The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [4955]
It has learned that love must be free, but its instinct is to hold it with chains.
He suffered acutely, and was ashamed of his suffering. After all, Audrey was still young. Life had not been kind to her, and she should be allowed to have such happiness as she could. He could offer her nothing.
He would give her up. He had already given her up. She knew it.
Then she saw him, and his determination died under the light that came in her eyes. Give her up! How could he give her up, when she was everything he had in the world? With a shock, he recognized in the thought Natalie's constant repetition as to Graham. So he had come to that!
He felt Audrey's eyes on him, but he did not go to her. He signed his check, and went out. He fully meant to go away without seeing her. But outside he hesitated. That would hurt her, and it was cowardly. When, a few moments later, she came out, followed by the officer, it was to find him there, obviously waiting.
"I wondered if you would dare to run away!" she said. "This is Captain Sloane, Clay, and he knows a lot about you."
Close inspection showed Sloane handsome, bronzed, and with a soft Southern voice, somewhat like Audrey's. And it developed that he came from her home, and was on his way to one of the early camps. He obviously intended to hold on to Audrey, and Clayton left them there with the feeling that Audrey's eyes were following him, wistful and full of trouble. He had not even asked her where she was stopping.
He took a long walk that afternoon, and re-made his noon-hour resolution. He would keep away from her. It might hurt her at first, but she was young. She would forget. And he must not stand in her way. Having done which, he returned to the Shoreham and spent an hour in a telephone booth, calling hotels systematically and inquiring for her.
When he finally located her his voice over the wire startled her.
"Good heavens, Clay," she said. "Are you angry about anything?"
"Of course not. I just wanted to - I am leaving to-night and I'm saying good-by. That's all."
"Oh!" She waited.
"Have you had a pleasant afternoon?"
"Aren't you going to see me before you go?"
"I don't think so."
"Don't you want to know what I am doing in Washington?"
"That's fairly clear, isn't it?"
"You are being rather cruel, Clay."
He hesitated. He was amazed at his own attitude. Then, "Will you dine with me to-night?"
"I kept this evening for you."
But when he saw her, his sense of discomfort only increased. Their dining together was natural enough. It was not even faintly clandestine. But the new restraint he put on himself made him reserved and unhappy. He could not act a part. And after a time Audrey left off acting, too, and he found her watching him. On the surface he talked, but underneath it he saw her unhappiness, and her understanding of his.
"I'm going back, too," she said. "I came down to see what I can do, but there is nothing for the untrained woman. She's a cumberer of the earth. I'll go home and knit. I daresay I ought to be able to learn to do that well, anyhow."
"Have you forgiven me for this afternoon?"
"I wasn't angry. I understood."
That was it, in a nutshell. Audrey understood. She was that sort. She never held small resentments. He rather thought she never felt them.
"Don't talk about me," she said. "Tell me about you and why you are here. It's the war, of course."
So, rather reluctantly, he told her. He shrank from seeming to want her approval, but at the same time he wanted it. His faith in himself had been shaken. He needed it restored. And some of the exaltation which had led him to make his proffer to the government came back when he saw how she flushed over it.
"It's very big," she said, softly. "It's like you, Clay. And that's the best thing I can say. I am