“Bobby McGinnis, why don’t you help me?” she demanded, tearfully. “Why do you stand aloof and send to me? Why don’t you come to me frankly and freely, and tell me the best way to deal with these people?”
There was no answer. The man had half turned his face so that only his profile showed clean-cut and square-chinned against the close-shut door.
“Don’t you know that I am alone here—that I have no friends but you and Patty?” she went on tremulously. “Do you think it kind of you to let me struggle along alone like this? Sometimes it seems almost as if you were afraid——”
“I am afraid,” cut in a voice shaken with emotion.
“Bobby!” breathed Margaret in surprised dismay, falling back before the fire in the eyes that suddenly turned and flashed straight into hers. “Why, Bobby!”
If the man heard, he did not heed. The bonds of his self-control had snapped, and the torrent of words came with a force that told how great had been the pressure. He had stepped forward as she fell back, and his eyes still blazed into hers.
“I am afraid—I’m afraid of myself,” he cried. “I don’t dare to trust myself within sight of your dear eyes, or within touch of your dear hands—though all the while I’m hungry for both. Perhaps I do let you send for me, instead of coming of my own free will; but I’m never without the thought of you, and the hope of catching somewhere a glimpse of even your dress. Perhaps I do stand aloof; but many’s the night I’ve walked the street outside, watching the light at your window, and many’s the night I’ve not gone home until dawn lest some harm come to the woman I loved so—good God! what am I saying!” he broke off hoarsely, dropping his face into his hands, and sinking into the chair behind him.
Over by the table Margaret stood silent, motionless, her eyes on the bowed figure of the man before her. Gradually her confused senses were coming into something like order. Slowly her dazed thoughts were taking shape.
It was her own fault. She had brought this thing upon herself. She should have seen—have understood. And now she had caused all this sorrow to this dear friend of her childhood—the little boy who had befriended her when she was alone and hungry and lost.... But, after all, why should he not love her? And why should she not—love him? He was good and true and noble, and for years he had loved her—she remembered now their childish compact, and she bitterly reproached herself for not thinking of it before—it might have saved her this.... Still, did she want to save herself this? Was it not, after all, the very best thing that could have happened? Where, and how could she do more good in the world than right here with this strong, loving heart to help her?... She loved him, too—she was sure she did—though she had never realized it before. Doubtless that was half the cause of her present restlessness and unhappiness—she had loved him all the time, and did not know it! Surely there was no one in the world who could so wisely help her in her dear work. Of course she loved him!
Very softly Margaret crossed the room and touched the man’s shoulder.