"Yes," said I, "you even gave me your lips once."
She blushed vividly, her eyes hard on her sewing.
"I shall not do the like again," said she, all rosy to the roots of her gold hair.
"And why, pray?"
"Because I know better now."
After a silence I turned me on my pillow and sighed heavily.
"John?" she inquired in gentle anxiety, "are you in great pain?"
I groaned.
She came to me again and laid her cool, soft hand on my head; and I caught it in both of mine and drew her down to me.
"I am a cripple and a beggar for your kindness, Penelope," I said. "I ask alms of you. Will you kiss me?"
"Oh," she exclaimed, "you have deceived me! Let me go! Loose me instantly!"
"Will you kiss me out of that charity which you say you practice?"
"That is not charity!----"
"What is begged for is charity. And you say you are made to give."
"But you taught me otherwise! And now you undo your own schooling!----"
"But I owe it you--this kiss!"
"How do you owe it me?"
"You kissed me in the snow, and left me in your debt."
"Oh, goodness! That frolic! Have you not long ago forgotten our winter madness----"
"Like you," said I, "I must pay my just debts and owe n.o.body." And I drew her nearer, all flushed with protest, firm to escape, yet gentle in her supple, pretty way lest she hurt me.
I laughed, and saw my gaiety reflected in her eyes an instant.
Then, of a sudden, she put one arm around my neck and rested her lips on mine. And so I kissed her, and she suffered it, resting so against me with lowered eyes.
The flower-sweetness of her mouth bewildered me, and I was confused by it and by the stifled tumult of my heart, so that I scarce had sense enough to detain her when she drew away.
She sat at my side, the faint smile still stamped on her lips, but her brown eyes seemed a little frightened, and her breast rose and fell like a scared bird"s under the snowy kerchief.
"Well--and well," says she in her pretty, breathless way--"I am overpaid, I think, and you are now acquitted of your debt. And so--and so our folly ends ... and now is finally ended."
She took her sewing. A golden light was in the room; and she seemed to me the loveliest thing I had ever looked upon. I realized it. I knew she was loveliest of all. And the swift knowledge seemed to choke me.
After a little while she stole a look at me, met my eyes, laughed guiltily.
"You!" said she, "a schoolmaster! You teach me one thing and would have me practice another. What confidence can I entertain for such wisdom as is yours, John Drogue?"
"Rules," said I, "are made to be proven by their more interesting exceptions. However, in future you are to endure no kiss and no caress--unless from me."
"Oh. Is that the new lesson I am to learn and understand?"
"That is the lesson. Will you remember it when I am gone?"
"Gone?"
"Yes. When I am gone away on duty. Will you remember, Penelope?"
"I am like to," she said under her breath, and sewing rapidly.
She st.i.tched on in silence for a while; but now the light was dimming and she moved nearer the window, which was close by my bed head.
After a while her hands dropped in her lap; she looked out into the twilight. I took her tired little hand in mine, but she did not turn her head.
"I have," said I, "two thousand pounds sterling at my solicitor"s in Albany. I wish you to have it if any accident happens to me.... And my glebe in Fonda"s Bush.... I shall so write it in my will."
She shook her head slightly, still gazing from the window.
"Will you accept?" I asked.
"What good would it do me? If I accept it I should only divide it among the needy--in memory of--of my dear boy friend--Jack Drogue----"
She rose hastily and walked to the door, then very slowly retraced her steps to my bedside.
"You are so kind to me," she murmured, touching my forehead.
"You are so different to other men,--so truly gallant in your boy"s soul. There is no evil in you,--no ruthlessness. Oh, I know--I know--more than I seem to know--of men.... And their importunities....
And of their wilful selfishness."
I sat up straight. "Has any man made you unhappy?" I demanded in angry surprise.
She seated herself and looked at me gravely.
"Do you know," she said, "men have courted me always--even when I was scarce more than a child? And mine is a friendly heart, Mr. Drogue. I have a half shy desire to please. I am loath to inflict pain. But always my kindness seems like to cost me more than I choose to pay."
"Pay to whom?"
"To any man.... For example, I would not elope with Stephen Watts when he begged me at Caughnawaga. And Walter Butler addressed me also--in secret--being a friend of the Fondas and so free of the house.... And was ever stealthily importuning me to a stolen rendezvous which I had sense enough to refuse, knowing him to be both married and a rake, and cruel to women.
"Oh, I tell you that they all courted me,--not kindly,--for ever there seemed to me in their ardent gaze and discreet whisperings something vaguely sinister. Not that it frightened me, nor did I take alarm, being too ignorant----"
She folded her hands and looked down at them.