GOOD-BY
Nancy had no memory of her actions during the time that elapsed
between leaving the studio building and her arrival at her own
apartment. She knew that she must have guided Sheila to the beginning
of the bus route at the lower end of the square, and as perfunctorily
signaled the conductor to let her off at the corner of Fifth Avenue
and her own street, but she could never remember having done so. Her
first conscious recollection was of the few minutes in Sheila's room,
while she was slipping off the child's gaiters, in the interval before
she gave her over to Hitty for the night. The little girl was still
sobbing beneath her breath, though her emotion was by this time purely
reflexive.
"I didn't understand that your mother was living, Sheila," she said.
"She isn't very nice," the little girl said miserably. "We don't tell
any one. She always cries and screams and makes us trouble?"
"Did she live with you in Paris?"
"Only sometimes."
"Does she do--something that she should not do, Sheila?" Nancy asked,
with her mind on inebriety, or drug addiction.
"She just isn't very nice," Sheila repeated. "She is _histérique_; she
pounded me with her hands, and hurt me."
Nancy telephoned to the Inn that she had a headache, and shut herself
into her room, without food, to gather her scattered forces. She lay
wide-awake all the night through, her mind trying to work its way
through the lethargy of shock it had received. She remembered falling
down the cellar stairs, when she was a little girl, and lying for
hours on the hard stone floor, perfectly serene and calm, without
pain, until she tried to do so much as move a little finger or lift an
eyelid, when the intolerable nausea would begin. She was calm now,
until she made the attempt to think what it was that had so prostrated
her, and then the anguish spread through her being and convulsed her
with unimaginable distress of mind and body.
By morning she had herself in hand again,--at least to the extent of
dealing with the unthinkable fact that Collier Pratt, her lover, the
man to whom she had given the lover's right to hold her in his arms
and cover her upturned face with kisses, had a living wife, and that
he was not free to make honorable love to any woman.
Her life had been too sound, too sweet, to give her any perspective on
a situation of the kind. It was inconceivable to her that a married
man should make advances to an unmarried woman,--but gradually she
began to make excuses for this one man whose circumstances had been so
exceptional. Tied to an insane creature, who beat his child, who made
him strange hectic scenes, and followed him all over the world to
threaten his security, and menace that beautiful and inexplicable
creative instinct that animated him like a holy fire, and set him
apart from his kind; she began to see how it might be with him. She
was still the woman he loved,--she believed that; he was weaker than
she had thought,--that was all, weaker and not so wise. This being
true, she must put aside her own pain and bewilderment, her own
devastating disillusionment, and comfort him, and help him. She rose
from her bed that morning firmly resolved to see him before the day
was through.
She breakfasted with Sheila, and made a brave attempt to get through
the morning on her usual schedule, but once at the Inn she collapsed,
and Michael and Betty had to put her in a cab and send her home again,
where Hitty ministered to her grimly,--and she slept the sleep of
exhaustion until well on into the evening, and into the night again.
On the day following she was quite herself; but she still hesitated to
bring about the momentous interview that she so dreaded, and yet
longed for. She intended to take her place at the table beside Collier
Pratt when he came for his dinner that night, but when the time came
she could not bring herself to do it, and fled incontinently. Later in
the evening he telephoned that he wanted to see her, and she told him
that he might come.
She faced him with the facts, breathlessly, and in spite of herself
accusingly,--and then waited for the explanation that would extenuate
the apparent ugliness of his attitude toward her, and set all the
world right for her again. As she looked into his face she felt that
it must come. She noted compassionately how the shadows under the dark
eyes had deepened; how weary the pose of the fine head; and for the
moment she longed only to rest it on her breast again. Even as she
spoke of the thing that had so tortured her it seemed insignificant in
light of the fact that he was there beside her, within reach of her
arms whenever she chose to hold them out to him.
"I regret that the revelation of my private embarrassments should have
been thrust upon you so suddenly," he said, when she had poured out
the story to him. "My marriage has proved the most uncomfortable
indiscretion that I ever committed; and unfortunately my indiscretions
have been numberless as the well-known leaves of Vallombrosa."
"You always said that Sheila was motherless," Nancy said.
"It is simpler than stating that she is worse than motherless."
"Why didn't you tell me you were married?"
Collier Pratt smiled at her--kindly it seemed to Nancy.
"It hadn't anything to do with _us_," he said. "I should never want to
marry again--even if I were free. The thought is horrible to me. You
mean a great deal to me. _Think_, if you doubt that and think again. I
have had in this little front room of yours the only real moments of
peace and happiness that I have had for years. I value them--you can
not dream or imagine how much--but surely it is understood between us
that our relation can not be anything but transitory. I am an artist
with a way to make for my art: you are a working woman with a career,
odd as it is," he smiled whimsically, "that you have chosen, and that
you will pursue faithfully until some stalwart young man dissuades you
from it, when you will take your place in your niche as wife and
mother, and leave me one more beautiful memory."
"Surely," Nancy said, "you know it isn't--like that."
"What is it like then?"
Nancy felt every sane premise, every eager hope and delicate ideal
slipping beyond her reach as she faced his mocking, tender eyes.
"It can't be that you believe you have been--fair with me," she
faltered.
"I don't think I have been unfair," he said, "I have made no
protestations, you know."
Nancy shut her eyes. Curious scraps of her early religious education
came back to her.
"You have partaken of my bread and wine," she said.
"It wasn't exactly consecrated."
"I think it was," she said faintly. "Oh! don't you understand that
that isn't a way for a man to think or to feel about a woman like
me?"
"Little American girl," Collier Pratt said, "little American girl,
don't you understand that there is only one way for a woman to think
or feel about a _man_ like _me_? I have had my life, and I haven't
liked it much. I'm to be loved warmly and lightly till the flesh and
blood prince comes along, but I'm never to be mistaken for him."
"I don't believe you're sincere," Nancy cried; "women must have loved
you deeply, tragically, and have suffered all the torture there is, at
losing you."
"That may be. Sincerity is a matter of so many connotations. You
haven't known many artists, my dear."
"No," said Nancy. "No, but I thought they were the same as other men,
only worthier."
"How should they be? He who perceives a merit is not necessarily he
who achieves it. Else the world would be a little more one-sided than
it is."
"I can't believe those things," Nancy said. "I want to believe in you.
You _must_ care for me, and what becomes of me. You have known so long
what I was like, and what I was made for. All this seems like a
terrible nightmare. I want you to tell me what it is you want of me,
and let me give it to you."
"I am proving some faint shadow of worthiness at least, when I say to
you that I want absolutely nothing of you. I love, but I refrain."
"You love," Nancy cried, "you _love_?"
"Not as you understand loving, I am afraid. In my own way I love
you."
"I don't like your way, then," Nancy said wearily.
"We're both so poor, little girl,--that's one thing. If I were free
and could overcome my prejudice against matrimony, and could be a
little surer of my own heart and its constancy,--even then, don't you
see, practical considerations would and ought to stand in our way. I
couldn't support you, you couldn't possibly support me."
"I see," said Nancy. "Would you marry me If I were rich?" she said
slowly.
"I already have one wife," Collier Pratt smiled. Nancy remembered
afterward that he smiled oftener during this interview than at any
other. "But if somebody died, and left you a million, she might
possibly be disposed of."
For one moment, perhaps, his fate hung in the balance. Then he took a
step forward.
"Kiss me good night, dear," he said, "and let us end this bitter and
fruitless discussion."
"Kiss you good night," Nancy cried. "Kiss you good night. Oh! how dare
you!--How dare you?" And she struck him twice across his mouth. "I
wish I could kill you," she blazed. "Oh! how dare you,--how dare
you?"
"Oh! very well," said Collier Pratt calmly, wiping his mouth with his
handkerchief. "If that's the way you feel--then our pleasant little
acquaintanceship is ended. I'll take my hat and stick and my
child--and go."
"Your child?" Nancy cried aghast. "You wouldn't take Sheila away from
me."
"I don't feel exactly tempted to leave her with you," he said
deliberately. "I don't mind a woman striking me--I'm used to that; it
is one of my charming wife's ways of expressing herself in moments of
stress--but I do object to any but the most purely formal relations
with her afterward. There is a certain degree of intimacy involved in
your having charge of my child. I think I will take the little girl
away with me now."
"Please, please, please don't," Nancy said. "I love her. I couldn't
bear it now. You can't be so cruel."
"Better get it over," Collier Pratt said. "Will you call Hitty, or
shall I?"
"Sheila is in bed," Nancy cried. "You wouldn't take her out of her
warm bed to-night. I'll send her to you to-morrow at whatever hour you
ask."
"I ask for her now."
There was no fight left in Nancy. She called Hitty and superintended
the dressing of the little girl to its last detail. She could not
touch her.
"Won't you kiss me good night, Miss Dear?" Sheila said, drowsily, as
she took her father's hand at the door.
"Not to-night," Nancy said hoarsely. "I've a bad throat, dear, I
wouldn't want you to catch it."
"I don't know where I'm going," the little girl said, "but I suppose
my father knows. I'll come back as soon as I can."
"Yes, dear," Nancy said. "Good-by."
Collier Pratt turned at the door and made an exaggerated gesture of
farewell.
"We part more in anger than in sorrow," he said.
"Oh! Go," Nancy cried.
As the door closed upon the two Nancy sank to her knees, and thence to
a crumpled heap on the floor, but remembering that Hitty would find
her there shortly, and being entirely unable to regain her feet
unaided, she started to crawl in the direction of her own room, and
presently arrived there, and pushed the door to behind her with her
heel.