Chapter VII
Darrow was still standing on her threshold. As she put the question he entered the room and closed the door behind him.
His heart was beating a little faster than usual and he had no clear idea of what he was about to do or say, beyond the definite conviction that, whatever passing impulse of expiation moved him, he would not be fool enough to tell her that he had not sent her letter. He knew that most wrongdoing works, on the whole, less mischief than its useless confession; and this was clearly a case where a passing folly might be turned, by avowal, into a serious offense.
“I’m so sorry–so sorry; but you must let me help you…You will let me help you?” he said.
He took her hands and pressed them together between his, counting on a friendly touch to help out the insufficiency of words. He felt her yield slightly to his clasp, and hurried on without giving her time to answer.
“Isn’t it a pity to spoil our good time together by regretting anything you might have done to prevent our having it?”
She drew back, freeing her hands. Her face, losing its look of appealing confidence, was suddenly sharpened by distrust.
“You didn’t forget to post my letter?”
Darrow stood before her, constrained and ashamed, and ever more keenly aware that the betrayal of his distress must be a greater offense than its concealment.
“What an insinuation!” he cried, throwing out his hands with a laugh.
Her face instantly melted to laughter. “Well, then–I won’t be sorry; I won’t regret anything except that our good time is over!”
The words were so unexpected that they routed all his resolves. If she had gone on doubting him he could probably have gone on deceiving her; but her unhesitating acceptance of his word made him hate the part he was playing. At the same moment a doubt shot up its serpenthead in his own bosom. Was it not he rather than she who was childishly trustful? Was she not almost too ready to take his word, and dismiss once for all the tiresome question of the letter? Considering what her experiences must have been, such trustfulness seemed open to suspicion. But the moment his eyes fell on her he was ashamed of the thought, and knew it for what it really was: another pretext to lessen his own delinquency.
“Why should our good time be over?” he asked. “Why shouldn’t it last a little longer?”
She looked up, her lips parted in surprise; but before she could speak he went on: “I want you to stay with me-I want you, just for a few days, to have all the things you’ve never had. It’s not always May and Paris–why not make the most of them now? You know me–we’re not strangers–why shouldn’t you treat me like a friend?”
While he spoke she had drawn away a little, but her hand still lay in his. She was pale, and her eyes were fixed on him in a gaze in which there was neither distrust or resentment, but only an ingenuous wonder. He was extraordinarily touched by her expression.
“Oh, do! You must. Listen: to prove that I’m sincere I’ll tell you…I’ll tell you I didn’t post your letter…I didn’t post it because I wanted so much to give you a few good hours…and because I couldn’t bear to have you go.”
He had the feeling that the words were being uttered in spite of him by some malicious witness of the scene, and yet that he was not sorry to have them spoken.
The girl had listened to him in silence. She remained motionless for a moment after he had ceased to speak; then she snatched away her hand.
“You didn’t post my letter? You kept it back on purpose? And you tell me so now, to prove to me that I’d better put myself under your protection?” She burst into a laugh that had in it all the piercing echoes of her Murrett past, and her face, at the same moment, underwent the same change, shrinking into a small malevolent white mask in which the eyes burned black. “Thank you–thank you most awfully for telling me! And for all your other kind intentions! The plan’s delightful–really quite delightful, and I’m extremely flattered and obliged.”