One night when she had an appointment with Basil she found Helen still up as she was about to descend and admit him. Helen did not put out her light until nearly three quarters of an hour after the time. When she opened the lake-front door no one entered; not a sound. She looked out. The veranda empty; the lawns dreaming undisturbed in the moonlight; wave on wave of the heavy perfume of summer's flowers. But not anywhere Basil. Her trembling ceased; she darted to the edge of the veranda, everything forgotten but the supreme fact—he was gone. Gone! Why, she could not doubt; for, from time to time she had seen in his eyes the suspicion which, unjust though it was, she dared not discuss with him. Where had he gone? She must know, must know at once.
She gave not a thought to leaving the house—the dangers that made it impossible for them to meet at his apartment. She sped across the lawn, along the path through the pale splendor of the east flower garden and blossoming shrubbery, into the dark wood. And with her sped her old enemy—the specter dread of losing him—the ghost so easily started from its unquiet grave. She flitted on until she stood at the edge of the clearing, with wildly beating heart, looking up at the solitary building, gloomy in its creeper draperies. There was light from his bedroom window. She gave a quick gasp of relief. At least he was still within reach. The phantom beat of icy rains falling, falling ceased to freeze her heart.
Panting from the tumult of her thoughts rather than from the run, she knocked on the entrance door—knocked again, loudly—a third time—a fourth. She was shaking from head to foot. No answer—none. She tried the door; it yielded. She darted up the stairway, her body now fire and now ice. He was in his bedroom door, was watching her. As the light came from behind him she could not immediately see his expression; but she felt it was dark and angry. She flung herself on his breast—"My love—my love!" she sobbed.
His arms hung at his sides. He stood rigid.
"Basil! Put your arms round me. I'm cold—and so frightened."
He pushed her away.
She leaned against the door frame sobbing into her hands. Her long plaits hung one over either shoulder. She looked like a child, a broken-hearted child. "And you've been pretending to love me!"
"I do love you. That's the worst of it."
"Love!" She turned upon him passionately. "You call that—love? No matter what I did, wouldn't you know I'd done it for our love's sake? Yes, you know all that's I is yours—every thought—every heart throb." She was sobbing again, her arm on the door frame, her face against it. She was thinking how unsympathetic he was, how selfish and cruel—was asking herself why she did not hate him, cast him out of her life. But the very suggestion made her heartsick. Cast out him who was her life!
"I didn't mean it," he pleaded. "I was crazed with jealousy."