from the first day I saw him. I'd just as lief as not they should say I was dying for him. I shall not care what they say when I'm dead.”
“You'd oughtn't,—you'd oughtn't to talk that way, Marcia,” said her father, gently.
“What difference?” she demanded, scornfully. There was truly no difference, so far as concerned any creed of his, and he was too honest to make further pretence. “What shall I do?” she went on again. “I've thought of praying; but what would be the use?”
“I've never denied that there was a God, Marcia,” said her father.
“Oh, I know. That kind of God! Well, well! I know that I talk like a crazy person! Do you suppose it was providential, my being with you in the office that morning when Bartley came in?”
“No,” said her father, “I don't. I think it was an accident.”
“Mother said it was providential, my finding him out before it was too late.”
“I think it was a good thing. The fellow has the making of a first-class scoundrel in him.”
“Do you think he's a scoundrel now?” she asked quietly.
“He hasn't had any great opportunity yet,” said the old man, conscientiously sparing him.
“Well, then, I'm sorry I found him out. Yes! If I hadn't, I might have married him, and perhaps if I had died soon I might never have found him out. He could have been good to me a year or two, and then, if I died, I should have been safe. Yes, I wish he could have deceived me till after we were married. Then I couldn't have borne to give him up, may be.”
“You would have given him up, even then. And that's the only thing that reconciles me to it now. I'm sorry for you, my girl; but you'd have made me sorrier then. Sooner or later he'd have broken your heart.”
“He's broken it now,” said the girl, calmly.
“Oh, no, he hasn't,” replied her father, with a false cheerfulness that did not deceive her. “You're young and you'll get over it. I mean to take you away from here for a while. I mean to take you up to Boston, and on to New York. I shouldn't care if we went as far as Washington. I guess, when you've seen a little more of the world, you won't think Bartley Hubbard's the only one in it.”
She looked at him so intently that he thought she must be pleased at his proposal. “Do you think I could get him back?” she asked.
Her father lost his patience; it was a relief to be angry. “No, I don't think so. I know you couldn't. And you ought to be ashamed of mentioning such a thing!”
“Oh, ashamed! No, I've got past that. I have no shame any more where he's concerned. Oh, I'd give the world if I could call him back,—if I could only undo what I did! I was wild; I wasn't reasonable; I wouldn't listen to him. I drove him away without giving him a chance to say a word! Of course, he must hate me now. What makes you think he wouldn't come back?” she asked.
“I know he wouldn't,” answered her father, with a sort of groan. “He's going to leave Equity for one thing, and—”
“Going to leave Equity,” she repeated, absently Then he felt her tremble. “How do you know he's going?” She turned upon her father, and fixed him sternly with her eyes.
“Do you suppose he would stay, after what's happened, any longer than he could help?”
“How do you know he's going?” she repeated.
“He told me.”
She stood up. “He told you? When?”
“To-night.”
“Why, where—where did you see him?” she whispered.
“In the office.”
“Since—since—I came? Bartley been here! And you didn't tell me,—you didn't let me know?” They looked at each other in silence. At last, “When is he going?” she asked.
“To-morrow morning.”
She sat down in the chair which her mother had left, and clutched the back of another, on which her fingers opened and closed convulsively, while she caught her breath in irregular gasps. She broke into a low moaning, at last, the expression of abject defeat in the struggle she had waged with herself. Her father watched her with dumb compassion. “Better go to bed, Marcia,” he said, with the same dry calm as if he had been sending her away after some pleasant evening which she had suffered to run too far into the night.
“Don't you think—don't you think—he'll have to see you again before he goes?” she made out to ask.
“No; he's finished up with me,” said the old man.
“Well, then,” she cried, desperately, “you'll have to go to him, father, and get him to come! I can't help it! I can't give him up! You've got to go to him, now, father,—yes, yes, you have! You've got to go and tell him. Go and get him to come, for mercy's sake! Tell him that I'm sorry,—that I beg his pardon,—that I didn't think—I didn't understand,—that I knew he didn't do anything wrong—” She rose, and, placing her hand on her father's shoulder, accented each entreaty with a little push.
He looked up into her face with a haggard smile of sympathy. “You're crazy, Marcia,” he said, gently.
“Don't laugh!” she cried. “I'm not crazy now. But I was, then,—yes, stark, staring crazy. Look here, father! I want to tell you,—I want to explain to you!” She dropped upon his knee again, and tremblingly passed her arm round his neck. “You see, I had just told him the day before that I shouldn't care for anything that happened before we were engaged, and then at the very first thing I went and threw him off! And I had no right to do it. He knows that, and that's what makes him so hard towards me. But if you go and tell him that I see now I was all wrong, and that I beg his pardon, and then ask him to give me one more trial, just one more—You can do as much as that for me, can't you?”
“Oh, you poor, crazy girl!” groaned her father. “Don't you see that the trouble is in what the fellow is, and not in any particular thing that he's done? He's a scamp, through and through; and he's all the more a scamp when he doesn't know it. He hasn't got the first idea of anything but selfishness.”
“No, no! Now, I'll tell you,—now, I'll prove it to you. That very Sunday when we were out riding together; and we met her and her mother, and their sleigh upset, and he had to lift her back; and it made me wild to see him, and I wouldn't hardly touch him or speak to him afterwards, he didn't say one angry word to me. He just pulled me up to him, and wouldn't let me be mad; and he said that night he didn't mind it a bit because it showed how much I liked him. Now, doesn't that prove he's good,—a good deal better than I am, and that he'll forgive me, if you'll go and ask him? I know he isn't in bed yet; he always sits up late,—he told me so; and you'll find him there in his room. Go straight to his room, father; don't let anybody see you down in the office; I couldn't bear it; and slip out with him as quietly as you can. But, oh, do hurry now! Don't lose another minute!”
The wild joy sprang into her face, as her father rose; a joy that it was terrible to him to see die out of it as he spoke: “I tell you it's no use, Marcia! He wouldn't come if I went to him—”
