THE FORSAKEN GARDEN
It's pleasant, on the whole, to do something worth doing; to make grass
grow where it has never grown before; to put the last touch to a
canoe-paddle of exactly the right weight and balance; to bring to
something approximating one's ideal of a sound sentence the last
stubborn, maddening clutter of words in a manuscript that has grown from
a pen-scratch on the back of an envelope into a potential book. And Tom
Kirkwood was not without his sense of satisfaction. He had without
litigation straightened the Sycamore Company's financial tangles. Its
physical deficiencies were being remedied and its service brought to
standard. He had never in his life felt so conscious of his powers. He
was out of debt--having paid back two thousand dollars Amzi had loaned
him in the fall, after Phil had raised the red flag of danger in their
affairs. The load was off his back; men spoke to him in the street with
a new cordiality; the "Evening Star," in an excess of emotion following
the taking-over of the First National Bank by Amzi and all the moving
incidents connected with the drama of Main Street's greatest day,--the
"Evening Star" had without the slightest provocation, declared that the
Honorable Thomas Kirkwood was just the man for governor. The Desbrosses
Trust & Guaranty Company had not only paid him handsomely, but was
entrusting him with the rehabilitation of a traction company in Illinois
that was not earning dividends.
He came back to Montgomery to try some cases at the April term of court
and sent his trunk to the Morton House.
"It isn't square, daddy," said Phil, breaking in upon him at his office
on the day of his arrival. "We were to open the house again when you
had finished at Indianapolis. And here you are, not even telling me you
were coming."
The office was dingier and dustier than ever. She abused him for not at
least giving her a chance to clean it against his coming.
"I have to be off again in a week; it didn't seem worth while to put you
to the trouble of opening the house just for that," he replied
evasively. His own affairs again occupied his mind, and the sight of
Phil gave a keen edge to his curiosity as to her life at Amzi's.
"Your new suit is certainly some clothes, and a glimpse of that
four-in-hand makes the world a nobler and better place to live in! If
the Indianapolis boulevards can do that for you, it's too bad I didn't
know it long ago. I have an idea"--and she paused pensively in the act
of dusting a chair--"I'm a good deal worried by the idea that you ought
to be mussed!"
He pleaded mockingly for mercy, calling attention to her inconsistency
in admiring his raiment while at the same time threatening it with
destruction.
"You seem to have been to the dressmaker yourself. How's your bank
account, Phil? I suppose your uncle will have to be more careful about
overdrafts now that he has a national bank."
"Oh, I'm not broke. And"--suddenly serious--"I must tell you something,
daddy. I've been waiting for a chance to ask you if you cared; it didn't
seem right not to ask you; and, of course, if you mind, I _won't_."
He smiled at her earnestness, her unusual indirection. She was immensely
grown up; there were new manifestations of her otherwiseness. He noted
little sophisticated tricks of manner that reminded him vaguely of some
one else.
"Amy says it's all right for me to do it, but that I must ask you; and
mamma says that, too."
Her preluding roused apprehensions. What might not have happened in
these weeks that Phil had spent with Lois? He observed his daughter
with a new intentness. She drew a handkerchief from her sleeve and
touched it lightly, with an un-Phil-like gesture to her nose; and an
instant later, with an almost imperceptible movement of her head,
resettled her hat. She had acquired--quite unconsciously he did not
question--a new air. She was his old Phil, but the portrait had been
retouched here and there, and was reminiscent in unaccountable ways of
some one else very like and very different.
"Yes, Phil, come out with it," he said, finding her eyes upon him in a
wide, unseeing gaze--and that, too, he now remembered. She had taken on,
as young girls do, the superficial graces and innocent affectations of
an older person. Such perfectly natural and pardonable imitation is
induced by admiration; and Lois had been a woman of fascinations in old
times! He had no reason for believing that she had changed; and it had
been clear to him that first day of Lois's return that she had laid
strong hold upon Phil's imagination.
"Mamma wants to give me some money: she has already done some nice
things for me. She bought this hat and suit; but she wants to do more."
Kirkwood frowned. Lois had no right to come back and steal Phil away
from him. He was at once jealous, suspicious. He, too, had assumed that
Lois's return had not been voluntary; that she had come back of
necessity and flung herself upon Amzi's charity. It would be quite like
her to try to tempt Phil with a handful of trinkets.
"It isn't likely that she has much to give you; but before you accept
anything of importance you should be sure that it's a proper gift for
her to offer, that she can afford to do it."
"There doesn't seem to be any question about that, daddy. What she wants
to do is to give me a whole lot of money--enough to make me really rich.
She wants to put one hundred thousand dollars in a trusteeship for me."
There was consternation in his quick glance. Nothing in his knowledge of
Lois justified a belief that she would ever, by any proper and
reputable means, command any such sum.
"You must be mistaken, Phil. You must have got the figures wrong. It's
more likely a thousand. You know mathematics was never a strong point
with you!"
"It's this way, you see, daddy. She made a lot of money--in lucky
investments--mines, real estate, and things like that. She told me a
little about it; as though it were a great joke. But she is very clever;
she did it all by herself--and no one knows it, except just Amy; and she
told me I might tell you, so you'd understand. She even said to say to
you--" and Phil paused, knitting her brows. To be repeating as from a
stranger a message from her mother to her father was a fresh phase of
the unreal situation created by her mother's return. "She said to tell
you she came by it honestly; that it wasn't tainted money!"
And Phil laughed nervously, not knowing how her father would take this.
He seemed depressed, in the old familiar fashion; and she could not know
the reason of it, or that the magnitude of his former wife's resources
and her wish to divide with her daughter rallied all manner of
suspicions round his jealousy.
"She said that either Amy could manage it for me, or that if you liked
she would be perfectly willing to turn it over to you. She was very kind
about it, daddy; really she was."
"I'm not questioning that, Phil. It's a little staggering, that's all."
"But, of course," she ran on eagerly, "it wouldn't make any difference
between you and me. I know you have done everything for me. Please don't
ever think I forget that, daddy. And if you have any feeling about it,
please say no. I don't want money, just to be having it. We've always
agreed that money isn't the main thing in life."
"It's rather necessary, though, as we've found by experience," he
replied, with a rueful smile. "I've done pretty badly, Phil; but things
are brighter. I'm able now to begin putting some money away for you
myself, and I shall do it, of course, just the same. But as to your
mother's offer, you must accept it; it's a large sum, far more than I
could ever command. It makes you independent; it changes the future for
you, puts things within your reach that have been clear out of the
question. And it's very generous on her part to tell you to refer the
matter to me. I assume," he added, "that she's keeping enough for
herself; there might be some difficulty later on if she didn't do that."
"Oh," said Phil, with an unconscious note of pride that did not escape
him, "she has plenty; she's richer, I suppose, than almost anybody
around here. She didn't ask me not to tell you anything--she's not like
that--so you may as well know that she gave Amy a lot of money to help
him set up the new bank. It's so funny that I can't help laughing. The
whole family--one's aunts, I mean--think she came back to sponge off of
Amy, and they don't know she's going to own almost as much as he does in
the new Montgomery National. I get to giggling when I see those women
strutting by the house with their chins up, but mamma doesn't pay the
least attention. I don't believe she thinks about them at all; she's had
the house fixed over--pitched a lot of Amy's old furniture into the
alley--and is having the garden done by a landscape gardener she
imported from Chicago. And those poor women are fretting themselves to
death, thinking it's Amy's money she's spending. Yesterday she ordered a
seven thousand dollar automobile by telegraph,--just like that!--and
when it anchors in front of Amy's gate there'll be some deaths from
heart failure in that neighborhood."
Kirkwood's sometime sisters-in-law had been three sharp thorns in his
side; and Phil's joy at the prospect of their discomfiture when they
beheld their sister rolling about in an expensive motor was not without
justification. Lois's prosperity was, however, deeply mystifying. It
flashed upon him suddenly that he did not in the least know this Lois of
whom Phil had been speaking: she was certainly not the young woman,
scarcely out of her girlhood, who had so shamelessly abandoned him. And
over this thought stumbled another: he had never known her! As he
reflected, his eyes roamed to a large calendar on the wall over Phil's
head. This was the 12th of April, his wedding-day. The date interested
him only passively; it had long ago ceased to affect him emotionally.
He meant to speak to Nan before he left town and endeavor once more to
persuade her that Lois's return had made no difference. As he swung idly
in his chair he sought to analyze his feelings. Those little tricks of
manner that Phil imitated so unconsciously kept recurring and he tried
to visualize the Lois of the present as she must be;--clever, impulsive
in her generosities, heedless, indifferent. In all his conjecturing
since Christmas he had experienced no longing to have her back; nothing
beyond a mild impersonal curiosity as to how time had dealt with her.
The success that had attended his labors had strengthened all the fibers
of his will; he was the master of himself, a man again. He had
demonstrated to his own surprise and satisfaction that he could devise a
plan and put it through; that he could bring an iron hand to his
dealings with men. And buoyed up by this fresh knowledge he was
impatient at the frustration of any of his plans and hopes. Lois had
shaken down the pillars of his life once; but she could not repeat that
injury. He had built himself a new argosy and found a new companion for
his voyaging. Nan should marry him; if she liked they would remove to
Indianapolis to escape gossipy tongues; but he had definitely determined
that the marriage should not be delayed. He was a free man and he meant
to exercise and enjoy his freedom. He had taken soundings where he had
gone down on that first venture and touched nowhere any trace of the
wreck; the waters of oblivion rippled listlessly over those unmarked
shoals.
He swung round with an uncomfortable sense that Phil had been watching
him as she bent forward, her elbow resting on the arm of one of the old
office chairs, her hand against her cheek. That had been one of Lois's
ways and Phil's brown eyes were very like Lois's! He did not want Phil
to attribute his long reverie to retrospective regrets or present
longings.
"Well, Phil; I've got to go to the court-house to see Judge Walters.
About that money, it's perfectly right for you to accept it; but I think
it best that your Uncle Amzi should have the care of it. It's a
considerable responsibility, however, and you must let him know that you
appreciate his doing it; and I'll speak to him about it myself. If
you're going home you can walk as far as the court-house with me."
He had spoken briskly, to emphasize his own indifference to Lois and her
money.
While Kirkwood was collecting some papers, Phil, after moving restlessly
about and glancing down at Amzi--he happened just then to be standing on
the bank steps talking to an agent of the Comptroller's office who had
been dispatched from Washington to observe the metamorphosis of the
First National into the Montgomery National,--Phil, with an
embarrassment that was new to her relations with her father, asked
diffidently,--
"Shall I say anything to mamma--I mean about the money?"
This was not at all what she had meant to say. She had hoped that he
would send some message to her mother. It was incredible that the wires
should be so utterly broken between them as to make all communication
impossible. They were both so much to her liking; in her own heart
admiration and love enfolded them both so completely that her spirit
chafed at the thought of standing first with one and then with the other
on the respective sides of the barricade that had risen between them.
Her father replied brusquely:--
"No; that's all, I believe, Phil."
As they walked toward the court-house, Lois passed on the opposite
sidewalk. It is not against Montgomery conventions to nod to friends
across Main Street or even to pause and converse across that
thoroughfare if one is so disposed. Phil nodded to her mother. She was
unable to tell whether her father was conscious that his former wife
was so near; he lifted his hat absently, seeing that Phil was speaking
to some one.
"By the way, Phil, have you been in the house lately--the old place, I
mean? Amzi's carpenter tells me the wind has torn off the water-spouts
and that the veranda posts have rotted badly."
He had so rarely mentioned the long-abandoned house that she was
startled. He did not care! This was the most conclusive proof possible
that he no longer cared; and the thought of it did not make her happy.
Clearly Love was not, after all, a limitless dominion, without other
bounds than those set by the farthest stars, but a narrow, dark, and
unstable realm. That these two should dwell in the same town, walk the
same street, at the same hour, without any desire to see and speak to
each other, was the strangest of phenomena.
"Drop in to-morrow and have luncheon with me at the hotel. I want to see
all of you I can while I'm here," he remarked when they reached the
court-house.
"Very well, daddy."
That evening, after he had eaten the hotel supper with a printed brief
for company, Kirkwood went to the Bartletts', but no one answered his
summons and he turned away disappointed. Thinking they were probably at
some neighbor's house he decided to walk about and return later. His
idle roaming led him past Center Church. It was prayer-meeting night,
and through the open windows floated a hymn sung waveringly by the small
gathering of the faithful. It was here, on just such an April night,
that he and Lois had sworn to love and cherish each other to the end of
their days. He had been profoundly moved that night, standing before the
reverend president of the college in the crowded church and repeating
his vows after the kindly, lovable old man. And he remembered how, as
they left the church, the assembled students had shown their good-will
in ringing cheers. But these memories had lost their poignancy. Verily,
he did not care!
Finding himself presently before Amzi's house, he remembered without
emotion that Lois was established there. It was an ironic fling of the
dice that had brought her back prosperous and presumably happy to lure
Phil away from him! He walked slowly; the proximity of his recreant wife
gave him neither pang nor thrill. He loitered that the test might be the
more complete.
A man had been walking toward him from the farther side of the
Montgomery place, and something furtive in his movements caused Kirkwood
to pause. Then, after halting uncertainly and fumbling at the chain that
held the Kirkwood gate together, the man retraced his steps, and
guardedly let himself into the Fosdicks' yard. Kirkwood listened, and
hearing no further sounds dismissed the matter. It now occurred to him
to visit his own property, whose decrepitude Amzi had brought to his
attention, and finding that he had matches and the house key, he lifted
the chain from the rickety gate and passed into the garden. Kirkwood was
preoccupied with the idea of putting the house and lot in order and
selling it. Now that he was confident that it no longer held any
associations for him, he was in haste to be rid of it. He would sell the
place and invest the proceeds for Phil. He smiled ironically as he
remembered the disparity between his own fortunes and those of his
former wife. He did not resent her prosperity; he did not understand it;
but if it was the way of the gods to visit fortune upon the unrighteous,
so much the worse for the gods.
A brick walk curved round the house, and as he was about to step from it
to the veranda he heard voices that came seemingly from the jutting
corner of a wing that had been his library. He had no wish to be found
there. Very likely the yard was visited frequently by prowlers; and
there was a beaten path across the rear which had been for years a short
cut between Amzi's and his sisters' houses. He was in no mood for a
meeting with any intruder who might be there at this hour, and he was
about to steal back the way he had come when a man's voice rose
suddenly in anger. A woman replied, evidently counseling a lower tone.
"Here in Tom's graveyard is a fitting place to talk over our affairs.
You needn't be in such a hurry to go. We may as well fix this thing up
now and be done with it. I'm broke; I haven't got a cent, and it's
tough, I can tell you. But it's some satisfaction to know that Will's
broke, too. I took care that he got his, all right. The Holtons are all
down and out. Will's as poor as I am, and my gay nephew Charlie's busy
dodging the sheriff. Not much left for Will now but to go out and rustle
for life insurance--the common fate of inglorious failure."
The woman's voice rose crisp and assured on the tender spring air.
"Your note said it was something of importance. I can't stay here all
night. I haven't any money for you and your family troubles don't
interest me. And let me say, once and for all, that I don't propose to
have you following me round. This is a big world and there's room in it
for both of us."
Kirkwood could not see them, though he heard perfectly every word that
had been spoken, and he could not escape without attracting their
attention.
"See here, Lois, I've just heard a whisper from Seattle that you cleaned
up a lot of money out there. Good joke on me, wasn't it? I thought you
were pretty thick with the Barkleys, but I didn't know he had let you
into his deals. I want my share; if it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't
have known Seattle was on the map. It's only fair; I'll call it fifty
thousand and let it go at that."
"Nothing; absolutely not a penny! I advise you to make yourself scarce.
And if you attempt to annoy me while I'm here, I'll do something very
unpleasant about it. I agreed to meet you to-night merely to tell you
that."
Kirkwood heard her step on the walk, and drew back. The light of the
moon was full upon her. She was bareheaded and wrapped in a long coat.
It was thus that he saw her again, in the shadow of the house where
together they had kindled their hearth,--in the garden plot whose
disorder and ruin were eloquent of her broken faith.
She was moving away swiftly, with the light step he remembered. Holton
gained her side in a long leap.
"No, you don't! Not by a damned sight, you don't!"
Kirkwood saw them both clearly in their attitude of antagonism--the wife
who had wronged him, the friend who had betrayed him.
"You don't shake me so easily. I want my share of the profits. It was a
low trick--getting rid of me so you could spend your money on yourself;
humiliating me by showing me up as a drunkard in the divorce court. I
owe you a good one for that!"
"Not a cent!" she repeated, lifting her head in mockery of his clumsy
attempt to becloud the real issue.
Her taunting tone maddened him; without warning he gripped her throat
roughly. His tightening clasp stifled her cry as she struggled to free
herself.
Kirkwood stood suddenly beside them, caught Holton by the collar, and
flung him back. Holton's arm was up instantly to ward off an expected
blow. He turned guardedly, and his arm fell as he recognized Kirkwood.
"So that's the ticket! It was a trap, was it?" And then his anger
mounting, he flung round at Lois. "So this is what brought you back!
Well, it doesn't lower my price any! He can have you and be damned to
him, but I double my price!"
"This is my property," said Kirkwood coldly; "if you don't leave
instantly, I'll turn you over to the police."
"She's come back to you, has she! Well, you needn't be so set up about
it. She's anybody's woman for the asking; you ought to have learned
that--"
Kirkwood's stick fell with a sharp swish across his shoulders.
"Leave these grounds at once or I'll send you to the lockup!"
Holton looked coweringly from one to the other. The strangeness of the
encounter was in the mind of each: that the years had slipped away and
that Kirkwood was defending her from the man for whom she had abandoned
him. An unearthly quiet lay upon the garden. Children's voices rose
faintly on the silvery April night from the grounds beyond. Far away,
beyond the station, a locomotive puffed slowly on a steep grade. The
noises of the town seemed eerily blurred and distant.
"Clear out! Your business here is finished. And don't come back," said
Kirkwood firmly.
"She asked me to meet her here;--you must have known it; it was a damned
vile trick--" Holton broke out violently; but Kirkwood touched him with
the end of his stick, pointed toward the gate, and repeated his order
more sharply. Holton whirled on his heel, found an opening in the hedge,
and left them, the boughs snapping behind him.
Kirkwood was the first to speak.
"He's gone, I think. I'll watch until you get safely back to Amzi's."
He lifted his hat; his tone was one of dismissal and she turned as
though to leave, hesitated and drew a step nearer.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to speak to you a moment. I shouldn't have
thought of seeking you, of course, but this makes it possible."
He made no reply, but waited, leaning on his stick. Her foot tapped the
walk nervously; as she readjusted the cloak it exhaled the faint scent
of orris that reached him as though wafted down some dim aisle of
memory.
"I want to speak about Phil. It was to see Phil that I came back. I want
you to know that I wouldn't take her away from you if I could. There
must be no misunderstanding about this. Whatever I am or have been or
may be, I am not base enough for that."
He was silent for a moment.
"That is something that is not in your hands or mine," he answered.
"Phil is the mistress of her own affairs. I was perfectly willing that
she should go to Amzi's to be with you; it's for her to decide whether
she ever comes back to me."
"That is--generous; very generous," she replied, as though, after
hesitating before using the word, her second thought confirmed the
choice.
"And about the money; she told me she spoke to you about that to-day. I
appreciate your attitude. I want you to understand that I'm not trying
to bribe her. I'm glad of a chance to say that I would do nothing to
spoil her loyalty to you. You deserve that; and I have no illusions
about myself. If I thought my coming would injure her--or you--in any
way, I should go at once and never come back. But I had to see her, and
it has all happened fortunately--Amzi's kindness, and hers--and your
own! Phil is so dear--so lovable!"
Her last words broke in a sob, but she quickly regained her
self-control.
"I'm glad," he replied, "if you are not disappointed in her. We have
been very close--comrades and friends; but she has gone beyond me; and
that was inevitable. She's an independent spirit--quite capable of
managing her own affairs."
"I don't think she will ever go beyond you," Lois answered. "She has
told me all the story--and I have read a good deal into it that she
didn't tell me. And I am very grateful. She didn't have to tell me that
you had not embittered her against me; her way of meeting me was
reassuring as to that. It was fine of you; it wasn't what I expected or
deserved."
Unconsciously they had begun walking back and forth in the path, and
once, as they turned, they looked at each other fixedly for the first
time. It was the deliberate frank scrutiny of old acquaintances who seek
affirmation of fading memories after long absence.
"As to the money, I want to protect her, as far as money can do it, from
hardship and need hereafter. I don't want you to think I offer it as
restitution--or--penance. I have plenty for myself; I'm giving up
nothing in doing it."
He tried to phrase carefully his disavowal of any thought that her gift
was a penitential act. He confessed that he had been concerned for
Phil's future; and that so far he had not been able to provide for her
in case of his death. This brought him to Amzi, whose devotion to Phil
he praised warmly. They met immediately upon the safe ground of Amzi's
nobility. Then they recurred to Phil. Presently as they passed the
veranda, she sat down on the steps and after a moment he seated himself
beside her. They had sat thus, looking out upon the newly planned
garden, when the mystery and wonder of Phil's coming filled their hearts
and minds.
"I've thought," she said, bending forward with her arms folded upon her
knees, "that Phil ought to travel--that I might take her away for a
little while." She waited for his assent; but when he was silent, she
hurried on to set herself right in this. "But I don't believe that would
be best. Not with me. Trotting around with me over there wouldn't do her
any good. It might spoil her point of view, which is--just right--sound
and healthy. The child's a genius. She wants to write--of course you
know that."
He did not know it. Jealousy pricked him at this sudden revelation of
something in Phil that he had not with all his opportunity realized.
"She's very clever," he responded tamely.
"It's more than that! She has a trunkful of stuff she's written--some of
it rubbish; some of it amazingly good."
He resented these appraisements of Phil's literary experiments. It was
disagreeable to hear from Phil's mother things which he should have
learned for himself. His trained analytical faculties were disturbed; he
had regarded the theory of the superior keenness of maternal perception
as rather fantastic. Phil had never confided her ambitions to him; in
fact, it was now clear that she had concealed them, perhaps fearing his
criticisms.
"She's so droll!"--and Lois laughed at some recollection. "She has a
delicious humor--her own special flavor. All these people in Montgomery
are story-book people to her. She's a deep one--that little Phil! She
has written pages about them--and the drollest of all about those women
over there."
She indicated with a gesture the domiciles of her sisters. The fact that
Phil had utilized her aunts as literary material amused Lois profoundly.
But finding that the burden of the talk lay with her she asked, "What
would you think of college for Phil? Or is it too late?"
"She didn't seem a good subject when the time came; and besides," he
added bluntly, "I couldn't afford it."
"Oh, she didn't speak of it regretfully; she didn't complain because you
hadn't sent her!"
"No, of course not; that wouldn't be like Phil. I'm not sure college
would be a good thing for her now; she's read prodigiously--away ahead
of most girls, ahead of most people! There wouldn't be so much that
college could do for her. And if she really has the creative faculty,
it's better not to curb or check it. Not in her case. She led her class
in high school without working at it. Whatever she wants to know she
will get without tying herself up in a college course."
Lois nodded. He was an educated man who had himself been a teacher, and
his testimony was entitled to respect. She was far more comfortable than
he as they continued the discussion. The breadth of her understanding of
Phil piqued him. In these few weeks Lois had learned much about Phil
that had been a sealed book to him. His position was absurd; it was
preposterous for him to be learning about Phil from Phil's mother, when
it was he who had shaped the course of Phil's life. He wondered whether
Lois knew that her disclosures hurt his pride, shattered his vanity.
"The dear child seems to be the sole prop of most of the paupers in the
bottoms. I went with her to look at one of her families yesterday, and I
could see where her spare change has been going. She's set up a piano in
the box factory so the girls can amuse themselves at noontime and you
may be sure they're all crazy about her. Everybody seems to be!"
The remembrance of Phil's generosities amused her. She mentioned a
number of them with murmurous glee and unmistakable admiration. Phil had
never confided these things to him, and he reflected ruefully that her
indulgence in pianos for working-girls probably accounted for
deficiencies in her own wardrobe that had not at times escaped his
masculine eye. He had mildly wondered what became of the money he gave
Phil for shoes! It argued an unresponsiveness in his own nature that
Phil had concealed her adventures as Lady Bountiful from him--and he had
thought she told him everything!
He was learning about Phil from the last person in the world who had any
right to know Phil. He had seen in her precociousness, her healthy
delight in books, nothing astonishing, and he had known nothing of her
scribbling. His irritation grew. He was impatient to escape from this
garden that Holton had spoken of as Kirkwood's graveyard; from this
cheerful ghost beside him, with her low, musical voice and her murmurous
laughter. His thoughts flew to Nan, to whom he now meant to go with his
last appeal.
It flashed upon him that he might assure his victory over Nan's qualms
by carrying to her the definite knowledge that there was absolutely no
hope, as he fancied Nan believed there was, that he and Lois might
bridge the wide chasm that had separated them for so many years and
renew the old tie. If he could go from Lois to Nan with that news, he
believed his case would be invincible. He would make the offer to Lois
now, on this spot whose associations might be supposed to create an
atmosphere of sentiment favorable to its serious consideration. The
interview had run into a dead wall. Quite imaginably his proximity had
begun to bore Lois. He idled with his stick, pondering. She rose
suddenly.
"I must go back; Phil won't know what's become of me."
"Perhaps it would be as well to tell her that we've met," he said. "In
fact, I think she should know."
"I prefer not," she answered with decision. "It might trouble her; she
might think--she thinks of everything!"
"Lois, there are ways--important ones--in which it would be best for
her, make her happier, if we could--try again!"
She raised her hand with one of her quick gestures, and it rested for an
instant on his arm. As she lifted her face he saw the tears bright in
her eyes.
"Don't say it; don't think of it!" she whispered brokenly.
"For Phil's sake we ought to do it if we can," he persisted, surprised
to find how unmoved he was.
"For Phil's sake we wouldn't if we could!" Their gaze met searchingly.
"It would be doing Phil a terrible wrong!"
"I don't understand; I can't follow that," he answered.
And still unmoved, untouched, he saw grief and fear in her eyes, her
face twitching with the pain of inner conflict.
"No; you don't understand!" she cried softly. "But if you meant it--if
we either of us cared any more, don't you see that it wouldn't do! Don't
you know how unjust--how horribly unjust it would be to her, to--to lead
her to think that Love could be like that; something to be taken on and
put off? It would be an unholy thing! It would be a sacrilege! No one
would be deceived by it; and Phil would know we both lied!"
"But we might work it out some way; with her to help it might not go
badly. I would do my best! I promise you that," he said, more sincere
than he had meant to be.
She was greatly moved and he wondered where emotion might lead her. He
was alertly watchful for any quick thrust that might find him off guard.
She went on hurriedly.
"Tom," she said gently, "Phil had thought of it; she spoke of it. But
nothing worse could happen to her. It would spoil the dear illusions she
has about me; and in the end she would think less of you. For you don't
mean it; it's only for Phil's sake you suggest it."
"And for your own sake, too; to protect you from--from just such
occurrences as--"
His eyes turned away from her to the point in the hedge through which
Holton had vanished.
She shivered as though a cold wind had touched her and drew the cloak
closer about her shoulders.
"I don't need any one's protection. That poor beast won't bother me. I
must say now all I shall ever have to say to you. We won't lie to each
other; we need not! There is no real soul in me. If there had been, this
house would not have been standing here empty all these years. And yet
you see that I haven't changed much; it hasn't really made a great deal
of difference in me. I have had my hours of shame, and I have
suffered--a little. I believe I am incapable of deep feeling: I was born
that way. If I appealed to your mercy now, I should be lying. And for a
long time I have lived the truth the best I could. I believe I
understand the value of truth and honor, too; I believe I realize the
value of such things now. I'm only a little dancing shadow on the big
screen; but I mean to do no more mischief; not if I can help it, and I
think that at last I have mastered myself. You see," and quite composed
she laughed again, "I'm almost a fool, but not quite."
He murmured something as she paused, but she did not heed him, nor ask
what he had said. He was not so relieved as he had expected to be by her
prompt refusal of his offer, whose fine quixotism he felt had been
wasted upon her. He was nothing to her; and never could have been; and
this rejection was not the less disagreeable because he had expected it.
It is difficult to imagine any circumstances in which a man will accept
without resentment the idea that he is a negligible figure in a woman's
life. The finer his nature the greater his astonishment at finding that
she is able to complete her reckoning without including him as a factor
in her calculations. And in Kirkwood's case the woman had put him in the
wrong when all the right was so incontrovertibly on his side. She had
taken high ground for her refusal, and he could not immediately
accommodate himself to the air of this new altitude, which he had never
expected to breathe in her company. Her thistledown nature might be the
prey of the winds, but even so they might bear her high and far.
"I must go on and finish, for there will never be another chance. You
deserve the best life can give you. I'm glad to know things have been
going well with you; and Amzi says it's only the beginning. With all my
heart I'm glad. It makes it easier for me--don't you see! And I know
about Nan Bartlett; not from Phil, but from Mrs. King. I hope you will
marry Nan; and if my coming has made any difference, don't let that
trouble you! In a little while I shall be gone; but Phil mustn't know
that. And I shall never come back here--you may rely on that; but I hope
to have Phil come to me now and then. I want to keep in touch with
her,--have some part in her life. And you needn't fear that I shan't
be--quite a proper person for Phil to visit! You will believe that,
won't you?"
"Yes, Lois," he said wonderingly; for he was touched by the wistfulness
of her plea that he should not fear her influence upon Phil. "You
wouldn't have come back to Phil unless you felt you had a right to; I'm
sure of that," he said with warmth.
"No; I should not have been base enough for that," she replied, with a
little forlorn sigh.
"And as for your going away, it must not be on my account. It isn't
necessary for you to go."
He did not speak of Nan; nor did she refer to her again.
"I'm glad this has happened this way. I think we understand a little
better. Good-night, Tom!"
"Good-night, Lois!"
Their hands touched. He saw the flutter of her cloak as she passed round
the house, seeking the path to Amzi's. The garden was very still when
she had gone.