"Have I ever denied it--can I ever deny it to you?"

The pure accident of location gave him opportunity for what he did next. For they were in one of those country lanes of Upper Manhattan which, though enclosed by the greatest city, seem still a part of remote country. Heavy branches of autumn foliage guarded the road to right and left; from end to end of the pa.s.sage was neither vehicle nor foot-pa.s.senger. One faculty, standing unmoved in the storm of emotions which had overwhelmed him, perceived this.

He reached for the trembling hands which gave themselves to his touch.

She swayed against him. Her hands had s.n.a.t.c.hed themselves away now--only to clasp his neck. And now her lips had touched his again and again and somehow between kiss and kiss, she was murmuring, "Oh, I love you--I love you--I love you. I love you so much that life without you is a perfect misery. I love you so much that my work now seems stale and dreary. I love you so much that I don't want ever to go away from you. I want to stay here forever and feel your arms about me, for that is the only way that I shall ever know happiness--or peace. I wake in the morning with your name on my lips. I wander through the day with you. If I try to read, you come between me and the page. If I try to play you come between me and the notes. You are my books. You are my music--my--my--everything. I go to bed early at night often so that I can lie in the dusk and think of you. And oh, the only nights that rest me are those filled with dreams of the poem we would make out of life--if--if--"

Her voice faltered and he felt the exquisite caress of her lips trembling against his cheek. As though she were utterly spent, she ended where she had begun, "I love you--I love--I love you."

He was aware now that another car whirred behind them. He managed--it took all the force in his soul--to put her from him. He turned to see if they had been observed; the pa.s.sengers in the other car, intent on their own chatter, did not look; only the chauffeur regarded their cha.s.sis with a professional eye, as though wondering if they were stalled. When Blake drew a long breath and looked back at Annette, her face was buried in her hands. And now, when he touched her, she drew slowly away.

"Oh, drive on--drive on!" she said.

"Oh, Annette--dearest."

"Don't speak. I beg you--drive on or I shall die!"

And though the car wavered dangerously under his unsteady touch, he obeyed, managed to gain the highroad without a spill, and to turn north.

She wept silently. When at last she took her hands away and turned her face on him, his lover's observation saw how beautifully she wept. Her eyes were not red, her face was calm. He took heart from her glance, began to babble foolish love words. But she stopped him.

"You are driving away from home," she said. "Drive back, and don't speak yet."

After he had turned, her tears ceased. She dried her eyes. Now she smiled a little, and her voice grew natural.

"I must never be weak again," she said. "But it was sweet. Dear, might I touch your arm? No, you must not stop again. Just my hand on your arm."

"Dearest, why do you ask?" She drew off her glove, and all the way a light, steady pressure made uncertain his wheel-hand. They drove a mile so--two miles--and neither spoke until they came out into inhabited Upper Broadway. At the appearance of crowds, trucks and the perils of the highway, that silver thread of silence broke. She drew her hand away, and took up the last word of ten minutes ago.

"It was sweet--but no more. How long it is since I kissed you! I am glad. I shall pay for it heavily--but I am glad!"

He smiled on her as on a child who speaks foolishness.

"You cannot renounce now!" he said.

"I shall renounce. I have stolen this morning--would you rob me in turn?"

"It will be the first kiss of a million," he said.

"It will be the last forever," she answered. "But remember, if you do not kiss me, no man ever shall."

He busied himself with guiding the automobile; it was no time to hurl out the intense things which he had to say. But when they had entered the smooth park driveway, he came out with it:

"Do you think that I respect that obstacle? Can you think that I believe such moonshine even if you do? And do you suppose that I am going to let Aunt Paula keep you now?"

She touched his arm again; let her hand rest there as before.

"Dear," she said, "I have never thought that you believed. I have felt this always in the bottom of your heart. I only ask you not to spoil this day for me. I have stolen it. Let me enjoy it. I shall not put you out of my life--at least not yet. Later, when we are both calm, we will talk that out. But let it rest now, for I am tired--and happy."

So they drove along, her light hand making warm his arm, and said no word until they came near the Eighty-Sixth Street entrance. He looked at her with a question in his eyes.

"Leave me where you found me," she answered; "I shall go in alone."

"But will you tell your Aunt Paula that you met me?"

"I shall tell her--yes. Not all, perhaps, but that I rode with you.

What is the use of concealment? She will know--"

"Her spirits?"

"Dear, do not mock me. They tell her everything she wants to know about me." They had drawn up at the park entrance now; before he could a.s.sist, she had jumped down.

"Good-by--I must go quickly--you must come soon--I will write."

He stood beside his car, watching her back. Once she turned and waved to him; when she went on, she walked with a spring, an exultation, as though from new life. He watched until she was only a blue atom among the foot-pa.s.sengers, until a park policeman thumped him on the shoulder and informed him that this was not an automobile stand.

When Dr. Blake woke next morning, it was with a sense of delicious expectancy. He formulated this as his eyes opened. She had promised to write; the mail, due for distribution in the Club at a quarter past eight, might bring a note from her. He timed his dressing carefully, that he might arrive downstairs neither before nor after the moment of fulfilment or disappointment. He saw, as he crossed the corridor to his mail-box, that the clerk was just dropping a square, white envelope. He peered through the gla.s.s before he felt for his keys. It was Annette's hand.

So, glowing, he tore it open, and read:

DEAR MR. BLAKE:

I think it best never to see you again. Aunt Paula approves of this; but it is done entirely of my own accord. My decision will not change. Please do not call at my house, for I shall not see you. Please do not write, for I shall send your letters back unopened. Please do not try to see me outside, for I shall not recognize you. I thank you for your interest in me; and believe me, I remain,

Your sincere friend,

ANNETTE MARKHAM.

After a dreadful day, he came back to the Club and found a package, addressed in her hand. Out fell a little bundle of rags, topped by a comical black face, and a note. The letter of the morning was in a firm, correct hand. This was a trembling scrawl, blotted with tears.

And it read:

Dear, I have something terrible to write you. I must give you up. I cannot go into all the reasons now, and after all that would not help any, for it all comes to this--we must never see each other again. Please do not send me a letter, for though I should cover it with my kisses, in the end I would have to send it back unopened. I send you Black Dinah as I promised. It's all that's left of me now, and I want you to have it. Dearest, dearest, good-by.

VI

ENTER ROSALIE LE GRANGE

"Cut, dearie," said Rosalie Le Grange, trance and test clairvoyant, to Hattie, the landlady's daughter. "Now keep your wish in your mind, remember. That's right; a deep cut for luck. U-um. The nine of hearts is your wish--and right beside it is the ace of hearts. That means your home, dearie--the spirits don't lie, even when they're manifestin'

themselves just through cards. They guide your hand when you shuffle and cut. Your wish is about the affections, ain't it, dearie?"

The pretty slattern across the table nodded. She had put down her dust-pan and leaned her broom across her knees when she sat down to receive the only tip which Rosalie Le Grange, in the existing state of her finances, could give.

"I got your wish now, dearie," announced Rosalie Le Grange. "The spirits sometimes help the cards somethin' wonderful. Here it comes. I thought so. The three of hearts for gladness an' rejoicin' right next to the ace, which is your home. Now that might mean a little home of your own, but the influence I git with it is so weak I don't think it means anythin' as strong an' big as that. Wait a minute--now it comes straight an' definite--he'll call--rejoicin' at your home because he'll call. Do you understand that, dearie?"