Glenn had put his lips to her ear: "It's like the voice in my soul!"
Never would she forget the shock of that. And how she had stood
spellbound, enveloped in the mighty volume of sound no longer
discordant, but full of great, pregnant melody, until the white ball
burst upon the tower of the Times Building, showing the bright figures
1919.
The new year had not been many minutes old when Glenn Kilbourne had told
her he was going West to try to recover his health.
Carley roused out of her memories to take up the letter that had so
perplexed her. It bore the postmark, Flagstaff, Arizona. She reread it
with slow pondering thoughtfulness.
WEST FORK, March 25.
DEAR CARLEY: It does seem my neglect in writing you is unpardonable. I used to be
a pretty fair correspondent, but in that as in other things I have
changed.
One reason I have not answered sooner is because your letter was so
sweet and loving that it made me feel an ungrateful and unappreciative
wretch. Another is that this life I now lead does not induce writing. I
am outdoors all day, and when I get back to this cabin at night I am too
tired for anything but bed.
Your imperious questions I must answer--and that must, of course, is
a third reason why I have delayed my reply. First, you ask, "Don't you
love me any more as you used to?"... Frankly, I do not. I am sure my
old love for you, before I went to France, was selfish, thoughtless,
sentimental, and boyish. I am a man now. And my love for you is
different. Let me assure you that it has been about all left to me of
what is noble and beautiful. Whatever the changes in me for the worse,
my love for you, at least, has grown better, finer, purer.
And now for your second question, "Are you coming home as soon as you
are well again?"... Carley, I am well. I have delayed telling you this
because I knew you would expect me to rush back East with the telling.
But--the fact is, Carley, I am not coming--just yet. I wish it were
possible for me to make you understand. For a long time I seem to have
been frozen within. You know when I came back from France I couldn't
talk. It's almost as bad as that now. Yet all that I was then seems to
have changed again. It is only fair to you to tell you that, as I
feel now, I hate the city, I hate people, and particularly I hate that
dancing, drinking, lounging set you chase with. I don't want to come
East until I am over that, you know... Suppose I never get over it?
Well, Carley, you can free yourself from me by one word that I could
never utter. I could never break our engagement. During the hell I went
through in the war my attachment to you saved me from moral ruin, if it
did not from perfect honor and fidelity. This is another thing I despair
of making you understand. And in the chaos I've wandered through since
the war my love for you was my only anchor. You never guessed, did you,
that I lived on your letters until I got well. And now the fact that I
might get along without them is no discredit to their charm or to you.