Gordon Craig | Page 9

was more than a mere hint of character about that resolute mouth, the white contour of cheek. She glanced furtively back across her shoulder--evidently the policeman had disappeared, for she released her slight grasp of my arm, although continuing to walk quietly enough by my side, her face partially averted. The night was deathly still, the sodden walk underfoot scarcely echoing our footfalls, the weird mist closing denser about us, as we advanced.
At the second street intersection she turned east, advancing toward where passing trolley-cars promised some life and activity even at that late hour. Helpless to do otherwise I moved along with her in the same direction, our grotesque shadows dimly discernible beneath the yellow mist of light. Impulsively she stopped, and faced me, her hands clasped.
"I--I--please--I will say good night, now," she said, endeavoring to speak firmly, yet with no uplifting of the eyes.
Hesitatingly I stood still, feeling strangely embarrassed by this sudden curt dismissal.
"Do--do you mean you wish me to leave you alone on the street at this hour?" I questioned uneasily. "At least permit me to see you home safely. I will not hurt you, or speak a word."
There was a tone of earnestness in my plea but she only shook her head decisively, lips pressed close together. The faint glow of the overhead light rested on the slightly uplifted face, and the sight of her features yielded me fresh confidence.
"You have no cause to feel afraid of me," I went on soberly, in the silence. "Can't you tell that by my face?" and I removed my cap, standing before her uncovered. She lifted her lashes, startled and curious, gazing at me for the first time. I met her glance fairly, and the slight resentment in her eyes faded, her clasped hands moving uneasily.
"I--I am not afraid of--of you," she returned at last doubtfully. "It is not that, but--but really I cannot permit you to accompany me farther."
"Only to the place where you said you lived," I urged eagerly. "I promise not even to take note of the number, and will never bother you any more."
Her fine eyes hardened; then sank slowly before mine.
"That--that was a lie also," she acknowledged, half defiantly. "I--I do not live about here."
I stared at her in sudden doubt, yet remained loyal to my first impression.
"All the greater reason then for not leaving you here alone."
She laughed, a faint tinge of bitterness in the sound.
"Surely you cannot imagine I would feel any safer in company with a burglar?" she asked sharply. My face flushed.
"Why accuse me of that?" I asked quickly. "Merely because I was in that yard?"
She drew back a step, one hand grasping her skirt.
"Not altogether. You were hiding there, and--and you were afraid of the policeman."
I could not explain; it would require too long, and she would in all probability refuse to believe the story. Besides, what difference could it make? She had as much to explain as I; no more reason to suspect me than I had her. Let us meet then on common ground.
"If I grant your hasty guess to be partially correct," I returned finally, my voice deepening with earnestness, "and confess I was avoiding observation--what then? Can you not also believe me a man capable of treating you honorably? Is it totally impossible for you to conceive of circumstances so compelling, as to cause one to avoid the police, and yet involve no real loss of manhood?"
She bowed her head slightly, lowering her eyes before mine. My earnestness, my apparent education, were clearly a surprise.
"Yes," she confessed reluctantly enough. "I--I believe I can. There was a time when I could not, but I can now."
"Then yield me the benefit of such charity of judgment," I went on. "At least do not altogether condemn me on mere circumstantial evidence, and before you learn what has led up to the events of the night. At least give me opportunity to exhibit my gratitude."
She remained silent, motionless.
"Why not? Is it because you have no confidence in me?" I insisted.
She put out one hand, grasping the iron rail of a fence, and I thought I could see her form tremble.
"Oh, no! it--it is not that exactly," she explained brokenly. "I believe I---I might trust you, but--but of course I do not know. I think you--you mean well; your words sound honest, and your--your face inspires confidence. Only I have found so much deceit, so much cruelty and heartlessness in the world I have become afraid of everyone. But I--I simply cannot let you go with me--oh! please don't urge it!"
I leaned forward, my face full of sympathy, my voice low and earnest.
"And do you suppose I will consent to desert you after that confession?" I questioned, almost indignant. "I would be a brute to do so. You saved