Another Woman's House by Mignon G. Eberhart

twisting it around, seeking loopholes. He was silent for a moment. She knew his mind was groping back into that dark and ugly labyrinth of Alice’s trial and conviction. He said at last, “I was right when I said there is no past. It’s still here; it may hurt you sometimes. I’ll try to prevent it. I may not always be able to. But there’s the future, Myra. For you and me.”
    So easy, so easy to say yes! Two lives instead of one; she and Richard on one side of the balance—Alice, frail and delicate and lovely, on the other. Alice’s life was a living waste, in any case. It had been so since the night she had killed Jack Manders. There was nothing that Richard or any of them could do about that; so why not take the happiness that offered itself for her, for Richard?
    He put his arms around her, hard and tight again, defiantly really, and she clung to him, allowing herself one moment out of time.
    But the defiance admitted the truth.
    â€œNo.
    â€œWhy not? There’s no reason …”
    â€œBecause you are you, Richard. If you were not I couldn’t love you so much.”
    â€œ ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more?’ ” quoted Richard and laughed abruptly. And quite suddenly sobered and said flatly, “Well, all right then. This is to be all, is it, Myra? For all our lives? I can’t come to see you, you know.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWe can’t even meet in town, drive, have dinner together.”
    A sense of recklessness caught her with swift argument. It was not possible, it was not right, to give up everything life promised. She cried, “We’ll see each other. Sometimes …”
    His arms tightened again around her. Over his shoulder she could see the evening star which was very bright now; a segment of sky was blue. In the far distance the peepers made a high shrill music. The scent of the spring night and of the sea lay all around them. She thought, this moment is mine. I can be sure of this.
    Yet, it was farewell, too.
    Richard lifted his head and looked at her slowly in the soft dusk and kissed her. The bright evening star and the tranquil darkening sky, the sound of the peepers and the scent of the spring night all drifted together and there was only the man who held her as if he would never let her go.
    But he did let her go. And, as she stood there, holding to him, knowing that whatever he decided, whatever he said at that moment she would not have the will to resist, he said, “It’s no good, Myra. I suppose I knew it from the beginning. There’s not a chance for us. Where’s the dog? Oh, yes, come on, Willie.” He whistled and the little dog scrambled into sight. Richard said slowly, “If we can’t marry, we can’t see each other. You should have a rich and full life, everything. Not in any sense a half life, a surreptitious, shoddy kind of thing. It’s not good enough for you. I think …” he paused, studying the sandy path at his feet. Finally he went on, “I think if I asked you to, now, you’d undertake that kind of life. You’re so good, Myra, and so generous. I think you’d take the secret, hidden kind of thing that would enable us to meet—at little quiet restaurants, hoping nobody we know would see us, a drive together along the country roads, hoping we’d not meet somebody who knew my car, who might catch a glimpse of you. There’s Thorne—the man whose wife is in prison for life. Who’s the woman with him? Myra Lane!’ Everywhere we went, everything we did would be suddenly an evil sort of thing, distorted, not as we want it to be. You’re not a worldly person. I don’t think you realize what it would mean to both of us, but mainly to you. I’ve seen more of the world and of men and women than you have. You can’t have that sort of life. You’re too good for it. And I love