"Why will you never play for me?"

Gerard stood leaning on the piano, his eyes half smiling, yet with a look of mastery, fixed upon Elizabeth. She was sitting in a low chair by the fire, the book on her lap which she had been reading when he came in. It was a stormy March afternoon, and the dusk was closing in prematurely. The room was already in shadow, except where the firelight formed a little circle of radiance, illumining Elizabeth's face and hair. Seated thus in the full glow of light, with the shadows in the foreground, all the little details of her appearance—the broad sweep of rippling hair on her forehead, the soft laces at her throat, the pale, dull green of her gown, even to the buckle on her slipper, and the one white rose in her belt—each trifling part of the harmonious whole, impressed itself on his memory, haunting him afterwards with a keen sense of pain.

She looked up at him now from under her long lashes, with the old light in her eyes, half defiant, half tantalizing—that spirit of revolt which still glanced forth at times to baffle and disturb him.

"I don't want to play this afternoon. I don't—feel in the mood."

"You are never in the mood when I ask you." Silence. "Confess at once," said Gerard, with some heat—"for it would really be quite as civil—that you don't wish to play for me."

Another swift upward glance. "Perhaps I don't"—demurely.—"You're too severe a critic."

"You know," said Gerard, "that that is not the reason."

Silence again. "Will you tell me the reason?" he asked.

She answered him this time with a flash of defiance. "I don't know," she said, "what right you have to demand it. But if you insist upon it, I'll tell you. You—you don't like my playing, and—it's very absurd, of course, but I never can play for people who don't."

"I—don't like your playing?" He shielded his eyes for a moment, as if from the glare of the fire. When he spoke again his tone was peremptory. "You foolish child," he said, "come and play for me, and I'll tell you, afterwards, what I think of it."

She looked up at him—startled, rebellious, met his eyes for a moment, then rose, pouting, like the child that he called her, constrained against her will, put down her book, and moved slowly toward the piano. "You are so terribly determined," she complained.

"And you are so terribly perverse! But when I want a thing very much, I can be determined, as you say. Play me the Fire-music," he went on, "and—and 'Tristan and Isolde,' as you did—do you remember?—the first night I met you."

She paused, with her hands on the keys. "I—I thought,"—she began, and then broke off suddenly, and began to play as he bade her—at first faltering, uncertainly, with a strange hesitation; then more firmly, as the keys responded with the old readiness to her touch, and she lost herself in the music. Outside the storm increased, the rain beat against the windows, the room grew dark, and once Elizabeth paused—she could hardly see the keys. But Gerard murmured, "Ah, the love-music!" and she played on. All the terrible distress, the maddening perplexity, of the last few months seemed to express themselves, in spite of herself, in those surging, strenuous chords; all the hope, too, and the wild unreasoning happiness. She was startled, almost as if she were telling the whole story in language so eloquent that he must surely understand it without further words. But Gerard, as was natural, read into it only his own feelings. He stood leaning on the piano, his hand shielding his eyes, which were fixed intently upon her.—It was so dark now that he could hardly see her face, only the shimmer of her hair standing out against the dusk, the movement of her white hands on the keys.

She faltered at last, struck a false chord, and broke off in the very midst of the love-music. "I—I can't see," she murmured, and let her hands fall in her lap.

"Do you remember," Gerard said, "that first night you played? I had talked to you at dinner, you know, you—you repelled me a little. I thought—I am telling you the bare truth, you see—you were a little cynical, a little hard—it seemed a pity when you were so"—he paused for a moment and his voice softened as he lingered over the word—"so beautiful. I couldn't understand you. I thought—I wouldn't try. It wasn't worth while—most things were not. And then—you played"—He paused again for a moment. "You know what most girls' playing is like. Yours has a soul, a fire—I don't know where you get it. It moved me, set me thinking, as no other woman's playing has done for years."

He paused again. Elizabeth looked up quickly. "I thought," she murmured, "that you didn't like my playing, that you were bored"—

"Ah, you thought," he said, "that when a man feels very much, he can make pretty speeches? I can't, at least. Oh, I've no doubt"—he made a resigned gesture—"I've no doubt that I behaved like a brute. Women have told me that I generally do. I said to myself—that girl is dangerous, she could make a man fall in love with her—even against his will. I was in love once—but that's another story. I never wanted to repeat the experiment. And so, as you know, I avoided you; like a fool, I used to go and look at your picture, and then—keep away from you, evening after evening. I struggled—with all the strength I have—I struggled not to love you. And then, as you know"—he looked her straight in the eyes—"as you have known well these last few weeks,—I failed."

There was silence for a moment. She was very white, her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. "I"—she gave a little shuddering sigh—"it would have been better if you hadn't."

"Elizabeth!" She felt rather than saw how his face changed. "Elizabeth," he said, hoarsely, "do you mean that? Then"—as she sat silent—"you don't love me?"

Oh, for the strength to answer "No," and end this scene—this useless, perplexing scene, which she should have been prepared for, which yet seemed to have come upon her unawares! One firm, courageous "No," and a man like Gerard would not ask her twice. Instead, a compromise, useless, feeble, hovered on her lips. "I—shouldn't make you happy," she faltered out, despising her own weakness.

"Is that all?" He laughed out loud in sheer relief. "My darling,"—the triumphant tenderness in his voice was hard to bear—"don't you think that I can judge of that?"

She was silent, and he drew nearer to her and took her hands in his. "You needn't be afraid," he said. "I shall worship the ground you tread upon, if—if you will only consent. You will, Elizabeth, won't you?" She had not known before that his voice held tones so caressingly gentle.

For a moment she sat motionless, passive beneath his touch, and then suddenly: "I can't," she broke out, hoarsely, drew her hands away from him, and going over to the mantel-piece, she leaned her arms upon it and hid her face.

When he spoke again, after a long silence, his voice was entirely changed. "There is something here I don't understand," he said, coldly. "One moment you seemed to yield, and the next"——He made a step towards her. "Tell me the truth," he entreated, "don't spare my feelings. It's a false kindness. You love someone else—is that it?—then tell me so, and I won't reproach you—or—trouble you again."

She turned her face towards him. It was white, quivering with emotion; but she answered firmly: "No, you are entirely wrong. There is—no one else."

"Not Halleck?" he asked, watching her intently, his face dark with the old distrust.

She made a quick, involuntary gesture of repulsion. "Not he—not he, of all people," she said, bitterly.

He still eyed her doubtfully, unsatisfied. "You are sure?" he insisted. "You are telling me the whole truth? Don't deceive me—now, Elizabeth; I could forgive anything but that."

How many chances were given to Elizabeth, only to be thrown away! She answered him steadily; "I'm not deceiving you. I tell you frankly that when I first met Paul Halleck I thought I cared for him—he was the first man I had ever known; but now he is nothing to me, and I have told him so—I think I almost dislike him." There was no mistaking the accent of sincerity in her voice. It was fortunate for Elizabeth, since she was no adept in lying, that the truth and the falsehood were in this case so nearly identical.

Gerard was satisfied.

"Then what," he urged, eagerly—"if there is no one else—what stands between us?"

She hesitated. There were voices in the hall, some visitors requesting admission, the butler parleying a little—the discreet, intelligent butler, who had so considerately refrained, for the last quarter of an hour, from coming in to light the gas.

Gerard was too absorbed to notice anything outside of the cause he was pleading. "Tell me," he repeated, his eyes fixed intently upon her face, "what stands between us?"

She put out her hand with a deprecating gesture. That threatening interruption seemed to give her courage. She was quite herself again. "Can't a woman hesitate for no definite reason?" she asked. "You, yourself—didn't you hesitate—for reasons that I must confess seem to me rather vague and—not very complimentary."

The argument struck home. He changed color. "Don't cast that up against me, Elizabeth," he pleaded. "It's not worthy of you. I told you the plain truth, badly as it sounds, because it seemed due to you—I wanted you to know the worst. And you must remember that I had no reason to suppose that you cared, or would ever care, anything about me. It was only I who suffered when I kept away from you. But you—now that you know how—how madly I love you—don't trifle with me—be generous—give me a definite answer?"

"But I—I can't," she returned, in her old wilful way, "just on the spur of the moment, like this. I don't want to marry any one—not just now, at least. I—I like my freedom"——

The words died away on her lips. She broke off suddenly, turning very pale, as the importunate visitor, whom the butler had vainly endeavored to show into another room, drew aside the portiÈre and entered brusquely. It was Paul Halleck. He had a strangely excited look, which increased as he surveyed the two people on the hearth-rug, whom he had evidently interrupted at a critical moment.

To one of them, at least, his entrance was most unwelcome. Not all of Gerard's carefully cultivated self-control could avail to hide his annoyance; he uttered under his breath an angry exclamation, and going over to the piano, stood moodily turning over sheets of music. Elizabeth, to whom Paul's appearance was for some reasons still more disconcerting, showed greater self-possession. She held out her hand coldly, but composedly, with a few mechanical words, to which he barely responded. There was an embarrassing pause, broken by the butler, who made his belated, majestic entry, lighted the chandeliers and drew the curtains. The effect of the illumination was startling, as it threw into strong relief the look of agitation on each of their faces.

"It—it's storming still, isn't it?" said Elizabeth, and then remembered that she had asked the same question already. Gerard started up and reflecting gloomily that it was of no use to try to "stay that fellow out," he took his leave. Paul and Elizabeth were left alone.

His presence seemed a matter of absolute indifference to Elizabeth, who sank again into the low chair by the fire, and picking up the book she had laid down, turned over its pages with an air of icy unconcern. He came and stood beside her, leaning against the mantel-piece, a look of brutality on his handsome face.

"So," he said. "I've driven Gerard away. A case of 'two is company,' evidently."

Her expression did not change. "Oh, he had been here some time," she said, coldly. "No doubt he meant to leave in any case."

"Oh, no doubt." He sneered angrily. "Do you know what I heard to-day?" he went on. "I heard that you were engaged to him."

She flushed a little. "Did you?" she said, and then, quietly: "But that means nothing, you know."

"But you are together all the time. I can't come to the house without meeting him. You encourage him, accept his flowers, lead him on.—Pray, how long is this sort of thing going to last?"

They eyed each other for a moment, he flushed with anger, she cold and hard. "You have no right," she said, icily, "to ask an account of my actions."

"No right!" he repeated, as if thunder-struck. "I should like to know who has a better."

"No right that I acknowledge, at least," she amended her first sentence.

He paced up and down the room, struggling for self-control. "Whether you acknowledge it or not, is immaterial," he said, stopping suddenly in front of her. "I claim it, and that is enough. You must give up this infernal flirtation with Gerard, or"——

"Or what?" she insisted haughtily, as he paused.

"I shall go to Gerard at once and tell him the truth," he concluded, defiantly.

Dead silence. The book she held fell from Elizabeth's nerveless hand. The steady ticking of the clock in the stillness seemed to beat an accompaniment to these words: "Don't deceive me—now, Elizabeth; I could forgive anything but that."

"Paul?" Her voice was no longer icy, but soft, with caressing tones. "Paul, you wouldn't be so unkind?"

"What difference does it make to you?" he said, eyeing her keenly, "whether I tell Gerard or not? You can't marry him, you know—it's impossible."

"I don't want to marry him," she said, gathering all her powers of resistance, "but—he's a friend of mine. I don't want him to be told things about me by—an outsider."

"Ah, you call me that!" he said, his anger roused again. "Well, outsider or not, I hold the cards. I shall go to Gerard at once and tell him that we were married—at Cranston, last July. If he doubts my assertion, the record is there, and it won't be very hard for him to verify it."

Silence again. Elizabeth sat musing, her brows knit, her under lip slightly thrust out, in a fashion that seemed to express all the obstinate resolve of her nature. "I will do as you wish, if you will keep silent."

"Will you write a note to Gerard," Paul demanded, "sending him away?"

"No," she said, sullenly. "I won't do that."

"Then there is nothing else you can do," he declared.

Elizabeth mused again. "I would give—money," she said. The last word was spoken very low.

He started and flushed. "Do you want to bribe me?" he asked, angrily.

She shrugged her shoulders. "I am quite aware that you will not do anything for nothing," she said.

Paul fell again to pacing up and down the room. His face showed traces of a mental struggle. Elizabeth watched him from the corners of her eyes; she saw that her offer tempted him more than she had dared to hope.

He stopped at last in front of her. "How much can you spare?" he asked, in a voice in which a certain bravado strove to gain the mastery over inward uneasiness and shame. "The truth is, I am most confoundedly hard up just now, what with furnishing the studio and everything, and if you could help me a little, it would be very convenient. I can pay you back later with interest a hundred times."

"I have told you," she said, coldly, "what payment I want."

He shrugged his shoulders, with an attempt at nonchalance. "Oh, as to that, I never really intended to tell Gerard." Elizabeth's lip curled.

"How much money do you want?" she asked, curtly. "A hundred? Two hundred?" Her ideas on such matters were vague. Paul's face fell.

"I should need five hundred at least, if—if it is to be of any use," he said, gloomily.

It was more than she expected, but she showed no signs of flinching. "Five hundred, then," she said, rising as if to conclude the interview. "Will it do, if I let you have it to-morrow?"

"Perfectly. Elizabeth, you are an angel. I can't thank you enough." He advanced towards her with outstretched arms, but with a gesture of repulsion she waved him aside.

"Don't thank me," she said, coldly. "This is a bargain for our mutual advantage. I will fulfil my share of it if you remember yours. And now, as we have nothing more to discuss, I think I will ask you to excuse me." She made him a stately inclination, picked up her book and sailed from the room in undiminished dignity and apparent unconcern.

But when she was alone and had locked herself into her room to think over her misery, then, indeed, the situation stared her in the face in its true colors. Her own words, "I like my freedom," rang mockingly in her ears. She was not free, but a slave; slave of a man who had her in his power, and would use it, as time went on, more and more unscrupulously. This time it was five hundred that he demanded; next time it would be a thousand. What could she do? Somehow or another, he must be satisfied. Anything was better, any sacrifice, any humiliation, than to allow him to go to Gerard with that bare statement of facts, "We were married at Cranston, last July!" The truth, devoid of any of the softening evasions by which she cloaked it to her own mind; the redeeming circumstances which excused, if they did not justify, her silence.

Her bitterest enemy must admit that the position was a hard one. A contract entered into hastily by a thoughtless girl, on the impulse of the moment; a quarter of an hour in an empty church one summer day; a few words spoken before a sleepy old clergyman and indifferent witnesses—could such things as these have power to ruin one's whole life? No, no—her heart cried out wildly to the contrary. The whole episode seemed, in the retrospect, so dream-like. It was easy to imagine that it had never happened. And yet, had she the courage to ignore it?... And, even if she had, there was always Paul to remind her of it, who would not give her up without a terrible struggle, that must, without fail, come to Gerard's ears.

There was only one hope that she could see, and that was wild and irrational; the hope Paul had himself suggested. If that prediction could be fulfilled! Elizabeth shuddered. It was terrible to think of such a thing; terrible to obtain one's own happiness at the cost of another person's life. She did not really wish Paul dead—that would be wicked. And yet—and yet—the thought pressed irresistibly upon her—if it had to be!—if it had to be! What a blessed relief—what an end to all this misery! "Oh, I do wish it, I do wish it!" she broke out, speaking aloud, unconsciously. "I would give anything in this world to hear of his death."

She stopped, startled at the sound of her own voice. The wish shocked her, even in the moment of expressing it. Her wishes were so often fulfilled—she had an almost superstitious faith in their efficacy. If this one were fulfilled, what then?—For a moment she, thinking it over, balanced possibilities; and then with a stifled cry, fell on her knees and hid her face in her hands.

"Oh, I'm growing so wicked," she sobbed out. "It's because I'm so miserable. Only let me have what I want, and I'll be different; I'll be the kind of woman that he admires; only—I must find a way, I must have what I want—first."