner time when I reached home, glad that it was to be home tome no longer; the house made me shudder as a dungeon might. It was sochanged since morning, seen now with different eyes. The dining roomwas so heavily respectable, with its fussily formal arrangements--likeUncle, for it's big; like Aunt, for it's crotchety.
I suppose there must have been a scene with Ned. Aunt Frank wasdepressed, fitfully talkative. Milly scarcely spoke, but in thecurtness with which she turned her sullen head when poor Ethel askedsome question, I wasn't slow in finding a meaning.
Joy begged in vain for her nightly lullaby. I couldn't respond to her"Thing, Cothin Nelly!" I'd never before noticed how like she is to hersisters. With her snubby nose and her yellow braids, she'll grow intojust another white-faced doll as Milly.
Miss Baker talked persistently about Bermuda; as if my exile had everbeen a possibility! In all my blind whirlwind of pain, I was glad thatthis was the last night I should have to writhe under the click of herknitting needles, and sit opposite her large, solemn features.
"A change will do you good, Frances," she purred. "By either the_Orinoco_ or the _Trinidad_ you'll have only a two days' voyage. Helenwill be in her element among the coral, and Milly must come home with acoat of tan."
Milly bent lower over her magazine; in an hour she hadn't turned apage. Her thin hands, like claws, that held the book, disgusted me,fascinated me! They were the hands that Ned had kissed, as he had mine;clasped and pressed, as he had--how could he!
I called Aunt to me at bedtime, and told her I'd trespassed upon herkindness too long, and that Mrs. Van Dam was pressing.
"But we can't let you go," she said, even while the wonder whether shemight not shone through her face. "You and Meg have become friends, Iknow, but Bake and I feel responsible to your mother."
Of course we understood each other, but neither cared to speak thetruth. She had no pity, in her feeling for her own child, for the hurtI might conceal. And I don't want her pity!
At least I shall no longer have to tear my heart out, meeting Ned inher house.
The parting was easier than might have been expected, for we all roseto the occasion. Uncle had been drilled over night, and his perplexityand Aunt's preparations for leaving home amused me. The trip to Bermudahad been proposed for my sake, Aunt had only half desired it; but nowshe forgot her fears of winter storms, seasickness and shipwreck, andclutched at the excuse to whisk Milly out of reach of Ned Hynes and outof sight of me.
Her tone was dulcet sweet.
"We can't blame you for preferring New York, when the Van Dams are solovely to you," she said complacently. "But Ethel is delicate.Bermuda'll do her a world of good; though of course it's notfashionable.'"
"I'm sure you'll have a lovely trip," I said. "You must let me help youpack."
She was turning the house topsy-turvy in her zeal to sail by the nextboat, the very next day. She succeeded; and when she left the house Ileft it, too; to come here; to the General; to a house that would twomonths ago have seemed a palace such as I could never dream of livingin. It would suit me better to be independent, to be sometimes alone,to feel that I shouldn't have a shrewd woman's eyes so much upon me.But for the present--it is my refuge!
At Christmas I should have broken down and sobbed when I saw the lastof the Bakers, instead of dropping honeyed sentences and undulating outof the room--like--like--. He called me once the Goddess glowing in herwalk. I have changed this winter, mentally as well as physically.