He did not answer. At the touch of her hand, which he held in his, at the new sound in her voice, suddenly something surged up in him, something blinding, intoxicating, that left him hot and cold, rash and silent. She tried to release her hand, but his grip was not to be denied.
Then, seeing him standing head down boyishly unable to speak or act, she understood.
“Oh, please!” she said, with a sudden weakness, again trying to release her fingers.
“I can’t help it,” he said, blurting out the words. “Jean, you know as well as I what it is. I love you.”
The moment the words were out, he had a cold horror of what had been said. He didn’t love her, not as he had said it. Why had he said it?
She remained motionless a moment, gathering her strength against the shock.
“Please let go my hand,” she said quietly.
This time he obeyed. His mind was a vacuum; every little sound came to him distinctly, with the terror of the blunder he had made.
She went to the window and stood, her face half turned from him, trying to think; and, misreading her thoughts, a little warm blood came back to him, and he tried to think what he would say if she came back with a light in her eyes.
“Mr. Stover.”
He looked up abruptly—he had scarcely moved. She was before him, her large eyes seeming larger than ever, her face a little frightened, but serious with the seriousness of the woman looking out.
“You have done a very wrong thing,” she said slowly, “and you have placed me in a very difficult position. I do not want to lose you as a friend.” She made a rapid movement of her fingers to check his exclamation. “If what you said were true, and you are too young to have said such solemn words, may I ask what right you had to say them to me?”
“What right?” he said stupidly.
“Yes, what right,” she repeated, looking at him steadily with a certain wistfulness. “Are you in a position to ask me to be your wife?”
“Let me think a moment,” he said, drawing a breath.
He walked away to the table, leaning his weight on it, while, without moving, she followed with a steady gaze, in which was a little pity.
“Let me help you,” she said at last.
He turned and looked up for the first time, a look of wretchedness.
“It would be too bad that one moment should spoil all our friendship,” she said, “and because that would hurt me I don’t want it so. You are a boy, and I am not yet a woman. I have always respected you, no more so than today, before—before you forgot your respect toward me. I want always to keep the respect I had for you.”
“Don’t say any more,” he said suddenly, with a lump in his throat. “I don’t know why—what—why I forgot myself. Please don’t take away from me your friendship. I will keep it very precious.”
“It is very hard to know what to do,” she said. Then she added, with a little heightening of her color: “My friendship means a great deal.”
He put out his hand and gently took the end of a scarf which she wore about her shoulders, and raised it to his lips. It was a boyish, impulsive fantasy, and he inclined his head before her. Then he went out hurriedly, without speaking or turning, while the girl, pale and without moving, continued to stare at the curtain which still moved with his passing.
XVIII
Stover went rushing from the Storys’ home, and away for a long feverish march along dusky avenues, where unseen leaves came whirling against him. He was humiliated, mortified beyond expression, in a panic of self-accusation and remorse.
“It’s all over,” he said, with a groan. “I’ve made a fool of myself. I can never square myself after that. What under the shining stars made me say that? What happened? I hadn’t a thought, and then all at once—Oh, Lord!”
A couple of upper classmen returning nodded to him, and he flung back an abrupt “Hello,” without distinguishing them.
“Why did I do it?—why—why!”
He went plunging along, through the dark regions that lay between the spotted arc lights that began to sputter along the avenue, his ears deafened by the rush and grind of blazing trolley cars. When he had gone breathlessly a good two miles, he stopped and wearily retraced his steps. The return no longer gave him the sensation of flight. He came back laggingly, with reluctance. Each time he thought of the scene which had passed he had a sensation of heat and cold, of anger and of cowardice. Never again he said to himself, would he be able to enter the Storys’ home, to face her, Jean Story.
But after a time, from sheer exhaustion, he ceased to think about his all-important self. He remembered the dignity and gentleness with which the young girl had met the shock of his blunder, and he was overwhelmed with wonder. He saw again her large eyes, filled with pain, trouble, and yet a certain pity. He recalled her quiet voice, the direct meeting of the issue, and deep through all impressions was the memory of the woman, sweet, self-possessed, and gentle, that had been evoked from her eyes.
He forgot himself. He forgot all the wretchedness and hot misery. He remembered only this Jean Story, and the Jean Story that would be. And feeling the revealing acuteness of love for the first time, he said impulsively:
“Oh, yes, I love her. I have always loved her!” And silently, deep in his heart, a little frightened almost to set the thought to words, he made a vow that his life from now on should be earnest and inspired with but one purpose, to win her respect and
