Mr. Wainbridge heard this tale in silence, and at the end he expressed himself as anxious to horsewhip the whole town. Mr. George reminded him that the town is large, and chiefly composed of women.
“Damn them,” said Mr. Wainbridge, briefly but expressively.
“That relieves your feelings,” said Mr. George, “and is of no other avail. You must be accepted or refused by Launa sooner than you meant to be.”
“But she will not do either—and if she hears or guesses—she will be hard to manage. Don’t you suppose I would have married her long ago, if she would have had me?”
“You have been prolonging the joys of uncertainty—an engagement is an uncertain certainty—marriage is a certain uncertainty. It has claims, sure and everlasting I know, but they are unattractive.”
Launa was rearranging her books when Mr. Wainbridge called to see her after this conversation.
“I feel particularly depressed to-day,” she said, “so I am clearing up. That will produce a halo of virtue. I have tidied my work basket, and arranged my music. Now I will play to you.”
She went to the piano and began to play. It was something strong and full of power—urging, urging what seems to be the search for happiness—on and on—like life—it went full of longings and regrets, until suddenly a clear still melody rang out, the Never Never country at last.
Mr. Wainbridge went over to her. The music thrilled him.
He looked down at her. She was young, strong, beautiful, and a wild feeling for her swept over him; all the love and passion that was in the music seemed to be one with him. He loved her, loved her, loved her, and he had kept it down. It had never held full sway; not until this day had he felt quite powerless to control himself. She must be his. The longing of weeks and days engulfed him, and he tried to speak.
“Dearest—Launa. I love you. God forgive me, I love you more than my soul.”
He fell on his knees beside her, his head in his hands.
“Don’t,” she said, “don’t,” putting out her hand. There was aversion in her voice.
“What, don’t love you? That is impossible. I beg you, I pray you to give me your love. Trust me, help me.”
“My love. Oh! love—what is it? Listen, I cannot tell you what I feel. . . . I do not love you. I am at peace when I am with you—I trust you; that is all.”