Out in the street, in front of the Gleason cottage, the red car glistened in the moonlight. In the shade of the familiar veranda Roberts tossed his gauntlets and cap on the floor and drew forth two wicker rocking-chairs where they would catch the slight midsummer night wind.

“Hottest night of the season, I fancy,” he commented, as he helped his companion remove her dust coat and waited thereafter until she was seated before he took the place by her side. “Old Reliable number two certainly did us a good turn this evening. Runs like an advertisement, doesn’t it?”

It was a minute before the girl answered. “Yes. It sounds cheap to say so, but at times, like to-night, it almost seems to me Paradise. It makes one forget, temporarily, the things one wishes to forget.”

“Yes,” said her companion. 286

“I suppose people who have been accustomed to luxuries all their lives don’t think of it at all; but others—” She was silent.

“Yes,” said Roberts again, “I think I understand. It’s the one compensation for being hungry a long time, I suppose; the added enjoyment of the delayed meal when at last it is served. At least that’s what those who never went hungry say. I hope you’ll get a lot of pleasure out of the machine this Summer.”

The girl looked at him quickly.

“I? Are you going away again?”

“Yes. I start West to-morrow. Things are moving faster than I expected.”

“And you won’t take the car with you?”

“No, I shan’t play again for a time. I always had a theory that a man should know a business he conducts, not take some one else’s word for it. I’m going to put on my corduroys and live with that mine until it grows up. I don’t even know how long that will be. In a way to-night is good-bye.”

The girl said nothing this time.

“I meant what I said, though, in regard to the car,” returned Roberts. “I shall be disappointed if you don’t use it a lot. I’ve always felt as though it sort of belonged to us together, 287 we’ve had such a lot of pleasure out of it in common. They tell me at the garage that while I was away last time it wasn’t out at all. Didn’t Steve deliver my message?”

“Yes.”

“Won’t you promise to do differently the rest of the season?”

Again the girl paused before she answered.

“No,” she said then. “You understand why?”

“Not if I request otherwise?”

“Don’t request it, please,” swiftly, “as a favor. I repeat, you understand.”

“Understand, certainly, what you mean to imply.” The big hands on the man’s knees drooped a little wearily. “You don’t trust me wholly, even yet, do you, Elice?” he added abruptly.

“Trust you! That’s a bit cruel.”

The man shifted in his seat unconsciously.

“If it was I beg your pardon,” he said gently. “I didn’t intend it so. I suppose I’m wrong; but what others, mere observers, say seems to me so trivial. The gossip of people who’d knife you without compunction the instant your back was turned for their own gratification or gain—to let them judge and sentence—pardon 288 me once more. I shan’t mention the matter again.”

The girl looked steadily out into the night, almost as though its peace were hers. “Yes,” she returned, “you are wrong—but in a different way than you intimated. It isn’t what others would say at all that prevents my accepting, but my own judgment of myself. You’ve done so many things for me; and I in return—I’m never able to do anything whatever. It’s a matter of self-respect wholly. One can’t accept, and accept, and accept always—in the certainty of remaining permanently in debt.”

The man looked at her oddly. Then he glanced away.

“No; I suppose not,” he acquiesced.

“If there were anything I could do for you in turn to make up even partially; but you’re so big and independent and self-sufficient—”

“Self-sufficient!” Roberts caught the dominant word and dwelt on it meditatively. “I suppose I am that way. It never occurred to me before.” The big hands tightened suddenly, their weariness gone. “But let’s forget it,” he digressed energetically. “This is the last time I’ll see you for a long time, months at least; and a lot can happen in months sometimes. The 289 future is the Lord’s, but the present is ours. Let’s enjoy it while we may. What, by the way, are you going to do the remainder of the Summer?”

“Do?” The girl laughed shortly. “What I’m doing now, I fancy, mostly. Father will be away the first week in September. I promised Margery I’d stay with her during that time; otherwise—” A gesture completed the sentence.

Roberts looked at her oddly. “Is that what you want to do—you?” he asked bluntly.

“Want to do?” Again the laugh. “What does it matter what I want to do?” She caught herself suddenly. “Margery and I may go away to a lake somewhere during that week,” she completed.

“And after that?” suggested the man.

“The university will be open then. I’ve secured a place this year,—assistant in English.”

“You’re really serious, Elice?” soberly. “This is news to me, you know. You really purpose teaching in future?”

“Yes.” She returned her companion’s look steadily. “Father was not reappointed for the coming session. He’s over the age line. I supposed you knew.” 290

“No; I didn’t know before.” Without apparent reason Roberts stood up. The great hands were working again. A moment he stood there so, the big bushy head outlined distinctly against the starlit sky; with equal abruptness he returned to his seat.

“What a farce this is you and I are playing,” he said. “Do you really wish it to go on longer?”

The girl did not look at him, did not move.

“Farce?” she echoed.

The man gestured swiftly.

“Don’t do that, please,” he prevented. “You and I know each other entirely too well to pretend. I repeat, do you wish this travesty to go on indefinitely? If you do I accept, of course—but—do you?”

Instinctively, as on a former occasion, the girl drew her chair farther back on the porch, until her face was in the shadow. It was out of the shadow that she spoke.

“Prefer it to go on? Yes,” she said; “because I wish you to remain as you are now. But really wish it, no; because it’s unfair, wholly unfair.”

“Unfair to me?”

“Yes, to you.” 291

For the second time Roberts gestured. “Take that consideration out of the discussion absolutely, please,” he said. “With that understanding do you still wish this pretence to go on?”

“I wish to keep your friendship.”

“My friendship—nothing more? I’m brutally blunt, I realize; but I can’t let to-night, this last night, go by without knowing something of how you feel. You never have given me even so much as a hint, you know. I’ve waited patiently, I think, for you to select the moment for confidence; but you avoid it always; and to-morrow at this time—You know I love you, Elice. Knowing that, do you still wish me to go away pretending merely polite friendship? Do you wish it to be that way, Elice?”

The girl ignored the question, ignored all except the dominant statement.

“Yes, I know you love me,” she echoed. “You told me so once before.”

“Once! A thousand times; you understood the language. It seems foolish even to reiterate the fact now. And yet you’ve never answered.”

“I know. I said it was unfair; and still—”

“You won’t answer even yet.”

“I can’t. I’m drifting and waiting for light. 292 Don’t misunderstand; that isn’t religion—I’ve not been to church in a year, or said a prayer. It isn’t that at all. I simply don’t want to hate myself, or be hated by another justly later.”

“And you expect to drift on until that light comes?”

A halt, long enough for second thought or renewal of a decision. “I can’t do otherwise. There’s no other way. It’s inevitable.”

“‘Inevitable!’” Roberts shrugged impatiently. “I don’t like the word. It belongs in the same class with ‘chance’ and ‘predestination’ and ‘luck.’ There are few things inevitable except death.”

“This is one—that I must wait.”

“And you can’t even take me into your confidence, about the reason why? Mind, I don’t ask it unless you voluntarily desire. I merely suggest.”

“No,” steadily; “I can’t tell you the reason. I’ve got to decide for myself—when light comes.”

Roberts’ great shoulders squared significantly.

“But if I know it already,” he suggested evenly, “what then?”

No answer, although the other waited half a minute. 293

“I repeat: what if I know it already?”

“Do you know?”

Roberts’ glance wandered into the shadow where the girl was, then returned slowly to the street and the red car.

“I rode East with Steve Armstrong,” he said, “as far as he went. I also wired him when I was coming, and we returned together. He told me, I think, everything—except about your father. He forgot that, if he knew. Do you doubt I know the reason, Elice?”

Out of the shadow came the girl’s face,—the face only.

“You did this for Stephen Armstrong—after what is past! Why?”

“Because life is short and I wanted to know several things before I came to-night. Would you like to hear what it was I wished to learn?”

Again the face vanished.

“Yes,” said a voice.

“You know already, so it won’t be news. One was that he still cares for you—as always. He perjured himself once, because he thought it was his duty; but he has never ceased to care. The other thing was that he’s changed his mind and is going back to his literary work. His novel, that was accepted tentatively, will be published 294 next Winter. What else I learned is immaterial. I don’t often venture a prediction, but in his case I’ll make the exception. I believe that this time he’ll make good. He has the incentive—and experience. Do you still doubt I know the reason, Elice?”

“No. But that you should tell me this!”

“I claim no virtue. You knew it already. I’m merely attempting to simplify—to aid the coming of the light.”

For the second time out of the shadow came the girl’s face, her whole figure. “Darley Roberts,” asked a voice, “are you human, or aren’t you? I don’t believe another man in the world would, under like circumstances, do as you have done by Steve Armstrong. I can’t believe you human merely.”

The man smiled oddly; the look passed.

“I have merely played the game fair,” he explained dispassionately, “or tried to, according to my standard. Like yourself, I don’t want to hate myself in the future, whatever comes. The hate of others—I’m indifferent to that, Elice.”

“And still you love me.”

“I shall never care for another, never. The time when I could, if it ever existed, is past.” 295

The white hands dropped helplessly into the girl’s lap.

“I thought I understood you,” she said, “and yet, after all—”

“We live but once,” gently. “I wish you to be happy, the happiest possible. Does that help?”

“Yes, but—” In a panic the face, the hands, retreated back into the shadow again. “Oh, I’m afraid of you once more, afraid of you,” she completed.

A moment the man sat still; then came his unexpected deliberate smile.

“No; not afraid. I repeat you know me absolutely, and we’re never afraid of things we know. I explained once before that that’s why I went through the detail of telling you everything. You’re not afraid of me in the least, any more than I am afraid of you.”

“No?”

The smile still held.

“No.”

“And still—”

“I repeat, it isn’t fear of me that prevents your answering.” Like a flash the smile vanished. Simultaneously the voice dropped until it was very low, yet very steady. “You love me in return, Elice, girl. It isn’t that!” 296

From the darkness silence, just silence.

“I say, you love me in return. Can you deny it?”

Still not an answering sound nor a motion.

Roberts drew a long breath. His big eloquent hands hung free. “Shall I put in words the exact reason you won’t answer, to prove I know?” he asked.

“Yes.” The voice was just audible.

A moment Roberts paused. “It’s because you are afraid, not of me, but of Steve Armstrong: afraid of the way the Lord fashioned him. Elice, come out into the light, please. We must face this thing. You’re not his mother, and you don’t love him otherwise. Tell me, is a sentiment dead greater than one living? Will you, must you, sacrifice the happiness of two for the happiness of one? Answer me, please.”

An instant the girl hesitated; obediently she came out into the light, stood there so, her hand on the pillar of the porch. She did not glance at her companion, did not dare to do so.

“I repeat, I can’t answer you yet,” she said simply. “It’s bitter, cruel to you, I know, and to myself; but it would be infinitely worse if—if I made a mistake.” She paused, while a restless 297 hand swept across her face. “I can’t help feeling that I’m to blame a good deal already, that if I hadn’t changed, and shown the change—” She sat down helplessly, the sentence incomplete. “Oh, I can’t bear to think of it. It drives me mad. To feel you have the responsibility of another’s very soul on your hands, and to have failed in that trust—”

“Elice!”

“Don’t stop me. It’s true. If I had married him years ago when he first wished me to do so he’d never have gone down. I cared for him then, or fancied I did so; and I could have held him up. But instead—”

“Elice! I won’t listen. You’re morbid and see ghosts where nothing exists. You’re no more to blame for being human and awakening than lightning is to blame when it strikes.” He stood up, suddenly. “Besides, the past is dead. To attempt to revive it is useless. The future alone matters; and it’s that I wish to talk about. I can’t bear to think of going away and leaving you as you are now. It’s preposterous. If you cared for Steve I shouldn’t insist for a moment, or trouble you again so long as I lived; but you don’t care for him.” He took a step forward, and stopped where she must look him in the face. 298 “You don’t care for him, that way, do you, Elice?” he asked.

Straight in the eyes the girl answered his look. But the lips spoke nothing.

“And you do love me, love me, don’t you, girl?”

Still not a word; only that same steady look.

“Elice,”—the man’s hands were on her shoulders, holding her immovable,—“answer me. This is unbearable. Don’t you love me? Say it. I must know.”

Bit by bit the long lashes dropped, until the dark eyes were hid. “I can’t say it yet,” she said, “you know that. Don’t compel me to.”

“Cannot or will not?”

Still no answer, merely silence.

Just noticeably the man’s big hands tightened their grip. “I can make you very happy, Elice, girl,” he voiced swiftly; “I know it; because I have the ability and I love you. I’ll take you away, to any place in the world you wish to go, stay as long as you wish, do whatever you choose. I’ll give you anything you want, anything you ever wanted. I have the power to do this now, and I’ll have more power in future. Nothing can stop me now or prevent, except death alone. 299 Say the word and I’ll not go West to-morrow. Instead, we’ll begin to live. We’re both starved for the good things that life has to offer. We’ll eat our fill together, if you but say the word. We’ve wasted years—both of us, long, precious years. There’s a big, big debt owing us; but at last, at last—”

“Darley Roberts!”

The man suddenly halted, passive.

“You don’t realize what you’re doing, what you’re saying. It’s unworthy of you.”

A moment longer the grip of the big hands still clung as it was. They dropped, and the man drew back.

“Unworthy?” He looked at her steadily. “Can you fancy I was trying to—buy you? I thought you realized I love you.”

“I do. But—you’re only making it harder for me—to do right.”

“Do right?” Once more the echo. “Right!” He laughed, as his companion had never before heard him laugh. “I wonder if it is right to make a certain cripple of one human being on the chance of making a real weakling less weak? Right to—” a sudden tense halt. “I beg your pardon,” swiftly. “I didn’t mean that. Forget that I said it.” He stooped to pick up his 300 cap and gauntlets. When he came forward once more he was himself again, as he would be from that moment on.

“Don’t fancy for a minute I mean to hurt you, or to make it harder for you now,” he said steadily; “but this is the end, you realize, the turning of the ways—and I must be sure. You still can’t give me an answer, Elice?”

The girl did not look at him this time, did not stir.

“No, not even yet.”

A pause, short this time.

“And you won’t reconsider about going to work for a living, won’t let me help, as a friend, merely as a friend? You know me too well to misunderstand this. It would mean nothing absolutely to me now to help, and would not alter our friendship, if you wish, in the least. Won’t you let me do this trifle for you if I ask it?”

Resolutely the girl shook her head, very steadily.

“I understand and appreciate,” she said; “but I can’t.”

A moment longer the man waited. He extended his hand. “There’s nothing more to be said, then, I fancy, except good-bye.” 301

For the first time in that long, long fight the girl weakened. Gropingly she found the extended hand; but even then the voice was steady.

“Good-bye,” she said—and that was all.