"We are speaking of realities," he returned, and added, bitterly: "Who should have had love--if not you?"
They had pa.s.sed the lake, and were walking through the Ramble. The dead leaves rustled beneath their feet.
"It is not true," she said, pa.s.sionately. "It is false."
"What is false?" he demanded, quietly. "That you have had opportunities for love?"
She did not reply. Her lips were trembling, and her hand played nervously with the ribbon on her m.u.f.f.
Suddenly she looked up.
"When I left you," she said, slowly, "I went with the opera troupe abroad. For several years I was very successful, and I believed it would end well. I was given a leading part. Then one winter, when we were in Paris, I was taken ill. It was pneumonia. I was very ill, and the pain was frightful. They thought it would go to my heart. But when I grew better the troupe went on. I was left at the hotel, ill and alone--except for one friend--an Englishman--"
He interrupted her harshly.
"You have made a mistake," he said, and his voice was dull and lifeless.
"I have no right to know your story. You are not of my parish--nor am I your confessor."
She flinched, but went on steadily, though her tones drooped.
"He had followed me for a long time. He loved me--or thought he did.
When I was deserted by the troupe he stayed with me. He paid my bills and brought me back to life. I grew strong again, but--my voice was gone."
She paused as if in pain.
"Sit down," he said.
And they sat down on a bench beneath the naked branches of an oak.
"I was penniless, alone, and very weak. He wanted me even then. At first he did not want to marry me, but when I would not yield, he begged me to come back with him and secure a divorce. I think he was mad with pa.s.sion."
She hesitated and glanced at him, but he was looking away.
"At last the end came. There was nothing else to do--and I wrote to you."
He moistened his lips as if they were parched from fever.
"Did you get the letter?"
"Yes," he answered, "I got it."
"And you did not answer?"
"What was there for me to say? You were free."
For an instant her eyes blazed.
"You never loved me," she said.
He smiled slightly.
"Do you think so?" he asked.
The anger died from her eyes and she spoke softly.
"I waited for the answer," she said; "waited months, and it did not come. Then I came back. We went out West. A divorce was very easy--and I married him. I owed him so much."
"Yes?"
"It was a mistake. I did not satisfy him. He thought me cold. We quarrelled, and he went to other women. He drank a great deal. I was much to blame, but I could not help it. I hated him. Then his uncle took my part and loved me--G.o.d bless him, he was a saint--and kind--oh, so kind. When he died he left me the money, and his nephew and I separated.
I have not seen him since."
They were both silent. She could hear his heavy breathing, and her heart throbbed.
"It was all a mistake," she said. "My whole life has been a mistake. But there is no salvation for us who make mistakes."
His eyes grew dark as he looked at her.
"A mistake that one stands by may become the part of wisdom," he said.
"Could you not go back to him and begin again?" His face had grown haggard.
Her wrath flamed out.
"If I begin again," she answered, "it must be from the beginning--to relive my whole life."
He looked at her restless hands.
"Then you must look to the future," he said, "since there is no present--and no past."
"There is a past," she returned, pa.s.sionately.
He shook his head.
"A dead one."
Her mouth shone scarlet in the pallor of her face.
"And shall we forget our dead?" she asked.
His lips closed together with brutal force. His eyes were hot with self-control.
Then he stooped for her m.u.f.f, which had rolled to the ground, brushing it lightly with his hand. As he gave it to her he rose to his feet.
"Shall we return?" he asked. "It has grown cloudy."
She rose also, but stood for an instant with her hand resting upon the back of the bench. Her lips opened, but closed again, and she turned and walked at his side in silence.
Suddenly he looked at her.