[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
how much."
"Mel, please don't thank me," he answered. "You understand, and that's
enough. Now say you'll marry me, Mel."
Mel did not answer, but in the look of her eyes, dark, humid, with
mysterious depths below the veil, Lane saw the truth; he felt it in
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the clasp of her hands, he divined it in all that so subtly emanated
from the womanliness of her. Mel had come to love him.
And all that he had endured seemed to rise and envelop heart and soul
in a strange, cold stillness.
"Mel, will you marry me?" he repeated, almost dully.
Slowly Mel withdrew her hands. The query seemed to make her mistress
of herself.
"No, Daren, I cannot," she replied, and turned away to look out of a
window with unseeing eyes. "Let us talk of other things.... My father
says he will move away--taking me and--and--all of us--as soon as he
sells the home."
"No, Mel, if you'll forgive me, we'll not talk of something else,"
Lane informed her. "We can argue without quarreling. Come over here
and sit down."
She came slowly, as if impelled, and she stood before him. To Lane it
seemed as if she were both supplicating and inexorable.
"Do you remember the last time we sat together on this couch?" she
asked.
"No, Mel, I don't."
"It was four years ago--and more. I was sixteen. You tried to kiss me
and were angry because I wouldn't let you."
"Well, wasn't I rude!" he exclaimed, facetiously. Then he grew
serious. "Mel, do you remember it was Helen's lying that came between
you and me--as boy and girl friends?"
"I never knew. Helen Wrapp! What was it?"
"It's not worth recalling and would hurt you--now," he replied. "But
it served to draw me Helen's way. We were engaged when she was
seventeen.... Then came the war. And the other night she laughed in my
face because I was a wreck.... Mel, it's beyond understanding how
things work out. Helen has chosen the fleshpots of Egypt. You have
chosen a lonelier and higher path.... And here I am in your little
parlor asking you to marry me."
"No, no, no! Daren, don't, I beg of you--don't talk to me this way,"
she besought him.
"Mel, it's a difference of opinion that makes arguments, wars and
other things," he said, with a cruelty in strange antithesis to the
pity and tenderness he likewise felt. He could hurt her. He had power
over her. What a pang shot through his heart! There would be an
irresistible delight in playing on the emotions of this woman. He
could no more help it than the shame that surged over him at
consciousness of his littleness. He already loved her, she was all he
had left to love, he would end in a day or a week or a month by
worshipping her. Through her he was going to suffer. Peace would now
never abide in his soul.
"Daren, you were never like this--as a boy," she said, in wondering
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ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
distress.
"Like what?"
"You're hard. You used to be so--so gentle and nice."
"Hard! I? Yes, Mel, perhaps I am--hard as war, hard as modern life,
hard as my old friends, my little sister----" he broke off.
"Daren, do not mock me," she entreated. "I should not have said hard.
But you're strange to me--a something terrible flashes from you. Yet
it's only in glimpses.... Forgive me, Daren, I didn't mean hard."
Lane drew her down upon the couch so that she faced him, and he did
not release her hand.
"Mel, I'm softer than a jelly-fish," he said. "I've no bone, no fiber,
no stamina, no substance. I'm more unstable than water. I'm so soft
I'm weak. I can't stand pain. I lie awake in the dead hours of night
and I cry like a baby, like a fool. I weep for myself, for my mother,
for Lorna, for _you_...."
"Hush!" She put a soft hand over his lips.
"Very well, I'll not be bitter," he went on, with mounting pulse,
with thrill and rush of inexplicable feeling, as if at last had come
the person who would not be deaf to his voice. "Mel, I'm still the
boy, your schoolmate, who used to pull the bow off your braid.... I am
that boy still in heart, with all the war upon my head, with the years
between then and now. I'm young and old.... I've lived the whole
gamut--the fresh call of war to youth, glorious, but God! as false as
stairs of sand--the change of blood, hard, long, brutal, debasing
labor of hands, of body, of mind to learn to kill--to survive and
kill--and go on to kill.... I've seen the marching of thousands of
soldiers--the long strange tramp, tramp, tramp, the beat, beat, beat,
the roll of drums, the call of bugles, the boom of cannon in the dark,
the lightnings of hell flaring across the midnight skies, the thunder
and chaos and torture and death and pestilence and decay--the hell of
war. It is not sublime. There is no glory. The sublimity is in man's
acceptance of war, not for hate or gain, but love. Love of country,
home, family--love of women--I fought for women--for Helen, whom I
imagined my ideal, breaking her heart over me on the battlefield. Not
that Helen failed _me_, but failed the ideal for which I fought!... My
little sister Lorna! I fought for her, and I fought for a dream that
existed only in my heart. Lorna--Alas!... I fought for other women,
all women--and _you_, Mel Iden. And in you, in your sacrifice and your [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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how much."
"Mel, please don't thank me," he answered. "You understand, and that's
enough. Now say you'll marry me, Mel."
Mel did not answer, but in the look of her eyes, dark, humid, with
mysterious depths below the veil, Lane saw the truth; he felt it in
Page 104
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
the clasp of her hands, he divined it in all that so subtly emanated
from the womanliness of her. Mel had come to love him.
And all that he had endured seemed to rise and envelop heart and soul
in a strange, cold stillness.
"Mel, will you marry me?" he repeated, almost dully.
Slowly Mel withdrew her hands. The query seemed to make her mistress
of herself.
"No, Daren, I cannot," she replied, and turned away to look out of a
window with unseeing eyes. "Let us talk of other things.... My father
says he will move away--taking me and--and--all of us--as soon as he
sells the home."
"No, Mel, if you'll forgive me, we'll not talk of something else,"
Lane informed her. "We can argue without quarreling. Come over here
and sit down."
She came slowly, as if impelled, and she stood before him. To Lane it
seemed as if she were both supplicating and inexorable.
"Do you remember the last time we sat together on this couch?" she
asked.
"No, Mel, I don't."
"It was four years ago--and more. I was sixteen. You tried to kiss me
and were angry because I wouldn't let you."
"Well, wasn't I rude!" he exclaimed, facetiously. Then he grew
serious. "Mel, do you remember it was Helen's lying that came between
you and me--as boy and girl friends?"
"I never knew. Helen Wrapp! What was it?"
"It's not worth recalling and would hurt you--now," he replied. "But
it served to draw me Helen's way. We were engaged when she was
seventeen.... Then came the war. And the other night she laughed in my
face because I was a wreck.... Mel, it's beyond understanding how
things work out. Helen has chosen the fleshpots of Egypt. You have
chosen a lonelier and higher path.... And here I am in your little
parlor asking you to marry me."
"No, no, no! Daren, don't, I beg of you--don't talk to me this way,"
she besought him.
"Mel, it's a difference of opinion that makes arguments, wars and
other things," he said, with a cruelty in strange antithesis to the
pity and tenderness he likewise felt. He could hurt her. He had power
over her. What a pang shot through his heart! There would be an
irresistible delight in playing on the emotions of this woman. He
could no more help it than the shame that surged over him at
consciousness of his littleness. He already loved her, she was all he
had left to love, he would end in a day or a week or a month by
worshipping her. Through her he was going to suffer. Peace would now
never abide in his soul.
"Daren, you were never like this--as a boy," she said, in wondering
Page 105
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
distress.
"Like what?"
"You're hard. You used to be so--so gentle and nice."
"Hard! I? Yes, Mel, perhaps I am--hard as war, hard as modern life,
hard as my old friends, my little sister----" he broke off.
"Daren, do not mock me," she entreated. "I should not have said hard.
But you're strange to me--a something terrible flashes from you. Yet
it's only in glimpses.... Forgive me, Daren, I didn't mean hard."
Lane drew her down upon the couch so that she faced him, and he did
not release her hand.
"Mel, I'm softer than a jelly-fish," he said. "I've no bone, no fiber,
no stamina, no substance. I'm more unstable than water. I'm so soft
I'm weak. I can't stand pain. I lie awake in the dead hours of night
and I cry like a baby, like a fool. I weep for myself, for my mother,
for Lorna, for _you_...."
"Hush!" She put a soft hand over his lips.
"Very well, I'll not be bitter," he went on, with mounting pulse,
with thrill and rush of inexplicable feeling, as if at last had come
the person who would not be deaf to his voice. "Mel, I'm still the
boy, your schoolmate, who used to pull the bow off your braid.... I am
that boy still in heart, with all the war upon my head, with the years
between then and now. I'm young and old.... I've lived the whole
gamut--the fresh call of war to youth, glorious, but God! as false as
stairs of sand--the change of blood, hard, long, brutal, debasing
labor of hands, of body, of mind to learn to kill--to survive and
kill--and go on to kill.... I've seen the marching of thousands of
soldiers--the long strange tramp, tramp, tramp, the beat, beat, beat,
the roll of drums, the call of bugles, the boom of cannon in the dark,
the lightnings of hell flaring across the midnight skies, the thunder
and chaos and torture and death and pestilence and decay--the hell of
war. It is not sublime. There is no glory. The sublimity is in man's
acceptance of war, not for hate or gain, but love. Love of country,
home, family--love of women--I fought for women--for Helen, whom I
imagined my ideal, breaking her heart over me on the battlefield. Not
that Helen failed _me_, but failed the ideal for which I fought!... My
little sister Lorna! I fought for her, and I fought for a dream that
existed only in my heart. Lorna--Alas!... I fought for other women,
all women--and _you_, Mel Iden. And in you, in your sacrifice and your [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]