“I should say it was the most likely thing imaginable,” he replied. “I wish——” He broke off abruptly. “You and I should have no reservations,” he went on, after a pause, “and it would not be quite honest if I voiced the banal notion I had in mind. Yet I must tell you something of my history. You know, I suppose, that I am going to ask you to marry me; but, before you answer, you must hear the plea, the defense, of a man who committed a crime and had to pay the penalty.”
“You committed no crime, Derry,” and the girl’s utterance was so low and sweet that it swept through his inmost being like a chord of exquisite music. Some seconds elapsed before he understood that she had used a name which could not have come to her knowledge without a far more intimate acquaintance with his past life than he believed possible.
“Derry!” he repeated blankly. “How have you found out that those I once held dear called me ‘Derry’?”
She forced herself to speak calmly; though her hands were clenched in sheer physical effort to quell the riot in heart and brain.
“I am not as other women,” she said; “so I say shamelessly that I loved you practically from the hour we first met. Do you remember? You looked at me, and then turned your eyes away resolutely, lest you should hurt my feelings by seeming to gaze at my scarred features. I knew that night that you were a man scourged by the wrath of Heaven, and my sympathies went out to you; for, in my own small way, I realized what you felt. But your affliction was of the spirit, and mine of the flesh, and I could afford to laugh at my malaise except—except on an occasion like this, when a man says he wants to marry me, but says nothing of love. No, please! Hear me out. I am really answering your question, in a woman’s way, perhaps, but candidly, with a frankness that should blight romance. When we parted at Valparaiso, my thoughts dwelt with you. You are the one man I have ever cared for, in that way. During these weary years I have hugged the delusion that some day you would tell me that you loved me. Well, I admit that love was implied when you spoke of marriage; but you have often been annoyed or amused by my distorted method of looking at things, and you should not resent it now when it happens to describe the situation exactly—because you yourself almost began by saying that you wished we had met before another woman came into your life. Yes, I know—at any rate, I can guess—why you were buried alive for seven years. My action may sound contemptible; but a woman in love does not stop to weigh niceties of behavior. When I could get no news of you by other means, I wrote to a school friend at Denver. Among the people she met when making inquiries were a Dr. Stearn and a Mr. Benson. They did not tell her much; but feminine gossip is far-reaching, and sometimes it probes deeply. I know you loved Nancy Willard. I know how you were separated from her. I know you met her again in Newport. I know you blamed yourself for the death of your mother. I know that your friends thought you were mad, but pitied you, because yours was a grievous plight. You see now how I peeped and pried into your life. Oh! it was mean and despicable of me. It is not for you to plead and make excuse. That is my wretched task. Is it any sort of vindication to tell you that my heart ached because of that far-away look ever in your eyes while we voyaged south? You have not forgotten that I said you resembled a man walking in his sleep? Well, I wanted to find out what sort of folly or suffering had induced that trance. My poor little heart sang with joy when you stepped ashore at Carmen, and I saw that your obsession had gone, that you had come to life again, that no pale specters stood between us. Now you have heard my confession, it is for you to take time—before—you commit yourself—to vows—which you may regret.”
It was as much as she could do to utter those concluding words. The tears she might not repress were stealing silently down her cheeks, and small, dark patches showed where the tightly drawn veil touched the corners of her mouth. The hotel porch was visible between two clumps of tropical shrubbery, and, when a mule-drawn street-car moved out of the way, Power saw Sinclair’s tall, thin figure standing in the doorway. Evidently, his glance was searching the gardens for the missing pair, and the departure of the tram rendered them visible. He raised a hand, and opened and closed it twice. Power waved comprehension, and Sinclair vanished. Perhaps he had a shrewd notion of the subject of their talk, and was minded not to disturb them till the last moment.
“I take it your father means that we still have ten minutes at our disposal,” said Power.
The girl nodded. If she spoke then, she would have screamed.
“You have relieved me of a highly disagreeable task,” he went on composedly. “Of course, I accept none of the unkind and unjust strictures you passed on yourself. This has been a strange wooing; but it is the best apology for the real thing I can contrive in the conditions. Some day, soon, I shall take you in my arms and tell you that I love you. When that day dawns, I shall be hindered by no ghosts; none other, that is, than a lurking fear lest such a wreck of a man may not be deemed worthy of the pure, sweet love of a woman like you. Good God! Can it be possible that so great a happiness is entering into my broken life?”
Then the delirium of joy vanquished the girl’s fears, and she contrived to say haltingly: