"What, dear?"
"There was never anyone in the world so wonderful as you, so beautiful,
so generous."
"I suppose it's nice to have you think so." She looked with great
contentment at the necktie.
"You haven't told me when Schuyler is coming."
"He's coming tomorrow."
"That's fine. But it will have its funny side."
"Why?"
"Well, I shall have to tell him all about us, won't I? And we were
schoolmates together, and I think telling him I love his sister and
want to marry her and asking his consent has its funny side. _He'll_
be on our side anyway, Lucy."
"I'm afraid nobody will think it's as nice as we do."
"Well, of course, it isn't as nice for anybody as it is for us."
"Will you tell him right away?"
"Couldn't I wait a few days? Somehow I like to bask in the sunshine of
just _you_ knowing and just _me_ knowing. What do _you_ think?"
She gave me a wonderful look. "I'm not here to think--I'm here to take
orders from my dear."
I let five days go before I told Schuyler. They were five wonderful
days, during which we borrowed no trouble from the past or the future;
five days during which we agreed to cross our bridges only when we came
to them. On that fifth day I received a long letter from Harry
Colemain dated Palm Beach.
MY DEAR FELLOW [he wrote]: At the risk of losing you I think that I
must tell you something of the experiences that I have been having with
John Fulton. To begin with he told me about his wife's failure of
affection and their domestic smash-up. He told me going down in the
train. We shared the drawing-room. Every time I was jolted into
wakefulness, I found him wide awake. For five days I don't think he
has slept a wink. He looks parched and dry like a mummy. He has tried
very hard to be a cheerful companion, and we have fished and swum and
gone through the motions of all the Palm Beach recreations. But his
mind is never for one single instant clear of his troubles. We have
become very intimate. I think he had to talk or die. He apologizes
very often for having talked and continuing to do so, but throws
himself upon what he calls my mercifulness. He talks in a circle,
always coming back to the questions _why_ and _what_. _Why_ has it
happened? _What_ has he done to deserve it? He searches his memory
for reasons as you look for bits of gold in a handful of sand. Yes, he
was very cross once about some money, but that was years before she
stopped loving him. It couldn't be _that_, etc., etc.
Our rooms are separated by a little parlor. I'm a sound sleeper, and
hate being disturbed, but I have given him positive orders to wake me
if he gets lonely and wants to talk. He's only obeyed these orders
once. And then he didn't exactly obey them, he waked me because he
couldn't control his nerves. He couldn't sleep, as usual, so he
started to get up, and just when he got his legs over the side of the
bed he began to laugh. It was his laughter that waked me. By the time
I was wide awake the laughter sounded very ugly, and by the time I got
to him it was mixed with awful sobs that came all the way from his
diaphragm and seemed as if they were going to tear him to pieces. I
turned on the light, but the moment I saw his face I turned it off. It
isn't decent for one man to see another have hysterics. We haven't
spoken of the thing since, but he knows that I came in and sat by him
and felt horribly sorry for him. I can read this in his eye. And I
think he would do anything in the world for me. The next morning his
voice was very hoarse; sometimes a woman's voice is that way after
she's paid somewhat over-handsomely for being a woman. I am trying to
convey to you the impression that the man is in a terribly bad way, and
through no possible fault of his own, which must make his torment
harder to bear.
What I think about Lucy Fulton is simply this: that she ought to be
cowhided until she sees which side her bread is buttered on. And this
is where you come in. You're great friends with her, and have a lot of
influence with her. John says so. She admires what she is pleased to
call your judgment. Can't you make her see that just because she has
been spoiled, and given all the best of everything, she's gotten bored,
and is letting one of the best men in this world eat his heart out with
grieving? She ought to lie to him. She ought to telegraph him to come
back, and when she gets him back she ought to make him think that she
still loves him. Every woman has at heart one chance to be decent.
This is hers.
Another thing. John has betrayed his notion that Lucy sees too much of
you for her own good, at this time. He doesn't even imagine that she
cares for you in any way that she shouldn't or you for her; but he does
wish--well, that you'd gone to California when you planned to, etc.,
etc. Now the season's pretty nearly over, and I know that a few weeks
one way or the other never did matter to you and won't now. Of course,
it has its ridiculous side, but I really think it would comfort John
Fulton quite a little if he heard that you had left Aiken. You see
he's half crazy with grief and insomnia, and he's got it in his head
that if Lucy had fewer other people to amuse her, she might get bored
again and in sheer boredom turn again to him. But just use your
influence with Lucy, if you've got any. I tell you on the honor of a
cynical and skeptical man, that if things go on the way they are going,
I think John Fulton will die of a broken heart. You see, he's had too
much--more than you and I can possibly imagine--and that much he has
now lost. If he isn't to get back any portion of it, he'll curl up and
die.
Hoping you're having a fine time and fine weather,
Always your affectionate friend,
H.C.
Well, the days of basking in the sunshine on top of the powder magazine
were over.
After some thought, I went to Lucy's brother and gave him Harry's
letter to read. He had slept late, and I found him dressing.
Schuyler was, of course, deeply troubled and concerned. That he
himself hadn't had "an inkling of this--not an inkling," seemed for
some minutes quite important to him, for he made the statement a number
of times. Then, for he was energetic, and, like Lucy, oftenest in a
hurry, he said:
"The thing to do is for us to take this letter to Lucy, stand over her
while she reads it, and then throw hot shot into her. Why it's a
damned shame! John's been twice as good a husband as Lucy's been a
wife. And now she does this to him." Then something appeared to
strike Schuyler's sense of humor, for he burst out laughing. "And he's
getting jealous of you!" he said gleefully. "When did you first become
a snake in the grass?"
"Perhaps you'll end by calling me that," I said gravely. "Stop
laughing, Schuyler. A very sad thing has happened and a very wonderful
thing. Lucy and I----"