August First | Page 5

to give in till you're
thrown. Your case looks hopeless to you, but doctors have been wrong
plenty of times; diseases take unexpected turns; you may get well."
"Then I'd have to marry him," she interrupted swiftly.
"You ought not to marry him if you dislike him"--and the young parson
felt himself flush hotly, and was thankful for the darkness; what a fool
a fellow felt, giving advice about a love-affair!
"I have to. You see--he's pathetic. He'd go back into the depths if I let
go, and--and I'm fond of him, in a way."
"Oh!"--the masculine mind was bewildered. "I understood that
you--disliked him."
"Why, I do. But I'm just fond of him." Then she laughed again. "Any
woman would know how I mean it. I mean--I am fond of him--I'd do
anything for him. But I don't believe in him, and the thought of--of
marrying him makes me desperate."
"Then you should not."
"I have to, if I live. So I'm going to kill myself to-night. You have
nothing to say against it. You've said nothing--that counts. If you said
I'd certainly go to hell, I might not--but you don't say that. I think you
can't say it." She stood up. "Thank you for listening patiently. At least
you have helped me to come to my decision. I'm going to. To-night."
This was too awful. He had helped her to decide to kill herself. He
could not let her go that way. He stood before her and talked with all
his might. "You cannot do that. You must not. You are overstrained
and excited, and it is no time to do an irrevocable thing. You must wait
till you see things calmly, at least. Taking your own life is not a thing
to decide on as you might decide on going to a ball. How do you know
that you will not be bitterly sorry to-morrow if you do that to-night? It's
throwing away the one chance a person has to make the world better
and happier. That's what you're here for--not to enjoy yourself."

She put a quiet sentence, in that oddly buoyant voice, into the stream of
his words. "Still, you don't say I'd go to hell forever," she commented.
"Is that your only thought?" he demanded indignantly. "Can't you think
of what's brave and worth while--of what's decent for a big thing like a
soul? A soul that's going on living to eternity--do you want to blacken
that at the start? Can't you forget your little moods and your despair of
the moment?"
"No, I can't." The roses bobbed as she shook her head. The man, in his
heart, knew how it was, and did not wonder. But he must somehow
stop this determination which he had--she said--helped to form. A
thought came to him; he hesitated a moment, and then broke out
impetuously: "Let me do this--let me write to you; I'm not saying things
straight. It's hard. I think I could write more clearly. And it's unfair not
to give me a hearing. Will you promise only this, not to do it till you've
read my letter?"
Slowly the youth, the indomitable brightness in the girl forged to the
front. She looked at him with the dawn of a smile in her eyes, and he
saw all at once, with a passing vision, that her eyes were very blue and
that her hair was bright and light--a face vivid and responsive.
"Why, yes. There's no particular reason for to-night. I can wait. But I'm
going home to-morrow, to my uncle's place at Forest Gate. I'll never be
here again. The people I'm with are going away to live next month. I'll
never see you again. You don't know my name." She considered a
moment. "I'd rather not have you know it. You may write to--" She
laughed. "I said I was just a date--you may write to August First, Forest
Gate, Illinois. Say care of, care of--" Again she laughed. "Oh, well, care
of Robert Halarkenden. That will reach me."
Quite gravely the man wrote down the fantastic address. "Thank you. I
will write at once. You promised?"
"Yes." She put out her hand. "You've been very good to me. I shall
never see you again. Good-by."

"Good-by," he said, and the room was suddenly so still, so empty, so
dark that it oppressed him.
WARCHESTER, St. Andrew's Parish House, August 5th.
This is to redeem my promise. When we talked that afternoon, it
seemed to me that I should be able to write the words I could not say.
Every day since then I have said "Tomorrow I shall be able to tell her
clearly." The clearness has not come--that's why I have put it off. It
hasn't yet come. Sometimes--twice, I think--I have