“About five weeks ago. Do you want to know the very night?” She turned her head as she spoke and looked at him with her full, deep eyes.
“Yes, if you wish me to.”
“The night Mr. Horn read 'The Cricket on the Hearth,'” she answered in a tone of relief—as if some great crisis had marked the hour, the passing of which had brought her infinite peace. “I told him when I got home, and I have never seen him since.”
For some seconds St. George did not move. He had turned from her and sat with his head resting on his hand, his eyes intent on the smouldering fire: he dare not trust himself to speak; wide ranges opened before him; the light had strengthened until it was blinding. Kate sat motionless, her hands in her lap, her eyes searching St. George's face for some indication of the effect of her news. Then finding him still silent and absorbed in his thoughts, she went on:
“There was nothing else to do, Uncle George. I had done all I could to please my father and one or two of my friends. There was nothing against him—he was very kind and very considerate—but somehow I—” She paused and drew a long breath.
“Somehow what?” demanded St. George raising his head quickly and studying her the closer. The situation was becoming vital now—too vital for any further delay.
“Oh, I don't know—I couldn't love him—that's all. He has many excellent qualities—too many maybe,” and she smiled faintly. “You know I never liked people who were too good—that is, too willing to do everything you wanted them to do—especially men who ought really to be masters and—” She stopped and played with the top of her parasol, smoothing the knob with her palm as if the better to straighten out the tangle in her mind. “I expect you will think me queer, Uncle George, but I have come to the conclusion that I will never love anybody again—I am through with all that. It's very hard, you know, to mend a thing when it's broken. I used to say to myself that when I grew to be a woman I supposed I would love as any other woman seemed content to love; that no romance of a young girl was ever realized and that they could only be found in love stories. But my theories all went to pieces when I heard Mr. Horn that night. Dot's love for John the Carrier—I have read it so often since that I know the whole story by heart—Dot's love for John was the real thing, but May Fielding's love for Tackleton wasn't. And it seemed so wonderful when her lover came home and—it's foolish, I know—very silly—that I should have been so moved by just the reading of a story—but it's true. It takes only a very little to push you over when you are on the edge, and I had been on the edge for a long time. But don't let us talk about it, dear Uncle George,” she added with a forced smile. “I'm going to take care of you now and be a charming old maid with side curls and spectacles and make flannel things for the poor—you just wait and see what a comfort I will be.” Her lips were trembling, the tears crowding over the edges of her lids.
St. George stretched out his hand and in his kindest voice said:
“Was it the carrier and his wife, or was it the sailor boy who came back so fine and strong, that affected you, Kate?—and made you give up Mr. Willits?” He would go to the bottom now.
“It was everything, Uncle George—the sweetness of it all—her pride in her husband—his doubts of her—her repentance; and yet she did what she thought was for the best; and then his forgiveness and the way he wanted to take her in his arms at last and she would not until she explained. And there was nothing really to explain—only love, and trust, and truth—all the time believing in him—loving him. Oh, it is cruel to part people—it's so mean and despicable! There are so many Tackletons—and the May Fieldings go to the altar and so on to their graves—and there is often such a very little difference between the two. I never gave my promise to Mr. Willits. I would not!—I could not! He kept hoping and waiting. He was very gentle and patient—he never coaxed nor pleaded, but just—Oh, Uncle George!—let me talk it all out—I have nobody else. I missed you so, and there was no one who could understand, and you wouldn't answer my letters.” She was crying softly to herself, her beautiful head resting on her elbow pillowed on the back of his chair.