The night was warm, moist, astir with vernal growth. The trees
whispered tender secrets to each other. Flowers were being born in the
grasses. Clouds formed a light coverlet above an earth too fecund of
dreams to sleep soundly.
Dee emerged from the side door of the James house and moved down the
cedar path, soft as a wraith. The still mansion oppressed her. For two
weeks she had hardly stirred beyond earshot of her husband's petulant,
pathetic need of her. Her young blood craved air, the expanses, the
sense of space and quiet.
Definite verdict had been pronounced that afternoon upon T. Jameson
James by Dr. Osterhout, after a careful résumé of the case with the
consulting surgeon.
"He'll last indefinitely. As long, one might say, as he has the will to
live. Five years.... Ten. Twenty, if he can stand it. Much depends on
you, Dee."
"Will he get better?"
Osterhout moved uneasily. "Better? Stronger, a little. Not really
better. A wheel-chair existence at best."
"I can't conceive of it for Jim."
"He'll adjust himself to it after a fashion. People do. But he'll be
difficult, dam' difficult. Have you thought any more of his offer to
release you?"
"No. And I won't think of it."
"I wouldn't have supposed you would, being you. You're a good
sort, Dee. And a good sport." He rubbed his forehead with a stubby
forefinger. "As for your own status--you want me to be frank, don't
you?"
"Yes, Bobs."
"It's a life of--well, practical widowhood for you. You understand."
Yes; she had understood, and with an influx of relief. Her loyalty
would keep her beside her husband, helpless, whereas she would have
left him had he been his normal self-centred, self-sufficient self.
More; she would now gladly have forgiven him the breach of their
private marriage agreement, have accepted the full regimen and
responsibility of wifehood could she have borne him the child he
wished, the child which might have brought an enduring and saving
interest into his ruined life. But from that hateful duty she was
absolved; the more reason for standing by him through his ordeal. At
worst, she was now free to be faithful in thought and spirit to the man
to whom, had he been husband or lover to her, she could have given her
all in glorious surrender.
He stepped from the shadow of a cedar and stood before her.
"Dee!"
"Stanley!" Her hands flew to her breast. "How long have you been here?"
"Hours. Since dark."
"Why didn't you send word?"
"Would it have been safe to write?"
"Quite. Now."
"How, now?"
"Don't you _know_? Haven't you seen Cary Scott?"
"Not since I left Baltimore. I came the first moment that I could after
making arrangements. Our arrangements."
They had stood apart. But now he reached forward, took her hands,
crushed them to his cheek. At his touch she flamed and trembled.
"When can you come with me, Dee?"
"With you? Where?"
"To England. The divorce can be arranged, and our marriage follow. You
can trust me."
"Oh, yes; I can trust you," she answered dully.
"Then, when?"
"I can't go with you, Stanley."
"Can't?" he repeated incredulously. "When I can feel your pulse leap
when I touch your hand, when----"
"I love you with every breath I take," she cried low and passionately.
She snatched her hands from his grip, wreathed them back of his head,
drew his lips down upon hers. "I've never dreamed what it could be to
love as I love you."
"Come with me," he said.
The wife looked about her like a trapped creature. "I've got to make
him understand," she muttered to herself in travail of spirit. "I've
got to make him see and--and help me. Stanley," she pleaded, "be kind
to me and don't stop me till I've finished telling what I've got to
tell."
She related the accident and its sequel in few and simple words. For a
time of pulse-beats Wollaston was silent, then:
"Poor devil!" he murmured. "Poor, poor devil!"
"So, you see, dear love----"
"I see nothing but that we belong to each other. You can't deny that
kiss and what it means. You can't let me go back alone, Dee.... Shall I
stay?"
"Oh, no! No! I couldn't bear it."
"Then you must come with me. Now. To-night."
"For God's sake, Stanley, don't! Don't kiss me." She was fighting for
strength, for breath. "Don't make me----"
"Dee! _Dee!_ Where are you?"
The petulant, flattened voice of helplessness came like a stab of pain
through the night. A light, tenuous and sharp, flashed out from the
wrecked man's window. Its ray touched the cedar overshadowing them.
Dee answered at once. "I'm coming, Jim. Just a moment. Good-bye,
Stanley."
He gathered her into a slow, overmastering pressure of body to body,
face to face.
"Dee, I love you. I want you."
"I know. God, how I know!"
"As you love and want me. What does anything else matter!"
"Oh, love; don't make it so bitter hard for me! I can't leave him. He
needs me so. I can't! I can't!"
"Dee! The pain has come back. Where are you?"
"Coming, Jim, dear!" She turned away from Wollaston without another
look; heard him thrashing through the bushy growth like a man blinded;
felt her knees sag and give way.
She toppled slowly forward and lay, face down upon the earth that gives
life, that gives courage, that gives endurance to bear the deadliest
hurt, her fingers tearing in agony at the young grasses.
Presently she heaved herself up and went into the house. Her mouth was
firm, her eyes tearless.
A good sort. A good sport.