An Eye for an Eye Part 23

"But tell me, Eva," I asked hoa.r.s.ely, again grasping her chilly, nervous hand, "can you never love me? Are you actually convinced that in your own heart you have no spark of affection for me?"

She paused, then glanced at me. I fancied I saw in her blue eyes the light of unshed tears.

"Your question is a rather difficult one," she faltered. "Even if I reciprocated your love our positions would not be altered. We should still be alienated as we now are."

"Why?"

"Because--because we may not love each other," she answered, in a low, strained voice--the voice of a woman terribly agitated. "Let us part to-day and never again meet. It will be best for both of us--far the best."

"No," I cried, intensely in earnest. "I cannot leave you, Eva, because I love you far too dearly. If you cannot love me now, then bear with me a little, and you will later learn to love me."

"In one year, nay, in ten, my answer must, of necessity, be the same as it is to-day," she responded. "A negative one."

"As vague as it is cruel," I observed.

"Its vagueness is imperative," she said. "You are loved by another, and I have therefore no right to a place in your heart."

"You are cruel, Eva!" I cried reproachfully. "My love for Mary Blain has been dead these three years. By mutual consent we gave each other freedom, and since that hour all has been over between us."

"But what if Mary still loves you?" she suggested. "You were once her affianced husband."

"True," I said. "But even if she again loves me she has no further claim whatever upon me, for we mutually agreed to separate and have both long been free."

"And if she thought that I loved you?" Eva asked.

In an instant I guessed the reason of her disinclination to listen to my avowal. She feared the jealousy of her friend!

"She would only congratulate us." I answered. "Surely you have no cause for uneasiness in that direction?"

"Cause for uneasiness!" she repeated, starting, while at that same instant the colour died from her sweet face. Next second, however, she recovered herself, and with a forced smile said, "Of course I have no cause. Other circ.u.mstances, however, prevent us being more than friends."

"And may I not be made aware of them?" I inquired in vague wonder.

"No," she said quickly. "Not now. It is quite impossible."

"But all my future depends upon your decision," I urged. "Do not answer lightly, Eva. You must surely have seen that I love you?"

"Yes," she answered, sighing. "I confess to having seen it. Every woman knows instinctively when she is loved and when despised. The knowledge has caused me deep, poignant regret."

"Why?"

"Because," and she hesitated. "Because I have dreaded this day. I feared to tell you the truth."

"You haven't told me the truth," I said, looking her straight in the face.

"I have," she protested.

"The truth is, then, that you would love me, only you dare not," I said clearly. "Is that so?"

She nodded, her eyes again downcast, and I saw that hot tears were in them--tears she was unable longer to repress.

When the heart is fullest of love, and the mouth purest with truth, there seems a cruel destiny in things which often renders our words worst chosen and surest to defeat the ends they seek.

"Then whom do you fear?" I asked, after a pause.

She shook her head. Only a low sob escaped her.

"May we not love in secret," I suggested, "if it is really impossible to love openly?"

"No, no!" she said, lifting her white hand in protest. "We must not love. I tell you that it is all a dream impossible of realisation.

To-day we must part. Leave me, and we will both forget this meeting."

"But surely you will not deliberately wreck both our lives, Eva?" I cried, dismayed. "Your very words have betrayed that you really entertain some affection for me, although you deny it for reasons that are inexplicable. Why not be quite plain and straightforward, as I am?"

"I have been quite clear," she answered. "I tell you that we can never love one another."

"Why?"

"For a reason which some day ere long will be made plain to you," she answered in a low voice, her pure countenance at that moment drawn and ashen pale. "In that day you will hate my very name, and yet will think kindly of my memory, because I have to-day refused to listen to you and have given you your freedom."

"And yet you actually love me!" I exclaimed, bewildered at this strange allegation. "It is most extraordinary."

"It may seem extraordinary," she said in a voice that appeared to sound soft and afar, "but the truth is oft-times strange, especially when one is draining the cup of life to its very dregs."

"And may I not know this secret of yours, Eva?" I asked sympathetically, for I saw by her manner how she was suffering a torture of the soul.

"My secret!" she cried, glaring at me suddenly as one brought to bay, a strange, hunted look in those clear blue eyes. "My secret! Why"--and she laughed a hollow, artificial laugh, as one hysterical--"why, how absurd you are, Mr. Urwin! Whatever made you suspect me of having secrets?"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE NEAR BEYOND.

The remainder of our pull to Riverdene was accomplished in comparative silence. Crushed, hopeless and despairing, I bent to the oars mechanically, with the feeling that in all else my interest was dead, save in the woman I so dearly loved, who, lounging back among her cus.h.i.+ons, sighed now and then, her face very grave and agitated.

I spoke at last, urging her to reconsider her decision, but she only responded with a single word, a word which destroyed all my fondest hopes--

"Impossible."

In that bright hour when the broad bosom of the Thames sent back the reflection of the summer sun, when the sky was clear as that in Italy, when all the world seemed rejoicing, and the gay laughter wafted over the water from the launches, boats and punts gliding past us, we alone had heavy hearts. Overwhelmed by this bitter disappointment and sorrow, the laughter jarred upon my ears. I tried to shut it out, and with my teeth set rowed with all my might against the stream until, skirting the shady wood, we rounded the bend of the stream and suddenly drew up at the landing-steps of Riverdene.

"Why, here's Eva!" cried Mary, running down to the water's edge, her tennis-racquet in her hand. "And Frank, too!" Then, turning to Eva as we stood together on the lawn a moment later, she asked, "Where's your mother? We've expected her all the afternoon."

"Isn't she here?" asked Eva, in surprise.

"No."

"Well, she started to come here immediately after luncheon. She must have missed the train or something."

"She must, for it's now past five. I really hope nothing has happened."