The shadow of the Wolf

by R. Austin Freeman

“It isn’t kind at all,” he replied, “nor particularly sympathetic. I feel that I am an interested party. In a sense, your future is my future.”

He paused a few moments, and she looked at him in something like dismay. Vainly she cast about for some means of changing the current of the conversation, of escaping to some less perilous topic. Before she had time to recover from her confusion he looked up at her and burst out passionately:

“Maggie, I want to ask you a question. I know I oughtn’t to ask it, but you must try to forgive me. I can’t bear the suspense any longer. I think about it day and night and it is eating my heart out. What I want to ask you is this: When it is all over—when that blessed day comes and you are free, will you—can I hope that you may be willing to listen to me if I ask you to let me be your devoted servant, your humble worshipper and to try to make up to you by love and faithful service all that has been missing from your life in the past? For years—for many years, Maggie, I have been your friend, a friend far more loving and devoted than you have ever guessed, for in those days I hardly dared to dream even of intimate friendship. But now the barrier between us is no longer immoveable. Soon it will be cast down for ever. And then—can it be, Maggie, that my dreams will come true? That you will grant me a lifelong joy by letting me be the guardian of your happiness and peace?”

For a moment there had risen to Margaret’s face a flush of resentment, but it faded almost instantly and was gone, extinguished by a deep sense of the tragedy of this unfortunate but real and great passion. She had always liked Varney and she had recognized and valued his quiet, unobtrusive friendship and the chivalrous deference with which he had been used to treat her. And now she was going to make him miserable, to destroy his cherished hopes of a future made happy in the realization of his great love for her. The sadness of it left no room for resentment, and her eyes filled as she answered unsteadily:

“You know, Mr. Varney, that, as a married woman, I have no right to speak or think of the making of a new marriage. But I feel that your question must be answered and I wish, dear Mr. Varney, I wish from my heart that it could be answered differently. I have always valued your friendship—with very good reason; and I value your love and am proud to have been thought worthy of it. But I cannot accept it. I can never accept it. It is dreadful to me, dear friend, to make you unhappy—you whom I like and admire so much. But it must be so. I have nothing but friendship to offer you, and I shall never have.”

“Why do you say you will never have, Maggie?” he urged. “May it not be that you will change? That the other will come if I wait long enough? And I will wait patiently—wait until I am an old man if need be, so that only the door is not shut. I will never weary you with importunities, but just wait your pleasure. Will you not let me wait and hope, Maggie?”

She shook her head sadly. “No, Mr. Varney,” she answered. “Believe me it can never be. There is nothing to wait for. There will be no change. The future is certain so far as that. I am so sorry, dear, generous friend! It grieves me to the heart to make you unhappy. But what I have said is final. I can never say anything different.”

Varney looked at her in incredulous despair. He could not believe in this sudden collapse of all his hopes; for his doubts of her had been but vague misgivings born of impatience and unrest. But suddenly a new thought flashed into his mind.

“How do you know that?” he asked. “Why are you so certain? Is there anything now that you know of that—that must keep us apart for ever? You know what I mean, Maggie. Is there anything?”

She was silent for a few moments. Naturally she was reluctant to disclose to another the secret that she had held so long locked in her own heart and that even now she dared but to whisper to herself. But she felt that to this man, whose love she must reject and whose happiness she must shatter, she owed a sacred duty. He must not be allowed to wreck his life if a knowledge of the truth would save him.