a farce；” he thought to himself。 “She said that our marriage
would be a farce；” and he became suddenly aware
of their situation； sitting upon the ground； among the
dead leaves； not fifty yards from the main road； so that it
was quite possible for some one passing to see and recognize
them。 He brushed off his face any trace that might
remain of that unseemly exhibition of emotion。 But he
was more troubled by Katharine’s appearance； as she sat
rapt in thought upon the ground； than by his own； there
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was something improper to him in her selfforgetfulness。
A man naturally alive to the conventions of society； he
was strictly conventional where women were concerned；
and especially if the women happened to be in any way
connected with him。 He noticed with distress the long
strand of dark hair touching her shoulder and two or three
dead beechleaves attached to her dress； but to recall
her mind in their present circumstances to a sense of
these details was impossible。 She sat there； seeming unconscious
of everything。 He suspected that in her silence
she was reproaching herself； but he wished that she would
think of her hair and of the dead beechleaves； which
were of more immediate importance to him than anything
else。 Indeed； these trifles drew his attention
strangely from his own doubtful and uneasy state of mind；
for relief； mixing itself with pain； stirred up a most curious
hurry and tumult in his breast； almost concealing his
first sharp sense of bleak and overwhelming disappointment。
In order to relieve this restlessness and close a
distressingly illordered scene； he rose abruptly and helped
Katharine to her feet。 She smiled a little at the minute
care with which he tidied her and yet； when he brushed
the dead leaves from his own coat； she flinched； seeing
in that action the gesture of a lonely man。
“William；” she said； “I will marry you。 I will try to make
you happy。”
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CHAPTER XIX
The afternoon was already growing dark when the two
other wayfarers； Mary and Ralph Denham； came out on
the high road beyond the outskirts of Lincoln。 The high
road； as they both felt； was better suited to this return
journey than the open country； and for the first mile or
so of the way they spoke little。 In his own mind Ralph
was following the passage of the Otway carriage over the
heath； he then went back to the five or ten minutes that
he had spent with Katharine； and examined each word
with the care that a scholar displays upon the irregularities
of an ancient text。 He was determined that the glow；
the romance； the atmosphere of this meeting should not
paint what he must in future regard as sober facts。 On
her side Mary was silent； not because her thoughts took
much handling； but because her mind seemed empty of
thought as her heart of feeling。 Only Ralph’s presence； as
she knew； preserved this numbness； for she could foresee
a time of loneliness when many varieties of pain would
beset her。 At the present moment her effort was to pre
serve what she could of the wreck of her selfrespect； for
such she deemed that momentary glimpse of her love so
involuntarily revealed to Ralph。 In the light of reason it
did not much matter； perhaps； but it was her instinct to
be careful of that vision of herself which keeps pace so
evenly beside every one of us； and had been damaged by
her confession。 The gray night ing down over the
country was kind to her； and she thought that one of
these days she would find fort in sitting upon the
earth； alone； beneath a tree。 Looking through the darkness；
she marked the swelling ground and the tree。 Ralph
made her start by saying abruptly；
“What I was going to say when we were interrupted at
lunch was that if you go to America I shall e； too。 It
can’t be harder to earn a living there than it is here。
However； that’s not the point。 The point is； Mary； that I
want to marry you。 Well； what do you say？” He spoke
firmly； waited for no answer； and took her arm in his。
“You know me by this time； the good and the bad；” he
went on。 “You know my tempers。 I’ve tried to let you
know my faults。 Well； what do you say； Mary？”
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She said nothing； but this did not seem to strike him。
“In most ways； at least in the important ways； as you
said； we know each other and we think alike。 I believe
you are the only person in the world I could live with
happily。 And if you feel the same about me—as you do；
don’t you； Mary？—we should make each other happy。”
Here he paused； and seemed to be in no hurry for an
answer； he seemed； indeed； to be continuing his own
thoughts。
“Yes； but I’m afraid I couldn’t do it；” Mary said at last。
The casual and rather hurried way in which she spoke；
together with the fact that she was saying the exact opposite
of what he expected her to say； baffled him so
much that he instinctively loosened his clasp upon her
arm and she withdrew it quietly。
“You couldn’t do it？” he asked。
“No； I couldn’t marry you；” she replied。
“You don’t care for me？”
She made no answer。
“Well； Mary；” he said； with a curious laugh； “I must be
an arrant fool； for I thought you did。” They walked for a
minute or two in silence； and suddenly he turned to her；
looked at her； and exclaimed： “I don’t believe you； Mary。
You’re not telling me the truth。”
“I’m too tired to argue； Ralph；” she replied； turning her
head away from him。 “I ask you to believe what I say。 I
can’t marry you； I don’t want to marry you。”
The voice in which she stated this was so evidently the
voice of one in some extremity of anguish that Ralph had
no course but to obey her。 And as soon as the tone of her
voice had died out； and the surprise faded from his mind；
he found himself believing that she had spoken the truth；
for he had but little vanity； and soon her refusal seemed
a natural thing to him。 He slipped through all the grades
of despondency until he reached a bottom of absolute
gloom。 Failure seemed to mark the whole of his life； he
had failed with Katharine； and now he had failed with
Mary。 Up at once sprang the thought of Katharine； and
with it a sense of exulting freedom； but this he checked
instantly。 No good had ever e to him from Katharine；
his whole relationship with her had been made up of
dreams； and as he thought of the little substance there
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had been in his dreams he began to lay the blame of the
present catastrophe upon his dreams。
“Haven’t I always been thinking of Katharine while I
was with Mary？ I might have loved Mary if it hadn’t been
for that idiocy of mine。 She cared for me once； I’m certain
of that； but I tormented her so with my humors that
I let my chances slip； and now she won’t risk marrying
me。 And this is what I’ve made of my life—nothing； nothing；
nothing。”
The tramp of their boots upon the dry road seemed to
asseverate nothing； nothing； nothing。 Mary thought that
this silence was the silence of relief； his depression she
ascribed to the fact that he had seen Katharine and parted
from her； leaving her in the pany of William Rodney。
She could not blame him for loving Katharine； but that；
when he loved another； he should ask her to marry him—
that seemed to her the cruellest treachery。 Their old friendship
and its firm base upon indestructible qualities of
character crumbled； and her whole past seemed foolish；
herself weak and credulous； and Ralph merely the shell of
an honest man。 Oh； the past—so much made up of Ralph；
and now； as she saw； made up of something strange and
false and other than she had thought it。 She tried to
recapture a saying she had made to help herself that
morning； as Ralph paid the bill for luncheon； but she
could see him paying the bill more vividly than she could
remember the phrase。 Something about truth was in it；
how to see the truth is our great chance in this world。
“If you don’t want to marry me；” Ralph now began again；
without abruptness； with diffidence rather； “there is no
need why we should cease to see each other； is there？ Or
would you rather that we should keep apart for the
present？”
“Keep apart？ I don’t know—I must think about it。”
“Tell me one thing； Mary；” he resumed； “have I done
anything to make you change your mind about me？”
She was immensely tempted to give way to her natural
trust in him； revived by the deep and now melancholy
tones of his voice； and to tell him of her love； and of
what had changed it。 But although it seemed likely that
she would soon control her anger with him； the certainty
that he did not love her； confirmed by every word of his
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proposal； forbade any freedom of speech。 To hear him
speak and to feel herself unable to reply； or constrained
in her replies； was so painful that she longed for the time
when she should be alone。 A more pliant woman would
have taken this chance of an explanation； whatever risks