The cheering rumble of a carriage and the aspect of the not far-distant town quickened her spirits and imparted elasticity to her footsteps. Upon the land baron they produced an opposite effect, for he was obviously reluctant to abandon the interview, however unsatisfactory it might be. There was nothing to say, and yet he was loath to leave her; there was nothing to accomplish, and yet he wished to remain with her. For this reason, as they drew near the city, his mood became darker, like the night around 378 them. Instinctively, she felt the turbulent passions stirring in his bosom; his sudden silence, his dogged footsteps reawakened her misgivings. Furtively she regarded him, but his eyes were fixed straight before him on the soft luster above the city, the reflection of the lights, and she knew and mistrusted his thoughts. Although she found his silence more menacing than his words, she could think of nothing to say to break the spell, and so they continued to walk mutely side by side. An observer, seeing them beneath the cypress, a lovers’ promenade, with its soft, enfolding shadows, would have taken them for a well-matched couple, who had no need for language.
But when they had emerged from that romantic lane and entered the city, the land baron breathed more freely. She was now surrounded by movement and din; the seclusion of the country gave way to the stir of the city; she was no longer dependent on his good offices; his rôle of protector had ended when they left the cypress walk behind them.
His brow cleared; he glanced at her with ill-concealed admiration; he noticed with secret pride the attention she attracted from passers-by, the sidelong looks of approval that followed her through the busy streets. The land baron expanded into his old self; he strode at her side, gratified by the scrutiny she invited; assurance radiated from his eyes like some magnetic heat; he played at possession wilfully, perversely. “Why not,” whispered Hope. “A 379 woman’s mind is shifting ever. Her fancy––a breath! The other is gone. Why––”
“It was not accident my being in the cemetery, Miss Carew,” said Mauville, suddenly covering her with his glance. Meeting her look of surprise unflinchingly, he continued: “I followed you there; through the streets, into the country! My seeing you first was chance; my presence in the burial ground the result of that chance. The inevitable result!” he repeated softly. “As inevitable as life! Life; what is it? Influences which control us; forces which bind us! It is you, or all; you or nothing!”
She did not reply; his voice, vibrating with feeling, touched no answering chord. Nevertheless, a new, inexplicable wave of sorrow moved her. It might be he had cared for her as sincerely as it was possible for his wayward heart to care for any one. Perhaps time would yet soften his faults, and temper his rashness. With that shade of sorrow for him there came compassion as well; compassion that overlooked the past and dwelt on the future.
She raised her steady eyes. “Why should it be ‘I or nothing,’ as you put it?” she finally answered slowly. “Influences may control us in a measure, but we may also strive for something. We can always strive.”
“For what? For what we don’t want? That’s the philosophy of your moralists, Miss Carew,” he exclaimed. “That’s your modern ethics of duty. Playing 380 tricks with happiness! The game isn’t worth the candle. Or, if you believe in striving,” he added, half resentfully, half imploringly, “strive to care for me but a little. But a little!” he said again. “I who once wanted all, and would have nothing but all, am content to ask, to plead, for but a little.”
“I see no reason,” she replied, wearily, yet not unkindly, “why we should not be friends.”
“Friends!” he answered, bitterly. “I do not beg for a loaf, but a crumb. Yet you refuse me that! I will wait! Only a word of encouragement! Will you not give it?”
She turned and looked into his eyes, and, before she spoke, he knew what her answer would be.