“One more! just one more well paying affair, and I promise to stop;
really and truly to stop.”
“But, Puss, why one more? You have earned the amount you set for
yourself,--or very nearly,--and though my help is not great, in three
months I can add enough--”
“No, you cannot, Arthur. You are doing well; I appreciate it; in fact,
I am just delighted to have you work for me in the way you do, but you
cannot, in your present position, make enough in three months, or in
six, to meet the situation as I see it. Enough does not satisfy me.
The measure must be full, heaped up, and running over. Possible failure
following promise must be provided for. Never must I feel myself called
upon to do this kind of thing again. Besides, I have never got over the
Zabriskie tragedy. It haunts me continually. Something new may help to
put it out of my head. I feel guilty. I was responsible--”
“No, Puss. I will not have it that you were responsible. Some such end
was bound to follow a complication like that. Sooner or later he would
have been driven to shoot himself--”
“But not her.”
“No, not her. But do you think she would have given those few minutes
of perfect understanding with her blind husband for a few years more of
miserable life?”
Violet made no answer; she was too absorbed in her surprise. Was this
Arthur? Had a few weeks’ work and a close connection with the really
serious things of life made this change in him? Her face beamed at the
thought, which seeing, but not understanding what underlay this evidence
of joy, he bent and kissed her, saying with some of his old nonchalance:
“Forget it, Violet; only don’t let any one or anything lead you to
interest yourself in another affair of the kind. If you do, I shall have
to consult a certain friend of yours as to the best way of stopping this
folly. I mention no names. Oh! you need not look so frightened. Only
behave; that’s all.”
“He’s right,” she acknowledged to herself, as he sauntered away;
“altogether right.”