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Updated: August 12, 2024
She had the strange feeling that even yet they had not met they had not met, yet had known each other always. He ignored her, she felt, as one ignores the best friend, the oldest associate, on the ground that no explanations are necessary, no misunderstanding possible. Harboro sat down beside Sylvia. When he spoke there was a note of easy raillery in his voice.
Let us say that a sin is an act deliberately committed with the primary intention of inflicting an injury upon some one. It becomes an ugly matter. Very few people sin, if you accept my definition." Harboro was regarding him with dark intentness. "The trouble is," resumed the other man, "we often use the word sin when we mean only a weakness.
His voice had become husky. She drew back from him as if she were performing a little rite. Her eyes filled with tears. "Harboro!" she cried, "do you need to ask me that?" Her fingers sought his face and traveled with ineffable tenderness from line to line. It was as if she were playing a little love-lyric of her own upon a beautiful harp.
He might have made you think of the Trojan Horse innocuous without, but teeming with belligerent activity within. He seemed to be laughing maliciously, though without movement or noise. Then he was all frank joyousness again. "Good!" he exclaimed. He smote Harboro on the shoulder. "Good!" He stood apart, vigorously erect, childishly pleased. "Enjoying a holiday?" he asked.
When he again regarded her with dark disapproval she went on: "What I wanted to tell you, Harboro, is that my heart has been like a brimming cup for you always. It was only that which ran over that I gave to another. Runyon never could have robbed the cup a thousand Runyons couldn't. He was only like a flower to wear in my hair, a ribbon to put on for an outing.
If necessary, she would tell him other things about herself about the reasons she had given Fectnor, long ago, to believe that she was not a woman to be respected. Harboro would not forgive her, in that event. He would leave her. But he would not go to his death. It seemed to her quite clear that the only unforgivable sin she could commit would be to permit Harboro to die for her sake.
Then he leaned forward and rattled the whip in its place, and the horses set off at a sharp trot. There was a rule against trotting on the bridge, but there are people everywhere who are not required to observe rules. Harboro paused, ready to lift his hat. He liked the General Manager's wife. But the occupants of the carriage passed without seeing him.
There were a few miserable-looking soldiers, with shapeless, colorless uniforms, loitering in front of the cuartel as Harboro and Sylvia passed. The indefinably sinister character of the building affected Sylvia. "What is it?" she asked. "It's where the republic keeps a body of its soldiers," explained Harboro. "They're inside locked up."
The politicians knew that getting Fectnor was almost equivalent to getting the office. It was more economical to pay him his price than to employ uncertain aids who would have sold their services much more cheaply. Harboro and Sylvia were sitting on their balcony the second night before the election. A warm wind had been blowing and it was quite pleasant out of doors.
The other discovery was made by Harboro, and it was to the effect that Sylvia had at last blossomed out as a perfectly ideal wife. A certain listlessness had fallen from her like a shadow. Late in the winter it was about the time of the ride to the Quemado, Harboro thought it must have been a change had come over her. There was a glad tranquillity about her now which was as a tonic to him.
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