What is it?"
Bartley bent lower over the fire. "It's the whole thing that troubles
me, Hilda. You and I."
Hilda took a quick, soft breath. She looked at his heavy shoulders and
big, determined head, thrust forward like a catapult in leash.
"What about us, Bartley?" she asked in a thin voice.
He locked and unlocked his hands over the grate and spread his fingers
close to the bluish flame, while the coals crackled and the clock ticked
and a street vendor began to call under the window. At last Alexander
brought out one word:--
"Everything!"
Hilda was pale by this time, and her eyes were wide with fright. She
looked about desperately from Bartley to the door, then to the windows,
and back again to Bartley. She rose uncertainly, touched his hair with
her hand, then sank back upon her stool.
"I'll do anything you wish me to, Bartley," she said tremulously. "I
can't stand seeing you miserable."
"I can't live with myself any longer," he answered roughly.
He rose and pushed the chair behind him and began to walk miserably
about the room, seeming to find it too small for him. He pulled up a
window as if the air were heavy.
Hilda watched him from her corner, trembling and scarcely breathing,
dark shadows growing about her eyes.
"It . . . it hasn't always made you miserable, has it?" Her eyelids fell
and her lips quivered.
"Always. But it's worse now. It's unbearable. It tortures me every
minute."
"But why NOW?" she asked piteously, wringing her hands.
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