The Pit [55]
of her character was apt to come to the front. But Corthell stirred troublous, unknown deeps in her, certain undefined trends of recklessness; and for so long as he held her within his influence, she could not forget her sex a single instant.
It dismayed her to have this strange personality of hers, this other headstrong, impetuous self, discovered to her. She hardly recognised it. It made her a little afraid; and yet, wonder of wonders, she could not altogether dislike it. There was a certain fascination in resigning herself for little instants to the dominion of this daring stranger that was yet herself.
Meanwhile Corthell had answered her:
"I wish," he said, "I _wish_ you could say something--I hardly know what--something to me. So little would be so much."
"But what _can_ I say?" she protested. "I don't know-- I--what _can_ I say?"
"It must be yes or no for me," he broke out. "I can't go on this way."
"But why not? Why not?" exclaimed Laura. "Why must we-- terminate anything? Why not let things go on just as they are? We are quite happy as we are. There's never been a time of my life when I've been happier than this last three or four months. I don't want to change anything. Ah, here we are."
The hansom drew up in front of the house. Aunt Wess' and Page were already inside. The maid stood in the vestibule in the light that streamed from the half-open front door, an umbrella in her hand. And as Laura alighted, she heard Page's voice calling from the front hall that the others had umbrellas, that the maid was not to wait.
The hansom splashed away, and Corthell and Laura mounted the steps of the house.
"Won't you come in?" she said. "There is a fire in the library."
But he said no, and for a few seconds they stood under the vestibule light, talking. Then Corthell, drawing off his right-hand glove, said:
"I suppose that I have my answer. You do not wish for a change. I understand. You wish to say by that, that you do not love me. If you did love me as I love you, you would wish for just that--a change. You would be as eager as I for that wonderful, wonderful change that makes a new heaven and a new earth."
This time Laura did not answer. There was a moment's silence. Then Corthell said:
"Do you know, I think I shall go away."
"Go away?"
"Yes, to New York. Possibly to Paris. There is a new method of fusing glass that I've promised myself long ago I would look into. I don't know that it interests me much--now. But I think I had better go. At once, within the week. I've not much heart in it; but it seems--under the circumstances--to be appropriate." He held out his bared hand. Laura saw that he was smiling.
"Well, Miss Dearborn--good-by."
"But _why_ should you go?" she cried, distressfully. "How perfectly--ah, don't go," she exclaimed, then in desperate haste added: "It would be absolutely foolish."
"_Shall_ I stay?" he urged. "Do you tell me to stay?"
"Of course I do," she answered. "It would break up the play--your going. It would spoil my part. You play opposite me, you know. Please stay."
"Shall I stay," he asked, "for the sake of your part? There is no one else you would rather have?" He was smiling straight into her eyes, and she guessed what he meant.
She smiled back at him, and the spirit of daring never more awake in her, replied, as she caught his eye:
"There is no one else I would rather have."
Corthell caught her hand of a sudden.
"Laura," he cried, "let us end this fencing and quibbling once and for all. Dear, dear girl, I _love_ you with all the strength of all the good in me. Let me be the best a man can be to the woman he loves."
Laura flashed a smile at him.
"If you can make me love you enough," she answered.
"And you think I can?" he exclaimed,
"You have my permission to try," she said.
She hoped fervently that now, without further words, he would leave her. It seemed to her that it would be the most delicate chivalry on his part--having won this much--to push his advantage no further.
It dismayed her to have this strange personality of hers, this other headstrong, impetuous self, discovered to her. She hardly recognised it. It made her a little afraid; and yet, wonder of wonders, she could not altogether dislike it. There was a certain fascination in resigning herself for little instants to the dominion of this daring stranger that was yet herself.
Meanwhile Corthell had answered her:
"I wish," he said, "I _wish_ you could say something--I hardly know what--something to me. So little would be so much."
"But what _can_ I say?" she protested. "I don't know-- I--what _can_ I say?"
"It must be yes or no for me," he broke out. "I can't go on this way."
"But why not? Why not?" exclaimed Laura. "Why must we-- terminate anything? Why not let things go on just as they are? We are quite happy as we are. There's never been a time of my life when I've been happier than this last three or four months. I don't want to change anything. Ah, here we are."
The hansom drew up in front of the house. Aunt Wess' and Page were already inside. The maid stood in the vestibule in the light that streamed from the half-open front door, an umbrella in her hand. And as Laura alighted, she heard Page's voice calling from the front hall that the others had umbrellas, that the maid was not to wait.
The hansom splashed away, and Corthell and Laura mounted the steps of the house.
"Won't you come in?" she said. "There is a fire in the library."
But he said no, and for a few seconds they stood under the vestibule light, talking. Then Corthell, drawing off his right-hand glove, said:
"I suppose that I have my answer. You do not wish for a change. I understand. You wish to say by that, that you do not love me. If you did love me as I love you, you would wish for just that--a change. You would be as eager as I for that wonderful, wonderful change that makes a new heaven and a new earth."
This time Laura did not answer. There was a moment's silence. Then Corthell said:
"Do you know, I think I shall go away."
"Go away?"
"Yes, to New York. Possibly to Paris. There is a new method of fusing glass that I've promised myself long ago I would look into. I don't know that it interests me much--now. But I think I had better go. At once, within the week. I've not much heart in it; but it seems--under the circumstances--to be appropriate." He held out his bared hand. Laura saw that he was smiling.
"Well, Miss Dearborn--good-by."
"But _why_ should you go?" she cried, distressfully. "How perfectly--ah, don't go," she exclaimed, then in desperate haste added: "It would be absolutely foolish."
"_Shall_ I stay?" he urged. "Do you tell me to stay?"
"Of course I do," she answered. "It would break up the play--your going. It would spoil my part. You play opposite me, you know. Please stay."
"Shall I stay," he asked, "for the sake of your part? There is no one else you would rather have?" He was smiling straight into her eyes, and she guessed what he meant.
She smiled back at him, and the spirit of daring never more awake in her, replied, as she caught his eye:
"There is no one else I would rather have."
Corthell caught her hand of a sudden.
"Laura," he cried, "let us end this fencing and quibbling once and for all. Dear, dear girl, I _love_ you with all the strength of all the good in me. Let me be the best a man can be to the woman he loves."
Laura flashed a smile at him.
"If you can make me love you enough," she answered.
"And you think I can?" he exclaimed,
"You have my permission to try," she said.
She hoped fervently that now, without further words, he would leave her. It seemed to her that it would be the most delicate chivalry on his part--having won this much--to push his advantage no further.