The Touchstone [34]
no one told me anything." She looked away from him. "It was your manner--"
"My manner?"
"Whenever the book was mentioned. Things you said--once or twice-- your irritation--I can't explain--"
Glennard, unconsciously, had moved nearer. He breathed like a man who has been running. "You knew, then, you knew"--he stammered. The avowal of her love for Flamel would have hurt him less, would have rendered her less remote. "You knew--you knew--" he repeated; and suddenly his anguish gathered voice. "My God!" he cried, "you suspected it first, you say--and then you knew it-- this damnable, this accursed thing; you knew it months ago--it's months since I put that paper in your way--and yet you've done nothing, you've said nothing, you've made no sign, you've lived alongside of me as if it had made no difference--no difference in either of our lives. What are you made of, I wonder? Don't you see the hideous ignominy of it? Don't you see how you've shared in my disgrace? Or haven't you any sense of shame?"
He preserved sufficient lucidity, as the words poured from him, to see how fatally they invited her derision; but something told him they had both passed beyond the phase of obvious retaliations, and that if any chord in her responded it would not be that of scorn.
He was right. She rose slowly and moved toward him.
"Haven't you had enough--without that?" she said, in a strange voice of pity.
He stared at her. "Enough--?"
"Of misery. . . ."
An iron band seemed loosened from his temples. "You saw then . . .?" he whispered.
"Oh, God----oh, God----" she sobbed. She dropped beside him and hid her anguish against his knees. They clung thus in silence, a long time, driven together down the same fierce blast of shame.
When at length she lifted her face he averted his. Her scorn would have hurt him less than the tears on his hands.
She spoke languidly, like a child emerging from a passion of weeping. "It was for the money--?"
His lips shaped an assent.
"That was the inheritance--that we married on?"
"Yes."
She drew back and rose to her feet. He sat watching her as she wandered away from him.
"You hate me," broke from him.
She made no answer.
"Say you hate me!" he persisted.
"That would have been so simple," she answered with a strange smile. She dropped into a chair near the writing-table and rested a bowed forehead on her hand.
"Was it much--?" she began at length.
"Much--?" he returned, vaguely.
"The money."
"The money?" That part of it seemed to count so little that for a moment he did not follow her thought.
"It must be paid back," she insisted. "Can you do it?"
"Oh, yes," he returned, listlessly. "I can do it."
"I would make any sacrifice for that!" she urged.
He nodded. "Of course." He sat staring at her in dry-eyed self- contempt. "Do you count on its making much difference?"
"Much difference?"
"In the way I feel--or you feel about me?"
She shook her head.
"It's the least part of it," he groaned.
"It's the only part we can repair."
"Good heavens! If there were any reparation--" He rose quickly and crossed the space that divided them. "Why did you never speak?" he asked.
"Haven't you answered that yourself?"
"Answered it?"
"Just now--when you told me you did it for me." She paused a moment and then went on with a deepening note--"I would have spoken if I could have helped you."
"But you must have despised me."
"I've told you that would have been simpler."
"But how could you go on like this--hating the money?"
"I knew you would speak in time. I wanted you, first, to hate it as I did."
He gazed at her with a kind of awe. "You're wonderful," he murmured. "But you don't yet know the depths I've reached."
She raised an entreating hand. "I don't want to!"
"You're afraid, then, that you'll hate me?"
"No--but that you'll hate ME. Let me understand without your telling me."
"You can't. It's too base. I thought you didn't care because you loved Flamel."
She blushed deeply.
"My manner?"
"Whenever the book was mentioned. Things you said--once or twice-- your irritation--I can't explain--"
Glennard, unconsciously, had moved nearer. He breathed like a man who has been running. "You knew, then, you knew"--he stammered. The avowal of her love for Flamel would have hurt him less, would have rendered her less remote. "You knew--you knew--" he repeated; and suddenly his anguish gathered voice. "My God!" he cried, "you suspected it first, you say--and then you knew it-- this damnable, this accursed thing; you knew it months ago--it's months since I put that paper in your way--and yet you've done nothing, you've said nothing, you've made no sign, you've lived alongside of me as if it had made no difference--no difference in either of our lives. What are you made of, I wonder? Don't you see the hideous ignominy of it? Don't you see how you've shared in my disgrace? Or haven't you any sense of shame?"
He preserved sufficient lucidity, as the words poured from him, to see how fatally they invited her derision; but something told him they had both passed beyond the phase of obvious retaliations, and that if any chord in her responded it would not be that of scorn.
He was right. She rose slowly and moved toward him.
"Haven't you had enough--without that?" she said, in a strange voice of pity.
He stared at her. "Enough--?"
"Of misery. . . ."
An iron band seemed loosened from his temples. "You saw then . . .?" he whispered.
"Oh, God----oh, God----" she sobbed. She dropped beside him and hid her anguish against his knees. They clung thus in silence, a long time, driven together down the same fierce blast of shame.
When at length she lifted her face he averted his. Her scorn would have hurt him less than the tears on his hands.
She spoke languidly, like a child emerging from a passion of weeping. "It was for the money--?"
His lips shaped an assent.
"That was the inheritance--that we married on?"
"Yes."
She drew back and rose to her feet. He sat watching her as she wandered away from him.
"You hate me," broke from him.
She made no answer.
"Say you hate me!" he persisted.
"That would have been so simple," she answered with a strange smile. She dropped into a chair near the writing-table and rested a bowed forehead on her hand.
"Was it much--?" she began at length.
"Much--?" he returned, vaguely.
"The money."
"The money?" That part of it seemed to count so little that for a moment he did not follow her thought.
"It must be paid back," she insisted. "Can you do it?"
"Oh, yes," he returned, listlessly. "I can do it."
"I would make any sacrifice for that!" she urged.
He nodded. "Of course." He sat staring at her in dry-eyed self- contempt. "Do you count on its making much difference?"
"Much difference?"
"In the way I feel--or you feel about me?"
She shook her head.
"It's the least part of it," he groaned.
"It's the only part we can repair."
"Good heavens! If there were any reparation--" He rose quickly and crossed the space that divided them. "Why did you never speak?" he asked.
"Haven't you answered that yourself?"
"Answered it?"
"Just now--when you told me you did it for me." She paused a moment and then went on with a deepening note--"I would have spoken if I could have helped you."
"But you must have despised me."
"I've told you that would have been simpler."
"But how could you go on like this--hating the money?"
"I knew you would speak in time. I wanted you, first, to hate it as I did."
He gazed at her with a kind of awe. "You're wonderful," he murmured. "But you don't yet know the depths I've reached."
She raised an entreating hand. "I don't want to!"
"You're afraid, then, that you'll hate me?"
"No--but that you'll hate ME. Let me understand without your telling me."
"You can't. It's too base. I thought you didn't care because you loved Flamel."
She blushed deeply.