“I didn’t know,” said she. “I feared-- I have acted _so_ badly toward
you.”
“No indeed,” replied I. “Don’t worry about those things. I hope you
feel as friendly toward me as I do toward you.”
“But you have always been good to me--even when I haven’t deserved it.”
This was most puzzling. Said I vaguely, “I guess we’ve both done the
best we could. Do you want to tell me to-day why you sent for me? Or
don’t you feel strong enough?”
“Yes--I wish to tell you to-day. But--it isn’t easy to say. I’m very
proud, Godfrey--and when I’ve been in the wrong it’s hard for me to
admit.”
“Oh, come now, Edna,” said I soothingly. “Let’s not rake up the past.
It’s finished--and it has left no hard feeling--at least not in me.
Don’t think of anything but of getting well.”
She lay gazing out into the gentle rain with the sunshine glistening
upon it. A few large tears rolled down her cheeks.
“There’s nothing to be unhappy about,” said I. “You are far on the way
to health. You are as lovely as ever. And you will get everything you
want.”
“Oh, it’s so hard to tell you!” she sighed.
“Then don’t,” I urged. “If there’s anything I can do for you, let me
know. I’ll be glad to do it.”
She covered her eyes with her thin, beautiful hand. “Love me--love me,
Godfrey--as you used to,” she sobbed.
I was dumbfounded. It seemed to me I could not have heard aright. I
stared at her until she lowered her hand and looked at me. Then I
hastily glanced away.
“I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted,” she went on. “I want you to take me
back. That was why I sent for you.”
I puzzled over this. Was she still out of her mind? Or was there some
other and sane--and extremely practical--reason behind this strange
turn?--for I could not for an instant imagine she was in sane and
sober earnest.
“You don’t believe me!” she cried. “No wonder. But it’s so, Godfrey. I
want your love--I want _you_. Won’t you--won’t you--take me--back?”
Her voice sounded pitifully sick and weak; and when I looked at her I
could not but see that to refuse to humor her would be to endanger her
life. I said:
“Edna, this is an utter surprise for me--about the last thing I
expected. I can’t grasp it--so suddenly. I--I-- Do you really mean it?”
“I really mean it, dear,” she said earnestly.
It was evident she, in her secret heart, was taking it for granted
that her news would be welcome to me; that all she had to do in order
to win me back as her devoted, enslaved husband was to announce her
willingness to come. I have often marveled at this peculiar vanity of
women--their deep, abiding belief in the power of their own charms--the
all but impossibility of a man’s ever convincing a woman that he does
not love her. They say hope is the hardiest of human emotions. I doubt
it. I think vanity, especially the sex vanity both of men and of women,
is far and away hardier than even hope. I saw she was assuming I would
be delighted, deeply grateful, ardently responsive as soon as I should
grasp the dazzling glad tidings. And she so ill and weak that I dared
not speak at all frankly to her.
She stretched out her hand for mine. I slowly took it, held it
listlessly. I did not know what to do--what to say.
“It is so good to have you again, dear,” she murmured. “Aren’t you
going to kiss me?”
“I don’t understand,” I muttered, dropping her hand and standing up to
gaze out over the gardens. “I am stunned.”
“I’ve been cruel to you,” she said with gracious humility. “Can you
ever forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. But--” There I halted.
“I’ll make up for it, dear,” she went on, sweetly gracious. “I’m not
surprised that you are stunned. You didn’t realize how I loved you. I
didn’t myself. I couldn’t believe at first when I found out.”
“You are not strong enough to talk about these things to-day,” said I.
“We’ll wait until----”
She interrupted my hesitating speech with a laugh full of gentle
gayety. “You’re quite wrong,” said she. “I’m not out of my mind. I mean
it, dear--and more. Oh, we shall be _so_ happy! You’ve been far too
modest about yourself. You don’t appreciate what a fascinating man you
are.”
I’m sure I reddened violently. I sat, rose, sat again. “You’ve given me
the shock of my life,” said I, with an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll have to
think this over.” I rose.
“No--don’t go yet,” said she, with the graciousness of a princess
granting a longer interview. “Let me tell you all about it.”
“Not to-day,” I pleaded. “You must be careful. You mustn’t overtax
yourself.”
“Oh, but _this_ does me good. Sit near me, Godfrey, and hold my hand
while I tell you.”
I felt like one closeted with an insane person and compelled to humor
his caprices. I obediently shifted to a seat near her and took her hand.
“You could never guess how it came about,” she went on.
As she was looking inquiringly at me, I said, “No.”
“It was very strange. For the first few weeks after the divorce--no,
not the divorce--but the decree--for it isn’t a divorce yet, thank
God!--for the first weeks I was happy--or thought I was. I went early
and late. I had never been so gay. I acted like a girl just launched in
society. I was in ecstasies over my freedom. Do you mind, dear? Does it
hurt you for me to say these things?”
“No--no,” said I. “Go on.”
“How queer you are! But I suppose you are dazed, poor dear. Never mind!
When I am better--stronger, I’ll soon convince you.” And she nodded and
smiled at me. “Poor dear! How cruel I have been!”
“Yes--we’ll wait till you are stronger,” stammered I, making a move to
rise.
“But I must tell you how it came about,” she said, detaining me. “All
of a sudden--when I was at my gayest--I began to feel strange and
sad--to dislike everyone and everything about me.”
“It was the illness working in you,” said I.
She gave the smile of gentle tolerance with which she received my
attempts at humor when she was in an amiable mood. “How like you that
is! But it wasn’t the illness at all. It was my inmost heart striving
to force open its door and reveal its secret. Do be a little romantic,
this once, dear.”
“Well--and then?”
“Then--a paragraph in one of the society papers. Some one sent it to me
anonymously. Was it you, dear?--and did you do it to make me jealous?”
She spoke as one who suddenly sees straight into a secret. “I didn’t,”
said I hastily. “It never entered my head to think you cared a rap
about me.”
“Now, don’t tease me, Godfrey, dear. You must have been making all
sorts of plans to win me back.”
“You read the item in the paper?” suggested I.
“Oh, yes--I must finish. I read it. And at first I shrugged my
shoulders and said to myself I didn’t in the least care. But I couldn’t
get the thing out of mind. Godfrey, I had always been too sure of you.
You never seemed to be a single tiny bit interested in other women. So
the thought of you and another woman had not once come to me. That item
put it there. You--_my_ husband--_my_ Godfrey and another woman! It was
like touching a match to powder. I went mad. I----”
She was sitting up, her eyes wild, her voice trembling. “You must not
excite yourself, Edna,” I said.
“I went mad,” she repeated, so interested in her emotions that she
probably did not hear me. “I rushed down to Margot. I fell ill. I made
her telegraph for you. Oh, how I suffered until I knew you were here.
If you hadn’t come right away I’d have cabled to my lawyer in New York
to have the divorce set aside--or whatever they do. I can have it set
aside any time up to the end of the six months, can’t I?”
“Yes,” admitted I, though her tone of positive knowledge made my reply
superfluous.
She seemed instinctively to feel a suspicion--an explanation of her
amazing about-face--that was slowly gathering in my bewildered mind.
She drew from the folds of her negligee a note and handed it to me. She
said:
“I haven’t confessed the worst I had done. Read that.”
“Never mind,” said I. “I don’t wish to know.”
“But I wish you to know,” insisted she. “There mustn’t be anything dark
between us.”
I reluctantly opened the note and read. It was from Prince
Frascatoni--not the cold bid for a break that my suspicion expected
but a passionate appeal to her not to break their engagement and throw
him over. I could by no reach of the imagination picture that calm,
weary-eyed man of the world writing those lines--which shows how ill
men understand each other where women are concerned.
“He sent me that note the day I came here,” said she. “I did not answer
it.” Her tone was supreme indifference--the peculiar cruelty of woman
toward man when she does not care.
“You were engaged to him?” said I--because I could think of nothing
else to say.
“Yes,” said she. Then with the chaste pride of the “good” woman, “But
not until after the decree was granted. He would have declared himself
in New York, but I wouldn’t permit _that_. At least, Godfrey, I never
forgot with other men that I was your wife--or let them forget it. You
believe me?”
“I’m sure of it,” said I.
She gazed dreamily into vacancy. “To think,” she mused, “that I
imagined I could marry him--_any_ man! How little a woman knows her own
heart. I always loved you. Godfrey, I don’t believe there is any such
thing as divorce--not for a good woman. When she gives herself”--in a
dreamy, musical voice, with a tender pressure of my hand--“it is for
time and for eternity.”
Never in all my life had I so welcomed anyone as I welcomed the
interrupting nurse. I felt during the whole interview that I was under
a strain; until I was in the open air and alone I did not realize how
terrific the strain. I walked--on and on, like a madman--vaulting gates
and fences, scrambling over hedges, plowing through gardens, leaping
brooks--on and on, hour after hour. What should I do? What _could_ I
do? Nothing but wait until she was out of danger, wait and study away
at this incredible, impossible freak of hers--try to fathom it, if it
was not the vagary of a diseased mind. I wished to believe it that,
but I could not. There was nothing of insanity in her manner, and from
beginning to end her story was coherent and plausible. Plausible, but
not believable; for I had no more vanity about her loving me than has
the next man when he does not want the love offered him and finds it
inconvenient to credit, and so is in the frame of mind to see calmly
and clearly.
I wandered so far that I had to hire a conveyance at some village
at which I halted toward nightfall. As soon as I was at the house I
ordered my valet to pack, and wrote Edna a note saying that neglected
business compelled me to bolt for London. “But I’ll be back,” I wrote,
at the command of human decency. “I feel that I can go, as you are
almost well.” Half an hour later I was in the train for London.
A letter, feebly scrawled, came from her the next day but one--a brief
loving note, saying that she understood and that I knew how eagerly she
was looking forward to my return--“but don’t worry, dearest, about me.
I shall soon be well, now that my conscience is clear and all is peace
and love between us. I know how you hate to write letters, but you will
telegraph me every day.”
* * * * *
How I got through those next few weeks I cannot tell. I had no sense of
the reality of the world about me or of my own thoughts and actions.
Every once in a while--sometimes when I was talking with the men
whose company I sought, again when I was alone in bed and would start
abruptly from sleep--I pinched myself or struck myself violently to
see if I was awake. Edna’s letters were daily and long. I read them,
stared at them, felt less certain than ever of my sanity or of my being
awake. I sent her an occasional telegram, dictated to Rossiter--a vague
sentence of congratulation on her better health or something of that
kind. Soon this formality degenerated to a request to Rossiter: “And
telegraph Mrs. Loring.” Or he would say, “Shall I send Mrs. Loring a
telegram?” and I would reply, “Yes--do please.”
It was obviously necessary that I should not see her before she was
well enough to be talked to frankly. I invented excuses for staying
away until my ability in that direction gave out. Then Rossiter, best
of secretaries, divining my plight, came to the rescue. I gave him
a free hand. He went too far, created in her predisposed mind the
illusion that I was champing with impatience at the business that
persisted in keeping me away from her. I do not blame him; he took the
only possible course.
At last she was completely restored. The doctors and nurses could find
no pretext for lingering, and that in itself was proof positive of her
health and strength. She was having her meals with the family, was
attending to her correspondence, was alarmed because she was taking on
flesh so rapidly. She began offering to join me in London. When she
wrote that she was starting the next day I telegraphed her not to come;
and, after four more days of delay on various excuses, I went down. I
should have liked to postpone this interview a week or ten days. Again
I see you smiling at me, posing as madly in love with Mary Kirkwood yet
able to put off the joy of being free to go to her. But, gentle reader,
you must not forget that I had first to deal with Edna. And, from what
you have learned of her, do you think I was wise or foolish to wish to
meet her only when she could not possibly prevent candor by pleading a
remnant of invalidism?
She was charmingly dressed to receive me, rushed forward before them
all and flung her arms around my neck in a graceful, effusive fashion
she had learned on the Continent. I received the shock as calmly
as I could, noting the awkwardly concealed surprise of Margot and
Hugh. We had lunch; she did most of the talking--a gay, happy-hearted
rattling--the natural expression of a woman with not a care in the
world. And I-- In spite of myself I felt like an executioner come to
assassinate an unsuspicious and innocent victim. For the best side of
her was to the fore, and all the unpleasant traits were so thoroughly
concealed that they seemed to have been burned up in that terrible
fever. I _knew_ they were still there, but I could not _feel_ it.
When we were alone in her sitting room, she said:
“Where’s your valet and your luggage?”
“In London,” said I.
“Oh, they’re coming on a later train.”
“No,” said I, seizing this excellent opportunity. “I’m going back this
afternoon.”
She gave a cry of dismay. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it a shame!”
Then, rushing to the bell, “I’ll have my things got ready. I’ll go back
with you. You shan’t be left alone, dearest.”
I seated myself. “Don’t ring,” I said. “Wait till we’ve talked the
matter over.”
“I see you can’t really believe--even yet,” cried she laughingly. “I
must convince you.” And she rang the bell.
“When your maid comes, send her away,” said I. “Don’t order her to
pack. You can’t go with me.”
She looked at me anxiously. “How solemn you are!” she cried. “Has
something gone wrong in that business?”
“Nothing,” said I. The maid came, was sent away. Edna moved toward me,
would have sat in my lap or on the arm of my chair had I not prevented
her by rising on the pretext of lighting a cigarette.
“You are very--very--strange,” said she. Then advancing toward me and
gazing into my face, “Godfrey, there wasn’t any truth in that item--was
there?” She looked like a sweet, lovely slip of a girl, all tenderness
and sincerity.
“I’ve come to discuss our affairs--not malicious newspaper gossip,”
said I, fighting for my usual manner of good-humored raillery. “First,
tell me what is the meaning of this outburst of affection for me?
Aren’t you satisfied with the settlements?”
“Oh, Godfrey, what a cynic you are!” laughed she. Then with an air of
earnestness that certainly was convincing, she said: “Can’t you _feel_
that I love you?”
“I cannot,” replied I blandly. “On the contrary, I _know_ that you care
nothing about me. So let’s talk business as we always have.”
She did not rave and vow and swear. She did not show the least
excitement. She seated herself and, fixing upon me a look which I can
only describe as tenacious, she said:
“Whether you believe me or not, I love you. And I shall not give you
up.”
My internal agitation instantly cleared away. I am always nervous about
crossing a bridge until my foot touches it; thenceforth I am too busy
crossing to bother about myself. “Well--what do you propose?” said I.
“To be your wife,” replied she. “To show you how sorry I am for the
way I have acted, to show you by thinking only of making you happy.”
“Yes? And what will you _do_ to make me happy?”
“Look after your comfort--your home, Godfrey.”
“But you don’t know about that sort of thing,” said I. “You know only
how to make a house attractive to other people. You are far too fine
for a private housekeeper.”
“I shall learn,” said she sweetly. “Those things are not difficult.”
I smiled at this unconscious confession of incapacity to learn the most
difficult of all the arts. “You will practice on me, eh? Thank you--but
no. You wouldn’t make me comfortable. You’d only harass yourself and
deprive me of comfort--and for years. ‘Those things’ are less easy than
you imagine. You are set in your ways, I in mine.”
“You don’t realize,” protested she confidently. “You must be lonely,
Godfrey. You need companionship--sympathy. I can give it to you
now--for, I am awake at last. I know my own mind and heart.”
I shook my head. “That sounds well, but what does it _mean_? Next
door to nothing, my friend. You and I are not interested in the same
things. We’ve nothing to talk about. I don’t know the things you
know--the social, the fashionable side of life. You don’t know my side
of life--and you couldn’t and wouldn’t learn enough to interest me.
Any forced interest you might give would bore me. Pardon my frankness,
but this is no time for polite falsehoods. The fact is we’ve outgrown
each other. When we look out of our eyes, each of us sees an entirely
different world; and neither of us cares about or even believes in the
other’s world. We talk, only to irritate. We are absolutely and finally
apart. It would be impossible for us to live together.”
She waited until I finished. I doubt if she listened. It was her habit
not to listen to what she did not wish to hear. “Godfrey--Godfrey!” she
cried, battling with the sobs that rose, perhaps in spite of her. “Do I
mean nothing to you--I who have been everything to you? Does the word
wife mean nothing to you?”
“You mean nothing to me,” replied I. “And I mean nothing to you. Let us
not pretend to deceive ourselves.”
“But you did care about me once,” she pleaded. “I am not old and faded.
I still have all the charms I used to have--yes, and more. Isn’t that
so, dear?”
“You are more beautiful than you ever were,” said I. “But--you’ve
gotten me out of the habit of you. And I couldn’t go back to it if I
would.”
She buried her face in her hands and wept.
“At your old tricks,” said I impatiently. “It has always been your way
to try to make me seem in the wrong. As a matter of fact, you lost
years ago--lost before I did--all interest and taste for our life
together. It was you who ended our married life, not I.”
“Yes, it was all my fault,” she sobbed. “Forgive me, dear. Take me
back. Don’t cast me off. I’ll be whatever you say--do whatever you
wish. Only take me back!”
I could not make an inch of progress toward the real motive behind this
obviously sincere plea. As I sat silent, looking at her and puzzling,
she began to hope that she had moved me. No--rather, she began to feel
stronger in her deep rooted conviction that at bottom I loved her and
had never wavered. She came across the room, dropped to her knees
beside my chair and hid her face in my lap. Why is it that passion once
extinguished can never light again? As she knelt there I appreciated
all her physical charms; but I was appreciative with that critical
calmness which is the absence of all feeling. I laid my hand on hers.
“Edna,” I said, “what _is_ the meaning of this?”
“I am telling you the truth, Godfrey,” replied she, lifting her
gold-brown eyes to gaze at me. “As God is my judge, I am telling you
the truth.”
“No doubt you think you are,” said I diplomatically. “But your good
sense must tell you that there’s something wrong.”
“Yes--with you,” was her answer in a sad tone. “I hoped we could begin
to be happy at once. I see now that I’ve got to win you back.”
I concealed my panic behind an amused laugh. “I suppose I’ve misled
you into forming this poor estimate of my intelligence where you are
concerned,” said I. “You have thought all these years that, because I
said nothing, I did not understand. The truth is, for many years I have
understood you thoroughly, Edna. You doubt it. You say to yourself,
‘If he had understood, he would have been furious and would not have
allowed me to use him as a mere pocketbook.’”
Up she started, wounded to the quick. “Godfrey!” she cried. “How you
hurt! Oh, my dear--spare me. If you had such a low opinion of me, don’t
tell me about it. Perhaps I deserve your contempt. God knows, I thought
I was doing right. Don’t be harsh with me, dearest. I am only a woman,
after all.”
I shook my head smilingly. “Drop it,” said I. “You are entirely too
strong a person to be able to hide behind a plea of weakness. I have
let you use me for your own selfish pleasure all these years because
I did not especially care. Also, it kept you away from me--which was
highly agreeable to us both.”
The anguish in her eyes, whether it was genuine or not, looked so
sincere that I avoided her gaze.
“But,” I went on, “I’m no longer in the mood to be used. You got
through with me, as you thought, and divorced me and prepared to marry
a man more to your liking----”
“Godfrey--you needn’t be jealous of him--of anyone!”
I made a gesture of resigned despair. Jealous! Her vanity rampant.
It had seized upon an insignificant phrase and had found what it was
eagerly looking for. “I am not jealous of him,” said I, “though it
would be useless for me to try to convince you. Still, I repeat--I
am not jealous. I was merely saying that you have cast me off, that
I choose to regard your action as final, that I shall not let you
fasten on me again simply because your selfishness and vanity happen to
discover a new value in me. Do I make my position clear?”
“I see I can’t convince you of what’s in my heart,” said she with sweet
resignation. “I had no right to expect it--to hope for it. But my life
will convince you, Godfrey. I shall win you back!”
I retained my appearance of calmness. But I was the reverse of calm.
I appreciated that she had me in her power. So far as I could judge,
she was not after more money, but was under the spell of some form of
hysteria that gave her the delusion of an actual desire to love me and
to be loved by me. As she had a fortune in her own right, and a large
one, I was without means of controlling her. I could not compel her to
stick to her bargain and make the divorce legally final; and, even if I
had been so disposed I had no ground for a divorce from her unless she
should be consenting and assisting.
“If you cared for another woman, I might despair,” she went on. “But
you don’t. My heart tells me that you don’t.”
Should I tell her? I strangled the impulse as it was born; my common
sense lost no time in reminding me of the folly of that course.
“I’ll be so utterly yours, Godfrey,” she went on, “that you’ll simply
_have_ to love me.”
I rose. “Let’s have no more of this nonsense,” said I. “Understand,
once for all, Edna, the day when you can use me is past--gone forever.
You are free--and so am I. We will annoy each other no more.”
She faced me, her bosom heaving, her widening eyes scrutinizing me.
And what I saw in them made me quail. For there shone the arch-fiend
jealousy. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed at last. “It must be another woman!”
I laughed--not pleasantly, I imagine. “Is there no end to your vanity?”
said I.
“Another woman,” she repeated dazedly. “If that weren’t true you
couldn’t treat me harshly--you would want me back--would love me----”
“If there were not another woman on earth, I would not go back to you,”
said I.
But what woman would believe that of a man--especially of one upon whom
she had put her private brand? She said in the same slow ferocious way:
“Some woman has hold of you--is getting ready to make a fool of you.”
I laughed--nervously watching her mind dart from woman to woman of
those we knew.
“Ah--you can’t deceive me!” she cried. “Mary Kirkwood! She has been
stealing you away from me. And you, a fool like all men where women are
concerned, can’t see through her.” Edna laughed wildly. “But she has
_me_ to reckon with now. I’ll show her!”
“Mrs. Kirkwood is engaged to Hartley Beechman,” said I.
“A nobody of a novelist,” said Edna. “That’s a mere blind. She’s after
_you_. After _my_ husband--the man _I_ love! We’ll see!”
Again I laughed--and I am sure my counterfeit of indifference was
successful. “Have it your way,” said I. “But the fact remains that you
and I are done with each other.”
“I shall set aside the divorce,” said she.
“As you please,” replied I, lighting a cigarette and preparing to leave
the room. “If you are not content with the terms of settlement you can
have more money. If that----”
“Why _do_ I love you?” cried she, all softness and piteous appeal
again. “You who are so base that you think only of money! What weakness
for me to love you! Yet, God help me, I do--I do! Godfrey----”
“I am going back to London,” said I.
She stretched out her arms, and her face was a grief-stricken appeal
for mercy. “You can’t be so cruel to me--your Edna.”