“No, not now,” replied Jane steadily, striving to keep back her tears, “perhaps some day. But you will think more of her happiness than of your own. Love, you know, seeks to make happy rather than to be happy.”
For some moments the man stood as if trying to understand what she had said. Then with a new access of grief and rage, he cried, “But my God! My God! I want her. I cannot live without her. I could make her happy too.”
“No, never,” said Jane. “She loves him.”
“Ach—so. Yes, she loves him, and I—hate him. He is the cause of this. Some day I will kill him. I will kill him.”
“Then she would never be happy again,” said Jane, and her face was full of pain and of pity.
“Go away,” he said harshly. “Go away. You know not what you say. Some day I shall make him suffer as I suffer to-day. God hears me. Some day.” He lifted his hands high above his head. Then with a despairing cry, “Oh, I have lost her, I have lost her,” he turned from Jane and rushed into the woods.
Shaken, trembling and penetrated with pity for him, Jane made her way toward the office, near which she found Larry with the manager discussing an engineering problem which appeared to interest them both.
“Where's Ernest?” inquired Larry.
“He has just gone,” said Jane, struggling to speak quietly. “I think we must hurry, Larry. Come, please. Good-bye, Mr. Steinberg.” She hurried away toward the horses, leaving Larry to follow.
“What is it, Jane?” said Larry when they were on their way.