But as he tried to lift her head she put up her hands and with an effort repulsed—broke away from—him and fell on the couch in a passion of tears. She had not meant this—not this. It wasn’t in her to love any one.
In the process of mental readjustment following her husband’s desertion of her she had learned to think of Cort in a different way. It seemed as though the tragedy of her married life had dwarfed every other relation, minimized every emotion that remained to her. Cortland Bent was the lesser shadow within the greater shadow, a dimmer figure blurred in the bulk, a part of the tragedy, but not the tragedy itself. For a time he had seemed to understand, and of late had played the part of guide, philosopher, and friend, if not ungrudgingly, at least patiently, without those boyish outbursts of petulance and temper in which he had been so difficult to manage. She cared for him deeply, and lately he had been so considerate and so gentle that she had almost been ready to believe that the kind of devotion he gave her was the only thing in life worth while. He had learned to pass over the many opportunities she offered him to take advantage of her isolation, and she was thankful that at last their relation had found a happy path of communion free from danger or misunderstanding. While other people amused and distracted her, Cort had been her real refuge, his devotion the rock to which she tied. But this! She realized that what had gone before was only the calm before the storm—and she had brought it all on herself!
He watched her anxiously, waiting for the storm to pass, and at last came near and put his arms around her again.
"No—not that!" she said brokenly. "It wasn’t that I wanted, Cort. You don’t understand. I needed you—but not that way." He straightened slowly as her meaning came to him.
"You were only—fooling—only playing with me? I might have known——"
"No, I wasn’t playing with you. I—couldn’t bear to lose you—but," she stammered resolutely, "now—I _must_—— You’ve got to go. I don’t know what has happened to me—I haven’t any heart—I think—no heart—or soul——"
He had turned away from her, his gaze on the dying log.
"Why couldn’t you have let me go—without this?" he groaned. "It would have been easier for both of us."