III
“It isn’t really a lie,” said Edith. “I really do go to the French class.”
“It’s too near a lie to suit me,” said Hardy bluntly. “I’m sick of this hole-and-corner business. It’s—can’t you see for yourself that it’s degrading to both of us? Edith, can’t we be honest about this? Let me go and see your aunt, and tell her the whole thing. If she makes a row, I dare say I can live through it.”
“I dare say you could,” Edith answered briefly.
They were coming near to one of the gates of Central Park. Their walk together was almost at an end—a walk which only a few weeks ago would have been a delight almost unsupportable, a thing to lie awake at night remembering, to think of all through a busy day. Now that rapture, that glamour, was gone. With all their love, their hope, their blind tenderness for each other, they were bitter at heart.
It was a wild, bright October evening. The moon seemed rocking in the fitful clouds, the wind sprang like a kitten along the paths after the dry leaves, the bare trees creaked stiff and resistant. All the world was in motion, restless, hurried. All things were free—except themselves. It was intolerable to Hardy, an affront to his fine young pride in himself, his magnificent assurance. It was petty, base, shameful!
“Edith!” he said suddenly. “I won’t go on like this!”
She stopped short in the middle of the path.
“I’m tired of hearing that,” she replied, in a queer, unsteady voice. “You’re always saying that—always blaming me; and you know we’ve got to go on like this—or not go on at all!”
“We haven’t. That’s what I’m always trying to tell you,” he said stormily. “We don’t have to meet this way—in this beastly, lying way—pretending to your aunt that your French lesson is for two hours instead of one, so that we can have one hour a week alone together. Tell her! Let her be upset! She’ll have to know some time. Then at least I can come to see you in your own place, decently and honorably.”
“I will not tell her now! You do[Pg 154]n’t realize what it’ll mean to Aunt Bessie. You don’t care. She hasn’t any one but me. I won’t tell her now, and let her have all that long time to think about—losing me. She’s going to be happy as long as possible.”
Hardy took her arm.
“Come on,” he said, “or you’ll be ten minutes late, and she’ll have a nervous attack and keep you up all night, as usual!”
But when he felt how she was shivering in her thin jacket, a terrible compunction seized him.
“Oh, Edith!” he cried. “Edith, never mind all that! Darling little Edith, it’s only our affair, after all! Let’s get married now, before I go!”
“You know we can’t,” she said, with a sob. “Not when you’re so obstinate and—and unkind. You know we couldn’t manage for ourselves and Aunt Bessie, too, in any place where she’d be comfortable, just on your salary; and you’re so unreasonable about my job!”
“Look here, Edith—I’ll sell that blamed stock, and that’ll provide for Aunt Bessie until I’ve got my raise.”
“You won’t! You shan’t!” She pulled her arm away from him, and roughly wiped away the tears running down her cheeks. “Don’t you dare to mention such a thing! I’m not going to ruin your whole life just for—”
“Well, you’ve ruined it!” said Hardy. “I can tell you that, if it’s any satisfaction to you. I don’t care now what happens to me, or whether I go on or not. You’ve shown me how little you care for me. You’ve—Edith!”
She had started running along the path, but he easily overtook her. All at once their arms were about each other, Edith’s wet cheek against his, and all their pain, their bitterness, lost in a passion of tenderness and remorse.