Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-04-26
CHAPTER XIII.

The Wanderer was not inclined to deny
the statement. which accorded we'll enough
with his total disbelief of the story Unorna
had told him. But he did not answer her
Immediately, for he found himself in a very
difficult position. He would neither do
anything in the least discourteous, beyond
admitting frankly that he had not believed
her, when she taxed him with incredulity;
nor would say anything which might serve
her as 4 stepping stone for returning to the
original situation. He was, perhaps, in
clined TO blame her somewhat less than at
first, and her changed manner in speaking
of Kalka somewhat encouraged his
leniency. A man will forgive, or
at least condoue, much harshness
that it has been exhibited out of love Tor
himself; and man of the Wanderers
character cannot help feeling a sort OF chiv-
alrous respect and delicate iorbearance for
woman who loves him sincerely, though
against his win while he will avoid with an
almost exaggerated prudence the least word
which could be interpreted as an expression
of reciprocal tenderness He runs the risk,
at the same time of being thrust into tine
ridiculous position of a man who, though
young, assumes the manner and speech of
age, and delivers himself of grave, paternAl
advice to one who looks upon him, not as
an elder, but as her chosen mate.
After Unorns had spoken, the Wanderer,
therefore, held his peace. lie inclined his
head a little as though to admit that her
plea of madness might not be wholly imag-
mary; but he said nothing. He sat looking
at Israel Ksfka's sleeping face and out
stretched form, inwardly wondering whether
the hours would seem very long before
Keyork Arabian returned in the morning
and put an end to the situation. Unorna
waited in vain for some response, and at
last spoke again.
YES" she said, 'T was madl You can
not understand it. 1 daresay you cannot
understand how 1 can speak of it now, and
yet cannot help speaking"
Her manner was more natural and quiet
than it had been since the moment of Kaf-
ka's appearance in the cemetery. The
Wanderer noticed the tone. There was an
element of real sadness in it, with a lesveu
of disappointment and a SAVIOR of heartfelt
contrition. She was in earnest now, as she
had been before, but in a different way. He
could hardly refuse her a word in answer.
"Unorna," he said gravely, remember
that you are leaving me no choice. / cannot
leave you alone with that poor fellow, and
so whatever you wish to say, must hear.
But it would be much better to say nothing
about what has happened this evening
better for you and for me. Neither men
nor women always mean exactly what they
say. We are not angels Is it not best to
let the matter drop?"
Unorna listened quietly, her eyes upon
his face.
You are not so hard with me as you
were," she said, thoughtfully, after mo-
ment's hesitation, and there was touch of
gratitude in her voice. As she felt the dim
possibility OF a return to her former rela-
tions of friendship with him. Beatrice and
the scene in the church seemed to be very
far away. Again the Wanderer found 1t
difficult to answer.
"It is not for me to be hard, as you call
it." be said quietly. There was scarcely
perceptible smile on his face, brought there
not by any feeling of satisfaction, but by
his sense of his own almost laughable per.
plexity. He saw that he was very near
being driven to the ridiculous necessity of
giving her some advice of the paternal
kind. SIT Is not for me, either to talk to
you of what you have done to Israel Kafka
to-day" he continued. "Do not oblige me
to say anything about It. It will be much |
safer. You know it all better than do,
and you understand your own reasons, as I |
never can. If you are sorry for him, now,
30 much the better-you will not hurt him
any more if you can. help it. If you will |
say that much about the future, shall be
very glad, 1 confess"
"Do' not think that there is anything