“Oh, yes,” he answered, indifferently, “something of the sort was on. I suppose it was important—for the Institute. But for me there is only one thing of importance nowadays,” he spoke with a studied carelessness, as though announcing a fact that Laura must know already, “and that is, to be near you. It is astonishing. You have no idea of it, how I have ordered my whole life according to that idea.”
“As though you expected me to believe that,” she answered.
In her other lovers she knew her words would have provoked vehement protestation. But for her it was part of the charm of Corthell’s attitude that he never did or said the expected, the ordinary. Just now he seemed more interested in the effect of his love for Laura upon himself than in the manner of her reception of it.
“It is curious,” he continued. “I am no longer a boy. I have no enthusiasms. I have known many women, and I have seen enough of what the crowd calls love to know how futile it is, how empty, a vanity of vanities. I had imagined that the poets were wrong, were idealists, seeing the things that should be rather than the things that were. And then,” suddenly he drew a deep breath: “this happiness; and to me. And the miracle, the wonderful is there—all at once—in my heart, in my very hand, like a mysterious, beautiful exotic. The poets are wrong,” he added. “They have not been idealists enough. I wish—ah, well, never mind.”
“What is it that you wish?” she asked, as he broke off suddenly. Laura knew even before she spoke that it would have been better not to have prompted him to continue. Intuitively she had something more than a suspicion that he had led her on to say these very words. And in admitting that she cared to have the conversation proceed upon this footing, she realised that she was sheering towards unequivocal coquetry. She saw the false move now, knew that she had lowered her guard. On all accounts it would have been more dignified to have shown only a mild interest in what Corthell wished. She realised that once more she had acted upon impulse, and she even found time to wonder again how it was that when with this man her impulses, and not her reason prevailed so often. With Landry or with Curtis Jadwin she was always calm, tranquilly self-possessed. But Corthell seemed able to reach all that was impetuous, all that was unreasoned in her nature. To Landry she was more than anything else, an older sister, indulgent, kindhearted. With Jadwin she found that all the serious, all the sincere, earnest side of her character was apt to come to the front. But Corthell stirred troublous, unknown deeps in her, certain undefined trends of recklessness; and for so long as he held her within his influence, she could not forget her sex a single instant.
It dismayed her to have this strange personality of hers, this other headstrong, impetuous self, discovered to her. She hardly recognised it. It made her a little afraid; and yet, wonder of wonders, she could not altogether dislike it. There was a certain fascination in resigning herself for little instants to the dominion of this daring stranger that was yet herself.
Meanwhile Corthell had answered her:
“I wish,” he said, “I wish you could say something—I hardly know what—something to me. So little would be so much.”
“But what can I say?” she protested. “I don’t know—I—what can I say?”
“It must be yes or no for me,” he broke out. “I can’t go on this way.”
“But why not? Why not?” exclaimed Laura. “Why must we—terminate anything? Why not let things go on just as they are? We are quite happy as we are. There’s never been a time of my life when I’ve been happier than this last three or four months. I don’t want to change anything. Ah, here we are.”
The hansom drew up in front of the house. Aunt Wess’ and Page were already inside. The maid stood in the vestibule in the light that streamed from the half-open front door, an umbrella in her hand. And as Laura alighted, she heard Page’s voice calling from the front hall that the others had umbrellas, that the maid was not to wait.
The hansom splashed away, and Corthell and Laura mounted the steps of the house.
“Won’t you come in?” she said. “There is a fire in the library.”
But he said no, and for a few seconds they stood under the vestibule light, talking. Then Corthell, drawing off his right-hand glove, said:
“I suppose that I have my answer. You do not wish for a change. I understand. You wish to say by that, that you do not love me. If you did love me as I love you, you would wish for just that—a change. You would be as eager as I for that wonderful, wonderful change that makes a new heaven and a new earth.”
This time Laura did not answer. There was a moment’s silence. Then Corthell said:
“Do you know, I think I shall go away.”
“Go away?”
“Yes, to New York. Possibly to Paris. There is a new method of fusing glass that I’ve promised myself long ago I would look into. I don’t know that it interests me much—now. But I think I had better go. At once, within the week. I’ve not much heart in it; but it seems—under the circumstances—to be appropriate.” He held out his bared hand. Laura saw that he was smiling.
“Well, Miss Dearborn—goodbye.”
“But why should you go?” she cried, distressfully. “How perfectly—ah, don’t go,” she exclaimed, then in desperate haste added: “It would be absolutely foolish.”
“Shall I stay?” he urged. “Do you
