A Woman's Will Part 32

Since that the case is locked; the key is here." He interrupted himself to draw out his keys, and separating one from the rest held it up to her. "Let us hope that in Munich, perhaps."

The waitress had returned with their ices. He watched her arrange them, and she watched him. The heavy circle under his eyes was especially noticeable this night, the eyes themselves especially laughless.

"You are glad that I go?" he asked suddenly as he picked up his spoon and plunged it into the saucer before him; "yes?"

"I shall be more glad when I know that you are really gone."

"But this time it is sure. This time it is really a true going." He stopped and broke a piece of cake into tiny morsels, pus.h.i.+ng them together into a neat little pile. "Why were you unhappy in your husband?" he asked slowly.

"He drank," she replied.

"Perhaps he was unhappy?"

"Perhaps."

"And you?"

"Beyond a doubt."

He took another bit of cake and crumbed that up as he had the first.

"Don't do that."

"Why shall I not?" with an air of surprise.

"It isn't right."

"But I shall pay for it," he said remonstrantly.

"It's bad manners, anyhow."

"What does it matter if I like, and pay for it too?"

"Well, then, if you must know, it makes me horribly nervous!"

He looked at her quickly.

"Are you nervous?"

"Yes, when people waste cake like that."

He sighed and stopped his play.

"Did you ever love after?" he asked presently.

"No, never! Good Heavens, once was enough!"

"Was your husband so very bad?"

"He wasn't bad at all; he was only disagreeable."

"Perhaps he made you nervous?" he queried.

"Perhaps," she answered dryly.

There was a long, long pause. The band now played "_Doch Einer Schoner Zeit_," and some peasants in the native costume sang the words.

Finally he pushed his plate away and crossed his arms upon the table; his eyes were very earnest.

"Once I loved," he said; "I have speak of that to you before."

She made no reply.

"It was no pa.s.sion of a whole life, but for a boy, as I was then, it was much. I was quite young, and, _Gott_! how I _did_ love! She was such a woman as says, 'I will make this man absolutely mad;' and she did so.

She made me crazy--_tout-a-fait fou_; and then, when I could only breathe by her eyes, she showed me that she was uncaring!"

He stopped, stared sightlessly out at the black water beyond, and then turned towards her.

"Is it so in _your_ mind towards me?" he asked, and in his voice and eyes was that heartrending pathos which once in a lifetime a man's soul may come to share with childhood's heavy sorrows.

She drew a quick breath. The pointed roofs of the Inselhaus off there beyond the trees printed themselves darkly and forever upon her brain; the scattered lights in the windows, the inky spots where the ivy trailings were ma.s.sed thickest,--all those details and a dozen others were in that instant photographed upon her spirit, destined to henceforth form the background to the scene whose centre was the face opposite to her, all of the expression of which seemed to have condensed itself into the burning gaze of those two great eyes, so vastly sad.

"Oh, monsieur," she said, with a tone of deep appeal, "believe me, I have never done so cruel a thing as that in all my life!"

"Are you to all men as to me?"

"I hope so."

"That American in Zurich! when you met him again was it as to meet me again?"

"But he is no especial friend of mine."

"And am I especial?--Am I?--Yes?"

"Yes," she said slowly, "I feel as if I had known you all my life."

"Yes," he answered quickly, "just so I feel also."

He put up his hand and again brushed the loose lock of his wavy hair back from his forehead.

"_Vraiment_," he exclaimed, "I begin to feel that it is impossible that I go to-morrow."

"Oh, but you must," she cried, much alarmed.

"We are so happy; why can we not let this pleasure last?"

"You _must_ go!" she reiterated with decision.

"We understand so well," he went on, without noticing her words; "you understand, I understand. I wish nothing of you, I require nothing of you, only the friends.h.i.+p--only these good hours that we know together, only the joy of our sympathy. Why can I not be where you are everywhere?