“You are no more amazed than I am to learn the truth,” he said. “I never supposed it was that…. And it’s been that from the moment I laid eyes on you. I know it now. I’m learning, you see — learning not to lie to myself or to you…. Learning other things, too — God knows what — if this is love — this utter — suffering—”
He swung on his heel and began to pace the glimmering tiles toward her:
“Discontent, apathy, unhappiness, loneliness — the hidden ache which merely meant I missed you when you were not here — when I was not beside you — all these are now explained before your bed of justice. Your court has heard the truth to-night; and you, Valerie, are armed with justice — the high, the middle, and the low.”
Pale, mute, she raised her dark eyes and met his gaze.
In the throbbing silence he heard his heart heavy in his breast; and now she heard her own, rapid, terrifying her, hurrying her she knew not whither. And again, trembling, she covered her eyes with her hands.
“Valerie,” he said, in anguish, “come back to me. I will not ask you to love me if you cannot. Only come back. I — can’t — endure it — without you.”
There was no response.
He stepped nearer, touched her hands, drew them from her face — revealing its pallid loveliness — pressed them to his lips, to his face; drew them against his own shoulders — closer, till they fell limply around his neck.
She uttered a low cry: “Louis!” Then:
“It — it is all over — with us,” she faltered. “I — had never thought of you — this way.”
“Can you think of me this way, now?”
“I — can’t help it.”
“Dearest — dearest—” he stammered, and kissed her unresponsive lips, her throat, her hair. She only gazed silently at the man whose arms held her tightly imprisoned.
Under the torn lace and silk one bare shoulder glimmered; and he kissed it, touched the pale veins with his lips, drew the arm from his neck and kissed elbow, wrist, and palm, and every slender finger; and still she looked at him as though dazed. A lassitude, heavy, agreeable to endure, possessed her. She yielded to the sense of fatigue — to the confused sweetness that invaded her; every pulse in her body beat its assent, every breath consented.
“Will you try to care for me, Valerie?”
“You know I will.”
“With all your heart?” he asked, trembling.
“I do already.”
“Will you give yourself to me?”
There was a second’s hesitation; then with a sudden movement she dropped her face on his shoulder. After a moment her voice came, very small, smothered:
“What did you mean, Louis?”
“By what — my darling?”
“By — my giving myself — to you?”
“I mean that I want you always,” he said in a happy, excited voice that thrilled her. But she looked up at him, still unenlightened.
“I don’t quite understand,” she said— “but—” and her voice fell so low he could scarcely hear it— “I am — not afraid — to love you.”
“Afraid!” He stood silent a moment, then: “What did you think I meant,
Valerie? I want you to marry me!”
She flushed and laid her cheek against his shoulder, striving to think amid the excited disorder of her mind, the delicious bewilderment of her senses — strove to keep clear one paramount thought from the heavenly confusion that was invading her, carrying her away, sweeping her into paradise — struggled to keep that thought intact, uninfluenced, and cling to it through everything that threatened to overwhelm her.
Her slim hands resting in his, her flushed face on his breast, his words ringing in her ears, she strove hard, hard! to steady herself. Because already she knew what her decision must be — what her love for him had always meant in the days when that love had been as innocent as friendship. And even now there was little in it except innocence; little yet of passion. It was still only a confused, heavenly surprise, unvexed, and, alas! unterrified. The involuntary glimpse of any future for it or for her left her gaze dreamy, curious, but unalarmed. The future he had offered her she would never accept; no other future frightened her.
“Louis?”
“Dearest,” he whispered, his lips to hers.
“It is sweet of you, it is perfectly dear of you to wish me to be your — wife. But — let us decide such questions later—”
“Valerie! What do you mean?”
“I didn’t mean that I don’t love you,” she said, tremulously. “I believe you scarcely understand how truly I do love you…. As a matter of fact, I have always been in love with you without knowing it. You are not the only fool,” she said, with a confused little laugh.
“You darling!”
She smiled again uncertainly and shook her head:
“I truly believe I have always been in love with you…. Now that I look back and consider, I am sure of it.” She lifted her pretty head and gazed at him, then with a gay little laugh of sheer happiness almost defiant: “You see I am not afraid to love you,” she said.
“Afraid? Why should you be?” he repeated, watching her expression.
“Because — I am not going to marry you,” she announced, gaily.
He stared at her, stunned.
“Listen, you funny boy,” she added, framing his face with her hands and smiling confidently into his troubled eyes: “I am not afraid to love you because I never was afraid to face the inevitable. And the inevitable confronts me now. And I know it. But I will not marry you, Louis. It is good of you, dear of you to ask it. But it is too utterly unwise. And I will not.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, frankly, “I love you better than I do myself.” She forced another laugh, adding: “Unlike the gods, whom I love I do not destroy.”
“That is a queer answer, dear—”
“Is it? Because I say I love you better than I do myself? Why, Louis, all the history of my friendship for you has been only that. Have you ever seen anything selfish in my affection for you?”.
“Of course not, but—”
“Well, then! There isn’t one atom of it in my love for you, either. And I love you dearly — dearly! But I’m not selfish enough to marry you. Don’t scowl and try to persuade me, Louis, I’ve a perfectly healthy mind of my own, and you know it — and it’s absolutely clear on that subject. You must be satisfied with what I offer — every bit of love that is in me—” She hesitated, level eyed and self-possessed, considering him with the calm gaze of a young goddess:
“Dear,” she went on, slowly, “let us end this marriage question once and for all. You can’t take me out of my world into yours without suffering for it. Because your world is full of women of your own kind — mothers, sisters, relatives, friends…. And all your loyalty, all your tact, all their tact and philosophy, too, could not ease one moment in life for you if I were unwise enough to go with you into that world and let you try to force them to accept me.”
“I tell you,” he began, excitedly, “that they must accept—”
“Hush!” she smiled, placing her hand gently across his lips; “with all your man’s experience you are only a man; but I know how it is with women. I have no illusions, Louis. Even by your side, and with the well-meant kindness of your family to me, you would suffer; and I have not the courage to let you — even for love’s sake.”
“You are entirely mistaken—” he broke out; but she silenced him with a pretty gesture, intimate, appealing, a little proud.
“No, I am not mistaken, nor am I likely to deceive myself that any woman of your world could ever consider me of it — or could ever forgive you for taking me there. And that means spoiling life for you. And I will not!”
“Then they can eliminate me, also!” he said, impatiently.
“What logic! When I have tried so hard to make you understand that I will not accept any sacrifice from you!”
“It is no sacrifice for me to giv
e up such a—”
“You say very foolish and very sweet things to me, Louis, but I could not love you enough to make up to you your unhappiness at seeing me in your world and not a part of it. Ah, the living ghosts of that world, Louis! Yet I could endure it for myself — a woman can endure anything when she loves; and find happiness, too — if only the man she loves is happy. But, for a man, the woman is never entirely sufficient. My position in your world would anger you, humiliate you, finally embitter you. And I could not live if sorrow came to you through me.”
“You are bringing sorrow on me with every word—”
“No, dear. It hurts for a moment. Then wisdom will heal it. You do not believe what I say. But you must believe this, that through me you shall never know real unhappiness if I can prevent it.”
“And I say to you, Valerie, that I want you for my wife. And if my family and my friends hesitate to receive you, it means severing my relations with them until they come to their senses—”
“That is exactly what I will not do to your life, Louis! Can’t you understand? Is your mother less dear to you than was mine to me? I will not break your heart! I will not humiliate either you or her; I will not ask her to endure — or any of your family — or one man or woman in that world where you belong…. I am too proud — and too merciful to you!”
“I am my own master!” he broke out, angrily —
“I am my own mistress — and incidentally yours,” she added in a low voice.
“Valerie!”
“Am I not?” she asked, quietly.
“How can you say such a thing, child!”
“Because it is true — or will be. Won’t it?” She lifted her clear eyes to his, unshrinking — deep brown wells of truth untroubled by the shallows of sham and pretence.
His face burned a deep red; she confronted him, slender, calm eyed, composed: “I am not the kind of woman who loves twice. I love you so dearly that I will not marry you. That is settled. I love you so deeply that I can be happy with you unmarried. And if this is true, is it not better for me to tell you? I ask nothing except love; I give all I have — myself.”
She dropped her arms, palms outward, gazing serenely at him; then blushed vividly as he caught her to him in a close embrace, her delicate, full lips crushed to his.
“Dearest — dearest,” he whispered, “you will change your ideas when you understand me better—”
“I can love you no more than I do. Could I love you more if I were your wife?”
“Yes, you wilful, silly child!”
She laughed, her lips still touching his. “I don’t believe it, Louis. I know I couldn’t. Besides, there is no use thinking about it.”
“Valerie, your logic and your ethics are terribly twisted—”
“Perhaps. All I know is that I love you. I’d rather talk of that—”
“Than talk of marrying me!”
“Yes, dear.”
“But you’d make me so happy, so proud—”
“You darling! to say so. Think so always, Louis, because I promise to make you happy, anyway—”
He had encircled her waist with one arm, and they were slowly pacing the floor before the hearth, she with her charming young head bent, eyes downcast, measuring her steps to his.
She said, thoughtfully: “I have my own ideas concerning life. One of them is to go through it without giving pain to others. To me, the only real wickedness is the wilful infliction of unhappiness. That covers all guilt…. Other matters seem so trivial in comparison — I mean the forms and observances — the formalism of sect and creed…. To me they mean nothing — these petty laws designed to govern those who are willing to endure them. So I ignore them,” she concluded, smilingly; and touched her lips to his hand.
“Do you include the marriage law?” he asked, curiously.
“In our case, yes…. I don’t think it would do for everybody to ignore it.”
“You think we may, safely?”
“Don’t you, Louis?” she asked, flushing. “It leaves you free in your own world.”
“How would it leave you?”
She looked up, smiling adorably at his thought of her:
“Free as I am now, dearest of men — free to be with you when you wish for me, free to relieve you of myself when you need that relief, free to come and go and earn my living as independently as you gain yours. It would leave me absolutely tranquil in body and mind….” She laid her flushed face against his. “Only my heart would remain fettered. And that is now inevitable.”
He kissed her and drew her closer:
“You are so very, very wrong, dear. The girl who gives herself without benefit of clergy walks the earth with her lover in heavier chains than ever were forged at any earthly altar.”
She bent her head thoughtfully; they paced the floor for a while in silence.
Presently she looked up: “You once said that love comes unasked and goes unbidden. Do vows at an altar help matters? Is divorce more decent because lawful? Is love more decent when it has been officially and clerically catalogued?”
“It is safer.”
“For whom?”
“For the community.”
“Perhaps.” She considered as she timed her slow pace to his:
“But, Louis, I can’t marry you and I love you! What am I to do? Live out life without you? Let you live out life without me? When my loving you would not harm you or me? When I love you dearly — more dearly, more deeply every minute? When life itself is — is beginning to be nothing in this world except you? What are we to do?”
And, as he made no answer:
“Dear,” she said, hesitating a little, “I am perfectly unconscious of any guilt in loving you. I am glad I love you. I wish to be part of you before I die. I wish it more than anything in the world! How can an unselfish girl who loves you harm you or herself or the world if she gives herself to you — without asking benefit of clergy and the bureau of licenses?”
Standing before the fire, her head resting against his shoulder, they watched the fading embers for a while in silence. Then, irresistibly drawn by the same impulse, they turned toward one another, trembling:
“I’ll marry you that way — if it’s the only way,” he said.
“It is the — only way.”
She laid a soft hand in his; he bent and kissed it, then touched her mouth with his lips.
“Do you give yourself to me, Valerie?”
“Yes.”
“From this moment?” he whispered.
Her face paled. She stood resting her cheek on his shoulder, eyes distrait thinking. Then, in a voice so low and tremulous he scarce could understand:
“Yes, now,” she said, “I — give — myself.”
He drew her closer: she relaxed in his embrace; her face, white as a flower, upturned to his, her dark eyes looking blindly into his.
There was no sound save the feathery rush of snow against the panes — the fall of an ember amid whitening ashes — a sigh — silence.
Twice logs fell from the andirons, showering the chimney with sparks; presently a little flame broke out amid the débris, lighting up the studio with a fitful radiance; and the single shadow cast by them wavered high on wall and ceiling.
His arms were around her; his lips rested on her face where it lay against his shoulder. The ruddy resurgence of firelight stole under the lashes on her cheeks, and her eyes slowly unclosed.
Standing there gathered close in his embrace, she turned her head and watched the flame growing brighter among the cinders. Thought, which had ceased when her lips met his in the first quick throb of passion, stirred vaguely, and awoke. And, far within her, somewhere in confused obscurity, her half-stunned senses began groping again toward reason.
“Louis!”
“Dearest one!”
“I ought to go. Will you take me home? It is morning — do you realise it?”
She lifted her head, cleared her eyes with one slender wrist, pushing back the disordered hair.
Then gently disengaging herself from his arms, and still busy with her tumbled hair, she looked up at the dial of the ancient clock which glimmered red in the firelight.
“Morning — and a strange new year,” she said aloud, to herself. She moved nearer to the clock, watching the stiff, jerking revolution of the second hand around its lesser dial.
Hearing him come forward behind her, she dropped her head back against him without turning.
“Do you see what Time is doing to us? — Time, the incurable, killing us by seconds, Louis — eating steadily into the New Year, devouring it hour by hour — the hours that we thought belonged to us.” She added, musingly: “I wonder how many hours of the future remain for us.”
He answered in a low voice:
“That is for you to decide.”
“I know it,” she murmured. She lifted one ringless hand and still without looking at him, pressed the third finger backward against his lips.
“So much for the betrothal,” she said. “My ring-finger is consecrated.”
“Will you not wear any ring?” he asked.
“No. Your kiss is enough.”
“Yet — if we are — are—”
“Engaged?” she suggested, calmly. “Yes, call it that. I really am engaged to give myself to you — ex cathedra — extra muros.”
“When?” he said under his breath.
“I don’t know…. I must think. A girl who is going to break all conventions ought to have time to consider the consequences—” She smiled, faintly— “a little time to prepare herself for the — the great change…. I think we ought to remain engaged for a while — don’t you?”
“Dearest!” he broke out, pleadingly, “the old way is the best way! I cannot bear to take you — to have you promise yourself without formality or sanction—”
“But I have already consented, Louis. Volenti non fit injuria,” she added with a faint smile. “Voluntas non potest cogi — dearest — dearest of lovers! I love you dearly for what you offer me — I adore you for it. And — how long do you think you ought to wait for me?”
She disengaged herself from his arm, walked slowly toward the tall old clock, turned her back to it and faced him with clear level eyes. After a moment she laughed lightly:
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 532