"I know well enough that I deserve your contempt; I've acquired plenty of self-contempt already. But I do love you, God knows how or in what manner, but I love you, cur that I am—and I respect you—oh, more that you understand, Valerie. And if I ask your mercy on such a man as I am, it is not because I deserve it."
"My mercy, Louis?"
She rose to her knees and laid both hands on his shoulders.
"You are only a man, dear—with all the lovable faults and sins and contradictions of one. But there is no real depravity in you any more than there is in me. Only—I think you are a little more selfish than I am—you lose self-command—" she blushed—"but that is because you are only a man after all…. I think, perhaps, that a girl's love is different in many ways. Dear, my love for you is perfectly honest. You believe it, don't you? If for one moment I thought it was otherwise, I'd never let you see me again. If I thought for one moment that anything spiritual was to be gained for us by denying that love to you or to myself—or by living out life alone without you, I have the courage to do it. Do you doubt it?"
"No," he said.
She sighed, and her gaze passed from his and became remote for a moment, then:
"I want to live my life with you," she said, wistfully; "I want to be to you all that the woman you love could possibly be. But to me, the giving of myself to you is to be, in my heart, a ceremony more solemn than any in the world—and it is to be a rite at which my soul shall serve on its knees, Louis."
"Dearest—dearest," he breathed, "I know—I understand—I ask your pardon. And I worship you."
Then a swift, smiling change passed over her face; and, her hands still resting on his shoulders, kneeling there before him, she bent forward and kissed him on the forehead.
"Pax," she said. "You are forgiven. Love me enough, Louis. And when I am quite sure you do, then—then—you may ask me, and I will answer you."
"I love you now, enough."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Then—ask," she said, faintly.
His lips moved in a voiceless question, she could not hear him, but she understood.
"In a year, I think," she answered, forcing her eyes to meet his, but the delicate rose colour was playing over her cheeks and throat.
"As long as that?"
"That is not long. Besides, perhaps you won't learn to love me enough even by that time. Do you think you will? If you really think so—perhaps in June—"
She watched him as he pressed her hands together and kissed them; laughed a little, shyly, as she suddenly divined a new tenderness and respect in his eyes—something matching the vague exaltation of her own romantic dreams.
"I will wait all my life if you wish it," he said.
"Do you mean it?"
"You know I do, now."
She considered him, smiling. "If you truly do feel that way—perhaps—perhaps it might really be in June—or in July—"
"You said June."
"Listen to the decree of the great god Kelly! He says it must be in June, and he shakes his thunderbolts and frowns."
"June! Say so, Valerie,"
"You have said so."
"But there's no use in my saying so if—"
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "the great god totters on his pedestal and the oracle falters and I see the mere man looking very humbly around the corner of the shrine at me, whispering, 'June, if you please, dear lady!'"
"Yes," he said, "that's what you see and hear. Now answer me, dear."
"And what am I to say?"
"June, please."
"June—please," she repeated, demurely.
"You darling!… What day?"
"Oh, that's too early to decide—"
"Please, dear!"
"No; I don't want to decide—"
"Dearest!"
"What?"
"Won't you answer me?"
"If you make me answer now, I'll be tempted to fix the first of April."
"All right, fix it."
"It's All Fool's day, you know," she threatened. "Probably it is peculiarly suitable for us…. Very well, then, I'll say it."
She was laughing when he caught her hands and looked at her, grave, unsmiling. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears and her lip trembled.
"Forgive me, I meant no mockery," she whispered. "I had already fixed the first day of June for—for the great change in our lives. Are you content?"
"Yes." And before she knew what he was doing a brilliant flashed along her ring finger and clung sparkling to it; and she stared at the gold circlet and the gem flashing in the firelight.
There were tears in her eyes when she kissed it, looking at him while her soft lips rested on the jewel.
Neither spoke for a moment; then, still looking at him, she drew the ring from her finger, touched it again with her lips, and laid it gently in his hand.
"No, dear," she said.
He did not urge her; but she knew he still believed that she would come to think as he thought; and the knowledge edged her lips with tremulous humour. But her eyes were very sweet and tender as she watched him lay away the ring as though it and he were serenely biding their time.
"Such a funny boy," she said, "and such a dear one. He will never, never grow up, will he?"
"Such an idiot, you mean," he said, drawing her into the big chair beside him.
"Yes, I mean that, too," she said, impudently, nose in the air. "Because, if I were you, Louis, I wouldn't waste any more energy in worrying about a girl who is perfectly able to take care of herself, but transfer it to a boy who apparently is not."
"How do you mean?"
"I mean about your painting. Dear, you've got it into that obstinate head of yours that there's something lacking in your pictures, and there isn't."
"Oh, Valerie! You know there is!"
"No, no, no! There isn't anything lacking in them. They're all of you, Louis—every bit of you—as far as you have lived."
"What!"
"Certainly. As far as you have lived. Now live a little more, and let more things come into your life. You can't paint what isn't in you; and there's nothing in you except what you get out of life."
She laid her soft cheek against his.
"Get a little real love out of life, Louis; a little real love. Then surely, surely your canvases can not disguise that you know what life means to us all. Love nobly; and the world will not doubt that love is noble; love mercifully; and the world will understand mercy. For I believe that what you are must show in your work, dear.
"Until now the world has seen in your work only the cold splendour, or dreamy glamour, or the untroubled sweetness and brilliancy of passionless romance. I love your work. It is happiness to look at it; it thrills, bewitches, enthralls!… Dear, forgive me if in it I have not yet found a deeper inspiration…. And that inspiration, to be there, must be first in you, my darling—born of a wider interest in your fellow men, a little tenderness for friends—a more generous experience and more real sympathy with humanity—and perhaps you may think it out of place for me to say it—but—a deeper, truer, spiritual conviction.
"Do you think it strange of me to have such convictions? I can't escape them. Those who are merciful, those who are kind, to me are Christ-like. Nothing else matters. But to be kind is to be first of all interested in the happiness of others. And you care nothing for people. You must care, Louis!
"And, somehow, you who are, at heart, good and kind and merciful, have not really awakened real love in many of those about you. For one thing your work has absorbed you. But if, at the same time, you could pay a little more attention to human beings—"
"Valerie!" he said in astonishment, "I have plenty of friends. Do you mean to say I care nothing for them?"
"How much do you care, Louis?"
"Why, I—" He fell silent, troubled gaze searching hers.
She smiled: "Take Sam, for example. The boy adores you. He's a rotten painter, I know—and you don't even pretend to an interest in what he does because you are too honest to praise it. But, Louis, he's a lovable fellow—and he does the best that's in him. You needn't pretend to care for what he does—but if you could show that you do care for and respect the effort—"
"I do, Valerie—when I think about it!"
"Then think about it; and let Sam know that you think about his efforts and himself. And do the same for Harry Annan. He's a worse painter than Sam—but do you think he doesn't know it? Don't you realise what a lot of heartache the monkey-shines of those two boys conceal?"
"I am fond of them," he said, slowly. "I like people, even if I don't show it—"
"Ah, Louis! Louis! That is the world's incurable hurt—the silence that replies to its perplexity—the wistful appeal that remains unanswered…. And many, many vex God with the desolation of their endless importunities and complaints when a look, a word, a touch from a human being would relieve them of the heaviest of all burdens—a sad heart's solitude."
He put his arm around her, impulsively:
"You little angel," he said, tenderly.
"No—only a human girl who has learned what solitude can mean."
"I shall make you forget the past," he said.
"No, dear—for that might make me less kind." She put her lips against his cheek, thoughtfully: "And—I think—that you are going to need all the tenderness in me—some day, Louis—as I need all of yours…. We shall have much to learn—after the great change…. And much to endure. And I think we will need all the kindness that we can give each other—and all that the world can spare us."
CHAPTER X
It was slowly becoming evident to Neville that Valerie's was the stronger character—not through any genius for tenacity nor on account of any domineering instinct—but because, mistaken or otherwise in her ethical reasoning, she was consistent, true to her belief, and had the courage to live up to it. And this made her convictions almost unassailable.
Slavery to established custom of any kind she smilingly disdained, refusing to submit to restrictions which centuries of social usage had established, when such social restrictions and limitations hampered or annoyed her.
Made conscious by the very conventions designed to safeguard unconsciousness; made wise by the unwisdom of a civilisation which required ignorance of innocence, she had as yet lost none of her sweetness and confidence in herself and in a world which she considered a friendly one at best and, at worst, more silly than vicious.
Her life, the experience of a lonely girlhood in the world, wide and varied reading, unwise and otherwise, and an intelligence which needed only experience and training, had hastened to a premature maturity her impatience with the faults of civilisation. And in the honest revolt of youth, she forgot that what she rejected was, after all, civilisation itself, and that as yet there had been offered no acceptable substitute for its faulty codification.
To do one's best was to be fearlessly true to one's convictions and let God judge; that was her only creed. And from her point of view humanity needed no other.
So she went about the pleasure and happiness of living with a light heart and a healthy interest, not doubting that all was right between her and the world, and that the status quo must endure.
And endless misunderstandings ensued between her and the man she loved. She was a very busy business girl and he objected. She went about to theatres and parties and dinners and concerts with other men; and Neville didn't like it. Penrhyn Cardemon met her at a theatrical supper and asked her to be one of his guests on his big yacht, the Mohave, fitted out for the Azores. There were twenty in the party, and she would have gone had not Neville objected angrily.
It was not his objection but his irritation that confused her. She could discover no reason for it.
"It can't be that you don't trust me," she said to him, "so it must be that you're lonely without me, even when you go to spend two weeks with your parents. I don't mind not going if you don't wish me to, Louis, and I'll stay here in town while you visit your father and mother, but it seems a little bit odd of you not to let me go when I can be of no earthly use to you."
Her gentleness with him, and her sweet way of reasoning made him ashamed.
"It's the crowd that's going, Valerie—Cardemon, Querida, Marianne Valdez—where did you meet her, anyway?"
"In her dressing room at the Opera. She's perfectly sweet. Isn't she all right?"
"She's Cardemon's mistress," he said, bluntly.
A painful colour flushed her face and neck; and at the same instant he realised what he had said.
Neither spoke for a while; he went on with his painting; she, standing once more for the full-length portrait, resumed her pose in silence.
After a while she heard his brushes clatter to the floor, saw him leave his easel, was aware that he was coming toward her. And the next moment he had dropped at her feet, kneeling there, one arm tightening around her knees, his head pressed close.
Listlessly she looked down at him, dropped one slim hand on his shoulder, considering him.
"The curious part of it is," she said, "that all the scorn in your voice was for Marianne Valdez and none for Penrhyn Cardemon."
He said nothing.
"Such a queer, topsy-turvy world," she sighed, letting her hand wander from his shoulder to his thick, short hair. She caressed his forehead thoughtfully.
"I suppose some man will say that of me some day…. But that is a little matter—compared to making life happy for you…. To be your mistress could never make me unhappy."
"To be your husband—and to put an end to all these damnable doubts and misgivings and cross-purposes would make me happy all my life!" he burst out with a violence that startled her.
"Hush, Louis. We must not begin that hopeless argument again."
"Valerie! Valerie! You are breaking my heart!"
"Hush, dear. You know I am not."
She looked down at him; her lip was trembling.
Suddenly she slid down to the floor and knelt there confronting him, her arms around him.
"Dearer than all the world and heaven!—do you think that I am breaking your heart? You know I am not. You know what I am doing for your sake, for your family's sake, for my own. I am only giving you a love that can cause them no pain, bring no regret to you. Take it, then, and kiss me."
But the days were full of little scenes like this—of earnest, fiery discussions, of passionate arguments, of flashes of temper ending in tears and heavenly reconciliation.
He had gone for two weeks to visit his father and mother at their summer home near Portsmouth, and before he went he took her in his arms and told her how ashamed he was of his bad temper at the idea of her going on the Mohave, and said that she might go; that he did trust her anywhere, and that he was trying to learn to concede to her the same liberty of action and of choice that any man enjoyed.
But she convinced him very sweetly that she really had no desire to go, and sent him off to Spindrift House happy, and madly in love; which resulted in two letters a day from him, and in her passing long evenings in confidential duets with Rita Tevis.
Rita had taken the bedroom next to Valerie's, and together they had added the luxury of a tiny living room to the suite.
It was the first time that either had ever had any place in which to receive anybody; and now, delighted to be able to ask people, they let it be known that their friends could have tea with them.
Ogilvy and Annan had promptly availed themselves.
"This is exceedingly grand," said Ogilvy, examining everything in a tour around the pretty little sitting room. "We can have all kinds of a rough house now." And he got down on his hands and knees in the middle of the rug and very gravely turned a somersault.
"Sam! Behave! Or I'll set my parrot on you!" exclaimed Valerie.
Ogilvy sat up and inspected the parrot.
"You know," he said, "I believe I've seen that parrot somewhere."
"Impossible, my dear friend—unless you've been in my bedroom."
Ogilvy got up, dusted his trowsers, and walked over to the parrot.
"Well it looks like a bird I used to know—I—it certainly resembles—" He hesitated, then addressing the bird:
"Hello, Leparello—you old scoundrel!" he said, cautiously.
"Forget it!" muttered the bird, cocking his head and lifting first one slate-coloured claw from his perch, then the other;—"forget it! Help! Oh, very well. God bless the ladies!"
"Where on earth did you ever before see my parrot?" asked Valerie, astonished. Ogilvy appeared to be a little out of countenance, too.
"Oh, I really don't remember exactly where I did see him," he tried to explain; and nobody believed him.
"Sam! Answer me!"
"Well, where did you get him?"
"José Querida gave Leparello to me."
Annan and Ogilvy exchanged the briefest glance—a perfectly blank glance.
"It probably isn't the same bird," said Ogilvy, carelessly. "There are plenty of parrots that talk—plenty of 'em named Leparello, probably."
"Sam, how can you be so untruthful! Rita, hold him tightly while I pull his ears!"
It was a form of admonition peculiarly distasteful to Ogilvy, and he made a vain effort to escape.
"Now, Sam, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth! Quick, or I'll tweak!"
"All right, then," he said, maliciously, "Querida's got relatives in Oporto who send him these kind of parrots occasionally. He names 'em all Leparello, teaches 'em all the same jargon, and—gives 'em to girls!"
"How funny," said Valerie. She looked at Sam, aware of something else in his grin, and gave an uncertain little laugh.
He sat down, rubbing his ear-lobes, the malicious grin still lingering on his countenance. What he had not told her was that Querida's volcanically irregular affairs of the heart always ended with the gift of an Oporto parrot. Marianne Valdez owned one. So did Mazie Gray.
His cynical gaze rested on Valerie reflectively. He had heard plenty of rumours and whispers concerning her; and never believed any of them. He could not believe now that the gift of this crimson, green and sky-blue creature signified anything. Yet Querida had known her as long as anybody except Neville.
"When did he give you this parrot?" he asked, carelessly.
"Oh, one day just before I was going to Atlantic City. He was coming down, too, to stay a fortnight while I was there, and come back with me; and he said that He had intended to give the parrot to me after our return, but that he might as well give it to me before I went."
"I see," said Ogilvy, thoughtfully. A few moments later, as he and Annan were leaving the house, he said:
"It looks to me as though our friend, José, had taken too much for granted."
"It looks like it," nodded Annan, smiling unpleasantly.
"Too sure of conquest," added Ogilvy. "Got the frozen mitt, didn't he?"
"And the Grand Cordon of the double cross."
"And the hot end of the poker; yes?"
"Sure; and it's still sizzling." Ogilvy cast a gleeful glance back at the house:
"Fine little girl. All white. Yes? No?"
"All white," nodded Annan…. "And Neville isn't that kind of a man, anyway."
Ogilvy said: "So you think so, too?"
"Oh, yes. He's crazy about her, and she isn't taking Sundays out if it's his day in…. Only, what's the use?"
"No use…. I guess Kelly Neville has seen as many artists who've married their models as we have. Besides, his people are frightful snobs."
Annan, walking along briskly, swung his stick vigorously:
"She's a sweet little thing," he said.
"I know it. It's going to be hard for her. She can't stand for a mutt—and it's the only sort that will marry her…. I don't know—she's a healthy kind of girl—but God help her if she ever really falls in love with one of our sort."
"I think she's done it," said Annan.
"Kelly!"
"Doesn't it look like it?"
"Oh, it will wear off without any harm to either of them. That little girl is smart, all right; she'll never waste an evening screaming for the moon. And Kelly Neville is—is Kelly Neville—a dear fellow, so utterly absorbed in the career of a brilliant and intelligent young artist named Louis Neville, that if the entire earth blew up he'd begin a new canvas the week after…. Not that I think him cold-hearted—no, not even selfish as that little bounder Allaire says—but he's a man who has never yet had time to spare."
"They're the most hopeless," observed Annan—"the men who haven't time to spare. Because it takes only a moment to say, 'Hello, old man! How in hell are you?' It takes only a moment to put yourself, mentally, in some less lucky man's shoes; and be friendly and sorry and interested."
"He's a pretty decent sort," murmured Ogilvy. "Anyway, that Valerie child is safe enough in temporarily adoring Kelly Neville."
* * * * *
The "Valerie child," in a loose, rose-silk peignoir, cross-legged on her bed, was sewing industriously on her week's mending. Rita, in dishabille, lay across the foot of the bed nibbling bonbons and reading the evening paper.
They had dined in their living room, a chafing dish aiding. Afterward Valerie went over her weekly accounts and had now taken up her regular mending; and there she sat, sewing away, and singing in her clear, young voice, the old madrigal:
"Let us dry the starting tear
For the hours are surely fleeting
And the sad sundown is near.
All must sip the cup of sorrow,
I to-day, and thou to-morrow!
This the end of every song,
Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Yet until the shadows fall
Over one and over all,
Sing a merry madrigal!"
Rita, nibbling a chocolate, glanced up:
"That's a gay little creed," she observed.
"Of course. It's the only creed."
Rita shrugged and Valerie went on blithely singing and sewing.
"How long has that young man of yours been away?" inquired Rita, looking up again.
"Thirteen days."
"Oh. Are you sure it isn't fourteen?"
"Perfectly." Then the sarcasm struck her, and she looked around at Rita and laughed:
"Of course I count the days," she said, conscious of the soft colour mounting to her cheeks.
Rita sat up and, tucking a pillow under her shoulders, leaned back against the foot-board of the bed, kicking the newspaper to the floor. "Do you know," she said, "that you have come pretty close to falling in love with Kelly Neville?"
Valerie's lips trembled on the edge of a smile as she bent lower over her sewing, but she made no reply.
"I should say," continued Rita, "that it was about time for you to pick up your skirts and run for it."
Still Valerie sewed on in silence.
"Valerie!"
"What?"
"For goodness' sake, say something!"
"What do you want me to say, dear?" asked the girl, laughing.
"That you are not in danger of making a silly ninny of yourself over Kelly Neville."
"Oh, I'll say that very cheerfully—"
"Valerie!"
The girl looked at her, calmly amused. Then she said:
"I might as well tell you. I am head over heels in love with him. You knew it, anyway, Rita. You've known it—oh, I don't know how long—but you've known it. Haven't you?"
Rita thought a moment: "Yes, I have known it…. What are you going to do?"
"Do?"
"Yes; what do you intend to do about this matter?"
"Love him," said Valerie. "What else can I do?"
"You could try not to."
"I don't want to."
"You had better."
"Why?"
"Because," said Rita, deliberately, "if you really love him you'll either become his wife or his mistress; and it's a pretty rotten choice either way."
Valerie blushed scarlet;
"Rotten—choice?"
"Certainly. You know perfectly well what your position would be when his family and his friends learned that he'd married his model. No girl of any spirit would endure it—no matter how affable his friends might perhaps pretend to be. No girl of any sense would ever put herself in such a false position…. I tell you, Valerie, it's only the exceptional man who'll stand by you. No doubt Louis Neville would. But it would cost him every friend he has—and probably the respect of his parents. And that means misery for you both—because he couldn't conceal from you what marrying you was costing him—"
"Rita!"
"Yes."
"There is no use telling me all this. I know it. He knows I know it. I am not going to marry him."
After a silence Rita said, slowly: "Did he ask you to?"
Valerie looked down, passed her needle through the hem once, twice.
"Yes," she said, softly, "he asked me."
"And—you refused?"
"Yes."
Rita said: "I like Kelly Neville … and I love you better, dear. But it's not best for you to marry him…. Life isn't a very sentimental affair—not nearly as silly a matter as poets and painters and dramas and novels pretend it is. Love really plays a very minor part in life, Don't you know it?"
"Yes. I lived twenty years without it," said Valerie, demurely, yet in her smile Rita divined the hidden tragedy. And she leaned forward and kissed her impulsively.
"Let's swear celibacy," she said, "and live out our lives together in single blessedness! Will you? We can have a perfectly good time until the undertaker knocks."
"I hope he won't knock for a long while," said Valerie, with a slight shiver. "There's so much I want to see first."
"You shall. We'll see everything together. We'll work hard, live frugally if you say so, cut out all frills and nonsense, and save and save until we have enough to retire on respectably. And then, like two nice old ladies, we'll start out to see the world—"
"Oh, Rita! I don't want to see it when I'm too old!"
"You'll enjoy it more—"
"Rita! How ridiculous! You've seen more of the world than I have, anyway. It's all very well for you to say wait till I'm an old maid; but you've been to Paris—haven't you?"
"Yes," said Rita. There was a slight colour in her face.
"Well, then! Why must I wait until I'm a dowdy old frump before I go? Why should you and I not be as happy as we can afford to be while we're young and attractive and unspoiled?"
"I want you to be as happy as you can afford to be, Valerie…. But you can't afford to fall in love."
"Why?"
"Because it will make you miserable."
"But it doesn't."
"It will if it is love."
"It is, Rita," said the girl, smiling out of her dark eyes—deep brown wells of truth that the other gazed into and saw a young soul there, fearless and doomed.
"Valerie," she said, shivering, "you won't do—that—will you?"
"Dear, I cannot marry him, and I love him. What else am I to do?"
"Well, then—then you'd better marry him!" stammered Rita, frightened.
"It's better for you! It's better—"
"For me? Yes, but how about him?"
"What do you care about him!" burst out Rita, almost incoherent in her fright and anger. "He's a man; he can take care of himself. Don't think of him. It isn't your business to consider him. If he wants to marry you it's his concern after all. Let him do it! Marry him and let him fight it out with his friends! After all what does a man give a girl that compares with what she gives him? Men—men—" she stammered—"they're all alike in the depths of their own hearts. We are incidents to them—no matter how they say they love us. They can't love as we do. They're not made for it! We are part of the game to them; they are the whole game to us; we are, at best, an important episode in their careers; they are our whole careers. Oh, Valerie! Valerie! listen to me, child! That man could go on living and painting and eating and drinking and sleeping and getting up to dress and going to bed to sleep, if you lay dead in your grave. But if you loved him, and were his wife—or God forgive me!—his mistress, the day he died you would die, though your body might live on. I know—I know, Valerie. Death—whether it be his body or his love, ends all for the woman who really loves him. Woman's loss is eternal. But man's loss is only temporary—he is made that way, fashioned so. Now I tell you the exchange is not fair—it has never been fair—never will be, never can be. And I warn you not to give this man the freshness of your youth, the happy years of your life, your innocence, the devotion which he will transmute into passion with his accursed magic! I warn you not to forsake the tranquillity of ignorance, the blessed immunity from that devil's paradise that you are already gazing into—"
"Rita! Rita! What are you saying?"
"I scarcely know, child. I am trying to save you from lifelong unhappiness—trying to tell you that—that men are not worth it—"
"How do you know?"
There was a silence, then Rita, very pale and quiet, leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and framing her face with her hands.
"I had my lesson," she said.
"You! Oh, my darling—forgive me! I did not know—"
Rita suffered herself to be drawn into the younger girl's impulsive embrace; they both cried a little, arms around each other, faltering out question and answer in unsteady whispers:
"Were you married, dearest?"
"No."
"Oh—I am so sorry, dear—"
"So am I…. Do you blame me for thinking about men as I do think?"
"Didn't you love—him?"
"I thought I did…. I was too young to know…. It doesn't matter now—"
"No, no, of course not. You made a ghastly mistake, but it's no more shame to you than it is to him. Besides, you thought you loved him."
"He could have made me. I was young enough…. But he let me see how absolutely wicked he was…. And then it was too late to ever love him."
"O Rita, Rita!—then you haven't ever even had the happiness of loving?
Have you?"
Rita did not answer.
"Have you, darling?"
Then Rita broke down and laid her head on Valerie's knees, crying as though her heart would break.
"That's the terrible part of it," she sobbed—"I really do love a man, now…. Not that first one … and there's nothing to do about it—nothing, Valerie, nothing—because even if he asked me to marry him I can't, now—"
"Because you—"
"Yes."
"And if you had not—"
"God knows what I would do," sobbed Rita, "I love him so, Valerie—I love him so!"
The younger girl looked down at the blond head lying on her knees—looked at the pretty tear-stained face gleaming through the fingers—looked and wondered over the philosophy broken down beside the bowed head and breaking heart.
Terrible her plight; with or without benefit of clergy she dared not give herself. Love was no happiness to her, no confidence, no sacrifice—only a dreadful mockery—a thing that fettered, paralysed, terrified.
"Does he love you?" whispered Valerie.
"No—I think not."
"If he did he would forgive."
"Do you think so?"
"Of course. Love pardons everything," said the girl in surprise.
"Yes. But never forgets."
* * * * *
That was the first confidence that ever had passed between Valerie West and Rita Tevis. And after it, Rita, apparently forgetting her own philosophical collapse, never ceased to urge upon Valerie the wisdom, the absolute necessity of self-preservation in considering her future relations with Louis Neville. But, like Neville's logic, Rita's failed before the innocent simplicity of the creed which Valerie had embraced. Valerie was willing that their relations should remain indefinitely as they were if the little gods of convention were to be considered; she had the courage to sever all relations with the man she loved if anybody could convince her that it was better for Neville. Marry him she would not, because she believed it meant inevitable unhappiness for him. But she was not afraid to lay her ringless hands in his for ever.