[Frontispiece: "Dark against the light illumination of the hall stoodLucy 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 goto Aiken. When I know that she is going to Aiken, I shall go to PalmBeach. 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 thebeginning. There is even a king's advice to that effect. Said theking in "Alice, " "Begin at the Beginning, go on to the End, and thenstop. "

In the beginning, then: When I was a little boy, old enough to bewarned against playing with matches, I began of course to think themdesirable 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 oftenperhaps, but certainly every once in a while. 

Of course it is possible to do all sorts of things with a match. Youmay light it and blow it out, for instance. Lighted, you may put it inyour 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 youwill 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 edgeof the newspaper which your grandfather is reading in the big armchairby the window, and I guarantee that you will surprise him. Here is aninteresting play: Light a match, blow it out, and, while the end isstill red hot, touch the cook firmly on the back of the neck. If shehas been reading Swinburne she will imagine that she has been kissed bya policeman. When she finds out that she hasn't she will bedisappointed, and perhaps you will be disappointed, too. Oh, a matchis a wonderful thing, even the wooden ones that are made on earth! Youmay burn a whole city to the ground. And once, I am told, there was aman who lighted a match and fired a cannon that was heard around theworld. 

To play with matches is one thing: to play with the fire that you havelighted, or helped light, is another. And it was not until I playedwith 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 aman. 

If this was just the story of my own life I wouldn't be so impertinentas 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 itshero, nor, I think, the god who started the machinery. 

Thirty-five years ago I took to live with me a middle-aged couple, whohad begun to fear that they were going to die without issue. Though Isay it that shouldn't, I was very good to them. I let them kiss me andmaul me from morning till night. Later, when I knew that it was thevery worst thing in the world for me, I let them spoil me as much asthey 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 sufficientsuddenness and violence to cause the Bishop of New York to bite histongue, 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 sosuddenly and without due authorization provided me. Certain oldfriends, acquainted with the story, do not always, however, show myexquisite taste and reticence in this matter. Only the other day inthe 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 hisvoice, that he had very little use for me. Well, I can thank God forputting into the world some other people who have not that man'sclearsightedness and excellent powers for passing judgment upon hisfellow men. 

So the man gave me his name and took other liberties with me, and thewoman gave me her watch to break (I broke it) and took other liberties, and a second woman who called herself Nana took still other libertieswith me--liberties which made me furiously angry at the time, and whicheven now would make me blush. 

Sometimes I was sorry that I had taken the man and the woman to livewith me. At times they bored me. They seemed to me intelligent, and Ihad to choose my words carefully, and talk down to them as to a pair ofchildren. But I got used to them gradually. And I got to like them, especially the woman. I even formed the habit of forgiving her thingsoffhand without being asked to--Oh, my dear parents, I am only tryingto poke a little fun at you! And you weren't middle-aged when you cameto live with me. I only imagine that you must have seemed so to a babywhose eyes had only just come undone. Thirty-five years have rolledby--bringing, taking, and, alas! leaving behind them cares andvicissitudes, and still you seem no more than middle-aged to me. You, father, with your fine, frank weather-beaten face of a county squirewith the merry smile and the wit which makes you so welcome whereveryou go, even those ghosts of sorrow deep in your eyes don't make youlook more than middle-aged. And yet I think no hour of your lifepasses in which you don't recall, with a strangling at your throat, howmy little sister, Pitapat, came in from the garden drooping, to you, almost always to you, when she was in trouble, and climbed and waslifted into your lap, and cuddled against you--Oh, I can't write therest. 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 thatthe thought of what she was to you, and what such another child mightbe to such another man, has twisted even my tough entrails, and causedme for once, at least, to draw back from a piece of easy and enticingmischief, and play the man. 

And you, mother, with your face of a saint, haven't I always poked funat 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 fittedto be a mother of men, and you have brought into the world only alovely flower that soon withered away, and a Butterfly. 

I don't call myself a Butterfly from choice. I only do it because I'mtrying to be honest, and I think that it's just about what I am. Butdo 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 itwith shame) and light-hearted (though the very lightest of hearts mustweigh _something_, you know) insect a square deal? I confess that onlya light-hearted insect would perpetrate such a sentence as theforegoing; but wouldn't it be fun if, when the whole truth comes to beknown 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 acceptedsense, at all? It would surprise me no more to learn that an insectwas really a man, than that a man, even so great and thinking a man asMr. Bryan for example, was an insect. 

If the butterfly at lunch flits from flower to flower; and thebutterfly at play flits from butterfly to butterfly; so then may thebutterfly (at what he is pleased to call his work) flit from theme totheme, from subject to subject, from character to character, from plotto counterplot, and crosswise and back again. If more autobiographistsrealized how many difficulties may be avoided in this way, far fewerautobiographists would be heroes and many, many more would bebutterflies. 

II

Even before I was born the richer people of New York did not inhabitthat city the year round, but their holiday excursions were far shorterthan now, both in distance and duration. To escape the intenser heatsof summer the moneyed citizen of those days sent his family to theseaside for six weeks or to the mountains. Later his family began toinsist that it must also be spared the seasons of intense cold. Andnowadays there are families (and the number of these increases by leapsand bounds) who if they are not allowed to escape from everything whichseems to them disagreeable or difficult, get very down in the mouthabout it. Even the laboring classes are affected. The rich man wishesto live without any discomfort whatever, and the poor man wishes tolive without doing any work whatever. That, I think, is at the root oftheir most bloody differences of opinion, for the poor man thinks thatthe rich man ought to be uncomfortable, and the rich man thinks thatthe poor man ought to work. And they will never be in agreement. 

Given enough money it becomes easier and easier to run from onedifficulty or discomfort into another. And even the laborer finds itcontinually easier to make a living without earning it. 

When I was a little boy, Newport and Bar Harbor were a long way fromNew York. To Europe was a real voyage; while such places as Palm Beachand Aiken were never mentioned in polite society, for the simple reasonthat polite society had never heard of them. But nowadays it is notuncommon for a man to have visited all these places (and some of themmore than once) in the course of a year. Europe which was once aforeign country is now but as a suburb of New York. And I myself, I amhappy to say, have been far oftener in Paris than in Brooklyn. 

The modern butterfly thinks little of flying out to Pittsburg orCleveland or St. Louis for a dance or a mere wedding. He attendsathletic events thousands of miles apart, and knows his way from thefront door to the bar and card room of every important club between theJockey 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 tobelong. 

My father, because of my little sister's fragility, was one of thefirst men I know to make a practice of going South for the winter, andto Long Island for the spring and autumn. In summer we went to Europeor Bar Harbor, for with justice he preferred the climate of the latterto that of Newport or Southampton. We were less and less in our townhouse, and indeed so jumped about from place to place, that although mymother succeeded in making her other houses easy and indeed charming tolive in, I have never known what it was to have a home. And indeed Icannot at this moment call to mind a single New York family of theupper class that lives in a home. 

My mother is old-fashioned. She would have preferred to live in oneplace the year around, to beautify and to ennoble that place; to beburied from it as she had been married into it, and to leave upon itthe stamp of her character, incessant industry and good taste; to fillit gradually with the things she loved best or admired most, and to bealways 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 trunksto go somewhere, and unpacking them when they arrived. Of course shecouldn't do this to all of them, for we moved with very many, but therewere certain ones to which she would let nobody put hand butherself--my father's, my sister's, mine, and her own. And you alwaysknew that if you had accidentally left letters and notes in yourpockets that you didn't want seen, they wouldn't be. 

My father would almost abuse her for doing so much work with her ownhands, and for always being up so early, but in secret he was veryproud of her; and to see her dressed for the dance or the opera, eagerand gay as a girl, slender and beautiful, her head very high andfearless, you would have thought that she had never done anything inall her life, but be pampered and groomed and sheltered. 

Upon one good old-fashioned custom they were in firm agreement. Theyalways slept in the same bed; they do still. And they will lie in thesame grave. 

Whichever home it was that we happened to be inhabiting, unless out ofseason because of my sister, it was always pretty well filled withpeople. My father loved people, and my mother got to love them for hissake. For my part, until very recently, I have always hated to bealone. Flint is a gloomy solitary, but when he meets with Steel thereare sparks. 

I suppose there are brooding lovers of knowledge in this world who arefonder of their own than of any other company. But most people canonly think half thoughts and need other people to complete them. It isamusing enough to knock a ball against a wall, and a wonderful help inthe perfection of strokes, but it is far more amusing to face somebodyacross a net and play lawn tennis. 

My father and mother always hoped that I would be a great man, and evennow they hope that I may one day turn over a new leaf. Unfortunatelythere was no greatness in me, and as for those leaves of my life whichI have not yet read, they are uncut, and I am always mislaying thepaper knife. And whether the matter on the next leaf or the one afterwill 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 toride and to be polite, and to keep clean, and by example rather thanprecept, to be natural and unaffected! It was hoped then that I wouldbe a great man; in the event, however, of my turning out to be nothingbut a butterfly, I was brought up to be as ornamental a butterfly aspossible. I cannot remember when I wasn't being prepared and groomedto take, without awkwardness, a place in society. 

Well-bred grown-ups talk to children, without affectation orcondescension, as if they too were grown-ups. My parents were alwaysentertaining people, and it was assumed without comment that I too washost no less than they. Twice a day I had to be in evidence: at teatime, face and hands shining clean, hair carefully brushed, my smallbody covered with crisp white duck, black silk stockings, on my legs, and patent leather pumps on my feet. No conversation was required ofme, but if I had forgotten a name and the face that went with it, I wasallowed to feel uncomfortable; allowed to feel as a grown man feelswhen he has accidentally said something that would better have beenleft unsaid. It was my duty to go accurately from guest to guest, toshake hands, and to say perfectly naturally not "Hunh!" as so manymodern children do, but "How do you do, Mrs. Lessing, " or "How do youdo, Mrs. Green, " and not to stare and fidget or be awkward. Then I hadmy tea, discolored hot water with sugar and cream, my buttered toast, and a bit of cake. After that my mother would make it exceedingly easyfor me to get away. My second public appearance was just beforedinner. Then, dressed once more in white and patent leather, I came tothe 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 wastold to do this or that. It was easy to obey her, because from thefirst, she took it absolutely for granted that she was going to beobeyed. Of course it was different with general orders designed tocover 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 anorder easily and instantly obeyed. For "Never kick a table, " I cannotsay the same. I used to divide her orders into two classes: The nownows and the never nevers. The latter were mostly beyond me. Thoughyou 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 hisaim again. 

I like children when they are polite and a little reticent, when theyare not too much in evidence, and when the whole household is not madeto revolve about them. 

Fulton once said to me, in that shy yet eager way of his: "If only Icould arrest my babies' development; keep them exactly as they are; ontap when I wanted them, and hibernated like a couple of little bearswhen 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 myprivileges. I'd only take 'em out of the ice box when I absolutelyneeded them and couldn't do without them. "

It was the first time that I ever was in the Fulton house that he saidthat. The two babies, a boy and a girl, Jock and "Hurry, " tworoly-polies, with their mother's eyes and mischievous smile, had beenbrought 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 overtheir shyness, and had shaken me decorously by the hand, and made theirfunny grave little bows and asked me how I did. And I had saidsomething in praise of the little girl to her face, and Fulton hadreproached me a little for doing so. 

"In India, " he had said, "it is very bad luck to praise a child to itsface, very bad luck indeed. "

"I'm so sorry, " I said, when the children had gone. "I ought to haveremembered that even very little babies in the cradle understandeverything that's said to them. May I praise them now? Because theyare 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 withtenderness, "Hurry always knows. And she comes and climbs into my lapand leans against me without saying a word, and she keeps creepy-mousestill until she knows that I'm feeling better. Then she chuckles, andI hug her. Sometimes I wish that she was made like a tennis ball; thenI 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'sface. I remember thinking, "God! If ever some woman should look at melike that!" Her mouth smiled mischievously, just the way littleHurry's smiled, and her eyes--I won't try to describe the love andtenderness that was in them, nor the dog-like faithfulness--were eyesthat prayed. And they were the deepest, most brilliant blue--likethose Rheims windows that the Beast smashed the other day. She laughedand 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" flashedfrom each to the other in that crumb of time. His face reddened alittle, and hers became more rosy. They weren't a bit ashamed of beingobviously in love with each other. I think they rather pridedthemselves on it. 

"Why _Hurry_?" I asked. "Is it a real name? Of course I rememberHurry Harry in Cooper----"

"Her real name is Lucy, " said Fulton, "same as her Mumsey, but theylook so ridiculously alike that I was afraid I'd get 'em mixed up. Andso 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 Fultonsaid:

"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 toboast about her, and though she tried to stop him, she couldn't helplooking perfectly delighted with herself, like some radiant child inthe 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 thanhis words, perhaps, always gave people the feeling that he had awonderfully light touch, and a point of view at once sentimental andhumorous--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 thegate. I know this, because although I did not look back, it was when Ireached the gate that I heard the door close, and I thought: "Now if Ilooked 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 iskissing her and that she's perfectly delighted. "

III

It is not easy for me to keep away from Lucy Fulton either on paper orin real life. The latter I have to do, for I think that I am able tokeep a promise, and I ought to do the former as much as I can, if I amto tell her story and her husband's and my own in their trueproportions. Otherwise we should but appear as one of those "eternaltriangles" to which so much of French dramatic genius has been devoted;whereas it appears to me, though not, I am afraid, to Fulton, that ifour relations to each other could be symbolized by a figure, thatfigure would not be a triangle; but a cross, let us say, between atriangle 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 incommon. It is almost enough to say that he was full of character andreserve, and that I was unstable and kept the whole of my goodsdisplayed in the shop window. I cannot imagine thirteen-year-oldFulton in love with fifteen-year-old Nell or Nancy, but I wasfrequently in love with both at the same time, or so fancied myself, and, almost consciously, as it seems, he was conserving his powers ofloving for the one great passion of his life, when he should give allthat a man may have in him of purity and faith and purpose. But whenmy 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 waslazy and only interested in such pieces of knowledge as I felt might beof use to me. But we both stood well in our classes; he because he hadbrains and knew how to use them, and I because the Lord had gifted mewith a capital sight memory. 

Perhaps I should do better to state who our intimates were in thosedays, and what has become of them. Fulton's most intimate friend was aboy named Lansing, who made a practice of cutting open dead things tosee what was inside of them. Today Lansing (of course that's not hisreal name) is so great a surgeon that even the man in the street knowshim by sight. My most intimate friend was Harry Colemain, and we weremixed up in all sorts of deviltries together. To me he has been alwaysa faithful friend and a charming companion, but of his career, what canI say that is really pleasant? Nothing, unless I modify each statementby 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 asmile, and a way with him that can shake a man from the water wagon ora woman from her virtue. He smokes like a factory, and drinks like afish, yet at a moment's notice he is ready for some great feat ofendurance--such as playing through the racket championship, or swimmingfrom Newport to Narragansett Pier. He might have been--anything youplease. But what can I say definitely that he _is_? Well, at thisvery moment, he is co-respondent in a divorce suit which is delightingthe 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 gotfound out, and she's not the kind of woman that his friends are goingto like. 

Fulton's friend Ludlow has just published the best book on the birds ofNew York, past and present, that was ever written. My friend Piersondied the other day of pneumonia. As a boy he had the constitution ofan ox, and ought to have thrown off pneumonia as I would throw off acold in the head, but the doctors say that he had simply burned up hispowers of resistance with overdoses of alcohol. You never saw himdrunk or off his balance or merry in any way; he simply and slowlysoaked 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 thecasual eye, and dead Monday. 

This is not the time to take up those great issues which have risenbetween those who are tempted by drink and fall, and those who are nottempted and don't. But I am very sure of this: that a vast majority ofthe men who make the world go round drink or have drunk; and that whenat 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 itis 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 setof boys. They erred and strayed from their ways at times, like theworst of us. There was Browning for instance, a born experimenter, whoso experimented with cocktails one fine morning (at the corner of SixthAvenue and Forty-third Street) that he marched into Madame Castignet'sFrench class, drunk as a lord, full of argument, and was presentlyexpelled from the school. It was commonly said that the disgrace of itwould hound him through life. Far from it! Those who at this day packCarnegie Lyceum to hear him play the violin, and who listen, laughingand crying, and comparing him to the incomparable Kreisler, perceive nodisgrace in that youthful episode, rather they see in it an earlyindication of the divine temperament trying to shake off its fettersand 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 Firstfrom the Olympic games. In the pack that I run with there is even oneRoper who achieves a large income by writing fiction for the magazines, but even he isn't in the least like that brilliant little circle towhich Fulton belonged. For we feel that we are paying him an immensecompliment when we say, "Would you ever suspect that he was an author?"Good at games, fond of late hours and laughter, with the easiest andmost affectionate good manners, he is quite convinced, if you can gethim to talk shop, at all, that art for art's sake is bunk, and thatthere is more amusement and inspiration to be had on Bailey's Beach andin the Casino at Newport than in the whole of Italy. 

I must set Roper off against Fulton's friend Garrick. Poor Garrickslaved and slaved and reached after perfection. Some say that in thethin little volume that he succeeded at last in getting published, andleaving behind for the delight of posterity, he actually touchedperfection. Perhaps he did. I don't know. But I do know this: thathe had enough talent and energy to make a living, and didn't. That heloved his art more than his wife and family, and that they all starvedtogether. Is it worse to starve your family for love of liquor thanfor love of art? Roper loves his liquor but he fights against it andmakes a handsome income; Garrick gave himself up body and soul to hislove for art, and if it wasn't for his friends Mrs. Garrick would beworking in a sweatshop. 

Fulton and I discussed him once (when I was going to the Fulton house agood deal), but we had to give it up as a topic. Fulton saw somethingfine and generous in the man, and could not speak of him withoutemotion, while I found it impossible to speak of him without contempt. 

Fulton himself fell away from his friends in later years, notspiritually but physically. Lucy Fulton simply had to go on livingamong the people with whom she had been brought up, and in the mannerto which she was accustomed; and Fulton seeing her pine and growsorrowful in other conditions, and bored and fretful, gradually fellinto 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. Herlove and happiness were far more important to him than changed ways andthe 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 withthem. If anything happened to Lucy, I'd be absolutely alone in theworld, except for the babies. A man does wrong to drift away fromthose who he knows by a thousand proofs care for him, on any pretext orfor any cause. "

And yet he had come to wear the hallmarks of the pack, and to talk thelanguage of the world that only asks to be happy and amused. He tookto games seriously and played them well, and you couldn't point to himas one of those cautious persons who never by any chance drank even onecocktail too many. Indeed, he often became hilarious and witty, andadded no end to the gayety of occasions, and was afterward privatelyreproached by Lucy. Coming from another, the hilarity and wit wouldhave rejoiced her, but, coming from her nearest and dearest, her mindnarrowed, 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 wearingupon his face, as plainly as if they had been physical scratches, themarks of the wifely tears which he had been forced to witness, and ofthe reproaches which he had been forced to hear, and yet each trying tolook as if he was the master of his own house and his own destiny. Nowell-born woman, however cold and calculating, can silently put up withher husband's drinking, yet how easily she overlooks it in any otherman! How many excuses she will find for him:

"Why, he's quite wonderful! Of course I knew at once that he wastipsy, but he was perfectly sensible--perfectly. "

If men didn't drink, women wouldn't have so many parties to go to or somuch money to spend. How many teetotalers let their wives spend theminto ruin and disgrace? It is the drinking American who indulges hiswife and lets her make a fool of herself and him. It's hisunconfessed, and perhaps unadmitted, remorse seeking a short cut toforgiveness. 

It seems that I played too much pool and billiards for a small boy; andgot into too much city mischief, for I learned at the end of adelightful 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 playedwith them, nor used them to light cigarettes with. I was vaguelyambitious to be great and splendid, and I was down on purposeless boyswho didn't behave themselves. 

Lucy's brother was in my form. She used to come to visit him, with herparents, in their car. Even for Groton parents the Ludlows wereenormously rich, or if they weren't enormously rich, they were enormousspenders. 

Lucy was seven years our junior, but even in those baby days she hadthe laughing mouth and the praying eyes that were to play such havoclater on. She was a child of the world; natural, straightforward, andeasy-going. 

Lucy at nine was so pretty, so engaging, and had so much charm andmagnetism that I remember having regretted, very solemnly, and withyouthful finality, that we did not belong to the same generation. Iwas sorry that she was not fifteen or sixteen like myself; so that Icould be in love with her and she with me!

Once Lucy was so sick that they thought she was going to die, andSchuyler 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 asystem which makes disease contagious instead of health, and asking oneof the masters how he reconciled the death of a kid like that, whomeverybody loved, with his conception of an all-wise and all-mercifulGod. He answered, it has always seemed to me very lamely, that if wedidn'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, whynot the murderer himself who does the real dirty work? If _all_ is forthe best, so then must the component parts of all (each and every) befor 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'slittle sister was going to get well, and presently Schuyler returned toschool somewhat self-important, as becomes one who has sat at meat withfamous doctors, and talked of them _in extremis_. 

The first rime I rode with Lucy through the Aiken woods, I recalledthis famous illness of hers, and I think it had something to do withall that happened afterward. 

We had lost ourselves, a little, as you do at Aiken, among the infinityof sand trails beyond the Whitney drive. We knew where we were, ofcourse, and we knew where Aiken was, but every trail that startedtoward it fetched up short with a wrong turning. It was one of thosebright hot days in late February, when a few jasmine flowers haveopened, and you are pretty sure that there won't be any more longspells of rain or freezing cold. Even Lucy, who loved riding, wascontent 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 toremember things. "

"Why, " I said, "Schuyler was sent for, and you were given up half adozen times. Don't you really remember at all?"

"They wouldn't have told me I was being given up right and left, wouldthey? Probably it didn't hurt much, and I was given a great manypresents. It seems to me I do remember one particularly great time ofpresents, when lots of old gentlemen came to see me. "

"I hoped you'd remember better, " I said; "because at the time it seemedto me one of the most important things that had ever happened in theworld. "

Lucy listened eagerly. She didn't in the least mind a conversationthat was all about herself. 

"The whole school, " I said, "was touched with solemnity. Now youwouldn'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 solittle to pray for. But at that time I went down on my knees andprayed 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 thereason was. Maybe I was looking forward to this ride, and didn't wantto miss it! I was ashamed to be seen praying, so I prayed in bed. ButI was afraid that wouldn't do any good, so when my roommate had gone tosleep I got up in the dark and went down on my marrowbones on the bareicy 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 herenow. "

"I'd like to think that, " I said; "but there must have been lots ofothers who prayed. I should like nothing better than a Carnegie heromedal, with the attached pension, but the jury require proofs. "

"It's funny, " she said, "to think of you kneeling on the icy floor andpraying for me. "

"For your _recovery_!" I corrected her. 

"I think it would have been nicer if you had prayed for me. Didn'tyou--even a little?"

"If I had realized that I could be seven years older than you and stillbelong to the same generation, my prayers would have been altogetherdifferent, 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 ponyinto a gentle amble. 

I caught up with her and said: "I know this trail. It will take usstraight to the Whitney drive. Then we can go right up over the hilland come out by Sand River. "

"It's fun, " she said, "to find somebody that likes riding. Everybody'smad about golf. John rides whenever I ask him, but it's cruel toseparate him from the new mid-iron that Jimmie made for him. And hewon't let me ride alone. "

Poor John Fulton showed little worldly wisdom in making thatprohibition. 

"I'd rather ride than eat, " I said. "Will you ride again tomorrow?"

She quoted the Aiken story of the lonely bachelor in theboarding-house. He is called to the telephone, hears a hospitablevoice that says, "Will you come to lunch tomorrow at one-thirty?" andanswers promptly, "You _bet_ I will! . . . Who is it?"

Just before you reach the Whitney drive there is a right angle turnfrom the trail which we were following; it back-tracks a little, errsand strays through some fine jasmine "bowers, " and comes out at the oldrace 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 mischievousmouth, 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 somethingelse before you get all tired out and tangled up. Never say no untilyou are sure that what's been proposed isn't any good. _Then_ backout!"

"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 whichhere and there were set star-like golden flowers, whose gardenia-likeperfume mixed with the resinous aromatic smell of the long-needlepines. I rode a little behind, on purpose, for I love to see a prettywoman turn her head and look backward across her shoulder. She has nopose more charming, unless it be when she stands before the "laughingmirror" 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 sayno? . . . And all the others?"

She looked back at me over her shoulder, her eyebrows lifted in aneffort of memory, which, with a mischievous laugh, she presentlyabandoned. 

"Why, " she said, "as far as I know: 'One flew east and one flew westand one flew over the cuckoo's nest. '" I wish I could convey by wordsthe lilt of her clear, fearless, boyish voice, the sparkle of mischiefand daring in her eyes, and deep beneath, like treasures in the sea, that look of steadfastness, of praying, that made you wonder if she wasreally as happy and as carefree as she seemed to be, and not some loyalmartyr upon the altar of matrimony. 

To look at, she was but a child in her teens, slender and virginal, andyet I had it from Fulton himself that her babies had weighed ninepounds apiece and that she had nursed them both. "She looks down, " hesaid, "with contempt, on bottle babies. "

He was just coming in from golf, with the smug smile of one who hasplayed a good round, on his face. His buggy boy, Cornelius Twombly, ablack imp of twelve, who carried a razor in his hip pocket, wore alsothe smug look of one who has caddied to victory, and won certainnickels and dimes from another caddie upon the main and minor issues ofthe match. 

As Fulton climbed out of his rickety, clattering runabout, Mrs. Fultonslipped from her smart pony, and they met with an honest kiss, likelovers long parted, and at once each began to tell the other all abouteverything. 

[Illustration: "They met with an honest kiss, like lovers long parted. "]

"If they love each other like that, " I thought, "why doesn't he alwaysride with her, or why doesn't she always play golf with him?"

I heard such expressions as "And the new mid-iron" . . . "The jasminewill 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 thatthey are spoken of by name instead of by number). "Mr. Mannering isthe _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 reinsover my pony's head to make him think that he was tied to ahitching-post, and went into the house with them. But I did not staylong. Fulton wanted to talk golf; Mrs. Fulton wanted to bathe andchange into skirts, and I wanted to go away by myself and think. Iwanted to study out why it was that toward the end of our ridetogether, whenever Mrs. Fulton spoke to me or looked back at me overher 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. Aschoolmaster president, with three cabinet officers plucked by the hairfrom a Gilbert and Sullivan opera, had put a temporary end to all ourbest qualities as a nation, with the possible exception of the power tolaugh at jokes. 

It was a hectic winter in Aiken. Some of the richest members of theAiken Club were in trouble. There was some talk of making two and ahalf cents a point bridge standard instead of five. Even my own fatherasked me to go a little light, if I could, and not be led into anyfoolishness. "I've not been hit yet, " he said, "but you can't tellwhat the fools will do next. " You heard very few bets made. There wasless drinking. It was as if certain men were going into training inorder to be at their very best when the worst times should come. 

Fulton's Cartridge Company, with its headquarters in New York and itsmills in Bridgeport, Connecticut, had not paid a dividend in some time. He had only his salary as president (twenty or twenty-five thousand ayear, I believe), and it was with the drastic intention of cutting thatsalary in two, and otherwise paring the company's expenses to thequick, that he went north the first week in March. 

I dined with them the night before he left. There were only four ofus: the Fultons, myself, and one of those charming Southampton girls, with sea-blue eyes, and sunburned hair, who swim like seals, playtennis like men, and fear nothing. Evelyn Gray was the name of thisparticular one. I liked her immensely, and was not altogether sorry tolearn that she was to keep Lucy Fulton company until Fulton returned. 

But it was a somewhat depressing dinner. There was an atmosphere inthe cheerful blue and white dining-room, the white panels of the doorsand wainscoting had a narrow border of blue, like impending fate. Fulton, it seemed, had never yet been away from home over night. Andthis was a record of devotion which he was very loath to break. Evenmore loath to see it broken was Lucy Fulton. 

"I tell him, " she said, "that if he goes it will be the beginning ofthe end. " She spoke in jest, and although Fulton laughed back at heryou could see that what she had said troubled him and hurt him. "As amatter of fact, " she went on, "he's been looking for an excuse for sometime. And now he thinks he's found one, but it wouldn't pass in acourt of chivalry. He could _write_ to his old directors just as wellas not. Oh, you needn't think you're the only one who's going to havea gay time. You needn't be surprised to hear that I, too, have lefthome in the company of a dark and fascinating foreigner. And anyway Ishall give a dance and open all the champagne in the cellar. "

"There are only two quarts and a pint, " said Fulton, and he turned tome. "_You've_ never been married, have you? So you don't know whatthe modern woman can spend when she gets going, do you?"

I had a pretty good idea, but did not make the admission and continuedto look interrogative. 

"Well, " he said, smiling, "she just has to spend so much, she says soherself. Then her poor husband's dividends are passed, and still shehas to spend so much; she just has to, she says so herself. Then herpoor husband's poor salary has to be cut in half, and she speaks calmlyof giving dances and opening wine. Evelyn, I count on you as an oldand tried friend. If necessary you will interpose your dead bodybetween Lucy and this dance of hers. "

Superficially he was very tolerant and good-natured, but you could seethat beneath the surface, nerves were jumping, and that he was in thatcondition of financial and perhaps mental embarrassment which causesmolehills to look like mountains. And it was here, and now, that Ilearned something new about Lucy; that even in jest she did not enjoyhaving economy preached to her. She looked a little sullen for amoment and bored. 

"What's the matter with my giving a dance?" I asked. 

"Oh, will you?" cried Lucy, the sullen look vanishing beneath a radiantflash of child-like joy and enthusiasm. "Where will you give it? AtWilcox'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 ofvoice and manner: "I was only joking, you know that. If you want togive a dance, give it. "

It was as if a child had cried to be taken up, and in the face of allthe tenets of modern training, had been taken up. And you knew thatwith the lightest heart in the world Mrs. Fulton was going to spendmoney, which her husband could ill afford. 

Shortly after dinner a loud yelling arose in the nursery, and theFultons hurried off to investigate and give comfort, leaving themanipulation of a fearful and wonderful glass coffee machine to EvelynGray 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 layby a cent for a rainy day. "

"But think what a run she gives him for his money. He's the originalhappy married man. Think how she works to make him comfortable, andhow she mothers the babies, and how she hangs on his words, as ifnobody else was present. Just now, most people would have sent aservant to find out which baby was making a disturbance, and why--butthose two simply bolted for the nursery as if controlled by one brainand 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 tobe. Since I got to know them pretty well, I've entirely changed mynotions 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 analcohol flame, began to mount from one retort into another containingpulverized coffee. 

"But, " she went on with an affectation of melancholy, "I've never foundthe 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 thepossibility of every man she meets--married or single--and the girl youthink the most matter-of-fact is the one who most often slips out ofbed, 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 bottomthing. 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 ofargument--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 matrimonialpossibilities examined into by matter-of-fact ladies, who sit atwindows in their nightgowns, and look at the moon! I didn't like toask more directly. Now tell me what's wrong with me?"

Her eyebrows rose mirthfully. "Are we playing truths, or shall I letyou down easily?"

"I want the truth. "

"Well, if your father lost his money, or disinherited you, you couldn'tsupport a wife. "

"Decision deferred, " I said. 

"You would begin married life with the highest and most generousresolutions; your subsequent fall would be all the harder for your wifeto bear. You have a certain something about you that few really goodmen have, that attracts women. How long could you let that power restwithout experimenting to see if you still had it? Not very long. Youare the kind of man whose wife doesn't dare to have a good-lookingmaid. "

"There, " I said somewhat nettled, "you do me an injustice. "

"You are a faithful friend, " she said, "but you wouldn't be a faithfullover. Change and excitement and risk are bread and meat to you. "

"Look here, " I said, laughing, "you've not only considered me, you'veconsidered 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 thethings you think about me. "

"You never will. "

"Do you know what I think about myself? I think that I shall astonishthe world with one of those grand passions which make history worthreading. The girl who gets me will be very lucky!"

"If you ever do have a grand passion, " said Evelyn thoughtfully, "andit's just barely possible, it won't be for a girl. It won't be thekind that brings any good to anybody. "

As they appeared in the door of the living-room, Fulton's hand droppedfrom his wife's waist. She was very rosy and lovely. They looked asif they had loitered on their way back from the nursery. 

"Mrs. Fulton, " I said, "I don't like your coffee-machine because Ithink it's going to explode, and we don't know how to get the coffeeout. And I don't like your friend. She _has_ exploded and scalded mecruelly. "

"Oh, " said Lucy, with the look of a knowing child, "I know, you've beenplaying truths, and Evelyn's got a New England conscience. "

"If she wasn't so good-looking, " I said, "I don't believe people wouldhave her around, after a few experiences. "

"You must try not to let her get on your nerves, " said Fulton, "for I'mcounting on you to keep an eye on this household while I'm away, and tosee that those who inhabit it behave themselves. "

"I don't want any more talk about going away, " said Mrs. Fulton; "thefact is bad enough. I'm not a bit ashamed to have people know thatI'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 hadtaken Jock and Hurry to see him off. And all three, I was told by aneye-witness, had wept openly and without shame. My informant, Mrs. Deering, said that she had been reminded of Louis XVI leaving hisfamily for the scaffold. But when I saw them five minutes later (youcould still hear the far-off coughing of the northbound train) onlyHurry looked grave, while Jock and his mother were illustrating toperfection the old adage, "Out of sight out of mind. "

They did not look like a mother and her children, but like a big sisterwith her very littlest brother and sister. Hurry, sitting in themiddle, was being allowed to hold the reins and the whip. She was inher usual hurry, and you could see at a glance that over any actual useof the whip friction was constantly arising. Under the runabout couldbe seen the thin dangling legs of Cornelius Twombly. I waved andshouted. Mrs. Fulton and Jock waved and shouted back, and Hurry seizedthe opportunity to strike cunningly with the whip. The horse lurchedsharply forward, the three handsome bare heads jerked sharply back, andupon two wheels, in dust and laughter, they rounded the nearest cornerand vanished. 

I was going nowhere in particular, and so I turned my pony and trottedafter them. If they came to grief, I thought, I owed it to Fulton tobe on hand to pick up the pieces. But I didn't really expect to beuseful. 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 theblock, 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 toleave 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 handto Jock and a hand to Hurry, and they dragged me to their ownparticular playground, and made me build King Solomon's palace in the"Butterfly that Stamped, " and plant a whole palace garden with sprigsof 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, andlaid 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 ofme, and made me feel more serious and tender than I liked. I made heras comfortable as I could, and presently my own crossed legs began togo to sleep; the new puppy made a hunter-like dash into the nearestshrubbery, Jock caught up his bow and arrow and followed, thechildren'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 requiredsomething of her and been denied. Then she turned her face upward sothat it was in the full glare of the sun and because I had no hat Ishielded it with my hand. 

Then very quietly came Lucy Fulton and stood looking down at us, and Ilooked up at her, and in that exchange of glances was promoted from anacquaintance to an old and intimate friend of the family. Thereafterwe did not have to make new beginnings of conversations, but could ifwe chose resume where we had left off. 

Hurry waked as suddenly as she had gone to sleep, and Lucy made herthank me for taking such good care of her. But when it was time for meto get up out of the hot sand, I couldn't at first because of thesoundly sleeping legs, and when I managed it, it was for Hurry'sbenefit, with a great, and I hope, humorous exaggeration of the painsand 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 hadneither made a heavy killing at the races, nor met with disaster. Ifthe day differed from other days it was only in this, that I hadreceived the confidence of a little child and her mother; that thisconfidence had touched my heart very nearly, and given me the wish tobe of use to those two, and if necessary to sacrifice my selfish selffor them. Feeling then that I was a better man than I had thoughtmyself, elated with that thought, and almost upon the brink of goodresolutions, I cut into a rubber of bridge, and began to drinkcocktails. Why, I shall never know. Let those who drink explain andunderstand, each to himself, and let those who don't drink despise andcondemn, publicly, as is usual with them. 

VI

I was feeling very sentimental by the time I got to bed. I had had along, and I suppose maudlin, talk with Harry Colemain on the beautiesof matrimony. We had maintained the Fultons against all comers, as ourideal example of that institution. 

"Just think, " I said, "this very night is the first one that John hasbeen away from her since they were married. That's going some. That'ssome record. He boarded the train like a man mounting the scaffold tohave 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 Ibet even you and I had it in us to be decent and faithful if we'd everstruck the right girl. Those things are the purest luck, and we'vebeen unlucky. But it makes me sick to be as old as we are, and nonearer _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 waswonderful, " 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 myhead and bawled like a wolf. Think of having babies like that for yourvery own, and a wife like Lucy Fulton thrown in. "

"She could have married most anybody, " said Harry, "but she took a poorman and a rank outsider because she--hic--loved him. That's the kindof girl she is! Why nobody ever thought she'd settle to anybody. Ibet she broke her word to half a dozen men, before she gave it toFulton and kept it. "

"I wouldn't call him exactly an outsider, " I said; "anyway she's madean insider of him. Everybody likes him, and admires him. I neverthought much of him at school, but I think he's a peach now. And heunderstands 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 thatwould 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 whatI was laughing at. Harry got laughing, too, after a while. He put hiswhole soul in it. Then we ordered two bottles of ale and had some fatwood put on the fire, and watched it roar and sputter with flame asonly fat wood can. After much meditation and a swallow of thefresh-brought ale, my mind began to harp on Evelyn Gray, and to magnifyher 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 wecouldn't. "

"Why not?" I asked innocently, expecting, I think, that his phrase wassome sort of a conundrum. 

"Why, Archie, my boy, " he said, and his scowl faded to a look ofweariness and disgust, "it looks as if I might have to marry somebodyelse. "

"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 mindwhether to divorce her or be divorced himself. It hinges on thechildren. If he divorces her he'll get them, and if he lets himself bedivorced, she will. "

"It's big trouble, Harry!"

"Yes. For we are sick and tired of each other. I'd rather like toblow 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 toturn 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, steerclear of family complications. "

When he had gone I had another bottle of ale in front of the fire, andfrom thinking of Harry, I got to thinking of how well ale seemed to goon top of whiskey, and to congratulating myself on my strong head andstomach. "Nobody, " I thought complacently, "would suspect that I hadbeen 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 toher that the truths she had told me about myself weren't true? I beganto fancy that I had in me all the qualities that go to make the idealhusband, and that in Evelyn were to be found all the qualities whichmake the ideal wife. I could have wept to think what a good sportsmanshe 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 otherto 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 dooris 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 alittle 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) shenever will. 

"What in thunderation started _you_ last night?" said my father atbreakfast. 

"I'm hanged if I know, " I said; "but what makes you think I gotstarted?"

"I'd just put out the lights in the library when you came in. Youstopped 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 Christmaspoem. 

"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. Isat 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 absenceI was mistaken. It was almost as if she had no husband. She was likesome radiant schoolgirl home for the holidays. But I am pretty surethat Fulton missed her during every waking moment. He wrote to her atleast twice a day and sent her many telegrams. 

"He knows what a shocking memory I have, " she explained; "and he'safraid that I'll forget him unless constantly reminded. Wouldn't it befunny 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 reallyfell 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 boysaid he liked me, I was so pleased and flattered that I always said Iliked him, too, and the minute he was out of sight, I'd find that Ididn't. "

A few days of hot sunshine had worked wonders with the jasmine. Hereand there the bright golden trumpets were so massed as to give aneffect of bonfires; here and there a vine carried beauty and sweetnessto the top of a tall tree, or festooning among the branches resembled astring of lights. The humming of bees was steady and insistent likethe roar of far-off surf. And so strong was the mounting of the sapthat already the twigs and branches of deciduous trees appeared asthrough a mist of green. The buds on the laurel, swollen and pink, looked like sugar decorations for wedding cakes. Flashes of brightestblue and scarlet told of birds recently arrived from still farthersouth. 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 andfar-carrying, was so easy and pleasant to listen to that it didn'tmatter much what she said. Should I convey an erroneous impression andone derogatory to a charming companion if I said that she chatteredalong like a magpie? She talked about servants, and I gathered thatshe had never had any trouble with servants. And I thought, "Whyshould you, you who are so friendly, so frank, and so kind?" She gaveme both sides of the argument about bare legs for children versusstockinged legs. She confessed to an immense passion for so lowly adish as stewed prunes, she memorialized upon dogs and horses that hadbelonged to her. I learned that her favorite story was the "BrushwoodBoy, " that her favorite poem was "The Last Ride Together, " and that herfavorite flower was Olea fragrans, the tea-olive (she really said itsLatin name), whose waxy-white blossom is no bigger than the head of apin, and whose fragrance is as that of a whole basketful of hot-housepeaches. 

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 allherself in a day. If the worse came to the worst, if cartridges fellupon still more evil days, she would turn dressmaker, and become richand famous. Wasn't it a pity that John had to work so hard, and missso many lovely days?

"I think he'd be quite rich, " she said, "if it wasn't for me. I wasbrought up to spend all the money I wanted to, and I don't seem able tostop. I know it isn't fair to John, and John says it isn't fair to thebabies, and I make beautiful resolutions and forget all about them. "

"But now that your husband has had to cut his salary in half, you'llsimply have to be good, won't you?"

She admitted that now she would simply have to be good. And a momentlater she was making plans for the dance that she was going to give atWilcox'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. Itwouldn't hurt me a bit. "

"I thrashed it all out with John, " she said, "that same night afteryou'd gone. He told me to go ahead, and not disappoint myself. Ididn't see why you shouldn't give a dance for me if you wanted to, andI wanted you to. But John wouldn't listen to that for a minute. Imust say I couldn't see why, and I don't yet. It isn't like paying mydressmaker's bill, or giving me a pearl necklace. I said that. And hesaid no, it wasn't like that, but that it was a second cousin twiceremoved. "

"I think he'd be mightily pleased if he came back and found that theprice of this dance was still to his credit in that firm and excellentinstitution, the Bank of Western Carolina. "

"If we are really hard up, " she said, "what does a few hundred dollarsmatter one way or the other?"

It seemed to me that I had done all that I could to save Fulton's moneyfor him. I had the feeling that if I continued to preach economy Imight get myself disliked, for already Lucy seemed to have lostsomething 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 askeverybody in Aiken. "

I said that she insulted me, and then we laughed like two sillychildren, and light-heartedness and vivacity returned to her like twobright 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 Ihad seen the expression of Hurry's face upon learning that there was tobe chocolate ice cream for dessert. In planning her dance Lucy's facehad just the same expression. When she was excited with happiness itseemed 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 adrink, because my mother was expecting some people over from Augustaand I had promised to come home. The people's motor, however, hadbroken down, and I found my mother all alone, presiding at a tea tablethat 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 herfascinating, or you wouldn't do it. "

"You read me like a book, mother. I certainly wouldn't. But don't youthink fascinating is rather a strong word? She's the most easy-goingand engaging little person in the world, but fascinating . . . ?Fascination suggests the effect of paint and fixed smiles and lightsand spangles upon old men with bald heads, the effect of the wilyserpent 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 ifI keep on I'll end by making Lucy Fulton conspicuous?"

"Very well, " smiled my mother (very gently), "that's just what I dosay. "

"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 abromide, but it's a good one. As for Lucy Fulton, I really like her alot, and she really amuses me, but if I knew that I was never to seeher again in this world, I'd lose no sleep over it. Why, they are theoriginal happy married pair. Just think he's away from home for thefirst time since they were married. They make love to each otheropenly, right under your very nose, so that it's downrightembarrassing. Latterly I've had a meal ticket at their house, andseeing them together with their babies, and noting all the peace andtrustfulness and lovingness of it, has opened my eyes (that were sofirmly shut) to the possibilities and beauties of matrimony. "

"At any rate, " said my mother, "you haven't talked yourself entirelyout. "

"Well, you see, I was a listener today. Part of the time I waslectured on the empty life I lead, and then I was almost persuaded thatI ought to fall in love with Evelyn Gray, and she with me. I shouldn'twonder 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 inwithout being announced, and said that she was famished, and that sheput herself entirely in our hands. So we fed her tea, toast, hotbiscuits, three kinds of sandwiches, and as many kinds of cakes. Andshe 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 delicatesentiments and a hearty appetite don't go together. But we knowbetter, don't we?"

"When I'm in love, " I said, "I eat like a canary bird. I just wasteaway. 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, Iremind myself of a dog with muddy paws; whenever I start to jump up Iget a whack on the nose. "

"Your sad lot, " said Evelyn, "is almost the only topic of conversationamong sympathetic people. But of course, if you _will_ have muddypaws----!"

"And yet, seriously, " I said; "somewhere in this wide world there mustbe one girl in whose eyes I might succeed in passing myself off as ahero. I wish to heaven I had her address--a little cream?"

Evelyn scorned the hospitable suggestion and reached for her gloves andriding crop. 

"I came to see you, " she said to my mother, "really I did. And I'vedone nothing but eat. I'm coming again soon when there's nobody herebut you, and the larder is low. "

"Good Lord!" I said, when we had reached the front gate. "Where's yourpony?"

"I sent him away, " she said; "I'm walking. And you _don't have_ to seeme home. "

"But if I want to? And anyway it's too late and dark for you to walkhome alone. Once upon a time there was a girl and her name was LittleRed Riding Hood, and once as she was walking home in the dark, after anunusually heavy tea, she met a wolf. And he said, 'Evening, Little RedRiding Hood, ' and she, though she was twittering with fear, and in nocondition for running because of the immensely heavy tea, said, 'Evening, Mr. Wolf. '"

"Come along then!" said Evelyn. "Already you have persuaded me thatLittle 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 duskturned to a velvety black night, soft and warm as a garment, and allspangled over with stars. It was one of the Aiken nights that smellsof red cedar. We passed more than one pair of soft-voiced darkies whoappeared to lean against each other as they strolled, and from whomcame sounds like the cooing of doves. Once far off we heard shoutingand a pistol shot, and presently one came running and crossed our pathfar 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 arecess cut from the foliage of a cedar tree, a white garden seatglimmered in the starlight. 

"It's too early to dress for dinner, " I said, "and it's a pity to goindoors. "

Without a word Evelyn turned into the fragrant recess. The suddenacquiescence of one usually so disputatious, where I was concerned, troubled me a little, because I could not explain it to mysatisfaction. It never had happened before. I could not see her faceclearly enough to gather its expression, and so I put a cigarette in mymouth and struck a match. It missed fire, and Evelyn said, "Pleasedon't. Unless you want to very much. "

"I don't want to at all, " I said; "it was just habit. Cedar smellsbetter 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 thesesurroundings would make a noise like the cooing of doves. But eitheryou 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 otherquite a good deal. I admit that you often say hard things about me tomy face, but I deny that you say them behind my back. Behind my back Ihave heard that you sometimes make valiant and comradely effortsto--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 forgottenhow nice you were to me at my coming-out party, when I was so scaredand young and all. I thought you were the most wonderful man in theworld, 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'dhave done it like a shot. "

"But tonight, " I said, "if I so much as touched your hand, you'd turninto an icicle, and send me about my business with a few disagreeabletruths to wear in my bonnet. And I think I know the reason. It'sbecause on that first night, even if I had been desperately in lovewith 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 somebodythat I didn't even love two bits' worth--for no better reason than thatshe 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 wholemoral 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 rightand what was wrong, I still know. The only difference is that I usedto think it mattered a lot, and now I'm not so sure. I see good peoplesuffer, and wicked people triumph; and I don't think that everything isfor the best in this best of worlds; I think most things are decidedlyfor the worst. Why should so many people be poor and sick anduncomfortable? Why should so many men marry the wrong girls, so manygirls 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, ofcourse, but most people come back at one with one's inability tocomprehend--they always say 'comprehend' the Great Design. As if theythemselves 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 maynot even exist, is absolutely right and beautiful? Suppose it could beproved to us that there was no Great Design, and no Great Designer, that the world was the result of some blind, happy-go-lucky creativeforce, what would we think of the world then, poor thing? A poor womanwith nothing to live for walks the streets that she may live; a richwoman with much to live for dies slowly and in great torture, ofcancer. If we accept the Great Design we shouldn't even feel pity forthese two women, we should say of them merely, 'How right! Howbeautiful!' But we do feel pity for them, and by that mere feeling ofpity deny automatically the beauty of the Great Design, in the firstplace, and its subsequent execution. I can conceive, I think, of alovely picture: you for instance, on a white bench, under a cedar inthe starlight, listening to my delightful conversation, but I couldn'tpossibly draw the picture, let alone paint it. The Great Design, itseems to me, had a tremendous gift for landscape, but fell down alittle 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 onlyplaying my part in the Great Design. But if you believe in that thenit is irreverent of you to say that my talk is anything but absolutelyright, just, and beautiful. So there!"

She said nothing. And after a few moments of silence I began to feelsorry 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 herlap, and held it in both mine. She made one feeble little effort totug 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 itseemed after that sudden blazing as if the night was blacker thanbefore. 

I slid my left arm around her shoulders, and, unresisted, drew her alittle toward me, until I could feel her heart beating strongly againstmine. 

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 thehall stood Lucy Fulton. As she stood looking and listening, the strongbell of the far-off courthouse clock began to strike. Long before thelights and last clanging concussion, Evelyn and I had withdrawn to theuttermost ends of our bench. 

Then Lucy turned and went back into the house and shut the door afterher. 

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 didyou make love to me just now?"

It seemed to me that the least I could do was to answer "Because I loveyou. " But the words must have choked me, and with shame, I told herthe 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 thehouse. 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 withme? I have told you why I made love to you. I want to know; it seemsto me that I _ought_ to know. Why did you let me?"

"Oh, " she said, "I shut my eyes and pretended that we were in theconservatory, seven years ago tonight. "

"Pretended?"

"Yes, Archie, honestly. "

Halfway up the steps of the house she turned, and said a littlewearily, "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 letherself into the house. 

And I hurried home, inexcusably late for dinner, and filled with shameand remorse. And ever at the back of my head was the image, not ofEvelyn Gray, vague and illusive in the starlight, but of that otherimage that had stood forth dark and sharply defined against the lightof the hall. 

"Lucy Fulton, " I said to myself, "you came in the nick of time. Andyou are my good angel. "

VIII

On the following day I had no especial desire to see Evelyn. I thoughtthat it might be embarrassing for her, and I knew that it would beembarrassing for me, so that it was not without trepidation that Ipresented myself at the Fultons' house to keep a riding engagement withLucy. 

But you never know what will embarrass a woman and what won't. Iremember when the Jocelyn house burned down, and nothing was saved buta piano (at which Peter Reddy seated himself and played the "FireMusic") and a scuttle of coal, how Mrs. Jocelyn, usually the shyest andmost easily shocked person in the world, came down a ladder in nothingbut a flimsy nightgown, and stood among us utterly unselfconscious andcalmly making the best of things, until someone (it was a warm nightand there were no overcoats in the crowd) tore down a veranda awningand wrapped her in it. And I remember a certain very rich and pushingMrs. Edison from somewhere in New Jersey who worked herself almost intothe top circle of society, and was then caught in a very serious andoffensive lie, which ended her social career as suddenly as a sentenceis ended by a period. I had been present when she told the lie, and Iwas present when it was brought home to her, and I felt almost as sickas if I had told it myself, and been caught. But she didn't turn ahair. She just laughed and said, "Yes. I made it up. What are yougoing to do about it?" Morgan Forbes, about whom the lie had beentold, was trembling so with rage that he could hardly articulate. Hesaid, "The next time you set foot in Newport you will be arrested andprosecuted for criminal libel. " And she knew that he meant it and thather career was ended; still she didn't turn a hair. You couldn't helpadmiring 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 ahumming-bird. 

Nor did Evelyn show any embarrassment whatever. She was sittingcross-legged on the big living-room lounge, reading a Peter Rabbit bookto Jock and Hurry, and looking cool as a lily. She looked serene andaloof. I could not believe that only a few hours before she had feltthat, having but one life to live, nothing mattered much one way oranother. "At least, " I thought, "she'll never wish to talk the thingover, and that's a blessing!"

Lucy, dressed for riding, was drumming on a window-pane, and lookingout into the shady, over-grown garden. I thought her expression alittle quizzical, her hand a little cool and casual, not altogetherfriendly. And I was surprised to find how great an effect ofdiscomfort 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 hadexpected him, but she spoke without any show of enthusiasm. Indeed, she spoke a little wearily. I had never seen her face with so littlecolor in it. Evelyn, after a friendly nod, and a "You mustn'tinterrupt, " 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 aweek. " She led the way to the ponies, through the garden and round thehouse, almost brusquely. A Spanish bayonet pricked her in the arm, andshe made a monosyllabic exclamation in which there was more anger thanpain. Usually so gay and chattersome, she seemed now a petulant andtaciturn creature. 

But she was no sooner astride her pony than the color returned to hercheeks, 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 touchleather, 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'veliked you so much. And all your thoughts about people are kind andgenerous, 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. Achild could have seen that she was upset, and I made her tell me allabout everything. You don't care two straws about her, really. Doyou?"

"Does she care two straws about me?"

"Was it just one of those things that happen when it's dark andromantic and two people feel lonely, and----"

"And have forgotten yesterday, and aren't considering tomorrow. Butnothing did happen. You came out on the porch, and the courthouse bellsounded a shockingly late hour, and if we didn't remember yesterday orconsider 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 asan 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 tothem. 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, "youdon't look sorry. "

"I'm looking at you, " I said, "and I'm hanged if I can look at you andeither feel sorry or half the time keep a straight face. And if Icould, I wouldn't. As for Evelyn I'm glad she's found out that sheisn't an icicle. Look here, I'll bet you a thousand dollars she'sengaged or married within a year, beginning today. "

"I couldn't pay if I lost, " said Lucy. "But if you'll make it tendollars, I'll take you ten times. "

We shook hands, and then, as is usual, tried to prove that we had betwisely. 

"She's lonely, " I said, "that's all that is the matter with her. Shesees all her friends married and established, she has the perfectlyludicrous idea that she is not as young as she used to be. She feelslike an ambitious thoroughbred that's been left at the post. "

To this characterization of Evelyn Lucy took opposing views. Herfriend, as a matter of fact, wasn't in the least lonely, but wasexcellent company for herself, and led a full life. She was not themarrying kind. If she liked men it was only because they played thegames she liked to play better than women play them. "Imagine Evelyn, "she said, "unable to eat, unable to sleep! Imagine her sitting at thewindow in her nightgown and looking pensively at the moon!"

"Funny, " I said, "but that's just what I was imagining. All girls doit and some wives. It's as much a part of a girl as long hair, and thefear 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 somethingin it. But not for Evelyn. "

A moment later. 

"Listen, " she said, "just to make me out wrong, and win my good moneyyou wouldn't----"

"My word, " I said, "you are suspicious. But I thought you were a bornmatchmaker. I thought you'd be pleased if you got Evelyn and memarried!"

"It wouldn't do at all, " she said. 

"Why not?"

"Oh, " she said, "if you must know, it's because I likeyou--both--better the way you are. "

And from a walk she put her pony into a brisk gallop, and I followedsuit, and caught up with her. And I was a little moved and troubled bywhat she had said. For it seemed to me as if she had said it of mealone, and that the inclusion of Evelyn in that delayed and hangingfire "both" of her phrase had been an afterthought. 

After a pleasant uphill while of soft galloping, she signaled with herhand, 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 bekicked. "

"Then that's all right. She knows exactly the value to put on yourattentions. And I'm glad. "

"Why?"

"I don't think it would be much fun to ride with a man who couldn'tbring his mind along with him, do you? Especially now that all theflowers 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 thoughthe man always takes the blame, it's always the girl's fault. A mancan't get himself into trouble by just sitting still and lookingpensive, but a girl can. From the moment Evelyn sat on that benchunder the cedar she had only one thought. It was to see if she couldmake 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 verygayest, "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 outon the porch. "

IX

In the days of the waltz and the twostep, Aiken did not dance, butimmediately upon the introduction of the Turkey Trot and the GrizzlyBear, she made honorable amends. Wilcox built an oval ballroom with aplatform for musicians, the big room at the Golf Club was found to havea capital floor, and the grip of bridge whist upon society was rudelyloosened. 

Whatever may be said in derogation of the modern dances, they haverejuvenated the old and knocked a lot of nonsense out of the young. Tomy eye there is nothing more charming than a well-danced maxixe. Todance well a man must be an athlete and a musician; to be either issurely a worthy ambition. To dance well a girl must at the very leasthave grace and charm. 

So far as I am concerned, Lucy Fulton's dance was a great success, fromthe arrival of the first guest. I was the first guest. 

We had a whole dance to ourselves while Evelyn was busy with thetelephone and before the second guest arrived. In all her life Lucyhad never looked more animated or more lovely. The musicians caughther enthusiasm and the high spirit which flowed from her like anelectric 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 watchyou 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 begingetting chosen. If I had my way there would be no other man but me andno other girl but you, and we'd dance till breakfast time. "

"Evelyn, " said Lucy, her eyes full of mischief, "could chaperon us froma 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 notspeak any more, only danced; only danced and liked each other more andmore. 

That night it seemed there were no tired men or women in Aiken. Therewere no lingering groups of yarn-swapping men in the buffet, onlyhalf-melted humanity who gulped down a glass of champagne and flew backto the dance. We made so much noise that half the dogs in Aiken barkedall night, and roosters waked from sleep began to crow at eleveno'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 uponher own thoughts of any woman or man I ever knew. And always she choseagreeable and even delightful things to think about. When I try tomake castles in the air I get worrying about details, such as neighborsand plumbing. Sometimes I have felt that it would be agreeable to runaway from everyone and everything, and live on some South Sea beach inan undershirt and an old pair of trousers. I can see the palms and thebreadfruit, as well as the next man. I can picture the friendly browngirls with their bright, black eyes and their long necklaces of scarletflowers and many-colored shells, and I can hear the long-drawn roar ofthe surf on the coral beach. But always my bright, hopeful pictures goto smash on details. More insistent than the roar of the surf, I hearthe humming of great angry mosquitoes, and I try to figure out what Ishould do if I came down with appendicitis and no surgeon within athousand miles. 

Lucy chose her thoughts as she would have selected neckties, choosingthe pretty ones, tossing the ugly ones aside and never thinking of themagain, or, for that matter, of the bill for the pretty neckties thatwould be sent to her husband. Only very great matters, such as loveand death, could have occupied her mind against her will. 

Toward one o'clock the dance became hilarious. One or two men had thegood sense to go home, two or three others had not. One of them--theKing boy--made quite a nuisance of himself, and to revenge himself fora snub (greatly exaggerated by the alcoholic mind), sought and foundthe hotel switchboard and in the midst of a fox trot shut off all thelights. 

But the music went right on, and so did many of the dancers. Therewere violent collisions, shouts of laughter, and exclamations of pain. 

I was facing the nearest wall of the room when the lights went out andI backed Lucy toward it, and then, groping, for I hadn't a match in myclothes, found it and stood guard over her, one hand pressing the wallon each side of her and my back braced. I received one thundering joltover the kidneys, and one cruel kick on the ankle bone. And then thelights went on again, and we finished our dance. 

Lucy said she hated people who weren't cool and collected in time ofdanger. That if she was ever in a theater when it caught fire shehoped 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 ofthat. We might have been knocked down and trampled to death. "

When that dance ended, we went out of doors for a few minutes to getcool. 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. Somewere cracking jokes; others were heavily snoring, and there werewhispered conversations that had to do, no doubt, with mischief, andpetty 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 wastired--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 moneybetween them, and they like the same sort of things. But it rests withEvelyn. Dawson would fly to a dropped handkerchief as a pigeon flieshome; 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 themsitting 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 likea 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 someonesay to someone else----"

"Hadn't they any names?"

"No. She said to him, 'It's about time John Fulton came back. Lucy'smaking 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 theman in the street who sees you ride out together day after day, and thewoman who's no particular friend of yours, who sees you dance danceafter dance together--_they_ don't know. Aiken is a small place, butlike the night, it has a thousand eyes, and as many idle tongues. If Ididn'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, exceptLucy and me. "

"The reason doesn't matter, " said Evelyn. "When two young people aretogether a whole lot, their feelings don't stand still. They eitherget to like each other less and less, or more and more. You and Lucydon't like each other less and less. Anybody can see that, so it mustbe 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 oftenwhen she was growing up, did you? Her best friend never thought thatshe would ever settle to any one man. She was the most outrageouslittle flirt you ever saw. No, not outrageous, because each time shethought 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 afteranother. What Lucy doesn't know about moonlight and verandas, and thesad 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 marriedhim, but he was always in the running, in second or third place, andwhether he won her down by faithfulness and devotion nobody knows. Nobody quite knows how or why she changed toward him. I don't believeshe 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 wasever loved as hard as she loved him when she got round to it. She madeup for all the sorry dances she'd led him. She was absolutelyshameless. She made love to him in public, she----"

"She still does, Evelyn, " I said. "I think that's one reason why Ilike her so much, and him. There's nobody else so frank and naturalabout their feelings for each other. Why, it's beautiful to see. "

"Archie, " said Evelyn, "for short periods of time she loved some of themen 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 caredabout were gentlemen. You must have noticed yourself how littleyesterday means to her, how less than nothing tomorrow means, until itbecomes today. "

"Well, " I said, "it all bolls down to this, that after manyvicissitudes, she found her Paradise at last. "

"Who can be sure that a girl who had as many love affairs as she hadis--all through!"

Just then Dawson Cooper came back and took Evelyn away with him. I wasimmensely interested in all that she had told me about Lucy. I ratherwished that I might, for a while, have been one of the many. And I wasannoyed to learn that people were undertaking to make our businesstheirs. 

"I'll tell John about it when he comes back, " I said, "and if he thinksbest, 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 gaveit 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 gochasing off, do you? He'd like us all to be at home together and maybelater 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 shewould rather ride with me than play around with her husband. I didgather that she was not using her own wishes and preferences as anexcuse, but the physical fact of John's home-coming. And I learned inthe same moment that I wished his return might be indefinitelypostponed, and that Monday afternoon with no Lucy to ride with promisedto be a bore. 

I saw her doing chores in the village, Jock and Hurry crowded into theseat beside her, just before the arrival of the New York train. Fromthe back of the runabout dangled the reed-like, moth-eaten legs ofCornelius Twombley. For him, too, the return of the master was ajoyous occasion; there would be a quarter for him if he had been a goodboy, and some inner voice evidently was telling him that he had. Therewas a red-and-white-striped camellia in his buttonhole, and his narrowbody 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'speanut-shaped head was jerked forward, the voices of Jock and Hurrymade noises like excited tree frogs, and away they all flew toward thestation. 

It was easy to picture the beaming faces that John Fulton could seewhen he got off the train; it was [Transcriber's note: two wordsobliterated here] hear the happy joyous voices all going at once, thatwould greet him. If there was trouble in his life he would forget itin those moments. 

I turned into the Aiken Club feeling a little lonely. How good, Ithought, 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, andonly found out afterward. And other things that are only approximatelytrue, things that wouldn't happen in my presence, but which I am verysure must have happened. 

When Lucy drove off at such a reckless pace to get to the stationbefore the train, I don't think it even occurred to her that during hisabsence her feelings for her husband had changed in any way. It washe, I think, who was the first to know that there was a change. He didnot realize it at the station or on the way home. How could he withJock and Hurry piled in his lap, and both talking two-forty, and Lucyat his side, trying to make herself heard and even understood? No mancould. 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 withall the love and yearning accumulated at compound interest duringabsence. Habit, and the wish to hurt no one, must have carried herarms to tighten a little about him, and to lift her lips to him. ThenI think she must have turned her head a little, so that it was only hercheek that he kissed. I imagine that until that time Fulton'slove-making had always found the swiftest response, that with those twopassion had always been as mutual and spontaneous as passion can be;and that now, perhaps the very first time, his fire met with that whichit could not kindle into answering flame. 

I do not think that he at once let her go. I think that first his armsthat held her so close loosened (already the pressure had all gone outof hers). I think she was sorry they had to loosen, and glad that theyhad. Then his arms must have dropped to his sides. He did not at onceturn away, but kept on looking at her, as she at him--he, hurt, he didnot know why, but brimming with love and compassion and tenderness anda little desperate with the effort to understand and to make allowancesfor whatever might have to be understood. Her great blue eyes lookedalmost black for once, prayer upon prayer was in their depths, theywere steady upon his and unfaltering. It was as if she was giving himevery opportunity to look down through them and see what was in hersoul. 

It could not have been till many days later that a whole sequence ofepisodes which hurt and could not be understood forced him into speech. I think he must suddenly in a moment of trial, have come out withsomething 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 streakof ice-cold lightning that perhaps she really didn't. 

I am glad that it is only in imagination that I can hear his nextquestion and her answer. There must have been a something in his voicefrom which the most callous-hearted would have wished to run, as fromthe 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 aperiod of time neither had been able to see anything in this worldbeyond the other, and considering with even more weight than thesethings their own children for whom the feelings of neither could everreally change, I think that Lucy ought to have lied. I think she oughtto have lied with all her might and main, lied as John Fulton wouldhave lied if the situation had been reversed, and that thereafter, until his death or hers, she ought to have acted those lies, withunflagging fervor and patience. Tenderness for him she never lost. She might, upon that foundation, have built a saintly edifice ofsimulated love and passion. 

But it was not in her nature to lie. I think she probably said: "Idon't know. I'm afraid not. " And then I think her sad face must havebegun to pucker like that of a little child going to cry, and I thinkit is very likely, so strong is habit, that she then hurried into herhusband's arms and had her cry upon his breast. 

XI

I imagine that thereafter for a time John Fulton's attitude toward Lucywas 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 couldmake her love him again. I imagine him making love to her with all thechivalry and poetry that was in him, and then breaking off short torail 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 waittill I was stone broke and worried half sick, with everything goingfrom bad to worse? Is it anything I've done, anything I've failed todo? Why, Lucy, we were such a model of happiness that people looked upto us. How can anybody suddenly stop caring the way you have? If ithad 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, hepushes her away from him. 

"And I go away for a few days, " he cries, "and come back and everythingis changed. I who had a sweetheart, haven't even a wife. Why have youchanged so? There must be a reason? What is it? Are you sick? Haveyou 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 toyou?"

Again he has her by the shoulders. 

"Lucy, is there someone? Never mind the other things, just tell methat? You've gotten to like someone else? Is that it?"

And Lucy must have answered that there was no one else. And there isno question but that to the best of her belief and knowledge she wastelling the truth. 

But the mere thought that there might be someone else had moved Fultonas he had never been moved before. He once told me that even as alittle boy he had never in all his life known one pang of jealousy. Hewill never be able to make that boast again. And like some damnedinsidious 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 itmight emerge to brandish its hideous envenomed horned head, and intowhich betimes it might withdraw. 

I can imagine no one so stupid as to question any serious statement offact that Lucy might make. Her eyes were wells of truth; her voicefearless and sure, like that of some kingly boy. 

So when she said there was _no one_, Fulton, who knew her far betterthan anyone else, believed her without any question. And a greatweight must have been lifted from his heart. With the truth that hehad wrung from her, I think he must have rested almost content for afew hours. 

But contentment is far off from a man who hears the great edifice oflove 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, andself-forgetfulness. 

"If there is any chance for me, ever, " he would say, "it would be sillyof us to take any action which would be final. And, besides, I don'tsee how I could reconcile my conscience to giving you a divorce. Oryou yours to getting one. It would be hard enough for you to lie aboutthe most trifling thing. You couldn't, you simply couldn't face thecourt and tell them that I had been cruel and unfaithful. You couldn'taccuse me of anything so gross, and so unlike me, as the other womanwho would have to be hired for the occasion. There's another side toit. I think the children are better off with you than with me. You'rethe 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 allthree to drop out of my life, I'd have nothing left but the duty offinding money to support you. There's a certain pleasure in doing yourduty, of course, but in this case hardly enough. Honestly, dear, withnever a sight or touch of you, I simply couldn't keep things goinglong. "

Then perhaps Lucy asked some such question as this: "Don't peopleoften, when they've stopped caring about each other, go on livingtogether just the same, as far as other people know? And really justbe 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 thebeginning, and always shall. We _couldn't_ lead separate lives underthe 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 theshell that once contained the pearl. "

Another time he goes hurrying through the house, prayer-book in hand, athumb marking the marriage ceremony. He has been brooding and broodingand snatching at straws. 

"Read this, Lucy. Just look it over. It's what you and I stood up andpromised before a lot of people. I'm glad I looked it up. You'll seeright away that it's a contract which nobody could have the face tobreak. I want you to read it over to yourself. "

[Illustration: "'It's what you and I stood up and promised before a lotof people. '"]

Finally she does, just to please him, in the sad knowledge that no goodwill come of it. 

"You'd forgotten, hadn't you? But just see what you promised. Didn'tyou 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 keepisn't a bona fide promise and cannot be so regarded. Fulton sees thatfor himself presently. 

"No, of course, " he says. "If you don't love me, you can't makeyourself 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 inyour power to keep. "

She admits that she can keep that promise; but she leaves herself aloophole. She does not say that she _will_ keep it. 

And so the words of the prayer book shed no light on the situation, andI shouldn't wonder if Fulton raged against the book, and flung it intoa far corner, and was immediately sorry. 

For a man situated as Fulton was, some definite plan of action isnecessary; and to my mind the one that would be best would be one inwhich the least possible consideration for the woman should be shown. When Lucy began to play clench-dummy with her own life, with herhusband'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 takena great whip to her. 

Her whole life had been one of self-indulgence. She had indulgedherself with Fulton's love till she was glutted with it; that she wasthe 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 themother of more than two. Her self-indulgence kept Fulton poor and indebt, and it had come to this: that her impulse to self-indulgencewould now stop at nothing unless circumstances should prove too strongfor it. 

It is not the gentle, faithful, self-sacrificing man who keeps hiswife's love; it never was. It was always the man who had in him a gooddeal of the brute. 

But, except in a moment of insanity, a man does not go against hisnature. Fulton has too good a brain not to think that if Lucy werelocked up for a week or so, and fed on bread and water, good might comeof it. But his was not the hand to turn the key in the lock. He couldno more have done it than he could have struck her. This suddenfailure of her love for him was only another evidence of thatwastefulness and extravagance which had so often hurt him financially. Surely it must have occurred to him more than once to publish noticesin the newspapers to the effect that he would only be responsible forhis own debts. He must, I think, have threatened the thing from timeto time, knowing in his heart that he could never bring himself to putit into execution. 

I wonder how Fulton felt when hard upon the knowledge that she nolonger loved him, he received the bill for the dance which she hadgiven against his wishes, and in full knowledge of his presentfinancial predicament?

She had treated him so badly that it is a wonder of wonders that hekept on loving her. 

For one thing they deserve great credit. Even Evelyn Gray, a guest inthe house, did not know that there was any trouble between them. Allshe thought was that owing to financial and other worries, which timewould right, Fulton seemed a little graver and less enthusiastic thanusual. 

Nor was I any wiser. I had not, of course, so many chances of seeingthe two together, but I saw as much of Lucy as ever, for we rodetogether nearly every day. 

XII

If nothing more definite had come of all this, I should now see butlittle significance in those long afternoons of riding with Lucy. Shecould leave the substance of her trouble behind, as easily as she couldhave left a pair of gloves, and she took into the saddle with her onlya shadow of the tragedy that was glowering upon her house. 

I see now, that, at this time, we must have begun to talk moreseriously and upon more intimate topics; that we laughed less and thatthere were longer silences between us. We began to take an interest inthe trees and flowers among which we rode, to learn their names, and tolinger longer over those which did not at once strike the eye. 

And I see now that Lucy talked more than usually about her husband. Itwas as if by doing constant justice to his character she hoped to makeup to him for her failure of affection. In his domestic relations hewas 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. Sheadmitted so much with shame. But if I could understand how it is withsome men about drink, then it must be easy for me to understand how itis with some women about money. Oh, she'd spent John into somedreadful holes; but he had always managed to creep out of them. How hehated an unpaid bill! It wasn't his fault that there were so many ofthem. For her part (wasn't it awful!) they filled her neither withshame nor compunction. And he'd been so fine about people. Hisinstinct was to be a scholar and a hermit. But she loved people, shesimply couldn't be happy without them, and (wasn't it fun?) she had hadher way, and now John liked people almost as much as she did. And hehad a knack of putting life and laughter into the simplest parties. 

Sometimes when we had finished riding, we had tea in the garden. Itwould be turning cool, and she would slip a heavy coon-skin coat overher riding things; and there was a long voluminous polo-coat of John'sthat I used to borrow. Evelyn nearly always joined us, John not sooften. Sometimes Dawson Cooper came. He was getting over his shyness. Sometimes he was quite brazen and facetious. It looked almost as if hewas 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 mannerwas 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 leastsuggest a man who was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Hisactivity and sudden shiftings from place to place and from topic totopic were rather those of a man who superabounds in physical andmental energy. 

At this time he did not know whether he and Lucy were going to separateor not. If they should, he was already preparing dust to throw in theworld's eyes. He let it be known that at any moment he might have togo to Messina in the interests of his cartridge company (this was apolite 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 hishome life, but in times like these a man must be ready to catch atstraws. 

And Lucy, just her head and fingers showing from the great coon-skincoat, would give him a look that I should not now interpret as I didthen. I thought that it made her feel sick at heart even to think ofhis going to some far-off place without her!

"Speaking of far-off places, " I said once, "Gerald Colebridge is takingsome men to Burlingham to play polo. He's asked me, and I'm temptedalmost beyond my strength. What does everybody think?"

"I'd go like a shot, " said Dawson Cooper. "Gerald will take his carand everything will be beautifully done; and California just aboutnow!" Here he bunched his fingers, kissed them and sent the kissheavenward. 

"Wish _I_ was asked!" exclaimed Evelyn. 

"Ever been to California?" Fulton asked. "Because if not, go. Andstill 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 soany more. But then Evelyn, Dawson, and I were blind and deaf, at thistime. 

"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 tomorrowon 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 onlyman 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 quitesuch a brute. "

I wish I could have gone to California. 

I rode with Lucy the next afternoon, for the last time as we boththought. As we came home through Lover's Lane, the ponies walking veryslowly, she leaned toward me a little, turned the great praying eyesupon me, and said, her mouth smiling falteringly:

"Please don't go away. I hate it. Everything's gone all wrong withthe world. And if you're not my friend that I can talk to and tellthings 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 oneparticular friend out of so many. Of course, I stay. Will you tell menow what it is that's gone all wrong?"

"Yes, " she said with a quickly drawn breath. "I've had to tell Johnthat 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 theappearance of a cathedral aisle had fallen across my shoulders, I couldhardly have been more suddenly stunned. 

When I looked at her the corners of her lovely mouth were down likethose of a child in trouble. 

"Please don't look at me, " she said. 

We rode on very slowly in silence. Sometimes, without looking, I couldnot be sure that she was still crying. Then I would hear a littlepathetic sniffling--a catching of the breath. Or she would fall topounding the thigh with her fist. 

But she pulled herself together very quickly and borrowed myhandkerchief and when we reached the telegraph office her own husbandcould not have known that she had been crying. 

She held my pony while I telegraphed Gerald Colebridge that I could notgo to California with him. 

Far from looking like one who had recently been crying, she looked atriumphant little creature, as she sat the one pony, and held theother. 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 givenmy mother unmixed pleasure. It didn't seem to. She smiled upon mewith the greatest affection, and at the same time looked troubled. 

"When you came into my room this morning your mind was definitely madeup. 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 isnarrowing. At your age, how I should have jumped at the chance to seeCalifornia in spring! But I shan't ask you why you don't jump. I knowvery well you'd not tell me. "

"Must I have a reason? They say women don't have reasons for doingthings. Why should men?"

"A woman, " said my mother, "does nothing without a reason. But oftenshe has to be ashamed of her reasons, and so she pretends she hasn'tany. Men are stronger. They don't have to give their reasons, and sothey don't pretend. "

"Maybe, " I said, "I'm fond of my family and don't want to be away fromthem. "

My mother blushed a little, and laughed. 

"I shall pretend to myself, " she said, "that that is why you have givenup your trip. But I'm afraid it isn't your father and me that you'vesuddenly grown so fond of. "

"Now look here, mamma, " I said, "we thrashed that all out the otherday. "

"Thrashed all what out?--Oh, I remember--your attentions to LucyFulton, or hers to you, which was it?"

"It wasn't our attentions to each other, as I remember. It was theattention 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 otherthings. Some people came in, and I managed presently to escape fromthem. 

It hadn't been easy to tell my mother that I had given up theCalifornia trip. I knew that her triple intuition would connect thechange of plan with Lucy Fulton, and I was not in the mood to meet suchan 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 nolonger. That we were good friends, and enjoyed riding and beingtogether, was no longer the whole truth. There was in addition this:that Lucy no longer loved her husband, and that she had made me herconfidant. 

From the first to the last of my dressing for dinner that night, everything went wrong. I stepped into a cold tub, under the impressionthat I had told my man to run a hot one. He had laid out for me anundershirt that had lost all its buttons, and a pair of socks that Ihated. I broke the buckle of the belt that I always wear with mydinner 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 mycollar on and tied my tie!

Usually such a succession of misadventures would have given rise to onerage after another. But I was too busy thinking about Lucy. I couldno longer deny that she attracted me immensely. Perhaps she had fromthe beginning. I can't be sure. But I should never have confessedthis to myself, or so I think, if I had not learned that she hadsuddenly fallen out of love with her husband. In that ideal state ofmatrimony, in which I had first gotten to know her, she had seemed aholy thing upon a plane far above this covetous world. But now theangel had fallen out of that which had been her heaven, and come downto earth. That I had had anything to do with this, I should even nowhave denied to God or man with complete conviction. I had no interestin the causes of her descent, only in the fact of it. And all thattime of bungling dressing for dinner I kept thinking, not that I shouldhelp her look for a new heaven, but that I must try, as her truefriend, to get her back into her old one. At that time John Fulton hadno better friend than I. It seemed to me really terrible that thingsshould 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 thinkthat'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 spiltmine. "

So my father pushed the bell four times and complimented me on my loveof 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. Willyou tell me why you think it isn't wise?"

"Yes, I will, " he said; "I think it's foolish for a man to run afterwomen 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 awoman. Nature will fool him. Look at young lovers! Why, theyactually believe in the beautiful fabric of spiritual poetry that theyweave about each other. And nature lets 'em. But men who have seenlife, 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 rosymist. My boy, you and Lucy Fulton are being talked about. You don'thave to tell me it's none of my business, I know that. But I can'thelp wanting you to steer clear of rows, and I don't want to see anywoman get mud thrown on her because of you. For a man of course, unfortunately, consequences never amount to much. It's for the womanthat I should plead if I had any eloquence or persuasiveness. I'd sayto you, don't run away for your own sake, that's not worth while; butrun 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 ofbeing repeated. As far as going to California is concerned I _was_going--until a late hour this afternoon. I felt more concern atleaving 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 noreason why we should have been. We rode together this afternoon andout of a clear sky she told me that she had fallen out of love with herhusband--for no _reason_ at all, that's the worst of it--and shedoesn't know what to do, and has no friend she feels like talking toabout it, except me. That's why I'm staying. She _asked_ me not togo. 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 shewants 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 lovingcouple 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 lookedvery old-fashioned and handsome. 

"I never thought to tell you this, " he said; "it's like throwing mud ona saint. Once your mother came to me and said she didn't love me anymore 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, andin some ways the cases are parallel. I took counsel with yourgrandfather. He advised me to whip her. When I refused to do that, hegave less drastic advice, which I followed. I told your mother and theman that if after a year during which they should neither see eachother nor communicate they still wanted each other, I would give yourmother a divorce. I don't know when they stopped caring about eachother. I think it took your mother less than three months to get overhim. 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 ayear. Your little sister was your mother's offering of conciliation. And we have lived happily. But things have never been with us quite asthey were. I have never known if your mother really got to loving meagain, or if she has raised a great monument of simulation and devotionupon a pedestal of shame and remorse. Even now, if I drink a littlemore than is good for me, she never criticizes. She feels that she hasforfeited 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. Iknew what he was, " he said with sudden savageness, "all along. Butthere 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 ofme. "

"Thank you for telling me all this, father, " I said; "I like you betterand better. But in one way the cases aren't parallel. In Lucy's casethere is no other man. "

"Not yet, " said my father; "but when a woman no longer loves herhusband, look out for her. She has become a huntress--she is a lovelysloop-of-war that has cleared her decks for action. . . . Are youready?"

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 whenshe 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 ahot, lifeless gale blowing from the southeast. Now and then the moonshone out brightly through the smother of tearing clouds, and wasvisible for a moment in all her glory, only to be submerged the nextmoment and blotted out. About two o'clock single raindrops began tosplash so loudly on the veranda roof just outside my window that thenoise waked me; after that I only slept fitfully, and my ears werenever free from the loud roaring of the tropic rain that beganpresently to fall upon Aiken. I dreamed that somebody had stolen theGreat Lakes and while being hotly pursued had dropped them. All day itrained like that, and all the following night, and only let up a littlethe afternoon of the second day. I got into an oilskin then and walkedout to the Fultons'. 

Theirs was a nervous household. Jock and Hurry confined indoors fornearly two days had had too little exercise and too many good things toeat. 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 hewouldn't even try sitting down for a change. Lucy had had to give upat least a dozen things that required dry weather and sunshine. Sheseemed to take the rain as something directed particularly againstherself by malicious persons. Evelyn, also cross and nervous, was onthe point of retiring to her own room to write letters. Just thenDawson Cooper telephoned to know if she cared to take a little walk inthe 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-stoolfor a few moments and made the instrument roar and thunder; once heplayed something peaceful and sad and even, in which one voice withtears in it ran away from another. 

The piano was in the next room, and whenever it began to sound, Lucydropped her work into her lap and listened. At such time she had analert, startled look. She resembled a fawn when it hears a stick snapin the forest. 

We heard him leave the piano, cross the hall and go into thedining-room. 

"He's hardly touched his piano in years, " said Lucy. "But now he's atit in fits and starts from morning till night. Night before last whenthe rain began he got up and went down in his bare feet and played forhours. I had to fetch him and make him come back to bed. "

Then she seemed to feel that an explanation was necessary. She bentrosily 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 gointo 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, " shesaid, "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 tohim, the next minute I can only think of myself. It _can't_ be rightfor me to be his wife when I've stopped being--Oh, anything but awfullyfond of him. "

"You _are_ that?"

"Of course I am. "

"It's just about the saddest thing that ever came to my knowledge, " Isaid; "and you won't be angry if I say that I think you ought to stickto him and make the best of it?"

"You're not a woman. No man understands a woman's feeling ofdegradation at belonging to a man she doesn't love. Oh, it's animpossible situation. And I can't see any way out. I _couldn't_ takemoney from John, if I left him; I haven't got a penny of my own. And Ithink it would kill me to go away from Jock and Hurry for long. Andthe 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 andphysical, that they think _can't be_ survived. I read up the SpanishInquisition once for a college essay, and the things they did to peoplewere so bad that I was ashamed to put them in, and yet lots of thosepeople survived and lived usefully to ripe old ages. "

"Who did?"

Unheard by us, John had finished in the dining-room and had come to payus 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 topeople that the same people could imagine doing back to them. Nothingis real torture if you can see your way to revenge it--if only inimagination. Torture is what you get through no fault of your own fromsomebody you'd not torture back for anything in the world. It's whatsons do to mothers, husbands to wives, wives to husbands. Isn't thatso, 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 ofliving?"

He would neither sit down nor stand still. He moved here and there, changing the positions of framed photographs and ash trays, lightingcigarettes, and throwing them into the fire. He had the pinched, hungry look of a man who is not sleeping well, and whose temperature isa 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 winher back, you'll only make matters worse!") I said: "In a way, but Ididn'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 rememberingwhat fun it all was. I wish you could go to a war whenever you wantedto, 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 thewaitress 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 hisvoice; "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 abluff at talking it; but I can only speak a few words. I've only got achild'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 andI'm going to punch his head, ' or 'The little girl over the fence hasbright 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 suchthings in musical terms, but when he had sponged up a long glass ofvery darkly mixed Bourbon and Apollinaris, the picture of the littlegirl over the fence must have been still in his mind, for having leftus abruptly for the piano, he preluded and then began to improvise uponthat theme. He talked rather than sang, but always in tune and withthe clearest enunciation, and any amount of experience. 

He began merrily, and in no time had us both laughing; I think thefirst air which he tortured to fit his unrhymed and unrhythmical wordsbelonged once to Mozart, but I am not sure. It was made out ofmerriness, 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 oncemore talked off the words. He left you with a slight feeling ofanxiety. You began to be afraid that the little girl would fall out ofthe trees and hurt herself. But no, instead he grabbed something bythe hair right out of a Beethoven adagio, and began to want that littlegirl with the blue eyes as a little girl with blue eyes has seldom beenwanted before; she became Psyche, Trojan Helen, a lover's dream; allthat is most exquisite and to be desired in the world--and thensuddenly he lost all hope of her and borrowed from Palestrina to tellabout it, and the last time she climbed trees it was plump on up intoHeaven that she climbed, and from hell below, or pretty close to it, there arose the words "And climb trees" like a solemn ecclesiasticalamen. 

It was an astounding performance, almost demoniac in its cleverness andin 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 movingabout, 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 shoulderstaller and lovelier than any folk song in all the world, unless it'sthat 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 tohim, pleading. 

Surely he must have sung that song to her when she was only the littlegirl with blue eyes over the fence, and it must have had something todo with making her love him. But the qualities of his voice that couldonce make her heart beat and fire her with love for him could do so nomore. He had left, poor fellow, only the power to torture her withremorse 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 thehouse 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 aboutthat 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 isworried sick about him. I thought probably she'd told you what thetrouble was. I've asked. She said probably money had something to dowith it; and that was all I could get out of her. Come down off thathigh 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 strolledabout 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 tohelp. "

"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 waslooking at her for the last time. Could he have something serious thematter 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 thatLucy no longer loved her husband. But why she no longer loved him wasthe real trouble, and she had not told me that, even if she knew Itherself. But wishing to strengthen my answer, I said: "You're the onewho 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 aman's one. "

Evelyn ignored this. 

"Sometimes, " she said, "John's so gentle and pathetic that I want tocry. 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. Iwonder why?"

I did not enlighten her. 

"If, " she said presently, "people find out that things in this houseare at sixes and sevens I wonder if they won't find fault with you andLucy? Has that occurred to you?"

"It has occurred to you, " I said, "to my own mamma and doubtless toother connections. But it hasn't occurred to me. We see too much ofeach 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 getsentimental 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 neverwanted to?"

"A little of both, I think. People fall in love at first sight. Thatcan't be helped. Or they fall in love very quickly, and that's hard tohelp. But people who fall in love gradually through long associationhave no good excuse for doing so, if they oughtn't. They should see itcoming and quit seeing each other before it's too late. "

"But I don't agree, " said Evelyn. "I think love is always afirst-sight affair. I don't mean necessarily the first time two peoplesee each other, but that suddenly after years of association even, theywill 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 atfinding Evelyn and me together. 

"Archie thought he was going to ride with Lucy, " Evelyn explained, "butshe threw him down, and I suppose we have got to ask him to ride withus!"

"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? Ofcourse if you really want me----"

"Come along, Coops, " said Evelyn. "He's trying to tease us. Hewouldn't ride with us for a farm. "

We separated at the mounting-block, and I watched them a little waydown the road. And felt a little touch of envy. Evelyn was lookingvery alluring that afternoon. 

I rode in the opposite direction until I came to the big open flatnorth of the racetrack; there, a long way off, I saw John Fulton andLucy walking slowly side by side. John was sabering dead weed stalkswith his stick. So I turned east to avoid them, then north, until Ihad 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 afteranother. Suddenly Heroine shied. I looked up from a deep, aimlessreverie, 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 eyeson the old negress and her ears pointed at her, her nostrils widelydilated. 

"My horse thinks you're a witch, Auntie, " I said. "Hope you'll excuseher. "

"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 likea monkey's paw. To my astonishment Heroine began to crane her headtoward the hand, sniffed at it presently, gave a long sigh of reliefand 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 perhapsfor anyone who might be watching and listening. Then she said, "I kintell 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 greatmany 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 inlove, 'n then you is goin' ter be unlucky. You is goin' ter riskgettin' shot, but dere ain't goin' ter be no shootin'. When summercome around you is goin' ter have sorrer in you' breas', and whenwinter comes around dere'll be de same ole sorrer, a twistin' and agnawin'. "

"What sort of a sorrow, Auntie?"

"Sorrer like when you strikes a lil chile what ain't done no harm, onlyseem like he done harm, sorrer like you feels w'en you baby dies, 'caseyou 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 ahumanous bein'?"

"Must all human beings have sorrows?"

"Yes, boss, but each has he own kin'! Big man has big sorrer, littleman 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. Puta big sorrow on a little man and he'd break under it; put a littlesorrow on a big man and he wouldn't know that he was carrying it. Whatelse 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 manhe was not a frequent visitor. He had dropped in, he said, to get agame of bridge, had tired of waiting for somebody to cut out, and hadbeen 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'snothing new, is there? Just new variations of public animosity anddomestic misfortunes. Have you read this Overman business?"

"I haven't. "

"It's a case or a hard-working, thoroughly respectable man who, for noreason that is known, suddenly shoots down his wife and children incold blood, and then blows his own head to smithereens. "

"But of course there was a reason, " I said; "he must have felt that hewas justified. "

"He seems to have had enough money and good health. And he passed fora sane, matter-of-fact sort of fellow. "

"If it was the regular reason, " I said, "jealousy, he wouldn't havehurt the children. "

"Only a very unhappy man could kill his children, " said Fulton. "Hisidea would be to save them from such unhappiness as he himself hadexperienced. But in nine cases out of ten it would be a mistakenkindness. Causes similar to those which drove the father into adespair of unhappiness would in all probability affect the childrenless. No two persons enjoy to the same degree, suffer to the samedegree or are tempted alike. How many wronged husbands are there whoswallow their trouble and endure to one who shoots?"

"Legions, " I said. "Fortunately. Otherwise one could hardly sleep forthe 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 beenwronged is only exceeded by the number who never even suspect it. Butthey are not the husbands we know, the modern novelist to the contrarynotwithstanding. In our class it is the wives who are wronged as arule; in the lower classes, the husbands. I've known hundreds of whatthe newspapers call society people; the women are good, with justenough exceptions to prove the rule: the men aren't. "

"When you say that the women are good, you mean they are technicallygood?"

"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 howcould she ever put over the things she does put over? And as a ruleher husband isn't technically good and so she has power over him. Shesays nothing, but he knows that she knows, and so when she doessomething peculiarly extravagant and outrageous, he reaches meekly forhis checkbook. For one man who is ruined by drink there are ten ruinedby women; and not by the kind of women who are supposed to ruin meneither; not by the street-walker, the chorus girl or the demi-mondaine. American men are ruined by their wives and daughters who aretechnically good. Don't we know dozens of cases? When there is acrash in Wall Street how many well-to-do married men go to smash to onewell-to-do bachelor? A marriage isn't a partnership. It's theopposite except in name. It's a partnership in which the juniorpartner gives her whole mind to extracting from the business sums ofmoney which ought to go back into it. And she spends those sums almostinvariably on things which diminish in value the moment they arebought. It isn't the serpent that is the arch enemy of mankind. It'sthe pool in which Eve first saw that she was beautiful, or would be ifshe could only get her fig-leaf skirt to hang right. "

"But I think, " said Fulton gently, "that women ought to have prettyclothes, and bright jewels and luxuries. If a girl loves a man, andproves it and keeps on loving him, how is it possible for him to payher back short of ruining himself? Haven't you ever felt that if thewhole world was yours to give you'd give it gladly? Why complain thenwhen afterwards you are only asked to give that infinitesimal portionof the world that happens at the moment to be yours? If a man isruined for his wife, if cares shorten his life, even then he has donefar, 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 amoment, then rose, wished us good-night and went out. 

"You wouldn't think, " said Harry, "to hear him talk that a woman wasplaying chuck-cherry with that infinitesimal portion of the world thathappens to be his. I was in the bank this morning and I saw him comeout of the President's room. He looked a little as if he'd justidentified the body of a missing dear one in the morgue. "

"I'm afraid he is frightfully hard up, " I said, "but he hasn't saidanything 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-housefood may be bad for the spirit, but it's good for the body. My fatherhad dyspepsia one spring, and his doctor told him to spend six weeks ina 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 turnedon him rather sharply and asked what he wanted. 

His eyes were bulging with a look of importance and his black face hadan expression of mystery. "She ain't on de telephone, " he said, "she'soutside. "

"Well, why couldn't you say so?"

I went out bareheaded into the dusk and walked quickly between thebedded hyacinths and the evergreen hedges of Carolina cherry to thesidewalk. But she wasn't there. Far up the street I saw a familiarhorse and buggy, and a whip that signaled to me. 

She was all alone. Even Cornelius Twombley, as much a part of thebuggy 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 togo 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, soI thought of this. Is John in the Club?"

"He was, but he said good-night to Harry Colemain and me, and I thinkhe went home. . . . How is everything? I saw you and John from afar, walking together. I knew you could run because I've seen you playtennis, but I didn't suppose you'd ever learned to walk. You're alwayseither on a horse or behind one. "

"Was it very bold of me to come to the Club for you? I suppose I oughtto have telephoned. " Then she laughed. "I ought to have had moreconsideration 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 inthe bank. He said it looked to him as if John had been trying to makea touch and hadn't gotten away with it. You know I hate to see himdistressed for money, especially now when other things are distressinghim, and I wonder if there isn't some tactful arrangement by which Icould 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 outas bad as he can so as to influence me as much as possible; but he sayswe 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 Yorkbefore we came he wouldn't have considered coming, that everybody ishounding him for money, and that he doesn't see how he can possibly payhis 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 areyou going to drive me?"

"I don't care. Let's get away from the lights. What time is it? Johndoesn't like me to be late; and besides I haven't kissed the kiddiesgood-night. Let's just take a little dip in the woods. On a hot nightit's almost like going for a swim. Oughtn't you to have a hat orsomething? 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 ofthe pine woods had all the exhilaration of an adventure. The fact thatshe had sent into the Club for me flattered my vanity. She wanted meand not another to be with her. I felt a tenderness for her that I hadnever felt before. I wanted a chance to show that I understood her andwas her friend without qualification. Shoulder touched shoulder nowand then and it seemed to me as if I was being appealed to by thatcontact for support, countenance, and protection. 

We chattered about the night and the pale stars, and the smells offlowers. We wished that there was no such thing as dinner, that thewoods lasted forever, and that we might drive on through the softperfumed air until we came to the end of them. 

Then there was quite a long silence, and for the first time in my lifeI experienced the wish, well, not to kiss her, but to lay my cheekagainst 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 thetown. 

"Where shall I drop you--at the Club?"

"Let me drop you, " I said, "and borrow your buggy afterward to take mehome. 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 onceit seemed hard to say anything final. 

"Was I very brazen, " she said, "to ask you to go with me, when I didn'twant 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 wentto 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 theshadows, 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 imaginedthat I could see his face--a little puzzled, a little anxious, and verysad. 

It was on that same night that he said to Lucy: "Aren't you seeing agood 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 wasimpending. I had no idea what it might be, pleasant or unpleasant. Ifelt a little the way you feel just before a race on which you have betaltogether too much money, a little excited, a little nervous, equallyready for laughter or anger. I had also the feeling that I had a greatmany things to do, and could not possibly get them done in so short aspace of time as one day. 

I hurried through breakfast. I hurried through the papers. And then Irealized with a sense of anti-climax that until four o'clock, when Iwas to ride with Lucy, I had but one thing of any possible importanceto do. And upon that business from first to last including the walk tothe village and thence to the Club I spent no more than three-quartersof an hour. It had been an eccentric piece of business, and I wasrather pleased with myself for having brought it to a satisfactoryconclusion. But I wanted others to know what I had done and to bepleased with me for doing it; and to tell anyone was quite out of thequestion. 

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. Thensomehow all my feeling of restlessness and suspense melted away like alump 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 wouldrequire an immediate answer, and then read it. Like all Lucy's notesit 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 thehouse and go back north, and live very cheaply till better times. SoI've got to begin packing. So I can't ride this afternoon. Isn't itall a beastly shame? But please drop in and say how-dy-do just thesame, and don't mind if you have to sit on a trunk. And please be alittle 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 justhimself 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 waspresent when he changed it. Lucy, Evelyn, and I were in theliving-room helping each other to pack large silver-framed photographsinto the tray of a trunk. It was slow work. During the winter none ofus had looked at the photographs or commented on the originals, but nowthat they were to be swathed in tissue paper and put out of sight eachone had to be approved or disapproved, and long excursions had to bemade into the life histories and affairs of the friends who had sat forthem. 

Lucy had just taken a large photograph of Evelyn from the top of thelow bookshelves that filled one end of the room when John came in fromthe garden with an open letter in his hand. He was smiling in apuzzled sort of way. 

"What do you know about this!" he exclaimed rather than asked. 

"Nothing, " said Lucy, "_yet_. " And she began to wrap Evelyn'sphotograph in many folds of tissue paper. 

"Yesterday, " said John, "I tried to get some money from the bank, butthey turned me down. Now they write that upon reconsideration I canhave anything I like. "

Well, Lucy's expression at that moment was worth a great deal more thanthe few thousands which her husband would see fit to borrow from thebank, and I couldn't but feel that there are moments when it is reallyworth 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 horsein the mouth. "

She unwrapped the photograph of Evelyn and put it back in its old placeon top of the bookshelves. 

"This settles everything, does it?" asked John. "We don't go back toNew York?"

"We do not, " said Lucy firmly. 

"Well, " said John, "I'd better see the bank before it changes its mindagain. Is the buggy outside?"

"No, but you can take Archie's or Evelyn's. Can't he? I sentCornelius 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 gladyou'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 blessedangel 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'ssuch 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, " shesaid, "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. Howsilly!"

"How silly!" echoed Lucy, and we stood staring at each other rathervapidly, finding nothing to say. 

After a while I asked if John had said any more on the subject. "Didhe 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 awoman no longer cared for her husband, it was dangerous for her to seemuch of another man. He realized, he said, that ours was anexceptional 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 hatesanything 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 tobe rude to one of the best friends I've got, just for fun. If youforbid me to see him, why I suppose I'll obey you, but I'd have toexplain to him, wouldn't I? I'd have to say, "John considers ourfriendship dangerous, so we're not to see each other any more!"' Andof course he said that that was out of the question, and I agreed withhim. "

"Still you've said it. "

And we smiled at each other. 

"He didn't give me a good character, " said Lucy dolefully. "He said Inever think of yesterday or tomorrow, but only of the moment. He saidI neglect the children, and Oh, I'd like to end it all! It's animpossible situation. I'd give my life gladly to feel about him theway 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 roundmy neck and jump into the nearest millpond. "

"It's a good three miles to the nearest millpond, " I said. "And thereisn't a stone in this part of South Carolina. You are all up in theair now, because the situation you are in is so new to you. But you'llget used to it. "

"If I don't go mad first. "

"Why, Lucy?"

"You don't understand, " she cried. "You have never had loving arms togo to when you were in trouble. I've had them and I've lost them. Imean I've lost the power to go to them and find comfort. "

A picture of her running to my arms for comfort flashed through mymind, and troubled me to the marrow. And I had from that moment thedefinite wish to take her in my arms. And in that same moment Irealized that those who thought we were too much together were not suchmeddling fools as I had thought them. 

"Lucy, " I said, and I hardly recognized my own voice. "Whateverhappens, you've a friend who will never fail you. "

"I know that, " she said, and she held out her two hands, and I tookthem 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 depressionbefore he loses his power to laugh, or to be cheered by an unexpectedbettering of his financial position. John Fulton was in a bad way, butcertain things still struck him as funny, and the money which he hadbeen enabled to borrow from the bank had eased his mind. Still, soLucy told me, he could not sleep at night, and it must have beenobvious to the most casual observer that he was a sick man. He had adrawn and hungry look. Jock and Hurry could by no means satisfy hisappetite for affection. Indeed, I think the sight and touch and thesounds of them at play were no great comfort to him at this time. Hemust have felt in their presence something of that anguish of pitywhich a man feels for children who have lost their mother. 

He had hoped at first that Lucy's failure of affection was but atemporary aberration. But at last he must have come to despair of anychange in her feelings for him, at least under existing conditions. Indeed their relations were going from bad to worse. A man loved andbeloved falls into habits of passion for which there is no cure butdeath or old age. Yet a man would readily believe that separationmight affect him like an opiate, and it must have been in this beliefthat Fulton determined to accompany Harry Colemain on a trip to PalmBeach. To me he vouchsafed the explanation that he was not well andthat he couldn't sleep, and that when he wasn't well, and that when hecouldn'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 sickbefore. From Lucy I had the truth of the matter. 

"He thinks, " she said, "that if he goes away and stays away for a longtime that perhaps I will miss him enough to want him back, and on theold footing. He isn't even going to write to me. It's going to beexactly 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. Ifonly 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 tolive. I'm too young to die. I want to live, and be happy--happy theway I used to be happy. "

"And you can't with John?"

She shook her head quietly. "It's the most wonderful thing to be inlove!" she said. "I wonder what I did to have that wonderful thing? Iwonder what I've done to deserve to lose it? And even if--even if ithappened again it could never be the same. There can be only one firsttime--even if you've got a silly memory that doesn't remember verywell. And you make ties and habits and all these have to be thrownoverboard when the second time happens, and there's scandal, and coldshoulders, and--what do you think I _ought_ to do? If I can't give himwhat he's paying for oughtn't I to cut loose on my own, to supportmyself, and not be a burden to him and a ubiquitous reminder that we'vefailed 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 todo. Ever since that moment when I had first known that I wanted totake her in my arms and comfort her, I had begun to have doubts of myown honesty. And now she had put that honesty to a definite test, andI 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 youdon't want to do--things that you think perhaps you _can't_ do. Womenoften 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 forsaying it. "

"Try me, " she said, and she gave me a look of great trust andunderstanding. 

"I'm going to tell you what I think you ought to do, Lucy, and what Ithink you ought to have done. "

Any teacher whose scholars looked at him with the trustfulness andexpectation with which Lucy now looked at me, must be inspired, Ithink, to the very top notch of his sense of honor and duty. I am sureat least that I laid the law down of what I thought she should do, andshould have done with complete honesty and without regard toconsequences. If I got nothing better for my pains than dislike, atleast I could criticize her conduct and character without being biasedby my growing affection for her. 

"In the first place, " I said, "when you found out that you no longerloved your husband, you made your first mistake. By your own admissionhe had given you everything in the way of devotion and faithfulnessthat a man can give a woman. When you found that you no longer lovedhim, you shouldn't have told him. He ought never to have known. Youshould have summoned all your fortitude and delicacy to deceive himinto 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 herface and in her voice. I felt infinitely removed from our previousterms 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 andtell him that love or no love you propose to be his faithful wife tilldeath 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 oncemore 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 alucky number. "

"I don't understand. "

"Jock and Hurry, " I said, "are two. "

She changed color to the roots of her hair. "Oh, " she cried, "youdon'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 behappy!"

"Upon my soul, Lucy, I think that you might find happiness that way. "

She shrugged her shoulders and her face looked hard as marble. "Andthat's your advice!" she said. And then with a sudden change ofexpression, "It's what you think I _ought_ to do. Would it please youif 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. Witheach word I felt that I had lost ground in her estimation. She askedthat last question with the expression of a weary woebegone child, andI 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 almostrather 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 foundher 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 thelivingroom, 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 notthe courage. When Fulton came in Lucy was knitting at an interminablegreen necktie, and I was talking to her from a far chair across an opennumber of the illustrated _London News_. We looked, I believe, ascasual and innocent as cherubim, but my conscience was very guilty, andit seemed to me, rightly or wrongly, that for the first time Fultonshowed me a certain curtness of manner, as if he was not pleased atfinding me so often in his house. 

XIX

With the knowledge that I loved Lucy and that she loved me, came alsothe knowledge that for a long time the situation had beeninevitable--inevitable if we kept on being so much in each other'scompany. Passages between us of words and looks now recurred to mymemory filled with portentous meaning. Oh, I thought, how could I havebeen so blind! A fool must have seen it coming. I ought to have seenit coming. I ought to have run from it as a man runs from aconflagration. When Lucy told me that she no longer loved her husbandI ought to have known that the fault was mine, and I ought to have goneto a far place, and left that little family to rehabilitate itself inpeace. Surely after a "blank" spell Lucy would have loved her husbandagain. 

But all the thoughts that I carried to bed with me that night were notdark with remorse. It was possible for whole minutes of time, especially between sleeping and waking, to forget the complications ofthe situation and to bask in the blissful warmth of its serenities. The laughter, the prayers, the adoration of Lucy's lovely eyes weremine now. She loved me better than her children, better than lifeitself. She had not said these things to me, she had looked them tome. It was wonderful to feel that I had been trusted with so much thatwas beautiful and precious. 

Once a spoiled child, always a spoiled child. In the scheme of thingsI _would_ not at first give their proper place to those awful barrierswhich society has set up between a man and another man's wife. Weloved each other with might and main, and our only happiness could bein passing over those barriers and belonging to each other. JohnFulton and his children were but vague pale shadows across the sunshine. 

The sleep that I got that night, short though it was, was infinitelyrefreshing. I waked with the feeling that happiness had at last comeinto my life, and that I was not thirty-five years old, but twentyyears young. 

I walked in my mother's garden waiting for servants to come downstairsand make coffee for me and poach eggs. It was going to be a lovelyday. Already the sun had coaxed the tea-olives to give out their odorof ripe peaches. "How she loves them, " I thought. "If only she werewith 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 wasmade. A great and new curiosity filled me. How beautiful the worldwas, and all things in it; how short the time to find out all thatthere was to be known about all those beautiful things! And what anignoble basis of ignorance I must start from if I was to "find out, "and to "understand!" There filled me a sense of unworthiness and astrong desire for self-improvement. 

"I must learn the names of some of these things, " I thought, and Ibegan to read the labels which stood among the flowers and shrubbery, for in such matters my mother was very strict and particular: _Abeleiagrandiflora, Laurestinus, Olea fragrans, Ligustrum napalense, Rosawatsoniana_---- Now really could that thing be a rose? It looked morelike a cross between a fern and an ostrich plume. I looked closer. Each slender light green leaf was mottled with lighter green, a miracleof exquisite tracing, and the thing was in bud, millions and millionsof buds no bigger than the eggs in a shad roe. Yes, it was a rose. Ilooked at the drop of blood on the ball of my thumb, and thought what abeautiful color it was, and how gladly, if need be, I would shed everydrop of it for Her. 

Dark smoke began to pour from the kitchen chimney, and I knew that thecook was down. Hilda must have seen me in the garden, for she wassetting a place for me at one end of the big dining-table. How freshand clean she always looked and how tidy. Almost you might havethought that her hair was carved from some rich brown substance. Itwas 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 init. "

"With pleasure. "

I heard her pounding ice in the pantry and then the pop as the bottlecame open. She stood behind my chair while I drank. And somehow I gotthe feeling that she was smiling. I turned my head quickly. She wassmiling, but tremulously, almost as if she was going to cry. 

"What's the matter, Hilda--have I forgotten to brush the back of myhair?"

"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 shemust have gone out of her mind. 

"The window of my room, " she said, "is just over one of the windows ofyours. "

I didn't know what to say. I really thought she must be slightlyderanged. I said lamely: "Which window?"

"The one by your bed, the one you always leave open so's the air canget to you. "

"Well, Hilda, what about it?"

"Sometimes I hear you talking in your sleep, and then I lean out of mywindow and listen. "

With this admission she blushed crimson and no longer looked me in theeyes. 

"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 mysleep?"

"You talked last night. "

Her voice was full of meaning and somehow I felt chilled and no longerso 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 Isay about the lady?"

"You said--I only thought you ought to know that I know--so's--wellso's you can keep that window shut, and fix it so no one else willknow. "

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 lowvoice, "only you didn't call her that. "

"Hilda, " I said firmly. "Mrs. Fulton and I are very oldfriends--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 morein 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 nowI 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-onedays ago--and I heard you say to Mrs. Mannering--to yourmother--'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 flatteredthan 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, andso----"

"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'ssomething. "

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 abench 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 lifethat 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 apicture. ' Do you remember?"

"No. "

"Well, I said it, and Hilda heard me say it, and please don't laugh, itseems that my saying it made the poor child--Oh, care about me. She'scared 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 thingI want to make clear is that it's just as little my fault as itpossibly can be. I feel like the devil about it, but I can't for thelife 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, andthe 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, Ican't and won't be amorously waited on. I think the poor child willhave to be sent away. "

"Oh, dear!" cried my mother, "and just when she's getting to be aperfect servant, and your father so used to her now--says he neverknows 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 decidewhat's best--best for her, the poor, pretty little thing. "

You may be sure that that meeting in the little room where my motherwrote her letters was no meeting between a mistress and a servant, butbetween 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 saidand 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 socialscale which separated them, took Hilda in her arms, kissed her, andheld her while Hilda had what women call a "good cry. " My mother istoo proud and brave to cry, but she was unhappy without affectation. After the embrace and the cry they sat side by side on a littlebrocaded sofa and talked. My mother fortunately did not have to pointout the social obstacles in the way of a match between Hilda and me, asthere was never any question of such a match. Indeed, in the talkbetween them I was not at first mentioned. My mother took the positionthat Hilda was just a sweet, nice-minded girl who was very unhappy andneeded comforting, and advice. First she made Hilda tell the story ofher life. To be permitted to do this in the presence of a sincerelistener 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 earliestrecollections were of life in an English orphanage--one of thoseorphanages where the mothers of the orphans are still alive and therenever were any fathers. 

"But she's made herself think, " my mother told me, "that her father wasa gentleman--God save the mark!"

Well, she went into service when she was a "great" girl of fourteen orfifteen, and after various drab adventures in servitude came to thiscountry and was presently sent to my mother on approval. She had lefther last place in England because of a horrible butler. He wasbowlegged and very old. He drank and made the poor frightened girls inthe house listen to horrible stories. One found notes, printed notes, pinned on one's pincushion. "Have a heart. Don't lock your doortonight, " and such like. Or a piece of plate would be missed and onewould find it in one's bureau drawer, where the horrible old man hadput it, and one dared not complain to the master lest upon carefullyplanned circumstantial evidence one be made out to be a thief. 

It had been so wonderful coming to live in my mother's house. Theservants were so different, so kind, so worthy. The servants' roomswere so clean and neat and well-furnished as the master's rooms. Somuch was done to make the servants comfortable and happy. Nobody hadever 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 foryou 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 Inever--never should have let it all come out. Because now I'll have togo away, and never even see him ever any more. I never should have letit come out, but I couldn't help it. And him always so kind andpolite, 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 itmight have been!--were being abandoned by their waitress, and alreadyby a brisk use of the telephone my mother had secured the place forHilda. 

It's a wonder that Hilda did not burst out laughing or screaming whenshe heard into whose service she was to go. I don't think she hatedLucy--yet. But for a woman who loved a man to take a place with thewoman the man loved must have struck her as the most grotesque ofpropositions. 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 onestone. Lucy had a good place, and from now on there would be in theFultons' house a living reason why a man of tact (like her belovedson!) should keep away. Alas, mother, there were other living reasonsin 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 oncein her life of smoothing out other people's lives she had blunderedseriously. Her measures had in them only this of success: that I foundmany excuses for not taking meals in the Fultons' house, and from thattime forward saw Hilda very seldom. My mother gave her a lot ofclothes, and quite a lot of money, I suppose, and the poor child for awhile dropped out of sight. But not out of mind, I can tell you; forit 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 ofjealousy. But a man who reads the newspapers, or has done his turn atjury duty in Criminal Sessions, cannot be ignorant of the desperateacts to which now and again it drives men and women. 

Hilda, according to the slight knowledge I had of her character, wasgentle and patient; she would be treated by Lucy as all Lucy's servantswere, with the greatest tact and friendliness, and still the mere factof her presence in that house filled me with forebodings. She would bein a position to make so much trouble, if ever anything should happento start her on the war path. She had proved already that her moralnature was not superior to eavesdropping; already she had my secret bythe ears, and one-sided and innocent though that secret may haveappeared to her, it was not really a one-sided secret, and when she hadgot her clutch upon the other side, she could be almost as dangerousand mischievous as you please. 

At best, Hilda was one more difficulty with which Lucy and I would haveto 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 thestraight line between two points; rather they fly in circles, withback-tracking, excursions, and gyrations, so that unless you have seenthem start you cannot guess where they have started from, nor until thewings close and the insects come to a definite rest, are you in aposition to know what their objective was. 

In the face of our recently declared love for each other, any mentionof Hilda's below-stairs passion for the "young master" seemed to me ablatant indelicacy. Almost it might have a quality of pluming andboasting, a gross acceptance of man's polygamous potentialities. 

There would be time later for conversations in which futurepracticalities should take precedence over romantic fancies andprotestations. Just now the Butterfly did not care a rap what shouldhappen when winter came; for the present the world was filled withflowers--all his, and all containing honey. 

XXI

"He broke up their home, " is a familiar phrase. But few men in the actof breaking up a home realize the gravity of what they are about. Ihad gone a long way toward breaking up Fulton's happy family lifewithout having the slightest notion that I was doing anything of thekind. When Lucy fell out of love with her husband, it was not becauseshe had fallen in love with me. It was because she was going to. Thelovely 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 morethan other men; that was all. And I frequented it not because of thecharm exercised upon me by an individual member of the Fulton family, but of the charm which it exercised upon me as a whole. _There_ waspeace, _there_ was happiness, _there_ was love and understanding; therewas poignant food for a lonely bachelor to chew upon. Remembering thishow can I believe that this is the best of all possible worlds, andthat everything in it is for the best? If I had not been fascinated bythe Fultons as a family, I should never have become a frequenter oftheir house. If I had not been a frequenter of their house, I shouldnever have split that family which as a whole so fascinated me with awedge of tragedy. It is a horrid circle of thought. 

When I learned that Lucy no longer loved her husband my heart had givenno guilty bound of anticipation; instead it had turned lead-heavy forsheer sorrowing and sunk into my boots. The other day the Germanssmashed the blue glass in Rheims Cathedral. A friend brought me alittle fragment of this, and among my personal possessions I give itthe place of first treasure. It's a more wonderful blue than Lucy'seyes, even. The light of heaven has poured through it to illumine theface of Joan of Arc. Its price is far above rubies and sapphires, andit seems to me the most wonderful treasure to have for my very own. But does this fact automatically make me glad that the Germans bangedthe great cathedral to pieces? It does not. Sometimes when I look atthe light through my piece of blue glass I see red. And I hope thatthose who trained guns against the holy shrine and who are not alreadyin hell, soon will be. And I could wish myself the hell of neverhaving known Lucy's love, if by so doing I could restore the Fultonfamily 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 thetragedy am I responsible for? Upon my soul I can never answer thatquestion to my satisfaction, and my conscience has put it to methousands of times. I ought to have seen it coming. I didn't--atleast I'm very sure that I didn't. But sometimes I am not so very sureof 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 manenough 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 theoccasional presence of the beloved. Suppose I had fled away the momentI learned that Lucy no longer loved her husband? Already her heartmust have been turning to me, if only a little, but with the magnetwhich had caused it to turn that little removed from sight, first, andpresently from mind, I believe that after a dazed numbed period thatheart 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 thatI hadn't seen it coming, and it was very obvious that he didn't believeme. Will anyone believe me? It doesn't matter. I am not even suremyself 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 tothe club. It was too early even to hope for a sight of Lucy. Therewere a number of men in the reading-room discussing the morning leaderin that fair-minded and pithy sheet, the _Charleston News and Courier_, and one of these, eyeing me with a quizzical expression, said: "Youlook 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 thatthe course before me was all plain sailing. I was not yet in acondition to argue with myself about right and wrong. It did not seemworth while to look into the serried faces of difficulties and thinkhow I could burst through them. It was more natural on that firstmorning after the discovery to look boldly over their heads to the richopen and peaceful country beyond. 

A line from the "Brushwood Boy" kept occurring to me, "But what shall Ido when I see you in the light?"

What should I do, what would Lucy do? Would there be people about orwould we have the good luck to meet alone? Did she still love me, orhad the dark night brought council and a change of heart? I knew thatit hadn't. We were as definitely engaged to each other as if there wasno 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 precipitatefrankness already started any machinery of opposition into action? Hadshe told her husband? Knowing her so intimately, I could not make upmy 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 foranything he might say to me at our first meeting? I thought so, butcould not be sure. 

"If he does know, " I thought, "I don't want to see him. Why don't Iwant to see him? Am I afraid of him? I am not afraid of himphysically. I am stronger than he and more skillful, and I am notafraid of him mentally. He has a better mind than I have, but that isnothing 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 sickto death and irreparably injured. Because he will not do me justice, because he will think it is all my fault; and because he will requireof me things which I shall not promise him. "

I heard the telephone ringing in the distance. My heart bounded and Iknew that Lucy was asking for me. I had risen and half crossed theroom to meet the boy who came to tell me that I was indeed wanted onthe phone. My heart began to thump in my breast, like a trunk fallingdownstairs. I glanced guiltily to see if the rumpus it seemed to me tobe making was attracting notice. No. Every man was sunk in hisnewspaper. A moment later, I heard her voice in my ear. 

"Listen, I'd like to see you. I'll be dressed and downstairs in tenminutes. Evelyn and John have driven to the golf club to get John'ssticks. He's really going to Palm Beach. They start sometime soonafter lunch. . . . How do I feel? . . . Oh, about the same asyesterday!"

I cannot describe the thrill or emotion which I managed to abstractfrom that last phrase. About the same as yesterday! I, too, felt likethat, only more so. 

"Good-by--for ten minutes. "

She hung up suddenly. But I could not at once leave the telephoneroom. It seemed to me that I must be visibly trembling from head tofoot. 

My buggy was at the club door. First I drove home, raced up the stairsto my room, and from a closet in which I keep all sorts of hunting andfishing gear, snatched a fine deep-sea rod by Hardy of London, and abig pigskin box of tackle. I remembered to have heard John Fulton saythat he had none of such things with him in Aiken, and I thought theymight come in handy for him at Palm Beach. I cannot quite explain whyit was, but I had the sudden desire to load the man with favors andpresents. 

It was only on the way to his house that the rod and the tackle-boxstruck me as an excellent excuse for so early a morning call. I leftthem on the table in the front hall, and marched boldly through thehouse, and unannounced into the living-room. 

Of all the Lucy that turned swiftly from a window at the sound of mysteps, 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 worldfor 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 feelher heart beating tranquilly against mine. It seemed to me that theessence of every sweetest flower in the world had been used in hermaking. I felt that she was the most precious and defenseless thing increation, and that me alone she trusted to cherish her and to defendher. It could not but be right to hold her thus closer and closer andto learn that her heart beat no longer tranquilly, but with afluttering throbbing quickness like the heart of a wild bird that youhave caught and hold in your hand. 

All this while my lips were pressed to hers and hers to mine. Thenfrom the playground door rose in lamentation over some tragic-seemingmishap of play, the voice of Hurry. 

Our kiss ended upon the shrill note of woe and protest. But still welooked each other in the eyes, and she said: "What are we going to doabout it?"

XXII

She hadn't told her husband. 

She had been on the point of telling him, but for once her great giftof frankness had failed her. She had not feared any storm that mightburst upon her own head; it was only that her heart had rebelledagainst adding to the weight of care and sorrow which her husbandalready carried. Let him have what pleasure he could out of the tripto 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 itvery clear that her reticence was for his sake, not for her own. 

Personally I rejoiced in the failure of her frankness. Trouble enoughwas bound to come of our love for each other; at best there would beweary months of waiting for old knots to be untied before there couldbe any question of tying new ones. There would be at least onedreadful interview to be gone through with John Fulton; manyreadjustments of friendships, some friends would side with him, somewith her; and last and worst, that moment when I should have to tell mymother 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 comesback 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 ourselvesall 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 twochildren. 

"Let's pretend, " I said, "that there aren't any complications; thattime has gone backward ten years; that we've just gotten engaged; thatthere's nobody to disapprove and be unhappy about it. I can pretendtrue, if you can. "

"It's easy for me, " said Lucy; "I was never any good at remembering orlooking forward, never any good at anything that wasn't going on rightthere 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'tthink of what would happen later on, we'd just go away together. It'sso complicated and foolish to think we can't. Laws and people makesuch a snarl of things. I wouldn't try to untangle it, I'd just cut itall to pieces, and then I suppose we'd be sorry. "

"Yes, dear, we'd be very, very sorry. And the world would make ussuffer almost more than our love could make up to us for. So we'lljust have to pretend for a while. "

"And besides, " she said in a startled sort of way, "I might fall out oflove with you, mightn't I? Oh, I've fallen out of love lots oftimes--then with John, and maybe I'll fail you. You must know that I'mnot 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 andstrong. "

It is pleasant for an unkind, thoughtless weak man to be told suchuntruths by the woman he loves. And for a few moments I imagined I hadthe qualities that she had wished upon me, nay, loved upon me. For afew moments there was no kindness, no thoughtfulness, no strength ofwhich 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 apattering of little feet, and by the time Jock and Hurry had burst intothe room I was at a garden window looking out, and Lucy had caught upfrom her work bag that Penelope's web of a silk necktie upon which sheso often worked, and made no progress. 

"Has Favver come back?"

"Why, no, you little goose. He's gone to Palm Beach. We took him tothe train. He won't be back tomorrow, nor the day after. Nor the dayafter that, " and she halted only when she had come to about the tenthtomorrow. "And now make your manners to Mr. Mannering. "

In fiction children and dogs have an intuitive aversion for the villainof the piece. But Jock and Hurry had none for me. Indeed they likedme 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 wasonly since yesterday that I had become a genuine villain. Had theirintuition made the discovery? I think I was a little anxious. 

But they rushed upon me, and we were to remain for the present atleast, so it seemed, the same old friends. 

It flashed across my mind that some day in the not far future thesechildren would live under my roof; surely the courts would award themto Lucy; and I highly resolved to be a genuine father to them throughthick 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 anychildren that I might happen to have of my own. Children? I caughtLucy's eyes. We looked at each other across the tops of thosechildren's heads, and read each other's thoughts. I know this, becausewhen Jock and Hurry had been sent away, I said: "Did you know what Iwas thinking of just then? I was thinking, wondering, hoping----"

"I couldn't love you, " she said quietly, "and not want what you wantand 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 greatcontentment 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 wereschoolmates together, and I think telling him I love his sister andwant 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 ofjust _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 takeorders from my dear. "

I let five days go before I told Schuyler. They were five wonderfuldays, 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 cameto them. On that fifth day I received a long letter from HarryColemain dated Palm Beach. 

MY DEAR FELLOW [he wrote]: At the risk of losing you I think that Imust tell you something of the experiences that I have been having withJohn Fulton. To begin with he told me about his wife's failure ofaffection and their domestic smash-up. He told me going down in thetrain. We shared the drawing-room. Every time I was jolted intowakefulness, I found him wide awake. For five days I don't think hehas slept a wink. He looks parched and dry like a mummy. He has triedvery hard to be a cheerful companion, and we have fished and swum andgone through the motions of all the Palm Beach recreations. But hismind is never for one single instant clear of his troubles. We havebecome very intimate. I think he had to talk or die. He apologizesvery often for having talked and continuing to do so, but throwshimself upon what he calls my mercifulness. He talks in a circle, always coming back to the questions _why_ and _what_. _Why_ has ithappened? _What_ has he done to deserve it? He searches his memoryfor reasons as you look for bits of gold in a handful of sand. Yes, hewas very cross once about some money, but that was years before shestopped loving him. It couldn't be _that_, etc. , etc. 

Our rooms are separated by a little parlor. I'm a sound sleeper, andhate being disturbed, but I have given him positive orders to wake meif he gets lonely and wants to talk. He's only obeyed these ordersonce. And then he didn't exactly obey them, he waked me because hecouldn't control his nerves. He couldn't sleep, as usual, so hestarted to get up, and just when he got his legs over the side of thebed he began to laugh. It was his laughter that waked me. By the timeI was wide awake the laughter sounded very ugly, and by the time I gotto him it was mixed with awful sobs that came all the way from hisdiaphragm and seemed as if they were going to tear him to pieces. Iturned on the light, but the moment I saw his face I turned it off. Itisn't decent for one man to see another have hysterics. We haven'tspoken of the thing since, but he knows that I came in and sat by himand felt horribly sorry for him. I can read this in his eye. And Ithink he would do anything in the world for me. The next morning hisvoice was very hoarse; sometimes a woman's voice is that way aftershe's paid somewhat over-handsomely for being a woman. I am trying toconvey to you the impression that the man is in a terribly bad way, andthrough no possible fault of his own, which must make his tormentharder to bear. 

What I think about Lucy Fulton is simply this: that she ought to becowhided until she sees which side her bread is buttered on. And thisis where you come in. You're great friends with her, and have a lot ofinfluence with her. John says so. She admires what she is pleased tocall your judgment. Can't you make her see that just because she hasbeen 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 withgrieving? She ought to lie to him. She ought to telegraph him to comeback, and when she gets him back she ought to make him think that shestill 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 ofyou for her own good, at this time. He doesn't even imagine that shecares for you in any way that she shouldn't or you for her; but he doeswish--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 weeksone 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 JohnFulton quite a little if he heard that you had left Aiken. You seehe's half crazy with grief and insomnia, and he's got it in his headthat if Lucy had fewer other people to amuse her, she might get boredagain and in sheer boredom turn again to him. But just use yourinfluence with Lucy, if you've got any. I tell you on the honor of acynical 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 toomuch--more than you and I can possibly imagine--and that much he hasnow lost. If he isn't to get back any portion of it, he'll curl up anddie. 

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 magazinewere over. 

After some thought, I went to Lucy's brother and gave him Harry'sletter to read. He had slept late, and I found him dressing. 

Schuyler was, of course, deeply troubled and concerned. That hehimself hadn't had "an inkling of this--not an inkling, " seemed forsome minutes quite important to him, for he made the statement a numberof times. Then, for he was energetic, and, like Lucy, oftenest in ahurry, he said:

"The thing to do is for us to take this letter to Lucy, stand over herwhile she reads it, and then throw hot shot into her. Why it's adamned shame! John's been twice as good a husband as Lucy's been awife. And now she does this to him. " Then something appeared tostrike Schuyler's sense of humor, for he burst out laughing. "And he'sgetting jealous of you!" he said gleefully. "When did you first becomea snake in the grass?"

"Perhaps you'll end by calling me that, " I said gravely. "Stoplaughing, Schuyler. A very sad thing has happened and a very wonderfulthing. 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_, hisintuition is trying to tell him. "

"How long's this been goin' on?"

"It just came, Schuyler, happened, was--not many days ago. We didn'tsee it coming, and----"

He interrupted sharply, his eyes grown suddenly cold. "I want to knowif 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 haveswapped beliefs. "

He turned to his dressing-table and tied his tie. While so doing hemuttered: "Pleasant vacation in sunny South. "

And then was silent. I could not think of anything to say. Havingfinished dressing he thrust his hands into his trousers pockets andbegan 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 stophere 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, andJock and Hurry to go to hell! I think less than nothing of the usualidea. To begin with, why should John give Lucy a divorce? She's theone that's done all the harm. I _know_ I'm her brother. It only helpsme to see her character clearer than other people do. Well, say heisn't the fool I think he is. Say he _won't_ give her a divorce? Whatthen?"

"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 usualways of doing things. Furthermore, I like you and Lucy too much. Idon't want to see her life ruined, and John after all is a manufacturerof ammunition. How about crossin' the bridge and findin' him on theother side with a big bang-stick in his hand?"

I shrugged my shoulders, though at heart I was not indifferent to thepicture 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 thatwe did not find her alone, but with Evelyn, Dawson and the children. 

Schuyler kissed his sister good morning with warm, brotherly affectionand gave her a playful pat or two on the back. 

"All we need, " he said cheerfully, "is old John, and a girl apiece forArchie and me, to be a happy family party. "

He made goat's eyes at Evelyn and Dawson. The latter blushed. But theformer returned his glance with a fine and mischievous indifference. 

"Now, people, " Schuyler continued, "I'm on my vacation. I've plenty ofenergy, and I'm open to suggestion. You, Evelyn, do you want to ridewith 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 sheand Dawson were really about to depart. 

"Well, " said Schuyler, "any time you feel like shakin' Dawson, just putme wise, there's a good fellow!"

When Dawson and Evelyn had gone, Schuyler proceeded to get rid of thechildren. He gave them fifty cents apiece, and said that if he didn'tsee 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 youwant Archie and me to vanish, too?"

"No, " said Schuyler; "much as you and Archie may wish to, I wantnothing of the kind. Lucy, I think you'd better telegraph John to comehome, don't you?"

"I've told Schuyler, Lucy, " I said. 

"And that's a good thing, " said Schuyler; "because I don't have to takesides. I like you all. You and Archie _have_ to take your side, andJohn 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 justnow as blind as two bats. You don't see what you are doing, and youdon'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 mightilyhurt 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'shappened. "

"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 passingwhim. Upon the grounds of his own experience with Lucy, he would bewithin his rights to feel that way. Why not, " his face brightened intoa sort of cheerfulness, "why not test yourselves a little? You gonorth, Archie, and wait around, and then, after a while, if you andLucy feel the same, it will be time enough to tell John. It's all beentoo sudden for you to feel sure of yourselves. It isn't as if neitherof you had ever been in love before and gotten over it. As a matter ofcold fact, you've both been tried before now and found wanting. So Ithink you ought to go slow--for John's sake. He's the fellow that'sbeen 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 Idon't love? How can you ask me to be so false to myself and toArchie----"

"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 thinkit's any pleasure to have hurt him so? But is it my fault if theydon't count _enough_?"

Here she came swiftly to my side, and slid her hand under my arm andclung 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 lifefor 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 beable to go to them when they were sick, not to be at little Hurry'swedding 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 whilewe heard his voice in the distance, mingling joyfully with the voicesof 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 worthit. "

"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. Wecould meet and be together to gather strength for the times we had tobe 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, " Isaid, "and love--Lucy--love with renunciation is a wonderful thing, anda strong thing. "

"I'm not strong. I don't want to be strong. I just want to give andgive and give. "

"We could have our own life apart from everybody else--but not a hiddenguilty life--a life to be proud of--a life in which you wouldstrengthen me for my other life and I would strengthen you for yours. "

She stopped crying all at once and freed herself from my arms. "Thenyou don't want me?"

"I want you. "

She lifted her hands to my shoulders. "Suppose we find that we can'tstand a life of love--with renunciation?"

"At least we would have tried to do what seemed to make for thehappiness 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 ofJock and Hurry. Oh, no, " I said; "I couldn't bear it, if--if youweren'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 verynoble, and that the way of life which I had proposed was a very fineway of life, and possible of being lived. 

"Then, " she said, "John mustn't know. He must never know. It willalways 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, "Sodon'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 Lucycarin' more for you than for Jock and Hurry!" he exclaimed. "I supposeyou regale her from time to time with episodes from your pastlife? . . . Well, if I didn't think you'd both get tired of each otherbefore long, I'd feel worse. One thing, though, if I promise you thatI won't give you away to John, will you promise me for yourself and forLucy 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 ofhistory. 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 eachother in the eyes, and feel that in a moment of strength, spurred bypity for those who had no such love as ours to sustain them, we hadrenounced each other, was a state of serenity and peace. 

It added to the beauty of our renunciation that it claimed no luster ofpublicity, but had been made in quiet privacy. No one, we thought, will ever know; yet it will have been strong and pure, so that theworld cannot but be the better for it. 

We delighted for a while in our supreme renunciation as childrendelight in a new toy. And even now I can look back upon that time andwish 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 eachother everything. There was delight in that. There was the delight oflooking ahead and planning the meetings that should be ours in otherplaces, until at last John himself came to realize that in our lovingfriendship was nothing unbeautiful, or unbeneficent, and meetings wouldhappen when or where we pleased, the world silenced by the husband'sapproval. 

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 standby him and be the keeper of his house; to put his interests first, andto make up to him in dutifulness and economy for the love which shecould not but reserve. Yes, indeed! Riding slowly through the springwoods, I made bold to preach a gospel of new life to her, and shelistened very meekly, like a blessed angel, and she felt sure that fromme she would derive the will and the strength. Mostly it was a gospelof economy that I preached and how best she might help her husband backupon his feet. And before his return from Palm Beach she had made abeginning. She bought a book to keep accounts in, and she got togetherall the bills she could lay hands on, and added them up to an appallingtotal (several, for it came different each time) and she stacked thebills in order of their pressingness, with the requests for paymentfrom lawyers and collectors on top, and she felt an unparalleled glowof virtue and helpfulness. 

And one day she took Jock and Hurry in the runabout (Cornelius Twomblybehind) and drove to the station to welcome John home. How sweet thesight of those three faces must have seemed to him after absence!Indeed they had seemed very sweet to me as I looked into them justbefore they drove stationward. I was not to show up for two or threedays. That was one compromise on Harry Colemain's advice. It wouldshow John that Lucy and I were not entirely engrossed in each other'ssociety. It would give him time to turn around and see how he likedthe fact that Lucy was going to stick to him, and in many ways be abetter wife to him. It would give me an opportunity to see, and beseen by many people. It would, in short, be a beginning of knocking onthe head and silencing most of the talk that there had been about Lucyand 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 PalmBeach, and then by accident. 

He had stopped at my father's house to leave the rod and tackle-boxwhich I had loaned him, and I, happening to be in the hall, opened thedoor 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 abeautiful rod. It was the most useful thing I had along. Going to theclub? 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 tyingup 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 finetoo. "

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 amatter of fact he looked much worse. 

We all had tea together and asked questions about Palm Beach, and if hehad seen so and so, and if he'd brought any money away from thegambling place, and what was new, and amusing, etc. 

"Do you know, " he said all of a sudden, "there was one very interestingthing that happened. Anybody mind if I talk shop?"

Nobody did; so he went on: "I had a telegram from a Baron Schroederasking if it would be convenient for me to see him. He came all theway down to Palm Beach, talked to me all the time between trains, andflew away north again. He wanted to know how many rifle cartridges Icould make in a year, at a price, a very round price, how many in fiveyears. He wanted to know if I could convert any of my plant into amanufactory for shrapnel, and so on. What interested me is that heshould take all that trouble over a small concern like mine. It looksas if someone saw a time when there would be a great dearth ofammunition. Two days ago Schroeder had gone away. I was braced, whilein swimming, by a Russian gentleman. He apologized and plied me withthe same sort of questions; I gave him the same sort of offhand answersthat 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 hecould only guess, but that if I would sign a contract he would keep myplant running full for five years. It looks, doesn't it, as ifsomebody had decided to change the map of Europe, and as if otherssuspected 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 meetthe Russian in New York shortly. "

"Why the Russian? The Baron saw you first. "

"The Russian had better manners, " said Fulton simply. "I think heliked me, and I know I liked him!"

Fulton asked me to dinner, but I refused, and so it was nearly fourdays before I saw Lucy again. In the meanwhile Harry Colemain told memore about the Palm Beach trip. The ammunition inquiries had, itseemed, strengthened Fulton's nerves; there had been no repetition ofthe hysterics. 

"A man, " Harry said, "must be even more down and out than Fulton not tobe braced by a prospect of good business. From what he told me, if thecontract goes through, he stands to make a fortune. "

"Is there anything peculiarly good about the Fulton cartridges, or isEurope 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 goesthrough he can die any time and be sure that his family will be wellprovided for. That feeling will stiffen his backbone. But you haven'ttold me if you said anything to Lucy?"

I had been dreading that question as one which could not be answeredwith complete frankness. I don't enjoy lying. Not that my moral senserevolts, but because I am lazy. Lying calls for deliberate efforts ofinvention. 

"In a general way, yes, " I evaded. "But her own good sense has come tothe rescue. John's absence gave her a chance to see how she reallyfelt about things. She won't leave him. Indeed, she'll try to make upto him in every way she can for her failure of affection. "

"If she does _that_, " said Harry, "I daresay the affection will comeback. 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 thatperson. I'm delighted with what you say. With all her charm andbeauty she can make him happy if she tries. "

"I think it's not a question of charm and beauty, " I said. "It's aquestion of keeping house for him, and being a good mother to thechildren, 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. Inthis 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 andher 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 separatedfrom him. "

"Spiritually be damned!" exclaimed Harry. "Don't talk to me. Thereare women in New York who to keep from starvation, will make love toany man that comes along, for a pittance. They do the very best theycan to earn the money. I can't help admiring 'em. But yourfashionable married woman, she's too refined, too delicately souled, too spiritual to do anything but eat herself sick on her man's moneyand spend him into a hole. It's bad enough to be a prostitute whoplays the game, but it's a damned sight worse to be a prostitute whodoesn't. "

"I'm not going to get angry with you, Harry. We've been through toomuch together. But I think you have said enough. Lucy is one of thefinest, purest-minded women in the world. "

"Then she ought to be her husband's wife, or get out. If she's not hiswife, she's no business grafting on him for board and lodging andpocket money. How long does a pure-minded, good-looking woman keep offthe streets if she can't raise the wind any other way? Not long. Andhow 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 theword, '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 thedevil. "

After a moment, good humor returned to his face. He said; "You've justwon an argument. I also am dry as a bone. "

XXIV

"This isn't the last ride together, " said Lucy, "but almost. This timewe 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 Russiancontract, and he doesn't want to take the long trip back. So we're allgoing 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 ofit somehow. "

"Why?"

"Because he's been so unhappy in it. He says unless his whole mind ismade over we'll never come to Aiken again. "

She drew a long breath, and her eyes roved among the great pine treeson either side of the road as if she wished to impress them foreverupon 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 backfor 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 theship, so that there wouldn't be any scandal, or anything to break uphis home, or hurt the children, and how I was going to be better aboutmoney, and he said, 'Very well, Lucy, we'll try it for a while, but Idon't think compromises are much good. ' He wants me to do all I'mtrying to do, and be his wife too. I thought he'd--Oh, I thought he'dbe pleased and grateful--instead of that he tries to be cold to me, andis 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 onlydoing it for his sake. I'm doing every blessed thing I _can_ to savethe situation; and if there are things I simply _can't_ do--why heought to be generous and understand. Oh, I know it isn't going towork! And all the time when he isn't being cold and stern, he--he'strying to make me love him again, and come back to him. And right inthe 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 samehouse with him. If I didn't have you to back me up, and give mestrength I'd--but it can't last long. I know it can't. And I don'tknow that it's worth trying. "

"You are still fond of him, Lucy?"

"And sorry for him, Oh, so sorry. But fondness and sorrow aren'teverything. "

"It will be better when he has the new contract to occupy him, and keephim away. It won't be an all-day affair then. And all the time youand I'll be meeting to talk things over, and borrow strength to go onwith. It isn't easy for me either, dear. And of course, if aftertrial we find it won't work, why then it will be our duty to ourselvesto cut the Gordian knot. "

She turned toward me and we looked into each other's eyes for a longtime. 

"I've given him all I can, " she said. "It isn't enough. It never willbe enough. Oh, if there are knots to be cut, let's cut 'em and havedone with it. "

I dropped my reins, and leaning wide, took her in my arms and kissedher many times. 

"We are romantic children, " I said, "to think that there could be anyother way. God bless you, my darling, we'll cut all the knots, andbegin life all over again, and always be together. "

She became then wonderfully cheerful and excited, and riding always ata walk, no longer on roads, but through the deep woods, we made ourplans for the future. 

Nothing was to be said to John until we were in a bigger place thanAiken. The bigger the place the smaller the scandal. I offered (withgrave 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 todo 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 andaboveboard. It would hurt him terribly. Yes, but a sudden final hurtwas better than the lingering sickness from which he was now suffering. There would, of course, be no question of alimony. My father, much ashe might disapprove of the whole affair, was not only fond of me, butfond of Lucy, and he would see us through. 

It would take a long while to get a divorce. That was the darkestcloud on the horizon. But we must face that cheerfully; our rewardwould be all the greater when it came. 

That John would be unwilling to give up Lucy even when he knew that sheloved someone else never occurred to us. He belonged to that class ofmen whose code is to give the women all the best of everything. He wastoo fond of Lucy to wish to see her hurt. And if he wouldn't give hera divorce, hurt she would be, for in that unlikely event we weredetermined to jump on the nearest steamer and sail away for partsunknown. 

"Why not come in?" said Lucy, when we had finished our ride. "Youhaven'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 thehall. The opportunity seemed rare and sweet. We stood for one brieffleeting moment closely enlaced--and swiftly separated, and stoodbreathing 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 wasin time to see the trim shoulders and white cap of a servantdisappearing 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 lookedback 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 itmatter? Let's take a chance. "

Mentally I resolved to communicate with Hilda at the earliest possiblemoment, and to use whatever influence I had upon her. So I was nosooner in my room at home than I took the receiver from my privatetelephone and gave the number of the Fultons' house. After an intervalI 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 bewatching for you. You'll come?"

"Yes, sir. "

XXV

Near the Fultons, fronting on the street, is a large overgrown yardthat has never been built on. Here in the shadow of a great cedar treeI 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 ifshe was afraid of nothing. A few moments later I hailed her from undermy cedar, and after glancing up and down the street to see if anyonewas watching, she joined me there. 

It was very dark. I could just make out her face. She was breathingfast 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 eachother. 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 nothingwrong, Hilda----"

"Only kisses. "

"But if he found out from anyone but Mrs. Fulton--you see he isn't verywell and he might do something crazy--something tragic. You see if youtold him what you'd seen, he might act before anyone had a chance toexplain. "

I was trying to make the matter sound more serious than I felt it tobe. Whatever happened, I did not think that Fulton was the kind of manwho forgets his education and his civilization, but I wanted, if Icould, 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'salways been the way with love--it always will be. "

She was silent again. Then she said in a low voice that carried withit 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. Shethinks she'd die for you, and you think you'd die for her. But you'reboth wrong. A woman that won't stand by her babies isn't going to diefor anyone, not if she knows it. A man that gets to your age withoutmarrying any of the women he's gone with isn't going to die for anyoneif he can help it. Wait till you've crossed her selfish will a fewtimes and see how much she'll die for you; wait till she begins to useyou the way she used him. A whole lot you'll want to diefor--her--then----"

"I can't listen to this, Hilda. "

"You _will_ listen, or else I'll scream and say you attacked me--awhole lot she'll feel like dying for you _then_. Servants have eyesand ears and hearts. There's servants in that house that know howthings used to be, who see how things are now, since you camephilandering 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 likeher well enough because she's gentle and easy-going, and good-temperedand easy to get on with; but there isn't a servant in that house wouldchange characters with her. We think she's the kind of woman that'sbeneath contempt--lazy, selfish, spendthrift--always pampering numberone--and going about the world looking like a sad, bruised lily. Doyou think the servants in that house don't know all about your goingsand comings, and the life you've led, the harm you've done and didn'thave 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 moreattentive, had heard voices. They were negro voices, a man's and awoman's. We drew deeper into the shadow of the cedar. 

"So you got no mo' use for me, nigger?" The man's voice rumbled softlyand 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 'emfo' a yaller man--is you?"

They were opposite us now, walking very slowly and occasionallylurching 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 anddefiant, the man somber, quiet, with a certain savage dignity andslowly smoldering like an inactive volcano. You couldn't see theirfeatures, only a white flashing of eyes and teeth in such light asthere was. 

"You's one er dese new women, " said the man softly. "You's got ter beboss 'n have yo' own way. "

He stood for some moments looking down into her face, appraising as itwere her flightiness, and meditating justice. Then he struck herquietly, swiftly and hard, so that her half-open mouth closed with asharp snap. 

She was not senseless, but she made no effort to rise. He stood overher, smoldering. Then, his voice suddenly soft and tender, "I reckon Iis got ter learn you, " he said, and he picked her up in his arms andcarried her from the roadside deep into the tangled growths of thevacant yard--deeper and deeper, until no sound at all came to us fromthem. 

"That was Mrs. Fulton's laundress and her husband, " said Hilda. "She'sbeen trying to copy Mrs. Fulton; but _he's_ settled that. He's a realman, and he'll keep his wife. Women like to be hit and trampled. Itproves to them that they're worth while. "

"That may be, Hilda. I don't know. I couldn't hit a woman. . . . Youhaven'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. "Akiss 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 betweenus grew oppressive. Then with a sudden, "Oh, what's the use!" turnedand 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 badenough 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 washorribly ashamed and troubled, not because I had kissed her, butbecause I had had the impulse to kiss her again, because I realized atlast that it takes more than a romantic love affair to make a silkpurse out of a sow's ear. Because for a moment I saw myself as Hildasaw me--because for a moment I was able to judge Lucy and me, as otherswould judge us. 

I remained for a long time. The negro and his wife came quietly out ofthe bushes, her arm through his. She would not now run off with theyellow man. I watched them until the darkness swallowed them. 

I leaned against the fragrant stem of the cedar, my hand across myeyes. And in that moment of self-reproach, dread and contempt of thefuture, 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 actlike a man. Upon what grounds did I found the hope that Fulton wouldnot soon find out about Lucy and me? Why, on the grounds of moralcowardice, of course. I dreaded to face any drastic, final issue. There was no other reason. Well, if I was to prove to myself that Iwas not a moral coward, Fulton must be told and the issue faced, andFulton himself must be out-faced. It was not enough to love and beloved in secret. That way lies stealing and cheating. We must comeinto 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 wewould have come out from under the rose, and the consequences could beflung openly and courageously in the faces of those who denied us. Andit 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 hishealth and his sanity. 

Strong in these resolutions, I felt as if a great weight had beenlifted from my shoulders. But if you think that I went at once toFulton and told him, you have greatly misapprehended the mentalworkings of a butterfly. 

I went first to Lucy, and told her that I was going to tell. And fromher, 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 weknow we can't. We love each other and we're human, and sooner orlater--Oh, it's best to go to him now with a clean bill, and tell himthat love is too strong for us all, and that he must come out on theside 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 feltpanicky. I felt as if the doctors had just set the time for theoperation, 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 clippedprivet, Hurry on his lap. 

"She isn't feeling very well, poor baby, " he said; "it's the suddenheat. She couldn't eat any breakfast. Did you want to see me aboutsomething 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 fewmoments later he returned, smiling, as if she had said something thathad 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 hiscase. 

"I always dread the first hot spell for the babies, " he said. "I'mglad 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, butI've got to be near the works. What are you planning to do thissummer?"

"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 wasseeing too much of you, but she wouldn't listen. Of course, mycontention was just on general principles. I thought you were both tobe 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 recordisn't like a college freshman in such matters. "

"If I had seen it coming, John, believe me I'd have run from it. Butall at once it had come, and it's a question now, not of what mighthave 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 Lucycan't be thought out offhand. There's the complication of winding uphere, 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. Anymore than I propose to act upon the very first impulse which I had whenyou told me. "

"What was that?"

"I thought how delicious it would be to get my automatic and fill youfull of lead. But you and Lucy, I take it, have so far resisted yourtemptations, 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 ifthere had been anything to know. "

"I needn't say, need I, that I feel like hell about your position, yourend of it?"

"My position is not so bad as it was. I have something definite toface now. But much as I appreciate your impulsive good will, I don'tthink that your sympathy is a thing which I care to accept. Lucy, ofcourse, feels that her fancy for you is a more imperative call than herduty to her children and me. "

"You've been in love, John. "

"I _am_ in love. I think we had better not discuss our several powersof 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 shouldconsent 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, hasoceans 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 beanxious to see Lucy, and report. Tell her that I swallowed the pillwithout making too much of a face. Tell her that I seemed inclined tobe reasonable. Tell her also with my compliments that she mustcontinue to exercise self-restraint and patience. Things are badenough. 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 facethe color of granite, and of the stillness. 

XXVII

"What did he say?"

Her face was brilliant with excitement and anxiety. And I told her aswell as I could. 

"He was preternaturally calm and easy, " I said; "I couldn't imagine aman being more well-bred about anything. But he won't say anythingdefinite now. Of course, he ought to have time to think. We couldhave counted on that, if we'd thought. He will take plenty of time tomake up his mind, and then he won't change it. But Lord, I'm glad heknows 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 graygranite 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 hadbetter have a little tentative practice. Are we three the only oneswho 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 awhile. He was for that. But, of course, that was only romanticnonsense. "

"Yes, that was nonsense, " said Fulton. "It would have made my positionaltogether 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 ofsmoke; lovers of love. Yet all these appetites can be cured, often tothe immense benefit of the sufferers and of everybody concerned. Andso you thought you could lead two lives at once, Lucy?"

"I did think so. "

"Gathering strength in romantic byways to see you through the prosythoroughfares? It wouldn't have worked. "

"We know that now. "

"You couldn't have lied about every meeting with Archie--lied as towhere you were going and where you had been. Truth comes natural toyou, 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 thelife of me I could not read any symptoms of that laboring in his faceor voice. His voice was easy, casual, and tinged with humor. It wasalmost as if he was relieved to find two such inconsequential personsas Lucy and myself at the bottom of his troubles. Now and then hisleft eyebrow arched high on his forehead, and there would be a sharpsudden glance in the corresponding eye. 

"I wonder, " he said, turning to me, "if people in your situation everlook at it from the critical outsider's point of view. Have youconsidered that a passion for something forbidden is not a natural, nota respectable passion? According to all moral and social laws Lucy isa forbidden object for your love and vice versa. People are not goingto 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 thesubject which just now, by all accounts, should interest you more thananything else in the world. Furthermore, I really must insist onconsideration for myself and the children. "

"No amount of talk ever made me do right--or wrong, " said Lucy; "I justdo right or wrong, and of course _you_ think this is wrong. So what'sthe use?"

"Think it wrong, " exclaimed Fulton, "of course I do. Don't _you_?"His voice expressed almost horrified surprise. "Don't _you_ think itwrong to fall out of love with your husband, into love with anotherman, and to take no more interest in your children than if they were acouple of wooden dolls made in Germany?"

"Caring enough makes everything right, " she said, still wearily, as ifthe whole subject bored her. 

"Caring _enough_!" exclaimed John. "Oh, caring _enough_ makeseverything right. But do you care _enough_--either of you? I maychange my mind, but just now, as a man fighting for what littlehappiness there may be left for him in the world, this question of howmuch you care is the crux of the whole matter. If I thought that youcared _enough_ I'd take my hat off to the exception which proves therule 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 thehurt 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 torun away together into social ostracism?"

Lucy smiled at me and I smiled back at her. And at that Fulton'scalmness 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 speakingagain in level, almost cheerful tones. 

"Social ostracism, " he said, "would be very horrid if you stoppedcaring 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, evercared for a man more than Lucy cared for me--and then she stoppedcaring. I know less about your stamina. But this is not the firsttime 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 automaticamusement. Then once more grave, "I never even _thought_, " he said, "that I ever cared about anyone but Lucy. That gives me a peculiaradvantage in passing judgment on matters of caring--an advantageenjoyed neither by you nor Lucy. I wasn't any more her first flamethan she is yours. But she was my first and only flame. I can speakwith a troop of faithful years at my back. But you and she have onlybeen faithful to each other for a matter of days. I am not doubtingthe intensity of your inclination, but I can't help asking, Will itlast? Are you prepared to swear that you will love her and no otherall your days?"

"Yes, " I said firmly. And I loved her so much at that moment that Ifelt purified in so saying and believing. 

"How about you, Lucy'? Never mind, don't answer. You are thinking ofthat day when you stood up before all our friends and swore that youwould love me all your days. Naturally it would embarrass you torepeat that with respect to another, before my face. So I won't askyou 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 todo?"

"Not until I know myself, " he said. "But there is one thing . . . Ithink it would be better all round if you saw less of each other untilsomething is decided. I realize that Jock and Hurry and I are verymuch in the way. Jock and Hurry naturally don't care how much you twoare together. But I do. It isn't that I don't trust you out of mysight. You know that. But the mind of a jealous man is a gallery hungwith intolerable pictures. Merely to think of Lucy, Archie, giving youthe 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 callingto the nurse to ask how Hurry was feeling, and we could hear his stepsgoing 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 supposewe'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 thoseintolerable pictures that hung in Fulton's mental gallery. And then Iwent away. 

It was good to have told. I was very deeply in love; I thought thatLucy's and my future could soon be smoothed into shape, but I did notfeel happy. I felt as if I had been through a great ordeal of somesort, and had come off second best. It seemed to me that I ought tohave stood up more loudly for my love, for its intensity and power toendure. 

In addition there had been about John Fulton an ominous quiet. I couldbetter have endured a violent outbreak. For there is no action withoutits reaction. After a storm there is calm. But Fulton's calm was morelike that which precedes a storm. 

His breakdown came after I had left. Lucy told me about it. He hadcome back to her in the living-room, and said things about me that shewould never never forgive. 

"I don't care what he says about me, " she cried, "but if he talks to meagainst 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 anyoneis 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 werecounting up the number of men they knew. He said you had always beentoo idle to keep out of mischief. And that no pretty woman would besafe 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 andtrust. 

"But I know what I know. And you are the kindest and the truest andthe gentlest man . . . "

"Oh, I'm not! I'm not, Lucy! . . . But what does that matter, if Inever let you find out the difference? . . . We mustn't take what Johnsays too seriously. He's had enough trouble to warp his mind. "

She still looked up into my face with that wonderful trust andtenderness. "And you are the most generous man to another man!" shesaid. 

XXVIII

The very next day Evelyn told a few old friends that she was going tobe married to Dawson Cooper. At once Lucy felt that she must give adinner in the happy young people's honor, and to this dinner, as one ofEvelyn's oldest friends and of Dawson's for that matter, I had to beasked. 

In many ways, this dinner differed in my memory from other dinners. Tobegin with, it was exceedingly short, and well done. The table wasdecorated with that flower which some people call Johnny jump-up, andsome heartsease, and of which all that I can state positively is thatit is the great-grandmother of the pansy family. We had some tag-endsof 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 meatunder John Fulton's roof. The dinner had psychological peculiarities. I was in love with my hostess; she with me. Twice I could have runaway with the girl in honor of whose engagement the dinner was beinggiven. My host, who personally had insisted on my presence, would havebeen delighted to hear of my sudden death. The waitress would havedied for me (I had her word for it), and at the same time she despisedme. Within the week I had thrown myself on her mercy, and bought hersilence with a kiss. 

What a dinner it would have been if we had elected to play truth; ifeach person present could have been forced to say what he or she knewabout 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 wasall over. I was always catching someone's eye, and thinking how muchharm a man can do, if with no will to do harm, he follows the lines ofleast resistance and drifts. The harm that is done of malice andpurpose has at least a strength of conviction about it, and disregardof consequences. It is far more respectable to do murder in coldblood, than to slaughter a friend because you happen to be carelesswith firearms. 

Among other things that dinner proved to me that it is possible to doseveral things at once: to laugh, talk, and think. I kept laughing andtalking and helping now and then to tease Evelyn and Dawson, and yetall the while I was busy thinking of other things. And all thethinking was based on one wish; not that I had never been born, butthat I had my whole life to live over again. Surely, I thought, withanother trial I might have amounted to something. I had money back ofme, I thought, and position, and a mind--well, not much of a mind, butwhen you think what that Italian woman does with half-witchildren--surely the right educators could have made something quiteshowy out of me. The energy I had put into acquiring skill at gamesand in learning the short cuts to pleasure, might have been expended onrighteousness and the development of character. Most at ease with thegreat, I might, during the dearth of great men, have aspired to be anambassador. I'd have married young, and have given all the tendernesswhich various women have roused in me, to one woman. And there wouldhave been children, and stability, and a home constantly invaded byproud and happy grandparents. Or if these fine things had not been inmy reach, at least I might have shaken the dust of futile places frommy feet, and closed my ears to the voices of futile people. Often Ihave had the valorous adventurous impulse, and the curiosity to findout 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, toaccomplish something? Yes, I could make the woman who awaited mebeyond the puddle of scandal--happy. I could--I must be unselfish andfine where she was concerned. The world might forgive me, it wouldnever quite forgive her. The world would never believe that we hadplayed the game as fairly as it can be played. There would be suchtalk as, "Of course the moment Fulton found out what was going on, hegot rid of her. " Other people would say, "Well, damaged goods is allhe ever deserved, anyway. "

Lucy, damaged goods? I stole a look at her. Little and lovely andhappy and full of laughter at the head of her table, there was noshadow upon that pansy face. She was, as always, living in the moment. From all our troubles and complications, "a rose high up against thethunder were not so white and far away. " Remorse would never greatlytorment her. In time, too, Fulton's hungry stone-gray face of the lastweeks would fade from my memory. 

XXIX

Beyond saying that he thought for various reasons we should see less ofeach other, Fulton had made no effort to keep Lucy and me apart. If hehad an adviser in this, that adviser was Schuyler. The idea, Isuppose, was that Lucy, unopposed, would soon tire of the affair, asshe 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. Andthe various exasperations of delay became hard to bear. Lucy, whenwhat seemed to her a reasonable time had passed, and Fulton had not yetmade up his mind about the divorce, was against delay. We had warnedFulton we had played the game, why should we lose time to do so? I hadto argue with her against the next steamer for foreign parts, and topersuade her (half persuade her) that in the long run patience wouldserve us best. "Now, " I said, "we don't feel that we need anyone butourselves. But we both love people--our own kind of people. If Johnwon't play fair (we called it that) our own kind of people will be onour side, no matter what we do. But we should have John's word for itthat 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 afew days, I followed them to New York. John seemed further than everfrom coming to a decision, so Lucy thought. But she evinced a morepatient spirit. For the young woman with credit and a fondness forclothes New York is a great solace, even if she is half broken-hearted. 

"The contract with the Russian has gone through, " she said; "John willmake a lot of money. I tell him that it's horrid to get rich by makingthings that are used to kill people with, but he says there are toomany people in the world, and that most of them would be the better fora little killing--so he's given me a fine credit, and I'm buying allthe clothes I need. "

"Lucy, I don't think you ought to spend his money--any more than youabsolutely have to--considering. "

"We spoke of that. He said I'd hurt him enough, and that while I wasstill ostensibly his wife, he wished me to have all that he could giveme. "

"While you are still ostensibly his wife? That sounds as if--Oh, as ifhe was going to step out, Lucy, doesn't it?"

"Sometimes he talks as if it was all arranged. He says, 'Next year, ifyou shouldn't happen to be with me, I'll do so and so, ' and all thatsort of talk. At other times he talks of building a big house down onLong Island--just the kind of house I've always wanted--just as if hewas sure that I would still be living with him. "

Well, one day Fulton came to my hotel and sent up his card. I wentdown 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 agolden 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. SomehowI feel sure that something is going to be decided. " My heart wasbeating quick and fast. I was unaccountably excited. This excitementseemed 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 forseveral blocks without speaking. Then Fulton smiled a little and spokein a level, easy voice. 

"Perhaps, " he said, "the water is not so cold as it looks. Shall wetake the plunge?"

"By all means, " I said. My heart was thumping nervously. I hoped hewould not notice it. 

"Lucy and I, " he said, "as you know, were wonderfully happy for a goodmany years. Until last winter, I was never away from her over night. And then, only because of a financial crisis. I have never even lookedat another woman with desire, or thought of one. Until last winter, Lucy was the same about other men. She was a wonderful little motherto her kids, and the most faithful, loving, valiant wife that everbelonged to a man full of cares and worries. "

"I know all this, John, " I said; "I could wish that you had beenunhappy together. "

"I wish to make several things clear, " he said. "According to allcivil and moral law, I am an absolutely undivorceable man. There isonly one ground for divorce in this state. To clear the decks for youand 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, Ishould have to perjure myself. I know that it is the custom of thecountry for married gentlemen who are no longer loved to perjurethemselves. 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 blackeye on certain conditions. "

I bowed my head. 

"Lucy, " he said, "doesn't love the children as much as I do. She hasallowed herself to forget how dear they are to her, so it would have tobe understood among us three that I should retain the children. Yousee, I've got to keep something of what belongs to me--to keep megoing. Lucy will agree to this, because just now all she wants is newclothes and you. There is another point upon which I feel that I mustbe satisfied. "

"What is that?"

"How long is your young people's infatuation for each other going tolast? If it is to be brief and evanescent, it would be absurd for meto take a black eye. But if it is to be stable and enduring, I shouldbe ashamed to stand in the way of it. Knowing something of Lucy'shistory, 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, whichhas been tried by fire and ice and time, will last until I die, or losemy 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 alwayslast. "

"Thought won't do, Archie, on this all-important phase of thesituation, we must have the light of definite knowledge. Now, as a manwho has had many love affairs, some innocent and some not, you shouldhave a good working knowledge of your endurance in such matters. Ifyou were cast away on a desert island with a very pretty woman, you towhom women have always been necessary, you from whose hand there hasalways been some woman or other ready to eat, how long would your lovefor Lucy last?"

I was amazed momentarily by his question, but it was not one which Icould answer. 

"A week?" He rather shot this at me, and for a moment there was asatiric 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 ofmanner. "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 nightand said she had seen hob-goblin eyes in the dark, and was afraid--howlong, though you still love her, would you be faithful to Lucy? A manlike 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 andLucy still love each other, and have been faithful to each other, andstill want each other--you shall have each other. "

"A year?" I think he smiled at the surprise and disappointment in myvoice. 

"During which year, " he said, "you will not meet each other except byaccident, 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 hasthought about me. I have had to think for myself, and for thechildren. Admit this--if your love stands a year's test you will standa 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 beenruined for as futile, puerile, misbegotten a passion as ever reared itshead 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 onprecisely the same plane. . . . I'm sure you don't want to injureLucy. Give her this chance to straighten out and get untangled. Ifthere is any truth in your love for her you will see that this way isbest 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--soonpasses. If things then are as they are now, then I shall believe thatyour love for each other is strong and fine, and I shall renounce myclaim 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 isentitled 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 andupright 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 bepunished. It would mean that your passion has nothing to do with whatis understood by love. You would merely be pointed at and passed up asa 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'tforget all the pleasant things that you can do in a year. There's thathunting trip in Somaliland you used to talk about so much--there'sLondon and Paris--wonderful places for a man who's trying to curehimself of an unlawful love. "

"Trying to _cure_ himself?"

"Of course. Jesting aside, don't you think that what you and Lucy wantto do to Jock and Hurry and me is _wrong_? Of course you do. You'renot a devil. If, by uttering the wish, you could bring it about thatyou had never loved Lucy, that she had never fallen out of love with meand loved you over the heads of her children, that all might be as itwas when you first began to come to our house, wouldn't you utter thatwish? Of course you would. "

He was smiling at me now, very gently and cunningly, and there was, atthe 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 alwaysmaintained 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 goingto be very hard for you both, at first, " he said gently. "So you shallsee 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 theconference in the taxi-cab. It seemed to me that my acquiescence inFulton'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 thatto his questions I made the only answers possible; and that only ademented person could have found serious flaws in the logic of hisposition. 

When we had parted, I walked for a long time in the most crowdedstreets, 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 Lucyto go to, no Lucy even to hear from. I loved her too much to part withall but the thought of her. It did not seem possible that the merepassage of time could dull the edge of my passion. Yet cold memoryblinked at this very possibility. 

I had parted from other women, thinking that thoughts of them must fillthe rest of my life to the exclusion of everything else; only to findthat after a little lapse of time their images faded, and even thememory 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 asshe does. I may be a fool, but her eyes have spoken, and I know thetruth when I hear it. "

"She _does_ love you, " said my other self, which I have called coldmemory, "and she did love him, and before his time, others, if onlybriefly. Without the sight of you to feed on, her love will starve anddie. It is almost always so. "

"Almost. "

"There are exceptions. Is it likely, considering your records, thatyou and she will be an exception? It is not likely. "

It wasn't. John Fulton was probably right. He believed that timewould 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 toadmit that. We ought, indeed, to hope that we should be cured; to helpwith 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 thejustice and the logic of his position. She would only see that she wasbeing cruelly hurt, and thwarted, and disappointed; that she was beingcurbed and punished by forces too strong for her to cope with. And Ipictured 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 alittle way toward their hotel. Then I thought, perhaps her sobs wouldmove 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 ablissful edifice of immediate happiness. 

I sat in the lobby in a position of reading, a newspaper before myface; but I did not read. I was listening for the boy who would pageme to the telephone. Many names were called in the lobby, but it wastwo o'clock before I started at the sound of my own. 

Fulton was at the other end of the telephone, not Lucy. He soundedvery 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 doorof their sitting-room behind me, than she flung herself upon my breastand burst into a storm of sobs. After a long time words began tomingle with the sobs. 

"It will kill me. Why does he want me to die? . . . I've only gotyou. . . . I want to belong to you--to you. "

I talked and I talked, and I soothed and I soothed, but she was sickwith grief and pain and a kind of insane resentment, as if she had gonethrough a major operation without an anesthetic. It would have beenhorrible to see anybody suffer so. And she was the woman I loved! Thestrain was so great upon me that at last my powers of resistancesnapped. I flung honor to the winds, and became strong withresolution. And now my words seemed to pierce her consciousness and tocalm her. 

"It's all right, Lucy. " I had to speak loudly at first, as if she wasdeaf. "You shan't suffer like this. I tell you you shan't--not if Iam damned to hell. "

I knew now that she was listening, the sobs became muffled and lessfrequent. "It's you and me against the world now, " I said. "There'llbe no more flimflamming. I promised John to wait a year. That doesn'tmatter. A promise made at your expense won't hold. . . . When is yourhusband 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 onhis guard. Let him think that we are both agreed to the year'sprobation. I'll look up things and engage passage. I'll do that thisafternoon. Tonight I'll go to Hot Springs to see my father and getmoney. My own balance is very low, unfortunately. Day after tomorrowI'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 hermind was in working order again. 

"By telephone, " she said. "Every morning when I know John's plans forthe 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 thecolor 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 moreimportant things than this. I _think_ my way is best. We don't wantany more agonies and recriminations and scenes. _Do_ we?"

I took her in my arms and whispered, "It's only a few days now, but Idon't see how I can wait. I don't see how. "

And she burrowed with her face between my cheek and shoulder, andwhispered back, "And I don't see how I can wait. "

There was a little space of very tense silence, during which my eyesroved to the little silver traveling-clock on the mantel, and then Isaid 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 fatheraside, and told him that my real purpose in coming was to raise thewind. 

"I need a lot of money, " I said; "sooner or later you'll know why. SoI may as well tell you. "

My father's fine weather-beaten face of a country squire expressed aninterest at once frankly affectionate and tinged with a kind ofdetached cynicism. 

"I am going to run off with Lucy Fulton, " I said. 

"I supposed that was it, " said my father, without evincing the leastsurprise. 

"You _did_?"

"Oh, we old fellows put an ear to the ground now and then, " heexplained; "and sometimes sleep with one eye open. Punch's advice tothe young couple about to marry was 'Don't. ' My advice to you and Lucyis 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 haveshowed in my face. Still smiling with frank affection, he said, "Johnput me in touch with the whole situation before he left Aiken. Theyear 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 ofgetting rich. "

"It's our _one_ chance for happiness, father. "

He cocked an eyebrow at me. "And I think it is your one sure road tomisery. "

"But you'll see me through?"

"Come to me a year from today. Tell me that during that time you haveneither seen Lucy nor communicated with her, but that you still loveeach other--_then_ I'll see you _through_. "

"My dear father, it's so much better for you to put up the money thanfor me to borrow it from one of my friends. "

"Only because the friend would expect you to pay him back. How wouldyou 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 ofthe world came to me and showed me his heart--a heart tormented beyondendurance with unreturned love, with jealousy, and with despair. Hethrew himself upon my mercy. And I said that I would help him, withwhatever power of help I have at command. I don't love that man, myson. I love you. But I am on his side. All my fighting blood isaroused when I learn that still another American husband has beenwronged by his wife, and by an idle flirting bachelor. God keep mefirm in what must seem to you like cruelty in one to whom you havealways turned with the utmost frankness and loyalty in youremergencies. And from whom until this moment you have always receivedhelp. "

I was appalled and thunderstruck. After a while I said, "Father, shesobbed so that I thought she would break a blood vessel. I couldn'tstand it. I had to say I would take her away. If I don't, I think shewill die or kill herself. "

My father drew himself up very straight, and looked very handsome andstern, for a moment. Then his frame relaxed and his eyes twinkled, andhe 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 wifein 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 reasonfor pretending that she's a saint and a martyr and the victim of agrand historical passion. She _is_ lovely to look at. She _is_charming to be with. But that doesn't prevent her from being a badlittle 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 neverrefused me anything. Help me to make her happy. "

"When she has gotten over her fancy for you, when Fulton has plenty ofmoney for her to spend, she will be as happy as she deserves tobe--until she makes herself miserable again by indulging in some affairsimilar to this. Now, my dear boy, go back to her, tell her that youhaven't enough money to elope on and no way of getting it. Tell heralso that if at the end of a year's probation you and she still wanteach other, nobody will oppose you, and that you, on the day of yourmarriage 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 doctorhas forbidden it. Do I torture myself? Not at all. I turn for solaceto an excellent bottle of Scotch whiskey. And this has at least theeffect of making me want the champagne less. Don't get confusedbetween psychology and physiology. If I were in your boots I'd slipover to Paris--and drink Scotch whiskey. "

So I went back to New York, and, as soon as possible, I talked to Lucyover 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 landin Europe without any money; but I've still got most of the passagemoney; and if you say so, we can stay right in this country and live onthat for a few weeks, while I try to get a job. I could borrow somemoney, but it would have to be paid back. Oh, Lucy, this is such ahumiliating confession to make, but what _can_ I do?"

"Everybody is against us, " she said, "everything--I don't supposethere's any use struggling. "

She sounded cold and tired. 

"I suppose, " she went on slowly, "we'll have to wait, the way Johnsays. 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. Idon't see how I can stand it, but I suppose I can. . . . A wholeyear--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 longlife 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'sright. . . . 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 themhad passed I began to fear a mental breakdown, because my mind keptworking all by itself, without orders. If I wanted to think forward, to the end of the probationary year, I couldn't. Always I keptthinking I ought to have done, or said, so and so. I ought to havebeen firmer. I was always reviving that drive in the taxicab withFulton, or that last interview with my father. If my love was strongand fine I ought never to have knuckled under. They had had too easy atime with me. I had played into their hands, and they had treated melike a child. From pure humiliation I could not sleep at night. 

And what was Lucy doing? How was she bearing it? What sort of lifewas she leading, the poor, abused child? The world seemed to have alljoined against me in a conspiracy of silence. Nobody mentioned Lucy inmy hearing. Although the same city held us, until they moved toStamford, I had no accidental glimpse of her. Our last talk had notbeen in the least satisfactory. It seemed to me that I must see heronce more to preach courage and hope. During those first ten nights Ihardly slept at all. Sometimes I would picture out Lucy's whole courseof life during the next few months. And I imagined that, grown at lastutterly indifferent through suffering, she might drift back into herformer relations with Fulton, if only because he loved her so much, andno one can keep on saying no forever. Such imaginings had sometimesthe vividness of scenes actually witnessed and threw me into torturesof jealousy. 

Not until a short period of the tenth day was Lucy ever actually out ofmy mind. I had been sitting in a chair staring at a newspaper, all mynerves tense and hungry, when suddenly they seemed to have relaxed andto have been fed. The skin of my face no longer seemed tightlystretched. I felt as if I had waked from a refreshing sleep; but thiswas not the case. I had simply, without deliberation, forgotten Lucyfor half an hour, and been making agreeable personal plans for the yearof probation. 

"Good Lord, " I thought; "has living without her, already begun to beeasier?"

It had. I began to take pleasure in seeing my friends; to look forwardto the Newport season, to the international tennis, to the golfchampionship at Ekwanok, to the thousand and one things that make forthe happiness of a butterfly's summer. 

After a month of Newport, days passed with only hurried thoughts ofLucy. Chance mention of her name gave me no uneasiness; they affectedmy heart, like sudden trumpets, but I knew that my face had become aninscrutable mask, and that my voice was in perfect control. Those whohad thought that there was something between us began to thinkdifferently. 

And then, after days of suspense, surmise, and real consternation, thelegs of civilization seemed to have been knocked from under it, and thegreatest nations of Europe flew at each other. 

Now indeed there seemed an easy way to the year's end. The Germansrolled through Belgium and into France, outraging humanity. It lookedas if they would roll right into Paris, and sow salt where the world'sfirst city had stood. 

I rushed up to Bar Harbor to tell my parents that I was going to Franceto enlist in the foreign legion. Oh, how swiftly the time would fly, Ithought. That I might get crippled or killed never occurred to me. Ithought only that having failed at everything else, I must obviously bepossessed of military genius. I pictured myself climbing the bloodyladder of promotion to high command and winning the gratitude of thatcountry which next to my own I love the most. 

My mother, to whom I first broached the news, did not cry or make afuss. But I saw that I had distressed her terribly. 

"It isn't our war, " she said; "and what use will one more enlisted manbe to _them_? And besides, my dear, _only_ sons are always the firstones to get hurt; only sons and men whose families are dependent uponthem. But . . . " and here she gave me a wonderful look . . . "I thinkI 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 gethurt trying to do something worth while, than go on the way we'vealways 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-naturedindifference. 

"Fine experience, " he said, "for any man that's free to go. Makes mewish I were younger and without obligations. Still I can enjoy themusic at the swimming-pool with a free conscience; because I'm sendingover all the money I can spare. . . . How did you reach the conclusionthat you could go?"

"_Could_ go?"

"Yes. Of course you've no complication in your life that should keepyou 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 hishead 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'sa year to be got over, and fighting's the most agreeable and thequickest 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. Hedidn'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 Ido see her it will all come right back. I _know_ that. "

He smiled a little grimly. "Normally, " he said, "there are years ofpleasant living before you. But not if you get yourself killed--not ifyou 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'mglad the Fulton business is over. Your love has cooled and, even ifLucy's hasn't--there could never be anything between you now?"

He was speaking sarcastically. He went on in the same vein: "The yearover--even if you found that Lucy was still wrapped up in you, that herhappiness depended on you, you would not, of course, feel that you wereunder any obligation to _pretend_ that you still cared for her and todo 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 forher 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 wassurely going. "

"That's too bad, " he said; "but you'll have to stand it. You have agood reputation for physical pluck, though, and nobody will sayanything very nasty. And as for us, " his voice rang a little, "who areon 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 gothen. "

"You can go _then_. But it seems to me that a man of education iswasted 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; andthen at last she turned half around in her seat, and saw me. I don'tknow what I did. I think I smiled, half rose to my feet, and lifted myhand as if to take off a hat--which of course I didn't have on. Shenodded, and smiled brightly; but her eyes had that expression ofpraying that I have so often mentioned. 

It was long since I had thought of her for more than a few minutes at atime. But now my heart began to beat furiously and all my sleepinglove 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 followedso 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 timesince the war started. Have a drink?"

We walked to the nearest saloon. "We heard that you were going toenlist. "

"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 tohave 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 thiswinter. "

"As a matter of fact, " said I glibly, "I've more than half decided onPalm 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 allright. Had a tough time for a while. "

Upon that he hurried off to rejoin her, and I turned my face once moreto the bar, and gave an order. I felt as if I had been through aterrible ordeal. I was all in. 

From now on I heard more often of the Fultons, for they were leading aconspicuously gay life. Somebody had loaned them a house for sixweeks, and by all accounts Lucy was making money fly. 

I saw her in the distance three times. Twice to bow and exchangesmiles. The other time she didn't see me. Seeing her meant two orthree days of torture; then her image and desirability would begin tofade 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 PalmBeach; but found that I could not stand the place or the pace for longperiods 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 methat the night had not been well slept, nor the most promising day wellbegun until I had read the headlines in the papers. My hot wish tofight as a soldier had cooled. More and more I wanted to be ofservice, but in some way which seemed to me more imaginative andintelligent. But I could not hit on the way. I must go to Paris, Ithought, then surely the inspiration of helpfulness would come. But Icould not very well go to Paris until the year of probation was up. IfLucy still cared--well, it would be easy enough for me to care. I knewnow that her physical presence was sufficient to make me care--at anygiven moment. "Oh, " I thought, "I can't lose. Either I'll go to Parisand be useful, or I'll begin a new life with the girl I love who lovesme. "

Late in February Harry Colemain joined me at Palm Beach. He hadwintered at Aiken, and I had all the Aiken news from him. The placehad never been so full--people who usually went abroad, etc. , etc. --some delightful new people, about all the old standbys. It wasnot a sporting winter. Most of the men were feeling too poor for highstakes. Would I believe it, the golf course was crowded all day? Thenew hotel? It looked as if it was going to be a success. The clubswere having the biggest year in their history. The golf club would beable to reset the green with Bermuda grass. Some of the holes had comethrough the summer splendidly. Some were better than they ever hadbeen, others were worse, etc. , etc. 

I asked him about this and about that. At last I said: "How are theFultons?"

"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 afamily. That's obvious. But Lucy seems to have come to her senses. She was very gay at first. Then she went round looking--well, shelooked frightened. Lots of people noticed it. It was as if the doctorhad told her she had lung trouble. She quit riding and dropped out ofeverything--except very quiet little dinners. Then she got veryinterested in her yard, and had experts over from Berckman's and did alot 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 andall that? Well, he seems to have won her round to his way of lookingat compromise--or she got more or less fond of him again. I don'tknow. "

"I don't quite understand what you're driving at. "

"You _don't_? Why, she's to have a baby. And everybody who knew therehad been trouble says, 'Thank God for that. '"

My hands began to tremble so that I had to hide them under the table atwhich we were sitting. 

"Bully, isn't it?" said Harry; fortunately he had turned his head tolook at two very lovely young women who had strolled into the palmgarden. 

"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, andadvanced 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 beingintroduced. Miss Coles had very beautiful brown eyes, very whiteteeth, 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 MissColes' exceedingly beautiful eyes lifted to mine, and saw upon her facean 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 manwithout responsibilities, who owed nothing and to whom nothing was owed. 

After dinner we went strolling in the moonlight. Harry and Mrs. Paxtonstrolled in one direction, Miss Coles and I in another. 

Miss Coles looked very beautiful, and she wore an expression ofchildlike 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'smore fun to be _Miss_ while the divorce is pending. I'm fromCalifornia--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 agreementcame to a sudden halt and looked at each other. 

Then she laughed softly, her head tilted back, and her round barethroat 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 spiritualdepression during which a man does not even ask forgiveness of himselffor any of his acts. If "Miss" Coles had wished me to marry her Iwould have done so; but the suggestion was never made by either of us. We parted, a little gloomily, but not unhappily, and before there waseven a breath of scandal. It was just after she heard that her husbandhad secured his decree against her. That hard cold fact, that proof ofthings which no woman likes to have proved against her, seemed to soberher, you may say, and bring her up with a round turn. From now on shewas going to be good, she said. No. I mustn't blame myself foranything. Everything was her fault. Everything always had been. Iwas 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 andbetter life. It had been a frightfully expensive winter. It had beensweet of me to keep her rooms so full of flowers. She lovedflowers. . . . Oh, nobody was hurt much, and nobody but us anyway. 

Reform is a great thing. I learned from Harry that the very night Ileft Palm Beach she lost all the money I had "conveyed" to her atgambling, and only the other day she ran off with a man I know verywell indeed--and a married man at that. I hope she won't talk too muchin the first few weeks of her infatuation. 

I reached New York feeling like the cad that I suppose I am. But itwas pretty bitter hearing about Lucy, and the baby. At least I hadkept faith longer than she had. I wondered if she once more loved herhusband. Did I hope so? Yes, of course, in the same way that youexpress 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 isfree to be tormented by remorse, to feel cheap, futile, a waster--athing of no account to anyone. If this is freedom it isn't good to befree. No man is happy who comes and goes as he pleases. There must beresponsibilities to shoulder, and ties which bind him. If he lives forhimself alone and for what, in the first glad bursts of unattachment heimagines to be pleasure, a day will come when the acid of self-contemptbegins to corrode him. 

I determined to go to France, via London for I needed clothes, and if Ihad a definite place it was to volunteer as a nurse in the Americanhospital. So I took out a passport, and engaged my passage. 

A few days later, while crossing from Madison Avenue to Fifth, I foundmyself suddenly face to face with Hilda. She averted her head andtried to pass without being recognized, but I called her name, and shestopped 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 tohelp. I've saved enough money to take me over, and to keep me if Ihave 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, andto 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 youcan 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 ofyour friends----?"

"Do I have to tell you that you are one of the smartest looking peopleI know, Hilda? They'll think you are the Marchioness of Amber----" Iglanced at her red hair, which did have amber lights in it, "andthey'll envy. So do come. Will you?"

I borrowed a fine new racing runabout, and at six o'clock called forher at the address she had given me. She had gotten herself up withthe most discreet good taste, and looked perfectly charming. She musthave 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 oncethat I'd always be your friend. And a friend isn't ever sir. So don'tdo it again. "

"I'll not, " she said. 

Presently I began to ask her about the Fultons. At first her answerswere short and unsatisfactory, but presently she began to warm to thetopic. 

Stamford? Oh, it had been awful. The house had never been divided inits allegiance, but nobody could have remained callous to Mrs. Fulton'sgrief. Meals were especially awful. Mr. And Mrs. Fulton tried to makeconversation. Sometimes just when it seemed as if she was going to bea little cheerful--phist! her eyes would fill with tears, and she wouldbolt from the room. At such times Mr. Fulton's face was a study ofpity for her and grief for them both. She was good to the children; noquestion about that. Sometimes she grabbed them into her arms andhugged them too hard. It was as if she was trying by sheer physicaleffort to give them back what she had taken away from them. 

Sometimes one thought one heard little Hurry crying very softly andbitterly, and it would turn out to be Mrs. Fulton, locked in herbedroom. 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 pointwhere 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 atlow tide. A long gangway reached to a float for boats; here the waterwas deep enough to dive into at half tide. Often at dawn, if the tidewas right, and you happened to be awake, you might see Mr. Fultondescend the wet lawn in wrapper and bare feet for the swim that seemedto make up to him for his sleepless nights. You knew that he was introuble by the way that he took to the water. It's always a littleshivery at dawn, but he never hesitated. His wrapper was coming off bythe time he reached the float--it was too far off to mind watchinghim--and into the water he'd go, head first, as quick as he could getin. 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 withhis face under. Then he looked like a drowned man. Sometimes he wentin earlier than dawn. She had seen phosphorescence off the float inthe black night, and heard the clean, quiet splash of his dive. 

Once he stayed in so long that Mrs. Fulton called to him from herwindow, "_Please_ come in, John, I'm frightened. " Oh, yes, she wantedto be free from him, perhaps she still does, but not that way. Ifanything had happened to him, if he had taken his life, for instance, one imagined that in the first agonies of remorse she would have takenhers 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 weresick 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 asshe was. And she couldn't know. 

She had a calendar in her room. She kept tab on it of the days as theypassed, beginning with the first day of the probationary year. She'ddraw a line through each day--each day when she went to bed, and hopedthat the day was really over. She had her bad, wicked, black, sleepless nights, too. You could always tell by how late she was inthe morning. She had a child's happy faculty of being able to make upfor lost sleep. Well, when the day seemed over she drew a line throughit. One day the chambermaid came below stairs (it was the first weknew of it) and propounded a conundrum. "When is a day not a day?" Noone could guess. So she said, "When Mrs. Fulton doesn't draw a linethrough it. " So it seemed that the forty-ninth day of her probationhad not been a passage of time. Time had stood still. Why? Well, inthe afternoon Mrs. Fulton had gone as crew with a young gentleman whoowned a knockabout, and they had got wet to the skin, and had won a legon some pennant or other after a close, well-sailed race. Mrs. Fultonhad come home about dark, drenched, blooming, buoyant, and chatteringabout the events of the afternoon. She had had her first heart-feltgood time of the probationary year. For once, time had not dragged. Time had stood excitingly, exhilaratingly still. She had forgotten toscratch off the day. 

Things went better after that. Twice a week, rain or shine, she wascrew of the young gentleman's knockabout. Often they went for practicesails. Sometimes they took Jock and Hurry. In hot weather they worebathing suits. The young gentleman? He was to be a Yale senior, comeautumn. He rowed on the Yale crew. My! you should have seen his armsand legs--so strong and so brown, so becoming to his dark blue bathingsuit. His hair was so sunburnt that it looked like molasses candy. Hecould stay in the water all day and fetch from the bottom anything thatwas thrown in for him. Sometimes he came to meals. He was very quietand 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 Jockand Hurry out at arm's length, one in each hand, but the weight on hismind was too much for him. Every time the Fultons mentioned it to him, he groaned. He was truly comical when he groaned. Toward autumn hebegan to get gloomy. Summer was over, college would open. No moresails; no more Mrs. Fulton. Below stairs one knew that he was in lovewith 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 jetacross a good-sized room. There were other ways of telling. And sincethe forty-ninth day that was not a day, no one had heard Mrs. Fultoncrying. 

He came to say good-by. One never knew just what happened. They werein the front hall. Suddenly the front door must have opened. Fultonmust have come in, for suddenly one heard his laugh. It was thestrangest laugh in the world, full of joy, full of laughter, and fullof scorn. 

He saw the young gentleman to the front gate. He clapped the younggentleman on the back, and said (the parlor maid had heard); "Don'tworry! It's all right! Don't make a mountain out of a mole-hill!" andthen in a different voice, "Bless you, my son!"

Then he had come back to the house still laughing, and one heard himshouting, "Where are you, Lucy? Come here! The game's up now! Youmust see that for yourself! Don't be a goat!"

Did she see for herself? Oh, yes. She hadn't loved the younggentleman, not really. She had liked him enough to get over you beinga life and death matter to her. That was all. She had liked himenough 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 allover, when I saw him in New York--just before Christmas?"

"Well, they couldn't know how you felt, could they? Maybe he wantedyou to have your full year. Maybe he thought you'd fall down as shehad, 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 tothe front door, signed for the telegram, and carried it to Mr. Fulton'sroom. He did not answer to her first light knock; nor to a first orsecond loud knock. She pushed the door open. The room was full ofmoonlight. Mr. Fulton's bed was empty. It had not been slept in. 

Hilda tiptoed to the end of the corridor, laid the telegram on thefloor in front of Mrs. Fulton's door, knocked very firmly, and themoment she heard someone stirring within, turned upon her heel and fled. 

So much for the average strength of those grand passions upon which somany 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 wayshe used to. Her fantastics [Transcriber's note: fantasies?] had takenthe beauty plumb out of their lives. But something remained. A lovinghusband, an unloving, but naturally kind, good-natured and affectionatewife, trying to do her duty by the two children that were and the onethat 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 thinkso, but now I do. And _he_ might not have been a gentleman. "

XXXV

We had dinner on the terrace of the Tamerlane Inn, overlooking theSound. 

"But, Hilda, " I was arguing, toward coffee, "we might have gone oncaring 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 RedCross 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 littlecontempt that had jealousy for its father and mother. "

We continued to look at each other while the waiter brought and servedthe coffee. Then I said: "Hilda, I know one thing. What you've got togive ought not to go begging. "

Her eyes part-way filled, but she gave her shoulders a valiant littleshrug. 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 besomething true and fine raced into my mind. And was followed by awhole host of gentle and unselfish and pitying thoughts, as to a treeat evening flocks of starlings come to roost. 

"Hilda, " I said, "if there is no power of loving in me, but only offancying, still you have said that fancy feeds on propinquity. I haveno 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 powerof loving--your power of loving me--your constancy--your trust--yourcourage in saying that these things shall not go begging--if I say theyshall not. What I thought another had, what I thought I had, only youhave. I dare not make promises. I dare not boast. But caring the wayyou 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 apeaceful sort of smile. Then she said; "It'll be good to have heardall 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 sweetEnglish voice: "If I wanted to say no, I couldn't. If I thought Iought to say no, I wouldn't. But I don't think I ought to. I thinkwhen the Lord God put what's in my heart in it, he meant for there tobe _something_ for me at the end of torment. So I say yes. For I'veknelt on cold floors and hot floors to pray God that some day I couldgive myself to the man I love. "

"And that shall be when you are married to him. . . . Don't look sofrightened . . . It's got to be like that. Give a man a chance to makegood. Do you think I'm such a fool as to throw away the love you'vegot for me? . . . We'll try this nursing game together, but not at thefront, where the bullets are. I want us to live and to have ourchance, you yours and I mine--taken together. Don't you see that I amspeaking 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. Icouldn'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 andagain we talked a little, and argued a little. 

"But, " she said, "it will ruin your life if you marry a servant. Soplease, 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 wherehelp's needed. It will be fine for me to have helped, after all thesefoolish years--when I did only harm, and only half-hearted harm atthat. "

"It would be so different if only--if only----"

"If only I loved you?" I freed one hand from the steering wheel andput 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 hershoulder. It was the slightest, gentlest, softest kiss, and a lumprose in my throat. 

"If the angels could see me now, " she said, "and know what was in myheart, 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 theobscurity between these two we stood for a little while at parting, andkissed 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 headover heels in love with Lucy, and I did not know how it was all goingto end. And I don't know now. I began to write before Hilda became adefinite figure in my life, to write in order to pass the time. And soI wrote until I realized that I had failed Lucy, and began to hope thatshe had failed me. Even then I expected to live the same old fleetinglife of a butterfly bachelor to the end. Then I began to think thatout of the thing I was writing, there was beginning to rise a kind oflesson, a preachment. It seemed to me that I was going through anexperience 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 itspower to impel? I am not ashamed of having loved Lucy; I am ashamed ofnot having loved her enough. Thank God no greater harm was done toFulton than was done. He has his Lucy, what there is left of her, hischildren, and a greater financial success than ever he hoped for. Andhe has had his triumph over me. He must have told her, in some of hisbad moments, just what kind of a man I was--a waster, a male flirt, aman who had the impulse to raise the devil, but lacked the courage, andthe character. And she knows now, after her short period ofover-powering love for me and belief in me, that he was right. That ishis triumph. I think he is too good a gentleman to rub it in. 

My father and mother accepted Hilda with the sweetest good grace. Shewas not what they had hoped for; she was not what they had expected orfeared. To my father it seemed, he was good enough to say so, that Ihad 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 hadloved his son so faithfully and so long. 

And the rings on Hilda's finger, and the pride in her new estate, andthe pretty clothes that my mother helped her to buy worked a wondrouschange in her. People couldn't help looking after her, she was sopretty, 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 mightsee that I was not ashamed of what I had done, but that I gloried init, and that my parents showed a face of approval to the world. Thosedays of postponement were, I think, the best days of my life. Atreasure had been given into my guardianship, and it seemed to me thatI was going to be worthy of the trust. 

Then, the very day before we were to sail, I met Lucy face to face inthe 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 sogood-looking. "

Then the smile faded from her lips, and she made the praying eyes atme, 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 didyou 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 likeme, and succeeded, and the harm was done--but now we've settled down toa harmless and quiet old age. "

Had we? Oh, why had that pansy face and those great praying eyes comeinto my life again? Would it be always so when we met, the heartleaping, and the brain swimming, and the body shaken with tendernessand desire?

I spoke no word of betrayal, but so standing a little to one side ofthe passing crowds on the sidewalk, looking into that upturned face, seeing those eyes so sad and prayerful above the smiling mouth, Ibetrayed 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 ownemotions her face told me nothing. 

"I hear, " she said, "that you are both to volunteer as nurses. I thinkthat is splendid. "

"If only I can live so as to help someone, Lucy. I am going to tryvery hard. And I am going to try very hard to be a good husband, formy wife has showered me with noble and priceless gifts. "

After a moment: "I hope, " said Lucy, "you're going on the Americanline. 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 somedistinguished company. "

"Really! I haven't seen the passenger list. "

"Why, there's Justus Miles Forman, and Charles Frohman, and AlfredVanderbilt and I don't know who all. . . . Well, " she held out herhand suddenly; "I've chores to do, thousands of them, so good luck toyou, and good-by, if I don't see you again. "