“I came here resolute to force you to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ It seemed easy, away from you. Now that you are beside me, I am helpless. If I loved you less, I could do it. I find it easier to carry my weariness of waiting still longer. You are all my life to me. You have a home and constant loves: I have no one—I am alone! What others have in life—sisters, brothers—I lack, as you know. And yet—and yet, I cannot force you to a decision. If you are just to my great love, Rose, I must ask you to say— It might be wiser, both for you and for me, if I were to be positive.”
“Oh, no! no!”
“You shall have your way. I will not trouble you again: but, I know you well—you are a woman of sense and courage. If I go, have I not the honest right to expect that some day you will be brave enough just to write to me, yes—or no? I leave it with you. That ought to set you at ease.”
“But it does not,—it will not. Life is so hard—and I do—I do want to do what is right!”
“Have I been too hard? Well, good-by.” And, so saying, he rose and stood beside her. She glanced up at him, uneasy, pitiful, timid. He put out his hand, “Good-by.” She took it, rising as she did so. As she held it, he added:
“I shall go back to-morrow; a telegram will explain it. I must not spoil your holiday. Good-by.”
The hand she gave stayed passive in his grasp.
“Let me see you once, Rose, before I go. I mean, look up.”
She lifted her gaze, and, as his eyes met hers, he saw.
“Rose!”