"No matter what happens?"
"No matter what happens. As if I could help it, Nancy! Why are you so sad
to-night?"
"Ah, Hugh, it makes me sad--I can't tell why. It is so great, it is so
terrible, and yet it's so sweet and beautiful."
She took my face in her hands and pressed a kiss against my forehead....
The next day was dark. At two o'clock in the afternoon the electric light
was still burning over my desk when the telephone rang and I heard
Nancy's voice.
"Is that you, Hugh?"
"Yes."
"I have to go East this afternoon."
"Why?" I asked. Her agitation had communicated itself to me. "I thought
you weren't going until Thursday. What's the matter?"
"I've just had a telegram," she said. "Ham's been hurt--I don't know how
badly--he was thrown from a polo pony this morning at Narragansett, in
practice, and they're taking him to Boston to a private hospital. The
telegram's from Johnny Shephard. I'll be at the house in town at four."
Filled with forebodings I tried in vain to suppress I dropped the work I
was doing and got up and paced the room, pausing now and again to gaze
out of the window at the wet roofs and the grey skies. I was aghast at
the idea of her going to Ham now even though he were hurt badly hurt; and
yet I tried to think it was natural, that it was fine of her to respond
to such a call. And she couldn't very well refuse his summons. But it was
not the news of her husband's accident that inspired the greater fear,
which was quelled and soothed only to rise again when I recalled the note
I had heard in her voice, a note eloquent of tragedy--of tragedy she had
foreseen. At length, unable to remain where I was any longer, I descended
to the street and walked uptown in the rain. The Durrett house was
closed, the blinds of its many windows drawn, but Nancy was watching for
me and opened the door. So used had I grown to seeing her in the simple
linen dresses she had worn in the country, a costume associated with
exclusive possession, that the sight of her travelling suit and hat
renewed in me an agony of apprehension. The unforeseen event seemed to
have transformed her once more. Her veil was drawn up, her face was pale,
in her eyes were traces of tears.
"You're going?" I asked, as I took her hands.
"Hugh, I have to go."
She led me through the dark, shrouded drawing room into the little salon
where the windows were open on the silent city-garden. I took her in my
arms; she did not resist, as I half expected, but clung to me with what
seemed desperation.
"I have to go, dear--you won't make it too hard for me! It's
only--ordinary decency, and there's no one else to go to him."
She drew me to the sofa, her eyes beseeching me.
"Listen, dear, I want you to see it as I see it. I know that you will,
that you do. I should never be able to forgive myself if I stayed away
now, I--neither of us could ever be happy about it. You do see, don't
you?" she implored.
"Yes," I admitted agitatedly.
Her grasp on my hand tightened.
"I knew you would. But it makes me happier to hear you say it."
We sat for a moment in helpless silence, gazing at one another. Slowly
her eyes had filled.
"Have you heard anything more?" I managed to ask.
She drew a telegram from her bag, as though the movement were a relief.
"This is from the doctor in Boston--his name is Magruder. They have got
Ham there, it seems. A horse kicked him in the head, after he fell,--he
had just recovered consciousness."
I took the telegram. The wordy seemed meaningless, all save those of the
last sentence. "The situation is serious, but by no means hopeless."
Nancy had not spoken of that. The ignorant cruelty of its convention! The
man must have known what Hambleton Durrett was! Nancy read my thoughts,
and took the paper from my hand.
"Hugh, dear, if it's hard for you, try to understand that it's terrible
for me to think that he has any claim at all. I realize now, as I never
did before, how wicked it was in me to marry him. I hate him, I can't
bear the thought of going near him."
She fell into wild weeping. I tried to comfort her, who could not comfort
myself; I don't remember my inadequate words. We were overwhelmed,
obliterated by the sense of calamity.... It was she who checked herself
at last by an effort that was almost hysterical.
"I mustn't yield to it!" she said. "It's time to leave and the train goes
at six. No, you mustn't come to the station, Hugh--I don't think I could
stand it. I'll send you a telegram." She rose. "You must go now--you
must."
"You'll come back to me?" I demanded thickly, as I held her.
"Hugh, I am yours, now and always. How can you doubt it?"
At last I released her, when she had begged me again. And I found myself
a little later walking past the familiar, empty houses of those
streets....
The front pages of the evening newspapers announced the accident to
Hambleton Durrett, and added that Mrs. Durrett, who had been lingering in
the city, had gone to her husband's bedside. The morning papers contained
more of biography and ancestry, but had little to add to the bulletin;
and there was no lack of speculation at the Club and elsewhere as to
Ham's ability to rally from such a shock. I could not bear to listen to
these comments: they were violently distasteful to me. The unforeseen
accident and Nancy's sudden departure had thrown my life completely out
of gear: I could not attend to business, I dared not go away lest the
news from Nancy be delayed. I spent the hours in an exhausting mental
state that alternated between hope and fear, a state of unmitigated,
intense desire, of balked realization, sometimes heightening into that
sheer terror I had felt when I had detected over the telephone that note
in her voice that seemed of despair. Had she had a presentiment, all
along, that something would occur to separate us? As I went back over the
hours we had passed together since she had acknowledged her love, in
spite of myself the conviction grew on me that she had never believed in
the reality of our future. Indeed, she had expressed her disbelief in
words. Had she been looking all along for a sign--a sign of wrath? And
would she accept this accident of Ham's as such?
Retrospection left me trembling and almost sick.
It was not until the second morning after her departure that I received a
telegram giving the name of her Boston hotel, and saying that there was
to be a consultation that day, and as soon as it had taken place she
would write. Such consolation as I could gather from it was derived from
four words at the end,--she missed me dreadfully. Some tremor of pity for
her entered into my consciousness, without mitigating greatly the
wildness of my resentment, of my forebodings.
I could bear no longer the city, the Club, the office, the daily contact
with my associates and clients. Six hours distant, near Rossiter, was a
small resort in the mountains of which I had heard. I telegraphed Nancy
to address me there, notified the office, packed my bag, and waited
impatiently for midday, when I boarded the train. At seven I reached a
little station where a stage was waiting to take me to Callender's Mill.
It was not until morning that I beheld my retreat, when little wisps of
vapour were straying over the surface of the lake, and the steep green
slopes that rose out of the water on the western side were still in
shadow. The hotel, a much overgrown and altered farm-house, stood,
surrounded by great trees, in an ancient clearing that sloped gently to
the water's edge, where an old-fashioned, octagonal summerhouse
overlooked a landing for rowboats. The resort, indeed, was a survival of
simpler times....
In spite of the thirty-odd guests, people of very moderate incomes who
knew the place and had come here year after year, I was as much alone as
if I had been the only sojourner. The place was so remote, so peaceful in
contrast to the city I had left, which had become intolerable. And at
night, during hours of wakefulness, the music of the waters falling over
the dam was soothing. I used to walk down there and sit on the stones of
the ruined mill; or climb to the crests on the far side of the pond to
gaze for hours westward where the green billows of the Alleghenies lost
themselves in the haze. I had discovered a new country; here, when our
trials should be over, I would bring Nancy, and I found distraction in
choosing sites for a bungalow. In my soul hope flowered with little
watering. Uncertain news was good news. After two days of an impatience
all but intolerable, her first letter arrived, I learned that the
specialists had not been able to make a diagnosis, and I began to take
heart again. At times, she said, Ham was delirious and difficult to
manage; at other times he sank into a condition of coma; and again he
seemed to know her and Ralph, who had come up from Southampton, where he
had been spending the summer. One doctor thought that Ham's remarkable
vitality would pull him through, in spite of what his life had been. The
shock--as might have been surmised--had affected the brain.... The
letters that followed contained no additional news; she did not dwell on
the depressing reactions inevitable from the situation in which she found
herself--one so much worse than mine; she expressed a continual longing
for me; and yet I had trouble to convince myself that they did not lack
the note of reassurance for which I strained as I eagerly scanned
them--of reassurance that she had no intention of permitting her
husband's condition to interfere with that ultimate happiness on which it
seemed my existence depended. I tried to account for the absence of this
note by reflecting that the letters were of necessity brief, hurriedly
scratched off at odd moments; and a natural delicacy would prevent her
from referring to our future at such a time. They recorded no change in
Ham's condition save that the periods of coma had ceased. The doctors
were silent, awaiting the arrival in this country of a certain New York
specialist who was abroad. She spent most of her days at the hospital,
returning to the hotel at night exhausted: the people she knew in the
various resorts around Boston had been most kind, sending her flowers,
and calling when in town to inquire. At length came the news that the New
York doctor was home again; and coming to Boston. In that letter was a
sentence which rang like a cry in my ears: "Oh, Hugh, I think these
doctors know now what the trouble is, I think I know. They are only
waiting for Dr. Jameson to confirm it."
It was always an effort for me to control my impatience after the first
rattling was heard in the morning of the stage that brought the mail, and
I avoided the waiting group in front of the honeycombed partition of
boxes beside the "office." On the particular morning of which I am now
writing the proprietor himself handed me a letter of ominous thickness
which I took with me down to the borders of the lake before tearing open
the flap. In spite of the calmness and restraint of the first lines,
because of them, I felt creeping over me an unnerving sensation I knew
for dread....
"Hugh, the New York doctor has been here. It is as I have feared for some
weeks, but I couldn't tell you until I was sure. Ham is not exactly
insane, but he is childish. Sometimes I think that is even worse. I have
had a talk with Dr. Jameson, who has simply confirmed the opinion which
the other physicians have gradually been forming. The accident has
precipitated a kind of mental degeneration, but his health, otherwise,
will not be greatly affected.
"Jameson was kind, but very frank, for which I was grateful. He did not
hesitate to say that it would have been better if the accident had been
fatal. Ham won't be helpless, physically. Of course he won't be able to
play polo, or take much active exercise. If he were to be helpless, I
could feel that I might be of some use, at least of more use. He knows
his friends. Some of them have been here to see him, and he talks quite
rationally with them, with Ralph, with me, only once in a while he says
something silly. It seems odd to write that he is not responsible, since
he never has been,--his condition is so queer that I am at a loss to
describe it. The other morning, before I arrived from the hotel and when
the nurse was downstairs, he left the hospital, and we found him several
blocks along Commonwealth Avenue, seated on a bench, without a hat--he
was annoyed that he had forgotten it, and quite sensible otherwise. We
began by taking him out every morning in an automobile. To-day he had a
walk with Ralph, and insisted on going into a club here, to which they
both belong. Two or three men were there whom they knew, and he talked to
them about his fall from the pony and told them just how it happened.
"At such times only a close observer can tell from his manner that
everything is not right.
"Ralph, who always could manage him, prevented his taking anything to
drink. He depends upon Ralph, and it will be harder for me when he is not
with us. His attitude towards me is just about what it has always been. I
try to amuse him by reading the newspapers and with games; we have a
chess-board. At times he seems grateful, and then he will suddenly grow
tired and hard to control. Once or twice I have had to call in Dr.
Magruder, who owns the hospital.
"It has been terribly hard for me to write all this, but I had to do it,
in order that you might understand the situation completely. Hugh dear, I
simply can't leave him. This has been becoming clearer and clearer to me
all these weeks, but it breaks my heart to have to write it. I have
struggled against it, I have lain awake nights trying to find
justification for going to you, but it is stronger than I. I am afraid of
it--I suppose that's the truth. Even in those unforgettable days at the
farm I was afraid of it, although I did not know what it was to be. Call
it what you like, say that I am weak. I am willing to acknowledge that it
is weakness. I wish no credit for it, it gives me no glow, the thought of
it makes my heart sick. I'm not big enough I suppose that's the real
truth. I once might have been; but I'm not now,--the years of the life I
chose have made a coward of me. It's not a question of morals or duty
it's simply that I can't take the thing for which my soul craves. It's
too late. If I believed in prayer I'd pray that you might pity and
forgive me. I really can't expect you to understand what I can't myself
explain. Oh, I need pity--and I pity you, my dear. I can only hope that
you will not suffer as I shall, that you will find relief away to work
out your life. But I will not change my decision, I cannot change it.
Don't come on, don't attempt to see me now. I can't stand any more than I
am standing, I should lose my mind."
Here the letter was blotted, and some words scratched out. I was unable
to reconstruct them.
"Ralph and I," she proceeded irrelevantly, "have got Ham to agree to go
to Buzzard's Bay, and we have taken a house near Wareham. Write and tell
me that you forgive and pity me. I love you even more, if such a thing is
possible, than I have ever loved you. This is my only comfort and
compensation, that I have had and have been able to feel such a love, and
I know I shall always feel it.--Nancy." The first effect of this letter
was a paralyzing one. I was unable to realize or believe the thing that
had happened to me, and I sat stupidly holding the sheet in my hand until
I heard voices along the path, and then I fled instinctively, like an
animal, to hide my injury from any persons I might meet. I wandered down
the shore of the lake, striking at length into the woods, seeking some
inviolable shelter; nor was I conscious of physical effort until I found
myself panting near the crest of the ridge where there was a pasture,
which some ancient glacier had strewn with great boulders. Beside one of
these I sank. Heralded by the deep tones of bells, two steers appeared
above the shoulder of a hill and stood staring at me with bovine
curiosity, and fell to grazing again. A fleet of white clouds, like ships
pressed with sail, hurried across the sky as though racing for some
determined port; and the shadows they cast along the hillsides
accentuated the high brightness of the day, emphasized the vivid and
hateful beauty of the landscape. My numbness began to be penetrated by
shooting pains, and I grasped little by little the fulness of my
calamity, until I was in the state of wild rebellion of one whom life for
the first time has foiled in a supreme desire. There was no fate about
this thing, it was just an absurd accident. The operation of the laws of
nature had sent a man to the ground: another combination of circumstances
would have killed him, still another, and he would have arisen unhurt.
But because of this particular combination my happiness was ruined, and
Nancy's! She had not expected me to understand. Well, I didn't
understand, I had no pity, in that hour I felt a resentment almost
amounting to hate; I could see only unreasoning superstition in the woman
I wanted above everything in the world. Women of other days had indeed
renounced great loves: the thing was not unheard of. But that this should
happen in these times--and to me! It was unthinkable that Nancy of all
women shouldn't be emancipated from the thralls of religious inhibition!
And if it wasn't "conscience," what was it?
Was it, as she said, weakness, lack of courage to take life when it was
offered her?.... I was suddenly filled with the fever of composing
arguments to change a decision that appeared to me to be the result of a
monstrous caprice and delusion; writing them out, as they occurred to me,
in snatches on the backs of envelopes--her envelopes. Then I proceeded to
make the draft of a letter, the effort required for composition easing me
until the draft was finished; when I started for the hotel, climbing
fences, leaping streams, making my way across rock faces and through
woods; halting now and then as some reenforcing argument occurred to me
to write it into my draft at the proper place until the sheets were
interlined and blurred and almost illegible. It was already three o'clock
when I reached my room, and the mail left at four. I began to copy and
revise my scrawl, glancing from time to time at my watch, which I had
laid on the table. Hurriedly washing my face and brushing my hair, I
arrived downstairs just as the stage was leaving....
After the letter had gone still other arguments I might have added began
to occur to me, and I regretted that I had not softened some of the
things I wrote and made others more emphatic. In places argument had
degenerated into abject entreaty. Never had my desire been so importunate
as now, when I was in continual terror of losing her. Nor could I see how
I was to live without her, life lacking a motive being incomprehensible:
yet the fire of optimism in me, though died down to ashes, would not be
extinguished. At moments it flared up into what almost amounted to a
conviction that she could not resist my appeal. I had threatened to go to
her, and more than once I started packing....
Three days later I received a brief note in which she managed to convey
to me, though tenderly and compassionately, that her decision was
unalterable. If I came on, she would refuse to see me. I took the
afternoon stage and went back to the city, to plunge into affairs again;
but for weeks my torture was so acute that it gives me pain to recall it,
to dwell upon it to-day.... And yet, amazing as it may seem, there came a
time when hope began to dawn again out of my despair. Perhaps my life had
not been utterly shattered, after all: perhaps Ham Durrett would get
well: such things happened, and Nancy would no longer have an excuse for
continuing to refuse me. Little by little my anger at what I had now
become convinced was her weakness cooled, and--though paradoxically I had
continued to love her in spite of the torture for which she was
responsible, in spite of the resentment I felt, I melted toward her. True
to my habit of reliance on miracles, I tried to reconcile myself to a
period of waiting.
Nevertheless I was faintly aware--consequent upon if not as a result of
this tremendous experience--of some change within me. It was not only
that I felt at times a novel sense of uneasiness at being a prey to
accidents, subject to ravages of feeling; the unity of mind that had
hitherto enabled me to press forward continuously toward a concrete goal
showed signs of breaking up:--the goal had lost its desirability. I
seemed oddly to be relapsing into the states of questioning that had
characterized my earlier years. Perhaps it would be an exaggeration to
say that I actually began to speculate on the possible existence of a
realm where the soul might find a refuge from the buffetings of life,
from which the philosophy of prosperity was powerless to save it....