was near at hand. I knew you would come, Stephen. You did before.”
He winced,—the more that her voice was so clear of pain.
“Why should I come? To show you what sort of a heart I have sold for money? Why, you know, little Margaret. You can reckon up its deformity, its worthlessness, on your cool fingers. You could tell the serene and gracious lady who is chaffering for it what a bargain she has made,—that there is not in it one spark of manly honor or true love. Don’t venture too near it in your coldness and prudence. It has tiger passions I will not answer for. Give me your hand, and feel how it pants like a hungry fiend. It will have food, Margaret.”
She drew away the hand he grasped, and stood back in the shadow.
“What is it to me?”—in the same measured voice.
Holmes wiped the cold drops from his forehead, a sort of shudder in his powerful frame. He stood a moment looking into the fire, his head dropped on his arm.
“Let it be so,” he said at last, quietly. “The worn old heart can gnaw on itself a little longer. I have no mind to whimper over pain.”
Something that she saw on the dark sardonic face, as the red gleams lighted it, made her start convulsively, as if she would go to him; then controlling herself, she stood silent. He had not seen the movement,—or, if he saw, did not heed it. He did not care to tame her now. The firelight flashed and darkened, the crackling wood breaking the dead silence of the room.
“It does not matter,” he said, raising his head, laying his arm over his strong chest unconsciously, as if to shut in all complaint. “I had an idle fancy that it would be good on this Christmas night to bare the secrets of crime and selfishness hidden in here to you,—to suffer your pure eyes to probe the sorest depths: I thought perhaps they would have a blessing power. It was an idle fancy. What is my want or crime to you?”
The answer came slowly, but it did come.
“Nothing to me.”
She tried to meet the gaunt face looking down on her with a proud sadness,—did meet it at last with her meek eyes.
“No, nothing to you. There is no need that I should stay longer, is there? You made ready to meet me, and have gone through your part well.”
“It is no part. I speak God’s truth to you as I can.”
“I know. There is nothing more for us to say to each other In this world, then, except good-night. Words—polite words—are bitterer than death, sometimes. If ever we happen to meet, that courteous smile on your face will be enough to speak—God’s truth for you. Shall we say good-night now?”
“If you will.”
She drew farther into the shadow, leaning on a chair.
He stopped, some sudden thought striking him.
“I have a whim,” he said, dreamily, “that I would like to satisfy. It would be a trifle to you: will you grant it?—for the sake of some old happy day, long ago?”
She put her hand up to her throat; then it fell again.
“Anything you wish, Stephen,” she said, gravely.
“Yes. Come nearer, then, and let me see what I have lost. A heart so cold and strong as yours need not fear inspection. I have a fancy to look into it, for the last time.”
She stood motionless and silent.
“Come,”—softly,—“there is no hurt in your heart that fears detection?”
She came out into the full light, and stood before him, pushing back the hair from her forehead, that he might see every wrinkle, and the faded, lifeless eyes. It was a true woman’s motion, remembering even then to scorn deception. The light glowed brightly in her face, as the slow minutes ebbed without a sound: she only saw his face in shadow, with the fitful gleam of intolerable meaning in his eyes. Her own quailed and fell.
“Does it hurt you that I should even look at you?” he said, drawing back. “Why, even the sainted dead suffer us to come near them after they have died to us,—to touch their hands, to kiss their lips, to find what look they left in their faces for us. Be patient, for the sake of the old time. My whim is not satisfied yet.”
“I am patient.”
“Tell me something of yourself, to take with me when I go, for the last time. Shall I think of you as happy in these days?”
“I am contented,”—the words oozing from her white lips in the bitterness of truth. “I asked God, that night, to show me my work; and I think He has shown it to me. I do not complain. It is a great work.”
“Is that all?” he demanded, fiercely.
“No, not all. It pleases me to feel I have a warm home, and to help keep it cheerful. When my father kisses me at night, or my mother says, ‘God bless you, child,’ I know that is enough, that I ought to be happy.”
The old clock in the corner hummed and ticked through the deep silence like the humble voice of the home she toiled to keep warm, thanking her, comforting her.
“Once more,” as the light grew stronger on her face,—“will you look down into your heart that you have given to this great work, and tell me what you see there? Dare you do it, Margaret?”
“I dare do it,”—but her whisper was husky.
“Go on.”
He watched her more as a judge would a criminal, as she sat before him: she struggled weakly under the power of his eye, not meeting it. He waited relentless, seeing her face slowly whiten, her limbs shiver, her bosom heave.
“Let me speak for you,” he said at last. “I know who once filled your heart to the exclusion of all others: it is no time for mock shame. I know it was my hand that held the very secret of your being. Whatever I may have been, you loved me, Margaret. Will you say that now?”
“I loved you,—once.”
Whether it were truth that nerved her, or self-delusion, she was strong now to utter it all.
“You love me no longer, then?”
“I love you no longer.”
She did not look at him; she was conscious only of the hot fire wearing her eyes, and the vexing click of the clock. After a while he bent over her silently,—a manly, tender presence.
“When love goes once,” he said, “it never returns. Did you say it was gone, Margaret?”
One effort more, and Duty would be satisfied.
“It is gone.”
In the slow darkness that came to her she covered her face, knowing and hearing nothing. When she looked up, Holmes was standing by the window, with his face toward the gray fields. It was a long time before he turned and came to her.
“You have spoken honestly: it is an old fashion of yours. You believed what you said. Let me also tell you what you call God’s truth, for a moment, Margaret. It will not do you harm.”—He spoke gravely, solemnly.—“When you loved me long ago, selfish, erring as I was, you fulfilled the law of your nature; when you put
