"It is you," he cried, "you, who are talking folly, when you speak of
friendship between you and me. It is not the woman who speaks there.
It is the vapouring school girl. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and
I believe that you love me. You are necessary to me. I shall give you
my life, every moment and thought of my life. You must come back. See
what you have made of me. I cannot work, I cannot teach. You have
grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out."
Anna was silent. She was trembling a little. The man's passion was
infectious. She had to school herself to speak the words which she
knew would cut him like a knife.
"You are mistaken, David. I have counted you, and always hoped to
count you, the best of my friends. But I do not love you. I do not
love any one."
"I don't believe it," he answered hoarsely. "We have come too close
together for me to believe it. You care for me a little, I know. I
will teach you how to make that little sufficient."
"You came to tell me this?"
"I came for you," he declared fiercely.
The hansom sped through the crowded streets. Anna suddenly leaned
forward and looked around her.
"We are not going the right way," she exclaimed.
"You are coming my way," Courtlaw answered. "Anna," he pleaded, "be
merciful. You care for me just a little, I know. You are alone in the
world, you have no one save yourself to consider. Come back with me
to-night. Your old rooms are there, if you choose. I kept them on
myself till the sight of your empty chair and the chill loneliness of
it all nearly sent me mad."
Anna lifted her hand and pushed open the trap door.
"Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman," she ordered.
The man pulled up his horse grumbling, and turned round. Courtlaw sat
with folded arms. He said nothing.
"My friend," she said, "no! Let me tell you this. Nothing would induce
me to marry you, or any man at present. I am a pauper, and as yet I
have not discovered how to earn money. I am determined to fight my own
little battle with the world--there must be a place for me somewhere,
and I mean to find it. Afterwards, it may be different. If I were to
marry you now I should feel a dependent being all my life--a sort of
parasitical creature without blood or muscle. I should lose every
scrap of independence--even my self-respect. However good you were to
me, and however happy I was in other ways, I should find this
intolerable."
"All these things," he muttered bitterly, "this desperate resolve to
take your life into your own hands, your unnatural craving for
independence, would never trouble you for a moment--if you really
cared."