XI
FOX stood aghast at the force, the agony, the abandon of Margaret’s confession. Any presentiment which might have warned him had been disarmed by her previous gayety.
Almost unconsciously his hand met hers, which was stretched out in a mute appeal. He drew her to a chair. “Sit down,” he said, in an unsteady voice, with an impotent impulse of resistance; “try to calm yourself! This is dreadful!”
She obeyed him mechanically; sinking into the great armchair and turning her face against it, she continued to weep, her whole delicate frame shaken and quivering with her emotion.
Fox stood still holding her hand and looking down at her in deep perplexity. He was intuitively aware of the extreme peril and delicacy of the situation for them both, only too certain of her wild and unguarded impulses, and that moment—more supremely than ever—revealed to him the absolute demise of his own passion. He triedto quiet her, speaking a few gentle and soothing words, sharply conscious of their inadequacy.
But she scarcely heeded them. After a moment the storm spent itself, and she turned, revealing her white, tear-stained face which was still beautiful in spite of her weeping. “There comes a time,” she said, in a low voice, “when one can bear it no longer—when one would rather die.”
“For God’s sake, Margaret, don’t say such things!” he exclaimed, profoundly moved.
Her lips quivered. “Is it so dreadful to say them?” she retorted passionately; “when you feel them? When they are burned into your flesh? I’m so weary of conventionalities. I tell you that I can’t bear it, that I will not bear it any longer!”
As she spoke she rose and stood facing him, her eyes feverishly bright and moist with unshed tears. “You ask too much of me, you have no right to ask it—no one has!” she continued, her lip quivering again; “I cannot be silent—it’s killing me by inches!”
Fox colored deeply; he was suddenly forced into an impossible position. “My dear Margaret,” he said gravely, “I have no words to meet it; you must know how profoundly I feel it!”
“If I did not—if I were not sure of you!” she replied, a little wildly, “it would kill me sooner. Sometimes I have wanted to die. The doctors say that I have heart trouble—I hope I have! If I believed in prayer I should have prayed to die.”
“Margaret! is it as bad as that?” he cried, in sudden uncontrollable pity; he remembered her as so young, so beautiful, so happy!
Her lips twitched. “As bad as that?” she repeated wildly; “I feel like a trapped squirrel, a rabbit in a snare, I can only shriek because it hurts me—it isn’t bad enough yet to kill! I’m caged—oh, William, William, help me get out!”
“Margaret!” he exclaimed sharply, “don’t you know that I can’t hear this? This is White’s house, I’ve broken his bread. My God, how dreadful it all is!”
Her hand clenched unconsciously at her side, her white neck rose and fell with her tortured breathing, a horrible doubt had assailed her. Then the light broke over her face; he loved her, that was it, and he was too honorable to speak! She held out both hands. “William, forgive me,” she murmured softly, “but what have we gained by silence? What does it all matter to the world?But you must go, perhaps I did wrong to tell you now! Good-night, I—I—”
Her lips quivered pitifully. “I have always loved you—don’t think me a wicked woman.”
“Margaret!” he groaned, deeply, terribly touched, yet with a sickening consciousness of his own unresponsive heart.
She smiled faintly, moving away from him toward the stairs. “Oh, you must go, good-night!” she repeated, as he paused half reluctant. “I’m resolved, nothing shall change me—in a little while—” she paused and he saw the change in her face, its lighting up and softening, the revelation of its beauty, its subtle charm; saw it with a slow agony of remorse and reluctance; “in a little while,” she said, and her smile was wonderful, “I shall be free!”
Fox scarcely knew how he got out of the house; he left it in a dream and went directly home to his own apartments in an uptown flat. The distance was not great and he scarcely allowed himself to think. His mind was almost confused by the sudden and blinding climax. But as he opened his door, and the dog, Sandy, leaped to meet him, a rush of feeling swept away his passive resistance; he forced himself to turn on the lights more fully and to look about at the familiar objectswhich met his eyes on all sides, his books, his pictures, his littered writing-table; he even picked up the evening mail, which his clerk had left in its accustomed place, and looked over the pile of letters and pamphlets. But it cost him an effort.
It was very late, but sleep was impossible, and picking up his hat and stick he whistled to Sandy and the two went out into the almost deserted streets. The dog leaped about him with quick, joyous barks, rejoicing in the unexpected outing, and Fox turned his face northward, walking steadily along the brilliantly lighted and strangely quiet avenue which led him through the heart of the northwest section and up on the hill. The tumult of his mind found relief in the physical exercise and the fresh cold air of an early April night.
In spite of that central egotism of his, which was capable of much when unkindly stirred, Fox believed that he possessed strong convictions on the nicer points of honor. If he had drifted often to White’s house and been much in Margaret’s society it was with no intention of offending against his host. His indolence, his carelessness of what was mere gossip and tittle-tattle, had made him indifferent to the conclusions of others,but he was not unaware of the talk and the surmises of his enemies; he was not unaware that Margaret stood on delicate ground and that, if she separated from White, there would be a wild burst of excited comment—the comment which costs a woman her good name. Such being the case she had suddenly thrown herself upon his sympathy, she had torn away the thin veil of conventionality which had saved them, and it was for him to desert her or to defend her when the supreme moment came.
That moment would involve not only his own happiness but—he paused in his thoughts with a shock of feeling which flooded his consciousness with a lucidity, an insight, which appalled him. Was he mistaken, or did it also involve the happiness of the young and innocent girl whom he loved? At the thought of Rose his heart sank; he felt instinctively her abhorrence, her complete lack of understanding of his peculiar situation. To Rose’s mind, doubtless, he would appear in the likeness of Mephistopheles!
Good God, what would she think of him? he thought; but yesterday he had held her hand, looked into her pure, young eyes, almost spoken the final words which would have laid bare his very soul—and now! He seemed to feel theheated, perfumed atmosphere, the pressure of Margaret’s fingers on his arm, her wild, sweet smile when she proclaimed her love for him without shame—how vividly he saw it! And her absolute belief in his unchanged love for her! Infatuation, madness, self-deception, it might be all these and more, but she was a woman—and she had flung herself upon his mercy!
As yet that other aspect of the affair, the blighting of his public career which such a scandal might in a measure effect, had not thrust itself upon him; his only thought was for Rose. In that hour he learned how profoundly he loved her; it was part of his nature that the very denial of a gift increased his desire to obtain it.
He walked long and far; the night was lightly clouded; but once the moon broke through a rift and flooded the upper sky with light. As he turned on the heights the city lay at his feet, dark and slumbering save for the lighted streets. A policeman tramping past glanced keenly at him. The air had a crispness that was not wintry, and once or twice the sweetness of hyacinths reached him from some flower-studded lawn. Sandy trailed at his heels, faithful but anxious; the way was new and the hour strange.
They walked on; it was toward morning whenthe man and the dog returned and, when they entered his rooms again, Fox’s face was white, his eyes and mouth were haggard, with the look of a man who has passed through a great crisis with much agony of soul. For he had found but one solution, and that sealed his lips.
If his careless preference for her, for her gayety and her wit, if his thoughtless seeking of her society, if the coupling of his name with hers, had led her to this breaking of her life, then there was no question, there could be no question—he thrust the thought deep down out of sight but it remained there, coiled like the serpent, ready to strike at the heart of his happiness.