“I’ll give him just one more day,” Emily declared in a tremulous voice.
“Then I’ll go home!”
She knew, even while she spoke, the pitiable folly of her words. One
more day, when she had long ago given Denis all the days she ever could
live! And to talk of going home, when she had no home in all the wide
world!
Her father’s house wasn’t her home now. If she went there, she would be
a visitor, welcomed and beloved, but always a visitor. She didn’t belong
there any more. The words of the old proverb came into her mind--“Home
is where the heart is.” Once upon a time she had thought that a fanciful
idea, but now she knew it to be true; and her heart, alas, was wandering
homeless.
She had written Denis a very prompt reply to his letter. She had told
him that his people had treated her shamefully, that she was done with
them, and that he must take his choice. “Either them or me,” she had
said. “Please let me know when you have made up your mind.”
She hadn’t thought that he would take so long about making up his mind,
or that her just anger would prove so feeble a flame. It was anger that
had warmed and strengthened her, anger that was her justification; and
it was flickering dimly now, leaving her defenseless against the cold
wind of doubt and bitter regret.
If only she had had patience, if only she had waited until Denis came
back! They could have talked it over together; but instead of that, she
had forced upon him a decision that would inevitably cause him untold
pain.
It was cruel! He _couldn’t_ choose between her and his venerated people;
and he couldn’t compromise--he was too downright for that. He would take
what she said seriously. Well, suppose he didn’t choose her?
She thought that if Denis never came back to her, or if he came back
changed, she could not bear to live.
It was half past five--time to put on her hat and go out to meet Nina at
the little _table d’hôte_ where they were to have dinner together. She
slipped her arms into her fur coat--the coat Denis had bought for
her--and pulled on a little hat without troubling to look in the mirror.
Who cared how she looked, anyhow? A whole week, and he hadn’t written.
Seven days, utterly shut off from him!
“Perhaps there’ll be a letter for me downstairs,” she thought, knowing
very well that if there had been, it would have been sent up to her.
There was no letter, but there was Denis himself. At first she couldn’t
possibly believe it. She saw some one come through the revolving
door--some one like Denis, only it couldn’t be he. He was in New
Orleans, and very busy there. The man she saw was very much like
Denis--the same sort of well knit, stalwart figure, the same sort of
dark, serious face.
“It’s not you, is it?” she asked in a queer little voice.
“Yes,” said he.
His voice gave her no clew, nor did his keen, quiet face. She wasn’t
going to be silly. If he could be as cool as this, then so could she.
“I was just going out to dinner with Nina Holley,” she told him.
“I see!” said Denis.
He stood aside for her to go out of the door. Then he followed her out,
and they walked down the street side by side, turned a corner, and went
down another street, without a single word. This was by no means what
Emily wanted.
“Would you like to come with me?” she asked, with punctilious
politeness.
“I _am_ coming with you,” replied Denis.
Again they went on in silence, as long as Emily could endure it.
“Haven’t you anything to say?” she cried at last. “Haven’t--”
“I’ve a good deal to say,” he interrupted; “but not here.”
That was too much for Emily. They were at a crisis in their lives. She
was waiting in desperate anxiety for what he would say, and he couldn’t
speak, because they were in the street, and some one might possibly
hear! He couldn’t for an instant forget his stiff Lanier propriety.
“You’re angry,” she said. “I can see that. Well, it’s no use. I said
you’d have to choose, and I meant it. There’s not a bit of use in your
coming to quarrel with me. If you’re disgusted with me, go back to
your--”
“Look here!” said Denis. “Are you trying to be funny?”
Emily was very much taken aback at this question.
“Funny?” she repeated.
His hand closed suddenly on her arm.
“Look here, old girl!” he said. “I’m--you’ll have to make allowances,
you know. It’s been a bit hard. I dare say it doesn’t seem much of a job
to you, but after all, you know, they’re my own people, and it’s been a
bit hard.”
Emily stopped short in the street.
“Denis!” she cried. “What do you mean?”
“I went to see mother, but they were all out. I left a note. I think I
made it pretty clear.”
“Oh, Denis! Denis! You mean you chose _me_?”
“Don’t do that!” he said in alarm, pulling out a great handkerchief and
hastily dabbing at Emily’s eyes. “You _are_ a silly kid, and no mistake!
Of course it’s you, always. I thought you knew that well enough.”
“I can’t possibly stop crying,” said Emily. “You’d better get a taxi.”
He did so. Once they were in the cab, Denis Lanier took his wife in his
arms and kissed her in his own earnest and resolute fashion.
“But how could you come, Denis?”
“How could I not come? It seemed to me I was rather badly needed. Dont’t
cry, dear girl, please! I’m going back to-morrow, and I’ll take you with
me. I’ll not leave you again. But I say, Emily, exactly what was there
in my letter that upset you so? I couldn’t--”
“You wanted me to go to your mother’s hotel!”
“I know; but that wasn’t so bad, was it? She wanted you to come, and I
thought that if you did, you know--if she saw more of you, there’d
be--well, more harmony.”
He was smiling down at her, as her head lay on his shoulder, but in his
eyes there was a pain that he could not hide or stifle. She sat up
suddenly.
“There will be, Denis!” she said vehemently. “There will be harmony, my
dear, darling old Denis! I’ve been selfish and horrible!” He tried to
stop her, but she would go on. “I knew all the time that I was. Oh,
Denis, forgive me, and let me have another chance! Let’s go now to your
mother, and--”
“Not much!” said Denis. “Not after the note I left!”
“It’s early. Perhaps she hasn’t come home yet. Oh, do tell the man to
hurry! Denis, let me have my chance!”