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diff --git a/21883-8.txt b/21883-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..603800e --- /dev/null +++ b/21883-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8065 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of We Three, by Gouverneur Morris + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: We Three + +Author: Gouverneur Morris + +Illustrator: Henry Hutt + +Release Date: June 21, 2007 [EBook #21883] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WE THREE *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: "Dark against the light illumination of the hall stood +Lucy Fulton."] + + + + + + +WE THREE + + +BY + +GOUVERNEUR MORRIS + + + +AUTHOR OF THE SEVEN DARLINGS, ETC + + + +ILLUSTRATED BY + +HENRY HUTT + + + +GROSSET & DUNLAP + +PUBLISHERS + +NEW YORK + + + + +COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY + +D. APPLETON AND COMPANY + + +COPYRIGHT, 1913, 1916, BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE COMPANY + + + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS + + +"Dark against the light illumination of the hall + stood Lucy Fulton" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_ + +"They met with an honest kiss, like lovers long parted" + +"It's what you and I stood up and promised before + a lot of people" + +"'You are all that counts . . . you know that'" + + + + +WE THREE + + +I + +When I know that Lucy is going to Palm Beach for the winter I shall go +to Aiken. When I know that she is going to Aiken, I shall go to Palm +Beach. And I shall play the same game with Bar Harbor, Newport, +Europe, and other summer resorts. So we shall only meet by accident, +and hardly ever. We've been asked not to. + +But I ought to begin further back. It would do no harm to begin at the +beginning. There is even a king's advice to that effect. Said the +king in "Alice," "Begin at the Beginning, go on to the End, and then +stop." + +In the beginning, then: When I was a little boy, old enough to be +warned against playing with matches, I began of course to think them +desirable playthings, and whenever I got a chance played with them. +And I never: + +(1) Set myself on fire, + +(2) Nor anybody else, + +(3) Nor the house in which my parents lived with me. + +And yet I had been told that I should do all of these things; not often +perhaps, but certainly every once in a while. + +Of course it is possible to do all sorts of things with a match. You +may light it and blow it out, for instance. Lighted, you may put it in +your mouth without burning yourself. And if you do this in the dark, +the light will shine through your cheek, and if you are a fat child you +will give the impression of a Hallowe'en lantern carved from a pumpkin. +Or you may light the butt of your father's cigar and learn to smoke. +It is one of the cheapest ways. Or you may set fire to the lower edge +of the newspaper which your grandfather is reading in the big armchair +by the window, and I guarantee that you will surprise him. Here is an +interesting play: Light a match, blow it out, and, while the end is +still red hot, touch the cook firmly on the back of the neck. If she +has been reading Swinburne she will imagine that she has been kissed by +a policeman. When she finds out that she hasn't she will be +disappointed, and perhaps you will be disappointed, too. Oh, a match +is a wonderful thing, even the wooden ones that are made on earth! You +may burn a whole city to the ground. And once, I am told, there was a +man who lighted a match and fired a cannon that was heard around the +world. + +To play with matches is one thing: to play with the fire that you have +lighted, or helped light, is another. And it was not until I played +with fire that I did any real harm in this world (that I know about). +Playing with fire I singed a moth; I singed a butterfly, and I burnt a +man. + +If this was just the story of my own life I wouldn't be so impertinent +as to hope that it would be interesting to anybody. It isn't my story, +and no matter how much I may seem to figure in it, I am neither its +hero, nor, I think, the god who started the machinery. + +Thirty-five years ago I took to live with me a middle-aged couple, who +had begun to fear that they were going to die without issue. Though I +say it that shouldn't, I was very good to them. I let them kiss me and +maul me from morning till night. Later, when I knew that it was the +very worst thing in the world for me, I let them spoil me as much as +they wanted to. They even gave me the man's name, without my consent, +and I didn't make a row. But I _did_ lift my head with sufficient +suddenness and violence to cause the Bishop of New York to bite his +tongue, and to utter a word that is not to be found in the prayer book. +I was christened Archibald Mannering Damn. + +But I have never used the surname with which the good Bishop so +suddenly and without due authorization provided me. Certain old +friends, acquainted with the story, do not always, however, show my +exquisite taste and reticence in this matter. Only the other day in +the Knickerbocker Club I overheard some men talking. And one of them, +in a voice which I did not care for, said "Archibald Mannering--damn!" +And conveyed without other word or qualification than the tone of his +voice, that he had very little use for me. Well, I can thank God for +putting into the world some other people who have not that man's +clearsightedness and excellent powers for passing judgment upon his +fellow men. + +So the man gave me his name and took other liberties with me, and the +woman gave me her watch to break (I broke it) and took other liberties, +and a second woman who called herself Nana took still other liberties +with me--liberties which made me furiously angry at the time, and which +even now would make me blush. + +Sometimes I was sorry that I had taken the man and the woman to live +with me. At times they bored me. They seemed to me intelligent, and I +had to choose my words carefully, and talk down to them as to a pair of +children. But I got used to them gradually. And I got to like them, +especially the woman. I even formed the habit of forgiving her things +offhand without being asked to--Oh, my dear parents, I am only trying +to poke a little fun at you! And you weren't middle-aged when you came +to live with me. I only imagine that you must have seemed so to a baby +whose eyes had only just come undone. Thirty-five years have rolled +by--bringing, taking, and, alas! leaving behind them cares and +vicissitudes, and still you seem no more than middle-aged to me. You, +father, with your fine, frank weather-beaten face of a county squire +with the merry smile and the wit which makes you so welcome wherever +you go, even those ghosts of sorrow deep in your eyes don't make you +look more than middle-aged. And yet I think no hour of your life +passes in which you don't recall, with a strangling at your throat, how +my little sister, Pitapat, came in from the garden drooping, to you, +almost always to you, when she was in trouble, and climbed and was +lifted into your lap, and cuddled against you--Oh, I can't write the +rest. But I tell you that I, too, sir, have recalled little Pitapat, +and how she died, all on a summer's day, in her "Dada's" arms, and that +the thought of what she was to you, and what such another child might +be to such another man, has twisted even my tough entrails, and caused +me for once, at least, to draw back from a piece of easy and enticing +mischief, and play the man. + +And you, mother, with your face of a saint, haven't I always poked fun +at you? You don't look more than middle-aged either. You look less. +And yet you too have your sorrow that never dies. For you were fitted +to be a mother of men, and you have brought into the world only a +lovely flower that soon withered away, and a Butterfly. + +I don't call myself a Butterfly from choice. I only do it because I'm +trying to be honest, and I think that it's just about what I am. But +do we really know what a butterfly is? Have we given that ornamental +(though I say it--that shouldn't) and light-minded (though I say it +with shame) and light-hearted (though the very lightest of hearts must +weigh _something_, you know) insect a square deal? I confess that only +a light-hearted insect would perpetrate such a sentence as the +foregoing; but wouldn't it be fun if, when the whole truth comes to be +known about butterflies, we found them more or less self-respecting, +more or less monogamous, occasionally ratiocinative, carelessly kind, +rather than light-hearted creatures, and not insects, in the accepted +sense, at all? It would surprise me no more to learn that an insect +was really a man, than that a man, even so great and thinking a man as +Mr. Bryan for example, was an insect. + +If the butterfly at lunch flits from flower to flower; and the +butterfly at play flits from butterfly to butterfly; so then may the +butterfly (at what he is pleased to call his work) flit from theme to +theme, from subject to subject, from character to character, from plot +to counterplot, and crosswise and back again. If more autobiographists +realized how many difficulties may be avoided in this way, far fewer +autobiographists would be heroes and many, many more would be +butterflies. + + + + +II + +Even before I was born the richer people of New York did not inhabit +that city the year round, but their holiday excursions were far shorter +than now, both in distance and duration. To escape the intenser heats +of summer the moneyed citizen of those days sent his family to the +seaside for six weeks or to the mountains. Later his family began to +insist that it must also be spared the seasons of intense cold. And +nowadays there are families (and the number of these increases by leaps +and bounds) who if they are not allowed to escape from everything which +seems to them disagreeable or difficult, get very down in the mouth +about it. Even the laboring classes are affected. The rich man wishes +to live without any discomfort whatever, and the poor man wishes to +live without doing any work whatever. That, I think, is at the root of +their most bloody differences of opinion, for the poor man thinks that +the rich man ought to be uncomfortable, and the rich man thinks that +the poor man ought to work. And they will never be in agreement. + +Given enough money it becomes easier and easier to run from one +difficulty or discomfort into another. And even the laborer finds it +continually easier to make a living without earning it. + +When I was a little boy, Newport and Bar Harbor were a long way from +New York. To Europe was a real voyage; while such places as Palm Beach +and Aiken were never mentioned in polite society, for the simple reason +that polite society had never heard of them. But nowadays it is not +uncommon for a man to have visited all these places (and some of them +more than once) in the course of a year. Europe which was once a +foreign country is now but as a suburb of New York. And I myself, I am +happy to say, have been far oftener in Paris than in Brooklyn. + +The modern butterfly thinks little of flying out to Pittsburg or +Cleveland or St. Louis for a dance or a mere wedding. He attends +athletic events thousands of miles apart, and knows his way from the +front door to the bar and card room of every important club between the +Jockey Club in Paris and the Pacific Union in San Francisco, excepting, +of course, those clubs in his own city to which he does not happen to +belong. + +My father, because of my little sister's fragility, was one of the +first men I know to make a practice of going South for the winter, and +to Long Island for the spring and autumn. In summer we went to Europe +or Bar Harbor, for with justice he preferred the climate of the latter +to that of Newport or Southampton. We were less and less in our town +house, and indeed so jumped about from place to place, that although my +mother succeeded in making her other houses easy and indeed charming to +live in, I have never known what it was to have a home. And indeed I +cannot at this moment call to mind a single New York family of the +upper class that lives in a home. + +My mother is old-fashioned. She would have preferred to live in one +place the year around, to beautify and to ennoble that place; to be +buried from it as she had been married into it, and to leave upon it +the stamp of her character, incessant industry and good taste; to fill +it gradually with the things she loved best or admired most, and to be +always there, ready for the children or the grandchildren to come home. + +But she gave up this ambition at a hint of delicacy in a child's face, +and a note of anxiety in a husband's voice, and took to packing trunks +to go somewhere, and unpacking them when they arrived. Of course she +couldn't do this to all of them, for we moved with very many, but there +were certain ones to which she would let nobody put hand but +herself--my father's, my sister's, mine, and her own. And you always +knew that if you had accidentally left letters and notes in your +pockets that you didn't want seen, they wouldn't be. + +My father would almost abuse her for doing so much work with her own +hands, and for always being up so early, but in secret he was very +proud of her; and to see her dressed for the dance or the opera, eager +and gay as a girl, slender and beautiful, her head very high and +fearless, you would have thought that she had never done anything in +all her life, but be pampered and groomed and sheltered. + +Upon one good old-fashioned custom they were in firm agreement. They +always slept in the same bed; they do still. And they will lie in the +same grave. + +Whichever home it was that we happened to be inhabiting, unless out of +season because of my sister, it was always pretty well filled with +people. My father loved people, and my mother got to love them for his +sake. For my part, until very recently, I have always hated to be +alone. Flint is a gloomy solitary, but when he meets with Steel there +are sparks. + +I suppose there are brooding lovers of knowledge in this world who are +fonder of their own than of any other company. But most people can +only think half thoughts and need other people to complete them. It is +amusing enough to knock a ball against a wall, and a wonderful help in +the perfection of strokes, but it is far more amusing to face somebody +across a net and play lawn tennis. + +My father and mother always hoped that I would be a great man, and even +now they hope that I may one day turn over a new leaf. Unfortunately +there was no greatness in me, and as for those leaves of my life which +I have not yet read, they are uncut, and I am always mislaying the +paper knife. And whether the matter on the next leaf or the one after +will be new or not, is for the future to know. You cannot, I think, +teach a child to grow great. + +But you can teach a child to dance and swim and shoot and sail, and to +ride and to be polite, and to keep clean, and by example rather than +precept, to be natural and unaffected! It was hoped then that I would +be a great man; in the event, however, of my turning out to be nothing +but a butterfly, I was brought up to be as ornamental a butterfly as +possible. I cannot remember when I wasn't being prepared and groomed +to take, without awkwardness, a place in society. + +Well-bred grown-ups talk to children, without affectation or +condescension, as if they too were grown-ups. My parents were always +entertaining people, and it was assumed without comment that I too was +host no less than they. Twice a day I had to be in evidence: at tea +time, face and hands shining clean, hair carefully brushed, my small +body covered with crisp white duck, black silk stockings, on my legs, +and patent leather pumps on my feet. No conversation was required of +me, but if I had forgotten a name and the face that went with it, I was +allowed to feel uncomfortable; allowed to feel as a grown man feels +when he has accidentally said something that would better have been +left unsaid. It was my duty to go accurately from guest to guest, to +shake hands, and to say perfectly naturally not "Hunh!" as so many +modern children do, but "How do you do, Mrs. Lessing," or "How do you +do, Mrs. Green," and not to stare and fidget or be awkward. Then I had +my tea, discolored hot water with sugar and cream, my buttered toast, +and a bit of cake. After that my mother would make it exceedingly easy +for me to get away. My second public appearance was just before +dinner. Then, dressed once more in white and patent leather, I came to +the drawing-room to wish and be wished good night. + +To obey my mother, when there was no real temptation to disobey her, +was very easy, and nobody ever saw me look sulky or balky when I was +told to do this or that. It was easy to obey her, because from the +first, she took it absolutely for granted that she was going to be +obeyed. Of course it was different with general orders designed to +cover long periods of time, for here the tempter had his chance at me, +and I was forever falling. "Stop kicking the table leg, Archie," is an +order easily and instantly obeyed. For "Never kick a table," I cannot +say the same. I used to divide her orders into two classes: The now +nows and the never nevers. The latter were mostly beyond me. Though +you may halt one sinner in the act of throwing a stone at another, +there is little reason to believe that he will not soon be trying his +aim again. + +I like children when they are polite and a little reticent, when they +are not too much in evidence, and when the whole household is not made +to revolve about them. + +Fulton once said to me, in that shy yet eager way of his: "If only I +could arrest my babies' development; keep them exactly as they are; on +tap when I wanted them, and hibernated like a couple of little bears +when I was busy and mustn't be disturbed! They should never change, +while I lived, if I had my way. And I'd promise not to abuse my +privileges. I'd only take 'em out of the ice box when I absolutely +needed them and couldn't do without them." + +It was the first time that I ever was in the Fulton house that he said +that. The two babies, a boy and a girl, Jock and "Hurry," two +roly-polies, with their mother's eyes and mischievous smile, had been +brought in to the tea table to be polite and share a lump of sugar. +And they had been very polite, and had shown the proper command over +their shyness, and had shaken me decorously by the hand, and made their +funny grave little bows and asked me how I did. And I had said +something in praise of the little girl to her face, and Fulton had +reproached me a little for doing so. + +"In India," he had said, "it is very bad luck to praise a child to its +face, very bad luck indeed." + +"I'm so sorry," I said, when the children had gone. "I ought to have +remembered that even very little babies in the cradle understand +everything that's said to them. May I praise them now? Because they +are the two most delicious babies in the world. I'd like to eat them." + +"When I'm tired or worried," said Fulton, his eyes lighting with +tenderness, "Hurry always knows. And she comes and climbs into my lap +and leans against me without saying a word, and she keeps creepy-mouse +still until she knows that I'm feeling better. Then she chuckles, and +I hug her. Sometimes I wish that she was made like a tennis ball; then +I could hug her as hard as I wanted to without hurting her." + +While he was speaking, Mrs. Fulton looked all the time at her husband's +face. I remember thinking, "God! If ever some woman should look at me +like that!" Her mouth smiled mischievously, just the way little +Hurry's smiled, and her eyes--I won't try to describe the love and +tenderness that was in them, nor the dog-like faithfulness--were eyes +that prayed. And they were the deepest, most brilliant blue--like +those Rheims windows that the Beast smashed the other day. She laughed +and said: "Hurry and her father don't care about each other--not _at_ +all." + +Fulton lifted his eyes to hers and it was as if "I _love_ you" flashed +from each to the other in that crumb of time. His face reddened a +little, and hers became more rosy. They weren't a bit ashamed of being +obviously in love with each other. I think they rather prided +themselves on it. + +"Why _Hurry_?" I asked. "Is it a real name? Of course I remember +Hurry Harry in Cooper----" + +"Her real name is Lucy," said Fulton, "same as her Mumsey, but they +look so ridiculously alike that I was afraid I'd get 'em mixed up. And +so we call her Hurry, because she always hurries; she hurries like mad. +Same as her Mumsey." + +"Do you," I asked, "hurry like mad?" + +She gave a comical hurried nod that made me laugh right out, and Fulton +said: + +"She has smashed the more haste the less speed fallacy all to pieces." +You could see that the man was glowing with pride. And he began to +boast about her, and though she tried to stop him, she couldn't help +looking perfectly delighted with herself, like some radiant child in +the new dress for the party. + +When Fulton had finished his eulogy, a long one, filled with humor, +character drawing, and tenderness--something in his voice rather than +his words, perhaps, always gave people the feeling that he had a +wonderfully light touch, and a point of view at once sentimental and +humorous--I reproached him, in turn, for praising a child to her face. + +"In India," I said, "it's considered beastly unlucky." + +Mrs. Fulton sprang to his defense. "I'm not a child," she defied me, +"I'm a married woman." + +They took me to the front door themselves, and watched me as far as the +gate. I know this, because although I did not look back, it was when I +reached the gate that I heard the door close, and I thought: "Now if I +looked back, and the door was transparent, I'd see a pretty picture. +It's a thousand to one shot that he's caught her in his arms and is +kissing her and that she's perfectly delighted." + + + + +III + +It is not easy for me to keep away from Lucy Fulton either on paper or +in real life. The latter I have to do, for I think that I am able to +keep a promise, and I ought to do the former as much as I can, if I am +to tell her story and her husband's and my own in their true +proportions. Otherwise we should but appear as one of those "eternal +triangles" to which so much of French dramatic genius has been devoted; +whereas it appears to me, though not, I am afraid, to Fulton, that if +our relations to each other could be symbolized by a figure, that +figure would not be a triangle; but a cross, let us say, between a +triangle and a square. + +Fulton and I are the same age. We were in the same class at Mr. +Cutter's school for a year or two, and were quite friendly at times. +But except that we both collected postage stamps, we had no tastes in +common. It is almost enough to say that he was full of character and +reserve, and that I was unstable and kept the whole of my goods +displayed in the shop window. I cannot imagine thirteen-year-old +Fulton in love with fifteen-year-old Nell or Nancy, but I was +frequently in love with both at the same time, or so fancied myself, +and, almost consciously, as it seems, he was conserving his powers of +loving for the one great passion of his life, when he should give all +that a man may have in him of purity and faith and purpose. But when +my time for a great passion came, though I gave all that I had to give, +it is true, still that _all_ was not the whole that I might have had; +it was only all that was left, all that had not already been given. +But there was enough at that to hurt and do harm. + +Fulton was studious and enamored of knowledge for its own sake. I was +lazy and only interested in such pieces of knowledge as I felt might be +of use to me. But we both stood well in our classes; he because he had +brains and knew how to use them, and I because the Lord had gifted me +with a capital sight memory. + +Perhaps I should do better to state who our intimates were in those +days, and what has become of them. Fulton's most intimate friend was a +boy named Lansing, who made a practice of cutting open dead things to +see what was inside of them. Today Lansing (of course that's not his +real name) is so great a surgeon that even the man in the street knows +him by sight. My most intimate friend was Harry Colemain, and we were +mixed up in all sorts of deviltries together. To me he has been always +a faithful friend and a charming companion, but of his career, what can +I say that is really pleasant? Nothing, unless I modify each statement +by pages of explanation and reminiscence. As he danced the old dances, +so he dances the new, to greater perfection than any man in New York. +He is gorgeously built, and has a carriage of the head, an eye and a +smile, and a way with him that can shake a man from the water wagon or +a woman from her virtue. He smokes like a factory, and drinks like a +fish, yet at a moment's notice he is ready for some great feat of +endurance--such as playing through the racket championship, or swimming +from Newport to Narragansett Pier. He might have been--anything you +please. But what can I say definitely that he _is_? Well, at this +very moment, he is co-respondent in a divorce suit which is delighting +the newspapers, and it looks as if he'd have to marry her in the end. +And that's a pity because they were tired of each other before they got +found out, and she's not the kind of woman that his friends are going +to like. + +Fulton's friend Ludlow has just published the best book on the birds of +New York, past and present, that was ever written. My friend Pierson +died the other day of pneumonia. As a boy he had the constitution of +an ox, and ought to have thrown off pneumonia as I would throw off a +cold in the head, but the doctors say that he had simply burned up his +powers of resistance with overdoses of alcohol. You never saw him +drunk or off his balance or merry in any way; he simply and slowly +soaked himself till his insides were like sponges dipped in the stuff. +And Pierson's not the only man in my circle who has gone out like that; +and as they went so will others go; strong and well Saturday to the +casual eye, and dead Monday. + +This is not the time to take up those great issues which have risen +between those who are tempted by drink and fall, and those who are not +tempted and don't. But I am very sure of this: that a vast majority of +the men who make the world go round drink or have drunk; and that when +at last the world comes to be governed by those who don't and haven't, +it will be even worse governed, more pettily and meddlesomely, than it +is at present. And that is saying a good deal, even for a butterfly. + +You mustn't gather that Fulton and his friends were a goody-goody set +of boys. They erred and strayed from their ways at times, like the +worst of us. There was Browning for instance, a born experimenter, who +so experimented with cocktails one fine morning (at the corner of Sixth +Avenue and Forty-third Street) that he marched into Madame Castignet's +French class, drunk as a lord, full of argument, and was presently +expelled from the school. It was commonly said that the disgrace of it +would hound him through life. Far from it! Those who at this day pack +Carnegie Lyceum to hear him play the violin, and who listen, laughing +and crying, and comparing him to the incomparable Kreisler, perceive no +disgrace in that youthful episode, rather they see in it an early +indication of the divine temperament trying to shake off its fetters +and be free. + +One boy that I went to school with is on the famous Meadowbrook team; +another has played in Davis Cup matches; another brought home a First +from the Olympic games. In the pack that I run with there is even one +Roper who achieves a large income by writing fiction for the magazines, +but even he isn't in the least like that brilliant little circle to +which Fulton belonged. For we feel that we are paying him an immense +compliment when we say, "Would you ever suspect that he was an author?" +Good at games, fond of late hours and laughter, with the easiest and +most affectionate good manners, he is quite convinced, if you can get +him to talk shop, at all, that art for art's sake is bunk, and that +there is more amusement and inspiration to be had on Bailey's Beach and +in the Casino at Newport than in the whole of Italy. + +I must set Roper off against Fulton's friend Garrick. Poor Garrick +slaved and slaved and reached after perfection. Some say that in the +thin little volume that he succeeded at last in getting published, and +leaving behind for the delight of posterity, he actually touched +perfection. Perhaps he did. I don't know. But I do know this: that +he had enough talent and energy to make a living, and didn't. That he +loved his art more than his wife and family, and that they all starved +together. Is it worse to starve your family for love of liquor than +for love of art? Roper loves his liquor but he fights against it and +makes a handsome income; Garrick gave himself up body and soul to his +love for art, and if it wasn't for his friends Mrs. Garrick would be +working in a sweatshop. + +Fulton and I discussed him once (when I was going to the Fulton house a +good deal), but we had to give it up as a topic. Fulton saw something +fine and generous in the man, and could not speak of him without +emotion, while I found it impossible to speak of him without contempt. + +Fulton himself fell away from his friends in later years, not +spiritually but physically. Lucy Fulton simply had to go on living +among the people with whom she had been brought up, and in the manner +to which she was accustomed; and Fulton seeing her pine and grow +sorrowful in other conditions, and bored and fretful, gradually fell +into her ways and wishes, as a gentleman shouldn't (but does always), +and made his new friends among those who are born to be amused. Her +love and happiness were far more important to him than changed ways and +the injured feelings of old friends. Once he talked to me about this +(for we grew quite intimate). I remember he said: + +"Somehow I don't seem to see my old friends any more or keep up with +them. If anything happened to Lucy, I'd be absolutely alone in the +world, except for the babies. A man does wrong to drift away from +those who he knows by a thousand proofs care for him, on any pretext or +for any cause." + +And yet he had come to wear the hallmarks of the pack, and to talk the +language of the world that only asks to be happy and amused. He took +to games seriously and played them well, and you couldn't point to him +as one of those cautious persons who never by any chance drank even one +cocktail too many. Indeed, he often became hilarious and witty, and +added no end to the gayety of occasions, and was afterward privately +reproached by Lucy. Coming from another, the hilarity and wit would +have rejoiced her, but, coming from her nearest and dearest, her mind +narrowed, and the cold fear that women have of liquor possessed her. + +To me it has always been comical, even when I didn't feel well myself, +to see the husbands come into the club after a big night; each wearing +upon his face, as plainly as if they had been physical scratches, the +marks of the wifely tears which he had been forced to witness, and of +the reproaches which he had been forced to hear, and yet each trying to +look as if he was the master of his own house and his own destiny. No +well-born woman, however cold and calculating, can silently put up with +her husband's drinking, yet how easily she overlooks it in any other +man! How many excuses she will find for him: + +"Why, he's quite wonderful! Of course I knew at once that he was +tipsy, but he was perfectly sensible--perfectly." + +If men didn't drink, women wouldn't have so many parties to go to or so +much money to spend. How many teetotalers let their wives spend them +into ruin and disgrace? It is the drinking American who indulges his +wife and lets her make a fool of herself and him. It's his +unconfessed, and perhaps unadmitted, remorse seeking a short cut to +forgiveness. + +It seems that I played too much pool and billiards for a small boy; and +got into too much city mischief, for I learned at the end of a +delightful Newport summer that I was to finish my schooling, not at Mr. +Cutter's, but at Groton. + + + + +IV + +In those Groton days I let matches strictly alone; I neither played +with them, nor used them to light cigarettes with. I was vaguely +ambitious to be great and splendid, and I was down on purposeless boys +who didn't behave themselves. + +Lucy's brother was in my form. She used to come to visit him, with her +parents, in their car. Even for Groton parents the Ludlows were +enormously rich, or if they weren't enormously rich, they were enormous +spenders. + +Lucy was seven years our junior, but even in those baby days she had +the laughing mouth and the praying eyes that were to play such havoc +later on. She was a child of the world; natural, straightforward, and +easy-going. + +Lucy at nine was so pretty, so engaging, and had so much charm and +magnetism that I remember having regretted, very solemnly, and with +youthful finality, that we did not belong to the same generation. I +was sorry that she was not fifteen or sixteen like myself; so that I +could be in love with her and she with me! + +Once Lucy was so sick that they thought she was going to die, and +Schuyler was called home from school. The whole school was affected, +so strong and vivid was its memory of an engaging and fearless child. +I remember being sorrier than ever that I had been confirmed into a +system which makes disease contagious instead of health, and asking one +of the masters how he reconciled the death of a kid like that, whom +everybody loved, with his conception of an all-wise and all-merciful +God. He answered, it has always seemed to me very lamely, that if we +didn't believe that all was for the best, in this best of all worlds, +we should never get anywhere. + +All for the best! If we are to forgive the Power that sets him on, why +not the murderer himself who does the real dirty work? If _all_ is for +the best, so then must the component parts of all (each and every) be +for the best. In short we can do no wrong in this best of worlds. Oh, +what grim, weak-minded nonsense they prate and preach! + +There was hand-clapping when the Rector told us that Schuyler Ludlow's +little sister was going to get well, and presently Schuyler returned to +school somewhat self-important, as becomes one who has sat at meat with +famous doctors, and talked of them _in extremis_. + +The first rime I rode with Lucy through the Aiken woods, I recalled +this famous illness of hers, and I think it had something to do with +all that happened afterward. + +We had lost ourselves, a little, as you do at Aiken, among the infinity +of sand trails beyond the Whitney drive. We knew where we were, of +course, and we knew where Aiken was, but every trail that started +toward it fetched up short with a wrong turning. It was one of those +bright hot days in late February, when a few jasmine flowers have +opened, and you are pretty sure that there won't be any more long +spells of rain or freezing cold. Even Lucy, who loved riding, was +content to sit a walking horse, and bask in the sunshine. + +I mentioned her famous illness, and she remembered nothing about It. +"I'm always too busy," she said, "with what's going on right now to +remember things." + +"Why," I said, "Schuyler was sent for, and you were given up half a +dozen times. Don't you really remember at all?" + +"They wouldn't have told me I was being given up right and left, would +they? Probably it didn't hurt much, and I was given a great many +presents. It seems to me I do remember one particularly great time of +presents, when lots of old gentlemen came to see me." + +"I hoped you'd remember better," I said; "because at the time it seemed +to me one of the most important things that had ever happened in the +world." + +Lucy listened eagerly. She didn't in the least mind a conversation +that was all about herself. + +"The whole school," I said, "was touched with solemnity. Now you +wouldn't take me for a praying man, would you?" + +"I don't know. Wouldn't I?" + +"Whether I am or not," I said, "doesn't matter now, because I have so +little to pray for. But at that time I went down on my knees and +prayed that you'd get well." + +"You were very fond of Schuyler, weren't you?" + +"And am. But that wasn't the reason. I don't know just what the +reason was. Maybe I was looking forward to this ride, and didn't want +to miss it! I was ashamed to be seen praying, so I prayed in bed. But +I was afraid that wouldn't do any good, so when my roommate had gone to +sleep I got up in the dark and went down on my marrowbones on the bare +icy floor, and I prayed like a good 'un." + +Lucy's mouth laughed, but her eyes prayed. + +"Then, maybe," she said, "if it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't be here +now." + +"I'd like to think that," I said; "but there must have been lots of +others who prayed. I should like nothing better than a Carnegie hero +medal, with the attached pension, but the jury require proofs." + +"It's funny," she said, "to think of you kneeling on the icy floor and +praying for me." + +"For your _recovery_!" I corrected her. + +"I think it would have been nicer if you had prayed for me. Didn't +you--even a little?" + +"If I had realized that I could be seven years older than you and still +belong to the same generation, my prayers would have been altogether +different, and there would have been more of them." + +"Where do you think _this_ road goes?" + +She turned into it without waiting for an answer, and urged her pony +into a gentle amble. + +I caught up with her and said: "I know this trail. It will take us +straight to the Whitney drive. Then we can go right up over the hill +and come out by Sand River." + +"It's fun," she said, "to find somebody that likes riding. Everybody's +mad about golf. John rides whenever I ask him, but it's cruel to +separate him from the new mid-iron that Jimmie made for him. And he +won't let me ride alone." + +Poor John Fulton showed little worldly wisdom in making that +prohibition. + +"I'd rather ride than eat," I said. "Will you ride again tomorrow?" + +She quoted the Aiken story of the lonely bachelor in the +boarding-house. He is called to the telephone, hears a hospitable +voice that says, "Will you come to lunch tomorrow at one-thirty?" and +answers promptly, "You _bet_ I will! . . . Who is it?" + +Just before you reach the Whitney drive there is a right angle turn +from the trail which we were following; it back-tracks a little, errs +and strays through some fine jasmine "bowers," and comes out at the old +race track. + +"It's early," I said; "let's go this way." + +She wheeled her pony instantly. + +"Do you always do what you're told?" + +She bowed her head very humbly, and meekly, through a mischievous +mouth, said: "Yes, sir!" And added: "Except when awfully long." + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"That the most fun is beginning something, and then beginning something +else before you get all tired out and tangled up. Never say no until +you are sure that what's been proposed isn't any good. _Then_ back +out!" + +"Don't you ever say no?" + +"I 'spect I was very badly brought up. Nobody ever said no to me." + +We wound up a hot hillside among tangled masses of jasmine, in which +here and there were set star-like golden flowers, whose gardenia-like +perfume mixed with the resinous aromatic smell of the long-needle +pines. I rode a little behind, on purpose, for I love to see a pretty +woman turn her head and look backward across her shoulder. She has no +pose more charming, unless it be when she stands before the "laughing +mirror" and lifts her hands to her hair. + +"I have often wondered," I said, "how you happened to marry Fulton. +But now I understand. It was because you couldn't say no to anybody, +and yet he couldn't by any possible chance have been the first to ask. +What has become of the first poor fellow to whom you were unable to say +no? . . . And all the others?" + +She looked back at me over her shoulder, her eyebrows lifted in an +effort of memory, which, with a mischievous laugh, she presently +abandoned. + +"Why," she said, "as far as I know: 'One flew east and one flew west +and one flew over the cuckoo's nest.'" I wish I could convey by words +the lilt of her clear, fearless, boyish voice, the sparkle of mischief +and daring in her eyes, and deep beneath, like treasures in the sea, +that look of steadfastness, of praying, that made you wonder if she was +really as happy and as carefree as she seemed to be, and not some loyal +martyr upon the altar of matrimony. + +To look at, she was but a child in her teens, slender and virginal, and +yet I had it from Fulton himself that her babies had weighed nine +pounds apiece and that she had nursed them both. "She looks down," he +said, "with contempt, on bottle babies." + +He was just coming in from golf, with the smug smile of one who has +played a good round, on his face. His buggy boy, Cornelius Twombly, a +black imp of twelve, who carried a razor in his hip pocket, wore also +the smug look of one who has caddied to victory, and won certain +nickels and dimes from another caddie upon the main and minor issues of +the match. + +As Fulton climbed out of his rickety, clattering runabout, Mrs. Fulton +slipped from her smart pony, and they met with an honest kiss, like +lovers long parted, and at once each began to tell the other all about +everything. + +[Illustration: "They met with an honest kiss, like lovers long parted."] + +"If they love each other like that," I thought, "why doesn't he always +ride with her, or why doesn't she always play golf with him?" + +I heard such expressions as "And the new mid-iron" . . . "The jasmine +will be in full bloom in a week." "As we were going to Black Jack" +(this is the eighth hole at Aiken, where the holes are all so good that +they are spoken of by name instead of by number). "Mr. Mannering is +the _nicest_ person to ride with," etc., etc. + +Then Fulton remembered my existence. "You'll not go without a drink!" +he said. + +Mrs. Fulton's eyes confirmed the invitation, so I chucked the reins +over my pony's head to make him think that he was tied to a +hitching-post, and went into the house with them. But I did not stay +long. Fulton wanted to talk golf; Mrs. Fulton wanted to bathe and +change into skirts, and I wanted to go away by myself and think. I +wanted to study out why it was that toward the end of our ride +together, whenever Mrs. Fulton spoke to me or looked back at me over +her shoulder, my pulses seemed to quicken--and my breathing. + + + + +V + +We were at the beginning of those parlous times when the Democrats, +having come into power upon a wave of impassioned idiocy and jealousy, +were beginning to make us poor at home and despised abroad. A +schoolmaster president, with three cabinet officers plucked by the hair +from a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, had put a temporary end to all our +best qualities as a nation, with the possible exception of the power to +laugh at jokes. + +It was a hectic winter in Aiken. Some of the richest members of the +Aiken Club were in trouble. There was some talk of making two and a +half cents a point bridge standard instead of five. Even my own father +asked me to go a little light, if I could, and not be led into any +foolishness. "I've not been hit yet," he said, "but you can't tell +what the fools will do next." You heard very few bets made. There was +less drinking. It was as if certain men were going into training in +order to be at their very best when the worst times should come. + +Fulton's Cartridge Company, with its headquarters in New York and its +mills in Bridgeport, Connecticut, had not paid a dividend in some time. +He had only his salary as president (twenty or twenty-five thousand a +year, I believe), and it was with the drastic intention of cutting that +salary in two, and otherwise paring the company's expenses to the +quick, that he went north the first week in March. + +I dined with them the night before he left. There were only four of +us: the Fultons, myself, and one of those charming Southampton girls, +with sea-blue eyes, and sunburned hair, who swim like seals, play +tennis like men, and fear nothing. Evelyn Gray was the name of this +particular one. I liked her immensely, and was not altogether sorry to +learn that she was to keep Lucy Fulton company until Fulton returned. + +But it was a somewhat depressing dinner. There was an atmosphere in +the cheerful blue and white dining-room, the white panels of the doors +and wainscoting had a narrow border of blue, like impending fate. +Fulton, it seemed, had never yet been away from home over night. And +this was a record of devotion which he was very loath to break. Even +more loath to see it broken was Lucy Fulton. + +"I tell him," she said, "that if he goes it will be the beginning of +the end." She spoke in jest, and although Fulton laughed back at her +you could see that what she had said troubled him and hurt him. "As a +matter of fact," she went on, "he's been looking for an excuse for some +time. And now he thinks he's found one, but it wouldn't pass in a +court of chivalry. He could _write_ to his old directors just as well +as not. Oh, you needn't think you're the only one who's going to have +a gay time. You needn't be surprised to hear that I, too, have left +home in the company of a dark and fascinating foreigner. And anyway I +shall give a dance and open all the champagne in the cellar." + +"There are only two quarts and a pint," said Fulton, and he turned to +me. "_You've_ never been married, have you? So you don't know what +the modern woman can spend when she gets going, do you?" + +I had a pretty good idea, but did not make the admission and continued +to look interrogative. + +"Well," he said, smiling, "she just has to spend so much, she says so +herself. Then her poor husband's dividends are passed, and still she +has to spend so much; she just has to, she says so herself. Then her +poor husband's poor salary has to be cut in half, and she speaks calmly +of giving dances and opening wine. Evelyn, I count on you as an old +and tried friend. If necessary you will interpose your dead body +between Lucy and this dance of hers." + +Superficially he was very tolerant and good-natured, but you could see +that beneath the surface, nerves were jumping, and that he was in that +condition of financial and perhaps mental embarrassment which causes +molehills to look like mountains. And it was here, and now, that I +learned something new about Lucy; that even in jest she did not enjoy +having economy preached to her. She looked a little sullen for a +moment and bored. + +"What's the matter with my giving a dance?" I asked. + +"Oh, will you?" cried Lucy, the sullen look vanishing beneath a radiant +flash of child-like joy and enthusiasm. "Where will you give it? At +Wilcox's?" + +"Anywhere you say." + +Fulton tossed his hands in a merry gesture of despair. + +"Now _you're_ stung!" he said, and then to Lucy, with a swift change of +voice and manner: "I was only joking, you know that. If you want to +give a dance, give it." + +It was as if a child had cried to be taken up, and in the face of all +the tenets of modern training, had been taken up. And you knew that +with the lightest heart in the world Mrs. Fulton was going to spend +money, which her husband could ill afford. + +Shortly after dinner a loud yelling arose in the nursery, and the +Fultons hurried off to investigate and give comfort, leaving the +manipulation of a fearful and wonderful glass coffee machine to Evelyn +Gray and me. + +"Lucy," said Evelyn, "has as much idea of money as an alcohol lamp has. +She ought to be well shaken. I don't believe John has been able to lay +by a cent for a rainy day." + +"But think what a run she gives him for his money. He's the original +happy married man. Think how she works to make him comfortable, and +how she mothers the babies, and how she hangs on his words, as if +nobody else was present. Just now, most people would have sent a +servant to find out which baby was making a disturbance, and why--but +those two simply bolted for the nursery as if controlled by one brain +and one set of muscles." + +"Almost makes a bachelor wish he wasn't a bachelor!" + +"Just the same I think they are a model of what married people ought to +be. Since I got to know them pretty well, I've entirely changed my +notions of the institution." + +"I always thought it was a bully good institution,"' said Evelyn. +Through two glass tubes water, raised almost to the boiling point by an +alcohol flame, began to mount from one retort into another containing +pulverized coffee. + +"But," she went on with an affectation of melancholy, "I've never found +the right man, or he's never found me." + +"Have you looked," I asked, "diligently and with patience?" + +She lifted her fine sea-blue eyes to mine. "Not so diligently, I hope, +as to be conspicuous," she said. "But no girl fails to examine the +possibility of every man she meets--married or single--and the girl you +think the most matter-of-fact is the one who most often slips out of +bed, sits by her window, and looks at the moon." + +"Do _you_ want to get married?" + +"There, you're not merely surprised, you're shocked at the idea. Of +_course_ I do. Look now the coffee's running down into the bottom +thing. What do we do next?" + +"It's too pale," I said. "Put the lamp back and send it through again. +And pray that it don't explode. But listen--for the sake of +argument--I want to get married, too." + +"_You_! A nice husband _you'd_ make!" + +"That's what I wanted to know. So even I have had my matrimonial +possibilities examined into by matter-of-fact ladies, who sit at +windows in their nightgowns, and look at the moon! I didn't like to +ask more directly. Now tell me what's wrong with me?" + +Her eyebrows rose mirthfully. "Are we playing truths, or shall I let +you down easily?" + +"I want the truth." + +"Well, if your father lost his money, or disinherited you, you couldn't +support a wife." + +"Decision deferred," I said. + +"You would begin married life with the highest and most generous +resolutions; your subsequent fall would be all the harder for your wife +to bear. You have a certain something about you that few really good +men have, that attracts women. How long could you let that power rest +without experimenting to see if you still had it? Not very long. You +are the kind of man whose wife doesn't dare to have a good-looking +maid." + +"There," I said somewhat nettled, "you do me an injustice." + +"You are a faithful friend," she said, "but you wouldn't be a faithful +lover. Change and excitement and risk are bread and meat to you." + +"Look here," I said, laughing, "you've not only considered me, you've +considered me more than once, and seriously!" + +"You have always," she said, "charmed me far more than was good for me." + +I answered her mocking look with one as mocking. + +"I should like," I said, "nothing better than to disprove all the +things you think about me." + +"You never will." + +"Do you know what I think about myself? I think that I shall astonish +the world with one of those grand passions which make history worth +reading. The girl who gets me will be very lucky!" + +"If you ever do have a grand passion," said Evelyn thoughtfully, "and +it's just barely possible, it won't be for a girl. It won't be the +kind that brings any good to anybody." + +As they appeared in the door of the living-room, Fulton's hand dropped +from his wife's waist. She was very rosy and lovely. They looked as +if they had loitered on their way back from the nursery. + +"Mrs. Fulton," I said, "I don't like your coffee-machine because I +think it's going to explode, and we don't know how to get the coffee +out. And I don't like your friend. She _has_ exploded and scalded me +cruelly." + +"Oh," said Lucy, with the look of a knowing child, "I know, you've been +playing truths, and Evelyn's got a New England conscience." + +"If she wasn't so good-looking," I said, "I don't believe people would +have her around, after a few experiences." + +"You must try not to let her get on your nerves," said Fulton, "for I'm +counting on you to keep an eye on this household while I'm away, and to +see that those who inhabit it behave themselves." + +"I don't want any more talk about going away," said Mrs. Fulton; "the +fact is bad enough. I'm not a bit ashamed to have people know that +I'll be miserable and cross all the time you are gone." + +But she wasn't. + +I saw her the next day just after his train had pulled out. She had +taken Jock and Hurry to see him off. And all three, I was told by an +eye-witness, had wept openly and without shame. My informant, Mrs. +Deering, said that she had been reminded of Louis XVI leaving his +family for the scaffold. But when I saw them five minutes later (you +could still hear the far-off coughing of the northbound train) only +Hurry looked grave, while Jock and his mother were illustrating to +perfection the old adage, "Out of sight out of mind." + +They did not look like a mother and her children, but like a big sister +with her very littlest brother and sister. Hurry, sitting in the +middle, was being allowed to hold the reins and the whip. She was in +her usual hurry, and you could see at a glance that over any actual use +of the whip friction was constantly arising. Under the runabout could +be seen the thin dangling legs of Cornelius Twombly. I waved and +shouted. Mrs. Fulton and Jock waved and shouted back, and Hurry seized +the opportunity to strike cunningly with the whip. The horse lurched +sharply forward, the three handsome bare heads jerked sharply back, and +upon two wheels, in dust and laughter, they rounded the nearest corner +and vanished. + +I was going nowhere in particular, and so I turned my pony and trotted +after them. If they came to grief, I thought, I owed it to Fulton to +be on hand to pick up the pieces. But I didn't really expect to be +useful. I caught them just as they pulled up in front of their house, +and within a minute Hurry had commandeered me to ride her round the +block, so I took her up in front, and we had a fine ride; then Jock, +looking wistful, had to have his turn, and after that I was ordered to +leave my pony and come see the new sand pile and the new puppy. Mrs. +Fulton had gone into the house and left me to my fate, so I gave a hand +to Jock and a hand to Hurry, and they dragged me to their own +particular playground, and made me build King Solomon's palace in the +"Butterfly that Stamped," and plant a whole palace garden with sprigs +of box and Carolina cherry. And I built and planted with all my might, +and it was a lot of fun, until suddenly Hurry crawled into my lap, and +laid her head against me and went to sleep. + +"You mustn't mind her," said Jock, "she's only a little baby." + +I didn't mind her a bit; but somehow she had taken all the fun out of +me, and made me feel more serious and tender than I liked. I made her +as comfortable as I could, and presently my own crossed legs began to +go to sleep; the new puppy made a hunter-like dash into the nearest +shrubbery, Jock caught up his bow and arrow and followed, the +children's nurse scuttled off toward the kitchen wing for a cup of tea, +and I was generally abandoned to my fate. + +Once or twice Hurry twitched sharply as all young animals do in sleep; +and once she shook her head quite sharply as if a dream had required +something of her and been denied. Then she turned her face upward so +that it was in the full glare of the sun and because I had no hat I +shielded it with my hand. + +Then very quietly came Lucy Fulton and stood looking down at us, and I +looked up at her, and in that exchange of glances was promoted from an +acquaintance to an old and intimate friend of the family. Thereafter +we did not have to make new beginnings of conversations, but could if +we chose resume where we had left off. + +Hurry waked as suddenly as she had gone to sleep, and Lucy made her +thank me for taking such good care of her. But when it was time for me +to get up out of the hot sand, I couldn't at first because of the +soundly sleeping legs, and when I managed it, it was for Hurry's +benefit, with a great, and I hope, humorous exaggeration of the pains +and difficulties. + +I don't know why I drank so many cocktails that night before dinner, +nor so much champagne at dinner, nor so many whiskies afterward. I had +neither made a heavy killing at the races, nor met with disaster. If +the day differed from other days it was only in this, that I had +received the confidence of a little child and her mother; that this +confidence had touched my heart very nearly, and given me the wish to +be of use to those two, and if necessary to sacrifice my selfish self +for them. Feeling then that I was a better man than I had thought +myself, elated with that thought, and almost upon the brink of good +resolutions, I cut into a rubber of bridge, and began to drink +cocktails. Why, I shall never know. Let those who drink explain and +understand, each to himself, and let those who don't drink despise and +condemn, publicly, as is usual with them. + + + + +VI + +I was feeling very sentimental by the time I got to bed. I had had a +long, and I suppose maudlin, talk with Harry Colemain on the beauties +of matrimony. We had maintained the Fultons against all comers, as our +ideal example of that institution. + +"Just think," I said, "this very night is the first one that John has +been away from her since they were married. That's going some. That's +some record. He boarded the train like a man mounting the scaffold to +have his head chopped off." + +I almost cried over the touching picture which I felt I had drawn. + +"There aren't many couples like them," Harry agreed wistfully. "But I +bet even you and I had it in us to be decent and faithful if we'd ever +struck the right girl. Those things are the purest luck, and we've +been unlucky. But it makes me sick to be as old as we are, and no +nearer _home_ than the day we left college." + +"When that baby was asleep in my lap--did I tell you about that?" + +"Twice," said Harry mournfully. + +I didn't believe him, and related the episode again. "It was +wonderful," I said; "she was like a little stove with a fire in it. +She made me feel so trusted and tender that I could have put back my +head and bawled like a wolf. Think of having babies like that for your +very own, and a wife like Lucy Fulton thrown in." + +"She could have married most anybody," said Harry, "but she took a poor +man and a rank outsider because she--hic--loved him. That's the kind +of girl she is! Why nobody ever thought she'd settle to anybody. I +bet she broke her word to half a dozen men, before she gave it to +Fulton and kept it." + +"I wouldn't call him exactly an outsider," I said; "anyway she's made +an insider of him. Everybody likes him, and admires him. I never +thought much of him at school, but I think he's a peach now. And he +understands everything you say to him." + +"He understands a good deal more than we'll ever be able to say to him. +_He's_ got brains. Evelyn Gray is staying with them." + +"I know she is. I dined there last night. She's looking very pretty." + +"She _is_ pretty," said Harry, "and she's got pretty hands and feet; +most pretty women haven't. It's usually the woman with a face that +would stop a clock that has pretty feet." + +"Like Mrs. Deering," I suggested. + +"Exactly," he said. "But Deering is no fool." + +"How do you mean he isn't a fool?" + +"Why," said Harry, "he makes her sleep with her feet on the pillow." + +This struck me as very funny, and I laughed until I had forgotten what +I was laughing at. Harry got laughing, too, after a while. He put his +whole soul in it. Then we ordered two bottles of ale and had some fat +wood put on the fire, and watched it roar and sputter with flame as +only fat wood can. After much meditation and a swallow of the +fresh-brought ale, my mind began to harp on Evelyn Gray, and to magnify +her good looks and attractions. So I said: + +"Harry, why don't _you_ marry Evelyn?" + +For a moment he scowled at the fire. Then he spoke in a bitter voice. + +"Suppose _I_ wanted to, and _she_ wanted to," he said, "still we +couldn't." + +"Why not?" I asked innocently, expecting, I think, that his phrase was +some sort of a conundrum. + +"Why, Archie, my boy," he said, and his scowl faded to a look of +weariness and disgust, "it looks as if I might have to marry somebody +else." + +"Not----?" + +He nodded. And presently he said, "It will be best for her--of course." + +"But I haven't heard even a rumor. Has he started anything?" + +"No. He's a decentish little chap. He's trying to make up his mind +whether to divorce her or be divorced himself. It hinges on the +children. If he divorces her he'll get them, and if he lets himself be +divorced, she will." + +"It's big trouble, Harry!" + +"Yes. For we are sick and tired of each other. I'd rather like to +blow my head off." + +"But if she divorces him, you needn't marry her." + +He rose slowly to his full height and held out his hand. "I'm going to +turn in," he said. "Good night." + +"Good night, Harry. I'm sorry for you, you know that." + +"I only have my deserts," he said. "Sensible men, like you, steer +clear of family complications." + +When he had gone I had another bottle of ale in front of the fire, and +from thinking of Harry, I got to thinking of how well ale seemed to go +on top of whiskey, and to congratulating myself on my strong head and +stomach. "Nobody," I thought complacently, "would suspect that I had +been drinking." Then I got to thinking once more about Evelyn Gray. +It was time I settled down, why not with Evelyn--if only to prove to +her that the truths she had told me about myself weren't true? I began +to fancy that I had in me all the qualities that go to make the ideal +husband, and that in Evelyn were to be found all the qualities which +make the ideal wife. I could have wept to think what a good sportsman +she was, and how Pilgrim-father honest. + +On her writing-desk my mother has three little monkeys carved in ivory. +One has his hands clapped to his ears, one to his eyes, and the other +to his mouth. Their names are "Hear no Evil," "See no Evil," and +"Speak no Evil." + +I have to pass her door to get to my room. But late at night that door +is never left ajar. She is not the kind of mother who puts in a sudden +(and wholly accidental!) appearance when her son is coming home a +little the worse for wear. She has never seen me the worse for wear +(and I'm not very often), and if she has her way (and I have mine) she +never will. + +"What in thunderation started _you_ last night?" said my father at +breakfast. + +"I'm hanged if I know," I said; "but what makes you think I got +started?" + +"I'd just put out the lights in the library when you came in. You +stopped in front of the hall mirror, and said: + + "Beautiful Evelyn Gray is dead + Come and sit by her side an hour." + + +"I _didn't_," I exclaimed indignantly. + +My father began to chuckle all over like Santa Claus in the Christmas +poem. + +"You mean beautiful Evelyn Hope, don't you?" I asked. + +"Gray was the name." + +"I'd like to know what _you_ were doing up so late?" + +"Oh, we had a big night--three tables of bridge and one of poker. I +sat up late to count my winnings." + +"How much did you drop, as a matter of fact?" + +"Only about eighty." + +"Any twinges this morning?" + +"No, sir. And a better appetite than you've got." + +"I doubt that." + +And, indeed, we both ate very hearty breakfasts. + + + + +VII + +If I thought that Lucy would be melancholy during her husband's absence +I was mistaken. It was almost as if she had no husband. She was like +some radiant schoolgirl home for the holidays. But I am pretty sure +that Fulton missed her during every waking moment. He wrote to her at +least twice a day and sent her many telegrams. + +"He knows what a shocking memory I have," she explained; "and he's +afraid that I'll forget him unless constantly reminded. Wouldn't it be +funny if people only existed for us when they were actually present? +Some time I think I'm a little like that about people. Until I really +fell in love, I always loved the boy that was on the spot." + +"I've heard that you were an outrageous flirt." + +"I didn't know my own mind. _That_ isn't flirting. And when a boy +said he liked me, I was so pleased and flattered that I always said I +liked him, too, and the minute he was out of sight, I'd find that I +didn't." + +A few days of hot sunshine had worked wonders with the jasmine. Here +and there the bright golden trumpets were so massed as to give an +effect of bonfires; here and there a vine carried beauty and sweetness +to the top of a tall tree, or festooning among the branches resembled a +string of lights. The humming of bees was steady and insistent like +the roar of far-off surf. And so strong was the mounting of the sap +that already the twigs and branches of deciduous trees appeared as +through a mist of green. The buds on the laurel, swollen and pink, +looked like sugar decorations for wedding cakes. Flashes of brightest +blue and scarlet told of birds recently arrived from still farther +south. Lucy Fulton had just received a telegram from her husband, +saying that in New York a blizzard was raging. + +She was in one of her talkative moods. Her voice, clear and boyish and +far-carrying, was so easy and pleasant to listen to that it didn't +matter much what she said. Should I convey an erroneous impression and +one derogatory to a charming companion if I said that she chattered +along like a magpie? She talked about servants, and I gathered that +she had never had any trouble with servants. And I thought, "Why +should you, you who are so friendly, so frank, and so kind?" She gave +me both sides of the argument about bare legs for children versus +stockinged legs. She confessed to an immense passion for so lowly a +dish as stewed prunes, she memorialized upon dogs and horses that had +belonged to her. I learned that her favorite story was the "Brushwood +Boy," that her favorite poem was "The Last Ride Together," and that her +favorite flower was Olea fragrans, the tea-olive (she really said its +Latin name), whose waxy-white blossom is no bigger than the head of a +pin, and whose fragrance is as that of a whole basketful of hot-house +peaches. + +Had I really and truly liked the teagown she wore the other night? +Would I cross my heart to that effect? Well, then, she had made it all +herself in a day. If the worse came to the worst, if cartridges fell +upon still more evil days, she would turn dressmaker, and become rich +and famous. Wasn't it a pity that John had to work so hard, and miss +so many lovely days? + +"I think he'd be quite rich," she said, "if it wasn't for me. I was +brought up to spend all the money I wanted to, and I don't seem able to +stop. I know it isn't fair to John, and John says it isn't fair to the +babies, and I make beautiful resolutions and forget all about them." + +"But now that your husband has had to cut his salary in half, you'll +simply have to be good, won't you?" + +She admitted that now she would simply have to be good. And a moment +later she was making plans for the dance that she was going to give at +Wilcox's. + +"Why wouldn't it be a fine beginning of economy to cut that dance out?" +I asked. "Why not let me give it? I'm quite flush just now. It +wouldn't hurt me a bit." + +"I thrashed it all out with John," she said, "that same night after +you'd gone. He told me to go ahead, and not disappoint myself. I +didn't see why you shouldn't give a dance for me if you wanted to, and +I wanted you to. But John wouldn't listen to that for a minute. I +must say I couldn't see why, and I don't yet. It isn't like paying my +dressmaker's bill, or giving me a pearl necklace. I said that. And he +said no, it wasn't like that, but that it was a second cousin twice +removed." + +"I think he'd be mightily pleased if he came back and found that the +price of this dance was still to his credit in that firm and excellent +institution, the Bank of Western Carolina." + +"If we are really hard up," she said, "what does a few hundred dollars +matter one way or the other?" + +It seemed to me that I had done all that I could to save Fulton's money +for him. I had the feeling that if I continued to preach economy I +might get myself disliked, for already Lucy seemed to have lost +something of her light-heartedness and vivacity. + +"When do you give it?" I said. "Please ask me." + +"I shall give it day after tomorrow night," she said; "and I shall ask +everybody in Aiken." + +I said that she insulted me, and then we laughed like two silly +children, and light-heartedness and vivacity returned to her like two +bright birds to a flowering bush. We planned the dance in full detail. +There was just time to get a famous quartette down from Washington. +She would have the rooms decorated with wagon-loads of jasmine. Once I +had seen the expression of Hurry's face upon learning that there was to +be chocolate ice cream for dessert. In planning her dance Lucy's face +had just the same expression. When she was excited with happiness it +seemed to me that she had the loveliest face I had ever seen. + +We rode until dusk, but I could not accept her invitation for tea or a +drink, because my mother was expecting some people over from Augusta +and I had promised to come home. The people's motor, however, had +broken down, and I found my mother all alone, presiding at a tea table +that almost groaned with good things to eat. + +"What have you been doing?" she asked. + +"I've been riding--as you see. I've been riding with Mrs. Fulton." + +"Again? It seems to me you ride with her every day. You must find her +fascinating, or you wouldn't do it." + +"You read me like a book, mother. I certainly wouldn't. But don't you +think fascinating is rather a strong word? She's the most easy-going +and engaging little person in the world, but fascinating . . .? +Fascination suggests the effect of paint and fixed smiles and lights +and spangles upon old men with bald heads, the effect of the wily +serpent upon the guileless bird." + +"Aiken," said my mother, "is such a very small place." + +"It isn't like you to beat about the bush. Why not say frankly that if +I keep on I'll end by making Lucy Fulton conspicuous?" + +"Very well," smiled my mother (very gently), "that's just what I do +say." + +"Aiken," I said, "can go hang. If two people like to ride together, +for no worse reason than that they like riding and are good friends, +what earthly business is it of Aiken's? People make me sick. That's a +bromide, but it's a good one. As for Lucy Fulton, I really like her a +lot, and she really amuses me, but if I knew that I was never to see +her again in this world, I'd lose no sleep over it. Why, they are the +original happy married pair. Just think he's away from home for the +first time since they were married. They make love to each other +openly, right under your very nose, so that it's downright +embarrassing. Latterly I've had a meal ticket at their house, and +seeing them together with their babies, and noting all the peace and +trustfulness and lovingness of it, has opened my eyes (that were so +firmly shut) to the possibilities and beauties of matrimony." + +"At any rate," said my mother, "you haven't talked yourself entirely +out." + +"Well, you see, I was a listener today. Part of the time I was +lectured on the empty life I lead, and then I was almost persuaded that +I ought to fall in love with Evelyn Gray, and she with me. I shouldn't +wonder if Mrs. Fulton bullied us into it before she got through." + +"It would be a delightful marriage," said my mother with enthusiasm, +"for everybody." + +"With the possible exception of Evelyn and me." + +Just after this Evelyn, who was great friends with my mother, came in +without being announced, and said that she was famished, and that she +put herself entirely in our hands. So we fed her tea, toast, hot +biscuits, three kinds of sandwiches, and as many kinds of cakes. And +she finished off with a tumbler full of thick cream. + +"Been sitting by your window lately," I asked, "looking at the moon?" + +"_He_ thinks," Evelyn complained to my mother, "that delicate +sentiments and a hearty appetite don't go together. But we know +better, don't we?" + +"When I'm in love," I said, "I eat like a canary bird. I just waste +away. Don't I, mother?" + +"Fall in love with somebody," said my mother, "and I'll tell you." + +"Nobody encourages me," I said; "my life has been one long rebuff, I +remind myself of a dog with muddy paws; whenever I start to jump up I +get a whack on the nose." + +"Your sad lot," said Evelyn, "is almost the only topic of conversation +among sympathetic people. But of course, if you _will_ have muddy +paws----!" + +"And yet, seriously," I said; "somewhere in this wide world there must +be one girl in whose eyes I might succeed in passing myself off as a +hero. I wish to heaven I had her address--a little cream?" + +Evelyn scorned the hospitable suggestion and reached for her gloves and +riding crop. + +"I came to see you," she said to my mother, "really I did. And I've +done nothing but eat. I'm coming again soon when there's nobody here +but you, and the larder is low." + +"Good Lord!" I said, when we had reached the front gate. "Where's your +pony?" + +"I sent him away," she said; "I'm walking. And you _don't have_ to see +me home." + +"But if I want to? And anyway it's too late and dark for you to walk +home alone. Once upon a time there was a girl and her name was Little +Red Riding Hood, and once as she was walking home in the dark, after an +unusually heavy tea, she met a wolf. And he said, 'Evening, Little Red +Riding Hood,' and she, though she was twittering with fear, and in no +condition for running because of the immensely heavy tea, said, +'Evening, Mr. Wolf.'" + +"Come along then!" said Evelyn. "Already you have persuaded me that +Little Red Riding Hood is a pig, and that she is in great danger." + +But we didn't walk to the Fultons', we strolled. And the deep dusk +turned to a velvety black night, soft and warm as a garment, and all +spangled over with stars. It was one of the Aiken nights that smells +of red cedar. We passed more than one pair of soft-voiced darkies who +appeared to lean against each other as they strolled, and from whom +came sounds like the cooing of doves. Once far off we heard shouting +and a pistol shot, and presently one came running and crossed our path +far ahead, but whether a white man or a black we could not tell. + +The lights in the Fultons' yard had not yet been switched on. In a +recess cut from the foliage of a cedar tree, a white garden seat +glimmered in the starlight. + +"It's too early to dress for dinner," I said, "and it's a pity to go +indoors." + +Without a word Evelyn turned into the fragrant recess. The sudden +acquiescence of one usually so disputatious, where I was concerned, +troubled me a little, because I could not explain it to my +satisfaction. It never had happened before. I could not see her face +clearly enough to gather its expression, and so I put a cigarette in my +mouth and struck a match. It missed fire, and Evelyn said, "Please +don't. Unless you want to very much." + +"I don't want to at all," I said; "it was just habit. Cedar smells +better than tobacco, and that's saying a good deal." + +She did not answer and a few moments later I said: + +"Any other couple, I suppose, seated on this bench in these +surroundings would make a noise like the cooing of doves. But either +you or I don't say anything, like tonight walking home, or we fight. +And yet I think that if the whole truth were told we like each other +quite a good deal. I admit that you often say hard things about me to +my face, but I deny that you say them behind my back. Behind my back I +have heard that you sometimes make valiant and comradely efforts +to--well to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, so to speak." + +"I've always remembered," she said, very gently, "and never forgotten +how nice you were to me at my coming-out party, when I was so scared +and young and all. I thought you were the most wonderful man in the +world, and had the most understanding and the most tact." + +She laughed softly, but not mirthfully. + +"That night," she said; "if you'd asked me to run away with you I'd +have done it like a shot." + +"But tonight," I said, "if I so much as touched your hand, you'd turn +into an icicle, and send me about my business with a few disagreeable +truths to wear in my bonnet. And I think I know the reason. It's +because on that first night, even if I had been desperately in love +with you, I wouldn't have thought of asking you to run away with me, +whereas now I can conceive of making such a proposition to somebody +that I didn't even love two bits' worth--for no better reason than that +she was lovely to look at and that the night smelled of cedar." + +"I've only been out seven years," said Evelyn; "seven years tonight." + +"Many happy returns, Evelyn. I had no idea this was an anniversary." + +"It doesn't seem possible," she went on, "for a man to change his whole +moral nature in seven years, and to boast about that change." + +"I haven't changed and I didn't boast. If I ever knew what was right +and what was wrong, I still know. The only difference is that I used +to think it mattered a lot, and now I'm not so sure. I see good people +suffer, and wicked people triumph; and I don't think that everything is +for the best in this best of worlds; I think most things are decidedly +for the worst. Why should so many people be poor and sick and +uncomfortable? Why should so many men marry the wrong girls, so many +girls the wrong men? If we are suffering for our sins, well and good, +but what was the use of making us so pesky sinful! You won't, of +course, but most people come back at one with one's inability to +comprehend--they always say 'comprehend' the Great Design. As if they +themselves comprehended said Great Design to perfection. If there _is_ +a Great Design, no human being understands a jot of it; that's certain. +Why be so sure then that something we don't understand, and which may +not even exist, is absolutely right and beautiful? Suppose it could be +proved to us that there was no Great Design, and no Great Designer, +that the world was the result of some blind, happy-go-lucky creative +force, what would we think of the world then, poor thing? A poor woman +with nothing to live for walks the streets that she may live; a rich +woman with much to live for dies slowly and in great torture, of +cancer. If we accept the Great Design we shouldn't even feel pity for +these two women, we should say of them merely, 'How right! How +beautiful!' But we do feel pity for them, and by that mere feeling of +pity deny automatically the beauty of the Great Design, in the first +place, and its subsequent execution. I can conceive, I think, of a +lovely picture: you for instance, on a white bench, under a cedar in +the starlight, listening to my delightful conversation, but I couldn't +possibly draw the picture, let alone paint it. The Great Design, it +seems to me, had a tremendous gift for landscape, but fell down a +little when it came to people." + +"Archie," said Evelyn, "you talk like an irreverent schoolboy." + +"Of course I do," I said; "I must. I can't help myself. I am only +playing my part in the Great Design. But if you believe in that then +it is irreverent of you to say that my talk is anything but absolutely +right, just, and beautiful. So there!" + +She said nothing. And after a few moments of silence I began to feel +sorry that I had talked flippantly. + +"Evelyn," I said, "you mustn't mind poor old me." + +Almost unconscious of what I was doing I lifted her right hand from her +lap, and held it in both mine. She made one feeble little effort to +tug her hand away and then no more. In the heavens, a star slipped, +and from the heavens fell, leaving a wake of golden glory. And it +seemed after that sudden blazing as if the night was blacker than +before. + +I slid my left arm around her shoulders, and, unresisted, drew her a +little toward me, until I could feel her heart beating strongly against +mine. + +Just then the latch of the house door turned with a strong oil click, +the door swung open, and dark against the light illumination of the +hall stood Lucy Fulton. As she stood looking and listening, the strong +bell of the far-off courthouse clock began to strike. Long before the +lights and last clanging concussion, Evelyn and I had withdrawn to the +uttermost ends of our bench. + +Then Lucy turned and went back into the house and shut the door after +her. + +Evelyn had risen. + +"Good night," she said, but she did not hold out her hand. + +"Good night," I said; "I've made you late. I'm sorry." + +She started to speak, hesitated, and then said, very quietly, "Why did +you make love to me just now?" + +It seemed to me that the least I could do was to answer "Because I love +you." But the words must have choked me, and with shame, I told her +the truth. + +"I made love to you," I said, "because I have only one life to live." + +"I thought so," she said, still very quietly, and turned toward the +house. But I had caught up with her in a mere crumb of time. + +"I have been honest with you, Evelyn," I said; "will you be honest with +me? I have told you why I made love to you. I want to know; it seems +to me that I _ought_ to know. Why did you let me?" + +"Oh," she said, "I shut my eyes and pretended that we were in the +conservatory, seven years ago tonight." + +"Pretended?" + +"Yes, Archie, honestly." + +Halfway up the steps of the house she turned, and said a little +wearily, "How many lives do you think _I_ have to live?" + +"May it be long and happy." + +On that we parted, and I heard the ghost of a cynical laugh as she let +herself into the house. + +And I hurried home, inexcusably late for dinner, and filled with shame +and remorse. And ever at the back of my head was the image, not of +Evelyn Gray, vague and illusive in the starlight, but of that other +image that had stood forth dark and sharply defined against the light +of the hall. + +"Lucy Fulton," I said to myself, "you came in the nick of time. And +you are my good angel." + + + + +VIII + +On the following day I had no especial desire to see Evelyn. I thought +that it might be embarrassing for her, and I knew that it would be +embarrassing for me, so that it was not without trepidation that I +presented myself at the Fultons' house to keep a riding engagement with +Lucy. + +But you never know what will embarrass a woman and what won't. I +remember when the Jocelyn house burned down, and nothing was saved but +a piano (at which Peter Reddy seated himself and played the "Fire +Music") and a scuttle of coal, how Mrs. Jocelyn, usually the shyest and +most easily shocked person in the world, came down a ladder in nothing +but a flimsy nightgown, and stood among us utterly unselfconscious and +calmly making the best of things, until someone (it was a warm night +and there were no overcoats in the crowd) tore down a veranda awning +and wrapped her in it. And I remember a certain very rich and pushing +Mrs. Edison from somewhere in New Jersey who worked herself almost into +the top circle of society, and was then caught in a very serious and +offensive lie, which ended her social career as suddenly as a sentence +is ended by a period. I had been present when she told the lie, and I +was present when it was brought home to her, and I felt almost as sick +as if I had told it myself, and been caught. But she didn't turn a +hair. She just laughed and said, "Yes. I made it up. What are you +going to do about it?" Morgan Forbes, about whom the lie had been +told, was trembling so with rage that he could hardly articulate. He +said, "The next time you set foot in Newport you will be arrested and +prosecuted for criminal libel." And she knew that he meant it and that +her career was ended; still she didn't turn a hair. You couldn't help +admiring her. Sometimes I can't help wondering what has become of her. +She looked like one of those Broken Pitcher girls that Greuze painted; +and you'd no more have expected to find poison in her than in a +humming-bird. + +Nor did Evelyn show any embarrassment whatever. She was sitting +cross-legged on the big living-room lounge, reading a Peter Rabbit book +to Jock and Hurry, and looking cool as a lily. She looked serene and +aloof. I could not believe that only a few hours before she had felt +that, having but one life to live, nothing mattered much one way or +another. "At least," I thought, "she'll never wish to talk the thing +over, and that's a blessing!" + +Lucy, dressed for riding, was drumming on a window-pane, and looking +out into the shady, over-grown garden. I thought her expression a +little quizzical, her hand a little cool and casual, not altogether +friendly. And I was surprised to find how great an effect of +discomfort and dreariness this thought had upon me. + +"Any news from the man of the house?" I asked. + +"Be back Monday," she said. This was a day sooner than she had +expected him, but she spoke without any show of enthusiasm. Indeed, +she spoke a little wearily. I had never seen her face with so little +color in it. Evelyn, after a friendly nod, and a "You mustn't +interrupt," had gone on with her reading. + +"Are we riding?" I said. "We don't seem to be wanted here." + +"Yes," said Lucy. "Let's ride. I feel as if I hadn't exercised for a +week." She led the way to the ponies, through the garden and round the +house, almost brusquely. A Spanish bayonet pricked her in the arm, and +she made a monosyllabic exclamation in which there was more anger than +pain. Usually so gay and chattersome, she seemed now a petulant and +taciturn creature. + +But she was no sooner astride her pony than the color returned to her +cheeks, and the sparkle, if not the gayety, to her eyes. And at once, +as if her taciturnity had been a vow, to be ended when she should touch +leather, she began to talk. "I'm cross with you," she said. + +"With _me_?" + +"About last night. I thought--I don't know what I thought. But I've +liked you so much. And all your thoughts about people are kind and +generous, and I simply won't believe that it's all put on for effect, +and----" + +"What about last night? I didn't even see you. What have I done?" + +"Evelyn saw you, didn't she? Well, I saw Evelyn right afterward. A +child could have seen that she was upset, and I made her tell me all +about everything. You don't care two straws about her, really. Do +you?" + +"Does she care two straws about me?" + +"Was it just one of those things that happen when it's dark and +romantic and two people feel lonely, and----" + +"And have forgotten yesterday, and aren't considering tomorrow. But +nothing did happen. You came out on the porch, and the courthouse bell +sounded a shockingly late hour, and if we didn't remember yesterday or +consider tomorrow, at least we thought of dinner." + +"Evelyn," said Lucy, "was wild with anger and shame." + +"I am sorry." + +"You don't look a bit sorry." + +"I don't believe a man is ever sorry unless he makes real trouble." + +"Isn't losing faith in oneself real trouble?" + +"And who has done that?" + +"Why, Evelyn, of course. She thought that she was as unapproachable as +an icicle, and now she says all sorts of wild things about herself. +Just before you came in the children asked her to read Peter Rabbit to +them. She said she would, but that she didn't think she was _fit_ to." + +I burst out laughing, and so did Lucy. "And still," she cried, "you +don't look sorry." + +"I'm looking at you," I said, "and I'm hanged if I can look at you and +either feel sorry or half the time keep a straight face. And if I +could, I wouldn't. As for Evelyn I'm glad she's found out that she +isn't an icicle. Look here, I'll bet you a thousand dollars she's +engaged or married within a year, beginning today." + +"I couldn't pay if I lost," said Lucy. "But if you'll make it ten +dollars, I'll take you ten times." + +We shook hands, and then, as is usual, tried to prove that we had bet +wisely. + +"She's lonely," I said, "that's all that is the matter with her. She +sees all her friends married and established, she has the perfectly +ludicrous idea that she is not as young as she used to be. She feels +like an ambitious thoroughbred that's been left at the post." + +To this characterization of Evelyn Lucy took opposing views. Her +friend, as a matter of fact, wasn't in the least lonely, but was +excellent company for herself, and led a full life. She was not the +marrying kind. If she liked men it was only because they played the +games she liked to play better than women play them. "Imagine Evelyn," +she said, "unable to eat, unable to sleep! Imagine her sitting at the +window in her nightgown and looking pensively at the moon!" + +"Funny," I said, "but that's just what I was imagining. All girls do +it and some wives. It's as much a part of a girl as long hair, and the +fear of spiders. If a girl didn't get her moon bath now and then, +she'd just shrivel up and die." + +"Well," said Lucy, and she pretended to sigh, "there may be something +in it. But not for Evelyn." + +A moment later. + +"Listen," she said, "just to make me out wrong, and win my good money +you wouldn't----" + +"My word," I said, "you are suspicious. But I thought you were a born +matchmaker. I thought you'd be pleased if you got Evelyn and me +married!" + +"It wouldn't do at all," she said. + +"Why not?" + +"Oh," she said, "if you must know, it's because I like +you--both--better the way you are." + +And from a walk she put her pony into a brisk gallop, and I followed +suit, and caught up with her. And I was a little moved and troubled by +what she had said. For it seemed to me as if she had said it of me +alone, and that the inclusion of Evelyn in that delayed and hanging +fire "both" of her phrase had been an afterthought. + +After a pleasant uphill while of soft galloping, she signaled with her +hand, and once more the ponies walked. + +"Tell me truthfully," she said. "_Are_ you interested in Evelyn?" + +"Is it manners for a man to say he isn't interested in a girl?" + +"You couldn't say it to me, because--Oh, because I really want to know." + +"Mrs. Fulton," I said, "if I've made her think so, I deserve to be +kicked." + +"Then that's all right. She knows exactly the value to put on your +attentions. And I'm glad." + +"Why?" + +"I don't think it would be much fun to ride with a man who couldn't +bring his mind along with him, do you? Especially now that all the +flowers are popping out and it's so lovely in the woods." + +"But," I said, "you have yet to forgive me for last night." + +"There's nothing to forgive," she said. "Don't you know that though +the man always takes the blame, it's always the girl's fault. A man +can't get himself into trouble by just sitting still and looking +pensive, but a girl can. From the moment Evelyn sat on that bench +under the cedar she had only one thought. It was to see if she could +make you kiss her." + +"No, no, Mrs. Fulton," I exclaimed. "It wasn't a bit like that. +Honestly it wasn't." + +"In that case," said Mrs. Fulton, and her rosy face was at its very +gayest, "Evelyn is a liar." + +"She told you that she tried to make me?" + +"Why, what else was there for her to be ashamed about?" + +"But you said she was also angry." + +"I suppose," said Lucy mischievously, "she was angry because I came out +on the porch." + + + + +IX + +In the days of the waltz and the twostep, Aiken did not dance, but +immediately upon the introduction of the Turkey Trot and the Grizzly +Bear, she made honorable amends. Wilcox built an oval ballroom with a +platform for musicians, the big room at the Golf Club was found to have +a capital floor, and the grip of bridge whist upon society was rudely +loosened. + +Whatever may be said in derogation of the modern dances, they have +rejuvenated the old and knocked a lot of nonsense out of the young. To +my eye there is nothing more charming than a well-danced maxixe. To +dance well a man must be an athlete and a musician; to be either is +surely a worthy ambition. To dance well a girl must at the very least +have grace and charm. + +So far as I am concerned, Lucy Fulton's dance was a great success, from +the arrival of the first guest. I was the first guest. + +We had a whole dance to ourselves while Evelyn was busy with the +telephone and before the second guest arrived. In all her life Lucy +had never looked more animated or more lovely. The musicians caught +her enthusiasm and the high spirit which flowed from her like an +electric current, and at once these things appeared in their music. + +"I've only one sorrow," I said, "that I can't dance with you and watch +you dance at the same time." + +"But if you had to choose one or the other?" + +"I shall choose often," I said, "but I'm afraid others will begin +getting chosen. If I had my way there would be no other man but me and +no other girl but you, and we'd dance till breakfast time." + +"Evelyn," said Lucy, her eyes full of mischief, "could chaperon us from +a bench. She could send for her knitting." + +"Who is this Evelyn?" I said. + +And then the rhythm of the music became too much for us, and we did not +speak any more, only danced; only danced and liked each other more and +more. + +That night it seemed there were no tired men or women in Aiken. There +were no lingering groups of yarn-swapping men in the buffet, only +half-melted humanity who gulped down a glass of champagne and flew back +to the dance. We made so much noise that half the dogs in Aiken barked +all night, and roosters waked from sleep began to crow at eleven +o'clock. + +I am sure that Lucy did not give many thoughts to poor John Fulton, +worrying his head off in far New York. She had the greatest power upon +her own thoughts of any woman or man I ever knew. And always she chose +agreeable and even delightful things to think about. When I try to +make castles in the air I get worrying about details, such as neighbors +and plumbing. Sometimes I have felt that it would be agreeable to run +away from everyone and everything, and live on some South Sea beach in +an undershirt and an old pair of trousers. I can see the palms and the +breadfruit, as well as the next man. I can picture the friendly brown +girls with their bright, black eyes and their long necklaces of scarlet +flowers and many-colored shells, and I can hear the long-drawn roar of +the surf on the coral beach. But always my bright, hopeful pictures go +to smash on details. More insistent than the roar of the surf, I hear +the humming of great angry mosquitoes, and I try to figure out what I +should do if I came down with appendicitis and no surgeon within a +thousand miles. + +Lucy chose her thoughts as she would have selected neckties, choosing +the pretty ones, tossing the ugly ones aside and never thinking of them +again, or, for that matter, of the bill for the pretty neckties that +would be sent to her husband. Only very great matters, such as love +and death, could have occupied her mind against her will. + +Toward one o'clock the dance became hilarious. One or two men had the +good sense to go home, two or three others had not. One of them--the +King boy--made quite a nuisance of himself, and to revenge himself for +a snub (greatly exaggerated by the alcoholic mind), sought and found +the hotel switchboard and in the midst of a fox trot shut off all the +lights. + +But the music went right on, and so did many of the dancers. There +were violent collisions, shouts of laughter, and exclamations of pain. + +I was facing the nearest wall of the room when the lights went out and +I backed Lucy toward it, and then, groping, for I hadn't a match in my +clothes, found it and stood guard over her, one hand pressing the wall +on each side of her and my back braced. I received one thundering jolt +over the kidneys, and one cruel kick on the ankle bone. And then the +lights went on again, and we finished our dance. + +Lucy said she hated people who weren't cool and collected in time of +danger. That if she was ever in a theater when it caught fire she +hoped there'd be somebody with her, like _me_, to take care of her! +"That was the neatest thing," she said, "the way you got us out of +that. We might have been knocked down and trampled to death." + +When that dance ended, we went out of doors for a few minutes to get +cool. We took a turn the length of the narrow, sanded yard and back. +We could hear the buggy boys just beyond the tall privet hedge. Some +were cracking jokes; others were heavily snoring, and there were +whispered conversations that had to do, no doubt, with mischief, and +petty crimes. + +"It's been a grand party," I said. "By and by I'm going to give one." + +"But not for me, you know, just a spontaneous party. Oh, do please, +will you?" + +"Of course I will. But it will really be given----" + +"I mustn't know." + +"You shall never know if you mustn't." + +"I think you ought to dance once with Evelyn." + +"I have danced with her, but only half a dance. She said she was +tired--and then she finished it with Dawson Cooper." + +"I wish they'd get to like each other." + +"So do I. They're the right age. They've the right amount of money +between them, and they like the same sort of things. But it rests with +Evelyn. Dawson would fly to a dropped handkerchief as a pigeon flies +home; but he's very shy and doesn't think much of himself." + +It seemed a good omen when we entered the main hall and found them +sitting out a dance together. + +Dawson rose, but with some reluctance, it seemed to me. + +"Isn't it about my turn, Lucy?" he said. "Will you?" + +"Did Evelyn tell you you had to?" + +He blushed like a schoolboy, and Evelyn burst out laughing. + +"Then I will," said Lucy, "when I see a man trying to do his duty like +a man, I help him always, and besides you dance like a breeze." + +So they went away together, he apologizing and she teasing. + +"How about me?" I said to Evelyn. "Is it my turn?" + +"No," she said, "it isn't. I want to talk to you." + +I sat down facing her in the chair that Dawson Cooper had occupied. +"Just now," she said, "when you and Lucy went outside, I heard someone +say to someone else----" + +"Hadn't they any names?" + +"No. She said to him, 'It's about time John Fulton came back. Lucy's +making a fool of herself.'" + +Somehow I seemed to turn all cold inside. + +"Of course," said Evelyn, "Lucy knows and you know and I know, but the +man in the street who sees you ride out together day after day, and the +woman who's no particular friend of yours, who sees you dance dance +after dance together--_they_ don't know. Aiken is a small place, but +like the night, it has a thousand eyes, and as many idle tongues. If I +didn't know Lucy so well, and you so well, I'd be a little worried." + +"Why," I said, "it's a golf year. Nobody would rather ride, except +Lucy and me." + +"The reason doesn't matter," said Evelyn. "When two young people are +together a whole lot, their feelings don't stand still. They either +get to like each other less and less, or more and more. You and Lucy +don't like each other less and less. Anybody can see that, so it must +be more and more. And there's always danger in that. Isn't there?" + +I thought for a moment, and then said: "Not for her, certainly." + +"You knew Lucy when she was a little girl, but you didn't see her often +when she was growing up, did you? Her best friend never thought that +she would ever settle to any one man. She was the most outrageous +little flirt you ever saw. No, not outrageous, because each time she +thought she was really in love herself. It was one boy after another, +all crazy about her, and she about them. Then it was one man after +another. What Lucy doesn't know about moonlight and verandas, and the +sad sounds of the sea at night, isn't worth knowing. But all the time, +from the time she was fifteen, there was John Fulton in the background. +He was never first favorite till she actually accepted him and married +him, but he was always in the running, in second or third place, and +whether he won her down by faithfulness and devotion nobody knows. +Nobody quite knows how or why she changed toward him. I don't believe +she does. He was just about the last man anybody thought she'd marry. +But anyway her young and flighty affections got round to him at last, +and fastened to him. They fastened to him like leeches. No man was +ever loved as hard as she loved him when she got round to it. She made +up for all the sorry dances she'd led him. She was absolutely +shameless. She made love to him in public, she----" + +"She still does, Evelyn," I said. "I think that's one reason why I +like her so much, and him. There's nobody else so frank and natural +about their feelings for each other. Why, it's beautiful to see." + +"Archie," said Evelyn, "for short periods of time she loved some of the +men she didn't marry almost as hard." + +After a moment's silence, she said with hesitation, + +"It's a lucky thing for her that all the men she thought she cared +about were gentlemen. You must have noticed yourself how little +yesterday means to her, how less than nothing tomorrow means, until it +becomes today." + +"Well," I said, "it all bolls down to this, that after many +vicissitudes, she found her Paradise at last." + +"Who can be sure that a girl who had as many love affairs as she had +is--all through!" + +Just then Dawson Cooper came back and took Evelyn away with him. I was +immensely interested in all that she had told me about Lucy. I rather +wished that I might, for a while, have been one of the many. And I was +annoyed to learn that people were undertaking to make our business +theirs. + +"I'll tell John about it when he comes back," I said, "and if he thinks +best, why I won't see so much of her." + +But when he came back it did not seem worth while to tell him. + + + + +X + +I had forgotten that John Fulton was to return Monday, until Lucy gave +it as a reason for not being able to ride on that afternoon. + +"Even if the train is on time," she said, "I don't think I ought to go +chasing off, do you? He'd like us all to be at home together and maybe +later he'd like me to take him for a little drive." + +She was rather solemn for Lucy. I did not in the least gather that she +would rather ride with me than play around with her husband. I did +gather that she was not using her own wishes and preferences as an +excuse, but the physical fact of John's home-coming. And I learned in +the same moment that I wished his return might be indefinitely +postponed, and that Monday afternoon with no Lucy to ride with promised +to be a bore. + +I saw her doing chores in the village, Jock and Hurry crowded into the +seat beside her, just before the arrival of the New York train. From +the back of the runabout dangled the reed-like, moth-eaten legs of +Cornelius Twombley. For him, too, the return of the master was a +joyous occasion; there would be a quarter for him if he had been a good +boy, and some inner voice evidently was telling him that he had. There +was a red-and-white-striped camellia in his buttonhole, and his narrow +body was beautified by a dirty white waistcoat. + +The New York train whistled. Lucy flicked the horse with the whip, +three handsome hatless heads were jerked backward, Cornelius Twombley's +peanut-shaped head was jerked forward, the voices of Jock and Hurry +made noises like excited tree frogs, and away they all flew toward the +station. + +It was easy to picture the beaming faces that John Fulton could see +when he got off the train; it was [Transcriber's note: two words +obliterated here] hear the happy joyous voices all going at once, that +would greet him. If there was trouble in his life he would forget it +in those moments. + +I turned into the Aiken Club feeling a little lonely. How good, I +thought, it would be to be met, even once, as Fulton is being met. + +And now I must set down things that I did not know at this time, and +only found out afterward. And other things that are only approximately +true, things that wouldn't happen in my presence, but which I am very +sure must have happened. + +When Lucy drove off at such a reckless pace to get to the station +before the train, I don't think it even occurred to her that during his +absence her feelings for her husband had changed in any way. It was +he, I think, who was the first to know that there was a change. He did +not realize it at the station or on the way home. How could he with +Jock and Hurry piled in his lap, and both talking two-forty, and Lucy +at his side, trying to make herself heard and even understood? No man +could. It must have been shortly after he got home, at that moment, +indeed, when he was alone with her, and his arms went out to her with +all the love and yearning accumulated at compound interest during +absence. Habit, and the wish to hurt no one, must have carried her +arms to tighten a little about him, and to lift her lips to him. Then +I think she must have turned her head a little, so that it was only her +cheek that he kissed. I imagine that until that time Fulton's +love-making had always found the swiftest response, that with those two +passion had always been as mutual and spontaneous as passion can be; +and that now, perhaps the very first time, his fire met with that which +it could not kindle into answering flame. + +I do not think that he at once let her go. I think that first his arms +that held her so close loosened (already the pressure had all gone out +of hers). I think she was sorry they had to loosen, and glad that they +had. Then his arms must have dropped to his sides. He did not at once +turn away, but kept on looking at her, as she at him--he, hurt, he did +not know why, but brimming with love and compassion and tenderness and +a little desperate with the effort to understand and to make allowances +for whatever might have to be understood. Her great blue eyes looked +almost black for once, prayer upon prayer was in their depths, they +were steady upon his and unfaltering. It was as if she was giving him +every opportunity to look down through them and see what was in her +soul. + +It could not have been till many days later that a whole sequence of +episodes which hurt and could not be understood forced him into speech. +I think he must suddenly in a moment of trial, have come out with +something like this: + +"Why, Lucy, it sometimes seems as if you didn't love me any more." + +When she didn't answer, it must have flashed through him like a streak +of ice-cold lightning that perhaps she really didn't. + +I am glad that it is only in imagination that I can hear his next +question and her answer. There must have been a something in his voice +from which the most callous-hearted would have wished to run, as from +the deathbed of a little child. + +"_Don't_ you, Lucy?" + +And how terribly it must have hurt her to answer that question! +Considering what he had been to her and she to him, for how long a +period of time neither had been able to see anything in this world +beyond the other, and considering with even more weight than these +things their own children for whom the feelings of neither could ever +really change, I think that Lucy ought to have lied. I think she ought +to have lied with all her might and main, lied as John Fulton would +have lied if the situation had been reversed, and that thereafter, +until his death or hers, she ought to have acted those lies, with +unflagging fervor and patience. Tenderness for him she never lost. +She might, upon that foundation, have built a saintly edifice of +simulated love and passion. + +But it was not in her nature to lie. I think she probably said: "I +don't know. I'm afraid not." And then I think her sad face must have +begun to pucker like that of a little child going to cry, and I think +it is very likely, so strong is habit, that she then hurried into her +husband's arms and had her cry upon his breast. + + + + +XI + +I imagine that thereafter for a time John Fulton's attitude toward Lucy +was now dignified and manly, and now almost childlike in its despair. +Having made her love him once, he must have felt at first that he could +make her love him again. I imagine him making love to her with all the +chivalry and poetry that was in him, and then breaking off short to +rail against fate, against the whole treacherous race of women, +perhaps, and to ask what he had done to deserve so much suffering? +"Why didn't you do this to me when I was proposing? Why did you wait +till I was stone broke and worried half sick, with everything going +from bad to worse? Is it anything I've done, anything I've failed to +do? Why, Lucy, we were such a model of happiness that people looked up +to us. How can anybody suddenly stop caring the way you have? If it +had been gradual! But you were in love with me the night I went away, +weren't you? _Weren't_ you?" + +Here he catches her shoulders and forces that one admission from her, +and makes the great praying woebegone eyes meet his. Then, almost, he +pushes her away from him. + +"And I go away for a few days," he cries, "and come back and everything +is changed. I who had a sweetheart, haven't even a wife. Why have you +changed so? There must be a reason? What is it? Are you sick? Have +you eaten something that has made you forget? Have you been bewitched? +That's no fool question. Have you? Have you?" + +"Have I what?" + +"Have you been bewitched? Tell me, dear, who has done this thing to +you?" + +Again he has her by the shoulders. + +"Lucy, is there someone? Never mind the other things, just tell me +that? You've gotten to like someone else? Is that it?" + +And Lucy must have answered that there was no one else. And there is +no question but that to the best of her belief and knowledge she was +telling the truth. + +But the mere thought that there might be someone else had moved Fulton +as he had never been moved before. He once told me that even as a +little boy he had never in all his life known one pang of jealousy. He +will never be able to make that boast again. And like some damned +insidious tropical malaria, the passion has taken root in his system, +so that only death can wholly cure him. + +Like some vile reptile it had found within him some cave from which it +might emerge to brandish its hideous envenomed horned head, and into +which betimes it might withdraw. + +I can imagine no one so stupid as to question any serious statement of +fact that Lucy might make. Her eyes were wells of truth; her voice +fearless and sure, like that of some kingly boy. + +So when she said there was _no one_, Fulton, who knew her far better +than anyone else, believed her without any question. And a great +weight must have been lifted from his heart. With the truth that he +had wrung from her, I think he must have rested almost content for a +few hours. + +But contentment is far off from a man who hears the great edifice of +love and happiness which he has reared, crashing about his ears. + +He could not make up his mind to any definite course of action. Now, +calm and judicial, I hear him discussing matters with coolness, and +self-forgetfulness. + +"If there is any chance for me, ever," he would say, "it would be silly +of us to take any action which would be final. And, besides, I don't +see how I could reconcile my conscience to giving you a divorce. Or +you yours to getting one. It would be hard enough for you to lie about +the most trifling thing. You couldn't, you simply couldn't face the +court and tell them that I had been cruel and unfaithful. You couldn't +accuse me of anything so gross, and so unlike me, as the other woman +who would have to be hired for the occasion. There's another side to +it. I think the children are better off with you than with me. You're +the best mother that ever was, the most sensible and the most careful. +But I don't think I could give them up. If you and the babies were all +three to drop out of my life, I'd have nothing left but the duty of +finding money to support you. There's a certain pleasure in doing your +duty, of course, but in this case hardly enough. Honestly, dear, with +never a sight or touch of you, I simply couldn't keep things going +long." + +Then perhaps Lucy asked some such question as this: "Don't people +often, when they've stopped caring about each other, go on living +together just the same, as far as other people know? And really just +be good friends and live their own lives?" + +"This is very different. We haven't stopped caring about each other. +You've stopped caring about me. I care about you, just as I did in the +beginning, and always shall. We _couldn't_ lead separate lives under +the same roof. God knows I feel old enough, but I'm still a young man, +and like it or not, you are still my wife. It is something to own the +shell that once contained the pearl." + +Another time he goes hurrying through the house, prayer-book in hand, a +thumb marking the marriage ceremony. He has been brooding and brooding +and snatching at straws. + +"Read this, Lucy. Just look it over. It's what you and I stood up and +promised before a lot of people. I'm glad I looked it up. You'll see +right away that it's a contract which nobody could have the face to +break. I want you to read it over to yourself." + +[Illustration: "'It's what you and I stood up and promised before a lot +of people.'"] + +Finally she does, just to please him, in the sad knowledge that no good +will come of it. + +"You'd forgotten, hadn't you? But just see what you promised. Didn't +you mean to keep these promises when you made them?" + +"Oh, of course I did. Why ask that?" + +"But now you want to back out." + +Then the old argument that a promise which one is powerless to keep +isn't a bona fide promise and cannot be so regarded. Fulton sees that +for himself presently. + +"No, of course," he says. "If you don't love me, you can't make +yourself by an effort of will. And if you don't honor me . . ." + +"You _know_ I do." + +"How about the other thing, the promise to obey? That is surely in +your power to keep." + +She admits that she can keep that promise; but she leaves herself a +loophole. She does not say that she _will_ keep it. + +And so the words of the prayer book shed no light on the situation, and +I shouldn't wonder if Fulton raged against the book, and flung it into +a far corner, and was immediately sorry. + +For a man situated as Fulton was, some definite plan of action is +necessary; and to my mind the one that would be best would be one in +which the least possible consideration for the woman should be shown. +When Lucy began to play clench-dummy with her own life, with her +husband's love, and with the institution of marriage, Fulton, I think, +would have made no mistake if he had stripped her to the skin and taken +a great whip to her. + +Her whole life had been one of self-indulgence. She had indulged +herself with Fulton's love till she was glutted with it; that she was +the mother of two children may, perhaps, be traced to self-indulgence, +and surely it must be laid down to self-indulgence that she was not the +mother of more than two. Her self-indulgence kept Fulton poor and in +debt, and it had come to this: that her impulse to self-indulgence +would now stop at nothing unless circumstances should prove too strong +for it. + +It is not the gentle, faithful, self-sacrificing man who keeps his +wife's love; it never was. It was always the man who had in him a good +deal of the brute. + +But, except in a moment of insanity, a man does not go against his +nature. Fulton has too good a brain not to think that if Lucy were +locked up for a week or so, and fed on bread and water, good might come +of it. But his was not the hand to turn the key in the lock. He could +no more have done it than he could have struck her. This sudden +failure of her love for him was only another evidence of that +wastefulness and extravagance which had so often hurt him financially. +Surely it must have occurred to him more than once to publish notices +in the newspapers to the effect that he would only be responsible for +his own debts. He must, I think, have threatened the thing from time +to time, knowing in his heart that he could never bring himself to put +it into execution. + +I wonder how Fulton felt when hard upon the knowledge that she no +longer loved him, he received the bill for the dance which she had +given against his wishes, and in full knowledge of his present +financial predicament? + +She had treated him so badly that it is a wonder of wonders that he +kept on loving her. + +For one thing they deserve great credit. Even Evelyn Gray, a guest in +the house, did not know that there was any trouble between them. All +she thought was that owing to financial and other worries, which time +would right, Fulton seemed a little graver and less enthusiastic than +usual. + +Nor was I any wiser. I had not, of course, so many chances of seeing +the two together, but I saw as much of Lucy as ever, for we rode +together nearly every day. + + + + +XII + +If nothing more definite had come of all this, I should now see but +little significance in those long afternoons of riding with Lucy. She +could leave the substance of her trouble behind, as easily as she could +have left a pair of gloves, and she took into the saddle with her only +a shadow of the tragedy that was glowering upon her house. + +I see now, that, at this time, we must have begun to talk more +seriously and upon more intimate topics; that we laughed less and that +there were longer silences between us. We began to take an interest in +the trees and flowers among which we rode, to learn their names, and to +linger longer over those which did not at once strike the eye. + +And I see now that Lucy talked more than usually about her husband. It +was as if by doing constant justice to his character she hoped to make +up to him for her failure of affection. In his domestic relations he +was a real hero by all accounts. Didn't I _think_ they lived nicely? +She thought so, too, but it wasn't her fault. She was so extravagant, +and such a bad manager, it was a wonder they could live at all. She +admitted so much with shame. But if I could understand how it is with +some men about drink, then it must be easy for me to understand how it +is with some women about money. Oh, she'd spent John into some +dreadful holes; but he had always managed to creep out of them. How he +hated an unpaid bill! It wasn't his fault that there were so many of +them. For her part (wasn't it awful!) they filled her neither with +shame nor compunction. And he'd been so fine about people. His +instinct was to be a scholar and a hermit. But she loved people, she +simply couldn't be happy without them, and (wasn't it fun?) she had had +her way, and now John liked people almost as much as she did. And he +had a knack of putting life and laughter into the simplest parties. + +Sometimes when we had finished riding, we had tea in the garden. It +would be turning cool, and she would slip a heavy coon-skin coat over +her riding things; and there was a long voluminous polo-coat of John's +that I used to borrow. Evelyn nearly always joined us, John not so +often. Sometimes Dawson Cooper came. He was getting over his shyness. +Sometimes he was quite brazen and facetious. It looked almost as if he +was being encouraged by someone. + +Of the sorrow that was gnawing at John Fulton's heart I saw no sign. +He was alert, hospitable, humorous often, and toward Lucy his manner +was wonderfully considerate and gentle. If I had guessed at anything, +it would have been that the wife was in trouble and not the husband. +He could not sit still for long at a time, but he did not in the least +suggest a man who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His +activity and sudden shiftings from place to place and from topic to +topic were rather those of a man who superabounds in physical and +mental energy. + +At this time he did not know whether he and Lucy were going to separate +or not. If they should, he was already preparing dust to throw in the +world's eyes. He let it be known that at any moment he might have to +go to Messina in the interests of his cartridge company (this was a +polite fiction) and that he might have to be gone a long time. +Business was a hard master. He had always tried to keep it out of his +home life, but in times like these a man must be ready to catch at +straws. + +And Lucy, just her head and fingers showing from the great coon-skin +coat, would give him a look that I should not now interpret as I did +then. I thought that it made her feel sick at heart even to think of +his going to some far-off place without her! + +"Speaking of far-off places," I said once, "Gerald Colebridge is taking +some men to Burlingham to play polo. He's asked me, and I'm tempted +almost beyond my strength. What does everybody think?" + +"I'd go like a shot," said Dawson Cooper. "Gerald will take his car +and everything will be beautifully done; and California just about +now!" Here he bunched his fingers, kissed them and sent the kiss +heavenward. + +"Wish _I_ was asked!" exclaimed Evelyn. + +"Ever been to California?" Fulton asked. "Because if not, go. And +still I've thought sometimes that spring in Aiken is almost as lovely." + +Poor fellow, it must have been quite obvious that he didn't think so +any more. But then Evelyn, Dawson, and I were blind and deaf, at this +time. + +"When," said Lucy at last, "would you go, if you go?" + +"Why, in a day or two," I said. "I'd probably leave day after tomorrow +on the three o'clock and join the party in New York." + +"Oh, dear," she said, "I'll have to take up golf then. You're the only +man in Aiken who likes to ride. And John won't let me ride alone." + +"Why not," said he, "ask me to ride with you?" + +"Oh, I know you'd do it," she said. "You're a hero, but I'm not quite +such a brute." + +I wish I could have gone to California. + +I rode with Lucy the next afternoon, for the last time as we both +thought. As we came home through Lover's Lane, the ponies walking very +slowly, she leaned toward me a little, turned the great praying eyes +upon me, and said, her mouth smiling falteringly: + +"Please don't go away. I hate it. Everything's gone all wrong with +the world. And if you're not my friend that I can talk to and tell +things to, I haven't one." + +"Are you serious, Lucy?" + +"Oh, it's no matter!" she said lightly, and began to gather her reins, +preparatory to a gallop. + +"It's only that it didn't seem possible that you could need one +particular friend out of so many. Of course, I stay. Will you tell me +now what it is that's gone all wrong?" + +"Yes," she said with a quickly drawn breath. "I've had to tell John +that I don't love him any more, and don't want to be his wife." + +If one of those still and stately pines which lend Lover's Lane the +appearance of a cathedral aisle had fallen across my shoulders, I could +hardly have been more suddenly stunned. + +When I looked at her the corners of her lovely mouth were down like +those of a child in trouble. + +"Please don't look at me," she said. + +We rode on very slowly in silence. Sometimes, without looking, I could +not be sure that she was still crying. Then I would hear a little +pathetic sniffling--a catching of the breath. Or she would fall to +pounding the thigh with her fist. + +But she pulled herself together very quickly and borrowed my +handkerchief and when we reached the telegraph office her own husband +could not have known that she had been crying. + +She held my pony while I telegraphed Gerald Colebridge that I could not +go to California with him. + +Far from looking like one who had recently been crying, she looked a +triumphant little creature, as she sat the one pony, and held the +other. The color had all come back to her face, and she looked--why, +she looked happy! + + + + +XIII + +"Well, my dear," said my mother, "we shall miss you." + +"Oh," I said, "I've given it up. I'm not going." + +As she had said that she would miss me, this answer ought to have given +my mother unmixed pleasure. It didn't seem to. She smiled upon me +with the greatest affection, and at the same time looked troubled. + +"When you came into my room this morning your mind was definitely made +up. Has anything happened?" + +"Only that I've changed my mind. Aiken is too nice to leave." + +"I sometimes think," said my mother, "that the life you lead is +narrowing. At your age, how I should have jumped at the chance to see +California in spring! But I shan't ask you why you don't jump. I know +very well you'd not tell me." + +"Must I have a reason? They say women don't have reasons for doing +things. Why should men?" + +"A woman," said my mother, "does nothing without a reason. But often +she has to be ashamed of her reasons, and so she pretends she hasn't +any. Men are stronger. They don't have to give their reasons, and so +they don't pretend." + +"Maybe," I said, "I'm fond of my family and don't want to be away from +them." + +My mother blushed a little, and laughed. + +"I shall pretend to myself," she said, "that that is why you have given +up your trip. But I'm afraid it isn't your father and me that you've +suddenly grown so fond of." + +"Now look here, mamma," I said, "we thrashed that all out the other +day." + +"Thrashed all what out?--Oh, I remember--your attentions to Lucy +Fulton, or hers to you, which was it?" + +"It wasn't our attentions to each other, as I remember. It was the +attention which Aiken is or was paying to us." + +"So it was," said my mother. + +She gave me, then, a second cup of tea, and talked cheerfully of other +things. Some people came in, and I managed presently to escape from +them. + +It hadn't been easy to tell my mother that I had given up the +California trip. I knew that her triple intuition would connect the +change of plan with Lucy Fulton, and I was not in the mood to meet such +an accusation with the banter and levity which it no longer deserved. + +Like it or not, I was staying on in Aiken because Lucy had asked me to. +That we had been gossiped about had angered me; but it could do so no +longer. That we were good friends, and enjoyed riding and being +together, was no longer the whole truth. There was in addition this: +that Lucy no longer loved her husband, and that she had made me her +confidant. + +From the first to the last of my dressing for dinner that night, +everything went wrong. I stepped into a cold tub, under the impression +that I had told my man to run a hot one. He had laid out for me an +undershirt that had lost all its buttons, and a pair of socks that I +hated. I broke the buckle of the belt that I always wear with my +dinner trousers; I dropped my watch face downward on the brick hearth, +and I spilled a cocktail all over my dress shirt, _after_ I had got my +collar on and tied my tie! + +Usually such a succession of misadventures would have given rise to one +rage after another. But I was too busy thinking about Lucy. I could +no longer deny that she attracted me immensely. Perhaps she had from +the beginning. I can't be sure. But I should never have confessed +this to myself, or so I think, if I had not learned that she had +suddenly fallen out of love with her husband. In that ideal state of +matrimony, in which I had first gotten to know her, she had seemed a +holy thing upon a plane far above this covetous world. But now the +angel had fallen out of that which had been her heaven, and come down +to earth. That I had had anything to do with this, I should even now +have denied to God or man with complete conviction. I had no interest +in the causes of her descent, only in the fact of it. And all that +time of bungling dressing for dinner I kept thinking, not that I should +help her look for a new heaven, but that I must try, as her true +friend, to get her back into her old one. At that time John Fulton had +no better friend than I. It seemed to me really terrible that things +should have gone wrong with these two. + +My father came in while I was still dressing. + +"Hear you've given up California," he said bluntly; "do you think +that's wise? . . . Where do you keep your bell?" + +I showed him. + +"How many times do you ring if you want a cocktail?" + +"Twice. If you'll ring four times I'll have one with you. I spilt +mine." + +So my father pushed the bell four times and complimented me on my love +of system and order, and then he returned to his first question. + +"Do you think it wise?" + +"Well, father," I said, "we've always been pretty good friends. Will +you tell me why you think it isn't wise?" + +"Yes, I will," he said; "I think it's foolish for a man to run after +women in his own class for any other purpose than matrimony." + +"So do I!" said I. + +"A man," he persisted, "doesn't always know that he is running after a +woman. Nature will fool him. Look at young lovers! Why, they +actually believe in the beautiful fabric of spiritual poetry that they +weave about each other. And nature lets 'em. But men who have seen +life, and have lived, as I shouldn't be at all surprised if you had, +for instance, are able to see the ugly mundane facts through the rosy +mist. My boy, you and Lucy Fulton are being talked about. You don't +have to tell me it's none of my business, I know that. But I can't +help wanting you to steer clear of rows, and I don't want to see any +woman get mud thrown on her because of you. For a man of course, +unfortunately, consequences never amount to much. It's for the woman +that I should plead if I had any eloquence or persuasiveness. I'd say +to you, don't run away for your own sake, that's not worth while; but +run away for hers. Now you will forgive me, my dear fellow, won't you, +for butting in like this. . . ." + +The cocktails came, and when the man who brought them had gone, I said: + +"It's for her sake that I'm staying, father; will you listen a little? +You're the only man in the world that I can talk to without fear of +being repeated. As far as going to California is concerned I _was_ +going--until a late hour this afternoon. I felt more concern at +leaving my mother than anyone else. You believe that?" + +He nodded to what was left of his cocktail. + +"Lucy and I may have been talked about, but there was absolutely no +reason why we should have been. We rode together this afternoon and +out of a clear sky she told me that she had fallen out of love with her +husband--for no _reason_ at all, that's the worst of it--and she +doesn't know what to do, and has no friend she feels like talking to +about it, except me. That's why I'm staying. She _asked_ me not to +go. And of course I said I wouldn't." + +My father finished his cocktail, and blew his nose. + +"Oh," I said, "I'm not infatuated with the situation either." + +"Women certainly do beat the Dutch!" said my father. "I suppose she +wants advice, and backing when she doesn't follow it." + +"If I can keep her in the path of her duty, father, be sure I will." + +"And if you can't?" + +"It's a real tragedy," I said. "They were the happiest and most loving +couple in the world, except you and mother, and only a short time ago." + +"What time is it?" asked my father. + +"I've broken my watch." + +"Well, it doesn't matter if we are a little late for dinner." + +He cleared his throat, and turned a fine turkey-cock red, and looked +very old-fashioned and handsome. + +"I never thought to tell you this," he said; "it's like throwing mud on +a saint. Once your mother came to me and said she didn't love me any +more and that she loved another man and wanted to go away with him." + +"I feel as if you'd kicked my feet out from under me." + +"It doesn't seem to have come quite to that with Lucy, but it may, and +in some ways the cases are parallel. I took counsel with your +grandfather. He advised me to whip her. When I refused to do that, he +gave less drastic advice, which I followed. I told your mother and the +man that if after a year during which they should neither see each +other nor communicate they still wanted each other, I would give your +mother a divorce. I don't know when they stopped caring about each +other. I think it took your mother less than three months to get over +him. And if he lasted three weeks, why I'm the dog that--he was." + +I detected a ring of passionate hatred in my father's voice. + +"So she came back to me," he said presently, "in a little less than a +year. Your little sister was your mother's offering of conciliation. +And we have lived happily. But things have never been with us quite as +they were. I have never known if your mother really got to loving me +again, or if she has raised a great monument of simulation and devotion +upon a pedestal of shame and remorse. Even now, if I drink a little +more than is good for me, she never criticizes. She feels that she has +forfeited that prerogative." + +"What became of the man?" + +"He died of heart failure," said my father, "in a disreputable place. +They tried to hush it up, but the facts came out. When I heard of it, +I plumped right down in a chair and laughed till I was almost sick. I +knew what he was," he said with sudden savageness, "all along. But +there is no making a woman believe what she doesn't want to believe. +He was fascinating to women, and a cur. He kept his compact with me, +not because of his given word, but because he was physically afraid of +me." + +"Thank you for telling me all this, father," I said; "I like you better +and better. But in one way the cases aren't parallel. In Lucy's case +there is no other man." + +"Not yet," said my father; "but when a woman no longer loves her +husband, look out for her. She has become a huntress--she is a lovely +sloop-of-war that has cleared her decks for action. . . . Are you +ready?" + +I slipped my arm through my father's and we went downstairs together. + +"I'm sorry you're mixed up in this," he said; "but you couldn't go when +she made a point of your staying. I'm obliged to you for telling me." + + + + +XIV + +It grew very warm during the evening and windy. By bedtime there was a +hot, lifeless gale blowing from the southeast. Now and then the moon +shone out brightly through the smother of tearing clouds, and was +visible for a moment in all her glory, only to be submerged the next +moment and blotted out. About two o'clock single raindrops began to +splash so loudly on the veranda roof just outside my window that the +noise waked me; after that I only slept fitfully, and my ears were +never free from the loud roaring of the tropic rain that began +presently to fall upon Aiken. I dreamed that somebody had stolen the +Great Lakes and while being hotly pursued had dropped them. All day it +rained like that, and all the following night, and only let up a little +the afternoon of the second day. I got into an oilskin then and walked +out to the Fultons'. + +Theirs was a nervous household. Jock and Hurry confined indoors for +nearly two days had had too little exercise and too many good things to +eat. They were quite cross and irrepressible. John had the fidgets. +He couldn't even stay in the same room for more than a minute, and he +wouldn't even try sitting down for a change. Lucy had had to give up +at least a dozen things that required dry weather and sunshine. She +seemed to take the rain as something directed particularly against +herself by malicious persons. Evelyn, also cross and nervous, was on +the point of retiring to her own room to write letters. Just then +Dawson Cooper telephoned to know if she cared to take a little walk in +the rain and she accepted with alacrity. + +"It's gotten so that he only has to whistle," said Lucy petulantly, +when Evelyn had gone. "I think she's made up her mind to be landed." + +Fulton came and went. Every now and then he dropped on the piano-stool +for a few moments and made the instrument roar and thunder; once he +played something peaceful and sad and even, in which one voice with +tears in it ran away from another. + +The piano was in the next room, and whenever it began to sound, Lucy +dropped her work into her lap and listened. At such time she had an +alert, startled look. She resembled a fawn when it hears a stick snap +in the forest. + +We heard him leave the piano, cross the hall and go into the +dining-room. + +"He's hardly touched his piano in years," said Lucy. "But now he's at +it in fits and starts from morning till night. Night before last when +the rain began he got up and went down in his bare feet and played for +hours. I had to fetch him and make him come back to bed." + +Then she seemed to feel that an explanation was necessary. She bent +rosily over the work, and said: "We don't want the servants to know." + +Again the piano began to ripple and thunder. Again we heard John go +into the dining-room. + +I must have lifted an eyebrow, for Lucy said: + +"Yes. I'm afraid so, but it doesn't seem to go to his head. Oh," she +said, "it wrings my heart, but I haven't the right to say anything." + +"Lucy," I said, "have you thought out anything since I saw you last?" + +"I think in circles," she said; "one minute I'm for doing my duty to +him, the next minute I can only think of myself. It _can't_ be right +for me to be his wife when I've stopped being--Oh, anything but awfully +fond of him." + +"You _are_ that?" + +"Of course I am." + +"It's just about the saddest thing that ever came to my knowledge," I +said; "and you won't be angry if I say that I think you ought to stick +to him and make the best of it?" + +"You're not a woman. No man understands a woman's feeling of +degradation at belonging to a man she doesn't love. Oh, it's an +impossible situation. And I can't see any way out. I _couldn't_ take +money from John, if I left him; I haven't got a penny of my own. And I +think it would kill me to go away from Jock and Hurry for long. And +the other thing would just kill me." + +"That," I said, "Lucy, I don't believe." + +"You don't know. Not being a woman, you _can't_ know." + +"Men," I said, "and women too survive all sorts of things, mental and +physical, that they think _can't be_ survived. I read up the Spanish +Inquisition once for a college essay, and the things they did to people +were so bad that I was ashamed to put them in, and yet lots of those +people survived and lived usefully to ripe old ages." + +"Who did?" + +Unheard by us, John had finished in the dining-room and had come to pay +us a flying visit. + +"People that were tortured by the Spanish Inquisition," I said. + +"A lot they know about torture," said he. "They only did things to +people that the same people could imagine doing back to them. Nothing +is real torture if you can see your way to revenge it--if only in +imagination. Torture is what you get through no fault of your own from +somebody you'd not torture back for anything in the world. It's what +sons do to mothers, husbands to wives, wives to husbands. Isn't that +so, Lucy?" + +"I suppose so," she said very quietly, her head bent close to her work. + +"But what," exclaimed John, "has all this to do with the high cost of +living?" + +He would neither sit down nor stand still. He moved here and there, +changing the positions of framed photographs and ash trays, lighting +cigarettes, and throwing them into the fire. He had the pinched, +hungry look of a man who is not sleeping well, and whose temperature is +a little higher than normal. + +"Were you in the Spanish War?" he asked me suddenly. + +(At the moment I was thinking: "If you go on like this you'll never win +her back, you'll only make matters worse!") I said: "In a way, but I +didn't see any fighting. I got mixed up in the Porto Rico campaign." + +"I was with the Rough Riders," he said; "I've just been remembering +what fun it all was. I wish you could go to a war whenever you wanted +to, the way you can to a ball game." + +Then as quickly as he had introduced war, he switched to a new subject. + +"I want you to try some old Bourbon a man sent me." + +He had crossed the room, quick as thought, and pushed a bell; when the +waitress came he told her to bring a tray. + +"Isn't whiskey bad for you when you're so nervous?" said Lucy quietly, +and without looking up. + +"I don't know," said John, with a certain frolicking quality in his +voice; "I'm trying to find out." + +"What was that you were playing a while ago?" I asked. "The slow, +peaceful, sad sort of thing." + +"This?" And he whistled a few bars. + +I nodded. + +"I made it up as I went along," he said; "music's like a language. +When a man's heard a lot of the words and the idioms he can make a +bluff at talking it; but I can only speak a few words. I've only got a +child's vocabulary. I can only say, 'I'm hungry,' or 'I'm sleepy,' or +'I want a set of carpenter's tools,' or 'Brown swiped my tennis bat and +I'm going to punch his head,' or 'The little girl over the fence has +bright blue eyes and throws a ball like a boy and climbs trees.'" + +He had to laugh himself at the idea of being able to express such +things in musical terms, but when he had sponged up a long glass of +very darkly mixed Bourbon and Apollinaris, the picture of the little +girl over the fence must have been still in his mind, for having left +us abruptly for the piano, he preluded and then began to improvise upon +that theme. He talked rather than sang, but always in tune and with +the clearest enunciation, and any amount of experience. + +He began merrily, and in no time had us both laughing; I think the +first air which he tortured to fit his unrhymed and unrhythmical words +belonged once to Mozart, but I am not sure. It was made out of +merriness, sunshine, and dew. + + "The little girl over the fence, the fence + Has bri-i-i-ight blue-ooo eyes + And throws a ball like a boy, a boy, + And cli-i-i-i-i-i-imbs trees." + + +He repeated in the minor, modulated into a more solemn key, and once +more talked off the words. He left you with a slight feeling of +anxiety. You began to be afraid that the little girl would fall out of +the trees and hurt herself. But no, instead he grabbed something by +the hair right out of a Beethoven adagio, and began to want that little +girl with the blue eyes as a little girl with blue eyes has seldom been +wanted before; she became Psyche, Trojan Helen, a lover's dream; all +that is most exquisite and to be desired in the world--and then +suddenly he lost all hope of her and borrowed from Palestrina to tell +about it, and the last time she climbed trees it was plump on up into +Heaven that she climbed, and from hell below, or pretty close to it, +there arose the words "And climb trees" like a solemn ecclesiastical +amen. + +It was an astounding performance, almost demoniac in its cleverness and +in its power to move the hearer. + +Lucy's eyes were filled with tears. + +"I wish he wouldn't," she said. + +There was quite a long silence, but as we did not hear him moving +about, he probably sat on at the piano, for presently, in a whisper, +you may say, more to himself than to us, he sang that Scotch song, +"Turn ye to me," which to my ear at least stands a head and shoulders +taller and lovelier than any folk song in all the world, unless it's +that Norman sailor song that Chopin used in one of the Nocturnes. + + "The waves are dancing merrily, merrily, + Ho-ro, Whairidher, turn ye to me: + The sea-birds are wailing, wearily, wearily, + Horo Whairidher, turn ye to me. + + "Hushed be thy moaning, love bird of the sea, + Thy home on the rocks is a shelter to thee; + Thy home is the angry wave, mine but the lonely grave, + Horo Whairidher, turn ye to me." + + +Lucy rose abruptly and left the room. I could hear her whispering to +him, pleading. + +Surely he must have sung that song to her when she was only the little +girl with blue eyes over the fence, and it must have had something to +do with making her love him. But the qualities of his voice that could +once make her heart beat and fire her with love for him could do so no +more. He had left, poor fellow, only the power to torture her with +remorse and make her cry. + + + + +XV + +The next day I kept a riding engagement with Lucy, but she didn't. + +"She's gone for a walk with John," said Evelyn, who had come out of the +house to give me Lucy's messages of regret and apology. + +"Lucy gone walking!" I exclaimed. "Have the heavens fallen?" + +"Sometimes I think they have," said Evelyn. "But you know more about +that than I do." + +"Know more about what?" + +"Haven't you noticed?" + +I shook my head. + +"Why, John is all up in the air about something or other, and Lucy is +worried sick about him. I thought probably she'd told you what the +trouble was. I've asked. She said probably money had something to do +with it; and that was all I could get out of her. Come down off that +high horse and talk to me. I'm not riding till four." + +So I left my pony standing at the front gate and Evelyn and I strolled +about the grounds. + +"Money isn't the whole trouble," said Evelyn presently. "I know that. +Something even more serious has gone terribly wrong. And I want to +help." + +"Won't they work it out best by themselves?" I suggested. + +"Sometimes," she said, "it seems almost as if they had quarreled. +Sometimes John looks at her--Oh, as if he was going to die and was +looking at her for the last time. Could he have something serious the +matter with him?" + +"He could, of course, but it doesn't seem likely." + +"He doesn't _look_ well." + +"True." + +"Look here, Archie, don't you know what's wrong?" + +"I wish I did," said I. "If I could right it." + +As a matter of fact I didn't know what was wrong. I knew only that +Lucy no longer loved her husband. But why she no longer loved him was +the real trouble, and she had not told me that, even if she knew It +herself. But wishing to strengthen my answer, I said: "You're the one +who ought to know what's wrong. You're on the spot. And besides, +you're a woman and a woman is supposed to have three intuitions to a +man's one." + +Evelyn ignored this. + +"Sometimes," she said, "John's so gentle and pathetic that I want to +cry. Sometimes he is cantankerous and flies into rages about trifles. +It's getting on my nerves." + +"Why not pack up your duds and move on?" + +"Oh, because----" + +I laughed maliciously. "We might move on together," I suggested. + +"_You_ were going to move on," she said, "but you have stayed. I +wonder why?" + +I did not enlighten her. + +"If," she said presently, "people find out that things in this house +are at sixes and sevens I wonder if they won't find fault with you and +Lucy? Has that occurred to you?" + +"It has occurred to you," I said, "to my own mamma and doubtless to +other connections. But it hasn't occurred to me. We see too much of +each other?" + +"Altogether." + +"You really think that?" + +Evelyn shrugged her shoulders. "For appearance' sake, yes," she said. +"Of course you do. But it's my opinion that if you'd been going to get +sentimental about each other you'd have done it long ago." + +"Evelyn," I said, "I've never made trouble in a family." + +"Is that because of your natural virtue or because you have never +wanted to?" + +"A little of both, I think. People fall in love at first sight. That +can't be helped. Or they fall in love very quickly, and that's hard to +help. But people who fall in love gradually through long association +have no good excuse for doing so, if they oughtn't. They should see it +coming and quit seeing each other before it's too late." + +"But I don't agree," said Evelyn. "I think love is always a +first-sight affair. I don't mean necessarily the first time two people +see each other, but that suddenly after years of association even, they +will see each other in a new light." + +"A light that was never on sea or land?" + +"A light that is always where people are, just waiting to be turned on." + +At that moment we heard Dawson Cooper's voice calling: "Hallo there! +Where are you?" + +Presently he hove into sight, and did not seem altogether pleased at +finding Evelyn and me together. + +"Archie thought he was going to ride with Lucy," Evelyn explained, "but +she threw him down, and I suppose we have got to ask him to ride with +us!" + +"Yes," I said, "I think you have, but I don't have to accept, do I? +You're just doing it so's not to hurt my feelings, aren't you? Of +course if you really want me----" + +"Come along, Coops," said Evelyn. "He's trying to tease us. He +wouldn't ride with us for a farm." + +We separated at the mounting-block, and I watched them a little way +down the road. And felt a little touch of envy. Evelyn was looking +very alluring that afternoon. + +I rode in the opposite direction until I came to the big open flat +north of the racetrack; there, a long way off, I saw John Fulton and +Lucy walking slowly side by side. John was sabering dead weed stalks +with his stick. So I turned east to avoid them, then north, until I +had passed the forlorn yellow pesthouse with its high, deer-park fence, +and was well out in the country. + +Then I left the main road, and followed one tortuous sandy track after +another. Suddenly Heroine shied. I looked up from a deep, aimless +reverie, and saw sitting at the side of a trail a withered old negress. +She looked like a monkey buried in a mound of rags. + +"Evening, Auntie," I said. + +"Evening, boss." + +Heroine had broken into a sweat, and was trembling. She kept her eyes +on the old negress and her ears pointed at her, her nostrils widely +dilated. + +"My horse thinks you're a witch, Auntie," I said. "Hope you'll excuse +her." + +"I allows I got ter, boss, caze that's jes what I is." + +"Honest to Gospel?" I laughed. + +"You got fifty cents, boss?" + +I found such a coin in my pocket and tossed it to her. + +"I used to have," I said. + +She rose to her feet and Heroine drew away from her, firmly and rudely. + +"Don' min' me, honey," said the old woman, and she held out a hand like +a monkey's paw. To my astonishment Heroine began to crane her head +toward the hand, sniffed at it presently, gave a long sigh of relief +and stood at ease, muscles relaxed, and eyelids drooping. + +"Now I believe you," I said. "What else can you do?" + +She turned her bright, beady eyes this way and that, searching perhaps +for anyone who might be watching and listening. Then she said, "I kin +tell fo'tunes, boss." + +"Just tell me my name." + +"You is Mista Mannering, boss." + +"Hum, that's too easy," I said. "I've been coming to Aiken a great +many years. What is my horse's name?" + +"Her name is He'win, boss." + +"Hum," I said and felt a little creepy feeling of wonder. + +"Does you want to know any mo'?" + +I nodded. + +"You's flighty, boss, but you ain't bad. You is goin' ter be lucky in +love, 'n then you is goin' ter be unlucky. You is goin' ter risk +gettin' shot, but dere ain't goin' ter be no shootin'. When summer +come around you is goin' ter have sorrer in you' breas', and when +winter comes around dere'll be de same ole sorrer, a twistin' and a +gnawin'." + +"What sort of a sorrow, Auntie?" + +"Sorrer like when you strikes a lil chile what ain't done no harm, only +seem like he done harm, sorrer like you feels w'en you baby dies, 'case +you is too close-fisted ter sen' fer de doctor, sorrer like----" + +She broke off short, looking a little dazed and foolish. + +"You've had your share of sorrow, Auntie, I can see that." + +"Is I a beas' o' de fiel'?" she exclaimed indignantly, "or is I a +humanous bein'?" + +"Must all human beings have sorrows?" + +"Yes, boss, but each has he own kin'! Big man has big sorrer, little +man have little sorrer, and dem as is middlin' men dey has middlin' +sorrers." + +"It's all one," I said, "each gets what he can stand and no more. Put +a big sorrow on a little man and he'd break under it; put a little +sorrow on a big man and he wouldn't know that he was carrying it. What +else can you tell me, Auntie?" + +"I ain't goin' ter tell yo' no mo'." + +"Not for another half-dollar?" + +"No, boss." + +"Well, there it is anyway. Good evening." + +"Good evening, boss." + +She had made me feel a little shivery and I rode off at the gallop. + +XVI + +I was surprised to find John Fulton in the Club. As a home-loving man +he was not a frequent visitor. He had dropped in, he said, to get a +game of bridge, had tired of waiting for somebody to cut out, and had +been reading the newspapers to find out how the world was getting along. + +"I haven't more than glanced at them in a week," he said, "but there's +nothing new, is there? Just new variations of public animosity and +domestic misfortunes. Have you read this Overman business?" + +"I haven't." + +"It's a case or a hard-working, thoroughly respectable man who, for no +reason that is known, suddenly shoots down his wife and children in +cold blood, and then blows his own head to smithereens." + +"But of course there was a reason," I said; "he must have felt that he +was justified." + +"He seems to have had enough money and good health. And he passed for +a sane, matter-of-fact sort of fellow." + +"If it was the regular reason," I said, "jealousy, he wouldn't have +hurt the children." + +"Only a very unhappy man could kill his children," said Fulton. "His +idea would be to save them from such unhappiness as he himself had +experienced. But in nine cases out of ten it would be a mistaken +kindness. Causes similar to those which drove the father into a +despair of unhappiness would in all probability affect the children +less. No two persons enjoy to the same degree, suffer to the same +degree or are tempted alike. How many wronged husbands are there who +swallow their trouble and endure to one who shoots?" + +"Legions," I said. "Fortunately. Otherwise one could hardly sleep for +the popping of pistols." + +"Do you believe that or do you say it to be amusing?" + +"I think that the number of husbands who find out that they have been +wronged is only exceeded by the number who never even suspect it. But +they are not the husbands we know, the modern novelist to the contrary +notwithstanding. In our class it is the wives who are wronged as a +rule; in the lower classes, the husbands. I've known hundreds of what +the newspapers call society people; the women are good, with just +enough exceptions to prove the rule: the men aren't." + +"When you say that the women are good, you mean they are technically +good?" + +"Who is technically good?" + +"Hallo, Harry!" + +Colemain, having pushed a bell, pulled up a big chair and joined us. + +"We were saying that the average woman we know is technically good." + +"You bet she is!" said Colemain. "She has to be! If she wasn't how +could she ever put over the things she does put over? And as a rule +her husband isn't technically good and so she has power over him. She +says nothing, but he knows that she knows, and so when she does +something peculiarly extravagant and outrageous, he reaches meekly for +his checkbook. For one man who is ruined by drink there are ten ruined +by women; and not by the kind of women who are supposed to ruin men +either; not by the street-walker, the chorus girl or the demi-mondaine. +American men are ruined by their wives and daughters who are +technically good. Don't we know dozens of cases? When there is a +crash in Wall Street how many well-to-do married men go to smash to one +well-to-do bachelor? A marriage isn't a partnership. It's the +opposite except in name. It's a partnership in which the junior +partner gives her whole mind to extracting from the business sums of +money which ought to go back into it. And she spends those sums almost +invariably on things which diminish in value the moment they are +bought. It isn't the serpent that is the arch enemy of mankind. It's +the pool in which Eve first saw that she was beautiful, or would be if +she could only get her fig-leaf skirt to hang right." + +"But I think," said Fulton gently, "that women ought to have pretty +clothes, and bright jewels and luxuries. If a girl loves a man, and +proves it and keeps on loving him, how is it possible for him to pay +her back short of ruining himself? Haven't you ever felt that if the +whole world was yours to give you'd give it gladly? Why complain then +when afterwards you are only asked to give that infinitesimal portion +of the world that happens at the moment to be yours? If a man is +ruined for his wife, if cares shorten his life, even then he has done +far, far less than he once said he was willing and eager to do." + +He looked at the big clock over the mantelpiece, sat silent for a +moment, then rose, wished us good-night and went out. + +"You wouldn't think," said Harry, "to hear him talk that a woman was +playing chuck-cherry with that infinitesimal portion of the world that +happens to be his. I was in the bank this morning and I saw him come +out of the President's room. He looked a little as if he'd just +identified the body of a missing dear one in the morgue." + +"I'm afraid he is frightfully hard up," I said, "but he hasn't said +anything to me about it, and I don't like to volunteer." + +"He's a good man," said Harry, "one of the few really good men I know, +and it's a blamed shame." + +"Oh, it will all come out in the wash." + +"It depends on how dirty the linen is!" + +"American men," I said, "never seem to have the courage to retrench. +Why not take your family to a cheap boarding-house for a year or two? +Cut the Gordian knot and get right down to bed rock? Boarding-house +food may be bad for the spirit, but it's good for the body. My father +had dyspepsia one spring, and his doctor told him to spend six weeks in +a summer hotel--_any_ summer hotel--and take _all_ his meals in it." + +Just then one of the bell-boys interrupted us. He said that Mrs. +Fulton wished to speak with me. He followed me into the coat room, +where the telephone is, in a persistent sort of way, so that I turned +on him rather sharply and asked what he wanted. + +His eyes were bulging with a look of importance and his black face had +an expression of mystery. "She ain't on de telephone," he said, "she's +outside." + +"Well, why couldn't you say so?" + +I went out bareheaded into the dusk and walked quickly between the +bedded hyacinths and the evergreen hedges of Carolina cherry to the +sidewalk. But she wasn't there. Far up the street I saw a familiar +horse and buggy, and a whip that signaled to me. + +She was all alone. Even Cornelius Twombley, as much a part of the +buggy as one of the wheels, had been dropped off somewhere. + +"I haven't seen you all day," she said. "I thought maybe you'd like to +go for a little drive." + +I simply climbed into the buggy and sat down beside her. + +"Evelyn and Dawson," she explained, "were crowding the living-room, so +I thought of this. Is John in the Club?" + +"He was, but he said good-night to Harry Colemain and me, and I think +he went home. . . . How is everything? I saw you and John from afar, +walking together. I knew you could run because I've seen you play +tennis, but I didn't suppose you'd ever learned to walk. You're always +either on a horse or behind one." + +"Was it very bold of me to come to the Club for you? I suppose I ought +to have telephoned." Then she laughed. "I ought to have had more +consideration of your reputation," she said. + +"My reputation will survive," I said. "But look here, Lucy----" + +"I'm looking!" + +"I meant look with your mind. I don't know if I ought to bring it up; +it's just gossip. Harry saw John coming out of the President's room in +the bank. He said it looked to him as if John had been trying to make +a touch and hadn't gotten away with it. You know I hate to see him +distressed for money, especially now when other things are distressing +him, and I wonder if there isn't some tactful arrangement by which I +could let him have some money without his knowing that it came from me." + +"_Aren't_ you good!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I suppose he makes things out +as bad as he can so as to influence me as much as possible; but he says +we are in a terrible hole, that we oughtn't to have come here at all, +that if he'd had any idea how much money I'd been spending in New York +before we came he wouldn't have considered coming, that everybody is +hounding him for money, and that he doesn't see how he can possibly pay +his bills at the end of the season. Of course it's mostly my fault; +but I can't help it if the Democrats are in power and business is bad, +can I?" + +"Well," I said, "I'm flush just now and I'll think up a scheme. +Meanwhile let's forget about everything that isn't pleasant. Where are +you going to drive me?" + +"I don't care. Let's get away from the lights. What time is it? John +doesn't like me to be late; and besides I haven't kissed the kiddies +good-night. Let's just take a little dip in the woods. On a hot night +it's almost like going for a swim. Oughtn't you to have a hat or +something? If you get cold you can put the cooler on like a shawl." + +Her manner affected me as it had never affected me before. + +The dip from the hot dusk of the dusty road into the cool midnight of +the pine woods had all the exhilaration of an adventure. The fact that +she had sent into the Club for me flattered my vanity. She wanted me +and not another to be with her. I felt a tenderness for her that I had +never felt before. I wanted a chance to show that I understood her and +was her friend without qualification. Shoulder touched shoulder now +and then and it seemed to me as if I was being appealed to by that +contact for support, countenance, and protection. + +We chattered about the night and the pale stars, and the smells of +flowers. We wished that there was no such thing as dinner, that the +woods lasted forever, and that we might drive on through the soft +perfumed air until we came to the end of them. + +Then there was quite a long silence, and for the first time in my life +I experienced the wish, well, not to kiss her, but to lay my cheek +against hers. It was a wish singularly hard to resist. + +"I suppose we ought to turn back." + +"You know best," I said. + +"Do you want to?" + +"No, do you?" + +"No." + +But we turned back and came up out of the woods into the lights of the +town. + +"Where shall I drop you--at the Club?" + +"Let me drop you," I said, "and borrow your buggy afterward to take me +home. You ought not to drive alone at night." + +"Maybe it would be better if I did," she said. + +We said good-night at the door of her house, but not easily. For once +it seemed hard to say anything final. + +"Was I very brazen," she said, "to ask you to go with me, when I didn't +want to be alone?" + +"You were not," I said, "it was sweet of you. I loved it." + +Cornelius Twombly lunged from the black shadow of a cedar tree and went +to the horse's head. + +"Good-night, Lucy. Good luck!" + +Just then we heard John calling. + +"That you, Lucy? You're late. I was getting anxious." + +We could see him coming down the path, a vague shadow among the +shadows, his cigarette burning brightly. + +"Hallo, who is it? I can't see." + +"It's Archie Mannering," said Lucy. + +"Oh, is it? Won't you come in?" + +"Can't, thanks. Got to dress. Lovely night, isn't it? Good-night. +Good-night, Lucy." + +When I had driven a little way I turned and looked over my shoulder, +but though I could only see the fire of John's cigarette, I imagined +that I could see his face--a little puzzled, a little anxious, and very +sad. + +It was on that same night that he said to Lucy: "Aren't you seeing a +good deal of Archie Mannering?" + +And she answered: + +"Am I? I suppose I am. I like him awfully." + + + + +XVII + +I awoke the next morning with the feeling that something or other was +impending. I had no idea what it might be, pleasant or unpleasant. I +felt a little the way you feel just before a race on which you have bet +altogether too much money, a little excited, a little nervous, equally +ready for laughter or anger. I had also the feeling that I had a great +many things to do, and could not possibly get them done in so short a +space of time as one day. + +I hurried through breakfast. I hurried through the papers. And then I +realized with a sense of anti-climax that until four o'clock, when I +was to ride with Lucy, I had but one thing of any possible importance +to do. And upon that business from first to last including the walk to +the village and thence to the Club I spent no more than three-quarters +of an hour. It had been an eccentric piece of business, and I was +rather pleased with myself for having brought it to a satisfactory +conclusion. But I wanted others to know what I had done and to be +pleased with me for doing it; and to tell anyone was quite out of the +question. + +In the Club letter-box under "M," I saw a small gray envelope. +Instinct told me that it was for me, and that it was from Lucy. Then +somehow all my feeling of restlessness and suspense melted away like a +lump of sugar in hot tea. I felt at once serene and comfortable. + +I carried the note to a writing-table, for I imagined that it would +require an immediate answer, and then read it. Like all Lucy's notes +it began without the conventional endearment, and ended with initials. +It contained also her usual half-dozen mistakes in spelling. + + +John says he has no money and can't get any. So we've got to close the +house and go back north, and live very cheaply till better times. So +I've got to begin packing. So I can't ride this afternoon. Isn't it +all a beastly shame? But please drop in and say how-dy-do just the +same, and don't mind if you have to sit on a trunk. And please be a +little sorry because I'm going away and we can't have any more rides. +And please don't say anything about this; because John isn't just +himself and maybe when we get all packed up he'll change his mind. + +L. F. + + +Long before they were "all packed up," John did change his mind. I was +present when he changed it. Lucy, Evelyn, and I were in the +living-room helping each other to pack large silver-framed photographs +into the tray of a trunk. It was slow work. During the winter none of +us had looked at the photographs or commented on the originals, but now +that they were to be swathed in tissue paper and put out of sight each +one had to be approved or disapproved, and long excursions had to be +made into the life histories and affairs of the friends who had sat for +them. + +Lucy had just taken a large photograph of Evelyn from the top of the +low bookshelves that filled one end of the room when John came in from +the garden with an open letter in his hand. He was smiling in a +puzzled sort of way. + +"What do you know about this!" he exclaimed rather than asked. + +"Nothing," said Lucy, "_yet_." And she began to wrap Evelyn's +photograph in many folds of tissue paper. + +"Yesterday," said John, "I tried to get some money from the bank, but +they turned me down. Now they write that upon reconsideration I can +have anything I like." + +Well, Lucy's expression at that moment was worth a great deal more than +the few thousands which her husband would see fit to borrow from the +bank, and I couldn't but feel that there are moments when it is really +worth while to be alive and rich. + +"Wonder what made 'em change their minds?" said John. + +"There's one thing sure," said Lucy. "You are not to look a gift horse +in the mouth." + +She unwrapped the photograph of Evelyn and put it back in its old place +on top of the bookshelves. + +"This settles everything, does it?" asked John. "We don't go back to +New York?" + +"We do not," said Lucy firmly. + +"Well," said John, "I'd better see the bank before it changes its mind +again. Is the buggy outside?" + +"No, but you can take Archie's or Evelyn's. Can't he? I sent +Cornelius Twombly to do some chores." + +"I'll drive you down," said Evelyn, "having a telegram to send." + +"And I'll stay and help Lucy unpack," I said. "Lord, people, I'm glad +you're not going!" + +The moment we were alone Lucy said: "You did it." + +"Did what?" + +"Don't beat about the bush! Don't pretend that you are not a blessed +angel in disguise!" + +Her face was very grave and lovely. + +"It's the kindest, tactfulest thing that anybody ever did." + +"I couldn't bear the thought of your going back to the city when it's +such fun here." + +"What can I say or do to thank you?" + +"Nothing, Lucy. Yes, you can. You can ride with me this afternoon." + +She looked a little troubled. "Last night, after you had gone," she +said, "John said, 'Aren't you seeing a good deal of Archie Mannering?'" + +For a moment I felt distinctly chilled and uncomfortable. Then I said: +"Oh, dear! Now Brutus himself is beginning to worry about us. How +silly!" + +"How silly!" echoed Lucy, and we stood staring at each other rather +vapidly, finding nothing to say. + +After a while I asked if John had said any more on the subject. "Did +he embroider the theme at all?" I asked. + +Lucy took a photograph out of the trunk tray and began to unwrap it. +"Yes," she said. "He did. He even held forth. He said that when a +woman no longer cared for her husband, it was dangerous for her to see +much of another man. He realized, he said, that ours was an +exceptional case, but that soon people would guess about _him_ and me, +and that then they'd begin to talk about _you_ and me. And he hates +anything conspicuous, and so forth, and so forth." + +"What did you say?" + +She smiled up at me, but not very joyously. "I said, 'I'm not going to +be rude to one of the best friends I've got, just for fun. If you +forbid me to see him, why I suppose I'll obey you, but I'd have to +explain to him, wouldn't I? I'd have to say, "John considers our +friendship dangerous, so we're not to see each other any more!"' And +of course he said that that was out of the question, and I agreed with +him." + +"Still you've said it." + +And we smiled at each other. + +"He didn't give me a good character," said Lucy dolefully. "He said I +never think of yesterday or tomorrow, but only of the moment. He said +I neglect the children, and Oh, I'd like to end it all! It's an +impossible situation. I'd give my life gladly to feel about him the +way I used to, but I can't--I can't ever." + +She looked very tragic. + +"Oh," she went on vehemently, "it's terrible. I'm all cold and dumb. +Every power of affection that I had has gone out like a candle. I _do_ +neglect the children! It's because I can't look them in the face. +I've failed him, and I've failed them, and I ought to tie a stone round +my neck and jump into the nearest millpond." + +"It's a good three miles to the nearest millpond," I said. "And there +isn't a stone in this part of South Carolina. You are all up in the +air now, because the situation you are in is so new to you. But you'll +get used to it." + +"If I don't go mad first." + +"Why, Lucy?" + +"You don't understand," she cried. "You have never had loving arms to +go to when you were in trouble. I've had them and I've lost them. I +mean I've lost the power to go to them and find comfort." + +A picture of her running to my arms for comfort flashed through my +mind, and troubled me to the marrow. And I had from that moment the +definite wish to take her in my arms. And in that same moment I +realized that those who thought we were too much together were not such +meddling fools as I had thought them. + +"Lucy," I said, and I hardly recognized my own voice. "Whatever +happens, you've a friend who will never fail you." + +"I know that," she said, and she held out her two hands, and I took +them in mine. + +"If you sent for me to the ends of the earth, I would come." + +"I know that." + +"There is nothing you could ask of me that I wouldn't give." + +"I know that." + +And that afternoon we rode together in the woods. + + + + +XVIII + +A man must have descended to the very deepest levels of depression +before he loses his power to laugh, or to be cheered by an unexpected +bettering of his financial position. John Fulton was in a bad way, but +certain things still struck him as funny, and the money which he had +been enabled to borrow from the bank had eased his mind. Still, so +Lucy told me, he could not sleep at night, and it must have been +obvious to the most casual observer that he was a sick man. He had a +drawn and hungry look. Jock and Hurry could by no means satisfy his +appetite for affection. Indeed, I think the sight and touch and the +sounds of them at play were no great comfort to him at this time. He +must have felt in their presence something of that anguish of pity +which a man feels for children who have lost their mother. + +He had hoped at first that Lucy's failure of affection was but a +temporary aberration. But at last he must have come to despair of any +change in her feelings for him, at least under existing conditions. +Indeed their relations were going from bad to worse. A man loved and +beloved falls into habits of passion for which there is no cure but +death or old age. Yet a man would readily believe that separation +might affect him like an opiate, and it must have been in this belief +that Fulton determined to accompany Harry Colemain on a trip to Palm +Beach. To me he vouchsafed the explanation that he was not well and +that he couldn't sleep, and that when he wasn't well, and that when he +couldn't sleep, his one thought and desire was to get to salt water. +"It always cures me," he said, just as if he had often been sick +before. From Lucy I had the truth of the matter. + +"He thinks," she said, "that if he goes away and stays away for a long +time that perhaps I will miss him enough to want him back, and on the +old footing. He isn't even going to write to me. It's going to be +exactly as if he didn't exist." + +"Do you think it wise for him to go, Lucy?" + +"Perhaps it will do him good. It won't change me. I know that. If +only he'd change. Haven't I done him enough harm to make him hate me? +Archie, I'm so sorry for him that I wish I was dead. And yet I want to +live. I'm too young to die. I want to live, and be happy--happy the +way I used to be happy." + +"And you can't with John?" + +She shook her head quietly. "It's the most wonderful thing to be in +love!" she said. "I wonder what I did to have that wonderful thing? I +wonder what I've done to deserve to lose it? And even if--even if it +happened again it could never be the same. There can be only one first +time--even if you've got a silly memory that doesn't remember very +well. And you make ties and habits and all these have to be thrown +overboard when the second time happens, and there's scandal, and cold +shoulders, and--what do you think I _ought_ to do? If I can't give him +what he's paying for oughtn't I to cut loose on my own, to support +myself, and not be a burden to him and a ubiquitous reminder that we've +failed to make a go of living together? What _ought_ I to do?" + +It had become very hard for me to tell her what I thought she ought to +do. Ever since that moment when I had first known that I wanted to +take her in my arms and comfort her, I had begun to have doubts of my +own honesty. And now she had put that honesty to a definite test, and +I was determined that it should come through the ordeal alive. + +"Must I really tell you what I think you ought to do?" + +"Yes." + +"Some of the things I think you ought to do, are things that I know you +don't want to do--things that you think perhaps you _can't_ do. Women +often say _can't_ when they mean _won't_, don't they?" + +"Maybe." + +"I'm afraid you aren't going to like what I'm going to say, nor me for +saying it." + +"Try me," she said, and she gave me a look of great trust and +understanding. + +"I'm going to tell you what I think you ought to do, Lucy, and what I +think you ought to have done." + +Any teacher whose scholars looked at him with the trustfulness and +expectation with which Lucy now looked at me, must be inspired, I +think, to the very top notch of his sense of honor and duty. I am sure +at least that I laid the law down of what I thought she should do, and +should have done with complete honesty and without regard to +consequences. If I got nothing better for my pains than dislike, at +least I could criticize her conduct and character without being biased +by my growing affection for her. + +"In the first place," I said, "when you found out that you no longer +loved your husband, you made your first mistake. By your own admission +he had given you everything in the way of devotion and faithfulness +that a man can give a woman. When you found that you no longer loved +him, you shouldn't have told him. He ought never to have known. You +should have summoned all your fortitude and delicacy to deceive him +into thinking that you had not changed toward him, and never would." + +"I _couldn't_!" exclaimed Lucy. + +"You wouldn't," I said. + +"It wouldn't have been honest." + +"Perhaps not. But it would have been noble." + +Lucy naturally enough preferred praise to blame, and this showed in her +face and in her voice. I felt infinitely removed from our previous +terms of intimate confidence, when she said: "Couldn't or wouldn't, +it's history that I didn't." + +"That being so," I said, "I think you should go now to your husband and +tell him that love or no love you propose to be his faithful wife till +death part you; to put him first in your head, if not in your heart. +It may be that through a long course of simulation you will come once +more to care for him. Self-sacrifice is a noble weapon. I think, +Lucy, that you would be very wise if you told him that two is not a +lucky number." + +"I don't understand." + +"Jock and Hurry," I said, "are two." + +She changed color to the roots of her hair. "Oh," she cried, "you +don't understand how a woman feels about that! I'd rather die. I--I +_couldn't_!" + +"You _won't_." + +"I thought _you_ understood me better. I thought _you_ wanted me to be +happy!" + +"Upon my soul, Lucy, I think that you might find happiness that way." + +She shrugged her shoulders and her face looked hard as marble. "And +that's your advice!" she said. And then with a sudden change of +expression, "It's what you think I _ought_ to do. Would it please you +if I took your advice? Is it what you _want_ me to do?" + +I had spoken as I thought duty commanded. It hadn't been easy. With +each word I felt that I had lost ground in her estimation. She asked +that last question with the expression of a weary woebegone child, and +I answered it without thought, and upon the urge of a wrong impulse. + +"No--no," I cried. "It's not what I want you to do. I had almost +rather see you dead." + +There was a long silence. + +"Do you mean that?" + +"Yes, Lucy. Yes." + +"Then you _do_ care. Oh, thank God!" + +I don't know how she got there. It was as if I had waked up and found +her in my arms. + +Kissed and kissing, we heard the opening of the distant front door. +And Oh, how I wish I had found the courage when Fulton came into the +livingroom, to tell him that I loved his wife, and that she loved me, +and what was he going to do about it! I did have the impulse, but not +the courage. When Fulton came in Lucy was knitting at an interminable +green necktie, and I was talking to her from a far chair across an open +number of the illustrated _London News_. We looked, I believe, as +casual and innocent as cherubim, but my conscience was very guilty, and +it seemed to me, rightly or wrongly, that for the first time Fulton +showed me a certain curtness of manner, as if he was not pleased at +finding me so often in his house. + + + + +XIX + +With the knowledge that I loved Lucy and that she loved me, came also +the knowledge that for a long time the situation had been +inevitable--inevitable if we kept on being so much in each other's +company. Passages between us of words and looks now recurred to my +memory filled with portentous meaning. Oh, I thought, how could I have +been so blind! A fool must have seen it coming. I ought to have seen +it coming. I ought to have run from it as a man runs from a +conflagration. When Lucy told me that she no longer loved her husband +I ought to have known that the fault was mine, and I ought to have gone +to a far place, and left that little family to rehabilitate itself in +peace. Surely after a "blank" spell Lucy would have loved her husband +again. + +But all the thoughts that I carried to bed with me that night were not +dark with remorse. It was possible for whole minutes of time, +especially between sleeping and waking, to forget the complications of +the situation and to bask in the blissful warmth of its serenities. +The laughter, the prayers, the adoration of Lucy's lovely eyes were +mine now. She loved me better than her children, better than life +itself. She had not said these things to me, she had looked them to +me. It was wonderful to feel that I had been trusted with so much that +was beautiful and precious. + +Once a spoiled child, always a spoiled child. In the scheme of things +I _would_ not at first give their proper place to those awful barriers +which society has set up between a man and another man's wife. We +loved each other with might and main, and our only happiness could be +in passing over those barriers and belonging to each other. John +Fulton and his children were but vague pale shadows across the sunshine. + +The sleep that I got that night, short though it was, was infinitely +refreshing. I waked with the feeling that happiness had at last come +into my life, and that I was not thirty-five years old, but twenty +years young. + +I walked in my mother's garden waiting for servants to come downstairs +and make coffee for me and poach eggs. It was going to be a lovely +day. Already the sun had coaxed the tea-olives to give out their odor +of ripe peaches. "How she loves them," I thought. "If only she were +with me now." + +The garden seemed very beautiful to me. For the first time in my life, +I think, I took a flower in my hands and examined it to see how it was +made. A great and new curiosity filled me. How beautiful the world +was, and all things in it; how short the time to find out all that +there was to be known about all those beautiful things! And what an +ignoble basis of ignorance I must start from if I was to "find out," +and to "understand!" There filled me a sense of unworthiness and a +strong desire for self-improvement. + +"I must learn the names of some of these things," I thought, and I +began to read the labels which stood among the flowers and shrubbery, +for in such matters my mother was very strict and particular: _Abeleia +grandiflora, Laurestinus, Olea fragrans, Ligustrum napalense, Rosa +watsoniana_---- Now really could that thing be a rose? It looked more +like a cross between a fern and an ostrich plume. I looked closer. +Each slender light green leaf was mottled with lighter green, a miracle +of exquisite tracing, and the thing was in bud, millions and millions +of buds no bigger than the eggs in a shad roe. Yes, it was a rose. I +looked at the drop of blood on the ball of my thumb, and thought what a +beautiful color it was, and how gladly, if need be, I would shed every +drop of it for Her. + +Dark smoke began to pour from the kitchen chimney, and I knew that the +cook was down. Hilda must have seen me in the garden, for she was +setting a place for me at one end of the big dining-table. How fresh +and clean she always looked and how tidy. Almost you might have +thought that her hair was carved from some rich brown substance. It +was always as neat as the hair of a statue. + +"Good morning, Hilda." + +"Good morning, Mr. Archie." + +"How about breakfast?" + +"It will be ready directly." + +"Wish you'd give me a long glass of Apollinaris with a lot of ice in +it." + +"With pleasure." + +I heard her pounding ice in the pantry and then the pop as the bottle +came open. She stood behind my chair while I drank. And somehow I got +the feeling that she was smiling. I turned my head quickly. She was +smiling, but tremulously, almost as if she was going to cry. + +"What's the matter, Hilda--have I forgotten to brush the back of my +hair?" + +"No, sir--it's----" + +"It's _what_?" + +"Nothing, sir--only----" + +"Don't be silly---- Tell me." + +She told me, and for a moment, so odd was her statement, I thought she +must have gone out of her mind. + +"The window of my room," she said, "is just over one of the windows of +yours." + +I didn't know what to say. I really thought she must be slightly +deranged. I said lamely: "Which window?" + +"The one by your bed, the one you always leave open so's the air can +get to you." + +"Well, Hilda, what about it?" + +"Sometimes I hear you talking in your sleep, and then I lean out of my +window and listen." + +With this admission she blushed crimson and no longer looked me in the +eyes. + +"Do you think that's quite fair?" + +"I don't lead a very full life, Mr. Archie." + +"And my unconscious prattle helps to fill it? Do I often talk in my +sleep?" + +"You talked last night." + +Her voice was full of meaning and somehow I felt chilled and no longer +so very gay and happy. + +"What did I talk about?" + +"About a lady." + +With humiliation I realized that I was now turning red; but I laughed, +and said: "We look like a couple of boiled lobsters, Hilda. What did I +say about the lady?" + +"You said--I only thought you ought to know that I know--so's--well +so's you can keep that window shut, and fix it so no one else will +know." + +I felt like a convicted criminal. + +"Did I--mention the lady's name?" + +She nodded. "You were talking about Mrs. Fulton," she said in a low +voice, "only you didn't call her that." + +"Hilda," I said firmly. "Mrs. Fulton and I are very old +friends--nothing more." + +I could see that she didn't believe me, and I changed my tactics. +"You'll not talk, Hilda?" + +Her face had resumed its natural color, and she now looked me once more +in the eyes. "I'd sooner die than hurt you, Mr. Archie." + +"Why, Hilda----!" + +All this time I had been sitting and talking over my shoulder, but now +I got quickly out of my chair, and drew her hands away from her face. +"Oh, Hilda, I _am_ so sorry. What _can_ I do? I'm so sorry, Hilda, +and so proud, too." + +She looked up at that. + +"You poor child! I feel like a dog, a miserable dog!" + +"You couldn't help it, Mr. Archie. You can't help being you. Can you?" + +She tried to smile. + +"How long," I asked, "has it been like this?" + +"Ever since the day I came--three years and two hundred and twenty-one +days ago--and I heard you say to Mrs. Mannering--to your +mother--'Mother,' you said, 'that new maid is as pretty as a picture.' +And that did it!" + +"Hilda," I said as quietly as I could, "I'm more touched and flattered +than I can express. I'll be a good friend to you as long as I live. +But--I think I ought to say it, even if it's a cold rough thing to say. +I don't believe I'm ever going to feel the same way about you, and +so----" + +"Oh, I know that, but---- Oh, do you still think I'm pretty?" + +"_Indeed_ I do. I've always thought that. Always known that." + +"Well," she said, speaking very bravely but with a mouth that quivered, +"that's something. I don't lead a very full life, but that's +something." + + + + +XX + +"Mother, are you very busy with those letters?" + +"Yes, dear, very." + +"I thought so; so put them down and come into the garden. There is a +bench where the thyme and eglantine----" + +"My dear, you frighten me. What has happened?" + +My mother rose, one hand on her bosom. + +"Nothing to be frightened about. It's only a little tragedy in a life +that isn't very full. Come and talk it over." + +I gave her my arm and we strolled into the garden like a pair of lovers. + +"Do you remember when Hilda came to us?" + +"Perfectly." + +"I said to you on that day, 'Mother, the new maid is as pretty as a +picture.' Do you remember?" + +"No." + +"Well, I said it, and Hilda heard me say it, and please don't laugh, it +seems that my saying it made the poor child--Oh, care about me. She's +cared ever since, and I'm afraid she cares a whole lot." + +"How did you get to know?" + +"She told me, this morning, practically out of a clear sky. One thing +I want to make clear is that it's just as little my fault as it +possibly can be. I feel like the devil about it, but I can't for the +life of me find one little hook to hang a shred of self-reproach on. +My morals aren't what they should be. But I am a fastidious man, and +the roof under which my mother lives is to me as the roof of a temple. +But you know all this. Now what's to be done? One thing is clear, I +can't and won't be amorously waited on. I think the poor child will +have to be sent away." + +"Oh, dear!" cried my mother, "and just when she's getting to be a +perfect servant, and your father so used to her now--says he never +knows when she's in the room and when she isn't." + +We returned to the house. + +"I'll talk it over with her," announced my mother, "and try to decide +what's best--best for her, the poor, pretty little thing." + +You may be sure that that meeting in the little room where my mother +wrote her letters was no meeting between a mistress and a servant, but +between two honest women who in different ways loved the same man. + +I was with Lucy while it took place, but certain gists of what was said +and done have come to me, some from my mother, and some from Hilda. + +My mother, it seemed, waived at once all those degrees of the social +scale which separated them, took Hilda in her arms, kissed her, and +held her while Hilda had what women call a "good cry." My mother is +too proud and brave to cry, but she was unhappy without affectation. +After the embrace and the cry they sat side by side on a little +brocaded sofa and talked. My mother fortunately did not have to point +out the social obstacles in the way of a match between Hilda and me, as +there was never any question of such a match. Indeed, in the talk +between them I was not at first mentioned. My mother took the position +that Hilda was just a sweet, nice-minded girl who was very unhappy and +needed comforting, and advice. First she made Hilda tell the story of +her life. To be permitted to do this in the presence of a sincere +listener and well-wisher is one of the greatest comforts to anyone. + +"The poor child," said my mother, "has had such a drab, colorless, +unhappy life that it made her almost happy to tell about it." + +It seemed that Hilda wasn't "anybody" even for a servant. Her earliest +recollections were of life in an English orphanage--one of those +orphanages where the mothers of the orphans are still alive and there +never were any fathers. + +"But she's made herself think," my mother told me, "that her father was +a gentleman--God save the mark!" + +Well, she went into service when she was a "great" girl of fourteen or +fifteen, and after various drab adventures in servitude came to this +country and was presently sent to my mother on approval. She had left +her last place in England because of a horrible butler. He was +bowlegged and very old. He drank and made the poor frightened girls in +the house listen to horrible stories. One found notes, printed notes, +pinned on one's pincushion. "Have a heart. Don't lock your door +tonight," and such like. Or a piece of plate would be missed and one +would find it in one's bureau drawer, where the horrible old man had +put it, and one dared not complain to the master lest upon carefully +planned circumstantial evidence one be made out to be a thief. + +It had been so wonderful coming to live in my mother's house. The +servants were so different, so kind, so worthy. The servants' rooms +were so clean and neat and well-furnished as the master's rooms. So +much was done to make the servants comfortable and happy. Nobody had +ever spoken crossly to one in my mother's house----"And, Oh, Mrs. +Mannering, I feel so low and ashamed to have made so much trouble for +you and Mr. Archie." + +That was the first mention of my name. + +"My dear Hilda, you mustn't feel ashamed because you've had a romance." + +"Oh, it has been a sort of romance, hasn't it, Mrs. Mannering? But I +never--never should have let it all come out. Because now I'll have to +go away, and never even see him ever any more. I never should have let +it come out, but I couldn't help it. And him always so kind and +polite, and never once guessing all these years!" + +Now my mother had not gone into that interview without a definite plan. +She had heard that the Fultons--of all the people in this world whom it +might have been!--were being abandoned by their waitress, and already +by a brisk use of the telephone my mother had secured the place for +Hilda. + +It's a wonder that Hilda did not burst out laughing or screaming when +she heard into whose service she was to go. I don't think she hated +Lucy--yet. But for a woman who loved a man to take a place with the +woman the man loved must have struck her as the most grotesque of +propositions. But what could she do? Loyal to me, and to my secret, +she wasn't going to give me away to my mother. + +"But," she protested, "Mr. Archie goes so much to that house!" + +"But now," said my mother, "don't you see, he won't go so much." + +Indeed the dear manager felt that she had killed two birds with one +stone. Lucy had a good place, and from now on there would be in the +Fultons' house a living reason why a man of tact (like her beloved +son!) should keep away. Alas, mother, there were other living reasons +in that house which should have served to keep me away, and didn't. + +I heard from my mother of the arrangement and was troubled. For once +in her life of smoothing out other people's lives she had blundered +seriously. Her measures had in them only this of success: that I found +many excuses for not taking meals in the Fultons' house, and from that +time forward saw Hilda very seldom. My mother gave her a lot of +clothes, and quite a lot of money, I suppose, and the poor child for a +while dropped out of sight. But not out of mind, I can tell you; for +it worried me sick to feel that she was always in Lucy's house, +watching and listening when she could. + +I had not at this time had any great experience with the passion of +jealousy. But a man who reads the newspapers, or has done his turn at +jury duty in Criminal Sessions, cannot be ignorant of the desperate +acts to which now and again it drives men and women. + +Hilda, according to the slight knowledge I had of her character, was +gentle and patient; she would be treated by Lucy as all Lucy's servants +were, with the greatest tact and friendliness, and still the mere fact +of her presence in that house filled me with forebodings. She would be +in a position to make so much trouble, if ever anything should happen +to start her on the war path. She had proved already that her moral +nature was not superior to eavesdropping; already she had my secret by +the ears, and one-sided and innocent though that secret may have +appeared to her, it was not really a one-sided secret, and when she had +got her clutch upon the other side, she could be almost as dangerous +and mischievous as you please. + +At best, Hilda was one more difficulty with which Lucy and I would have +to contend. + +It would have been wisest to tell Lucy all that I knew about Hilda. +But you may have noticed with butterflies that they do not fly the +straight line between two points; rather they fly in circles, with +back-tracking, excursions, and gyrations, so that unless you have seen +them start you cannot guess where they have started from, nor until the +wings close and the insects come to a definite rest, are you in a +position to know what their objective was. + +In the face of our recently declared love for each other, any mention +of Hilda's below-stairs passion for the "young master" seemed to me a +blatant indelicacy. Almost it might have a quality of pluming and +boasting, a gross acceptance of man's polygamous potentialities. + +There would be time later for conversations in which future +practicalities should take precedence over romantic fancies and +protestations. Just now the Butterfly did not care a rap what should +happen when winter came; for the present the world was filled with +flowers--all his, and all containing honey. + + + + +XXI + +"He broke up their home," is a familiar phrase. But few men in the act +of breaking up a home realize the gravity of what they are about. I +had gone a long way toward breaking up Fulton's happy family life +without having the slightest notion that I was doing anything of the +kind. When Lucy fell out of love with her husband, it was not because +she had fallen in love with me. It was because she was going to. The +lovely little sloop-of-war was merely clearing her decks for action. +She didn't know this; I didn't. I frequented the house a little more +than other men; that was all. And I frequented it not because of the +charm exercised upon me by an individual member of the Fulton family, +but of the charm which it exercised upon me as a whole. _There_ was +peace, _there_ was happiness, _there_ was love and understanding; there +was poignant food for a lonely bachelor to chew upon. Remembering this +how can I believe that this is the best of all possible worlds, and +that everything in it is for the best? If I had not been fascinated by +the Fultons as a family, I should never have become a frequenter of +their house. If I had not been a frequenter of their house, I should +never have split that family which as a whole so fascinated me with a +wedge of tragedy. It is a horrid circle of thought. + +When I learned that Lucy no longer loved her husband my heart had given +no guilty bound of anticipation; instead it had turned lead-heavy for +sheer sorrowing and sunk into my boots. The other day the Germans +smashed the blue glass in Rheims Cathedral. A friend brought me a +little fragment of this, and among my personal possessions I give it +the place of first treasure. It's a more wonderful blue than Lucy's +eyes, even. The light of heaven has poured through it to illumine the +face of Joan of Arc. Its price is far above rubies and sapphires, and +it seems to me the most wonderful treasure to have for my very own. +But does this fact automatically make me glad that the Germans banged +the great cathedral to pieces? It does not. Sometimes when I look at +the light through my piece of blue glass I see red. And I hope that +those who trained guns against the holy shrine and who are not already +in hell, soon will be. And I could wish myself the hell of never +having known Lucy's love, if by so doing I could restore the Fulton +family to the blessed and tranquil state in which I first knew them. + +I began this chapter with an idea of self-defense. How much of the +tragedy am I responsible for? Upon my soul I can never answer that +question to my satisfaction, and my conscience has put it to me +thousands of times. I ought to have seen it coming. I didn't--at +least I'm very sure that I didn't. But sometimes I am not so very sure +of this. It is so obvious (now) that I ought to have seen it coming, +that sometimes I persuade myself that I actually did. But how could I? +For if I had, with any certainty at all, surely I would have been man +enough to hide myself away somewhere, even at the ends of the earth. +Love does not grow and wax great upon air. Solid food is needed in the +occasional presence of the beloved. Suppose I had fled away the moment +I learned that Lucy no longer loved her husband? Already her heart +must have been turning to me, if only a little, but with the magnet +which had caused it to turn that little removed from sight, first, and +presently from mind, I believe that after a dazed numbed period that +heart of hers might have swung back into its place. + +Later when Fulton said to me, "But you ought to have seen it coming, +and taken measures to see that it didn't come," I gave him my word that +I hadn't seen it coming, and it was very obvious that he didn't believe +me. Will anyone believe me? It doesn't matter. I am not even sure +myself that I am telling the truth. But I know that I am trying to. + +I had left my mother to her interview with Hilda, and betaken myself to +the club. It was too early even to hope for a sight of Lucy. There +were a number of men in the reading-room discussing the morning leader +in that fair-minded and pithy sheet, the _Charleston News and Courier_, +and one of these, eyeing me with a quizzical expression, said: "You +look as if you had won a bet." + +So already _it_ showed in my face. + +Well, I felt as if I had won many bets, and was only twenty, and that +the course before me was all plain sailing. I was not yet in a +condition to argue with myself about right and wrong. It did not seem +worth while to look into the serried faces of difficulties and think +how I could burst through them. It was more natural on that first +morning after the discovery to look boldly over their heads to the rich +open and peaceful country beyond. + +A line from the "Brushwood Boy" kept occurring to me, "But what shall I +do when I see you in the light?" + +What should I do, what would Lucy do? Would there be people about or +would we have the good luck to meet alone? Did she still love me, or +had the dark night brought council and a change of heart? I knew that +it hadn't. We were as definitely engaged to each other as if there was +no husband in the way, no children, no law, no convention, no nothing. +I was idiotically happy. + +One thing only troubled me a little. Had Lucy's impulse to precipitate +frankness already started any machinery of opposition into action? Had +she told her husband? Knowing her so intimately, I could not make up +my mind, but would have been inclined to take either end of the bet. + +Suppose she had told him? + +Wouldn't she give me a word of warning so that I could be prepared for +anything he might say to me at our first meeting? I thought so, but +could not be sure. + +"If he does know," I thought, "I don't want to see him. Why don't I +want to see him? Am I afraid of him? I am not afraid of him +physically. I am stronger than he and more skillful, and I am not +afraid of him mentally. He has a better mind than I have, but that is +nothing to be afraid of. Well, then, why don't I want to see him? Oh, +because it will be awkward and disagreeable; because he will look sick +to death and irreparably injured. Because he will not do me justice, +because he will think it is all my fault; and because he will require +of me things which I shall not promise him." + +I heard the telephone ringing in the distance. My heart bounded and I +knew that Lucy was asking for me. I had risen and half crossed the +room to meet the boy who came to tell me that I was indeed wanted on +the phone. My heart began to thump in my breast, like a trunk falling +downstairs. I glanced guiltily to see if the rumpus it seemed to me to +be making was attracting notice. No. Every man was sunk in his +newspaper. A moment later, I heard her voice in my ear. + +"Listen, I'd like to see you. I'll be dressed and downstairs in ten +minutes. Evelyn and John have driven to the golf club to get John's +sticks. He's really going to Palm Beach. They start sometime soon +after lunch. . . . How do I feel? . . . Oh, about the same as +yesterday!" + +I cannot describe the thrill or emotion which I managed to abstract +from that last phrase. About the same as yesterday! I, too, felt like +that, only more so. + +"Good-by--for ten minutes." + +She hung up suddenly. But I could not at once leave the telephone +room. It seemed to me that I must be visibly trembling from head to +foot. + +My buggy was at the club door. First I drove home, raced up the stairs +to my room, and from a closet in which I keep all sorts of hunting and +fishing gear, snatched a fine deep-sea rod by Hardy of London, and a +big pigskin box of tackle. I remembered to have heard John Fulton say +that he had none of such things with him in Aiken, and I thought they +might come in handy for him at Palm Beach. I cannot quite explain why +it was, but I had the sudden desire to load the man with favors and +presents. + +It was only on the way to his house that the rod and the tackle-box +struck me as an excellent excuse for so early a morning call. I left +them on the table in the front hall, and marched boldly through the +house, and unannounced into the living-room. + +Of all the Lucy that turned swiftly from a window at the sound of my +steps, and hurried to meet me, I saw only the great blue eyes. + +She came into my arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world +for her to do, as if they had always been her comfort and her refuge. +She was calm and fresh as a rose in the early morning. I could feel +her heart beating tranquilly against mine. It seemed to me that the +essence of every sweetest flower in the world had been used in her +making. I felt that she was the most precious and defenseless thing in +creation, and that me alone she trusted to cherish her and to defend +her. It could not but be right to hold her thus closer and closer and +to learn that her heart beat no longer tranquilly, but with a +fluttering throbbing quickness like the heart of a wild bird that you +have caught and hold in your hand. + +All this while my lips were pressed to hers and hers to mine. Then +from the playground door rose in lamentation over some tragic-seeming +mishap of play, the voice of Hurry. + +Our kiss ended upon the shrill note of woe and protest. But still we +looked each other in the eyes, and she said: "What are we going to do +about it?" + + + + +XXII + +She hadn't told her husband. + +She had been on the point of telling him, but for once her great gift +of frankness had failed her. She had not feared any storm that might +burst upon her own head; it was only that her heart had rebelled +against adding to the weight of care and sorrow which her husband +already carried. Let him have what pleasure he could out of the trip +to Palm Beach. When he returned she could do her telling. + +The fact that she had not told, and was not going to for some time, +troubled her. She felt, she said, as if she was lying. She made it +very clear that her reticence was for his sake, not for her own. + +Personally I rejoiced in the failure of her frankness. Trouble enough +was bound to come of our love for each other; at best there would be +weary months of waiting for old knots to be untied before there could +be any question of tying new ones. There would be at least one +dreadful interview to be gone through with John Fulton; many +readjustments of friendships, some friends would side with him, some +with her; and last and worst, that moment when I should have to tell my +mother and she would grow old before my eyes. + +"There'll be heaps of little worries and troubles, Lucy, dear," I said; +"bound to be. But we'll not begin to think about them till John comes +back from Palm Beach. If it's wrong for us to love each other at all, +at least we are going to make it as right as we can. We owe ourselves +all the unalloyed happiness we can lay hands on. So--let's pretend." + +We sat on the sofa in the Fultons' living-room holding hands, like two +children. + +"Let's pretend," I said, "that there aren't any complications; that +time has gone backward ten years; that we've just gotten engaged; that +there's nobody to disapprove and be unhappy about it. I can pretend +true, if you can." + +"It's easy for me," said Lucy; "I was never any good at remembering or +looking forward, never any good at anything that wasn't going on right +there and then. Oh, I'm so glad it's _you_!" + +"Why, Lucy?" + +"Because you're not a bit like me. If you were like me, we wouldn't +think of what would happen later on, we'd just go away together. It's +so complicated and foolish to think we can't. Laws and people make +such a snarl of things. I wouldn't try to untangle it, I'd just cut it +all to pieces, and then I suppose we'd be sorry." + +"Yes, dear, we'd be very, very sorry. And the world would make us +suffer almost more than our love could make up to us for. So we'll +just have to pretend for a while." + +"And besides," she said in a startled sort of way, "I might fall out of +love with you, mightn't I? Oh, I've fallen out of love lots of +times--then with John, and maybe I'll fail you. You must know that I'm +not any good. But even if I'm not, I do love you. Oh, I do." + +"Do you?" + +"And I _trust_ you so. There's nobody so kind and thoughtful and +strong." + +It is pleasant for an unkind, thoughtless weak man to be told such +untruths by the woman he loves. And for a few moments I imagined I had +the qualities that she had wished upon me, nay, loved upon me. For a +few moments there was no kindness, no thoughtfulness, no strength of +which I was incapable. + +"When your arms are around me I know that nothing can hurt me." + +I was holding her in my arms now. But there came in through the hall a +pattering of little feet, and by the time Jock and Hurry had burst into +the room I was at a garden window looking out, and Lucy had caught up +from her work bag that Penelope's web of a silk necktie upon which she +so often worked, and made no progress. + +"Has Favver come back?" + +"Why, no, you little goose. He's gone to Palm Beach. We took him to +the train. He won't be back tomorrow, nor the day after. Nor the day +after that," and she halted only when she had come to about the tenth +tomorrow. "And now make your manners to Mr. Mannering." + +In fiction children and dogs have an intuitive aversion for the villain +of the piece. But Jock and Hurry had none for me. Indeed they liked +me very much and looked to me for treats, and rides round the block, +and romping games in which I fled and they pursued. But then it was +only since yesterday that I had become a genuine villain. Had their +intuition made the discovery? I think I was a little anxious. + +But they rushed upon me, and we were to remain for the present at +least, so it seemed, the same old friends. + +It flashed across my mind that some day in the not far future these +children would live under my roof; surely the courts would award them +to Lucy; and I highly resolved to be a genuine father to them through +thick and thin. Somehow or other they must always be fond of me. +Whatever I had to leave when I died they must share equally with any +children that I might happen to have of my own. Children? I caught +Lucy's eyes. We looked at each other across the tops of those +children's heads, and read each other's thoughts. I know this, because +when Jock and Hurry had been sent away, I said: "Did you know what I +was thinking of just then? I was thinking, wondering, hoping----" + +"I couldn't love you," she said quietly, "and not want what you want +and hope what you hope." + +"Lucy!" + +I touched her hair with the tips of my fingers. + +"What, dear?" + +"There was never anyone in the world so wonderful as you, so beautiful, +so generous." + +"I suppose it's nice to have you think so." She looked with great +contentment at the necktie. + +"You haven't told me when Schuyler is coming." + +"He's coming tomorrow." + +"That's fine. But it will have its funny side." + +"Why?" + +"Well, I shall have to tell him all about us, won't I? And we were +schoolmates together, and I think telling him I love his sister and +want to marry her and asking his consent has its funny side. _He'll_ +be on our side anyway, Lucy." + +"I'm afraid nobody will think it's as nice as we do." + +"Well, of course, it isn't as nice for anybody as it is for us." + +"Will you tell him right away?" + +"Couldn't I wait a few days? Somehow I like to bask in the sunshine of +just _you_ knowing and just _me_ knowing. What do _you_ think?" + +She gave me a wonderful look. "I'm not here to think--I'm here to take +orders from my dear." + +I let five days go before I told Schuyler. They were five wonderful +days, during which we borrowed no trouble from the past or the future; +five days during which we agreed to cross our bridges only when we came +to them. On that fifth day I received a long letter from Harry +Colemain dated Palm Beach. + + +MY DEAR FELLOW [he wrote]: At the risk of losing you I think that I +must tell you something of the experiences that I have been having with +John Fulton. To begin with he told me about his wife's failure of +affection and their domestic smash-up. He told me going down in the +train. We shared the drawing-room. Every time I was jolted into +wakefulness, I found him wide awake. For five days I don't think he +has slept a wink. He looks parched and dry like a mummy. He has tried +very hard to be a cheerful companion, and we have fished and swum and +gone through the motions of all the Palm Beach recreations. But his +mind is never for one single instant clear of his troubles. We have +become very intimate. I think he had to talk or die. He apologizes +very often for having talked and continuing to do so, but throws +himself upon what he calls my mercifulness. He talks in a circle, +always coming back to the questions _why_ and _what_. _Why_ has it +happened? _What_ has he done to deserve it? He searches his memory +for reasons as you look for bits of gold in a handful of sand. Yes, he +was very cross once about some money, but that was years before she +stopped loving him. It couldn't be _that_, etc., etc. + +Our rooms are separated by a little parlor. I'm a sound sleeper, and +hate being disturbed, but I have given him positive orders to wake me +if he gets lonely and wants to talk. He's only obeyed these orders +once. And then he didn't exactly obey them, he waked me because he +couldn't control his nerves. He couldn't sleep, as usual, so he +started to get up, and just when he got his legs over the side of the +bed he began to laugh. It was his laughter that waked me. By the time +I was wide awake the laughter sounded very ugly, and by the time I got +to him it was mixed with awful sobs that came all the way from his +diaphragm and seemed as if they were going to tear him to pieces. I +turned on the light, but the moment I saw his face I turned it off. It +isn't decent for one man to see another have hysterics. We haven't +spoken of the thing since, but he knows that I came in and sat by him +and felt horribly sorry for him. I can read this in his eye. And I +think he would do anything in the world for me. The next morning his +voice was very hoarse; sometimes a woman's voice is that way after +she's paid somewhat over-handsomely for being a woman. I am trying to +convey to you the impression that the man is in a terribly bad way, and +through no possible fault of his own, which must make his torment +harder to bear. + +What I think about Lucy Fulton is simply this: that she ought to be +cowhided until she sees which side her bread is buttered on. And this +is where you come in. You're great friends with her, and have a lot of +influence with her. John says so. She admires what she is pleased to +call your judgment. Can't you make her see that just because she has +been spoiled, and given all the best of everything, she's gotten bored, +and is letting one of the best men in this world eat his heart out with +grieving? She ought to lie to him. She ought to telegraph him to come +back, and when she gets him back she ought to make him think that she +still loves him. Every woman has at heart one chance to be decent. +This is hers. + +Another thing. John has betrayed his notion that Lucy sees too much of +you for her own good, at this time. He doesn't even imagine that she +cares for you in any way that she shouldn't or you for her; but he does +wish--well, that you'd gone to California when you planned to, etc., +etc. Now the season's pretty nearly over, and I know that a few weeks +one way or the other never did matter to you and won't now. Of course, +it has its ridiculous side, but I really think it would comfort John +Fulton quite a little if he heard that you had left Aiken. You see +he's half crazy with grief and insomnia, and he's got it in his head +that if Lucy had fewer other people to amuse her, she might get bored +again and in sheer boredom turn again to him. But just use your +influence with Lucy, if you've got any. I tell you on the honor of a +cynical and skeptical man, that if things go on the way they are going, +I think John Fulton will die of a broken heart. You see, he's had too +much--more than you and I can possibly imagine--and that much he has +now lost. If he isn't to get back any portion of it, he'll curl up and +die. + +Hoping you're having a fine time and fine weather, + +Always your affectionate friend, + H.C. + + +Well, the days of basking in the sunshine on top of the powder magazine +were over. + +After some thought, I went to Lucy's brother and gave him Harry's +letter to read. He had slept late, and I found him dressing. + +Schuyler was, of course, deeply troubled and concerned. That he +himself hadn't had "an inkling of this--not an inkling," seemed for +some minutes quite important to him, for he made the statement a number +of times. Then, for he was energetic, and, like Lucy, oftenest in a +hurry, he said: + +"The thing to do is for us to take this letter to Lucy, stand over her +while she reads it, and then throw hot shot into her. Why it's a +damned shame! John's been twice as good a husband as Lucy's been a +wife. And now she does this to him." Then something appeared to +strike Schuyler's sense of humor, for he burst out laughing. "And he's +getting jealous of you!" he said gleefully. "When did you first become +a snake in the grass?" + +"Perhaps you'll end by calling me that," I said gravely. "Stop +laughing, Schuyler. A very sad thing has happened and a very wonderful +thing. Lucy and I----" + +His face became instantly as grave as mine. "Lucy and you?" + +"We hope that you'll be on our side." + +"And John doesn't know?" + +"You see by Harry's letter that although he doesn't _know_, his +intuition is trying to tell him." + +"How long's this been goin' on?" + +"It just came, Schuyler, happened, was--not many days ago. We didn't +see it coming, and----" + +He interrupted sharply, his eyes grown suddenly cold. "I want to know +if you have still a sort of right to be in this house?" + +"Why--yes--I think so." + +"_Think_--don't you _know_?" + +He gave a harsh short laugh. + +"I know what you are driving at, of course. We care about each other. +If _that's_ wrong, that's all that is wrong." + +"You take a weight off me," he said, and his tone was more friendly. + +"You always maintained that love was its own justification, Schuyler?" + +"And I've heard you maintain that it wasn't. Now we seem to have +swapped beliefs." + +He turned to his dressing-table and tied his tie. While so doing he +muttered: "Pleasant vacation in sunny South." + +And then was silent. I could not think of anything to say. Having +finished dressing he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets and +began to pace about the disordered room. + +"Shall we go out in the sun?" I suggested. + +"A dark cave would be more in keepin' with my feelings. Let's stop +here a little and talk. What's the idea anyway?" + +"Why, the usual idea, I suppose." + +"John to give Lucy a divorce, you and Lucy to marry shortly after, and +Jock and Hurry to go to hell! I think less than nothing of the usual +idea. To begin with, why should John give Lucy a divorce? She's the +one that's done all the harm. I _know_ I'm her brother. It only helps +me to see her character clearer than other people do. Well, say he +isn't the fool I think he is. Say he _won't_ give her a divorce? What +then?" + +"Hadn't we better cross that bridge when we come to it?" + +"In the usual way, I suppose. No. I'm too old-fashioned to like usual +ways of doing things. Furthermore, I like you and Lucy too much. I +don't want to see her life ruined, and John after all is a manufacturer +of ammunition. How about crossin' the bridge and findin' him on the +other side with a big bang-stick in his hand?" + +I shrugged my shoulders, though at heart I was not indifferent to the +picture which Schuyler had conjured up. + +"Oh," said he, "what a damned mess! Come, we'll talk to Lucy." + +I went with him most unwillingly. And I thought it good fortune that +we did not find her alone, but with Evelyn, Dawson and the children. + +Schuyler kissed his sister good morning with warm, brotherly affection +and gave her a playful pat or two on the back. + +"All we need," he said cheerfully, "is old John, and a girl apiece for +Archie and me, to be a happy family party." + +He made goat's eyes at Evelyn and Dawson. The latter blushed. But the +former returned his glance with a fine and mischievous indifference. + +"Now, people," Schuyler continued, "I'm on my vacation. I've plenty of +energy, and I'm open to suggestion. You, Evelyn, do you want to ride +with me or with Dawson?" + +"I want to ride with you, but I'm going to play golf with Dawson." + +"When?" + +"We were just lingering to say good morning." + +She rose a little languidly, and I perceived with misgivings that she +and Dawson were really about to depart. + +"Well," said Schuyler, "any time you feel like shakin' Dawson, just put +me wise, there's a good fellow!" + +When Dawson and Evelyn had gone, Schuyler proceeded to get rid of the +children. He gave them fifty cents apiece, and said that if he didn't +see them or hear them for half an hour they could keep the money. + +"Are you trying to get this room all to yourself?" asked Lucy. "Do you +want Archie and me to vanish, too?" + +"No," said Schuyler; "much as you and Archie may wish to, I want +nothing of the kind. Lucy, I think you'd better telegraph John to come +home, don't you?" + +"I've told Schuyler, Lucy," I said. + +"And that's a good thing," said Schuyler; "because I don't have to take +sides. I like you all. You and Archie _have_ to take your side, and +John has to take his, naturally." + +Lucy, her hands folded in her lap, looked bored and annoyed. + +"A lot of talk isn't going to help any," she said. + +"For certain reasons, Lucy," said Schuyler, "you and Archie are just +now as blind as two bats. You don't see what you are doing, and you +don't see what you are up against." + +"I've only one life," said Lucy, "and it's my own." + +"But it isn't," said Schuyler; "you gave it to John. I'd be mightily +hurt and shocked to find out that you were an Indian giver." + +"John will give my life back to me when he knows." + +"Well, find out if he will or not. Send for him. Tell him what's +happened." + +"I think that would be best, Lucy," I said. + +"Then, of course, I'll send," she said. "But----" + +"John, you know," said Schuyler, "may not take you two very seriously. +He may think that Lucy's feelings for you, Archie, are just a passing +whim. Upon the grounds of his own experience with Lucy, he would be +within his rights to feel that way. Why not," his face brightened into +a sort of cheerfulness, "why not test yourselves a little? You go +north, Archie, and wait around, and then, after a while, if you and +Lucy feel the same, it will be time enough to tell John. It's all been +too sudden for you to feel sure of yourselves. It isn't as if neither +of you had ever been in love before and gotten over it. As a matter of +cold fact, you've both been tried before now and found wanting. So I +think you ought to go slow--for John's sake. He's the fellow that's +been tried and that hasn't been found wanting." + +It was obvious that Lucy did not like her brother's suggestion at all, +for she rose suddenly, her hands clenched, and exclaimed: + +"Oh, you don't understand at all. How can I go on living with a man I +don't love? How can you ask me to be so false to myself and to +Archie----" + +"And to Jock and Hurry?" asked Schuyler gently. + +She showed no emotion at the mention of these names. + +"Don't they count for anything?" persisted Schuyler. + +"Of course they count for something, so does poor John. Do you think +it's any pleasure to have hurt him so? But is it my fault if they +don't count _enough_?" + +Here she came swiftly to my side, and slid her hand under my arm and +clung to it. "They count," she said, "but they don't count enough." +And she turned to me. "You are all that counts. I'd give up my life +for you, and I'd give up my children and everything. You know that." + +[Illustration: "'You are all that counts . . . you know that.'"] + +There was a long silence. Then Schuyler, speaking very slowly, said: +"You'd go away with him, and never see Jock and Hurry again, not be +able to go to them when they were sick, not to be at little Hurry's +wedding when she grows up and gets married. . . . For God's sake!" + +"_Now_ do you realize that I'm in earnest?" she cried. + +Schuyler turned quietly on his heel and left the room. After a while +we heard his voice in the distance, mingling joyfully with the voices +of Jock and Hurry. + +Lucy's face, all tears now, was pressed to my breast. + +"You are giving up too much for me, my darling," I said; "I'm not worth +it." + +"But if you went out of my life I'd die!" + +"I won't go out of your life, Lucy. But there are lives and lives. We +could meet and be together to gather strength for the times we had to +be apart." + +At that she had a renewal of crying, and cried for a long time. + +"It isn't right for Jock and Hurry to run any risk of losing you," I +said, "and love--Lucy--love with renunciation is a wonderful thing, and +a strong thing." + +"I'm not strong. I don't want to be strong. I just want to give and +give and give." + +"We could have our own life apart from everybody else--but not a hidden +guilty life--a life to be proud of--a life in which you would +strengthen me for my other life and I would strengthen you for yours." + +She stopped crying all at once and freed herself from my arms. "Then +you don't want me?" + +"I want you." + +She lifted her hands to my shoulders. "Suppose we find that we can't +stand a life of love--with renunciation?" + +"At least we would have tried to do what seemed to make for the +happiness of the most people." + +"And you think I ought to live on with John, as--as his wife?" + +"No, I couldn't bear that--but as his friend, Lucy, as the mother of +Jock and Hurry. Oh, no," I said; "I couldn't bear it, if--if you +weren't faithful to me." + +"And you would be faithful to me?" + +"In thought and deed." + +"And we'd just be wonderful friends?" + +"Lovers, too, Lucy. We couldn't help that." + +And I kissed her on the forehead. And at that moment I felt very +noble, and that the way of life which I had proposed was a very fine +way of life, and possible of being lived. + +"Then," she said, "John mustn't know. He must never know. It will +always be our secret. But then Schuyler knows." + +"When I tell him what we mean to do, he won't tell." + +And the first chance I had I told Schuyler. And finished with, "So +don't tell John, will you?" + +"I'll see how happy Lucy manages to make him, first," said Schuyler. +"But if you think he won't find out all by himself, you're mistaken. +It's a rotten business all around." + +And he looked at me with a kind of comical amazement. "Think of Lucy +carin' more for you than for Jock and Hurry!" he exclaimed. "I suppose +you regale her from time to time with episodes from your past +life? . . . Well, if I didn't think you'd both get tired of each other +before long, I'd feel worse. One thing, though, if I promise you that +I won't give you away to John, will you promise me for yourself and for +Lucy that you won't take any serious step, without telling me first, +and giving me a chance to try to dissuade you?" + +"As there is to be no question of a serious step," I said, "I promise." + + + + +XXIII + +Ours was to be one of the most beautiful and beneficial loves of +history. Almost we fell in love with our new way of loving. It had, +we felt, a dignity and a purpose lacking in other loves. To look each +other in the eyes, and feel that in a moment of strength, spurred by +pity for those who had no such love as ours to sustain them, we had +renounced each other, was a state of serenity and peace. + +It added to the beauty of our renunciation that it claimed no luster of +publicity, but had been made in quiet privacy. No one, we thought, +will ever know; yet it will have been strong and pure, so that the +world cannot but be the better for it. + +We delighted for a while in our supreme renunciation as children +delight in a new toy. And even now I can look back upon that time and +wish that there could have been a little more substance to the shadow. +It was a time of wonderful and sweet intimacy. We were to tell each +other everything. There was delight in that. There was the delight of +looking ahead and planning the meetings that should be ours in other +places, until at last John himself came to realize that in our loving +friendship was nothing unbeautiful, or unbeneficent, and meetings would +happen when or where we pleased, the world silenced by the husband's +approval. + +So I did not take Harry Colemain's well-meant advice, and leave Aiken. + +For a while it would suffice John to know that Lucy intended to stand +by him and be the keeper of his house; to put his interests first, and +to make up to him in dutifulness and economy for the love which she +could not but reserve. Yes, indeed! Riding slowly through the spring +woods, I made bold to preach a gospel of new life to her, and she +listened very meekly, like a blessed angel, and she felt sure that from +me she would derive the will and the strength. Mostly it was a gospel +of economy that I preached and how best she might help her husband back +upon his feet. And before his return from Palm Beach she had made a +beginning. She bought a book to keep accounts in, and she got together +all the bills she could lay hands on, and added them up to an appalling +total (several, for it came different each time) and she stacked the +bills in order of their pressingness, with the requests for payment +from lawyers and collectors on top, and she felt an unparalleled glow +of virtue and helpfulness. + +And one day she took Jock and Hurry in the runabout (Cornelius Twombly +behind) and drove to the station to welcome John home. How sweet the +sight of those three faces must have seemed to him after absence! +Indeed they had seemed very sweet to me as I looked into them just +before they drove stationward. I was not to show up for two or three +days. That was one compromise on Harry Colemain's advice. It would +show John that Lucy and I were not entirely engrossed in each other's +society. It would give him time to turn around and see how he liked +the fact that Lucy was going to stick to him, and in many ways be a +better wife to him. It would give me an opportunity to see, and be +seen by many people. It would, in short, be a beginning of knocking on +the head and silencing most of the talk that there had been about Lucy +and me. + +When you have a secret you might as well do your best to keep it. + +So I did not see John Fulton for three days after his return from Palm +Beach, and then by accident. + +He had stopped at my father's house to leave the rod and tackle-box +which I had loaned him, and I, happening to be in the hall, opened the +door myself, and went out to speak with him. + +"Have a good time?" I asked. + +The man looked so sick that I pitied him. + +"Mechanically, yes. I went through the motions," he said. "That's a +beautiful rod. It was the most useful thing I had along. Going to the +club? I'll drive you." + +"Will you? Thanks. I'll just put these things in the hall." + +We drove slowly toward the club. + +"Glad to be back?" + +"Very. I couldn't have stayed away from Lucy and the kids much longer, +even if I'd been held." + +He laughed gently. + +"Lucy," he said, "must have thought that I wasn't ever coming back. +She's been trying to put the house in order." + +"How do you mean?" + +"Oh, finding out how much money's owed, and making a beginning of tying +up loose ends." + +"Kids all right? I haven't set eyes on 'em for three or four days." + +"Yes, the kids are fine," and he added, after a pause, "and Lucy's fine +too." + +There were several men in the club and they made John heartily welcome, +and told him how much better he looked than when he went away. As a +matter of fact he looked much worse. + +We all had tea together and asked questions about Palm Beach, and if he +had seen so and so, and if he'd brought any money away from the +gambling place, and what was new, and amusing, etc. + +"Do you know," he said all of a sudden, "there was one very interesting +thing that happened. Anybody mind if I talk shop?" + +Nobody did; so he went on: "I had a telegram from a Baron Schroeder +asking if it would be convenient for me to see him. He came all the +way down to Palm Beach, talked to me all the time between trains, and +flew away north again. He wanted to know how many rifle cartridges I +could make in a year, at a price, a very round price, how many in five +years. He wanted to know if I could convert any of my plant into a +manufactory for shrapnel, and so on. What interested me is that he +should take all that trouble over a small concern like mine. It looks +as if someone saw a time when there would be a great dearth of +ammunition. Two days ago Schroeder had gone away. I was braced, while +in swimming, by a Russian gentleman. He apologized and plied me with +the same sort of questions; I gave him the same sort of offhand answers +that I had given Schroeder, and then I asked him what it was all about, +and I told him about Schroeder without mentioning names. He said he +could only guess, but that if I would sign a contract he would keep my +plant running full for five years. It looks, doesn't it, as if +somebody had decided to change the map of Europe, and as if others +suspected the design?" + +"Well, what came of it? Did you land a contract? Tell more." + +"Nothing has come of it yet. But I think something will. I'm to meet +the Russian in New York shortly." + +"Why the Russian? The Baron saw you first." + +"The Russian had better manners," said Fulton simply. "I think he +liked me, and I know I liked him!" + +Fulton asked me to dinner, but I refused, and so it was nearly four +days before I saw Lucy again. In the meanwhile Harry Colemain told me +more about the Palm Beach trip. The ammunition inquiries had, it +seemed, strengthened Fulton's nerves; there had been no repetition of +the hysterics. + +"A man," Harry said, "must be even more down and out than Fulton not to +be braced by a prospect of good business. From what he told me, if the +contract goes through, he stands to make a fortune." + +"Is there anything peculiarly good about the Fulton cartridges, or is +Europe just out to gather up all the ammunition she can?" + +"It looks rather like a sudden general demand. But of course nobody +_knows_ anything except the insiders. Fulton says if the contract goes +through he can die any time and be sure that his family will be well +provided for. That feeling will stiffen his backbone. But you haven't +told me if you said anything to Lucy?" + +I had been dreading that question as one which could not be answered +with complete frankness. I don't enjoy lying. Not that my moral sense +revolts, but because I am lazy. Lying calls for deliberate efforts of +invention. + +"In a general way, yes," I evaded. "But her own good sense has come to +the rescue. John's absence gave her a chance to see how she really +felt about things. She won't leave him. Indeed, she'll try to make up +to him in every way she can for her failure of affection." + +"If she does _that_," said Harry, "I daresay the affection will come +back. The more you benefit a person the more you like that person. +The more you fail in your duty to a person, the less you like that +person. I'm delighted with what you say. With all her charm and +beauty she can make him happy if she tries." + +"I think it's not a question of charm and beauty," I said. "It's a +question of keeping house for him, and being a good mother to the +children, and being loyal to him and them." + +"There are reservations?" + +"She doesn't love him." + +"Oh," said Harry scornfully, "_that_ sort of thing won't work." + +"We know a good many cases where that sort of thing seems to work." + +"It only works when the husband acts like a natural man. Fulton won't. +For him only Lucy is possible. There can be no substitute. No. In +this case it won't work. He's too young and she's too good-looking." + +"Then it won't work," I said shortly. + +"She makes me sick," said Harry. "She gets her board and lodging and +her clothes and spending money from him, and love and protection, +and--Oh, it isn't as if there'd never been anything between them. +After all, as far as he's concerned, she's no novice." + +"The moment she stopped loving him she became spiritually separated +from him." + +"Spiritually be damned!" exclaimed Harry. "Don't talk to me. There +are women in New York who to keep from starvation, will make love to +any man that comes along, for a pittance. They do the very best they +can to earn the money. I can't help admiring 'em. But your +fashionable married woman, she's too refined, too delicately souled, +too spiritual to do anything but eat herself sick on her man's money +and spend him into a hole. It's bad enough to be a prostitute who +plays the game, but it's a damned sight worse to be a prostitute who +doesn't." + +"I'm not going to get angry with you, Harry. We've been through too +much together. But I think you have said enough. Lucy is one of the +finest, purest-minded women in the world." + +"Then she ought to be her husband's wife, or get out. If she's not his +wife, she's no business grafting on him for board and lodging and +pocket money. How long does a pure-minded, good-looking woman keep off +the streets if she can't raise the wind any other way? Not long. And +how many men can she graft on? Plenty of 'em--once. But not twice. +The word goes round about her. 'She's a beauty to look at,' says the +word, 'but she doesn't earn her money.'" + +"Many marriages," I said, "_have_ to be re-arranged and compromised." + +"Don't say _have_ to be, say _are_." + +"Harry," I said with great firmness, "the country needs rain like the +devil." + +After a moment, good humor returned to his face. He said; "You've just +won an argument. I also am dry as a bone." + + + + +XXIV + +"This isn't the last ride together," said Lucy, "but almost. This time +we are really going." + +We had turned into Lovers' Lane, outward-bound, the ponies walking. + +"John will have to be in New York for many days about this Russian +contract, and he doesn't want to take the long trip back. So we're all +going together." + +"I shan't stay here very long after you've gone." + +"No, you mustn't." + +"We'll have lots of nice parties in New York." + +"John says he's going to sell our house here, or rent it, or get rid of +it somehow." + +"Why?" + +"Because he's been so unhappy in it. He says unless his whole mind is +made over we'll never come to Aiken again." + +She drew a long breath, and her eyes roved among the great pine trees +on either side of the road as if she wished to impress them forever +upon her memory. + +"I love it all so much," she said simply. + +"I'm so sorry," I said; "and it means that I won't ever be coming back +for more than a minute. And I love it, too." + +"We're to spend the summer in Stamford to be near the works. +_Stamford_!" + +"You'll find lots of people to like, and bully sailing and swimming." + +"And bully spells of white-hot, damp weather, and bully big mosquitoes." + +"It ought to be cheap." + +"Very cheap." + +Then we both laughed. Then we were silent. + +"Tell me," I said, "how is the great compromise working?" + +"I don't know. I told him how I'd made up my mind to stick by the +ship, so that there wouldn't be any scandal, or anything to break up +his home, or hurt the children, and how I was going to be better about +money, and he said, 'Very well, Lucy, we'll try it for a while, but I +don't think compromises are much good.' He wants me to do all I'm +trying to do, and be his wife too. I thought he'd--Oh, I thought he'd +be pleased and grateful--instead of that he tries to be cold to me, and +is very sharp and stern." + +"It takes time to settle down to any new modus vivendi." + +"Well," she cried, "I'm not doing it because I want to, am I? I'm only +doing it for his sake. I'm doing every blessed thing I _can_ to save +the situation; and if there are things I simply _can't_ do--why he +ought to be generous and understand. Oh, I know it isn't going to +work! And all the time when he isn't being cold and stern, he--he's +trying to make me love him again, and come back to him. And right in +the middle of that he'll fly into a rage, and say that I ought to be +_compelled_ to behave like a rational human being." + +"But he wouldn't compel you to do anything you didn't want to do, Lucy. +Trust him for that." + +"I don't know. He's so different from the way he used to be. +Sometimes I'm afraid. Sometimes I am afraid to be alone in the same +house with him. If I didn't have you to back me up, and give me +strength I'd--but it can't last long. I know it can't. And I don't +know that it's worth trying." + +"You are still fond of him, Lucy?" + +"And sorry for him, Oh, so sorry. But fondness and sorrow aren't +everything." + +"It will be better when he has the new contract to occupy him, and keep +him away. It won't be an all-day affair then. And all the time you +and I'll be meeting to talk things over, and borrow strength to go on +with. It isn't easy for me either, dear. And of course, if after +trial we find it won't work, why then it will be our duty to ourselves +to cut the Gordian knot." + +She turned toward me and we looked into each other's eyes for a long +time. + +"I've given him all I can," she said. "It isn't enough. It never will +be enough. Oh, if there are knots to be cut, let's cut 'em and have +done with it." + +I dropped my reins, and leaning wide, took her in my arms and kissed +her many times. + +"We are romantic children," I said, "to think that there could be any +other way. God bless you, my darling, we'll cut all the knots, and +begin life all over again, and always be together." + +She became then wonderfully cheerful and excited, and riding always at +a walk, no longer on roads, but through the deep woods, we made our +plans for the future. + +Nothing was to be said to John until we were in a bigger place than +Aiken. The bigger the place the smaller the scandal. I offered (with +grave misgivings) to do the telling; but Lucy would not have it so. +"It's his right," she said, "to know from me." John having been told, +would, we felt sure from what we knew of his character, be willing to +do the right thing. It wasn't as if he had been dishonored in any way. +He would even be grateful to us for having been strong-minded and +aboveboard. It would hurt him terribly. Yes, but a sudden final hurt +was better than the lingering sickness from which he was now suffering. +There would, of course, be no question of alimony. My father, much as +he might disapprove of the whole affair, was not only fond of me, but +fond of Lucy, and he would see us through. + +It would take a long while to get a divorce. That was the darkest +cloud on the horizon. But we must face that cheerfully; our reward +would be all the greater when it came. + +That John would be unwilling to give up Lucy even when he knew that she +loved someone else never occurred to us. He belonged to that class of +men whose code is to give the women all the best of everything. He was +too fond of Lucy to wish to see her hurt. And if he wouldn't give her +a divorce, hurt she would be, for in that unlikely event we were +determined to jump on the nearest steamer and sail away for parts +unknown. + +"Why not come in?" said Lucy, when we had finished our ride. "You +haven't been near the house for days, so it won't be very noticeable." + +"All right," I said, "for a minute." + +It was between dusk and dark. The lights had not been turned on in the +hall. The opportunity seemed rare and sweet. We stood for one brief +fleeting moment closely enlaced--and swiftly separated, and stood +breathing fast, and listening. + +Lucy was the first to make up her mind. + +She stepped swiftly to the dining-room door and flung it open. She was +in time to see the trim shoulders and white cap of a servant +disappearing from the dining-room into the pantry. + +"Who was it?" + +"My new waitress." + +"Hilda?" + +Lucy smiled grimly. "She'll leave tomorrow." + +"Don't discharge her. She might tell. Perhaps she didn't see." + +I joined Lucy in the dining-room, closed the door, knelt and looked +back into the hall through the keyhole. + +"Could she see?" + +I rose to my feet and nodded. + +"He mustn't hear from anyone but me," said Lucy. "I'll speak to her." + +But Hilda was not in the pantry. + +"I don't think she'll tell," I said, "and after all what does it +matter? Let's take a chance." + +Mentally I resolved to communicate with Hilda at the earliest possible +moment, and to use whatever influence I had upon her. So I was no +sooner in my room at home than I took the receiver from my private +telephone and gave the number of the Fultons' house. After an interval +I heard Hilda's voice. + +"It's Mr. Mannering, Hilda." + +"Yes, sir." + +"I want to see you about something important." + +"I know." + +So she knew, did she? + +"Can you meet me at ten o'clock tonight?" + +"Where?" + +"Leave the house at ten sharp, and walk toward the town; I'll be +watching for you. You'll come?" + +"Yes, sir." + + + + +XXV + +Near the Fultons, fronting on the street, is a large overgrown yard +that has never been built on. Here in the shadow of a great cedar tree +I waited and watched for Hilda. On the stroke of ten I saw her coming. +She had a neat, brave, brisk way of walking, her head well up, as if +she was afraid of nothing. A few moments later I hailed her from under +my cedar, and after glancing up and down the street to see if anyone +was watching, she joined me there. + +It was very dark. I could just make out her face. She was breathing +fast and had one hand pressed upon her heart. + +"Thank you for coming, Hilda. You saw Mrs. Fulton and me in the hall?" + +"And heard you." + +"I'm throwing myself on your mercy, Hilda. Mrs. Fulton and I love each +other. When we get back to New York we are going to tell Mr. Fulton. +He will let Mrs. Fulton divorce him, and then we are to be married. +You'll be my friend, won't you, and not tell? There's been nothing +wrong, Hilda----" + +"Only kisses." + +"But if he found out from anyone but Mrs. Fulton--you see he isn't very +well and he might do something crazy--something tragic. You see if you +told him what you'd seen, he might act before anyone had a chance to +explain." + +I was trying to make the matter sound more serious than I felt it to +be. Whatever happened, I did not think that Fulton was the kind of man +who forgets his education and his civilization, but I wanted, if I +could, to frighten Hilda into secrecy. + +"You'd not want to get me all shot up, would you, Hilda?" + +She was silent for a time, as if weighing pros and cons in her head. +Then she looked up at me and said: + +"When _I_ saw, _I_ didn't do anything crazy." + +"Hilda," I said, "he has to be hurt and you have to be hurt. That's +always been the way with love--it always will be." + +She was silent again. Then she said in a low voice that carried with +it a certain power to thrill: "He'd die for her. And I'd die for you. +But he's only a worn-out glove, and I'm only a common servant. She +thinks she'd die for you, and you think you'd die for her. But you're +both wrong. A woman that won't stand by her babies isn't going to die +for anyone, not if she knows it. A man that gets to your age without +marrying any of the women he's gone with isn't going to die for anyone +if he can help it. Wait till you've crossed her selfish will a few +times and see how much she'll die for you; wait till she begins to use +you the way she used him. A whole lot you'll want to die +for--her--then----" + +"I can't listen to this, Hilda." + +"You _will_ listen, or else I'll scream and say you attacked me--a +whole lot she'll feel like dying for you _then_. Servants have eyes +and ears and hearts. There's servants in that house that know how +things used to be, who see how things are now, since you came +philandering around. And do you know what those servants think of her, +and what I think of her for the way she's treated him? Oh, they like +her well enough because she's gentle and easy-going, and good-tempered +and easy to get on with; but there isn't a servant in that house would +change characters with her. We think she's the kind of woman that's +beneath contempt--lazy, selfish, spendthrift--always pampering number +one--and going about the world looking like a sad, bruised lily. Do +you think the servants in that house don't know all about your goings +and comings, and the life you've led, the harm you've done and didn't +have to do, the good you might have done, and didn't?" + +"But, Hilda----" + +She motioned me to be silent. Her ears, sharper than mine, or more +attentive, had heard voices. They were negro voices, a man's and a +woman's. We drew deeper into the shadow of the cedar. + +"So you got no mo' use for me, nigger?" The man's voice rumbled softly +and threatened like distant thunder. "Yo' got to have yo' fling?" + +Then the woman's voice, shrill but subdued: "I don' love you no mo', +Frank." + +"You got er nice home 'n nice lil' babies, 'n you goin' to leave 'em +fo' a yaller man--is you?" + +They were opposite us now, walking very slowly and occasionally +lurching against each other. + +"Yo' ain't goin' ter make trouble, Frank?" + +"I ain't goin' ter give you up, Lily." + +"You ain't? How you goin' ter fix fo' ter keep me?" + +They came to a halt and faced each other, the woman defensive and +defiant, the man somber, quiet, with a certain savage dignity and +slowly smoldering like an inactive volcano. You couldn't see their +features, only a white flashing of eyes and teeth in such light as +there was. + +"You's one er dese new women," said the man softly. "You's got ter be +boss 'n have yo' own way." + +He stood for some moments looking down into her face, appraising as it +were her flightiness, and meditating justice. Then he struck her +quietly, swiftly and hard, so that her half-open mouth closed with a +sharp snap. + +She was not senseless, but she made no effort to rise. He stood over +her, smoldering. Then, his voice suddenly soft and tender, "I reckon I +is got ter learn you," he said, and he picked her up in his arms and +carried her from the roadside deep into the tangled growths of the +vacant yard--deeper and deeper, until no sound at all came to us from +them. + +"That was Mrs. Fulton's laundress and her husband," said Hilda. "She's +been trying to copy Mrs. Fulton; but _he's_ settled that. He's a real +man, and he'll keep his wife. Women like to be hit and trampled. It +proves to them that they're worth while." + +"That may be, Hilda. I don't know. I couldn't hit a woman. . . . You +haven't told me that you're not going to tell what you saw." + +"I don't know," she said; "he's suffered enough. It ought to end." + +"But I thought you--didn't want to hurt me?" + +"I don't. Still----" + +"Still what?" + +"Oh, favors aren't everything." + +"What do you mean, Hilda!" + +"Oh, I'm just a servant. I suppose I could be bought." + +"I thought better of you." + +"Not with money." + +"Not with money? How then?" + +She turned her face up to mine, then smiled and closed her eyes. "A +kiss more or less," she said, "wouldn't matter much to _you_." + +And I kissed her. + +Then she opened her eyes and looked up at me until the silence between +us grew oppressive. Then with a sudden, "Oh, what's the use!" turned +and hurried off. But I caught up with her in two bounds. + +"Don't go away like that." + +"Oh," she cried, "I hoped you _wouldn't_. But you _did_. It's bad +enough to love you, but to despise you too! Oh, don't worry. _I_ +won't tell. I've been bought, I've _lived_." + +I remained for a long time, alone, under the cedar tree. I was +horribly ashamed and troubled, not because I had kissed her, but +because I had had the impulse to kiss her again, because I realized at +last that it takes more than a romantic love affair to make a silk +purse out of a sow's ear. Because for a moment I saw myself as Hilda +saw me--because for a moment I was able to judge Lucy and me, as others +would judge us. + +I remained for a long time. The negro and his wife came quietly out of +the bushes, her arm through his. She would not now run off with the +yellow man. I watched them until the darkness swallowed them. + +I leaned against the fragrant stem of the cedar, my hand across my +eyes. And in that moment of self-reproach, dread and contempt of the +future, I too wished the most worthy and sincere wish of my life. + +I wished that I had never been born. + + + + +XXVI + +For once, with complete fervor, I wished that I had never been born. +And if I was to get back any glimmerings of self-respect, I must act +like a man. Upon what grounds did I found the hope that Fulton would +not soon find out about Lucy and me? Why, on the grounds of moral +cowardice, of course. I dreaded to face any drastic, final issue. +There was no other reason. Well, if I was to prove to myself that I +was not a moral coward, Fulton must be told and the issue faced, and +Fulton himself must be out-faced. It was not enough to love and be +loved in secret. That way lies stealing and cheating. We must come +into the open hand in hand, proclaim our love and demand our rights. +If these were denied us--well, it would be too bad. But at least we +would have come out from under the rose, and the consequences could be +flung openly and courageously in the faces of those who denied us. And +it would be fairer to Fulton to tell him. He was suffering torment. +With a definite cause to face, it would be easier for him to regain his +health and his sanity. + +Strong in these resolutions, I felt as if a great weight had been +lifted from my shoulders. But if you think that I went at once to +Fulton and told him, you have greatly misapprehended the mental +workings of a butterfly. + +I went first to Lucy, and told her that I was going to tell. And from +her, too, it was as if a weight had been lifted. + +"We can't go on this way forever," I said; "we thought we could, but we +know we can't. We love each other and we're human, and sooner or +later--Oh, it's best to go to him now with a clean bill, and tell him +that love is too strong for us all, and that he must come out on the +side of love no matter how much it hurts him." + +"When are you going to tell him?" + +"No time like the present, Lucy." + +And I drew a long breath, for in spite of the bold words, I felt +panicky. I felt as if the doctors had just set the time for the +operation, and that it was sooner than I expected. + +"We ought to have told him long ago. Where is he?" + +"In the garden." + +"It's a hard thing to do. Give me a kiss." + +A moment later I felt strong enough and noble enough to slay dragons. +And I found Fulton sitting on a garden bench in a recess of clipped +privet, Hurry on his lap. + +"She isn't feeling very well, poor baby," he said; "it's the sudden +heat. She couldn't eat any breakfast. Did you want to see me about +something special?" + +"Why, yes, I do. But you're busy with Hurry." + +"We were just going in to lie down, weren't we?" he said to the child. +"I won't be a minute." + +He picked her up in his arms, and carried her into the house. A few +moments later he returned, smiling, as if she had said something that +had touched his humor. + +"Let's sit on the bench," he said. "It's the one cool place in Aiken, +this morning." + +Mechanically I sat down beside him and accepted a cigarette from his +case. + +"I always dread the first hot spell for the babies," he said. "I'm +glad we're going up early this year." + +"You'll be in New York a while?" + +"At the New Turner. And then Stamford. Poor Lucy dreads Stamford, but +I've got to be near the works. What are you planning to do this +summer?" + +"It depends a great deal on you, John." + +Now he turned to me with a very grave expression on his face. "On me?" + +"I love Lucy, John, and she feels the same way about me." + +His expression of courteous inquiring gravity did not change. "So +_that's_ what was at the bottom of everything. I told her she was +seeing too much of you, but she wouldn't listen. Of course, my +contention was just on general principles. I thought you were both to +be trusted." + +"We only found it out just before you went to Palm Beach." + +"You ought to have seen it coming. A man of your experience and record +isn't like a college freshman in such matters." + +"If I had seen it coming, John, believe me I'd have run from it. But +all at once it had come, and it's a question now, not of what might +have been, but of Lucy's happiness." + +"Yes," he said, "we mustn't think of ourselves now, or of the children. +We must think of what is best for Lucy. And what is best for Lucy +can't be thought out offhand. There's the complication of winding up +here, moving, and so forth. What is your idea? Yours and Lucy's?" + +"We hope and trust that you won't want to stand in our way." + +"Divorce? Well, of course, it might come to that. It's not, however, +an idea which I am prepared offhand to receive with enthusiasm. Any +more than I propose to act upon the very first impulse which I had when +you told me." + +"What was that?" + +"I thought how delicious it would be to get my automatic and fill you +full of lead. But you and Lucy, I take it, have so far resisted your +temptations, and I must battle with mine." + +"I ought to have said _that_; our temptations have been resisted, John." + +He shrugged that vital fact aside with, "Oh, I should have known if +there had been anything to know." + +"I needn't say, need I, that I feel like hell about your position, your +end of it?" + +"My position is not so bad as it was. I have something definite to +face now. But much as I appreciate your impulsive good will, I don't +think that your sympathy is a thing which I care to accept. Lucy, of +course, feels that her fancy for you is a more imperative call than her +duty to her children and me." + +"You've been in love, John." + +"I _am_ in love. I think we had better not discuss our several powers +of loving." + +He rose from the bench and began to stroll up and down in front of it. + +"I haven't," he said, "given this contingency any thought whatever. +You and Lucy will have to possess your souls in patience for a time. +It is all very sudden. But supposing for a moment that I should +consent to a divorce. Are you able to support a wife?" + +"I have no money of my own," I said, "but my father, as you know, has +oceans of it, and gives me a very handsome income." + +"And yet he might not care to support you above the ruins of a home. +In that eventuality what could you do? Lucy is very extravagant." + +"I could work my hands to the bone for her." + +Fulton looked curiously at his own lean, nervous hands, smiled faintly, +and said: "Yes, and then be chucked aside like a worn-out garment. +Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. And now you'll be +anxious to see Lucy, and report. Tell her that I swallowed the pill +without making too much of a face. Tell her that I seemed inclined to +be reasonable. Tell her also with my compliments that she must +continue to exercise self-restraint and patience. Things are bad +enough. If they were any worse I could not answer the consequences." + +"All right, John. Thank you for taking it so calmly." + +"Oh, I'm not calm inside. Don't worry about that." + +I left him there--standing very straight in the garden path, his face +the color of granite, and of the stillness. + + + + +XXVII + +"What did he say?" + +Her face was brilliant with excitement and anxiety. And I told her as +well as I could. + +"He was preternaturally calm and easy," I said; "I couldn't imagine a +man being more well-bred about anything. But he won't say anything +definite now. Of course, he ought to have time to think. We could +have counted on that, if we'd thought. He will take plenty of time to +make up his mind, and then he won't change it. But Lord, I'm glad he +knows now; and from us." + +There was a quiet knocking on the half-open door of the living-room. + +"Come in. . . . Oh, John, you needn't have knocked." + +He came in slowly and quietly, a gentle smile on his lips. The gray +granite look had softened into his natural coloring. + +"I must say you're a very handsome pair," he said. "Don't go just yet, +Archie. If we three are to talk things over in the future, we had +better have a little tentative practice. Are we three the only ones +who know of this sensational development?" + +"And Schuyler," I said. + +"Is he for you or against you?" + +"We thought we could be just great friends and see each other once in a +while. He was for that. But, of course, that was only romantic +nonsense." + +"Yes, that was nonsense," said Fulton. "It would have made my position +altogether too ridiculous. Did it occur to you to be great friends, +and not see each other?" + +"John," exclaimed Lucy, "you don't understand." + +"I don't understand the importance which lovers attach to love? Well, +perhaps not. Drunkards hate to cure themselves of drink; smokers of +smoke; lovers of love. Yet all these appetites can be cured, often to +the immense benefit of the sufferers and of everybody concerned. And +so you thought you could lead two lives at once, Lucy?" + +"I did think so." + +"Gathering strength in romantic byways to see you through the prosy +thoroughfares? It wouldn't have worked." + +"We know that now." + +"You couldn't have lied about every meeting with Archie--lied as to +where you were going and where you had been. Truth comes natural to +you, even if you seem to have fallen down on some of the other virtues." + +I _knew_ that he was laboring under a great strain. And yet for the +life of me I could not read any symptoms of that laboring in his face +or voice. His voice was easy, casual, and tinged with humor. It was +almost as if he was relieved to find two such inconsequential persons +as Lucy and myself at the bottom of his troubles. Now and then his +left eyebrow arched high on his forehead, and there would be a sharp +sudden glance in the corresponding eye. + +"I wonder," he said, turning to me, "if people in your situation ever +look at it from the critical outsider's point of view. Have you +considered that a passion for something forbidden is not a natural, not +a respectable passion? According to all moral and social laws Lucy is +a forbidden object for your love and vice versa. People are not going +to think well of you two." + +"Oh, we know _that_," said Lucy, wearily. + +"My dear Lucy, you mustn't show signs of distress so early in the game. +What we are discussing, or trying to throw a little light on, is the +subject which just now, by all accounts, should interest you more than +anything else in the world. Furthermore, I really must insist on +consideration for myself and the children." + +"No amount of talk ever made me do right--or wrong," said Lucy; "I just +do right or wrong, and of course _you_ think this is wrong. So what's +the use?" + +"Think it wrong," exclaimed Fulton, "of course I do. Don't _you_?" +His voice expressed almost horrified surprise. "Don't _you_ think it +wrong to fall out of love with your husband, into love with another +man, and to take no more interest in your children than if they were a +couple of wooden dolls made in Germany?" + +"Caring enough makes everything right," she said, still wearily, as if +the whole subject bored her. + +"Caring _enough_!" exclaimed John. "Oh, caring _enough_ makes +everything right. But do you care _enough_--either of you? I may +change my mind, but just now, as a man fighting for what little +happiness there may be left for him in the world, this question of how +much you care is the crux of the whole matter. If I thought that you +cared _enough_ I'd take my hat off to the exception which proves the +rule that all illicit passions are wrong. If I thought that you cared +_enough_ I'd think that a great wonder had come to pass in the world, +and I'd give you my blessing and tell you to go your ways." + +Lucy rose and went appealingly to him. "John, dear," she said, "we +_do_ care enough." + +He turned to me quickly. + +"And you think that?" + +"I care enough," I said, "so that nothing else matters--not even the +hurt to you." + +"Do you care so much that no argument will change you?" + +I think Lucy and I must both have smiled at him. + +"No pressure of opposition?" + +"Caring is supposed to thrive on opposition, isn't it?" said I. + +"In short," said John, "if I refuse to be divorced you care enough to +run away together into social ostracism?" + +Lucy smiled at me and I smiled back at her. And at that Fulton's +calmness left him for a moment. + +"My God," he cried, "I am up against it." + +But almost instantly he had himself once more in hand, and was speaking +again in level, almost cheerful tones. + +"Social ostracism," he said, "would be very horrid if you stopped +caring for each other." + +"Why take it for granted that we'd stop caring?" + +"I don't. I'm taking nothing for granted. But no girl, Archie, ever +cared for a man more than Lucy cared for me--and then she stopped +caring. I know less about your stamina. But this is not the first +time you've cared." + +"It's the first time I've _really_ cared," I said. + +"It's not the first time you've _said_ that you really cared, is it?" + +I was unable to answer, and his eyes twinkled with a kind of automatic +amusement. Then once more grave, "I never even _thought_," he said, +"that I ever cared about anyone but Lucy. That gives me a peculiar +advantage in passing judgment on matters of caring--an advantage +enjoyed neither by you nor Lucy. I wasn't any more her first flame +than she is yours. But she was my first and only flame. I can speak +with a troop of faithful years at my back. But you and she have only +been faithful to each other for a matter of days. I am not doubting +the intensity of your inclination, but I can't help asking, Will it +last? Are you prepared to swear that you will love her and no other +all your days?" + +"Yes," I said firmly. And I loved her so much at that moment that I +felt purified in so saying and believing. + +"How about you, Lucy'? Never mind, don't answer. You are thinking of +that day when you stood up before all our friends and swore that you +would love me all your days. Naturally it would embarrass you to +repeat that with respect to another, before my face. So I won't ask +you to . . ." + +"John," said Lucy, "all this is so obvious. And it leads nowhere. +Talk won't change us. So won't you please say what you are going to +do?" + +"Not until I know myself," he said. "But there is one thing . . . I +think it would be better all round if you saw less of each other until +something is decided. I realize that Jock and Hurry and I are very +much in the way. Jock and Hurry naturally don't care how much you two +are together. But I do. It isn't that I don't trust you out of my +sight. You know that. But the mind of a jealous man is a gallery hung +with intolerable pictures. Merely to think of Lucy, Archie, giving you +the same look that she used to have for me is to burn in hell-fire." + +He turned on his heel, and left us abruptly. We could hear him calling +to the nurse to ask how Hurry was feeling, and we could hear his steps +going up the stair to the nursery. + +"He's going to do the right thing, Lucy," I said. + +"I wish he wouldn't talk and talk. The milk's spilled. I suppose +we've _got_ to keep more or less apart." + +"Yes, Lucy." + +I held out my arms, and for a moment we made, I suppose, one of those +intolerable pictures that hung in Fulton's mental gallery. And then I +went away. + +It was good to have told. I was very deeply in love; I thought that +Lucy's and my future could soon be smoothed into shape, but I did not +feel happy. I felt as if I had been through a great ordeal of some +sort, and had come off second best. It seemed to me that I ought to +have stood up more loudly for my love, for its intensity and power to +endure. + +In addition there had been about John Fulton an ominous quiet. I could +better have endured a violent outbreak. For there is no action without +its reaction. After a storm there is calm. But Fulton's calm was more +like that which precedes a storm. + +His breakdown came after I had left. Lucy told me about it. He had +come back to her in the living-room, and said things about me that she +would never never forgive. + +"I don't care what he says about me," she cried, "but if he talks to me +against you, I won't stand it." + +"It's natural for him to feel bitter against me. I'm sorry, of course. +But it doesn't matter." + +"If he's got to feel bitter, let him feel bitter against me. If anyone +is to blame, I am to blame." + +"What did he say about me?" I asked. + +"He said you were the kind of man that men didn't count when they were +counting up the number of men they knew. He said you had always been +too idle to keep out of mischief. And that no pretty woman would be +safe from you--if you weren't afraid . . . Afraid!" + +"That's quite an indictment." + +"I said: 'Why didn't you say all that to his face, when he was here, +instead of waiting till you could say it behind his back . . .'" + +Here she turned to me with the most wonderful look of tenderness and +trust. + +"But I know what I know. And you are the kindest and the truest and +the gentlest man . . ." + +"Oh, I'm not! I'm not, Lucy! . . . But what does that matter, if I +never let you find out the difference? . . . We mustn't take what John +says too seriously. He's had enough trouble to warp his mind." + +She still looked up into my face with that wonderful trust and +tenderness. "And you are the most generous man to another man!" she +said. + + + + +XXVIII + +The very next day Evelyn told a few old friends that she was going to +be married to Dawson Cooper. At once Lucy felt that she must give a +dinner in the happy young people's honor, and to this dinner, as one of +Evelyn's oldest friends and of Dawson's for that matter, I had to be +asked. + +In many ways, this dinner differed in my memory from other dinners. To +begin with, it was exceedingly short, and well done. The table was +decorated with that flower which some people call Johnny jump-up, and +some heartsease, and of which all that I can state positively is that +it is the great-grandmother of the pansy family. We had some tag-ends +of Moet and Chandon '84 to drink and a bottle of the old Chartreuse. +In the second place, it was the last time I was ever to sit at meat +under John Fulton's roof. The dinner had psychological peculiarities. +I was in love with my hostess; she with me. Twice I could have run +away with the girl in honor of whose engagement the dinner was being +given. My host, who personally had insisted on my presence, would have +been delighted to hear of my sudden death. The waitress would have +died for me (I had her word for it), and at the same time she despised +me. Within the week I had thrown myself on her mercy, and bought her +silence with a kiss. + +What a dinner it would have been if we had elected to play truth; if +each person present could have been forced to say what he or she knew +about the others! + +Personally I must have rushed out of the house, my fingers in my ears, +like Pilgrim. + +But we didn't talk about embarrassing things. We made a lot of noise, +and did a lot of laughing, and toasting. But I was glad when it was +all over. I was always catching someone's eye, and thinking how much +harm a man can do, if with no will to do harm, he follows the lines of +least resistance and drifts. The harm that is done of malice and +purpose has at least a strength of conviction about it, and disregard +of consequences. It is far more respectable to do murder in cold +blood, than to slaughter a friend because you happen to be careless +with firearms. + +Among other things that dinner proved to me that it is possible to do +several things at once: to laugh, talk, and think. I kept laughing and +talking and helping now and then to tease Evelyn and Dawson, and yet +all the while I was busy thinking of other things. And all the +thinking was based on one wish; not that I had never been born, but +that I had my whole life to live over again. Surely, I thought, with +another trial I might have amounted to something. I had money back of +me, I thought, and position, and a mind--well, not much of a mind, but +when you think what that Italian woman does with half-wit +children--surely the right educators could have made something quite +showy out of me. The energy I had put into acquiring skill at games +and in learning the short cuts to pleasure, might have been expended on +righteousness and the development of character. Most at ease with the +great, I might, during the dearth of great men, have aspired to be an +ambassador. I'd have married young, and have given all the tenderness +which various women have roused in me, to one woman. And there would +have been children, and stability, and a home constantly invaded by +proud and happy grandparents. Or if these fine things had not been in +my reach, at least I might have shaken the dust of futile places from +my feet, and closed my ears to the voices of futile people. Often I +have had the valorous adventurous impulse, and the curiosity to find +out what was "beyond the ranges"--merely to resist it. I am Tomlinson, +I thought. I might have been Childe Roland. + +Was there not still time to turn a new leaf--to be somebody, to +accomplish something? Yes, I could make the woman who awaited me +beyond the puddle of scandal--happy. I could--I must be unselfish and +fine where she was concerned. The world might forgive me, it would +never quite forgive her. The world would never believe that we had +played the game as fairly as it can be played. There would be such +talk as, "Of course the moment Fulton found out what was going on, he +got rid of her." Other people would say, "Well, damaged goods is all +he ever deserved, anyway." + +Lucy, damaged goods? I stole a look at her. Little and lovely and +happy and full of laughter at the head of her table, there was no +shadow upon that pansy face. She was, as always, living in the moment. +From all our troubles and complications, "a rose high up against the +thunder were not so white and far away." Remorse would never greatly +torment her. In time, too, Fulton's hungry stone-gray face of the last +weeks would fade from my memory. + + + + +XXIX + +Beyond saying that he thought for various reasons we should see less of +each other, Fulton had made no effort to keep Lucy and me apart. If he +had an adviser in this, that adviser was Schuyler. The idea, I +suppose, was that Lucy, unopposed, would soon tire of the affair, as +she had tired of others in her extreme youth, and return to her duty, +if not to her affection. But we only loved each other the more. And +the various exasperations of delay became hard to bear. Lucy, when +what seemed to her a reasonable time had passed, and Fulton had not yet +made up his mind about the divorce, was against delay. We had warned +Fulton we had played the game, why should we lose time to do so? I had +to argue with her against the next steamer for foreign parts, and to +persuade her (half persuade her) that in the long run patience would +serve us best. "Now," I said, "we don't feel that we need anyone but +ourselves. But we both love people--our own kind of people. If John +won't play fair (we called it that) our own kind of people will be on +our side, no matter what we do. But we should have John's word for it +that he is not going to play fair, before we take any drastic step." + +The Fultons left Aiken, and after what seemed to me a decent delay of a +few days, I followed them to New York. John seemed further than ever +from coming to a decision, so Lucy thought. But she evinced a more +patient spirit. For the young woman with credit and a fondness for +clothes New York is a great solace, even if she is half broken-hearted. + +"The contract with the Russian has gone through," she said; "John will +make a lot of money. I tell him that it's horrid to get rich by making +things that are used to kill people with, but he says there are too +many people in the world, and that most of them would be the better for +a little killing--so he's given me a fine credit, and I'm buying all +the clothes I need." + +"Lucy, I don't think you ought to spend his money--any more than you +absolutely have to--considering." + +"We spoke of that. He said I'd hurt him enough, and that while I was +still ostensibly his wife, he wished me to have all that he could give +me." + +"While you are still ostensibly his wife? That sounds as if--Oh, as if +he was going to step out, Lucy, doesn't it?" + +"Sometimes he talks as if it was all arranged. He says, 'Next year, if +you shouldn't happen to be with me, I'll do so and so,' and all that +sort of talk. At other times he talks of building a big house down on +Long Island--just the kind of house I've always wanted--just as if he +was sure that I would still be living with him." + +Well, one day Fulton came to my hotel and sent up his card. I went +down to him as quickly as I could finish dressing. He said: + +"Sorry to trouble you, but my time isn't quite my own. This seemed a +golden opportunity. We've a lot to talk over. I've a taxi outside. +Will you drive around a little?" + +"Certainly, if you'll just wait while I telephone." + +I called up Lucy. + +"I can't meet you this morning, I am to have a talk with John. Somehow +I feel sure that something is going to be decided." My heart was +beating quick and fast. I was unaccountably excited. This excitement +seemed to communicate itself to Lucy. She said as much. + +"I'm terribly excited," she said, and her voice had a kind of wild, +triumphant note in it. "You'll tell me everything the minute you can?" + +"Of course. Good luck." + +"Good luck." + +We drove across Forty-third Street and up the crowded Avenue for +several blocks without speaking. Then Fulton smiled a little and spoke +in a level, easy voice. + +"Perhaps," he said, "the water is not so cold as it looks. Shall we +take the plunge?" + +"By all means," I said. My heart was thumping nervously. I hoped he +would not notice it. + +"Lucy and I," he said, "as you know, were wonderfully happy for a good +many years. Until last winter, I was never away from her over night. +And then, only because of a financial crisis. I have never even looked +at another woman with desire, or thought of one. Until last winter, +Lucy was the same about other men. She was a wonderful little mother +to her kids, and the most faithful, loving, valiant wife that ever +belonged to a man full of cares and worries." + +"I know all this, John," I said; "I could wish that you had been +unhappy together." + +"I wish to make several things clear," he said. "According to all +civil and moral law, I am an absolutely undivorceable man. There is +only one ground for divorce in this state. To clear the decks for you +and Lucy, I should have to smirch myself and take a black eye." + +"But the people who count always understand these things." + +"In order to secure my own unhappiness, to make it everlasting, I +should have to perjure myself. I know that it is the custom of the +country for married gentlemen who are no longer loved to perjure +themselves. But it seems to me a custom that would bear mending. +However, it is not yet a question of that." + +"Still undecided?" + +"No. My mind is made up. I am prepared to step down and take my black +eye on certain conditions." + +I bowed my head. + +"Lucy," he said, "doesn't love the children as much as I do. She has +allowed herself to forget how dear they are to her, so it would have to +be understood among us three that I should retain the children. You +see, I've got to keep something of what belongs to me--to keep me +going. Lucy will agree to this, because just now all she wants is new +clothes and you. There is another point upon which I feel that I must +be satisfied." + +"What is that?" + +"How long is your young people's infatuation for each other going to +last? If it is to be brief and evanescent, it would be absurd for me +to take a black eye. But if it is to be stable and enduring, I should +be ashamed to stand in the way of it. Knowing something of Lucy's +history, how long do you think her fancy for you will last?" + +"These things are on the lap of the gods." + +"Well, then, yours for her? Now, I know that my love for her, which +has been tried by fire and ice and time, will last until I die, or lose +my reason. With me it is not a question of _thinking_, but of +_knowing_. How long do you _know_ that your love for her will last?" + +"That is an impossible question to answer. I think it will always +last." + +"Thought won't do, Archie, on this all-important phase of the +situation, we must have the light of definite knowledge. Now, as a man +who has had many love affairs, some innocent and some not, you should +have a good working knowledge of your endurance in such matters. If +you were cast away on a desert island with a very pretty woman, you to +whom women have always been necessary, you from whose hand there has +always been some woman or other ready to eat, how long would your love +for Lucy last?" + +I was amazed momentarily by his question, but it was not one which I +could answer. + +"A week?" He rather shot this at me, and for a moment there was a +satiric gleam in his eye. + +I nodded. + +"You _know_ that it would last a week?" + +I began to feel a little angry, and I said, quite sharply: "I _know_ +it." + +"A month?" + +"Yes, a month." + +Both our voices had risen. His became easy and level once more. + +"A year, Archie?" + +"How can I know that, John?" I tried to meet his quick change of +manner. "I _think_ so. I'm very sure of it." + +"But you don't know?" + +"I can't _know_." + +"And if the very pretty woman on the island came to you in the night +and said she had seen hob-goblin eyes in the dark, and was afraid--how +long, though you still love her, would you be faithful to Lucy? A man +like you, in good health, with an incompletely developed moral sense?" + +"We are getting nowhere," I said, determined to keep my temper. + +"We are getting to this," said he, "that if a year from today, you and +Lucy still love each other, and have been faithful to each other, and +still want each other--you shall have each other." + +"A year?" I think he smiled at the surprise and disappointment in my +voice. + +"During which year," he said, "you will not meet each other except by +accident, and you will not correspond." + +I said nothing, but he read my thoughts. + +"It isn't fair to you and Lucy? At least it is fair to me. Nobody has +thought about me. I have had to think for myself, and for the +children. Admit this--if your love stands a year's test you will stand +a far greater chance of happiness than if you ran away together now, +unblessed by the man you had wronged, and unclergied. Admit this, +too--that if your love doesn't stand the test, then my life has been +ruined for as futile, puerile, misbegotten a passion as ever reared its +head under an honest man's roof. Admit it! Admit it." + +"I'm not sure that I admit any such thing." + +"Then, my dear fellow," he said, "your mental and moral capacity are on +precisely the same plane. . . . I'm sure you don't want to injure +Lucy. Give her this chance to straighten out and get untangled. If +there is any truth in your love for her you will see that this way is +best for her." + +"I am thinking of her happiness." + +"_Are_ you?" + +"She's been very patient, John. I can't tell you how patient." + +"For God's sake don't try to tell me. Haven't I had enough to bear?" + +"I think Lucy won't be willing to wait a year." + +"She must be made willing. You must help. A year soon passes--soon +passes. If things then are as they are now, then I shall believe that +your love for each other is strong and fine, and I shall renounce my +claim with a good grace--a good grace." + +"If we can't wait a year, John!" + +"You mean if you won't? In that case I shall not feel that Lucy is +entitled to a divorce, or either of you to any money at my hands. +Among the people who are necessary to you and Lucy, a wronged and +upright husband has great power. If you are such children, such fools, +as not to be willing to stand a test of your love, you will have to be +punished. It would mean that your passion has nothing to do with what +is understood by love. You would merely be pointed at and passed up as +a rather well-known young couple with adulterous proclivities." + +There was a long, charged silence. + +"The law and the prophets are all on your side, John, but----" + +"You'll not answer now, please. You'll think it over. And don't +forget all the pleasant things that you can do in a year. There's that +hunting trip in Somaliland you used to talk about so much--there's +London and Paris--wonderful places for a man who's trying to cure +himself of an unlawful love." + +"Trying to _cure_ himself?" + +"Of course. Jesting aside, don't you think that what you and Lucy want +to do to Jock and Hurry and me is _wrong_? Of course you do. You're +not a devil. If, by uttering the wish, you could bring it about that +you had never loved Lucy, that she had never fallen out of love with me +and loved you over the heads of her children, that all might be as it +was when you first began to come to our house, wouldn't you utter that +wish? Of course you would." + +He was smiling at me now, very gently and cunningly, and there was, at +the same time, in his eyes an awful pathos. + +"Why, yes," I said, "I suppose so." + +"Just bear out what I've always maintained," said he; "I've always +maintained that you were a good fellow--at heart." + +"Am I to see Lucy again--before the year begins?" + +"Is it very necessary?" + +"I suppose not. But----" + +"Well, I imagine Lucy will insist on seeing you. It will be a pity, +but after all she's only a little child in some ways. It's all going +to be very hard for you both, at first," he said gently. "So you shall +see each other again--if she says so." + +Suddenly he reached out his hand, and I took it. + +"Oh," he said, "I needed your help." + + + + +XXX + +It seemed to me, at the time, that I had showed myself very weak in the +conference in the taxi-cab. It seemed to me that my acquiescence in +Fulton's proposals reflected on the strength of my love for Lucy. +Perhaps it did. But in the clearer light of today it seems to me that +to his questions I made the only answers possible; and that only a +demented person could have found serious flaws in the logic of his +position. + +When we had parted, I walked for a long time in the most crowded +streets, trying to reconcile myself to the long separation from Lucy, +and to the weakness which I thought I had betrayed in agreeing to it. + +Could I endure that separation? The world would be empty with no Lucy +to go to, no Lucy even to hear from. I loved her too much to part with +all but the thought of her. It did not seem possible that the mere +passage of time could dull the edge of my passion. Yet cold memory +blinked at this very possibility. + +I had parted from other women, thinking that thoughts of them must fill +the rest of my life to the exclusion of everything else; only to find +that after a little lapse of time their images faded, and even the +memory of what they had been to me had no power to think. + +So might it be with Lucy. "You know it _might_," said cold memory. +"Don't be a fool--you think it _won't_, but you know it might." + +"But," I argued, "this is different. No other woman ever loved me as +she does. I may be a fool, but her eyes have spoken, and I know the +truth when I hear it." + +"She _does_ love you," said my other self, which I have called cold +memory, "and she did love him, and before his time, others, if only +briefly. Without the sight of you to feed on, her love will starve and +die. It is almost always so." + +"Almost." + +"There are exceptions. Is it likely, considering your records, that +you and she will be an exception? It is not likely." + +It wasn't. John Fulton was probably right. He believed that time +would cure us, and almost the whole of human experience agreed with him. + +And wouldn't it be better if we were cured? Far better. I had to +admit that. We ought, indeed, to hope that we should be cured; to help +with all our strength in the effecting of that cure. And conversely, +Lucy ought to try to return to her affection for John and to her duty. + +Suddenly I felt cold and shivery as before undergoing an operation. + +Poor little Lucy! Even now she must be listening to John's ultimatum, +as I had listened, but with this difference; she could not see the +justice and the logic of his position. She would only see that she was +being cruelly hurt, and thwarted, and disappointed; that she was being +curbed and punished by forces too strong for her to cope with. And I +pictured her, all reserve gone at last, a tortured child--just sobbing. +It seemed to me that I must go to her or die. And indeed I went a +little way toward their hotel. Then I thought, perhaps her sobs would +move him to a change of heart. Perhaps he will weaken, and let her go. +Upon the strength of this thought I returned to my own hotel, rearing a +blissful edifice of immediate happiness. + +I sat in the lobby in a position of reading, a newspaper before my +face; but I did not read. I was listening for the boy who would page +me to the telephone. Many names were called in the lobby, but it was +two o'clock before I started at the sound of my own. + +Fulton was at the other end of the telephone, not Lucy. He sounded +very much upset and depressed: "Lucy would like to see you right away, +if you can come round." + +"Of course." + +We said no more. + +Her face was white and tear-stained. I had no sooner closed the door +of their sitting-room behind me, than she flung herself upon my breast +and burst into a storm of sobs. After a long time words began to +mingle with the sobs. + +"It will kill me. Why does he want me to die? . . . I've only got +you. . . . I want to belong to you--to you." + +I talked and I talked, and I soothed and I soothed, but she was sick +with grief and pain and a kind of insane resentment, as if she had gone +through a major operation without an anesthetic. It would have been +horrible to see anybody suffer so. And she was the woman I loved! The +strain was so great upon me that at last my powers of resistance +snapped. I flung honor to the winds, and became strong with +resolution. And now my words seemed to pierce her consciousness and to +calm her. + +"It's all right, Lucy." I had to speak loudly at first, as if she was +deaf. "You shan't suffer like this. I tell you you shan't--not if I +am damned to hell." + +I knew now that she was listening, the sobs became muffled and less +frequent. "It's you and me against the world now," I said. "There'll +be no more flimflamming. I promised John to wait a year. That doesn't +matter. A promise made at your expense won't hold. . . . When is your +husband coming back?" + +". . . hour," was all the answer I got. . . . + +"Then there's not much time left. Try to pull yourself together. +We've got to make all our plans right now, and there's not much time." + +"You will take me away?" + +"Of course. Now listen. There's no sense in putting your husband on +his guard. Let him think that we are both agreed to the year's +probation. I'll look up things and engage passage. I'll do that this +afternoon. Tonight I'll go to Hot Springs to see my father and get +money. My own balance is very low, unfortunately. Day after tomorrow +I'll be in town again. Now, how are we going to communicate?" + +I can't say that she was calm now, but she no longer sobbed, and her +mind was in working order again. + +"By telephone," she said. "Every morning when I know John's plans for +the day I'll let you know, and so you'll know when to call me up." + +Already the anticipations of our great adventure were bringing back the +color to her cheeks and the sparkle to her eyes. I smiled at her. +"Don't be too cheerful," I said; "we might get ourselves suspected." + +"Couldn't we just tell John that we had decided to go--and go?" + +"Better not." + +"I hate to deceive and play act and be underhanded." + +"So do I--but--Lucy, darling, you're going to trust me in more +important things than this. I _think_ my way is best. We don't want +any more agonies and recriminations and scenes. _Do_ we?" + +I took her in my arms and whispered, "It's only a few days now, but I +don't see how I can wait. I don't see how." + +And she burrowed with her face between my cheek and shoulder, and +whispered back, "And I don't see how I can wait." + +There was a little space of very tense silence, during which my eyes +roved to the little silver traveling-clock on the mantel, and then I +said in a voice that shook: + +"I'd better get out before he comes back." + + + + +XXXI + +My parents, loafing North, via Hot Springs, were delighted to see me. +As soon as courtesy to my mother made it possible, I got my father +aside, and told him that my real purpose in coming was to raise the +wind. + +"I need a lot of money," I said; "sooner or later you'll know why. So +I may as well tell you." + +My father's fine weather-beaten face of a country squire expressed an +interest at once frankly affectionate and tinged with a kind of +detached cynicism. + +"I am going to run off with Lucy Fulton," I said. + +"I supposed that was it," said my father, without evincing the least +surprise. + +"You _did_?" + +"Oh, we old fellows put an ear to the ground now and then," he +explained; "and sometimes sleep with one eye open. Punch's advice to +the young couple about to marry was 'Don't.' My advice to you and Lucy +is double don't. Why not give yourselves a year to think it all over, +as John Fulton so sanely and generously suggests?" + +Astonishment at my father's superhuman knowledge of events must have +showed in my face. Still smiling with frank affection, he said, "John +put me in touch with the whole situation before he left Aiken. The +year of probation was my suggestion to him." + +"But Lucy and I can't agree." + +"Then you can't. Do you sail, fly, entrain, or row--and when?" + +"We sail, father, next Wednesday." + +"A week from today. I am profoundly sorry. It's very rough on Fulton, +just when he has closed with this Russian contract and is by way of +getting rich." + +"It's our _one_ chance for happiness, father." + +He cocked an eyebrow at me. "And I think it is your one sure road to +misery." + +"But you'll see me through?" + +"Come to me a year from today. Tell me that during that time you have +neither seen Lucy nor communicated with her, but that you still love +each other--_then_ I'll see you _through_." + +"My dear father, it's so much better for you to put up the money than +for me to borrow it from one of my friends." + +"Only because the friend would expect you to pay him back. How would +you live when his money was gone--keep on borrowing?" + +"Why, father, you're acting like a parent in an old-fashioned novel. +Are you threatening to cut me off?" + +"My son," said he, "a man who had done well, and who deserved well of +the world came to me and showed me his heart--a heart tormented beyond +endurance with unreturned love, with jealousy, and with despair. He +threw himself upon my mercy. And I said that I would help him, with +whatever power of help I have at command. I don't love that man, my +son. I love you. But I am on his side. All my fighting blood is +aroused when I learn that still another American husband has been +wronged by his wife, and by an idle flirting bachelor. God keep me +firm in what must seem to you like cruelty in one to whom you have +always turned with the utmost frankness and loyalty in your +emergencies. And from whom until this moment you have always received +help." + +I was appalled and thunderstruck. After a while I said, "Father, she +sobbed so that I thought she would break a blood vessel. I couldn't +stand it. I had to say I would take her away. If I don't, I think she +will die or kill herself." + +My father drew himself up very straight, and looked very handsome and +stern, for a moment. Then his frame relaxed and his eyes twinkled, and +he said, "Die? Kill herself? My grandmother!" + +"Oh, father," I cried, "don't! Don't! She is all the world to me. +You talk as if----" + +"I talk as if she was an excellent example of the modern American wife +in what the papers call 'society.' And that is precisely what she is. +You know that as well as I do. Just because you love her is no reason +for pretending that she's a saint and a martyr and the victim of a +grand historical passion. She _is_ lovely to look at. She _is_ +charming to be with. But that doesn't prevent her from being a bad +little egg." + +"Father," I said, as gently as I could, "I love her with all my heart. +Why, she's like a little child, and she's being so hurt. You've never +refused me anything. Help me to make her happy." + +"When she has gotten over her fancy for you, when Fulton has plenty of +money for her to spend, she will be as happy as she deserves to +be--until she makes herself miserable again by indulging in some affair +similar to this. Now, my dear boy, go back to her, tell her that you +haven't enough money to elope on and no way of getting it. Tell her +also that if at the end of a year's probation you and she still want +each other, nobody will oppose you, and that you, on the day of your +marriage to her, will be made a rich man in your own right." + +"Father, I _want_ her so." + +"And I _want_ champagne so," said my father. "And the accursed doctor +has forbidden it. Do I torture myself? Not at all. I turn for solace +to an excellent bottle of Scotch whiskey. And this has at least the +effect of making me want the champagne less. Don't get confused +between psychology and physiology. If I were in your boots I'd slip +over to Paris--and drink Scotch whiskey." + +So I went back to New York, and, as soon as possible, I talked to Lucy +over the telephone, and told her about the interview with my father. + +"But," I finished, "we'll do whatever you say. We can't very well land +in Europe without any money; but I've still got most of the passage +money; and if you say so, we can stay right in this country and live on +that for a few weeks, while I try to get a job. I could borrow some +money, but it would have to be paid back. Oh, Lucy, this is such a +humiliating confession to make, but what _can_ I do?" + +"Everybody is against us," she said, "everything--I don't suppose +there's any use struggling." + +She sounded cold and tired. + +"I suppose," she went on slowly, "we'll have to wait, the way John +says. Shall we?" + +"You say it, Lucy. Don't make me say it." + +"So we'll wait," she said; "not see each other, and not communicate. I +don't see how I can stand it, but I suppose I can. . . . A whole +year--a whole year!" + +"At the end of it, my darling, all that there is in the world for me, +nobody will stand in our way; there'll be plenty of money and a long +life before us." + +"Listen . . . all the long time will you take care of yourself?" + +"Yes, Lucy." + +"And not notice any other ladies?" . . . + +"Lucy . . . let's take a chance on what I have got." + +A long silence. Then: "Oh, no. I suppose John's right. Everybody's +right. . . . But"--there was a valiant ring in her voice, "we'll show +'em they were wrong and cruel. Won't we?" + +"Yes, Lucy." + +"Good-by, then, and God bless and keep you." + +"It's only for a year, Lucy." + +I heard a short, dry sob. It was mine. + + + + +XXXII + +I don't know how I got through the next ten days. After three of them +had passed I began to fear a mental breakdown, because my mind kept +working all by itself, without orders. If I wanted to think forward, +to the end of the probationary year, I couldn't. Always I kept +thinking I ought to have done, or said, so and so. I ought to have +been firmer. I was always reviving that drive in the taxicab with +Fulton, or that last interview with my father. If my love was strong +and fine I ought never to have knuckled under. They had had too easy a +time with me. I had played into their hands, and they had treated me +like a child. From pure humiliation I could not sleep at night. + +And what was Lucy doing? How was she bearing it? What sort of life +was she leading, the poor, abused child? The world seemed to have all +joined against me in a conspiracy of silence. Nobody mentioned Lucy in +my hearing. Although the same city held us, until they moved to +Stamford, I had no accidental glimpse of her. Our last talk had not +been in the least satisfactory. It seemed to me that I must see her +once more to preach courage and hope. During those first ten nights I +hardly slept at all. Sometimes I would picture out Lucy's whole course +of life during the next few months. And I imagined that, grown at last +utterly indifferent through suffering, she might drift back into her +former relations with Fulton, if only because he loved her so much, and +no one can keep on saying no forever. Such imaginings had sometimes +the vividness of scenes actually witnessed and threw me into tortures +of jealousy. + +Not until a short period of the tenth day was Lucy ever actually out of +my mind. I had been sitting in a chair staring at a newspaper, all my +nerves tense and hungry, when suddenly they seemed to have relaxed and +to have been fed. The skin of my face no longer seemed tightly +stretched. I felt as if I had waked from a refreshing sleep; but this +was not the case. I had simply, without deliberation, forgotten Lucy +for half an hour, and been making agreeable personal plans for the year +of probation. + +"Good Lord," I thought; "has living without her, already begun to be +easier?" + +It had. I began to take pleasure in seeing my friends; to look forward +to the Newport season, to the international tennis, to the golf +championship at Ekwanok, to the thousand and one things that make for +the happiness of a butterfly's summer. + +After a month of Newport, days passed with only hurried thoughts of +Lucy. Chance mention of her name gave me no uneasiness; they affected +my heart, like sudden trumpets, but I knew that my face had become an +inscrutable mask, and that my voice was in perfect control. Those who +had thought that there was something between us began to think +differently. + +And then, after days of suspense, surmise, and real consternation, the +legs of civilization seemed to have been knocked from under it, and the +greatest nations of Europe flew at each other. + +Now indeed there seemed an easy way to the year's end. The Germans +rolled through Belgium and into France, outraging humanity. It looked +as if they would roll right into Paris, and sow salt where the world's +first city had stood. + +I rushed up to Bar Harbor to tell my parents that I was going to France +to enlist in the foreign legion. Oh, how swiftly the time would fly, I +thought. That I might get crippled or killed never occurred to me. I +thought only that having failed at everything else, I must obviously be +possessed of military genius. I pictured myself climbing the bloody +ladder of promotion to high command and winning the gratitude of that +country which next to my own I love the most. + +My mother, to whom I first broached the news, did not cry or make a +fuss. But I saw that I had distressed her terribly. + +"It isn't our war," she said; "and what use will one more enlisted man +be to _them_? And besides, my dear, _only_ sons are always the first +ones to get hurt; only sons and men whose families are dependent upon +them. But . . ." and here she gave me a wonderful look . . . "I think +I know why you want to go. And that makes me very proud." + +"I think you _do_ know, Mumsey," I said. "It's because we'd rather get +hurt trying to do something worth while, than go on the way we've +always gone on, amounting to nothing, and disappointing everybody." + +Then she got me in her arms, and cried over me a little. + +My father, as usual, took my decision with the most good-natured +indifference. + +"Fine experience," he said, "for any man that's free to go. Makes me +wish I were younger and without obligations. Still I can enjoy the +music at the swimming-pool with a free conscience; because I'm sending +over all the money I can spare. . . . How did you reach the conclusion +that you could go?" + +"_Could_ go?" + +"Yes. Of course you've no complication in your life that should keep +you from going. Well, I'm glad of that." + +"It seems to me that if anyone is free to go, I am." + +He smiled upon me, somewhat too playfully for my comfort, and shook his +head slowly. "So Fulton and I were right about the year's probation. +I'm delighted. How soon did you and Lucy find out that absence +_doesn't_ make the heart grow fonder?" + +"Oh," I said, "it isn't _that_. What has that to do with it? There's +a year to be got over, and fighting's the most agreeable and the +quickest way I can think of just now." + +My father looked disappointed. + +"I hoped you had got over caring. And--you haven't?" + +For a few moments I met his eyes. But only for a few moments. He +didn't laugh. "I'm glad," he said simply. + +I tried to explain exactly how I felt. + +"Of course not seeing her or hearing from her--why--you see--but when I +do see her it will all come right back. I _know_ that." + +He smiled a little grimly. "Normally," he said, "there are years of +pleasant living before you. But not if you get yourself killed--not if +you lose an arm or a leg, or come back with half your face shot off, +and your one remaining ear stone deaf from cannon fire. But anyway I'm +glad the Fulton business is over. Your love has cooled and, even if +Lucy's hasn't--there could never be anything between you now?" + +He was speaking sarcastically. He went on in the same vein: "The year +over--even if you found that Lucy was still wrapped up in you, that her +happiness depended on you, you would not, of course, feel that you were +under any obligation to _pretend_ that you still cared for her and to +do a gentleman's best to make her happy." + +"I get your point, father," I said; "and of course if she still cares, +I must try to make good. Of course I must." + +"Suppose," he said, no longer sarcastically, but very earnestly, +"suppose the year is up. Suppose Lucy still cares, and as a reward for +her faithfulness and her patience there is nothing but your grave +'somewhere in France'? This is why I asked you if you _could_ go." + +"I'll look like a fool," I said. "I've told several people that I was +surely going." + +"That's too bad," he said; "but you'll have to stand it. You have a +good reputation for physical pluck, though, and nobody will say +anything very nasty. And as for us," his voice rang a little, "who are +on the inside, we know that it is braver of you to stay than to go." + +"Anyway," I said, "if she--if Lucy--doesn't care any more--why I can go +then." + +"You can go _then_. But it seems to me that a man of education is +wasted in a trench. That, however, is a matter of taste." + + + + +XXXIII + +It was not until the early winter that I saw Lucy. It was by accident. +I sat just behind her at a musical comedy. She was with her husband. +They looked very prosperous. They seemed to be comradely enough. +Mostly I saw only the back of her head; once, her full profile; and +then at last she turned half around in her seat, and saw me. I don't +know what I did. I think I smiled, half rose to my feet, and lifted my +hand as if to take off a hat--which of course I didn't have on. She +nodded, and smiled brightly; but her eyes had that expression of +praying that I have so often mentioned. + +It was long since I had thought of her for more than a few minutes at a +time. But now my heart began to beat furiously and all my sleeping +love for her waked in my heart. + +And now she was telling her husband _who_ was sitting just behind them. + +I went out after the act, intending to stay out. But Fulton followed +so quickly that he caught me just as I was leaving the theater. +"Hello, Archie," he said. + +"Hello, John. How are you all?" + +"Pretty well," he said; "and you?" + +"Pretty well. Cartridges still looking up?" + +"Yes. We're doubling the capacity of the plant for the second time +since the war started. Have a drink?" + +We walked to the nearest saloon. "We heard that you were going to +enlist." + +"I did think of it, and then I got cold feet." + +"Like hell you did!" + +"Well, reasons against it were found for me. Reasons which I ought to +have thought of for myself. Here's how." + +"Santé!" said John. A moment later, "Going to Aiken?" he asked. + +"Why, it depends." + +There was an awkward silence. + +"Lucy is very anxious," he then said, "to open our house again this +winter." + +"As a matter of fact," said I glibly, "I've more than half decided on +Palm Beach." + +A bell rang shrilly. + +"Time to go back," he said. + +"One moment, John. I'm not going back--of course. How is Lucy?" + +"Oh, pretty well," he said stiffly; "I think she'll come through all +right. Had a tough time for a while." + +Upon that he hurried off to rejoin her, and I turned my face once more +to the bar, and gave an order. I felt as if I had been through a +terrible ordeal. I was all in. + +From now on I heard more often of the Fultons, for they were leading a +conspicuously gay life. Somebody had loaned them a house for six +weeks, and by all accounts Lucy was making money fly. + +I saw her in the distance three times. Twice to bow and exchange +smiles. The other time she didn't see me. Seeing her meant two or +three days of torture; then her image and desirability would begin to +fade once more. But at least no other woman interested me in the least. + +Presently they went to Aiken. A few days later I entrained for Palm +Beach; but found that I could not stand the place or the pace for long +periods of time, and fell into the habit of commuting with New York. +It was the war, I think, which made me so restless. It seemed to me +that the night had not been well slept, nor the most promising day well +begun until I had read the headlines in the papers. My hot wish to +fight as a soldier had cooled. More and more I wanted to be of +service, but in some way which seemed to me more imaginative and +intelligent. But I could not hit on the way. I must go to Paris, I +thought, then surely the inspiration of helpfulness would come. But I +could not very well go to Paris until the year of probation was up. If +Lucy still cared--well, it would be easy enough for me to care. I knew +now that her physical presence was sufficient to make me care--at any +given moment. "Oh," I thought, "I can't lose. Either I'll go to Paris +and be useful, or I'll begin a new life with the girl I love who loves +me." + +Late in February Harry Colemain joined me at Palm Beach. He had +wintered at Aiken, and I had all the Aiken news from him. The place +had never been so full--people who usually went abroad, etc., +etc.--some delightful new people, about all the old standbys. It was +not a sporting winter. Most of the men were feeling too poor for high +stakes. Would I believe it, the golf course was crowded all day? The +new hotel? It looked as if it was going to be a success. The clubs +were having the biggest year in their history. The golf club would be +able to reset the green with Bermuda grass. Some of the holes had come +through the summer splendidly. Some were better than they ever had +been, others were worse, etc., etc. + +I asked him about this and about that. At last I said: "How are the +Fultons?" + +"Well, John comes and goes. He seems to have gotten back his health. +The kids are fine . . . of course they are not what they _were_ as a +family. That's obvious. But Lucy seems to have come to her senses. +She was very gay at first. Then she went round looking--well, she +looked frightened. Lots of people noticed it. It was as if the doctor +had told her she had lung trouble. She quit riding and dropped out of +everything--except very quiet little dinners. Then she got very +interested in her yard, and had experts over from Berckman's and did a +lot of new planting . . ." + +"But why did she look frightened? There wasn't anything the matter, +was there?" + +"Well, you know the trouble she made for John, wouldn't be his wife and +all that? Well, he seems to have won her round to his way of looking +at compromise--or she got more or less fond of him again. I don't +know." + +"I don't quite understand what you're driving at." + +"You _don't_? Why, she's to have a baby. And everybody who knew there +had been trouble says, 'Thank God for that.'" + +My hands began to tremble so that I had to hide them under the table at +which we were sitting. + +"Bully, isn't it?" said Harry; fortunately he had turned his head to +look at two very lovely young women who had strolled into the palm +garden. + +"Bully," I said. + +"See those two, Archie?" he said in a guarded voice. + +"Sure I see them." + +"One of 'em's the famous Mrs. Paxton, who----" + +"I know." + +"Met her last autumn at----" He rose suddenly to his feet, and +advanced to meet the two women. "Hello, there! Glad to see you." + +Mrs. Paxton's cool demure face broke into a delighted smile. + +"Why, Harry!" she exclaimed. "Miss Coles, let me introduce Mr. +Colemain." + +A moment later Harry had dragged me forward (literally) and I was being +introduced. Miss Coles had very beautiful brown eyes, very white +teeth, and a very deep dimple. + +"Why," said Harry, "shouldn't all you good people dine with me?" + +"Why not?" exclaimed Mrs. Paxton. + +I started to say that I had a pressing engagement, discovered Miss +Coles' exceedingly beautiful eyes lifted to mine, and saw upon her face +an expression of the most alluring mockery, and so--"Why not?" said I. + +We had a long and a merry dinner. I felt defiant of life, a man +without responsibilities, who owed nothing and to whom nothing was owed. + +After dinner we went strolling in the moonlight. Harry and Mrs. Paxton +strolled in one direction, Miss Coles and I in another. + +Miss Coles looked very beautiful, and she wore an expression of +childlike proprietorship which was very becoming to her. + +"Why are you _Miss_ Coles?" I asked. + +"I'm not--really." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "It's +more fun to be _Miss_ while the divorce is pending. I'm from +California--nobody knows me here." + +"And you're getting a divorce?" + +She nodded slowly. And then with a flash of engaging frankness: "No, +I'm not," she said; "_he_ is." + +"Oh!" + +We strolled on in silence for a moment, and then as if by agreement +came to a sudden halt and looked at each other. + +Then she laughed softly, her head tilted back, and her round bare +throat showing very white in the moonlight. + +I threw my cigar into a bed of scarlet flowers. + + + + +XXXIV + +I had passed through one of those stages of mental and spiritual +depression during which a man does not even ask forgiveness of himself +for any of his acts. If "Miss" Coles had wished me to marry her I +would have done so; but the suggestion was never made by either of us. +We parted, a little gloomily, but not unhappily, and before there was +even a breath of scandal. It was just after she heard that her husband +had secured his decree against her. That hard cold fact, that proof of +things which no woman likes to have proved against her, seemed to sober +her, you may say, and bring her up with a round turn. From now on she +was going to be good, she said. No. I mustn't blame myself for +anything. Everything was her fault. Everything always had been. I +was ashamed too? She was glad of that. We'd always be good friends. +Why, yes! From a friend, yes--if he was really as rich as all that. +It would help her to look around, to get her bearings for the new and +better life. It had been a frightfully expensive winter. It had been +sweet of me to keep her rooms so full of flowers. She loved +flowers. . . . Oh, nobody was hurt much, and nobody but us anyway. + +Reform is a great thing. I learned from Harry that the very night I +left Palm Beach she lost all the money I had "conveyed" to her at +gambling, and only the other day she ran off with a man I know very +well indeed--and a married man at that. I hope she won't talk too much +in the first few weeks of her infatuation. + +I reached New York feeling like the cad that I suppose I am. But it +was pretty bitter hearing about Lucy, and the baby. At least I had +kept faith longer than she had. I wondered if she once more loved her +husband. Did I hope so? Yes, of course, in the same way that you +express conventional horror when you hear of the latest famine in China. + +Well, for better for worse, I was a free man again. Free--if it is +free to be tormented by remorse, to feel cheap, futile, a waster--a +thing of no account to anyone. If this is freedom it isn't good to be +free. No man is happy who comes and goes as he pleases. There must be +responsibilities to shoulder, and ties which bind him. If he lives for +himself alone and for what, in the first glad bursts of unattachment he +imagines to be pleasure, a day will come when the acid of self-contempt +begins to corrode him. + +I determined to go to France, via London for I needed clothes, and if I +had a definite place it was to volunteer as a nurse in the American +hospital. So I took out a passport, and engaged my passage. + +A few days later, while crossing from Madison Avenue to Fifth, I found +myself suddenly face to face with Hilda. She averted her head and +tried to pass without being recognized, but I called her name, and she +stopped short and turned back. + +"It's just to ask how you are getting on, Hilda." + +"I've just left Mrs. Fulton," she said; "I'm going home." + +"Home?" + +"England." + +"You don't mean it! But why?" + +"Oh," she said, "it's all gotten on my nerves--the war. I want to +help. I've saved enough money to take me over, and to keep me if I +have to look round a bit." + +"I'm going over, too," I said. + +"To help?" + +"Oh, Hilda, I don't know. I _hope_ so." + +"Oh, I hope so, too, Mr. Mannering." + +"But, Hilda, I want to talk to you. There may not be another chance. +Where are you going _now_?" + +"I'm staying with friends till I sail." + +"Well, tell them you're going for a motor ride with another friend, and +to dine somewhere along the Sound, will you?" + +"Oh, I couldn't, not very well." + +"Hilda," I said, "there are so many things I want to know, and only you +can tell me about Stamford--about last winter--is it true that Mrs. +Fulton is going----?" + +"Yes, she is." + +We were silent for a moment. Then she spoke. "Do you still----?" + +"No, I don't _think_ so, Hilda." + +"Then I'll come--if you want me to, and think I ought. But if any of +your friends----?" + +"Do I have to tell you that you are one of the smartest looking people +I know, Hilda? They'll think you are the Marchioness of Amber----" I +glanced at her red hair, which did have amber lights in it, "and +they'll envy. So do come. Will you?" + +I borrowed a fine new racing runabout, and at six o'clock called for +her at the address she had given me. She had gotten herself up with +the most discreet good taste, and looked perfectly charming. She must +have read the approval in my glance, for the color flew to her cheeks, +and she looked triumphantly pleased. + +"Going to be warm enough?" + +"Yes, thank you." + +"It's mighty nice of you to come." + +"Oh, when you held out half an excuse to me, I couldn't help coming." + +"What's your idea--for England? To be a nurse--or what?" + +"A nurse, sir." + +"I'm not _sir_, please. I'm going to be a nurse, too. I told you once +that I'd always be your friend. And a friend isn't ever sir. So don't +do it again." + +"I'll not," she said. + +Presently I began to ask her about the Fultons. At first her answers +were short and unsatisfactory, but presently she began to warm to the +topic. + +Stamford? Oh, it had been awful. The house had never been divided in +its allegiance, but nobody could have remained callous to Mrs. Fulton's +grief. Meals were especially awful. Mr. and Mrs. Fulton tried to make +conversation. Sometimes just when it seemed as if she was going to be +a little cheerful--phist! her eyes would fill with tears, and she would +bolt from the room. At such times Mr. Fulton's face was a study of +pity for her and grief for them both. She was good to the children; no +question about that. Sometimes she grabbed them into her arms and +hugged them too hard. It was as if she was trying by sheer physical +effort to give them back what she had taken away from them. + +Sometimes one thought one heard little Hurry crying very softly and +bitterly, and it would turn out to be Mrs. Fulton, locked in her +bedroom. Pressure of business, success, kept Mr. Fulton going. +Sometimes the two tried to talk things over. But it was an irritating, +mosquitoey house. Always their voices ended by rising to the point +where they could be heard all over the ramshackle paper-thin dwelling. + +It stood on a lawn that sloped to tidal waters, very ugly and muddy at +low tide. A long gangway reached to a float for boats; here the water +was deep enough to dive into at half tide. Often at dawn, if the tide +was right, and you happened to be awake, you might see Mr. Fulton +descend the wet lawn in wrapper and bare feet for the swim that seemed +to make up to him for his sleepless nights. You knew that he was in +trouble by the way that he took to the water. It's always a little +shivery at dawn, but he never hesitated. His wrapper was coming off by +the time he reached the float--it was too far off to mind watching +him--and into the water he'd go, head first, as quick as he could get +in. It was almost as if he was afraid he'd die before he got to it. +He was a fine swimmer, but oftenest he just lay about, sometimes with +his face under. Then he looked like a drowned man. Sometimes he went +in earlier than dawn. She had seen phosphorescence off the float in +the black night, and heard the clean, quiet splash of his dive. + +Once he stayed in so long that Mrs. Fulton called to him from her +window, "_Please_ come in, John, I'm frightened." Oh, yes, she wanted +to be free from him, perhaps she still does, but not that way. If +anything had happened to him, if he had taken his life, for instance, +one imagined that in the first agonies of remorse she would have taken +hers too. + +It must have been terrible for her--at first--never hearing from _you_, +not knowing where you were, or what you were doing, whether you were +sick or well. Of course she wanted you to be happy, but with _her_. +It would have been a comfort to know that you were suffering as much as +she was. And she couldn't know. + +She had a calendar in her room. She kept tab on it of the days as they +passed, beginning with the first day of the probationary year. She'd +draw a line through each day--each day when she went to bed, and hoped +that the day was really over. She had her bad, wicked, black, +sleepless nights, too. You could always tell by how late she was in +the morning. She had a child's happy faculty of being able to make up +for lost sleep. Well, when the day seemed over she drew a line through +it. One day the chambermaid came below stairs (it was the first we +knew of it) and propounded a conundrum. "When is a day not a day?" No +one could guess. So she said, "When Mrs. Fulton doesn't draw a line +through it." So it seemed that the forty-ninth day of her probation +had not been a passage of time. Time had stood still. Why? Well, in +the afternoon Mrs. Fulton had gone as crew with a young gentleman who +owned a knockabout, and they had got wet to the skin, and had won a leg +on some pennant or other after a close, well-sailed race. Mrs. Fulton +had come home about dark, drenched, blooming, buoyant, and chattering +about the events of the afternoon. She had had her first heart-felt +good time of the probationary year. For once, time had not dragged. +Time had stood excitingly, exhilaratingly still. She had forgotten to +scratch off the day. + +Things went better after that. Twice a week, rain or shine, she was +crew of the young gentleman's knockabout. Often they went for practice +sails. Sometimes they took Jock and Hurry. In hot weather they wore +bathing suits. The young gentleman? He was to be a Yale senior, come +autumn. He rowed on the Yale crew. My! you should have seen his arms +and legs--so strong and so brown, so becoming to his dark blue bathing +suit. His hair was so sunburnt that it looked like molasses candy. He +could stay in the water all day and fetch from the bottom anything that +was thrown in for him. Sometimes he came to meals. He was very quiet +and shy. He blushed a good deal. And there was a weight on his mind. +He had a condition to make up--political economy. He could hold Jock +and Hurry out at arm's length, one in each hand, but the weight on his +mind was too much for him. Every time the Fultons mentioned it to him, +he groaned. He was truly comical when he groaned. Toward autumn he +began to get gloomy. Summer was over, college would open. No more +sails; no more Mrs. Fulton. Below stairs one knew that he was in love +with Mrs. Fulton. How? Well, when one let him out at the front door, +he always drew in a sigh that he held all the way to the front gate. +One waited to hear him let it out. It would have blown out a gas jet +across a good-sized room. There were other ways of telling. And since +the forty-ninth day that was not a day, no one had heard Mrs. Fulton +crying. + +He came to say good-by. One never knew just what happened. They were +in the front hall. Suddenly the front door must have opened. Fulton +must have come in, for suddenly one heard his laugh. It was the +strangest laugh in the world, full of joy, full of laughter, and full +of scorn. + +He saw the young gentleman to the front gate. He clapped the young +gentleman on the back, and said (the parlor maid had heard); "Don't +worry! It's all right! Don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill!" and +then in a different voice, "Bless you, my son!" + +Then he had come back to the house still laughing, and one heard him +shouting, "Where are you, Lucy? Come here! The game's up now! You +must see that for yourself! Don't be a goat!" + +Did she see for herself? Oh, yes. She hadn't loved the young +gentleman, not really. She had liked him enough to get over you being +a life and death matter to her. That was all. She had liked him +enough to let him kiss her at parting. That must have been what Mr. +Fulton had caught them at. + +"But, Hilda," I interrupted, "why didn't he tell me that it was all +over, when I saw him in New York--just before Christmas?" + +"Well, they couldn't know how you felt, could they? Maybe he wanted +you to have your full year. Maybe he thought you'd fall down as she +had, and that she'd hear of it and that it would be a lesson to her. +How should _I_ know?" + +She told me more. The very night of the young gentleman's departure, +late, a telegram had come to Mr. Fulton. She, Hilda, had gone down to +the front door, signed for the telegram, and carried it to Mr. Fulton's +room. He did not answer to her first light knock; nor to a first or +second loud knock. She pushed the door open. The room was full of +moonlight. Mr. Fulton's bed was empty. It had not been slept in. + +Hilda tiptoed to the end of the corridor, laid the telegram on the +floor in front of Mrs. Fulton's door, knocked very firmly, and the +moment she heard someone stirring within, turned upon her heel and fled. + +So much for the average strength of those grand passions upon which so +many marriages are wrecked! + +"Are they happy now, Hilda--the way they used to be?" + +Oh no, not happy, fairly contented. She would never love him the way +she used to. Her fantastics [Transcriber's note: fantasies?] had taken +the beauty plumb out of their lives. But something remained. A loving +husband, an unloving, but naturally kind, good-natured and affectionate +wife, trying to do her duty by the two children that were and the one +that was to be. + +"Oh, Mr. Mannering," said Hilda; "you mustn't blame yourself too much. +If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else. I didn't think +so, but now I do. And _he_ might not have been a gentleman." + + + + +XXXV + +We had dinner on the terrace of the Tamerlane Inn, overlooking the +Sound. + +"But, Hilda," I was arguing, toward coffee, "we might have gone on +caring forever--if we hadn't been separated. Propinquity feeds love; +absence starves it." + +"Love? Indeed it doesn't. Fancy? Yes." + +She looked straight in my eyes. + +"Hilda," I said, "you--you don't still--that way--about me?" + +"Don't I?" she said slowly. "Why else would I lie awake to hear Mr. +Fulton go swimming? Why else would I be wanting to go with the Red +Cross to the front where the bullets are?" + +"But you told me in Aiken that you--that you despised me." + +"It would be a poor love," she said, "that couldn't live down a little +contempt that had jealousy for its father and mother." + +We continued to look at each other while the waiter brought and served +the coffee. Then I said: "Hilda, I know one thing. What you've got to +give ought not to go begging." + +Her eyes part-way filled, but she gave her shoulders a valiant little +shrug. Then, with a sudden strong emotion, and a thrill in her voice: +"That's for you to say," she said. + +"Do you mean that?" + +"You had only to ask," she said; "ever." + +I was deeply moved, and a conviction that for me there might still be +something true and fine raced into my mind. And was followed by a +whole host of gentle and unselfish and pitying thoughts, as to a tree +at evening flocks of starlings come to roost. + +"Hilda," I said, "if there is no power of loving in me, but only of +fancying, still you have said that fancy feeds on propinquity. I have +no right to say that I love you; no right to promise that I ever will. +It's not your sweet pretty face that's moving me now. It's your power +of loving--your power of loving me--your constancy--your trust--your +courage in saying that these things shall not go begging--if I say they +shall not. What I thought another had, what I thought I had, only you +have. I dare not make promises. I dare not boast. But caring the way +you care, if you think you can make anything out of me--say so." + +She thought for a while, her eyes lowered, her lips parted in a +peaceful sort of smile. Then she said; "It'll be good to have heard +all that." + +"It'll be better to have tried," I said. + +"Not if you don't want me _at all_." + +"But I do." + +"Well," she said, looking up now, and a valiant ring in her sweet +English voice: "If I wanted to say no, I couldn't. If I thought I +ought to say no, I wouldn't. But I don't think I ought to. I think +when the Lord God put what's in my heart in it, he meant for there to +be _something_ for me at the end of torment. So I say yes. For I've +knelt on cold floors and hot floors to pray God that some day I could +give myself to the man I love." + +"And that shall be when you are married to him. . . . Don't look so +frightened . . . it's got to be like that. Give a man a chance to make +good. Do you think I'm such a fool as to throw away the love you've +got for me? . . . We'll try this nursing game together, but not at the +front, where the bullets are. I want us to live and to have our +chance, you yours and I mine--taken together. Don't you see that I am +speaking with every ounce of sincerity there is in me? I _couldn't_ +take such love as yours and not make good. That's in my heart. I +couldn't, I couldn't. Isn't it in my face, too--isn't it?" + +She did not answer at first, only looked in my face, her eyes flooding. + +Then she said: "I don't see your face any more--only a kind of glory." + + +We ran slowly back to the city, slowly, and very peacefully. Now and +again we talked a little, and argued a little. + +"But," she said, "it will ruin your life if you marry a servant. So +please, please don't! What would I do when I knew I'd hurt you?" + +"There's no life to ruin, Hilda. What's been is just dust and ashes. +You and I--we'll live for each other, and we'll try to help where +help's needed. It will be fine for me to have helped, after all these +foolish years--when I did only harm, and only half-hearted harm at +that." + +"It would be so different if only--if only----" + +"If only I loved you?" I freed one hand from the steering wheel and +put my arm around her. "But you feel tenderness?" + +"I feel tenderness." + +I pressed her close to my side. + +"Was I ever unkind to you?" + +"Never." + +"Tenderness and kindness--that's something to go on." + +She turned her head and kissed the hand that pressed against her +shoulder. It was the slightest, gentlest, softest kiss, and a lump +rose in my throat. + +"If the angels could see me now," she said, "and know what was in my +heart, they'd die of envy." + +"And what's in your heart, Hilda?" + +"You," she said. + +The house where she was staying had an inner and an outer door. In the +obscurity between these two we stood for a little while at parting, and +kissed each other. + +And as soon thereafter as could be, we were quietly married. + +When I began to put down this story about the Fultons, I was still head +over heels in love with Lucy, and I did not know how it was all going +to end. And I don't know now. I began to write before Hilda became a +definite figure in my life, to write in order to pass the time. And so +I wrote until I realized that I had failed Lucy, and began to hope that +she had failed me. Even then I expected to live the same old fleeting +life of a butterfly bachelor to the end. Then I began to think that +out of the thing I was writing, there was beginning to rise a kind of +lesson, a preachment. It seemed to me that I was going through an +experience that others would do well to know about. + +Can a man live down the shame of scorching another man's happiness, +after finding that the cause which drove him to do so, has lost its +power to impel? I am not ashamed of having loved Lucy; I am ashamed of +not having loved her enough. Thank God no greater harm was done to +Fulton than was done. He has his Lucy, what there is left of her, his +children, and a greater financial success than ever he hoped for. And +he has had his triumph over me. He must have told her, in some of his +bad moments, just what kind of a man I was--a waster, a male flirt, a +man who had the impulse to raise the devil, but lacked the courage, and +the character. And she knows now, after her short period of +over-powering love for me and belief in me, that he was right. That is +his triumph. I think he is too good a gentleman to rub it in. + +My father and mother accepted Hilda with the sweetest good grace. She +was not what they had hoped for; she was not what they had expected or +feared. To my father it seemed, he was good enough to say so, that I +had played the man. And he could not, he said, help loving any woman, +whether she came from the roof of the world or its cellar, who had +loved his son so faithfully and so long. + +And the rings on Hilda's finger, and the pride in her new estate, and +the pretty clothes that my mother helped her to buy worked a wondrous +change in her. People couldn't help looking after her, she was so +pretty, so graceful, and had so much faith and worship in her eyes. + +We had put off our date of sailing a little, so that my friends might +see that I was not ashamed of what I had done, but that I gloried in +it, and that my parents showed a face of approval to the world. Those +days of postponement were, I think, the best days of my life. A +treasure had been given into my guardianship, and it seemed to me that +I was going to be worthy of the trust. + +Then, the very day before we were to sail, I met Lucy face to face in +the street; and began to tremble a little. She held out both hands; +she was always so natural and frank. + +"So you've done it!" she exclaimed; "I think she's sweet, and so +good-looking." + +Then the smile faded from her lips, and she made the praying eyes at +me, and I knew that I had only to be with her a moment to love her. + +"Of course," she said, "it's all right our meeting and speaking _now_." + +"Of course," I said, and they sounded lame words, lamely spoken. + +"Do you believe in post-mortems?" she asked. + +"No," I said, "but I like them." + +"We--Oh, it's lucky we had parents and guardians, isn't it? When did +you come to the end of your rope?" + +I could only shake my head. + +"Was it when you--heard about me?" + +"I like post-mortems, but I don't approve of them." + +So she abandoned the post-mortem. + +"Tell me," she said, "why you married her? Was she an old flame?" + +"No, Lucy--a new flame." + +"I hope you will be very, very happy," she said. + +"But you doubt it." + +"Why shouldn't I?" + +"Why indeed?" + +"Listen. It--it wasn't any of it your fault. I tried to make you like +me, and succeeded, and the harm was done--but now we've settled down to +a harmless and quiet old age." + +Had we? Oh, why had that pansy face and those great praying eyes come +into my life again? Would it be always so when we met, the heart +leaping, and the brain swimming, and the body shaken with tenderness +and desire? + +I spoke no word of betrayal, but so standing a little to one side of +the passing crowds on the sidewalk, looking into that upturned face, +seeing those eyes so sad and prayerful above the smiling mouth, I +betrayed my wife for the first time, and Lucy read me like a primer, +and she knew that I loved her--either _still_ or once more. Of her own +emotions her face told me nothing. + +"I hear," she said, "that you are both to volunteer as nurses. I think +that is splendid." + +"If only I can live so as to help someone, Lucy. I am going to try +very hard. And I am going to try very hard to be a good husband, for +my wife has showered me with noble and priceless gifts." + +After a moment: "I hope," said Lucy, "you're going on the American +line. The Germans seem to be torpedoing everything else in sight." + +"We're sailing on the _Lusitania_." + +"When?" + +"Tomorrow." + +"They couldn't do anything to her. She's too big. You'll have some +distinguished company." + +"Really! I haven't seen the passenger list." + +"Why, there's Justus Miles Forman, and Charles Frohman, and Alfred +Vanderbilt and I don't know who all. . . . Well," she held out her +hand suddenly; "I've chores to do, thousands of them, so good luck to +you, and good-by, if I don't see you again." + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of We Three, by Gouverneur Morris + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WE THREE *** + +***** This file should be named 21883-8.txt or 21883-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/1/8/8/21883/ + +Produced by Al Haines + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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