He sunk back into his chair. The eyes again were leaden. His head bent.

She leaned forward, taking from a vase on the table a nodding white blossom.

"One love," she went on, "is like the white rose--pallid, pale, wistful, weak--a lifeless thing that lies dead against the hand that holds it-- that wearies the eye and chills the soul.... The other love is like the red rose--rich, rare, glowing, glorious--that thrills the heart with the joy of living and quickens the blood in the veins until the very soul cries out in the frenzy of its fragrance--a pulsing, throbbing love of body and soul and heart and head, that rushes upon one like a storm at sea, dashing one hither and thither, impotent in its tearing, tossing grip.... That is our love--the Red Love--and it is sweet, is it not, My Fool?"

She bent over him, watching the light again leap to the heavy eyes as he answered:

"Sweet? Sweet as Paradise--a false Paradise, perhaps; but still Paradise!

Those days on the Mediterranean, the sea no bluer than the sky that held it in its sunlit hand--and Venice--Venice, with the great, round moon overhead, and the mysterious semi-darkness all about--the splashing of soft waters there beside us and the silent whisper of the lazy oar--and just you and I--alone amid all the glories--side by side--heart in heart-- soul in soul." With a great choking sob: "It was sweet, Lady Fair!

Sweet!"

The Woman continued:

"And there are two roads through life even as there are two roses. The one is a rough road and weary, and on it happiness seldom treads. It is a plodding road, flat and long; and there you walk with stale and barren people, through a stale and barren land, until you come to an ending yet more stale and more barren than are road or people. That is the road of the White Rose. But the Road of the Red Rose! That's different! On the Road of the Red Rose there is laughter and light, and happiness and joy!

Flowers bloom; birds sing. There come the soft wash of the sea--the silent whisper of the breeze--the call of Love!"

She rose lithely to her feet. In one hand she held the bending white blossom; in the other the crimson. Suddenly she thrust them toward him, body bent, lips parted, and cried, sibilantly:

"Which rose do you choose, My Fool? Which Road?"

Roughly he struck from her hand the drooping flower of white. That of red was crushed between them as he seized her in his arms and drew her to him.

"The red rose!" he cried. "And the Red Road! And we'll travel to the end, and beyond!"

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

THE RED ROAD.

From across the table she was laughing at him, brightly, merrily-- laughing to see the havoc that she had wrought in the soul of a man. He turned to her, almost savagely.

"You do love me, Lady Fair, don't you?" he almost pleaded. "You must love me, knowing as you do all that I have given up for you." He pointed to a heap of carelessly-tossed letters upon desk-top. "Do you see those?" he demanded. "The first from Washington--the President--demanding my resignation. Following that, curt requests that I withdraw from positions of trust that I held. My wife crushed--my child disgraced--my friends gone--! G.o.d in heaven! What haven't I given you, Lady Fair!"

"I thank you," she responded, most graciously, bending low, "And I have given you what? Myself. Is that less than a fair exchange?"

"Not if I may keep that self mine, and mine alone, for all time. But may I?"

"Can you doubt it?" she queried, with a lifting of arched brows.

"There was Parmalee--"

"A silly boy. I never cared for him!"

"And Rogers--"

"Interesting--only interesting--and only at first. Then tiresome!"

"And Seward Van Dam."

"Next to you, a man," she cried. "But like you, insanely jealous, and unreasonable."

"And in the end, perhaps," he said slowly, very slowly, "I shall be like him." He sat for a moment, silent. At length he continued: "But if it were to be I, I alone, for all time, could it last--this Red Love of ours? Could it? ... Could it?"

She leaned forward.

"Why not?" she asked, lightly. "Why not?"

Leaden eyes were gazing out into nothingness.

"Age comes," he said. His voice was low, and deep, and dead. "The body withers. The brain grows dull. The blood becomes thin. The soul gets weary. And the power to live as once we lived is taken from us. We sit white-haired, blue-veined, drinking in the sun through shrivelled pores to drive the chill from our shrunken frames. It will come to you--to me-- to all of us. And neither man, nor G.o.d may stop it."

There had come to her face an expression as of a great fear. This man who knew so little, was teaching of that little to her, who knew so much....

At length she swept that fear from her, as one might brush aside the ugly web of a sullen spider.... Again she was the woman who did not know the Known, but only the Unknown.

She asked, lightly:

"Why worry over the years to come when the days that are are ours....

There is happiness in the days that are?"

Her voice was very soft. Again dull eyes gleamed; he exclaimed:

"Happiness! I did not dream there could be a happiness like this!"

Her slender arm was about his neck; he could feel the glow of its warmth.

Her voice was soothing--infinitely soothing, and musical beyond the telling.

"Then keep a-dreaming, My Fool," she purred, softly. It was almost a whisper. "Keep a-dreaming."

"Would to G.o.d I could!" he cried, earnestly. "Would to G.o.d I could, forever! The memories of a thousand joys are with me always. Love? What is this love? A golden leaf of happiness floating on the summer seas of life. A silver star of utter joy set in the soft heavens of eternity. A dream that is a reality; a reality that is a dream.... But the storm comes upon the sea. Black clouds blot out the stars. And there can be no dream from which there is no awakening."

"Yet," she cajoled, "while the sea smiles--while the star shines--while we dream--there is happiness to pay for all."

"To pay for all, and more!" Again he turned upon her, swiftly. "Yet in the golden aura of that happiness, there always stand three sodden souls pointing stark fingers at me in ghoulish glee.... Parmalee--Rogers-- VanDam.... If I thought--if I for one moment thought--that I should be as they, I'd--"

She stopped him, quickly:

"You'd what, My Fool?"

"I'd kill you where you stand!" he replied, savagely.

She laughed, gaily, clapping soft palms.

"That's the way I love you best, My Fool. It shows spirit, and manhood, and good, red blood--red, like our roses!" She plucked from her breast a handful of scarlet petals, casting them above her head. They fell about them both, a glowing shower. She went on: "How for a moment you could have imagined that you love the woman you call wife--a soft, silly, namby-pamby--"

He was on his feet now, fierce, primal, brutal--all the manhood that was left of him straight and rigid.