Through the Wall | Page 5

treasure and the fake relics and the white marble French gentleman trying to get out of his coffin. And he didn't care a hang about any of 'em until he saw you. Then he began to take notice. The next day he came back and you sold him a little red guidebook that told all about the twenty-five chapels and the seven hundred and ninety-two saints. No, seven hundred and ninety-three, for there was one saint with wonderful eyes and glorious hair and----"
"Please don't," she murmured.
"Why not? You don't know which saint I was talking about. It was My Lady of the Candles. She had the most beautiful hands in the world, and all day long she sat at a table making stitches on cloth of gold. Which was bad for her eyes, by the way."
"Ah, yes!" sighed Alice.
"There are all kinds of miracles in Notre-Dame," he went on playfully, "but the greatest miracle is how this saint with the eyes and the hands and the hair ever dropped down at that little table. Nobody could explain it, so the young fellow with the fur overcoat kept coming back and coming back to see if he could figure it out. Only soon he came without his overcoat."
"In bitter cold weather," she said reproachfully.
"He was pretty blue that day, wasn't he? Dead sore on the game. Money all blown in, overcoat up the spout, nothing ahead, and a whole year of--of damned foolishness behind. Excuse me, but that's what it was. Well, he blew in that day and--he walked over to where you were sitting, you darling little saint!"
"No, no," murmured Alice, "not a saint, only a poor girl who saw you were unhappy and--and was sorry."
Their eyes met tenderly, and for a moment neither spoke. Then Kittredge went on unsteadily: "Anyhow you were kind to me, and I opened up a little. I told you a few things, and--when I went away I felt more like a man. I said to myself: 'Lloyd Kittredge, if you're any good you'll cut out this thing that's been raising hell with you'--excuse me, but that's what it was--'and you'll make a new start, right now.' And I did it. There's a lot you don't know, but you can bet all your rosaries and relics that I've made a fair fight since then. I've worked and--been decent and--I did it all for you." His voice was vibrant now with passion; he caught her hand in his and repeated the words, leaning closer, so that she felt his warm breath on her cheek. "All for you. You know that, don't you, Alice?"
What a moment for a girl whose whole soul was quivering with fondness! What a proud, beautiful moment! He loved her, he loved her! Yet she drew her hand away and forced herself to say, as if reprovingly: "You mustn't do that!"
He looked at her in surprise, and then, with challenging directness: "Why not?"
"Because I cannot be what you--what you want me to be," she answered, looking down.
"I want you to be my wife."
"I know."
"And--and you refuse me?"
For a moment she did not speak. Then slowly she nodded, as if pronouncing her own doom.
"Alice," he cried, "look up here! You don't mean it. Say it isn't true."
She lifted her eyes bravely and faced him. "It is true, Lloyd; I can never be your wife."
"But why? Why?"
"I--I cannot tell you," she faltered.
He was about to speak impatiently, but before her evident distress he checked the words and asked gently: "Is it something against me?"
"Oh, no!" she answered quickly.
"Sure? Isn't it something you've heard that I've done or--or not done? Don't be afraid to hurt my feelings. I'll make a clean breast of it all, if you say so. God knows I was a fool, but I've kept straight since I knew you, I'll swear to that."
"I believe you, dear."
"You believe me, you call me 'dear,' you look at me out of those wonderful eyes as if you cared for me."
"I do, I do," she murmured.
[Illustration: "'Alice,' he cried ... 'Say it isn't true.'"]
"You care for me, and yet you turn me down," he said bitterly. "It reminds me of a verse I read," and drawing a small volume from his pocket he turned the pages quickly. "Ah, here it is," and he marked some lines with a pencil. "There!"
Alice took the volume and began to read in a low voice:
"Je n'aimais qu'elle au monde, et vivre un jour sans elle Me semblait un destin plus affreux que la mort. Je me souviens pourtant qu'en cette nuit cruelle Pour briser mon lien je fis un long effort. Je la nommai cent fois perfide et d��loyale, Je comptai tous les maux qu'elle m'avait caus��s."
She stopped suddenly, her eyes full of pain.
"You don't think that, you _can't_ think