“Oh, stop!”
Fanny stopped—there was no disobeying that low, commanding voice. She knew herself that she had now gone too far. She stood with both hands pressed over her throat, which threatened to contract and shut off her breathing.
“I can’t let you—I won’t let you go on. You’re overwrought—you’re not yourself, Miss Fitch. Your long journey—your uncle’s death—Cary’s suit—everything has combined to overtax your nerves. You’re going to put away this hour as if it had never been, and so am I. You’re going to find happiness in being a good friend to Cary, whether or not anything comes of it. He’s worth all you can give him—and you’re going to give him your very best. Now—won’t you——”
“Go away?” She looked up at him with a twisted, angry smile. “Before you have—prayed with me, for the good of my wicked soul? You might at least do that, since it’s all you can do for me!”
Suddenly he felt as if he were in the midst of cheap melodrama, forced to take a part against his will. He had never believed in this girl, he believed in her less than ever now. For a moment she had convinced him that in her own fashion she loved him—if she knew what the word meant. But now he was driven to believe that only her passion for excitement had brought this scene upon him, and that this last cynical speech was just the expression of her fondness for the drama. He turned cold in an instant; his very spirit retreated from her.
“I should feel,” he said, very quietly, “as if I were playing with prayer, if I made use of it just now. I think the best thing for you is to try to rest and sleep, and come back to a natural and sane way of looking at things. If doors don’t open at a touch, if they are locked and one has no key, it’s not wise to try to force them. There are plenty of doors that will open at your touch——”
“But not yours! And now that you have locked and doubled barred it I want to tell you that it’s too late. I’ve seen inside, and know what a chilly, stony place it is. There’s no fire there—it’s all austerity. No woman could keep warm there, certainly not a woman like me. I’ve long wanted to know what was behind that granite face of yours, and now I’ve found out. I’ve kept my splendid, big-hearted Cary waiting till I could satisfy myself about you, and know that he was worth two, three—ten of you, Robert Black! I’m going back to him—and happy to go. Do you wish me joy? Or does even doing that go against your flinty conscience?”
He came toward her, pitying her again now, it was so obvious that she was trying to save her humiliated face.
“Miss Fitch,” he said, gently, “I do wish you joy—if you can find it in anything genuine. But don’t play with Cary Ray—he doesn’t deserve it.”
“Will you marry us to-night at eight o’clock?”