“It frightens me!” she whispered. “Before you came I thought of him always, and nothing else, only of him. I dreamed of him; terrible, haunting dreams. Each day I prayed and worked for him. And then—” she paused, and, as though seeking help to continue, looked appealingly into Roddy’s eyes. Her own were uncertain, troubled, filled with distress. “And then you came,” she said. “And now I find I think of you. It is disloyal, wicked! I forget how much he suffers. I forget even how much I love him. I want only to listen to you. All the sorrow, all the misery of these last two years seems to slip from me. I find it doesn’t matter, that nothing matters. I am only happy, foolishly, without reason, happy!”
In his gratitude, in his own happiness, Roddy reached out his hand. But Inez drew her own away, and with her chin resting upon it, and with her elbow on her knee, sat staring ahead of her.
“And I find this!” she whispered guiltily, like one at confession. “I find I hate to spare you for this work. Three weeks ago, when you left Curaçao, I thought a man could not risk his life in a nobler cause than the one for which you were risking yours. It seemed to me a duty—a splendid duty. But now, I am afraid—for you. I knew it first the night you swam from me across the harbor, and I followed you with my eyes, watching and waiting for you to sink and die. And I prayed for you then; and suddenly, as I prayed, I found it was not you for whom I was praying, but for myself, for my own happiness. That I wanted you to live—for me!”
The girl sprang to her feet, and Roddy rose with her, and they stood facing each other.
“Now you know,” she whispered. “I had to tell you. I had to confess to you that I tried to make you care for me, hoping you would do what I wished. I did not mean to tell you that, instead, I learned to care for you. If you despise me I will understand; if you can still love me——”
“If I love you?” cried Roddy. “I love you so——”
For an instant, as though to shut out the look in his face, the eyes of the girl closed. She threw out her hands quickly to stop him.
“Then,” she begged, “help me not to think of you. Not to think of myself. We are young. We are children. He is old: every moment counts for him. If this is the big thing in our lives we hope it is, it will last always! But with him each moment may mean the end; a horrible end, alone, among enemies, in a prison. You must give me your word—you must promise me not to tempt me to think of you. You are very generous, very strong. Help me to do this. Promise me until he is free you will not tell me you care for me, never again, until he is free. Or else”—her tone was firm, though her voice had sunk to a whisper. She drew back, and regarded him unhappily, shaking her head—“or else, I must not see you again.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Roddy gave an exclamation of impatience, of protest.
“If you ask it!” he said, “I promise. How soon am I to see you again?”