"This isn't the last ride together," said Lucy, "but almost. This time
we are really going."
We had turned into Lovers' Lane, outward-bound, the ponies walking.
"John will have to be in New York for many days about this Russian
contract, and he doesn't want to take the long trip back. So we're all
going together."
"I shan't stay here very long after you've gone."
"No, you mustn't."
"We'll have lots of nice parties in New York."
"John says he's going to sell our house here, or rent it, or get rid of
it somehow."
"Why?"
"Because he's been so unhappy in it. He says unless his whole mind is
made over we'll never come to Aiken again."
She drew a long breath, and her eyes roved among the great pine trees
on either side of the road as if she wished to impress them forever
upon her memory.
"I love it all so much," she said simply.
"I'm so sorry," I said; "and it means that I won't ever be coming back
for more than a minute. And I love it, too."
"We're to spend the summer in Stamford to be near the works.
_Stamford_!"
"You'll find lots of people to like, and bully sailing and swimming."
"And bully spells of white-hot, damp weather, and bully big mosquitoes."
"It ought to be cheap."
"Very cheap."
Then we both laughed. Then we were silent.
"Tell me," I said, "how is the great compromise working?"
"I don't know. I told him how I'd made up my mind to stick by the
ship, so that there wouldn't be any scandal, or anything to break up
his home, or hurt the children, and how I was going to be better about
money, and he said, 'Very well, Lucy, we'll try it for a while, but I
don't think compromises are much good.' He wants me to do all I'm
trying to do, and be his wife too. I thought he'd--Oh, I thought he'd
be pleased and grateful--instead of that he tries to be cold to me, and
is very sharp and stern."
"It takes time to settle down to any new modus vivendi."
"Well," she cried, "I'm not doing it because I want to, am I? I'm only
doing it for his sake. I'm doing every blessed thing I _can_ to save
the situation; and if there are things I simply _can't_ do--why he
ought to be generous and understand. Oh, I know it isn't going to
work! And all the time when he isn't being cold and stern, he--he's
trying to make me love him again, and come back to him. And right in
the middle of that he'll fly into a rage, and say that I ought to be
_compelled_ to behave like a rational human being."
"But he wouldn't compel you to do anything you didn't want to do, Lucy.
Trust him for that."
"I don't know. He's so different from the way he used to be.
Sometimes I'm afraid. Sometimes I am afraid to be alone in the same
house with him. If I didn't have you to back me up, and give me
strength I'd--but it can't last long. I know it can't. And I don't
know that it's worth trying."
"You are still fond of him, Lucy?"
"And sorry for him, Oh, so sorry. But fondness and sorrow aren't
everything."
"It will be better when he has the new contract to occupy him, and keep
him away. It won't be an all-day affair then. And all the time you
and I'll be meeting to talk things over, and borrow strength to go on
with. It isn't easy for me either, dear. And of course, if after
trial we find it won't work, why then it will be our duty to ourselves
to cut the Gordian knot."
She turned toward me and we looked into each other's eyes for a long
time.
"I've given him all I can," she said. "It isn't enough. It never will
be enough. Oh, if there are knots to be cut, let's cut 'em and have
done with it."
I dropped my reins, and leaning wide, took her in my arms and kissed
her many times.
"We are romantic children," I said, "to think that there could be any
other way. God bless you, my darling, we'll cut all the knots, and
begin life all over again, and always be together."
She became then wonderfully cheerful and excited, and riding always at
a walk, no longer on roads, but through the deep woods, we made our
plans for the future.
Nothing was to be said to John until we were in a bigger place than
Aiken. The bigger the place the smaller the scandal. I offered (with
grave misgivings) to do the telling; but Lucy would not have it so.
"It's his right," she said, "to know from me." John having been told,
would, we felt sure from what we knew of his character, be willing to
do the right thing. It wasn't as if he had been dishonored in any way.
He would even be grateful to us for having been strong-minded and
aboveboard. It would hurt him terribly. Yes, but a sudden final hurt
was better than the lingering sickness from which he was now suffering.
There would, of course, be no question of alimony. My father, much as
he might disapprove of the whole affair, was not only fond of me, but
fond of Lucy, and he would see us through.
It would take a long while to get a divorce. That was the darkest
cloud on the horizon. But we must face that cheerfully; our reward
would be all the greater when it came.
That John would be unwilling to give up Lucy even when he knew that she
loved someone else never occurred to us. He belonged to that class of
men whose code is to give the women all the best of everything. He was
too fond of Lucy to wish to see her hurt. And if he wouldn't give her
a divorce, hurt she would be, for in that unlikely event we were
determined to jump on the nearest steamer and sail away for parts
unknown.
"Why not come in?" said Lucy, when we had finished our ride. "You
haven't been near the house for days, so it won't be very noticeable."
"All right," I said, "for a minute."
It was between dusk and dark. The lights had not been turned on in the
hall. The opportunity seemed rare and sweet. We stood for one brief
fleeting moment closely enlaced--and swiftly separated, and stood
breathing fast, and listening.
Lucy was the first to make up her mind.
She stepped swiftly to the dining-room door and flung it open. She was
in time to see the trim shoulders and white cap of a servant
disappearing from the dining-room into the pantry.
"Who was it?"
"My new waitress."
"Hilda?"