She saw him as he came up on the porch, and stopped, looking out, as if bewildered,then resumed her walk, mechanically. What it cost her to see him again he could not tell: her face did not alter. It was lifeless and schooled, the eyes looking straight forward always, indifferently. Was this his work? If he had killed her outright, it would have been better than this.
The windows were low: it had been his old habit to go in through them, and he now went up to one unconsciously. As he opened it, he saw her turn away for an instant; then she waited for him, entirely tranquil, the clear fire shedding a still glow over the room, no cry or shiver of pain to show how his coming broke open the old wound. She smiled even, when he leaned against the window looking, with a careless welcome.
Holmes stopped, confounded. It did not suit him,this. If you know a mans nature, you comprehend why. The bitterest reproach or a proud contempt would have been less galling than this gentle indifference. His hold had slipped from off the woman, he believed. A moment before he had remembered how he had held her in his arms, touched her cold lips, and then flung her off,he had remembered it, his every nerve shrinking with remorse and unutterable tenderness: now! The utter quiet of her face told more than words could do. She did not love him; he was nothing to her. Then love was a lie. A moment before he could have humbled himself in her eyes as low as he lay in his own, and accepted her pardon as a necessity of her enduring, faithful nature: now the whole strength of the man sprang into rage and mad desire of conquest.
He came gravely across the room, holding out his hand with his old quiet control. She might be cold and grave as he, but underneath he knew there was a thwarted hungry spirit,a strong fine spirit as dainty Ariel. He would sting it to life, and tame it: it was his.
I thought you would come, Stephen, she said, simply, motioning him to a chair.
Could this automaton be Margaret? He leaned on the mantel-shelf, looking down with a cynical sneer.
Is that the welcome? Why, there are a thousand greetings for this time of love and good words you might have chosen. Besides, I have come back ill and poor,a beggar perhaps. How do women receive such,generous women? Is there no formula? no hand-shaking? nothing more? remembering that I was oncenot indifferent to you.
He laughed. She stood still and grave as before.
Why, Margaret, I have been down near death since that night.
He thought her lips grew gray, but she looked up clear and steady.
I am glad you did not die. Yes, I can say that. As for hand-shaking, my ideas may be peculiar as your own.
She measures her words, he said, as to himself; her very eye-light is ruled by decorum; she is a machine, for work. She has swept her childs heart clean of anger and revenge, even scorn for the wretch that sold himself for money. There was nothing else to sweep out, was there?bitterly,no friendships, such as weak women nurse and coddle into being,or love, that they live in, and die for sometimes, in a silly way?
Unmanly!
No, not unmanly. Margaret, let us be serious and calm. It is no time to trifle or wear masks. That has passed between us which leaves no room for sham courtesies.
There needs none,meeting his eye unflinchingly. I am ready to meet you and hear your farewell. Dr. Knowles told me your marriage was near at hand. I knew you would come, Stephen. You did before.
He winced,the more that her voice was so clear of pain.
Why should I come? To show you what sort of a heart I have sold for money? Why, you know, little Margaret. You can reckon up its deformity, its worthlessness, on your cool fingers. You could tell the serene and gracious lady who is chaffering for it what a bargain she has made,that there is not in it one spark of manly honor or true love. Dont venture too near it in your coldness and prudence. It has tiger passions I will not answer for. Give me your hand, and feel how it pants like a hungry fiend. It will have food, Margaret.
She drew away the hand he grasped, and stood back in the shadow.
What is it to me?in the same measured voice.
Holmes wiped the cold drops from his forehead, a sort of shudder in his powerful frame. He stood a moment looking into the fire, his head dropped on his arm.
Let it be so, he said at last, quietly. The worn old heart can gnaw on itself a little longer. I have no mind to whimper over pain.
Something that she saw on the dark sardonic face, as the red gleams lighted it, made her start convulsively, as if she would go to him; then controlling herself, she stood silent. He had not seen the movement,or, if he saw, did not heed it. He did not care to tame her now. The firelight flashed and darkened, the crackling wood breaking the dead silence of the room.
It does not matter, he said, raising his head, laying his arm over his strong chest unconsciously, as if to shut in all complaint. I had an idle fancy that it would be good on this Christmas night to bare the secrets of crime and selfishness hidden in here to you,to suffer your pure eyes to probe the sorest depths: I thought perhaps they would have a blessing power. It was an idle fancy. What is my want or crime to you?
The answer came slowly, but it did come.
Nothing to me.
She tried to meet the gaunt face looking down on her with a proud sadness,did meet it at last with her meek eyes.
No, nothing to you. There is no need that I should stay longer, is there? You made ready to meet me, and have gone through your part well.
It is no part. I speak Gods truth to you as I can.
I know. There is nothing more for us to say to each other In this world, then, except good-night. Wordspolite wordsare bitterer than death, sometimes. If ever we happen to meet, that courteous smile on your face will be enough to speakGods truth for you. Shall we say good-night now?
If you will.
She drew farther into the shadow, leaning on a chair.
He stopped, some sudden thought striking him.
I have a whim, he said, dreamily, that I would like to satisfy. It would be a trifle to you: will you grant it?for the sake of some old happy day, long ago?
She put her hand up to her throat; then it fell again.
Anything you wish, Stephen, she said, gravely.
Yes. Come nearer, then, and let me see what I have lost. A heart so cold and strong as yours need not fear inspection. I have a fancy to look into it, for the last time.
She stood motionless and silent.
Come,softly,there is no hurt in your heart that fears detection?
She came out into the full light, and stood before him, pushing back the hair from her forehead, that he might see every wrinkle, and the faded, lifeless eyes. It was a true womans motion, remembering even then to scorn deception. The light glowed brightly in her face, as the slow minutes ebbed without a sound: she only saw his face in shadow, with the fitful gleam of intolerable meaning in his eyes. Her own quailed and fell.
Does it hurt you that I should even look at you? he said, drawing back. Why, even the sainted dead suffer us to come near them after they have died to us,to touch their hands, to kiss their lips, to find what look they left in their faces for us. Be patient, for the sake of the old time. My whim is not satisfied yet.
I am patient.
Tell me something of yourself, to take with me when I go, for the last time. Shall I think of you as happy in these days?
I am contented,the words oozing from her white lips in the bitterness of truth. I asked God, that night, to show me my work; and I think He has shown it to me. I do not complain. It is a great work.
I am patient.
Tell me something of yourself, to take with me when I go, for the last time. Shall I think of you as happy in these days?
I am contented,the words oozing from her white lips in the bitterness of truth. I asked God, that night, to show me my work; and I think He has shown it to me. I do not complain. It is a great work.
Is that all? he demanded, fiercely.
No, not all. It pleases me to feel I have a warm home, and to help keep it cheerful. When my father kisses me at night, or my mother says, God bless you, child, I know that is enough, that I ought to be happy.
The old clock in the corner hummed and ticked through the deep silence like the humble voice of the home she toiled to keep warm, thanking her, comforting her.
Once more, as the light grew stronger on her face,will you look down into your heart that you have given to this great work, and tell me what you see there? Dare you do it, Margaret?
I dare do it,but her whisper was husky.
Go on.
He watched her more as a judge would a criminal, as she sat before him: she struggled weakly under the power of his eye, not meeting it. He waited relentless, seeing her face slowly whiten, her limbs shiver, her bosom heave.
Let me speak for you, he said at last. I know who once filled your heart to the exclusion of all others: it is no time for mock shame. I know it was my hand that held the very secret of your being. Whatever I may have been, you loved me, Margaret. Will you say that now?
I loved you,once.
Whether it were truth that nerved her, or self-delusion, she was strong now to utter it all.
You love me no longer, then?
I love you no longer.
She did not look at him; she was conscious only of the hot fire wearing her eyes, and the vexing click of the clock. After a while he bent over her silently,a manly, tender presence.
When love goes once, he said, it never returns. Did you say it was gone, Margaret?
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 fashion of yours. You believed what you said. Let me also tell you what you call Gods truth, for a moment, Margaret. 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.
Was he calm? It was calmness that made her tremble as she had not done before.
You have deceived yourself: when you try to fill your heart with this work, you serve neither your God 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, Margaret !He laughed,a savage, despairing laugh.You have wrung this love out of your heart? If it was 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, Margaret! Margaret!
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 God, 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 Margaret!
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 mans 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 Margaret! 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, Margaret, 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, Margaret,a waking dream: only a clear vision of what had been once. Do you rememberthe 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. Margaret, there was no fresh loving thought in my brain for God or man that did not grow from my love of you; there was nothing noble 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 soul,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 damned who dare not love: I would not. It was then I hurt you, Margaret,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. It may have been thus with the girl, for her face deepened as she listened. For the first time for many long days tears welled up into her eyes, and rolled between her fingers unheeded.
I came through the streets to-night baffled in life,a mean man that might have been noble,all the years wasted that had gone before,disappointed,with nothing to hope for but time to work humbly and atone for the wrongs I had done. When I lay yonder, my soul on the coast of eternity, I resolved to atone for every selfish deed. I had no thought of happiness; God knows I had no hope of it. I had wronged you most: I could not die with that wrong unforgiven.