"But I want to be just," he went on clearly. "And I want you to be just. I surely couldn"t harm Una any more than I could you."

"Oh, Jerry; I"m sure you kissed her."

"No. Why should I?"

"Because, I thought she might have asked you to."

"She didn"t. I suppose it hadn"t occurred to her. I"m not much at kissing, Marcia. It"s rather meaningless if you don"t love a person, isn"t it? Kissing ought to be a kind of sacrament. It"s a symbol. It must mean something. At least that"s the way it seems to me. The girl one loves, Marcia, you--"

He was very close to her now and I think his arms encircled her, for I heard her whisper "Kiss me, Jerry! Kiss me!"

I must have deserved this punishment. Aside from the unhappy nature of my feelings, I was suffering severe bodily discomfort from some small object, a stone, I think, pressed against my ribs. I moved slightly and there was a resounding crackle of broken twigs. The silken foot beside me started suddenly.

"What was that?" whispered the girl.

"Oh," said Jerry, "merely a squirrel or--or a chipmunk." And then more convincingly, "Yes, I think it was a chipmunk."

I held my breath in an agony of apprehension, expecting each second to be hauled out of my retreat by Jerry"s muscular hand on my collar, and it was therefore with a feeling of manifest relief that I heard their conversation resumed.

"I"m so glad you think a kiss is a sacrament," she murmured. "It should be--shouldn"t it?--a pledge," and then, "But that was _such_ a light one, Jerry--"

He kissed her again. There was a long silence--long. She had won.

"Oh, Jerry," she sighed at last, "it is _so_ sweet. You have never kissed me like that before. Why, what is the matter?"

Jerry, it seemed, had risen suddenly. "I--I mustn"t, Marcia. I mustn"t. It is sweet--but--but terrible. I can"t tell you--"

"Terrible, Jerry?"

"Yes, I can"t explain. It"s a kind of profanation--your sanct.i.ty. I don"t know. It makes me deliriously happy and--horribly miserable."

"But I am yours, Jerry, yours, do you understand? And if I like you to kiss me--"

"I mustn"t, Marcia, not here."

He was very much disturbed. "Marcia!" he said in a suppressed tone as he came quickly to her again. "Was _that_ what you meant--was _that_ why you asked me if I"d kissed Una?"

"I merely wanted--"

"I didn"t," he broke in impetuously. "No, no, I didn"t. Why, Marcia, it wouldn"t have been possible--we were merely friends. Don"t think I"ve ever kissed Una, and don"t ever believe she would let me. She wouldn"t. She"s not in love with me. She wouldn"t let me, if I wanted to."

"And you don"t want to?"

"No, no. I never think about her in that way. I can"t. She"s different from you. You allure me. It"s subtle. I can"t explain. I want to take you in my arms and yet I don"t dare, for fear that I may crush you. I might, Marcia. I"m afraid. Just now, the thought of my strength frightened me. Don"t let me kiss you like that again, Marcia."

"I"m not afraid," I heard her whisper. "Kiss me again, Jerry."

But he didn"t. Apparently he still stood before her at a distance, fearsome of he knew not what.

"Jerry!" she murmured again, in a little tone of petulance.

"Marcia, we--we should be going on," he muttered.

"Ah, Jerry, not yet," she sighed. "Isn"t it wonderful that there"s no quarrel between us? Just you and I, Jerry, here, alone, like the first man and woman--alone in the world. There"s no man in it but you, no woman but me, we"re mated, Jerry, like the birds. Don"t you hear them singing? The woods are alive with songs of love. And you, Jerry, you stand there staring at me with those great, timid eyes of yours. Why do you stare at me so? Are you frightened? I think that I am stronger than you. It is love that makes me strong. Come to me, Jerry. Kiss me, again."

"Marcia!" he gasped. And then another silence.

"I mustn"t."

"I love you, Jerry."

"Will you marry me? Tomorrow!"

"Marriage, Jerry? Yes, some day--"

"Tomorrow--!"

"Aren"t you satisfied--with this? The wonder of it."

"But I have no right. I can"t explain. It"s desecration!"

"A sacrament!" she said.

"A sacrament!"

"You said so."

"Not this, Marcia. A sacrament should be gentle. I want to be gentle in my thoughts of you. But I can"t, not now. I could strangle you if you let another man do this, and kill--"

"I love you--when you talk like that. Strangle me if you like, kill me, I"m yours--"

I think that to Marcia, this was the greatest moment of her strange pa.s.sion. Fear was its dominant motive, Jerry"s innocence its inspiration. If he had crushed the breath from her body, I think she would have died rapturously. But Jerry, it seems, tore himself from her and moved some distance away, I think, his head bent into the hollow of his arm, torn between his emotions. I would have given all that I possessed on earth to have caught a glimpse of her face at that moment. Flushed with victory of course--but pa.s.sion--Bah! I couldn"t believe her capable of it. If she had been wholly animal I might have forgiven her everything. But the impression had grown in me with the minutes that all this like everything else she did was false--false penitence, false contrition, false tears, false love and now false pa.s.sion. She was a mere sh.e.l.l, a beautiful sh.e.l.l in which one hears the faint murmurs of sweet music, echoes of sounds which might have been but were not. These were the sounds that Jerry heard, echoes of some earlier incarnation in which spiritual beauty had been his fetich. And now, he stood apart, broken, miserable.

"Jerry," I heard her call again softly, "I am not afraid."

That was it. I understood now. What she loved was fear. But Jerry would not come back. I heard his voice faintly.

"We must go, Marcia."

"Why?"

"I have learned; we have no right here--alone, you and I. It"s what--what you accused Una of."

"But you and I--Jerry! Am I not different from Una? I have rights. She has none. I"ve given them to you, and you to me."

"You will marry me, soon?"

"Not if you"re going to be so--so--er--inhospitable."