“you dog!” i said, in a low, stern voice; “tell me the meaning of this.”
he gave a little, mocking, airy laugh and, thrusting his hands into his pockets, wheeled round upon me.
“what’s your question?” said he.
“you know. what have you said to the girl to make her treat me like this?”
he raised his eyebrows in assumed perplexity.
“really,” he said, “you go a long way to seek. what have i said? how have you behaved, you mean.”
“you lie—i don’t! i know her, that’s enough. if you have told her my story——”
“if?” he repeated, coolly.
“i may add a last chapter to it, in which you’ll figure—that’s all.”
he was a little startled, i could see, but retained his sang froid, with an effort.
“you jump too much to conclusion, my good fellow. i have said nothing to her about your little affair with modred as yet.”
“that means you intend to hold it over my head as a menace where she is concerned. i know you.”
“then you know a very charming fellow. why, what a dolt you are! here’s a pother because i play cavalier to a girl whom you throw over in a fit of sulks. i couldn’t do less in common decency.”
“take care that you do no more. i’m not the only one to reckon with in this business.”
“a fig for that!” he cried, snapping his fingers. “i’m not to be coerced into taking second place if i have a fancy for first.”
“i warn you; that’s enough. for the rest, let’s understand one another. i’ll have no more of this sham for convention’s sake. we’re enemies, and we’ll be known for enemies. my door’s shut to you. keep out of my way and think twice before you make me desperate.”
with that i turned and strode from him. his mocking laugh came after me again, but i took no notice of it.
should i tell duke all? i shrunk from the mere thought. a coward even then, i dared not confess to him how i had betrayed my trust; what fearful suspicions of the nature of my failure lay dark on my heart. no—i must see dolly first and force my sentence from her lips.
he put down the book he was reading from, as i entered the sitting-room.
“well,” he said, cheerily, “what success?”
i sat away from him, beyond the radiance of the lamp, and affected to be busy unlacing my boots.
“i can’t say as yet, duke. do you mind postponing the question for a day or two?”
“of course, if you wish it.” i felt the surprise in his tone. “mayn’t i ask why?”
“not now, old fellow. i missed my opportunity, that’s all.”
“is anything wrong, renny?”
“not all right, at least.”
“renny, why shouldn’t it be? i can’t be mistaken as to the direction of her feelings—by my soul, i can’t.”
“i’m not so sure,” i said, in a voice of great distress.
he recognized it and stopped questioning me at once.
“you want to be alone, i see,” said he, gently. “well, i’ll be off.”
as he passed me, he placed his hand for a moment on my shoulder. the action was tender and sympathetic, but i shrunk under it as if it had been a blow.
when the door had closed upon him i rose and sat down at the table. i wrote:
“dear dolly: i made a fool of myself to-day and have repented it ever since in sackcloth and ashes. i had so wished to be alone with you, dear, and it made me mad that he should come between us. he isn’t a good companion for you. i must say it, though he is my brother. had i thought him so i should have brought him to see you before. i only say this to explain my anger at his appearance, and now i will drop the subject for another, which is the real reason of my writing. i had hoped, so much, dear, to put it to you personally, there in the old forest that we have spent so many happy hours in, but i missed my opportunity and now i am in too much of a fever to wait another week. dolly, will you be my wife? i can afford a home of my own now, and i shall be glad and grateful if you will consent to become mistress of it. i feel that written words can only sound cold at best; so i will say nothing more here, but just this—if you will have me, i will strive in all things to be your loving and devoted husband.
“renalt trender.”
all in a glow of confident tenderness, inspired by the words i had written, i added the address and went out and posted my little missive. its mere composition, the fact of its now lying in the postbox, a link between us, gave me a chastened sense of relief and satisfaction that was restorative to my injured vanity. the mistake of the morning was reacted upon in time, and i felt that nothing short of a disruption of natural affinities could interfere to keep back the inevitable answer. so assured was i, indeed, that i allowed my thoughts to wander as if for a last farewell, into regions wherein the simple heart of my present could find no way to enter. “good-by, zyp,” the voiceless soul of me muttered.
that night, looking at duke’s dark head at rest on the pillow, i thought: “it will be put right to-morrow or the next day, and you, dear friend, need never know what might have followed on my abuse of your trust.” then i slept peacefully, but my dreams were all of zyp—not of the other.
the next day, at the office, i was careful to keep altogether out of dolly’s way. indeed, my work taking me elsewhere, i never once saw her and went home in the evening unenlightened by a single glance from her gray eyes. this, the better policy, i thought, would save us both embarrassment and the annoyance of any curiosity on the part of her fellow-workers, who would surely be quick to detect a romantic state of affairs between us.
nevertheless, despite my self-confidence, i awaited that evening in some trepidation the answer that was to decide the direction of my future.
we were sitting at supper when it came, held by one corner in her apron by our landlady, and my face went pale as i saw the schoolgirl superscription.
“from dolly?” murmured duke.
i nodded and broke the seal. my hands trembled and a mist was before my eyes. it ran as follows:
“dear renny: thank you very, very much for your kind offer, but i can’t accept it. i thought i had so much to say, and this is all i can think of. i hope it won’t hurt you. it can’t, i know, for long, because now i see i was never really the first in your heart; and your letter don’t sound as if you will find it very difficult to get over. please forgive me if i’m wrong, but anyhow it’s too late now. i might have once, but i can’t now, renny. i think perhaps i became a woman all in a moment yesterday. please don’t write or say a word to me again about this, for i mean it really and truly. your affectionate friend,
dolly mellison.”
“p. s.—it was a little unfair of you, i must say, not to tell me about that zyp.”
i sat and returned the letter to its folds quite coolly and calmly. if there was fire in me, i kept it under then.
“duke,” i said, quietly, “she has refused me.”
he struggled up from his chair. his face was all amazement and his voice hoarse.
“refused you? what have you said? what have you done? something has happened, i tell you.”
“why? she was at perfect liberty to make her own choice.”
“you wrote to her last night?”
“yes.”
“why did you? why didn’t you do as i understood you intended to yesterday?”
“i asked you to leave that question alone for the present.”
“you’ve no right to. i——” his face flamed up for a moment. but with a mighty effort he fought it under.
“renny,” he said, in a subdued voice, “i had no business to speak to you like that. but you don’t know upon what a wheel of torment i have been these last weeks. the girl—dolly—is so much to me, and her happiness——” he broke off almost with a sob.
i sprung to my feet. i could bear it no longer.
“think what you like of me!” i cried. “i have made a muddle of the whole business—a wretched, unhappy muddle. but i suffer, too, duke. i never knew what miss—miss mellison was to me till now, when i have lost her.”
“i don’t ask to see her letter. you haven’t misread it by any possibility?”
“no—it’s perfectly clear. she refuses me and holds out no hope.”
he set his frowning brows and fell into a gloomy silence. he took no notice of me even when i told him that i must go into the open air for awhile to walk and try to find surcease of my racking trouble.
“now,” i thought, when i got outside, “for the villainous truth. to strike at me like that! it was worthy of him—worthy of him. and i am to blame for leaving them together—i, who pretended to an affection for the girl and was ready to swear to love and protect her forevermore. what a pitiful rag of manliness! what courage that daren’t even now tell the truth to my friend up there! friend? he’s done with me, i expect. but for the other. he didn’t give her my history—not he. perhaps he didn’t as i meant it, but i never dreamed that he would play upon that second stop for his devils of hate to dance to; i never even thought of it. what a hideous fool i have been! oh, jason, my brother, if it had only been you instead of modred!”
i jerked to a stop. some formless thoughts had been in my mind to hurry on into the presence of the villain who had dealt me such a coward blow, and to drive his slander in one red crash down his throat. now, in an instant, it broke upon me that i had no knowledge of where he lived—that by my own act i had yesterday cut off all communication between us. perhaps, though, in his cobra-like dogging of me he would be driven before long to seek me out again of his own accord, that he might gloat over the havoc he had occasioned. i must bide my time as patiently as i could on the chance.
late at night i returned and lay down upon the sofa in the sitting-room. i felt unclean for duke’s company and would not go up to him. let me do myself justice. it was not all dread of his anger that kept me from him. there was a most lost, sorrowful feeling in me at having thus requited all his friendship and his generosity.
as i lay and writhed in sickly thought, my eye was attracted by the glimmering of some white object set prominently on the mantelpiece. i rose and found it was a letter addressed to me in his handwriting. foreseeing its contents i tore it open and read:
“i think it best that our partnership should cease and i find lodging elsewhere. you will understand my reasons. dolly comes first with me, that’s all. it may have been your error; i can’t think it was your willful fault; but that she would have refused you without some good reason i can’t believe. your manner seems to point to the suspicion that somehow her happiness is threatened. i may be wrong, but i intend to set myself to find out; and until some explanation is forthcoming, i think it best that we should live apart. i shall call here to-morrow during the dinner hour and arrange about having my things moved and settle matters as far as i am concerned. your friend,
duke straw.”
i stood long with the letter in my hand.
“well, it’s best,” i muttered at last, “and i thought he would do it. he’s my friend still, thank heaven, for he says so. but, oh, jason, your debt is accumulating!”
