The Plastic Age - Percy Marks (i have read the book .TXT) 📗

across the campus, past the lake, and into the woods. Finally they sat down on a smooth rock.

“I’m awfully sorry to bust up your party, Hugh,” Cynthia began slowly, “but I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve just got to beat it.” She paused a moment and then looked him square in the eyes. “Do you love me?”

For an instant Hugh’s eyes dropped, and then he looked up and lied like a gentleman. “Yes,” he said simply; “I love you, Cynthia.”

She smiled almost wearily and shook her head. “You are a good egg, Hugh. It was white of you to say that, but I know that you don’t love me. You did yesterday, but you don’t now. Do you realize that you haven’t asked to kiss me today?”

Hugh flushed and stammered: “I⁠—I’ve got an awful hangover, Cynthia. I feel rotten.”

“Yes, I know, but that isn’t why you didn’t want to kiss me. I know all about it. Listen, Hugh.” She faced him bravely. “I’ve been running with a fast crowd for three years, and I’ve learned a lot about fellows; and most of ’em that I’ve known weren’t your kind. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one in a couple of months.”

“I’m twenty and lots wiser about some things than you are. I’ve been crazy about you⁠—I guess I am kinda yet⁠—and I know that you thought you were in love with me. I wanted you to have hold of me all the time. That’s all that mattered. It was⁠—was your body, Hugh. You’re sweet and fine, and I respect you, but I’m not the kid for you to run around with. I’m too fast. I woke up early this morning, and I’ve done a lot of thinking since. You know what we came near doing last night? Well, that’s all we want each other for. We’re not in love.”

A phrase from the bull sessions rushed into Hugh’s mind. “You mean⁠—sex attraction?” he asked in some embarrassment. He felt weak and tired. He seemed to be listening to Cynthia in a dream. Nothing was real⁠—and everything was a little sad.

“Yes, that’s it⁠—and, oh, Hugh, somehow I don’t want that with you. We’re not the same kind at all. I used to think that when I got your letters. Sometimes I hardly understood them, but I’d close my eyes and see you so strong and blond and clean, and I’d imagine you were holding me tight⁠—and⁠—and then I was happy. I guess I did kinda love you, but we’ve spoiled it.” She wanted desperately to cry but bit her lip and held back her tears.

“I think I know what you mean, Cynthia,” Hugh said softly. “I don’t know much about love and sex attraction and that sort of thing, but I know that I was happier kissing you than I’ve ever been in my life. I⁠—I wish that last night hadn’t happened. I hate myself.”

“You needn’t. It was more my fault than yours. I’m a pretty bad egg, I guess; and the booze and you holding me was too much. I hate myself, too. I’ve spoiled the nicest thing that ever happened to me.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears. “I did love you, Hugh. I loved you as much as I could love anyone.”

Hugh put his arms around her and drew her to him. Then he bent his head and kissed her gently. There was no passion in his embrace, but there was infinite tenderness. He felt spiritually and physically weak, as if all his emotional resources had been quite spent.

“I think that I love you more than I ever did before,” he whispered.

If he had shown any passion, if there had been any warmth in his kiss, Cynthia might have believed him, but she was aware only of his gentleness. She pushed him back and drew out of his arms.

“No,” she said sharply; “you don’t love me. You’re just sorry for me.⁠ ⁠… You’re just kind.”

Hugh had read “Marpessa” many times, and a line from it came to make her attitude clear:

“thou wouldst grow kind;
Most bitter to a woman that was loved.”

“Oh, I don’t know; I don’t know,” he said miserably. “Let’s not call everything off now, Cynthia. Let’s wait a while.”

“No!” She stood up decisively. “No. I hate loose ends.” She glanced at her tiny wristwatch. “If I’m going to make that train, I’ve got to hurry. We’ve got barely half an hour. Come, Hugh. Be a sport.”

He stood up, his face white and weary, his blue eyes dull and sad.

“Just as you say, Cynthia,” he said slowly. “But I’m going to miss you like hell.”

She did not reply but started silently for the path. He followed her, and they walked back to the fraternity house without saying a word, both busy with unhappy thoughts.

When they reached the fraternity, she got her suitcase, handed it to him, declined his offer of a taxi, and walked unhappily by his side down the hill that they had climbed so gaily two days before. Hugh had just time to get her ticket before the train started.

She paused a moment at the car steps and held out her hand. “Goodbye, Hugh,” she said softly, her lips trembling, her eyes full of tears.

“Goodbye, Cynthia,” he whispered. And then, foolishly, “Thanks for coming.”

She did not smile but drew her hand from his and mounted the steps. An instant later she was inside the car and the train was moving.

Numbed and miserable, Hugh slowly climbed the hill and wandered back to Norry Parker’s room. He was glad that Norry wasn’t there. He paced up and down the room a few minutes trying to think. Then he threw himself despairingly on a couch, face down. He wanted to cry; he had never wanted so much to cry⁠—and he couldn’t. There were no tears⁠—and he had lost something very precious. He thought it was love; it was only his dreams.

XXIII

For several days Hugh was tortured by doubt and