The next morning Carlita was feeling far from well. Her head ached, and there were dark circles under her eyes. She awoke with a sense of utter weariness of living, of the absolute desolation of life. There was a choking sob in her throat with returning consciousness with taking up the thread again and continuing in the old way that fate had marked out for her.

She felt a pity for herself that was not in keeping with her understanding of the situation, but she was too utterly miserable to think of analyzing sensations or emotions. She could fully appreciate the mental condition of the man who seeks oblivion at any cost to himself.

Before she had an opportunity to arise, Jessica entered, and, in her sweet, insidious way, persuaded Carlita that she was in reality ill, a thing which Carlita was by no means loath to believe, and with the tenderest solicitude soothed her into quiet, promising that she herself would attend to the affidavit which was necessary to forward to Stolliker, and that no point should be missing and no time lost.

And poor Carlita allowed herself to be made to believe that she was quite satisfied with the arrangement, and kissed Jessica gratefully that she was willing to undertake so much for her.

She even turned her face from the light and tried to go to sleep again when Jessica had gone upon her mission, but the sleep of the last few hours had been induced only through physical exhaustion. A pair of dark-gray eyes were looking reproachfully into her own, and a deep, tender, wistful voice kept repeating:

"I will tell you when I am sure that you love me even as I love you."

And then she heard again all the tones of his voice, all the sweet, pathetic music of that duet from AÏda in the tomb, and gasping, half-hysterical sobs arose in her throat again, and she hid her face in the pillows for very shame as she had shut herself in the darkness the night before.

It was two days after that before she left her room.

Jessica brought her the affidavit before it was sent upon its mission to Stolliker, and she read it with a renewed sinking of the heart, but there was not a word uttered to prevent its going. On the contrary, she was feverishly anxious until it was on its way, even asking Jessica's advice about sending some one with it as messenger instead of intrusting it to the mails.

And then, after those two days, Leith's card was brought to her.

She shrank away from it, and a little cry of torture arose to her lips, but she repressed it bravely and arose, compressing her lips firmly.

"Can I be false to the dead as well as to the oath I have sworn?" she muttered to herself. "It is necessary that I should play this part through, and I will do it! You may trust me to avenge you, Olney, even if I die of self-loathing and contempt!"

"You are not well again!" Leith exclaimed, placing a chair for her as she entered the room. "You have been suffering."

"Only from neuralgia and sleeplessness," she replied, forcing herself to smile. "Insomnia is an old enemy of mine."

"And a most bitter foe," added Leith earnestly. "You need change of air. You ought to take a little trip abroad. Why don't you ask Mrs. Chalmers to take you? They talked of going a short while ago."

"Perhaps I shall, later on, but not now. I am really not ill; you must not think it."

"You have never been yourself since—since Olney died. Do you know, I have been half afraid sometimes that—that I remind you of him, because—well, you know, because we were such good friends, and because of—of some things I was traitor enough to say to you. I can't keep silent when I am near you, when I see you, and I have no right to speak when you are in this distress—when I know that you do not care for me, and for that reason I have thought it better that I should not see you for awhile. I have come to say good-bye, Carlita."

He had not dared to look at her during the speech lest his courage should fail him, but he had stammered through it like a blind man groping through an unknown world. He had not seen her growing pallor, the expression of dismay, fear, misery—what was it?—that darkened her eyes. He only heard the quiver of her voice, that dear voice whose every intonation was like a throb in his own heart, when she repeated:

"Good-bye!"

Even then he would not look at her; dared not, because of that weak courage, but answered swiftly:

"Yes. It will only be for a time, until I can see you and not blurt out the story of my love at every breath, a story which could not but be hateful to you. But you will let me come back then, will you not? You will still let me be your friend?"

She did not reply, she could not. Stolliker's words were dancing before her excited vision in letters of fire:

"If you lose sight of him, everything will fail."

Was she to keep her oath to her dead lover, or was she to let this man escape? She knew but too well that everything depended upon her.

For one moment her heart cried out madly:

"Why should you sacrifice everything that is womanly and honest in your nature because of your revenge?" And then she understood that she was lying to herself, deceiving her own soul in order to save herself from her own loathing.

And all that time he was standing there staring through the window, thinking of what he was giving up, of the loneliness of life when he should be able to see her no longer, and of the necessity that demanded it. He did not even hear her rise, did not see the awful, strained pallor of her countenance as she approached him, step by step, as if each one were attached with the most ghastly pain, but he did feel the touch of her fingers upon his arm, did hear the sweet tones of her lovely voice, hoarse and dulled as it was:

"It is necessary that you should go—until I—send you?"

He turned and caught her in his arms, pressing kiss after kiss upon her lips; but she beat him back from her, crying out her awful torture wildly:

"Don't! Don't! For the love of God, don't touch me! Can't you see what I am? Don't you understand all the treachery of it? Doesn't something tell you that I am taking advantage of your love to lure you to ruin and death?"

"Carlita! Carlita, what are you saying?"

He had dropped his arms from about her and staggered back, white to the lips.

The sound of her voice seemed to recall her as suddenly as his kisses had driven her mad. She pressed her icy hands over her mouth and groaned.

"I don't know," she moaned. "It is treachery to Olney, I think. It is—"

But he did not allow her to complete the self-accusation.

"Oh, it is only that!" he exclaimed, "he would desire you to be happy. I know him so well, none better. He was so generous, so noble; neither living nor dead would he stand between you and happiness. Listen to me, Carlita, and then if you tell me to go, I will go, and if you tell me to stay, I will stay, God knows how gladly. You are alone in this world, pitifully alone. More alone than if you were in the heart of the forest; for even those by whom you are surrounded are not your friends and are striving to ruin you. I could not remain and witness it. I love you! Love you with the whole strength of my heart and soul! There is nothing I would not do to win you! I know that only a short time has elapsed since the death of your fiancÉ, but if he could speak, he would tell me to do what I have done, to protect you with my love, to save you from the ruin of both soul and body that threatens you. Carlita is it go, or stay?"

She hesitated only a moment, wondering in her heart which she hated most, herself or him, and then the word came in a gasping whisper:

"Stay!"

He caught her hand, but she shrank back in but too evident torture.

"Not yet!" she cried, breathlessly. "Not yet! It is too soon after—after his death. You would not wish it—yet. Whatever I may feel—oh, surely you understand! And yet—I can not—can not let you—go!"

He actually smiled soothingly.

"And I shall not ask it until you yield it of your own will. Heaven knows I never expected so much, that I am the most undeserving yet the most grateful wretch alive. You have made me the happiest man under the sun, and though you have forbidden excess of expression, you will not deny me the right of an accepted lover beyond that. Carlita darling, look in my face and read, if you can, the pure and holy joy you have given me."

She glanced at him for only a moment, then passionately covered her eyes with her hands.

"It is almost as—he looked," she groaned.

He smiled again indulgently.

"Poor little hysterical girl," he murmured, tenderly, without touching her, "you will overcome all this in time, but it is enough for me now to know that you love me. Heaven knows it is possession enough for the best of men. You will let me tell Mrs. Chalmers?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" she cried, huskily. "No one at all—yet!"

"As you will about that," he returned, gently, "but at least you must allow me to guide you in some things. You must yield especially in one. No more poker for my affianced wife. And you are that, my darling; let the story be told or remain a secret between us as you will, you are my affianced wife."