FullReads

From the rear, where he sat with Fred, he announced he was going to sleep, and asked that he be not awakened until the car had crossed the State line between Connecticut and New York. Winthrop doubted if he knew the State line of New York.

“It is where the advertisements for Besse Baker’s twenty-seven stores cease,” said Sam drowsily, “and the billposters of Ethel Barrymore begin.”

In the front of the car the two young people spoke only at intervals, but Winthrop had never been so widely alert, so keenly happy, never before so conscious of her presence.

And it seemed as they glided through the mysterious moonlit world of silent villages, shadowy woods, and wind-swept bays and inlets, from which, as the car rattled over the planks of the bridges, the wild duck rose in noisy circles, they alone were awake and living.

The silence had lasted so long that it was as eloquent as words. The young man turned his eyes timorously, and sought those of the girl. What he felt was so strong in him that it seemed incredible she should be ignorant of it. His eyes searched the gray veil. In his voice there was both challenge and pleading.

“‘Shall be together,'” he quoted, “‘breathe and ride. So, one day more am I deified; who knows but the world may end to-night?'”

The moonlight showed the girl’s eyes shining through the veil, and regarding him steadily.

“If you don’t stop this car quick,” she said, “the world WILL end for all of us.”

He shot a look ahead, and so suddenly threw on the brake that Sam and the chauffeur tumbled awake. Across the road stretched the great bulk of a touring-car, its lamps burning dully in the brilliance of the moon. Around it, for greater warmth, a half-dozen figures stamped upon the frozen ground, and beat themselves with their arms. Sam and the chauffeur vaulted into the road, and went toward them.

“It’s what you say, and the way you say it,” the girl explained. She seemed to be continuing an argument. “It makes it so very difficult for us to play together.”

The young man clasped the wheel as though the force he were holding in check were much greater than sixty horse-power.

“You are not married yet, are you?” he demanded.

The girl moved her head.

“And when you are married, there will probably be an altar from which you will turn to walk back up the aisle?”

“Well?” said the girl.

“Well,” he answered explosively, “until you turn away from that altar, I do not recognize the right of any man to keep me quiet, or your right either. Why should I be held by your engagement? I was not consulted about it. I did not give my consent, did I? I tell you, you are the only woman in the world I will ever marry, and if you think I am going to keep silent and watch some one else carry you off without making a fight for you, you don’t know me.”

“If you go on,” said the girl, “it will mean that I shall not see you again.”

“Then I will write letters to you.”

“I will not read them,” said the girl. The young man laughed defiantly.

“Oh, yes, you will read them!” He pounded his gauntleted fist on the rim of the wheel. “You mayn’t answer them, but if I can write the way I feel, I will bet you’ll read them.”

His voice changed suddenly, and he began to plead. It was as though she were some masculine giant bullying a small boy.

“You are not fair to me,” he protested. “I do not ask you to be kind, I ask you to be fair. I am fighting for what means more to me than anything in this world, and you won’t even listen. Why should I recognize any other men! All I recognize is that I am the man who loves you, that ‘I am the man at your feet.’ That is all I know, that I love you.”