“And this is unsentimental Jo!” Cyn exclaimed involuntarily.
“This is unsentimental Jo,” he answered, in all humility. “Do with him what you will; he is all yours.”
Into Cyn’s expressive eyes came some deeply-stirred emotion.
“I am so sorry;” she said, sadly, “so very, very sorry! what shall I say? what shall I do? I like you so much as a friend! But what you ask, Jo, could never be!”
The sun sank behind the distant hills, and a shadow, such as had fallen over the woods behind them, settled on Jo’s face.
“The idea is new to you. At least, think it over. Do not leave me without a little hope,” he entreated.
“Jo, I wish—yes! I do wish that I could love you as you deserve to be loved,” said Cyn, earnestly. “But it cannot be! it never could be! Do not deceive yourself with false hopes. Friends always, Jo, but lovers never!”
“Ah!” exclaimed Jo, bitterly, unable to restrain his jealousy, “it is Clem who stands between us!”
“Clem who stands between us!” echoed Cyn, astounded for the second time that day.
“There—now I have lowered myself in your estimation; I am but a blundering fool, Cyn. You see I am selfish in my love; and I have not yet become sentimental enough to be willing to see another fellow win what is all the world to me!”
Cyn’s face grew red as was the sky when the sun had gone down.
“Do you mean to insinuate that I am in love with Clem?” she asked, angrily.
“I would not insinuate it for all the world, if you are not,” was Jo’s eager reply; “I am not experienced in love matters, but I am quite sure he loves you—and he is very handsome,” he added ruefully.
“What a dreadful combination of circumstances!” cried Cyn, distractedly. “But, pshaw! It’s impossible!”
“Impossible? No, indeed! Why, it was by being so jealous of him that I first awoke to the fact that I was in love with you myself. Besides, everyone has noticed his fondness for you.”
“They have?” vehemently, and smiting the rock where she sat with her hand, as she spoke. “But this is truly awful!”
“Then you do not care for him?” questioned Jo, joyfully.
“Care for him?” repeated Cyn, irritably. “Of course I care for him! Is it not my pet scheme that he should marry Nattie? Certainly it is, and has been from the first! And now, if he has gone and fallen in love with me, a nice predicament we will all be in. But you must be mistaken! I cannot believe him capable of such a thing! The only reason I have to fear it is that I would not have credited it of you yesterday!”
“But you see I do love you. You believe I do, do you not, Cyn?” asked Jo, too eager to press his own suit to give much thought to Nattie and Clem. “Why will you not try and love me, as you do not love Clem? Am I so homely as to be repulsive to you?”
“Homely? Nonsense!” replied Cyn, momentarily putting aside her newest anxiety for the previous one, “now I come to think of it, I had rather marry you than any man I know!”
“Would you? Would you really?” seizing her hand hopefully. “Then why will you not?”
Cyn allowed her hand to remain in his as she said slowly and impressively,
“I cannot marry. That is entirely out of the question for me. Of my life, love can form no part!”
“But I thought you believed in love?” said Jo, looking perplexed, but clinging to her hand as a sort of anchor.
“I do. I believe it is the best happiness of life. But it cannot be for me. Why, I will tell you. I owe this much in return for what you have given me; what I prize even though I am compelled to refuse it. What stands between us is the memory of a love—gone forever.”
“What!” exclaimed Jo, astounded in his turn. “You do not mean to say that you—that you—you, the gayest of the gay—that you—” Jo stopped, unable to proceed.
“You hardly expected to find me in the role of the victim of a broken heart, did you?” questioned Cyn, with a half-sad, half-humorous smile. “I admit I do not exactly answer to the average description, and my heart is not broken—there is only a blank in it—something dead that can never live again. Once I loved a man with all my heart”—Jo sighed—“with all the illusion of youth, and he loved me. The difference between his love and mine was, that mine was forever, and his was for a day.”
“Impossible!” interrupted Jo. “No man who once loved you could ever change.”
“He happened to be one of the kind who could. I never really knew the cause—it might have been another woman. You know there always is another woman.”
“Or another man,” added Jo gloomily.
“Yes,” assented Cyn, and continued. “He was one of the kind, I think now, who are incapable of appreciating a woman’s love, and consequently unworthy of it. But unfortunately, I did not know this, and wasted mine on him. So he and love, went out of my life forever. But,” with a proud raising of her head, “I would not be weak enough to allow all my life to be ruined because one part of it was wrecked; with so much gone, there still remained something, and of that I made the most. This is why my art is everything to me, and why I cannot marry you.”
“But it seems to me unreasonable, that because you loved one man who was unworthy, you should refuse the love of another who would try very hard to make you forget that first sad experience,” argued Jo.
