"Did what?"
"Don't beat about the bush! Don't pretend that you are not a blessed
angel in disguise!"
Her face was very grave and lovely.
"It's the kindest, tactfulest thing that anybody ever did."
"I couldn't bear the thought of your going back to the city when it's
such fun here."
"What can I say or do to thank you?"
"Nothing, Lucy. Yes, you can. You can ride with me this afternoon."
She looked a little troubled. "Last night, after you had gone," she
said, "John said, 'Aren't you seeing a good deal of Archie Mannering?'"
For a moment I felt distinctly chilled and uncomfortable. Then I said:
"Oh, dear! Now Brutus himself is beginning to worry about us. How
silly!"
"How silly!" echoed Lucy, and we stood staring at each other rather
vapidly, finding nothing to say.
After a while I asked if John had said any more on the subject. "Did
he embroider the theme at all?" I asked.
Lucy took a photograph out of the trunk tray and began to unwrap it.
"Yes," she said. "He did. He even held forth. He said that when a
woman no longer cared for her husband, it was dangerous for her to see
much of another man. He realized, he said, that ours was an
exceptional case, but that soon people would guess about _him_ and me,
and that then they'd begin to talk about _you_ and me. And he hates
anything conspicuous, and so forth, and so forth."
"What did you say?"
She smiled up at me, but not very joyously. "I said, 'I'm not going to
be rude to one of the best friends I've got, just for fun. If you
forbid me to see him, why I suppose I'll obey you, but I'd have to
explain to him, wouldn't I? I'd have to say, "John considers our
friendship dangerous, so we're not to see each other any more!"' And
of course he said that that was out of the question, and I agreed with
him."
"Still you've said it."
And we smiled at each other.
"He didn't give me a good character," said Lucy dolefully. "He said I
never think of yesterday or tomorrow, but only of the moment. He said
I neglect the children, and Oh, I'd like to end it all! It's an
impossible situation. I'd give my life gladly to feel about him the
way I used to, but I can't--I can't ever."
She looked very tragic.
"Oh," she went on vehemently, "it's terrible. I'm all cold and dumb.
Every power of affection that I had has gone out like a candle. I _do_
neglect the children! It's because I can't look them in the face.
I've failed him, and I've failed them, and I ought to tie a stone round
my neck and jump into the nearest millpond."
"It's a good three miles to the nearest millpond," I said. "And there
isn't a stone in this part of South Carolina. You are all up in the
air now, because the situation you are in is so new to you. But you'll
get used to it."
"If I don't go mad first."
"Why, Lucy?"
"You don't understand," she cried. "You have never had loving arms to
go to when you were in trouble. I've had them and I've lost them. I
mean I've lost the power to go to them and find comfort."
A picture of her running to my arms for comfort flashed through my
mind, and troubled me to the marrow. And I had from that moment the
definite wish to take her in my arms. And in that same moment I
realized that those who thought we were too much together were not such
meddling fools as I had thought them.
"Lucy," I said, and I hardly recognized my own voice. "Whatever
happens, you've a friend who will never fail you."
"I know that," she said, and she held out her two hands, and I took
them in mine.
"If you sent for me to the ends of the earth, I would come."
"I know that."
"There is nothing you could ask of me that I wouldn't give."
"I know that."
And that afternoon we rode together in the woods.