books.jibble.org

Page 103

To-night there was a difference in the man. His eyes met hers
squarely, without evasion, but with a new quality, a searching,
perhaps, for something in her to give him courage. The girl had
character, more than ordinary decision. It was what Stewart
admired in her most, and the thing, of course, that the little
Marie had lacked. Moreover, Anita, barely twenty, was a woman,
not a young girl. Her knowledge of the world, not so deep as
Marie's, was more comprehensive. Where Marie would have been
merciful, Anita would be just, unless she cared for him. In that
case she might be less than just, or more.

Anita in daylight was a pretty young woman, rather incisive of
speech, very intelligent, having a wit without malice, charming
to look at, keenly alive. Anita in the dusk of the balcony,
waiting to hear she knew not what, was a judicial white goddess,
formidably still, frightfully potential. Stewart, who had
embraced many women, did not dare a finger on her arm.

He had decided on a way to tell the girl the story--a preamble
about his upbringing, which had been indifferent, his struggle to
get to Vienna, his loneliness there, all leading with inevitable
steps to Marie. From that, if she did not utterly shrink from
him, to his love for her.

It was his big hour, that hour on the balcony. He was reaching,
through love, heights of honesty he had never scaled before. But
as a matter of fact he reversed utterly his order of procedure.
The situation got him, this first evening absolutely alone with
her. That and her nearness, and the pathos of her bandaged,
useless arm. Still he had not touched her.

The thing he was trying to do was more difficult for that.
General credulity to the contrary, men do not often make spoken
love first. How many men propose marriage to their women across
the drawing-room or from chair to chair? Absurd! The eyes speak
first, then the arms, the lips last. The woman is in his arms
before he tells his love. It is by her response that he gauges
his chances and speaks of marriage. Actually the thing is already
settled; tardy speech only follows on swift instinct. Stewart,
wooing as men woo, would have taken the girl's hand, gained an
encouragement from it, ventured to kiss it, perhaps, and finding
no rebuff would then and there have crushed her to him; What need
of words? They would follow in due time, not to make a situation
but to clarify it.

But he could not woo as men woo. The barrier of his own weakness
stood between them and must be painfully taken down.

"I'm afraid this is stupid for you," said Anita out of the
silence. "Would you like to go to the music-room?"

"God forbid. I was thinking."

"Of what?" Encouragement this, surely.

"I was thinking how you had come into my life, and stirred it
up."

"Really? I?"

"You know that."

"How did I stir it up?"

"That's hardly the way I meant to put it. You've changed
everything for me. I care for you--a very great deal."

He was still carefully in hand, his voice steady. And still he
did not touch her. Other men had made love to her, but never in
this fashion, or was he making love?

"I'm very glad you like me."

"Like you!" Almost out of hand that time. The thrill in his voice
was unmistakable. "It's much more than that, Anita, so much more
that I'm going to try to do a hideously hard thing. Will you help
a little?"

"Yes, if I can." She was stirred, too, and rather frightened.

Previous Page | Next Page

Books | Photos | Paul Mutton | Sun 28th Dec 2025, 13:54

The Street of Seven Stars by Mary Roberts Rinehart