The Argosy — page 162: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

1§0 By the Sad Sea Weves. over I go home and wait. I see two dusky figures pacing the sands together just beyond the gate, and I fold my hands tightly and wait. , The gate clicks at last. Ottalie comes in, and stands blinking in the doorway, half dazzled by the light. ‘Will you condescend to tell me how you intend to wind up the highly creditable farce you are playing ?” I cry, in helpless rage. “ Wind—it—up,” she repeats, the brightness fading all at once out of her face. Then with a sudden dash of recklessness: “I don’t know. I don’t think it’s a bad plan, Deb. Ilet myself drift—drift— drift, It is so much easier!” And she laughs a strained little laugh that cannot take the shadow out of her eyes. “‘ Understand this much,” say I; “if you do not put an end to this, wf wil,” She gets as white as her dress, and seizes my arm. “No, oh, no | Deborah, you are joking ; on/y joking, are not you?” And she drops my arm, and sinks on her knees beside me. “ Am I given to joking?” . ‘ But you won't,” she repeats. “I will—do what you want—only not now, Deborah, not now! Let me be happy, slase, just a little while. Do you grudge me these few days, because my life has been so happy?” I am silent. She clasps my arm to hasten my reply. “Have I had so happy a life, Deborah?” Heaven knows that she has not—of late years. But how. shall I answer her? What am I todo? In one sense of the word ‘I am at rest ; she has too much rectitude, too much pride to give cause for real fear ; but—there are complications, “Deborah, dear Deborah, won’t you promise me?” and her ¥ breaks, and the firm white arm creeps up round my neck, as her eyes peer into mine. ‘You will not—tell?” How shall I answer her? “ Deborah, dear Deborah,” she cries again, putting her lips close to my cheek. How still the room is as her voice falls. How quiet it is outside— how quiet ! “No,” I say, shortly ; “I will not tell. Unless I am forced to it, Ottalie ; understand that.” After a little, she gets up and goes towards the door. I follow her. “Ottalie,” I begin. She stops and looks over her shoulder, half- angrily, half-entreatingly. , ‘“‘ Hush,” she says. “ I am forgetting it—that. You said I might be happy—just a /i/tle while.” “Then,” I say, bewildered out of my equanimity, “you will be the first person who was ever made happy by acting a lie.” a comicbooks.cejm