VI

Late one afternoon, about a month after, Lydia Maxwell was sitting in

her drawing-room at Westfield. An exquisite tea service stood on a table

close at hand. But tea had been served. At least the visitor who had

been spending the afternoon with her had drunk his and had been gone

about ten minutes. Her baby, left by the nurse on the way to her own

evening meal, was cooing on the sofa at her side, fended by pillows from

toppling over on its head, and provided with the latest novelties in

costly toys. The child was now nearly two, and her wardrobe was a credit

to her mother's decorative instincts. Lydia enjoyed the combination of

the infant and herself and spared no pains to produce an effective

picture on all occasions, whether the setting were the drawing-room, a

victoria, or a village cart. She counted on mounting Guendolen at the

earliest possible day on the tiniest of ponies as a picturesque hunting

attendant. Nor had her husband failed to appreciate what an opportunity

was here afforded for the artist. Six months earlier he had

threatened--the phrase was Lydia's--to have her and baby done by Sargent

on his next visit; in fact, Herbert had written to him. The offer had

been tempting from the point of view of immortality, but left alone with

the child, she had shaken her head and said:

"It would be lovely if it were just right, Guen, but he might take it

into his head to form a vicious conception of mamma. And as for you, he

couldn't help making you the speaking image of Grandma Maxwell. Living

pictures are safest for us, dear, for we can control the canvas."

Now she sat pensive and tense, her hands clasped in her lap. "Why do I

love him so?" she murmured under her breath, rebelling against the

consciousness which gripped her. Yet in another moment she asserted with

the abandonment of one defending his faith against all comers, "But how

I do love him!"

A jocund, inarticulate effort at conversation by the child reminded her

of its presence. Reaching out her hand, she felt the silky softness of

the delicate infantile locks, and then the dainty texture of the frilled

dress. Again she said, talking to herself: "The problem is, what will

become of you, cherub? You must go with me, of course--if I go."

Her baby cooed by way of response. There was a noise in the hall as of

someone arriving.

"A visitor for you, Guen," she said. Hurriedly leaning over, she raised

her finger as one would to hold the attention of a dancing dog, and gave

this cue for imitation.

"Say pa-a-pa--pa-a-pa."

The earlier lessons had been fairly learned, for after a brief struggle

the dawning intelligence freed itself in an unequivocal if throaty

reproduction of the pious salutation.

"You little pet! Now again."

"Pa-a-pa."

"At last. A sop to Cerberus," Lydia murmured.

The door opened and the master of the house entered. He had just come

back from an afternoon ride, and in the few minutes which had elapsed

since his return Lydia knew that he had been to the sideboard in the

dining-room--a man's way of alleviating despondency. His glance,

avoiding or ignoring his wife, sought eagerly the object which he

expected to find--his infant daughter. This was the bright spot in his

day. The baby acknowledged his advent by a crow and by shaking a solid

silver rattle. Maxwell, walking across to the other side of the room,

sat down and held out his arms invitingly. But Lydia intervened to defer

the customary toddling journey in order to exhibit her pupil's latest

accomplishment.

"Listen to her now, Herbert," she said, and gave the necessary signal.

"Pa-a-pa." The verisimilitude was undeniable.

Something very like a groan escaped Maxwell, though his countenance

lighted up. Was he thinking how happy he might have been had fate so

willed?

The performance was repeated successfully a second time; then the child

was despatched on her travels across the carpet. When she ran staggering

into her father's arms he folded her to his breast and pressed his lips

against the fair, silky tresses. She was accustomed to be thus cuddled

by him, though to-night there was an added fervor in his endearments,

owing to her efforts at speech. Meanwhile Lydia from her angle of the

sofa observed them in demure silence. She had given him an entrancing

quarter of an hour, for which she was thankful. Besides, it might put

off the evil day--the day of rupture, decision, breaking up of the

present anomalous domestic relations--which was impending. He had been

devoted, forbearing, unselfish, he had lavished on her every luxury, but

he was impassible. He did not divert or interest her; his serious side

lacked originality; his gayer moods were noisy and deficient in

subtlety; the reddish inelegance of his physique repelled her. But what

was to be the end? This was the riddle which for diverse reasons she had

yet failed to solve. Its solution must depend on the future words of

both of them, and she had had no final explanation with either. For the

present she would fain have things remain as they were, until she could

find the key.

The return of the nurse interrupted Maxwell's happiness. Grudgingly he

gave up his treasure. As soon as the child had been carried off, he

rose, and standing with his back to the blaze of the wood-fire, which

the first sharpness of autumn made agreeable, he faced his wife.

"I met Spencer coming from here."

"He stayed to tea."

"And was here all the afternoon?"

"You know he comes every afternoon."

"And nearly every morning?"

"Yes."

"What is to be the end of this, Lydia?"

She was preparing his tea, which he was accustomed to take after the

departure of Guendolen. "How do you wish to have it end?" she asked

presently.

"I would have you promise me never to see him again, and to go abroad

with me for two years. Let us change the scene entirely. You owe it to

me, Lydia, and to our child." This was no new discussion, but he was

making one last determined effort to counteract the influences working

against him.

"But you know I love him."

"So you have informed me. You have informed me also that it has stopped

there."

"It is true. Why, I scarcely know. Perhaps it would have been juster to

you if I had left you and gone to him."

"I do not understand."

"No matter, then."

"But you loved me once," he exclaimed resolutely. "That is, you told me

so."

"Yes, I told you so. And I did love you as I understood loving then. I

liked you, that's what it really was, and I liked the things which a

marriage with you brought me."

"You mean you married me for my money?"

"I did not know it at the time."

"What do you mean, then?"

Lydia clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back in her seat. "I

am trying to be frank with you," she said. "I am trying to make you the

only reparation in my power--to let you see me just as I am, just as I

see myself. We are what we are. I discovered that long ago."

He caught up this appeal to fatalism with a quicker appreciation of her

significance than he was wont to show.

"You need never see this man again unless you choose. You are my wife; I

am your husband. Does that stand for nothing?"

"I should choose to see him," she answered with low precision, ignoring

the rest. "There is the trouble."

He winced as though from a buffet. "Good God, Lydia, what have I done?

Is there anything within my power which you desired which I haven't

given you?"

"You have been very generous."

"Generous!" The word evidently galled him. "Do you realize that to

regain your love I would gladly sacrifice every dollar of the five

million I own?"

For a moment she made no response. The idea of living with a penniless

Maxwell was one which she had never entertained, and it made clearer to

her the hopelessness of her plight.

"I am not worth it, Herbert," she said gently.

He, too, paused, baffled and at a loss how to proceed. "You are so

cold," he asserted with an access of indignation.

"Cold?" The quality of the interrogation expressed the incredulity of

newly discovered self-knowledge.

"To me."

"Yes, to you, Herbert."

He bent his brow upon her. "I suppose if I had devoted myself to some

other woman I might not have lost you. I had hints enough from our kind

friends, which I ignored because I did not choose to soil our wedlock by

such a foul pretense." His conclusion betrayed the loyalty of his

emotions, but there was the sneer of gathering temper in his tone.

Lydia shook her head with a fastidious smile. "With some women that

might have been the remedy. It could have made no difference with me."

"It is not too late yet," he cried with loud-mouthed menace. "You forget

that I am human--that I am a man."

She raised the pages of a book beside her and let them fall gradually.

"You must do as you choose about that."

"Then what is the remedy?" he shouted.

"I used an inappropriate word. There is no remedy in our case."

"Lydia, you are goading me to ruin."

Striding up and down the room, he struck his leather breeches smartly

with his riding-crop--which he had brought from the hall because the

baby liked to play with it--so that they resounded. He halted before his

wife and exclaimed hoarsely:

"What are we to do, then?"

She had been warned by feminine innuendoes before marriage of the

Maxwell vehemence below the surface, and she perceived that their

affairs had reached a crisis.

"Sit down, Herbert, please. I cannot bear noise. If we are to arrange

matters, we must talk quietly in order to decide what is really best

under all the circumstances."

He gave an impatient twist to his head. "I wish you to know that I am

master here after this," he announced. Nevertheless, he walked to the

chair near the fireplace, which he had first occupied, and sitting down,

folded his arms.

"Well, what have you to say?"

"To begin with, Herbert, there is no escape for either of us from this

calamity. And you must not suppose that I do not realize how dreadful it

is for us both. So far as there is fault, it is mine. I ought never to

have married you. But the past is the past; I do not love you now; I can

never love you again."

"One way out of it," he said between his teeth, "would be to kill the

man you do love."

"How would that avail?"

"I have thought more than once of shooting him down like a dog," he

blurted.

Lydia shook her head. "You never could do that when it came to the

point. And in case of a duel, he is more handy than you. Besides, who

fights duels nowadays? And think of the newspapers! You know as well as

I that such a thing is out of the question--on Guen's account if for no

other reason. It would be blazoned all over the country."

"On Guen's account! Why did you not think of her before you sacrificed

us both?"

She looked back at him unruffled. "I am thinking of her now," she

replied with her finished modulation. "I have told you I am what I am."

"Do not repeat that shallow sophistry," he exclaimed fiercely. "You are

what you choose to be." But in the same breath he fell back in his seat

with the air of one confounded. Then, resting his elbow on the arm of

the chair and his cheek on his hand, he gazed at her from under his

reddish, beetling brows as one might gaze at the sphinx. "What, then, do

you suggest?" he asked wearily.

Lydia had shrugged her shoulders at his last stricture. Now raising

again the cover of the book beside her and letting the leaves slip

through her fingers, she replied slowly, "I suppose if you were a

foreign husband you would accept the inevitable and console yourself as

best you could. We should go our respective ways and ask no questions. I

should be discreet and--and things would remain as they are so far as

Guen is concerned."

"I see. But I am an American husband, and, though they have the

reputation of being the most accommodating in the world, they draw the

line at such an arrangement as you suggest."

"I thought very likely that you would. Then we must separate. Sooner or

later, I suppose, you will be entitled to a divorce, if you wish it."

There was a pause. "Where will you go?" he asked in a hollow tone.

"I have not thought," she answered.

It was the truth. Clever and discerning as she was, she had put off the

inevitable from day to day, basking in the glamour of the present. What

would her lover say? Would he be ready to venture all for her sake? to

throw convention to the winds and glory in their passion? She did not

know; she had never asked him. They had never discussed the future. She

needed time--time to think and time to ascertain. Then a sudden thought

seized her, and she spoke:

"I shall take Guen."

"Guen?" There were agony and revolting consternation in his exclamation.

"I am her mother. She is a mere baby. Am I not her natural guardian?"

He sprang to his feet. "I should not permit it!" he thundered. "I should

go to law; I should appeal to the courts."

[Illustration: "I should not permit it!" he thundered. "I should go to

law; I should appeal to the courts."]

Her wits showed themselves her allies. "But if you drive me from this

house, the courts will give her to me," she said triumphantly. "What,

after all, have I done? You are jealous, and you dismiss me. They will

let me have my baby."

The horror inspired by her cool, confident declaration choked his

utterance. He raised his riding crop in his clenched fist as though he

were impelled to strike her. "You--you--" he articulated, but no

suitable stigma was evolved by his seething brain. His arm fell, but he

stood with set teeth and bristling mien, like a wild boar at bay.

His fury had the effect of enhancing Lydia's appearance of calm. "There

is no use in getting excited. I'm only telling you what is likely to

happen if we have recourse to desperate measures. She's a girl, and I

brought her into the world--had all the stress of doing so. Why

shouldn't I have her? I've heard lawyers say that when parents separate

the courts consider what is for the best good of the children. Surely it

is for the best good of a baby girl of two that she should go with her

mother. That's the modern social view, Herbert, and a man has to make

the best of it."

As she proceeded Lydia had warmed to the plausible justice of her

argument. Recognizing that she had put herself in the best possible

position for the time being, she rose to go. Maxwell, gnawing at his

lips, stood pondering her dire words. The appalling intimation that he

might lose his precious child had numbed his senses with dread. He knew

his wife's cleverness, and that there must be some truth in her

statement. Might she not even at the moment be premeditating an attempt

to carry her away? Every other thought became at once subordinate to his

resolve to safeguard his treasure. As though he suspected that his wife

had risen under a crafty impulse to get the start of him, he blocked

her pathway by stepping between her and the door.

"I forbid you to touch her," he said frowningly. "She shall never leave

this house. I am going to give my orders now and they will be obeyed."

Maxwell stood for a moment as though waiting to see what response this

challenge would elicit, then, with a forbidding nod, he strode from the

room and shut the door after him.

His departure was a relief to Lydia. All she had desired was to be

alone. She dropped again upon the sofa and sat looking into space. There

was only one course: she must have an understanding with Harry Spencer.

What would he say? What was he prepared to do for her sake? She thought

to herself, "He said once that my time would come. It has come, and, as

he prophesied, I am just like the others--only more so. More so because

they might be ready to give him up; they might not have the courage to

persevere and sacrifice everything else for the one thing which is worth

while--love. And I thought it would never come--that I was cold, as

Herbert says, and likely to be bored all my life. Now, against my creed,

against my will it has come, and I cannot do without him." For a moment

she sat in reverie, then murmuring, "I must know--and the sooner the

better," she stepped to the desk with an impulsive movement and wrote.