It happened, in the autumn of that year, that he brought his wife to New
York, in whose Wall Street he had intricate interests. He learned that
she was by way of seeing more of Arthur than a girl of eighteen married
to a man of nearly fifty ought to see. He did not at once burst into
coarse abuse of her, but, worldly-wise, set detectives to watch her. He
had, you may say, set his heart upon her guilt. To learn that she was
utterly innocent enraged him. One day he had the following conversation
with a Mr. May, of a private detective bureau:
"You followed them?"
"To the park."
"Well?"
"They bought a bag of peanuts and fed the squirrels."
"Go on."
"Then they rode in a swan-boat. Then they walked up to the reservoir and
around it. Then they came back to the hotel."
"Did they separate in the office?"
"On the sidewalk."
"But last night? She said she was dining with her sister and going to
the play. What did she do last night?"
"She did what she said. Believe me, sir--if I know anything of men and
women, you're paying me to run fool's errands for you. _They_ don't need
any watching."
"You have seen them--kiss?"
"Never."
"Hold hands?"
"I haven't seen any physical demonstration. I guess they like each other
a lot. And that's all there is to it."
But the "old man" made a scene with her, just such a scene as he would
have made if the detective's report had been, in effect, the opposite of
what it was. He assumed that she was guilty; but, for dread of scandal,
he would not seek a divorce. He exacted a promise that she would not see
Arthur, or write to him, or receive letters from him.
Then, having agreed with certain magnates to go out to China upon the
question of a great railroad and a great loan, he carried her off with
him, then and there. So that when Arthur called at the hotel, he was
told that they had gone but that there was a note for him. If it was
from the wife, the husband had dictated it:
Don't try to see me ever any more. If you do, it will only make my
life a hell on earth.
That had been the tangible end of Arthur's romance. But the intangible
ends were infinite and not yet. His whole nature had changed. He had
suffered and could no longer bear to inflict pain.
He lifted his head and looked up a little slope of snow. Near the top,
wonderfully rosy and smiling, sat his culprit sisters. He had forgotten
why he had come. He smiled in his sudden embarrassment.
"Don't shoot, colonel," called Gay, "and we'll come down."
"Promise, then," he said, "that you'll never be naughty again."
"We promise," they said.
And they trudged back to camp, with jokes and laughter and three very
sharp appetites.