Part 76

"So she went, and it was all over, and we shall never see each other again."

"It's too bad," said Rosemary, icily. "I'm sorry for you both."

"Listen dear," he pleaded. His face was working piteously now. "I wish I could make you understand. I loved her, and I love her still. I shall love her as long as I live, and perhaps even after I'm dead. And she loves me. But, because of it, in some strange way that I don't comprehend myself, I seem to have more love to give others.

"I care more for my mother because I love--Edith, and, queer as you may think it, I care more for you. She has taken nothing away from you that I ever gave you--you are dearer to me to-day than when I first asked you to marry me, so long ago. I don't suppose you'll believe it, but it's the truth."

"I believe what you tell me," Rosemary said, in a different tone, "but I don't understand it."

"It's like this, Rosemary. My loving her has been like opening the door into the House of Life. It's made everything different for me. It's made me want to make the best of myself, to do things for people, to be kind to everybody. It isn't selfishness--it's unselfishness.

"I told you once that I wanted to take you away from all that misery, and to make you happy. It was true then, and it's true now, but, at that time, I was bound in shallows and didn't know it. She came into my life like an overwhelming flood, and swept me out to sea. Now I'm back in the current again, but I shall know the shallows no more--thank God!

"If you'll believe me, I have more to give than I had then--and I want you more. I'm very lonely, Rosemary, and shall be always, unless--but, no, I don't want your pity; I want your love."

There was a long pause, then Rosemary spoke. "Service," she said, half to herself, "and sacrifice. Giving, not receiving. Asking, not answer."

"Yes," returned Alden, with a sigh, "it's all of that.

"Leaving love aside," he went on, after a little, "I believe you'd be happier here, with mother and me, than you are where you are now. You'd be set free from all that drudgery, you could help me in my work, and, though I'm not rich, I could give you a few of the pretty things you've always wanted. We could go to town occasionally and see things. Moreover, I could take care of you, and you've never been taken care of. I don't think you'd ever be sorry, Rosemary, even though you don't love me."

"I never said I didn't love you," the girl faltered. Her eyes were downcast and the colour was burning upon her pale face.

"Yes, you did--up on the hill. Don't you remember?"

"I--I wasn't telling the truth," she confessed. "I've--I've always----"

"Rosemary!"

She looked at him with brimming eyes. "What you've done, or what you may do, doesn't make any difference. It never could. If--if it depends at all on--on the other person, I don't think--it's love."

In an instant his arms were around her, and she was crying happily upon his shoulder. "Dear, my dear! And you cared all the time?"

"All the time," she sobbed.

"What a brute I was! How I must have hurt you!"

"You couldn't help it. You didn't mean to hurt me."

"No, of course not, but, none the less I did it. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it, dear, if you'll let me."

It flashed upon Rosemary that this was not at all like the impassioned love-making to which she had been an unwilling witness, but, none the less, it was sweet, and it was her very own. He wanted her, and merely to be wanted, anywhere, gives a certain amount of satisfaction.

"Kiss me, dear," Rosemary put up her trembling lips, answering to him with every fibre of body and soul.

"Don't cry, dear girl, please don't! I want to make you happy."

Rosemary released herself, wiped her eyes upon a coarse handkerchief, then asked the inevitable question:

"Will she care?"

"No, she'll be glad. Mother will too."

"Grandmother won't," she laughed, hysterically, "nor Aunt Matilda."