The Dominant Dollar Part 42

"Perhaps. But tell me if you wish."

Again the fantastic diffidence held Armstrong in its grip; and again he freed himself with an effort.

"It means, first of all, that at last I'm on my feet, where I've always wished to be. It means that I'm to have my chance--and that again means independence." He overlooked absolutely the egotism of the statement, was unconscious of it. Success loomed too big and incontestible; possible future failure lay too remote to merit consideration. "It means all of this; but beyond that it means that I have the right to tell you again that I love you. You know I love you, as always, Elice."

"As always?"

"Forget, please. This is to-day; my day, our day. You don't doubt I love you?"

"No; I don't doubt it."

Armstrong breathed deep. An instinct all but overwhelming impelled him to rise, to--he subst.i.tuted with his eyes.

"You realize all that I wish to say," he said swiftly, "so why make a farce of it by words? We've drifted apart for a long time, a hideously long time, and it's been my fault throughout; but now that it's over won't you come back to the beginning, Elice, to the place where we separated?" He halted for breath, for words where none were adequate. "I want you, Elice, want you--now and always. Tell me, please, that you've forgiven me, that you'll come back."

In the girl's lap the hands crossed steadily; again that was the only move she made.

"So far as I am concerned there's nothing to forgive, nor has there ever been," she said gently. "As for going back, though, I can't; because I can't. It's useless to lie, for you'd find me out. I've simply awakened."

"You mean you--don't care for me any more?"

"No; I care for you very much; but not in that way. It was so before the end came. I awoke before that."

"And still you would have married me then."

"Yes," simply.

"And now?"

The girl did not answer, did not even look up.

"And now," he repeated insistently, "tell me; and now?"

This time the brown eyes lifted, met his steadily.

"Unless something happens I can't marry you now," she said.

Armstrong looked at her; at first dazedly, then with a trace of color gathering under his fair skin.

"Unless something happens?" he repeated. "Pardon me, but what do you mean by that?"

"Nothing," swiftly. "I was thinking of something else. I hate to hurt you; but as I said before, it's useless to temporize. I can't marry you now, Steve."

In his place Armstrong settled back dumbly. Unconsciously he pa.s.sed his handkerchief over his mouth. The hand that carried it trembled a bit.

"You really mean that, do you?" he groped, half to himself, "mean the break to be really final this time?" He shut his eyes, like a child suddenly awakened in the dark and afraid. "Somehow I hadn't expected that at all, hadn't planned on it. I suppose it was childish of me; but I've been taking things for granted, on the strength of the past, and--and--"

Of a sudden the rambling tongue halted. The eyes opened wide, unnaturally wide; and in their depths was again that new look of terror, but now magnified. "Tell me that you don't mean it, Elice, really," he pleaded.

"I was just beginning to live and hope again; and now--tell me!"

Long before this the girl had ceased looking at him. Instead, with the instinctive fascination an open fire exerts over all human beings, she had turned toward the tiny jets of gas in the grate; her face propped in her hands she sat staring into the depths of the flame. She scarcely seemed to breathe, even when she spoke.

"Yes, I meant it," she repeated patiently.

For a long time there was silence,--long enough with the man for the mood to pa.s.s, the mood of terror, and in reaction its ant.i.thesis, reckless abandon, to come in its stead. For come it did, as was inevitable; and heralding its approach sounded a laugh,--a sudden mirthless, sarcastic laugh.

"So this is the end of my day," he said. He laughed again. "I might have known it was too good to last. What a fool I was to imagine that just because one thing had come my way everything else was going to follow suit. What a poor, blithering fool!"

"Steve!" No lethargy in the girl's figure now, in the face of a sudden turned toward him appealingly. "Don't take it that way or say such things. Nothing has changed in the least. I'm still your friend, as I've always been; so is Harry Randall--and the rest. You're still a successful writer; you've proved it to-day, and you'll prove it further with the new book you're working on now. I repeat, nothing has altered in the least.

Don't talk that way. It hurts me."

In his chair, erect now, Armstrong merely smiled. But his color was higher than normal and the blue eyes were unnaturally bright.

"No, nothing has changed, I suppose," he said evenly. "You're right there. I've simply been in a trance--that's all--and I've inadvertently come to. I seem to have the habit of doing that." He smiled again, hopelessly cruel in his egotism. "Of course I have friendship, oceans of it, yours particularly, as I've had all the time. And success; it monopolizes the sky, fairly blots out the stars, and obscures the sun like an eclipse. There's no end to the success I have. It's infinite.

And still further, incentive: to be and to do and to fight." The smile vanished. He could not mock in the face of that thought even yet.

"Incentive! What a travesty. Elice, you've killed the last trace of incentive I had just now."

"Steve!" The girl's hands lifted imperiously. "Stop. Have you no pity?"

She shook the swift-gathering flood from her eyes rebelliously and faced him fair. "You'll be very sorry you said such things after you've had time to think," she went on. "Don't add regret to the rest to-night.

Please don't."

"Sorry, perhaps," echoed the man, "and regret--possibly. Anyway, what does it matter? It's true."

"True--no," swiftly. "I can't believe it. I won't. Don't say that. In pity, don't."

"But, I repeat, it is true," doggedly. "I at least can't help that.

Elice, don't cry so!" Of a sudden he was on his feet bending over her.

"Please don't. I love you!"

"Don't touch me! I can't stand it!" The girl had drawn away swiftly, the repression of years for an instant broken. "You dare to tell me that--now! Love--" She cut herself short with an effort of will and, rising hurriedly, walked the length of the room to the window. For more than a minute, while Armstrong stood staring after her dumbly, she remained so; her face pressed against the cold pane, looking out upon the white earth. Deliberately, normally, she turned. Seemingly without an effort, so naturally that even Armstrong was deceived, she smiled.

"Pardon me," she said evenly. "I'm not often hysterical." She was returning slowly. "I'll be glad when vacation comes. I think I'm--tired."

She seated herself and motioned the other back into his place,--a motion that was a command. "Now, tell me, please, that you didn't mean what you said a moment ago when we were both irresponsible. It will make us both sleep better."

The smile had left Armstrong's face now, and in its place was the pallor of reaction. But he was quiet also.

"I wish I could," he said steadily, "but I can't. It'll be exactly as it was before."

The girl was still smiling,--that same normal, apparently effortless, smile.

"Nonsense!" she refuted, in tones deliberately matter-of-fact. "There's all the difference in the world. Before you had no audience. And now--the entire country will listen now."

"It doesn't matter," dully. "It's always been you that counted really.

Success was an incident, but you were the real incentive."

"I?" She laughed gently. "On the contrary it was I who tried to lead you away from your work, to make you practical. Don't you remember the Graham offer?"

"Yes," hurriedly. "I've thought of it a thousand times. It was the big mistake of my life when I refused his proposal. If I'd accepted then--"