"He broke up their home," is a familiar phrase. But few men in the act
of breaking up a home realize the gravity of what they are about. I
had gone a long way toward breaking up Fulton's happy family life
without having the slightest notion that I was doing anything of the
kind. When Lucy fell out of love with her husband, it was not because
she had fallen in love with me. It was because she was going to. The
lovely little sloop-of-war was merely clearing her decks for action.
She didn't know this; I didn't. I frequented the house a little more
than other men; that was all. And I frequented it not because of the
charm exercised upon me by an individual member of the Fulton family,
but of the charm which it exercised upon me as a whole. _There_ was
peace, _there_ was happiness, _there_ was love and understanding; there
was poignant food for a lonely bachelor to chew upon. Remembering this
how can I believe that this is the best of all possible worlds, and
that everything in it is for the best? If I had not been fascinated by
the Fultons as a family, I should never have become a frequenter of
their house. If I had not been a frequenter of their house, I should
never have split that family which as a whole so fascinated me with a
wedge of tragedy. It is a horrid circle of thought.
When I learned that Lucy no longer loved her husband my heart had given
no guilty bound of anticipation; instead it had turned lead-heavy for
sheer sorrowing and sunk into my boots. The other day the Germans
smashed the blue glass in Rheims Cathedral. A friend brought me a
little fragment of this, and among my personal possessions I give it
the place of first treasure. It's a more wonderful blue than Lucy's
eyes, even. The light of heaven has poured through it to illumine the
face of Joan of Arc. Its price is far above rubies and sapphires, and
it seems to me the most wonderful treasure to have for my very own.
But does this fact automatically make me glad that the Germans banged
the great cathedral to pieces? It does not. Sometimes when I look at
the light through my piece of blue glass I see red. And I hope that
those who trained guns against the holy shrine and who are not already
in hell, soon will be. And I could wish myself the hell of never
having known Lucy's love, if by so doing I could restore the Fulton
family to the blessed and tranquil state in which I first knew them.
I began this chapter with an idea of self-defense. How much of the
tragedy am I responsible for? Upon my soul I can never answer that
question to my satisfaction, and my conscience has put it to me
thousands of times. I ought to have seen it coming. I didn't--at
least I'm very sure that I didn't. But sometimes I am not so very sure
of this. It is so obvious (now) that I ought to have seen it coming,
that sometimes I persuade myself that I actually did. But how could I?
For if I had, with any certainty at all, surely I would have been man
enough to hide myself away somewhere, even at the ends of the earth.
Love does not grow and wax great upon air. Solid food is needed in the
occasional presence of the beloved. Suppose I had fled away the moment
I learned that Lucy no longer loved her husband? Already her heart
must have been turning to me, if only a little, but with the magnet
which had caused it to turn that little removed from sight, first, and
presently from mind, I believe that after a dazed numbed period that
heart of hers might have swung back into its place.
Later when Fulton said to me, "But you ought to have seen it coming,
and taken measures to see that it didn't come," I gave him my word that
I hadn't seen it coming, and it was very obvious that he didn't believe
me. Will anyone believe me? It doesn't matter. I am not even sure
myself that I am telling the truth. But I know that I am trying to.
I had left my mother to her interview with Hilda, and betaken myself to
the club. It was too early even to hope for a sight of Lucy. There
were a number of men in the reading-room discussing the morning leader
in that fair-minded and pithy sheet, the _Charleston News and Courier_,
and one of these, eyeing me with a quizzical expression, said: "You
look as if you had won a bet."
So already _it_ showed in my face.
Well, I felt as if I had won many bets, and was only twenty, and that
the course before me was all plain sailing. I was not yet in a
condition to argue with myself about right and wrong. It did not seem
worth while to look into the serried faces of difficulties and think
how I could burst through them. It was more natural on that first
morning after the discovery to look boldly over their heads to the rich
open and peaceful country beyond.
A line from the "Brushwood Boy" kept occurring to me, "But what shall I
do when I see you in the light?"
What should I do, what would Lucy do? Would there be people about or
would we have the good luck to meet alone? Did she still love me, or
had the dark night brought council and a change of heart? I knew that
it hadn't. We were as definitely engaged to each other as if there was
no husband in the way, no children, no law, no convention, no nothing.
I was idiotically happy.
One thing only troubled me a little. Had Lucy's impulse to precipitate
frankness already started any machinery of opposition into action? Had
she told her husband? Knowing her so intimately, I could not make up
my mind, but would have been inclined to take either end of the bet.
Suppose she had told him?
Wouldn't she give me a word of warning so that I could be prepared for
anything he might say to me at our first meeting? I thought so, but
could not be sure.
"If he does know," I thought, "I don't want to see him. Why don't I
want to see him? Am I afraid of him? I am not afraid of him
physically. I am stronger than he and more skillful, and I am not
afraid of him mentally. He has a better mind than I have, but that is
nothing to be afraid of. Well, then, why don't I want to see him? Oh,
because it will be awkward and disagreeable; because he will look sick
to death and irreparably injured. Because he will not do me justice,
because he will think it is all my fault; and because he will require
of me things which I shall not promise him."
I heard the telephone ringing in the distance. My heart bounded and I
knew that Lucy was asking for me. I had risen and half crossed the
room to meet the boy who came to tell me that I was indeed wanted on
the phone. My heart began to thump in my breast, like a trunk falling
downstairs. I glanced guiltily to see if the rumpus it seemed to me to
be making was attracting notice. No. Every man was sunk in his
newspaper. A moment later, I heard her voice in my ear.
"Listen, I'd like to see you. I'll be dressed and downstairs in ten
minutes. Evelyn and John have driven to the golf club to get John's
sticks. He's really going to Palm Beach. They start sometime soon
after lunch. . . . How do I feel? . . . Oh, about the same as
yesterday!"
I cannot describe the thrill or emotion which I managed to abstract
from that last phrase. About the same as yesterday! I, too, felt like
that, only more so.
"Good-by--for ten minutes."
She hung up suddenly. But I could not at once leave the telephone
room. It seemed to me that I must be visibly trembling from head to
foot.
My buggy was at the club door. First I drove home, raced up the stairs
to my room, and from a closet in which I keep all sorts of hunting and
fishing gear, snatched a fine deep-sea rod by Hardy of London, and a
big pigskin box of tackle. I remembered to have heard John Fulton say
that he had none of such things with him in Aiken, and I thought they
might come in handy for him at Palm Beach. I cannot quite explain why
it was, but I had the sudden desire to load the man with favors and
presents.
It was only on the way to his house that the rod and the tackle-box
struck me as an excellent excuse for so early a morning call. I left
them on the table in the front hall, and marched boldly through the
house, and unannounced into the living-room.
Of all the Lucy that turned swiftly from a window at the sound of my
steps, and hurried to meet me, I saw only the great blue eyes.
She came into my arms as if it was the most natural thing in the world
for her to do, as if they had always been her comfort and her refuge.
She was calm and fresh as a rose in the early morning. I could feel
her heart beating tranquilly against mine. It seemed to me that the
essence of every sweetest flower in the world had been used in her
making. I felt that she was the most precious and defenseless thing in
creation, and that me alone she trusted to cherish her and to defend
her. It could not but be right to hold her thus closer and closer and
to learn that her heart beat no longer tranquilly, but with a
fluttering throbbing quickness like the heart of a wild bird that you
have caught and hold in your hand.
All this while my lips were pressed to hers and hers to mine. Then
from the playground door rose in lamentation over some tragic-seeming
mishap of play, the voice of Hurry.
Our kiss ended upon the shrill note of woe and protest. But still we
looked each other in the eyes, and she said: "What are we going to do
about it?"