“She was suffering. Why did you go, dearest? It is not fit for you to see such things.”
“That is the cry of the whole world,” she replied, getting up and moving the flowers near her. “Why go? Why see it? Peace, peace, and there is no peace.”
“You cannot help her.”
“You are right, I am powerless, and I have promised to send her jelly. Ridiculous! Jelly!”
“Who is she?”
“Her name was Bertram. She was once pretty and sang well. Sylvia knew her. Some man made love to her, and promised her the usual things. She left her work for him, and because of him, and he left her alone. She has starved, frozen, and been half-murdered, yet she lives.”
“I cannot help thinking, dear, that it was her fault, too. A woman does not—should not yield.”
“A woman wants to love and to be loved. . . . Then,” she added, “I could never love a man who would promise and never keep it.”
“To promise,” he repeated. “What is a promise? It is an impossibility. I promise to love someone for ever. You will some day—may it be soon?—promise to cleave to me only. I cease to love someone—the promise is broken. I am not responsible. Who is? You promised me once you would not go out alone when it is dark, and you do not keep it.”
“What is love? When I cannot keep my promise of cleaving to you, will you blame me? You say the keeping of promises is impossible. I never promised to love you.”