Women, in affairs of this nature, are so unthinking, so hopelessly the creatures of their impulses and sentiments.
"Yes! If I let her know, it will be all up with me. She'll send me about my business."
Out of the slough of despond into which this conclusion cast him, he could discern but one means of egress: to keep the fact of his mother's opposition a secret from his sweetheart until after their wedding ceremony had been performed.
But instantly, of course, against the practice of any such deceit, his manlier instincts rose in revolt.
To induce Denise to become his wife, without first apprising her of a state of things which, if she suspected it, would determine her to give him up, would be to obtain her under false pretences, by the employment of trick and device. It would be unfair and dishonorable in the extremest sense. Besides, inevitably, a day of reckoning would come. He could not expect to conceal it from her forever. After they were married, she would be sure, by its very nature, to find it out. And then—would she not hold him guilty of irreparable and unpardonable wrong toward her, and visit him with her scorn and her displeasure? Anyhow, it was her right to know it. It was her right to possess full knowledge of every circumstance that bore in any degree upon this question of their marriage. He must not let the woman he loved undertake blindfold so grave an obligation. No; there was but a single line of conduct open to him. He must lay a complete statement of the case before her; and then he must bow to her decision.
"And that means that my doom is as good as sealed. Of course her decision will be against me."
And now—"Heaven help me! How shall I break it to her? How shall I let her know? She—she'll be expecting me before a great while now. And have I—have I got to go around there and tell her this? It will break her heart. She loves me. She said she loved me. And she is so happy. And now—oh, God, no, no! Go around there, and turn all her happiness into pain? No, I can't do it. I can't do it. Why, it would be the same as if I were to go around there, and—and knock her down. You can't expect me to do that. If this letter had only come a few hours earlier—before I spoke to her! Then I should not have spoken. But now—after I have told her how I love her—after I have wrung from her a confession of her love for me, and asked her to be my wife, and made her say yes—now—to have to go and tell her this—! Oh, it's too much! Oh, Denise, my little girl! How can I do it? How"
He was interrupted by a loud rapping at his door.
For an instant—to such a pitch of nervous excitement had he wrought himself—this commonplace and not unusual noise startled and almost terrified him. He came to an abrupt stand-still, and caught his breath. Then, recovering his presence of mind, "Entrez," he called out.
The door opened.
"Hello, Ormizon. It's me—Palmer. Thought I'd come around to bid you good-by. You leave to-morrow, don't you?"
