Page knelt at her side, an arm about her shoulder, but to all her sister’s consolations Laura, her voice muffled in her folded arms, only cried:
“Let me alone, let me alone. Don’t touch me.”
For a time Page tried to make herself heard; then, after a moment’s reflection, she got up and drew out the pin in Laura’s hat. She took off the hat, loosened the scarf around Laura’s neck, and then deftly, silently, while her sister lay inert and sobbing beneath her hands, removed the stiff, tight riding-habit. She brought a towel dipped in cold water from the adjoining room and bathed Laura’s face and hands.
But her sister would not be comforted, would not respond to her entreaties or caresses. The better part of an hour went by; Page, knowing her sister’s nature, in the end held her peace, waiting for the paroxysm to wear itself out.
After a while Laura’s weeping resolved itself into long, shuddering breaths, and at length she managed to say, in a faint, choked voice:
“Will you bring me the cologne from my dressing-table, honey? My head aches so.”
And, as Page ran towards the door, she added: “And my hand mirror, too. Are my eyes all swollen?”
And that was the last word upon the subject between the two sisters.
But the evening of the same day, between eight and nine o’clock, while Laura was searching the shelves of the library for a book with which to while away the long evening that she knew impended, Corthell’s card was brought to her.
“I am not at home,” she told the servant. “Or—wait,” she added. Then, after a moment’s thought, she said: “Very well. Show him in here.”
Laura received the artist, standing very erect and pale upon the great white rug before the empty fireplace. Her hands were behind her back when he came in, and as he crossed the room she did not move.
“I was not going to see you at first,” she said. “I told the servant I was not at home. But I changed my mind—I wanted to say something to you.”
He stood at the other end of the fireplace, an elbow upon an angle of the massive mantel, and as she spoke the last words he looked at her quickly. As usual, they were quite alone. The heavy, muffling curtain of the doorway shut them in effectually.
“I have something to say to you,” continued Laura. Then, quietly enough, she said:
“You must not come to see me any more.”
He turned abruptly away from her, and for a moment did not speak. Then at last, his voice low, he faced her again and asked:
“Have I offended?”
She shook her head.
“No,” he said, quietly. “No, I knew it was not that.” There was a long silence. The artist looked at the floor his hand slowly stroking the back of one of the big leather chairs.
“I knew it must come,” he answered, at length, “sooner or later. You are right—of course. I should not have come back to America. I should not have believed that I was strong enough to trust myself. Then”—he looked at her steadily. His words came from his lips one by one, very slowly. His voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Then, I am—never to see you—again … Is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what that means for me?” he cried. “Do you realise—” he drew in his breath sharply. “Never to see you again! To lose even the little that is left to me now. I—I—” He turned away quickly and walked to a window and stood a moment, his back turned, looking out, his hands clasped behind him. Then, after a long moment, he faced about. His manner was quiet again, his voice very low.
“But before I go,” he said, “will you answer me, at least, this—it can do no harm now that I am to leave you—answer me, and I know you will speak the truth: Are you happy, Laura?”
She closed her eyes.
“You have not the right to know.”
“You are not happy,” he declared. “I can see it, I know it. If you were, you would have told me so. … If I promise you,” he went on. “If I promise you to go away now, and never to try to see you again, may I come once more—to say goodbye?”
She shook her head.
“It is so little for you to grant,” he pleaded, “and it is so incalculably much for me to look forward to in the little time that yet remains. I do not even ask to see you alone. I will not harass you with any heroics.”
“Oh, what good will it do,” she cried, wearily, “for you to see me again? Why will you make me more unhappy than I am? Why did you come back?”
“Because,” he answered, steadily, “because I love you more than”—he partly raised a clenched fist and let it fall slowly upon the back of the chair, “more than any other consideration in the world.”
“Don’t!” she cried. “You must not. Never, never say that to me again. Will you go—please?”
“Oh, if I had not gone from you four years ago!” he cried. “If I had only stayed then! Not a day of my life since that I have not regretted it. You could have loved me then. I know it, I know it, and, God forgive me, but I know you could love me now—”
“Will you go?” she cried.
“I dare you to say you could not,” he flashed out.
Laura shut her eyes and put her hands over her ears. “I could not, I could not,” she murmured, monotonously, over and over again. “I could not, I could not.”
She heard him start suddenly, and opened her eyes in time to see him come quickly towards her. She threw out a defensive hand, but he caught the arm itself to him and, before she could resist, had kissed it again and again through the interstices of the lace
