A little cloud passed over her face, that darkened it for a moment. She was evidently thinking of the beautiful days that could never come back. But after a time it disappeared and she sat in her chair, with hands folded in her lap upon which the book still rested, looking at me in her sweet friendly way. Then, suddenly, the little cloud came again and she leaned forward, swiftly.
"Did—did you see Mr. McGrath?" she asked.
"He sent for me last night," I acknowledged.
"And—and of course he told you——"
"Everything, I suppose."
She kept her eyes lowered, persistently, looking gravely and sadly at the worn carpet.
"At—at first I couldn't understand," she began. "Frieda told me days and days ago that he was engaged—she had seen it in a paper. Of course, he never spoke to me about it. When—when he began to say those things, I thought he was out of his senses and—and I was afraid. He was pale and trembling all over, and then I realized that he was asking me to marry him. Oh! David! For a moment a dreadful temptation came to me. My baby was in my arms—and this meant that I should always have bread for him—that he could be taken care of—that it wouldn't matter, then, if I ever could sing again. I—I could buy health and happiness for him, and strength. Oh! It came to me just like a flash, and then it went away again, thank God! I couldn't listen to him. It meant that I should have to give up the memories that are still living and abandon the struggle, yes, the blessed struggle for my livelihood and Baby's, to go to him as a loveless wife. No, it was impossible, David! And he was so unhappy, so frightfully unhappy when I told him I could never marry him, and—and then I ran away. And he had always been so kind to me, Dave, and so considerate—not like you, of course, because nobody could be like you, but he was always so nice and pleasant, and I never had the slightest idea that—that he had—that he was in love with me. And—and is it true, David, that he is engaged to another woman?"
"I am afraid so, Frances, and I think she is a very fine and good woman, and—and I am sorry for her. He can never have really loved her, of course, but you know that Gordon was always a schemer, that he had mapped out all his life like a man planning the building of a house. And then, all of a sudden, he found out that nature was too strong for him, that hearts and minds can't be shut within metes and bounds, and that the real love in him was paramount. Oh! The pity of it all!"
I could see that she was also strongly affected and that it had been a shock to her, a shrewd and painful blow, to hear my friend begging for a love she could not give. He had been one of a few people lately come into her life who had helped to mitigate its bitterness. Her soul, full of gratitude, had revolted at having been compelled to inflict pain on him, and yet she had been forced to do so and it had left her weak and trembling, with temples on fire and throbbing. Then, she had wanted to shut herself away from all, to try and close her eyes in the hope that the ever-present vision of this thing might vanish in the darkness of her room.
"I don't know why it was, Dave, but it seemed to break my heart. I was never so unhappy, I think, excepting on the day when—when I saw that terrible announcement. Why! David! How could there have been any love left in my heart to give away? How could I have listened to such things? Is there ever a night when I don't kneel down and pray for the poor soul of the man who lies somewhere on those dreadful fields, buried amid his comrades, with, perhaps, never a tiny cross over him nor a flower to bear to him a little of the love I gave him? How often I have wished that Baby were older, so that he could also join his little hands and repeat the words after me. I—I wouldn't tell you all this, David, if I didn't know how well you understand a woman's heart; if I didn't realize how splendid and disinterested your friendship is."