The Reckoning

First I spoke of the horses we had taken, and would have promised payment by draft enclosed, but that Elsin, looking over my shoulder, stayed my pen.

"Did you not see me leave a pile of guineas?" she demanded. "That was to pay for our stable theft!"

"But not for the horse I took?"

"Certainly, for your horse, too."

"But you could not know that I was to ride saddle to the Coq d'Or!" I insisted.

"No, but I saddled two horses," she replied, delighted at my wonder, "two horses, monsieur, one of which stood ready in the stalls of the Coq d'Or! So when you came a-horseback, it was not necessary to use the spare mount I had led there at a gallop. Now do you see, Mr. Renault? All this I did for you, inspired by—foresight, which you lack!"

"I see that you are as wise and witty as you are beautiful!" I exclaimed warmly, and caught her fingers to kiss them, but she would have none of my caress, urging me to write further, and make suitable excuse for what had happened.

"It is not best to confess that we are still unwedded," I said, perplexed.

"No. They suppose we are; let be as it is," she answered. "And you shall not say that you were a spy, either, for that must only pain Sir Peter and his lady. They will never believe Walter Butler, for they think I fled with you because I could not endure him. And—perhaps I did," she added; and that strange smile colored her eyes to deepest azure.

"Then what remains to say?" I asked, regarding her thoughtfully.

"Say we are happy, Carus."

"Are you?"

"Truly I am, spite of all I complain of. Write it!"

I wrote that we were happy; and, as I traced the words, a curious thrill set my pen shaking.

"And that we love—them."

I wrote it slowly, half-minded to write "one another" instead of "them." Never had I been so near to love.

"And—and—let me see," she mused, finger on lip—"I think it not too impudent to ask their blessing. It may happen, you know, though Destiny fight against it; and if it does, why there we have their blessing all ready!"

I thought for a long while, then wrote, asking their blessing upon our wedded union.

"That word 'wedded,'" observed Elsin, "commits us. Scratch it out. I have changed my mind. Destiny may accept the challenge, and smite me where I sit."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean—nothing. Yet that word 'wedded' must not stand. It is an affront to—to Destiny!"

"I fear nothing from Destiny—with you, Elsin."

"If you write that word, then, I tell you we must betroth ourselves this instant!—and fight Fate to its knees. Dare you?"

"I am ready," said I coolly.

She looked at me sidewise in quick surprise, chin resting in her clasped hands. Then she turned, facing me, dropping her elbows on the polished table.

"You would wed me, Carus?" she said slowly.

"Yes."

"Because—because—you—love me?"

"Yes."

A curious tremor possessed my body; it was not as though I spoke; something within me had stirred and awakened and was twitching at my lips. I stared at her through eyes not my own—eyes that seemed to open on her for the first time. And, as I stared, her face whitened, her eyes closed, and she bowed her head to her hands.

"Keep pity for others," she said wearily; "keep your charity for some happier maid who may accept it, Carus. I would if I dared. I have no pride left. But I dare not. This is the end of all, I think. I shall never ask alms of Love again."

Then a strange thing happened, quick as a thrust; and my very soul leaped, quivering, smitten through and through with love of her. In the overwhelming shock I stretched out my hand like a man dazed, touching her fingers, and the thrill of it seemed to stun me.

Never, never could I endure to have her look at another as she looked at me when our hands touched, but I could not utter a word; and I saw her lip quiver, and the hopeless look deaden her eyes again.

I rose blindly to my feet, speechless, heart hammering at my throat, and made to speak, but could not.

She, too, had risen, gazing steadily at me; and still I could not utter a word, the blood surging through me and my senses swimming. Love! It blinded me with its clamor; it frightened me with its rushing tide; it dinned in my ears, it ran riot, sweeping every vein, choking speech, while it surged on, wave on wave mounting in flame.

She stood there, pallidly uncertain, looking on the conflagration love had wrought. Then something of its purport seemed to frighten her, and she shrank away step by step, passing the portal of her chamber, retreating, yet facing me still, fascinated eyes on mine.

I heard a voice unlike my own, saying: "I love you, Elsin. Why do you repulse me?"

And as she answered nothing, I went to her and took her hand. But the dismayed eyes only widened, the color faded from her parted lips.

"Can you not see," I whispered, "can you not see I love you?"

"You—love—me!"

I caught her in my arms. A bright blush stained neck and face, and she threw back her head, avoiding my lips.

"Elsin, I beg you—I beg you to love me! Can you not see what you have done to me?—how I am awakened?"

"Wait," she pleaded, resisting me, "wait, Carus. I—I am afraid–"

"Of love, sweetheart?"

"Wait," she panted—"give me time—till morning—then if I change not—if my heart stirs again so loudly when you hold me—thus—and—and crush me so close to you—so close—and promise to love me–"

"Elsin, Elsin, I love you!"

"Wait—wait, Carus!—my darling. Oh, you must not—kiss me—until you know—what I am–"

Her face burned against mine; her eyes closed. Through the throbbing silence her head drooped, lower, lower, yielding her mouth to mine; then, with a cry she turned in my arms, twisting to her knees, and dropped her head forward on the bed. And, as I bent beside her, she gasped: "No—no—wait, Carus! I know myself! I know myself! Take your lips from my hands—do not touch me! My brain has gone blind, I tell you! Leave me to think—if I can–"

"I will not leave you here in tears. Elsin, Elsin, look at me!"

"The tears help me—help us both," she sobbed. "I know what I know. Leave me—lest the very sky fall to crush us in our madness–"