VII

If I thought that Lucy would be melancholy during her husband's absence

I was mistaken. It was almost as if she had no husband. She was like

some radiant schoolgirl home for the holidays. But I am pretty sure

that Fulton missed her during every waking moment. He wrote to her at

least twice a day and sent her many telegrams.

"He knows what a shocking memory I have," she explained; "and he's

afraid that I'll forget him unless constantly reminded. Wouldn't it be

funny if people only existed for us when they were actually present?

Some time I think I'm a little like that about people. Until I really

fell in love, I always loved the boy that was on the spot."

"I've heard that you were an outrageous flirt."

"I didn't know my own mind. _That_ isn't flirting. And when a boy

said he liked me, I was so pleased and flattered that I always said I

liked him, too, and the minute he was out of sight, I'd find that I

didn't."

A few days of hot sunshine had worked wonders with the jasmine. Here

and there the bright golden trumpets were so massed as to give an

effect of bonfires; here and there a vine carried beauty and sweetness

to the top of a tall tree, or festooning among the branches resembled a

string of lights. The humming of bees was steady and insistent like

the roar of far-off surf. And so strong was the mounting of the sap

that already the twigs and branches of deciduous trees appeared as

through a mist of green. The buds on the laurel, swollen and pink,

looked like sugar decorations for wedding cakes. Flashes of brightest

blue and scarlet told of birds recently arrived from still farther

south. Lucy Fulton had just received a telegram from her husband,

saying that in New York a blizzard was raging.

She was in one of her talkative moods. Her voice, clear and boyish and

far-carrying, was so easy and pleasant to listen to that it didn't

matter much what she said. Should I convey an erroneous impression and

one derogatory to a charming companion if I said that she chattered

along like a magpie? She talked about servants, and I gathered that

she had never had any trouble with servants. And I thought, "Why

should you, you who are so friendly, so frank, and so kind?" She gave

me both sides of the argument about bare legs for children versus

stockinged legs. She confessed to an immense passion for so lowly a

dish as stewed prunes, she memorialized upon dogs and horses that had

belonged to her. I learned that her favorite story was the "Brushwood

Boy," that her favorite poem was "The Last Ride Together," and that her

favorite flower was Olea fragrans, the tea-olive (she really said its

Latin name), whose waxy-white blossom is no bigger than the head of a

pin, and whose fragrance is as that of a whole basketful of hot-house

peaches.

Had I really and truly liked the teagown she wore the other night?

Would I cross my heart to that effect? Well, then, she had made it all

herself in a day. If the worse came to the worst, if cartridges fell

upon still more evil days, she would turn dressmaker, and become rich

and famous. Wasn't it a pity that John had to work so hard, and miss

so many lovely days?

"I think he'd be quite rich," she said, "if it wasn't for me. I was

brought up to spend all the money I wanted to, and I don't seem able to

stop. I know it isn't fair to John, and John says it isn't fair to the

babies, and I make beautiful resolutions and forget all about them."

"But now that your husband has had to cut his salary in half, you'll

simply have to be good, won't you?"

She admitted that now she would simply have to be good. And a moment

later she was making plans for the dance that she was going to give at

Wilcox's.

"Why wouldn't it be a fine beginning of economy to cut that dance out?"

I asked. "Why not let me give it? I'm quite flush just now. It

wouldn't hurt me a bit."

"I thrashed it all out with John," she said, "that same night after

you'd gone. He told me to go ahead, and not disappoint myself. I

didn't see why you shouldn't give a dance for me if you wanted to, and

I wanted you to. But John wouldn't listen to that for a minute. I

must say I couldn't see why, and I don't yet. It isn't like paying my

dressmaker's bill, or giving me a pearl necklace. I said that. And he

said no, it wasn't like that, but that it was a second cousin twice

removed."

"I think he'd be mightily pleased if he came back and found that the

price of this dance was still to his credit in that firm and excellent

institution, the Bank of Western Carolina."

"If we are really hard up," she said, "what does a few hundred dollars

matter one way or the other?"

It seemed to me that I had done all that I could to save Fulton's money

for him. I had the feeling that if I continued to preach economy I

might get myself disliked, for already Lucy seemed to have lost

something of her light-heartedness and vivacity.

"When do you give it?" I said. "Please ask me."

"I shall give it day after tomorrow night," she said; "and I shall ask

everybody in Aiken."

I said that she insulted me, and then we laughed like two silly

children, and light-heartedness and vivacity returned to her like two

bright birds to a flowering bush. We planned the dance in full detail.

There was just time to get a famous quartette down from Washington.

She would have the rooms decorated with wagon-loads of jasmine. Once I

had seen the expression of Hurry's face upon learning that there was to

be chocolate ice cream for dessert. In planning her dance Lucy's face

had just the same expression. When she was excited with happiness it

seemed to me that she had the loveliest face I had ever seen.

We rode until dusk, but I could not accept her invitation for tea or a

drink, because my mother was expecting some people over from Augusta

and I had promised to come home. The people's motor, however, had

broken down, and I found my mother all alone, presiding at a tea table

that almost groaned with good things to eat.

"What have you been doing?" she asked.

"I've been riding--as you see. I've been riding with Mrs. Fulton."

"Again? It seems to me you ride with her every day. You must find her

fascinating, or you wouldn't do it."

"You read me like a book, mother. I certainly wouldn't. But don't you

think fascinating is rather a strong word? She's the most easy-going

and engaging little person in the world, but fascinating . . .?

Fascination suggests the effect of paint and fixed smiles and lights

and spangles upon old men with bald heads, the effect of the wily

serpent upon the guileless bird."

"Aiken," said my mother, "is such a very small place."

"It isn't like you to beat about the bush. Why not say frankly that if

I keep on I'll end by making Lucy Fulton conspicuous?"

"Very well," smiled my mother (very gently), "that's just what I do

say."

"Aiken," I said, "can go hang. If two people like to ride together,

for no worse reason than that they like riding and are good friends,

what earthly business is it of Aiken's? People make me sick. That's a

bromide, but it's a good one. As for Lucy Fulton, I really like her a

lot, and she really amuses me, but if I knew that I was never to see

her again in this world, I'd lose no sleep over it. Why, they are the

original happy married pair. Just think he's away from home for the

first time since they were married. They make love to each other

openly, right under your very nose, so that it's downright

embarrassing. Latterly I've had a meal ticket at their house, and

seeing them together with their babies, and noting all the peace and

trustfulness and lovingness of it, has opened my eyes (that were so

firmly shut) to the possibilities and beauties of matrimony."

"At any rate," said my mother, "you haven't talked yourself entirely

out."

"Well, you see, I was a listener today. Part of the time I was

lectured on the empty life I lead, and then I was almost persuaded that

I ought to fall in love with Evelyn Gray, and she with me. I shouldn't

wonder if Mrs. Fulton bullied us into it before she got through."

"It would be a delightful marriage," said my mother with enthusiasm,

"for everybody."

"With the possible exception of Evelyn and me."

Just after this Evelyn, who was great friends with my mother, came in

without being announced, and said that she was famished, and that she

put herself entirely in our hands. So we fed her tea, toast, hot

biscuits, three kinds of sandwiches, and as many kinds of cakes. And

she finished off with a tumbler full of thick cream.

"Been sitting by your window lately," I asked, "looking at the moon?"

"_He_ thinks," Evelyn complained to my mother, "that delicate

sentiments and a hearty appetite don't go together. But we know

better, don't we?"

"When I'm in love," I said, "I eat like a canary bird. I just waste

away. Don't I, mother?"

"Fall in love with somebody," said my mother, "and I'll tell you."

"Nobody encourages me," I said; "my life has been one long rebuff, I

remind myself of a dog with muddy paws; whenever I start to jump up I

get a whack on the nose."

"Your sad lot," said Evelyn, "is almost the only topic of conversation

among sympathetic people. But of course, if you _will_ have muddy

paws----!"

"And yet, seriously," I said; "somewhere in this wide world there must

be one girl in whose eyes I might succeed in passing myself off as a

hero. I wish to heaven I had her address--a little cream?"

Evelyn scorned the hospitable suggestion and reached for her gloves and

riding crop.

"I came to see you," she said to my mother, "really I did. And I've

done nothing but eat. I'm coming again soon when there's nobody here

but you, and the larder is low."

"Good Lord!" I said, when we had reached the front gate. "Where's your

pony?"

"I sent him away," she said; "I'm walking. And you _don't have_ to see

me home."

"But if I want to? And anyway it's too late and dark for you to walk

home alone. Once upon a time there was a girl and her name was Little

Red Riding Hood, and once as she was walking home in the dark, after an

unusually heavy tea, she met a wolf. And he said, 'Evening, Little Red

Riding Hood,' and she, though she was twittering with fear, and in no

condition for running because of the immensely heavy tea, said,

'Evening, Mr. Wolf.'"

"Come along then!" said Evelyn. "Already you have persuaded me that

Little Red Riding Hood is a pig, and that she is in great danger."

But we didn't walk to the Fultons', we strolled. And the deep dusk

turned to a velvety black night, soft and warm as a garment, and all

spangled over with stars. It was one of the Aiken nights that smells

of red cedar. We passed more than one pair of soft-voiced darkies who

appeared to lean against each other as they strolled, and from whom

came sounds like the cooing of doves. Once far off we heard shouting

and a pistol shot, and presently one came running and crossed our path

far ahead, but whether a white man or a black we could not tell.

The lights in the Fultons' yard had not yet been switched on. In a

recess cut from the foliage of a cedar tree, a white garden seat

glimmered in the starlight.

"It's too early to dress for dinner," I said, "and it's a pity to go

indoors."

Without a word Evelyn turned into the fragrant recess. The sudden

acquiescence of one usually so disputatious, where I was concerned,

troubled me a little, because I could not explain it to my

satisfaction. It never had happened before. I could not see her face

clearly enough to gather its expression, and so I put a cigarette in my

mouth and struck a match. It missed fire, and Evelyn said, "Please

don't. Unless you want to very much."

"I don't want to at all," I said; "it was just habit. Cedar smells

better than tobacco, and that's saying a good deal."

She did not answer and a few moments later I said:

"Any other couple, I suppose, seated on this bench in these

surroundings would make a noise like the cooing of doves. But either

you or I don't say anything, like tonight walking home, or we fight.

And yet I think that if the whole truth were told we like each other

quite a good deal. I admit that you often say hard things about me to

my face, but I deny that you say them behind my back. Behind my back I

have heard that you sometimes make valiant and comradely efforts

to--well to make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, so to speak."

"I've always remembered," she said, very gently, "and never forgotten

how nice you were to me at my coming-out party, when I was so scared

and young and all. I thought you were the most wonderful man in the

world, and had the most understanding and the most tact."

She laughed softly, but not mirthfully.

"That night," she said; "if you'd asked me to run away with you I'd

have done it like a shot."

"But tonight," I said, "if I so much as touched your hand, you'd turn

into an icicle, and send me about my business with a few disagreeable

truths to wear in my bonnet. And I think I know the reason. It's

because on that first night, even if I had been desperately in love

with you, I wouldn't have thought of asking you to run away with me,

whereas now I can conceive of making such a proposition to somebody

that I didn't even love two bits' worth--for no better reason than that

she was lovely to look at and that the night smelled of cedar."

"I've only been out seven years," said Evelyn; "seven years tonight."

"Many happy returns, Evelyn. I had no idea this was an anniversary."

"It doesn't seem possible," she went on, "for a man to change his whole

moral nature in seven years, and to boast about that change."

"I haven't changed and I didn't boast. If I ever knew what was right

and what was wrong, I still know. The only difference is that I used

to think it mattered a lot, and now I'm not so sure. I see good people

suffer, and wicked people triumph; and I don't think that everything is

for the best in this best of worlds; I think most things are decidedly

for the worst. Why should so many people be poor and sick and

uncomfortable? Why should so many men marry the wrong girls, so many

girls the wrong men? If we are suffering for our sins, well and good,

but what was the use of making us so pesky sinful! You won't, of

course, but most people come back at one with one's inability to

comprehend--they always say 'comprehend' the Great Design. As if they

themselves comprehended said Great Design to perfection. If there _is_

a Great Design, no human being understands a jot of it; that's certain.

Why be so sure then that something we don't understand, and which may

not even exist, is absolutely right and beautiful? Suppose it could be

proved to us that there was no Great Design, and no Great Designer,

that the world was the result of some blind, happy-go-lucky creative

force, what would we think of the world then, poor thing? A poor woman

with nothing to live for walks the streets that she may live; a rich

woman with much to live for dies slowly and in great torture, of

cancer. If we accept the Great Design we shouldn't even feel pity for

these two women, we should say of them merely, 'How right! How

beautiful!' But we do feel pity for them, and by that mere feeling of

pity deny automatically the beauty of the Great Design, in the first

place, and its subsequent execution. I can conceive, I think, of a

lovely picture: you for instance, on a white bench, under a cedar in

the starlight, listening to my delightful conversation, but I couldn't

possibly draw the picture, let alone paint it. The Great Design, it

seems to me, had a tremendous gift for landscape, but fell down a

little when it came to people."

"Archie," said Evelyn, "you talk like an irreverent schoolboy."

"Of course I do," I said; "I must. I can't help myself. I am only

playing my part in the Great Design. But if you believe in that then

it is irreverent of you to say that my talk is anything but absolutely

right, just, and beautiful. So there!"

She said nothing. And after a few moments of silence I began to feel

sorry that I had talked flippantly.

"Evelyn," I said, "you mustn't mind poor old me."

Almost unconscious of what I was doing I lifted her right hand from her

lap, and held it in both mine. She made one feeble little effort to

tug her hand away and then no more. In the heavens, a star slipped,

and from the heavens fell, leaving a wake of golden glory. And it

seemed after that sudden blazing as if the night was blacker than

before.

I slid my left arm around her shoulders, and, unresisted, drew her a

little toward me, until I could feel her heart beating strongly against

mine.

Just then the latch of the house door turned with a strong oil click,

the door swung open, and dark against the light illumination of the

hall stood Lucy Fulton. As she stood looking and listening, the strong

bell of the far-off courthouse clock began to strike. Long before the

lights and last clanging concussion, Evelyn and I had withdrawn to the

uttermost ends of our bench.

Then Lucy turned and went back into the house and shut the door after

her.

Evelyn had risen.

"Good night," she said, but she did not hold out her hand.

"Good night," I said; "I've made you late. I'm sorry."

She started to speak, hesitated, and then said, very quietly, "Why did

you make love to me just now?"

It seemed to me that the least I could do was to answer "Because I love

you." But the words must have choked me, and with shame, I told her

the truth.

"I made love to you," I said, "because I have only one life to live."

"I thought so," she said, still very quietly, and turned toward the

house. But I had caught up with her in a mere crumb of time.

"I have been honest with you, Evelyn," I said; "will you be honest with

me? I have told you why I made love to you. I want to know; it seems

to me that I _ought_ to know. Why did you let me?"

"Oh," she said, "I shut my eyes and pretended that we were in the

conservatory, seven years ago tonight."

"Pretended?"

"Yes, Archie, honestly."

Halfway up the steps of the house she turned, and said a little

wearily, "How many lives do you think _I_ have to live?"

"May it be long and happy."

On that we parted, and I heard the ghost of a cynical laugh as she let

herself into the house.

And I hurried home, inexcusably late for dinner, and filled with shame

and remorse. And ever at the back of my head was the image, not of

Evelyn Gray, vague and illusive in the starlight, but of that other

image that had stood forth dark and sharply defined against the light

of the hall.

"Lucy Fulton," I said to myself, "you came in the nick of time. And

you are my good angel."