Vera raised her head slowly, holding her hand across her eyes. There was a longer silence, and then she looked up at him and smiled pathetically, gratefully, and nodded. “Good!” cried Winthrop. “No more spooks,” he laughed, “no more spirit rappings.”
Through her tears Vera smiled up at him a wan, broken smile. She gave a shudder of distaste. “Never!” she whispered. “I promise.” Their eyes met; the girl’s looking into his shyly, gratefully; the man’s searching hers eagerly. And suddenly they saw each other with a new and wonderful sympathy and understanding. Winthrop felt himself bending toward her. He was conscious that the room had grown dark, and that he could see only her eyes. “You must be just yourself,” he commanded, but so gently, so tenderly, that, though he did not know it, each word carried with it the touch of a caress, “just your sweet, fine, noble self!”
Something he read in the girl’s uplifted eyes made him draw back with a shock of wonder, of delight, with an upbraiding conscience. To pull himself together, he glanced quickly about him. The day had really grown dark. He felt a sudden desire to get away; to go where he could ask himself what had happened, what it was that had filled this unknown, tawdry room with beauty and given it the happiness of a home.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed nervously, “I had no idea I’d stayed so long. You’ll not let me come again. Goodbye—until tomorrow.” He turned, holding out his hand, and found that again the girl had dropped her face upon her arm, and was sobbing quietly, gently.
“Oh, what is it?” cried Winthrop. “What have I said?” The catch in the girl’s voice as she tried to check the sobs wrenched his heart. “Oh, please,” he begged, “I’ve said something wrong? I’ve hurt you?” With her face still hidden in her arms, the girl shook her head.
“No, no!” she sobbed. Her voice, soft with tears, was a melody of sweet and tender tones. “It’s only—that I’ve been so lonely—and you’ve made me happy, happy!”
The sobs broke out afresh, but Winthrop, now knowing that they brought to the girl peace, was no longer filled with dismay.
Her head was bent upon her left arm, her right hand lightly clasped the edge of the table. With the intention of saying farewell, Winthrop took her hand in his. The girl did not move. To his presence she seemed utterly oblivious. In the gathering dusk he could see the bent figure, could hear the soft, irregular breathing as the girl wept gently, happily, like a child sobbing itself to sleep. The hand he held in his neither repelled nor invited, and for an instant he stood motionless, holding it uncertainly. It was so delicate, so helpless, so appealing, so altogether lovable. It seemed to reach up, and, with warm, clinging fingers, clutch the tendrils of his heart.
Winthrop bent his head suddenly, and lifting the hand, kissed it; and then, without again speaking, walked quickly into the hall and shut the door. In the room the dusk deepened. Through the open windows came the roar of the Sixth Avenue Elevated, the insistent clamor of an electric hansom, the murmur of Broadway at night. The tears had suddenly ceased, but the girl had not moved. At last, slowly, stiffly, she raised her head. Her eyes, filled with wonder, with amazement, were fixed upon her hand. She glanced cautiously about her. Assured she was alone, with her other hand she lifted the one Winthrop had kissed and held it pressed against her lips.
The folding doors were thrown open, letting in a flood of light, and Mabel Vance, entering swiftly, knelt at the table and bent her head close to Vera.