She returned his look. "I think--of stone. Up till to-day I've been a
woman of flesh and blood; but I'm not sure that I am any longer. You
can't kill the heart in a woman's body--and still expect her to _feel_."
"But, Edith--Edith darling--there's no reason why I _should_ have killed
the heart in your body when I never dreamed of doing you a wrong--that
is, an intentional wrong," he corrected.
"You knew you were doing _some_ woman a wrong--some future woman, the
woman you'd marry--as far back as when you took up what Billy Cummings
dropped from his dead hands--"
"Oh, that! That, dear, is nothing but the talk of feminist meetings. Men
are men, and women are women. You can't make one law for them both.
Besides, it's too big a subject to go into now."
"I'm not trying to. I wasn't thinking of men in general; I was thinking
only of you."
"But, good Lord, Edith, you don't think I've been better than any one
else, do you?"
Her forlorn smile made his heart ache. "I _did_ think so. I dare say it
was a mistake."
"It _was_ a mistake. If you hadn't made it--"
"But it was at least a mistake one can understand. I could hardly be
expected to take it for granted--whatever men may be, or may have the
right to be--that the man who asked me to marry him--and who made me
love him as I think few men have been loved by women--I could hardly
take it for granted that he was already keeping--and had been keeping
for years--and would keep for years to come--another--"
He moved impatiently. "But, I tell you, I couldn't get rid of her. I
couldn't shake her off--or pay her off--or do any of the usual things.
It was agreed between us before I married you--_long_ before I married
you--that everything was at an end. But, poor soul, she doesn't know
what an agreement is. There's something lacking in her. She's always
been like a child, and of late years she's been more so. If you knew her
as I do you'd be sorry for her."
"Oh, I _am_ sorry for her. Her whole mind is ravaged by suffering."
"I know it's my fault; but it isn't wholly or even chiefly my fault. A
woman like that has no right to suffer. She lost the privilege of
suffering when she became what she is. At any rate, she has no right to
haunt like a shadow the man who's befriended her--"
"But, I presume, she's befriended _him_. And--and continues to befriend
him--since that's the word."
He avoided her eyes, looking up the street and whistling tunelessly
beneath his breath.
"I said--_continues_ to befriend him," she repeated.
The tuneless whistling went on. She allowed him time to get the full
effect of her meaning. As far as she could see her way, her line of
action depended on his response. When he dodged the question she knew
what she would have to do.
"Look here, Edith," he said, at last, "the long and short of it is this.
She's on my hands--and I can't abandon her. I must see that she's
provided for, at the very least. Hang it all, she's--she's attached to
me; has been attached to me for more than ten years. I can't ignore
that; now, can I? And she's helpless. How can I desert her? I can't do
it, any more than I could desert a poor old faithful dog--or a baby. Can
I, now?"
"No; I dare say not."
"But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll undertake never to see her
again--of my own free will. I'll give you my word of honor--"