Arms and the Woman

"Go and give the rose to her to whom you gave the bud," said Gretchen.

The half smile struck me as disdainful. "You are a strange wooer."

"I am an honest one." I began plucking at the bark of the tree. "No;

I shall let the rose wither and die on the stem. I shall leave

to-morrow, Gretchen. I shall feel as Adam did when he went forth from

Eden. Whatever your place in this world is it is far above mine. I

am, in truth, a penniless adventurer. The gulf between us cannot be

bridged."

"No," said Gretchen, the smile leaving her lips, "the gulf cannot be

bridged. You are a penniless adventurer, and I am a fugitive from--the

law, the King, or what you will. You are a man; man forgets. You have

just illustrated the fact. His memory and his promises are like the

smoke; they fade away but soon. I shall be sorry to have you go, but

it is best so."

"Do you love any one else?"

"I do not; I love no one in the sense you mean. It was not written

that I should love any man."

"Gretchen, who are you, and what have you done?"

"What have I done? Nothing! Who am I? Nobody!"

"Is that the only answer you can give?"

"It is the only answer I will give."

There was something in Gretchen's face which awed me. It was power and

resolution, two things man seldom sees in a woman's face.

"Supposing, Gretchen, that I should take you in my arms and kiss you?"

I was growing reckless because I felt awed, which seems rather a

remarkable statement. "I know you only as a barmaid; why, not?"

She never moved to go away. There was no alarm in her eyes, though

they narrowed.

"You would never forgive yourself, would you?"

I thought for a moment. "No, Gretchen, I should never forgive myself.

But I know that if I ask you to let me kiss your hand before I go, you

will grant so small a favor."

"There," and her hand stretched toward me. "And what will your kiss

mean?"

"That I love you, but also respect you, and that I shall go."

"I am sorry."

It was dismal packing. I swore a good deal, softly. Gretchen was not

in the dining-room when I came down to supper. It was just as well. I

wanted to be cool and collected when I made my final adieu. After

supper I lit my pipe (I shall be buried with it!) and went for a jaunt

up the road. There was a train at six the next morning. I would leave

on that. Why hadn't I taken Gretchen in my arms and kissed her? It

would have been something to remember in the days to come. I was a

man, and stronger; she would have been powerless. Perhaps it was the

color of her eyes.