A Complete Story. By M. Westrup.
T girl was little, slender, insignificant—only her love made her heroic. The man was big, broad, one to be noticed in a crowd, and his love made him as helpless as a little child.
They stood opposite each other in the poor, shabby little room. His eyes devoured her face wildly, incredulously, but her eyes were fixed on a great hole in the faded carpet.
Her mind was chaotic, for with his eager words of love rang others, bewildering her. Side by side with his passionate outpouring of his love for her, his longing to have her for his own, to live for her and work for her, were other words—words of ambition and great aspirations, words of intending travel into far-away countries, of hardships and discomforts to be borne for the sake of the book that was to be written—the book that was to bring fame and satisfaction to the writer of it.
And these words rang with a deep note of earnestness and strength, and overpowered those eager, present tones that were pleading to her so wildly.
"I called you Kathleen Mavourneen last night, you remember, and you smiled and blushed!" he protested, roughly. "Why did you do it? Kathleen, you do love me, you do! Why don't you speak to me? I tell you, I have seen it in your eyes. Why do you deny it now?"
She shook her head, and her heart cried in agony, "How long? How long?"
"Won't you try, then?" with a humbleness that was not natural to him. "Oh, Kitty, little Kitty, I cannot live without you!"
He held out his arms to her despairingly.
"I have a singing lesson to give at one o'clock," she said.
His arms fell to his sides. The sun streamed in on to the pretty, pale, downbent face of the girl, and on to the white, haggard face of the man who stood opposite.
There were no shadows in the little room—it was all glare and shabbiness.
"I will go," he said, and then his eyes caught fire; "but you are a flirt! Do you hear, a paltry, heartless flirt! You have led me on—played with me. You have made your eyes soft, your lips sweet, to amuse yourself at my expense! How do you do it?" with a little cynical laugh. "It's really clever—of its kind—you know——"
He moved towards the door.
"I beg your pardon," he said icily. "I should not have spoken so to a woman. Good-bye."
"You will begin your travels now?" she said.
He laughed.
"Why keep up the pretence?" he said; "it's rather late now to pretend any interest in my life."
She was silent.
At the door he paused.
He was a proud man, and he had an iron will.
But his love made him helpless and weak as a little child.
"Kathleen," he breathed, "you are sure?"
A moment she stood still and rigid as a statue.
"Little one, I love you so——" His voice was soft and caressing; but her love made her heroic. She raised her head. "I am sure," she said steadily.
The girl sat in a corner of the warm, gorgeous drawing-room, and wished vaguely that people would not nod and stare at her so energetically. She was used to it now, and tired of it.
She had never liked it, but fame brings notoriety in its train, and notoriety brings nods and whispers and stares.
She was dressed beautifully. She had always liked pretty things, and now she could have as many as she wanted.
The man stood over in a doorway and watched her with cynical eyes.
He had not seen her for five years, and as he stood there another man lounged up and spoke to him.
"Looking at la belle Philomèle?" he said; "she's quite the rage, you know. Ever heard her sing? You're only just back from the wilds, aren't you? Oh, well, of course you'll go to St. James's Hall to-morrow? She's going to sing, you know. Her voice is splendid. I never go to hear her myself—makes me feel I'm a miserable sinner somehow—does, 'pon my word. I've heard her twice, and then I dropped it. Don't like feeling small, you know."
He lounged away again, and the man with the cynical eyes still watched her.
Her head was turned away from him—only a soft, fair cheek and little ear nestling in a soft mass of hair, a white throat, and a lot of pale chiffon and silk, could he see. And suddenly the cheek and even neck were flooded with a red blush, and then they looked whiter than before. He wondered, and smiled bitterly as he did so.
And the girl's eyes remained fixed, eager, fascinated, on the long looking-glass before her.
But she was not looking at herself.
Afterwards he sought her.
"You were wise," he said mockingly, and her eyes grew dark with pain.
He took the seat beside her and played with the costly fan he had picked up.
"You were wise," he said, mockingly.
"I must congratulate you," he said indifferently. "This"—with a comprehensive wave towards her dress and the diamonds at her throat—"is better than the old days."
"Yes."
"But perhaps you have forgotten so long as—what is it?—ten—no, five years ago?"
"No."
He furled and unfurled the fan in silence, and wondered who had given her the Parma violets in her hair.
"Your—book?" she said timidly.
He stared at her blankly.
She reddened slowly.
"You—you—were going to—to travel, and write about it—strange places——" she faltered.
"Oh, ah! yes, I believe I was—five years ago."
Her face was white again now.
"You have travelled?" she ventured at last.
"Oh, yes! I've done nothing else for five years. I've shot tigers, bears—I've lived with Chinamen and negroes—chummed with cannibals once—oh!"—with a laugh—"I've had a fine time!"
Her eyes were wistful.
Her hostess brought up a man to be introduced, and when she turned again, the chair was empty.
She did not see him again for two weeks.
There was an added pathos in the beautiful voice.
La belle Philomèle brought tears to many thousands of eyes, but her own were dry and restless. It was dawning on her that she had made a mistake—five years ago.
"Seen Hugh Hawksleigh?" she heard one man say to another. "Never been so disappointed in a chap in my life. Years ago he promised great things. Those articles of his on 'Foreign Ways and Doings' made quite a sensation, you know. And there was some talk of wild travels and a book that was going to be the book of the day. The travels are all right, but where's the book?"
"The usual thing—a woman," drawled the other. "Didn't you know? Some pretty coquette—the usual game—but the cost was heavier than usual—to him. It knocked it out of him, you know. I never saw a fellow so hard hit. That was five years ago, and he's never written a line since. Poor fellow!"
The knowledge that she had made a mistake five years ago was growing plainer to her.
At the end of the fortnight she met him and asked him to come and see her.
He smiled, and did not come.
Her eyes grew too big for the small, sad face.
She met him again, and asked him why he had not come.
He looked down into the sweet, true eyes, and his love weakened his will again.
He promised he would come. He came, and stayed five minutes. He looked at her sternly as he greeted her.
"Why do you want me?" he said, and watched the colour come and go in her cheeks with pitiless eyes.
"We—used—to be—friends," she whispered.
He laughed.
"Never! I never felt friendship for you," he said, "nor you for me. You forget. Five years is a long time, but I have a retentive memory. I forget nothing."
"Nor I," she murmured.
"No? Then why do you ask me to come and see you?"
She did not answer.
He looked round the pretty shaded room.
He laughed again.
"There is a difference," he said, "in you too."
She looked up quickly.
"I am the same," she said, knowing her own heart.
"Are you?" His eyes grew stormy. "Listen," he said, in a low, tense voice: "I am five years wiser than I was—then. I will not be a tool again. You have ruined my life—doesn't that content you? I would have staked my life on your goodness and purity—once. I dare not believe in any woman since you, with your angel's eyes, are false. I was full of ambition and hope once; you killed both. I tried to write—after. I could not. I shall never do anything now—never be anything. I despise myself, and it's not a nice feeling to live with. It makes men desperate. I love you still. Do you understand? I have loved you all the time, and I loathe myself for it." His voice changed. "You may triumph," he said, "but now you understand—I will not come again."
She stretched out her arms after him, but he was gone. And she knew now quite clearly that she had made a mistake five years ago.
For three weeks and a half she did not see him.
Then she saw him when he thought he was alone.
She studied his face with eyes that ached at what they saw. Then she went forward and touched him gently on his arm.
"Well?" he said.
"Will you come," she said in a low voice, "to see me——"
"Thanks, no."
His eyes rested bitterly on her rich gown.
It came across him again how wise she had been. Tied to him, she could not have been as she was now.
"I have something I must say to you," she said tremulously; "will you come—just this once?"
He looked down into the soft eyes with the beautiful light in them.
"I would rather not," he said gently.
The weariness in his eyes brought a sob to her throat.
"Ah, do!" she entreated; "I will never ask you again."
He looked at her with searching incredulity.
Then he turned away.
Just so had she looked five years ago.
She laid a small, despairing hand on his.
The iciness of it went to his heart.
"I will come," he said gently, and went away.
When he came, he wondered at the agitation in her small white face.
Her eyes were burning.
He waited silently.
She twisted her hands restlessly together, and he saw that she was trembling.
He drew a chair forward.
"Won't you sit down?" he said.
She sat down in a nest of softest cushions.
"I—I——" she began, and put up her hand to her throat, "I want to—to—to explain."
His face darkened.
She got up restlessly and faced him.
He thought of that time when they had faced each other before—in the shabby, glaring little room—and his face hardened.
"When you——" she began; "I thought it was for you—I had heard you say——"
"Are you going back five years?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Then would you mind not?" he said. "There can be no good in it, and to me at least it is not a pleasant subject."
"I must!" she burst out. "Oh! cannot you help me? It is so hard!"
She held out her hands pathetically.
A deep colour came into his tanned face, and he stood still, looking at her strangely.
"I think I will go," he said; "there is no use in prolonging this."
"Do you—love—me still?" she cried suddenly.
He turned on her in a white passion of anger.
"Not content yet?" he breathed. "What are you made of? Do you want me to show you all my degradation? Why? Oh, Kitty, Kitty, be merciful! Be true to those eyes of yours——"
He stopped abruptly and moved over to the door.
"Hugh, I love you!"
It was the veriest whisper, but it stayed his steps, and brought a great light leaping to his eyes.
The light died down.
"It is too late!" he said, and turned away.
"Hugh, listen—I loved you always—five years ago. It was for your sake——"
He turned again.
"Kitty?" he said uncertainly.
She went on bravely, always heroic through her love.
"I was poor—insignificant; you were ambitious—clever. I had heard your longings after greatness. Hugh, how could you travel into those wild countries with me? I knew you would give it up, and how could I bear that? To be a drag, a hindrance to you! And in the coming years I thought you would regret—— Hugh, you were poor, too, though not so poor as I. I did it for you—it nearly killed me, Hugh. I was ill after, but it was for you!"
Her voice died away into silence.
He stood very still, and his face was white and bloodless.
But in his eyes there was a great reverence.
"Forgive me!" he said.
She smiled softly.
"Oh, yes," she said.
The cynicism had gone from his face, and the hardness and bitterness too.
"Oh, cannot you help me? It is so hard!"
She looked at him wistfully. He turned away from her eyes and hid his face in his hands.
"It was a mistake," he said, slowly, dully.
"Yes."
Still she waited.
He looked up, and she strove to read his face in vain.
Sad it was, and set, and yet there was a light there too.
He took her hands gently in his.
"Kathleen," he said earnestly, "God knows what I think of you. I can work now. Good-bye, dear."
She raised her eyes to his—mystified and anxious.
He answered them, very gently, but with a firmness there was no gainsaying.
"You are famous," he said; "when I have made a name I will come to you. Will you wait, Kitty?"
"For ever, Hugh," she answered, understanding him so well that that was all she said.
He bent and kissed her hands.
She knelt at the side of his bed, heedless of the presence of the nurse at the other end of the room, and her tears wetted his hand. The right hand and arm were swathed in bandages.
He smiled sadly as he looked at her.
"I am a failure," he said.
"Ah, no, no! All England is ringing with your name. Hugh"—she raised a face all alight with a proud joy—"you are famous now!"
A little flush rose to his white face.
"Pshaw!" he said, "rescuing a woman and a few children from being burnt to death. Anyone would have done it."
"Ah, no, Hugh! Brave men shrank from that awful sea and burning ship!"
He was silent, looking at his bandaged hand.
"I must learn to write with my left hand," he said.
She bent nearer.
"Let me write for you," she whispered; "let me finish your book, Hugh, while you dictate it to me. I do not sing now in public, you know."
"Yes, I know."
He drew her closer to him and rested his cheek against her soft hair.
"I said I would not come to you till I had made a name," he said. "I am a wreck now! I shall be a wreck for a long while——"
"Ah, dear, but you are famous!" she interposed lovingly.
He sighed.
"I cannot do without you any longer, Kitty. I am beaten at last. Will you take a wreck?"
"I will take you, Hugh, a famous——"
"A famous wreck," he finished with a smile.
"Let me write for you," she whispered.
