The Metropolis

Montague stood watching her, helpless with distress. She caught hold of the arm of the chair, convulsively, and he put his hand upon hers.

" Mrs. Winnie —" ne began.

But she jerked her hand away and hid it. ■"No, no!" she cried, in terror. "Don't touch me!"

And suddenly she looked up at him, stretching out her arms. "Don't you understand that I love you?" she exclaimed. "You despise me for it, I know — but I can't help it. I will tell you, even so! It's the only satisfaction I can have. I have always loved you ! And I thought — I thought it was only that you didn't understand. I was ready to brave all the world — I didn't care who knew it, or what anybody said. I thought we could be happy — I thought I could be free at last. Oh, you've no idea how unhappy I am — and how lonely — and how I longed to escape! And I believed that you — that you might —"

And then the tears gushed into Mrs. Winnie's eyes again, and her voice became the voice of a little child. "Don't you think that you might come to love me?" she wailed.

Her voice shook Montague, so that he trembled to the depths of him. But his face only became the more grave.

"You despise me because I told you!" she exclaimed.

" No, no, Mrs. Winnie," he said. " I could not possibly do that —"

"Then — then why—" she whispered.— " Would it be so hard to love me ? "

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"It would be very easy," he said, "but I dare not let myself."

She looked at him piteously. "You are so cold—so merciless!" she cried.

He answered nothing, and she sat trembling. " Have you ever loved a woman ? " she asked.

There was a long pause. He sat in the chair again. "Listen, Mrs. Winnie"— he began at last.

"Don't call me that!" she exclaimed. "CaE me Evelyn—please."

"Very well,^' he said— "Evelyn. I did not intend to make you unhappy — if I had had any idea, I should never have seen you again. I will tell you—what I have never told anybody before. Then you will understand."

He sat for a few moments, in a sombre revery.

"Once," he said, "when I was young, I loved a woman — a quadroon girl. That was in New Orleans; it is a custom we have there. They have a world of their own, and we take care of them, and of the children; and everyone knows about it. I was very young, only about eighteen; and she was even younger. But I found out then what women are, and what love means to them. I saw how they could suffer. And then she died in childbirth — the child died, too."

Montague's voice was very low; and Mrs. Winnie sat with her hands clasped, and her eyes riveted upon his face. " I saw her die," he said. "And that was all. I have never forgotten it. I made up my mind then that I had done wrong; and that never again while I Uved would I offer my love to a woman, unless I could devote all my

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life to her. So you see, I am afraid of love. I do not wish to suffer so much, or to make others suffer. And when anyone speaks to me as you did, it brings it all back to me — it makes me shrink up and wither."

He paused, and the other caught her breath.

"Understand me," she said, her voice trem-bUng. "I would not ask any pledges of you. I would pay whatever price there was to pay — I am not afraid to suffer."

"I do not wish you to suffer," he said. "I do not wish to take advantage of any woman."

" But I have nothing in the world that I value !" she cried. "I would go away — I would give up everything, to be with a man like you. I have no ties — no duties —"

He interrupted her. "You have your husband —" he said.

And she cried out in sudden fury— "My husband!"

" Has no one ever told you about my husband ? " she asked, after a pause.

"No one," he said.

"Well, ask them!" she exclaimed. "Meantime, take my word for it — I owe nothing to my husband."

Montague sat staring into the fire. " But consider my own case," he said, "J have duties — my mother and my cousin —"

"Oh, don't say any more!" cried the woman, with a break in her voice. " Say that you don't love me — that is all there is to say! And you will never respect me again! I have been a fool

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— I have ruined everything! I have flung away your friendship, that I might have kept!

"No," he said. ^

But she rushed on, vehemently—"At least, I have been honest — give me credit for that! That is how all my troubles come — I say what is in my mind, and I pay the price for my blunders. It is not as if I were cold and calculating

— so don't despise me altogether."

" I couldn't despise you,' said Montague. " I am simply pained, because I have made you unhappy. And I did not mean to."