“And yet—and yet” she repeated—“Oh, Larry! it isn’t a question of reason, of judgment, of anything rational. Whatever I do I shall regret it!” she broke off recklessly. “See! if it had been possible I would have gone with you last night—taken the irrevocable step, and ever afterwards cursed myself for doing it! You talk of leading a full, worthy, happy life!—with a woman who is eternally self-tortured? It doesn’t matter whether it’s on her own account or some one else’s; to live with any one under such conditions is impossible—hopeless. You know it!”
“It wouldn’t be so!” he urged. “You exaggerate—”
“I know myself better than you know me—too well!” she interrupted. “No, it’s no use, Larry!” She made a gesture with her hands as of flinging something from her. “Life is too hard for me. I can’t reason, I can’t think any more! I can only cling blindly to this strong instinct, a savage instinct, if you like. I think we come back, after all, to our savage natures in most of the big things in life. It isn’t a question of duty, inclination, religion, or anything, but just the one overwhelming necessity of not breaking the tie of blood. Larry, you must go,” she added, in a hoarse whisper. “I can’t—stand it any longer.”
“One moment,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on her haggard face. His own was white and rigid. “Do you mean that I’m to go away—abroad—not to see you again? You don’t mean that?”
He could hardly keep his voice steady enough to frame the last question.
She raised her head slowly, and looked in his face.
“Larry,” she said at last, under her breath, “what am I doing this for? Is it that I’m afraid for myself? You know it is not! But you know as well as I do that if you stay, and—there is talk, as there will be—our names coupled together—I might just as well—better—have gone with you, in the face of the world. Besides, for my own sake—” she lifted her head proudly, “I couldn’t live a life like—a life of deception.” She paused. “But for mother—I would have gone with you—to the ends of the earth. You know it. But—”
There was a long silence. A film of thick white clouds had gathered over the sun; the air was heavy, breathlessly quiet. At the window, the vine leaves hung straight and still, not a tendril stirred.
At last Carey moved. He raised both her hands to his lips. “Forgive me!” he said brokenly.
She flung out her arms with a cry, and they closed round him. She shed no tears, but her whole body was shaken with her sobs.