第36章 PLANCHETTE(2)

"You imposed nothing. You always let me have my own way. It was you who were the obedient slave. You did for me without offending me. You forestalled my wishes without the semblance of forestalling； them， so natural and inevitable was everything you did for me. I said， without offending me. You were no dancing puppet. You made no fuss. Don't you see？ You did not seem to do things at all. Somehow they were always there， just done， as a matter of course.

"The slavery was love's slavery. It was just my love for you that made you swallow up all my days. You did not force yourself into my thoughts. You crept in， always， and you were there always--how much， you will never know.

"But as time went by， Aunt Mildred and Uncle grew to dislike you. They grew afraid. What was to become of me？ You were destroying my life. My music？ You know how my dream of it has dimmed away. That spring， when I first met you--Iwas twenty， and I was about to start for Germany. I was going to study hard.

That was four years ago， and I am still here in California.

"I had other lovers. You drove them away--No！ no！ I don't mean that. It was Ithat drove them away. What did I care for lovers， for anything， when you were near？ But as I said， Aunt Mildred and Uncle grew afraid. There has been talk媐riends， busybodies， and all the rest. The time went by. You did not speak. I could only wonder， wonder. I knew you loved me. Much was said against you by Uncle at first， and then by Aunt Mildred. They were father and mother to me， you know. I could not defend you. Yet I was loyal to you. I refused to discuss you. I closed up. There was half-estrangement in my home--Uncle Robert with a face like an undertaker， and Aunt Mildred's heart breaking. But what could I do， Chris？ What could I do？"The man， his head resting on her knee again， groaned， but made no other reply.

"Aunt Mildred was mother to me， yet I went to her no more with my confidences.

My childhood's book was closed. It was a sweet book， Chris. The tears come into my eyes sometimes when I think of it. But never mind that. Great happiness has been mine as well. I am glad I can talk frankly of my love for you. And the attaining of such frankness has been very sweet. I do love you， Chris. I love you . . . I cannot tell you how. You are everything to me， and more besides. You remember that Christmas tree of the children？--when we played blindman's buff？ and you caught me by the arm so， with such a clutching of fingers that I cried out with the hurt？ I never told you， but the arm was badly bruised. And such sweet I got of it you could never guess. There， black and blue， was the imprint of your fingers--your fingers， Chris， your fingers.

It was the touch of you made visible. It was there a week， and I kissed the marks--oh， so often！ I hated to see them go； I wanted to rebruise the arm and make them linger. I was jealous of the returning white that drove the bruise away. Somehow，--oh！ I cannot explain， but I loved you so！"In the silence that fell， she continued her caressing of his hair， while she idly watched a great gray squirrel， boisterous and hilarious， as it scampered back and forth in a distant vista of the redwoods. A crimson-crested woodpecker， energetically drilling a fallen trunk， caught and transferred her gaze. The man did not lift his head. Rather， he crushed his face closer against her knee， while his heaving shoulders marked the hardness with which he breathed.

"You must tell me， Chris，" the girl said gently. "This mystery--it is killing me. I must know why we cannot be married. Are we always to be this way？--merely lovers， meeting often， it is true， and yet with the long absences between the meetings？ Is it all the world holds for you and me， Chris？ Are we never to be more to each other？ Oh， it is good just to love， I know--you have made me madly happy； but one does get so hungry at times for something more！ Iwant more and more of you， Chris. I want all of you. I want all our days to be together. I want all the companionship， the comradeship， which cannot be ours now， and which will be ours when we are married--" She caught her breath quickly. "But we are never to be married. I forgot. And you must tell me why."The man raised his head and looked her in the eyes. It was a way he had with whomever he talked， of looking them in the eyes.

"I have considered you， Lute，" he began doggedly. "I did consider you at the very first. I should never have gone on with it. I should have gone away. Iknew it. And I considered you in the light of that knowledge， and yet . . . Idid not go away. My God！ what was I to do？ I loved you. I could not go away. Icould not help it. I stayed. I resolved， but I broke my resolves. I was like a drunkard. I was drunk of you. I was weak， I know. I failed. I could not go away. I tried. I went away--you will remember， though you did not know why.

You know now. I went away， but I could not remain away. Knowing that we could never marry， I came back to you. I am here， now， with you. Send me away， Lute.

I have not the strength to go myself."

"But why should you go away？" she asked. "Besides， I must know why， before Ican send you away."

"Don't ask me."

"Tell me，" she said， her voice tenderly imperative.

"Don't， Lute； don't force me，" the man pleaded， and there was appeal in his eyes and voice.

"But you must tell me，" she insisted. "It is justice you owe me."The man wavered. "If I do . . ." he began. Then he ended with determination， "I should never be able to forgive myself. No， I cannot tell you. Don't try to compel me， Lute. You would be as sorry as I.""If there is anything . . . if then are， obstacles . . . if this mystery does really prevent . . . " She was speaking slowly， with long pauses， seeking the more delicate ways of speech for the framing of her thought. "Chris， I do love you. I love you as deeply as it is possible for any woman to love， I am sure.