"I can not bear up against it; I believe since that rainy day which overtook us in Molde, so long ago now—five years and more—you remember—when we had met three or four times, a few days before, at Trondhjem?" She smiled and kissed his hand, remembering her youth: she was old now. "You recollect, we got home to the hotel drenched. I believe I have been ill ever since that day, that I took a bad cold which settled in me, though at first I did not feel it and said nothing about it, but which has been undermining me ever since, all this long time—"
He made no reply; he, too, had a vague recollection of something tragically painful at Molde, but he could no longer remember what. But she suddenly burst into a violent fit of weeping.
"Oh, Frank, speak! Say something," she besought him, in despair at his silence, feeling her terror grow greater in the stillness, and her heart throbbing wildly in spite of herself.
He passed his hand over his forehead, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he slowly replied:
"Yes, Eva—for I have something to say to you. Just this very day."
"What is that?" she asked, looking up through her tears, in surprise at his strange tone.
"I want to speak to you very seriously, Eva. Will you listen?"
"Yes."
"I want to ask you something—to ask you if you would not rather be free. To ask if you would not be glad that I should release you?"
She did not immediately understand him, and sat gazing at him open-mouthed.
"Why?" she said at length, shuddering, terrified lest he should understand something of what was torturing her soul.
"Because it would be so much better for you, my child," he said, gently. "I have no right to fetter your life to mine. I am wrecked—an old man—and you are young."
She clung closely to him.
"No, I am old, too," said she, with a smile, "and I will not have it. I will be true to you. I will always comfort you when you are out of heart. And so, together, we will both grow young again, and both be happy."
Her voice was as sweet as balm; to give him strength she felt something of her old illusions reviving in her. She would cling to him whatever the cost: she loved him.
He clasped her tightly to his breast, and kissed her fondly. For the moment she felt no fear; he was so unhappy.
"You are a dear, good girl," he whispered in a husky, trembling voice. "I do not deserve that you should be so good to me. But, seriously, Eva, think it over once more. Consider again whether you would not be unhappy, nay, wretched, if you had to be with me always. There is yet time; we have our future lives in our hands, and I can not spend mine with you, Eva, only to make yours more miserable than I have done already. So, for your sake, for your happiness, I would gladly give you back your word."
"But I will not have it!" she moaned, desperately. "I will not. I do not understand you. Why should you give me back my word?"
He took her hands caressingly in his own, and looked in her face a long time, with a sad smile under the gold-colored mustache.
"Why? Because you—because you are afraid of me, my darling." ,
A spasm shot through her whole frame, like an electric shock; wildly she looked at him, and wildly protested:
"It is not true, Frank; I swear it is not true! Great God! Why do you think that? What have I done to make you think it? Believe me, Frank; take my word. I swear to you by all that is holy; there. I swear to you it is not true. I am not afraid of you."
"Yes, yes, Eva, you are afraid of me," he said, calmly. "And I understand it; it must be so. And yet I assure you, you should have no cause to be. For I should be a lamb in your hands; I would lay my head in your hands; your pretty, cold, white hands, and sleep like a child. You should do with me whatever you would, and I would never be angry with you, for I could never be so again, never again. I would lie at your feet; I would feel your feet on me, on my breast, and lie so still —so calm and blessed!"
He had fallen on his knees before her, with his head in her lap, on her hands.
"Well, then," she said, gently, "if that is the case, why should I ever be afraid of you since you promise me this? And why do you talk of releasing me from my word?"
"Because I can not bear to live on, seeing you so unhappy; because you are unhappy with me, as I can see; and because you will be even more so when we are together, later—always."
She quivered in every fibre. A strange lucidity came over her. She saw all that had happened as if mirrored in crystal.
"Hear me, Frank," she said, in a clear, bright voice. "Remain where you are and listen to me; listen well. I mean to be true to you, and we shall be happy. I feel that we shall. What has occurred that we should always be miserable? Nothing. I repeat it—nothing. Do not let us spoil our own lives. I doubted you once; you have forgiven me. That is all at an end. You discovered that Bertie was a scoundrel, and you killed him. That, too, is ended. Nothing of all
