I have felt so bad—O God, how bad I have felt!
Frank, you don’t know it—but my pillow has been wet many and many a night.
I have cried and cried.
I have got up and walked the floor.
I have drunk whisky—plain, raw whisky—because something hurt me and I wanted to kill the pain.
I have gone with other men, one after another—you know that—but, oh! Frank, Frank, you know that I didn’t want to, that I didn’t mean to!
I have always despised the thought of them afterward.
It was only because I was lonely and because you wouldn’t pay any attention to me or be nice to me.
Oh, how I have longed and longed for just one loving hour with you—one night, one day!
There are women who could suffer in silence, but I can’t.
My mind won’t let me alone, Frank—my thoughts won’t.
I can’t help thinking how I used to run to you in Philadelphia, when you would meet me on your way home, or when I used to come to you in Ninth Street or on Eleventh. Oh, Frank, I probably did wrong to your first wife.
I see it now—how she must have suffered!
But I was just a silly girl then, and I didn’t know.
Don’t you remember how I used to come to you in Ninth Street and how I saw you day after day in the penitentiary in Philadelphia?
You said then you would love me always and that you would never forget.
Can’t you love me any more—just a little?
Is it really true that your love is dead?
Am I so old, so changed?
Oh, Frank, please don’t say that—please don’t—please, please please! I beg of you!”
She tried to reach him and put a hand on his arm, but he stepped aside.
To him, as he looked at her now, she was the antithesis of anything he could brook, let alone desire artistically or physically.
The charm was gone, the spell broken.
It was another type, another point of view he required, but, above all and principally, youth, youth—the spirit, for instance, that was in Berenice Fleming.
He was sorry—in his way. He felt sympathy, but it was like the tinkling of a far-off sheep-bell—the moaning of a whistling buoy heard over the thrash of night-black waves on a stormy sea.
“You don’t understand how it is, Aileen,” he said.
“I can’t help myself.
My love is dead. It is gone.
I can’t recall it.
I can’t feel it.
I wish I could, but I can’t; you must understand that.
Some things are possible and some are not.”
He looked at her, but with no relenting.
Aileen, for her part, saw in his eyes nothing, as she believed, save cold philosophic logic—the man of business, the thinker, the bargainer, the plotter.
At the thought of the adamantine character of his soul, which could thus definitely close its gates on her for ever and ever, she became wild, angry, feverish—not quite sane.
“Oh, don’t say that!” she pleaded, foolishly.
“Please don’t. Please don’t say that.
It might come back a little if—if—you would only believe in it.
Don’t you see how I feel?
Don’t you see how it is?”
She dropped to her knees and clasped him about the waist.
“Oh, Frank!
Oh, Frank!
Oh, Frank!” she began to call, crying.
“I can’t stand it! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I shall die.”
“Don’t give way like that, Aileen,” he pleaded.
“It doesn’t do any good.
I can’t lie to myself. I don’t want to lie to you.
Life is too short.
Facts are facts.