For an instant she paused, and Carleton raised his eyes to hers, as if both knowing and dreading what her next words would be. “Well?” he asked.
“And then, Jack,” she went on, even more slowly, as if the words cost her greater and greater effort, “you began to change. And caring isn’t enough, Jack. For a girl really to love a man, she’s got to respect him—and trust him. And you know how you’ve lived, Jack, for this last year. First I only heard things—you know how girls gossip among themselves—and each one has a brother, or a cousin or a sweetheart, who tells her things; so first I heard, and then, little by little, I could see for myself. I tried to think just as much of you as ever, Jack. I pretended to laugh at the stories they told. And then there came one night at a dance, when you weren’t yourself at all—I hate to remember it even—and I knew then that things couldn’t go on like that; that we’d have to come to some kind of an understanding. So I sent word by Franz Helmar, to ask you to come out to see me that Friday night. I’d made up my mind that we’d talk everything all over, between ourselves—about your drinking, and about that girl—I’d heard all people were saying; you can’t keep those things from being known. And then, after I’d waited and waited for you all that evening, and finally given you up—then to come across you, the way we did, by accident, out motoring with her—with that common girl—I don’t see how you could do it, Jack! I don’t see how men can do things like that, and respect themselves; much less expect other people to respect them. And you, Jack, of all people—that was a terrible night for me. If I hadn’t cared for you—if I didn’t care for you, Jack—I wouldn’t have minded; I wouldn’t mind now. But for me to know that you’d been as devoted to me as you had—that every one talked about us as if we were really engaged—and then to know that all the time you’d been—oh, Jack, I had such faith in you! I thought you were different from other men. I don’t see how you could.”
Carleton had sat listening, his eyes fixed on the ground, wincing under her words. Gradually, as she spoke, a dull red flush had mounted to his very temples, and when she ended he at once made answer, speaking rapidly, as if the words were fairly wrung, by force, from his lips. “Don’t, Marjory!” he cried. “For God’s sake, don’t! It’s all true enough. I’ve been selfish, thoughtless, brutal; anything you please. I don’t know why I did it. Men are queer things, that way, I guess. Because I loved you just as much, Marjory, all the time. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. And it wasn’t so bad, Marjory. It was foolishness, but that was all. The girl’s none the worse for me. Don’t condemn me for all our lives, because I’ve failed once. Let me make my fight. Let me show that I can be the kind of a man a girl can respect. And then it will be all right again. You’ll marry me then, Marjory; say that you will.”
Perhaps the straightforward vehemence of his speech helped him as nothing else could have done. The girl hesitated a moment before she answered; and finally, half-doubtfully, shook her head. “Ah, Jack,” she said, “if you would. Then things would be all right again. But would you, Jack? Can you change your way of living, as you think you can? Suppose you did, for a time. Suppose we should marry, even. And then—if anything should happen. I’m different from most women, perhaps. But my husband has to be mine, the whole of him. And if you did—things like this—again, it would kill me, Jack. I couldn’t bear the misery, and the shame. I want to trust you, Jack; I want to, more than anything in the world. But can I? Would you do as you say?”
Impulsively he rose, and walked over to the fireplace, leaning a hand on the mantel, and looking down into her face. “I can’t blame you, Marjory,” he cried, “if I would. And I won’t waste time in words. But let me tell you what I’ll do. I’ve two chances now. One here in town—that Henry’s got for me—it’s steady and sure, and pays fifteen hundred a year. And the other’s to go ranching it out West, with a fellow I used to know in college. He always wanted me, and he’ll take me now. There’s a chance there, too; a chance to make money; a chance to get rich, even. I’ve been hesitating—I wanted to stay, to be near you—but I won’t delay any longer. I’ll go out there and take my chance. It means three years, anyway; maybe more. If I can come back then, with some prospect ahead of me—if I can come back then, and tell you, on my word of honor, that I’ve done nothing in all that time for which you need to feel ashamed—then things would be right again, wouldn’t they? You’d marry me, Marjory, then.”
Her face had clouded as he spoke. “Ah, Jack,” she said, “it seems so hard to have you go away like that. I don’t want you to; I’d rather have you here. And yet—I suppose it’s best for both of us. I know you’re right, Jack; that you ought to go, and make your fight. And I’ll trust to what you tell me; and I’ll wait—I’ll wait three years, or twice three years.”
His face had brightened with her words. He bent over her, and took her hand in his. “God bless you, Marjory,” he said. “I’ll go, and I’ll fight as no man ever fought before.”
For an instant longer he stood gazing down into her eyes; then turned abruptly. A moment later the portières had rustled behind him, and then were still.