"I do love you dearly. You know that, Alec. Why do you always press me to say more?"
"Because I do not like the way you say it."
"You want me to speak your way, not my own, and be a hypocrite?"
"Kate! Kate! I understand you too well."
They walked home in silence.
Now, although this was sad enough for Alec, yet there was room for hope. But she was going away, and he would not know what she was doing or thinking. It was as if she were going to die. Nor was that all;—for—to misuse the quotation—
"For, in that sleep of death, what dreams might come!"
She might dream of some one, love some one—yes, marry some one, and so drive him mad.
When the last night arrived, he followed her up-stairs, and knocked at her room door, to see her once again, and make one more appeal. Now an appeal has only to do with justice or pity. With love it is of no use. With love it is as unavailing as wisdom or gold or beauty. But no lover believes this.
There was no answer to the first, the inarticulate appeal. He lost his courage, and dared not knock again; and while Kate was standing with her head on one side, and her dress half off, wondering if any one had knocked, he crept away to his bed ashamed. There was only a partition of lath and plaster between the two, neither of whom could sleep, but neither of whom could have given the other any comfort. Not even another thunder-storm could have brought them together again that night.