Stories by English Authors: The Orient (Selected by Scribners)

“Hush!” she almost screamed. “Loyal! it was the least I could do – to stop you, I mean – when you – After all, I knew it without your telling me. I had deliberately married him without loving him. It was my own fault. I felt it. Even if I couldn’t prevent his knowing that I hated him, I could prevent that. It was my punishment. I deserved it for daring to marry without love. But I didn’t spare John one pang after all,” she added, bitterly. “He knew what I felt toward him; I don’t think he cared about anything else. You say I mustn’t reproach myself? When I went back to the tent that morning – when you – when I stopped you from saying you loved me, he was sitting at the table with his head buried in his hands; he was crying – bitterly. I saw him, – it is terrible to see a man cry, – and I stole away gently, but he saw me. I was torn to pieces, but I couldn’t go to him. I knew he would kiss me, and I shuddered to think of it. It seemed more than ever not to be borne that he should do that – when I knew you loved me.”

“Kathleen,” cried her lover, again, “don’t dwell on it all so terribly – don’t – ”

“How can I forget?” she answered, despairingly. “And then,” – she lowered her voice, – “oh, I can’t tell you – all the time, at the back of my mind somewhere, there was a burning wish that he might die. I used to lie awake at night, and, do what I would to stifle it, that thought used to scorch me, I wished it so intensely. Do you believe that by willing one can bring such things to pass?” she asked, looking at Broomhurst with feverishly bright eyes. “No? Well, I don’t know. I tried to smother it, – I really tried, – but it was there, whatever other thoughts I heaped on the top. Then, when I heard the horse galloping across the plain that morning, I had a sick fear that it was you. I knew something had happened, and my first thought when I saw you alive and well, and knew it was John, was that it was too good to be true. I believe I laughed like a maniac, didn’t I?.. Not to blame? Why, if it hadn’t been for me he wouldn’t have died. The men say they saw him sitting with his head uncovered in the burning sun, his face buried in his hands – just as I had seen him the day before. He didn’t trouble to be careful; he was too wretched.”

She paused, and Broomhurst rose and began to pace the little hillside path at the edge of which they were seated.

Presently he came back to her.

“Kathleen, let me take care of you,” he implored, stooping toward her. “We have only ourselves to consider in this matter. Will you come to me at once?”

She shook her head sadly.

Broomhurst set his teeth, and the lines round his mouth deepened. He threw himself down beside her on the heather.

“Dear,” he urged, still gently, though his voice showed he was controlling himself with an effort, “you are morbid about this. You have been alone too much; you are ill. Let me take care of you; I can, Kathleen, – and I love you. Nothing but morbid fancy makes you imagine you are in any way responsible for – Drayton’s death. You can’t bring him back to life, and – ”

“No,” she sighed, drearily, “and if I could, nothing would be altered. Though I am mad with self-reproach, I feel that– it was all so inevitable. If he were alive and well before me this instant, my feeling toward him wouldn’t have changed. If he spoke to me he would say ‘my dear’ – and I should loathe him. Oh, I know! It is that that makes it so awful.”

“But if you acknowledge it,” Broomhurst struck in, eagerly, “will you wreck both of our lives for the sake of vain regrets? Kathleen, you never will.”

He waited breathlessly for her answer.

“I won’t wreck both our lives by marrying again without love on my side,” she replied, firmly.

“I will take the risk,” he said. “You have loved me; you will love me again. You are crushed and dazed now with brooding over this – this trouble, but – ”

“But I will not allow you to take the risk,” Kathleen answered. “What sort of woman should I be to be willing again to live with a man I don’t love? I have come to know that there are things one owes to one’s self. Self-respect is one of them. I don’t know how it has come to be so, but all my old feeling for you has gone. It is as though it had burned itself out. I will not offer gray ashes to any man.”

Broomhurst, looking up at her pale, set face, knew that her words were final, and turned his own aside with a groan.

“Ah,” cried Kathleen, with a little break in her voice, “don’t! Go away, and be happy and strong, and all that I loved in you. I am so sorry – so sorry to hurt you. I – ” her voice faltered miserably; “I – I only bring trouble to people.”

There was a long pause.

“Did you never think that there is a terrible vein of irony running through the ordering of this world?” she said, presently. “It is a mistake to think our prayers are not answered – they are. In due time we get our heart’s desire – when we have ceased to care for it.”

“I haven’t yet got mine,” Broomhurst answered, doggedly, “and I shall never cease to care for it.”

She smiled a little, with infinite sadness.

“Listen, Kathleen,” he said. They had both risen, and he stood before her, looking down at her. “I will go now, but in a year’s time I shall come back. I will not give you up. You shall love me yet.”

“Perhaps – I don’t think so,” she answered, wearily.

Broomhurst looked at her trembling lips a moment in silence; then he stooped and kissed both her hands instead.

“I will wait till you tell me you love me,” he said.

She stood watching him out of sight. He did not look back, and she turned with swimming eyes to the gray sea and the transient gleams of sunlight that swept like tender smiles across its face.