"It isn't fair to you and Lucy? At least it is fair to me. Nobody has
thought about me. I have had to think for myself, and for the
children. Admit this--if your love stands a year's test you will stand
a far greater chance of happiness than if you ran away together now,
unblessed by the man you had wronged, and unclergied. Admit this,
too--that if your love doesn't stand the test, then my life has been
ruined for as futile, puerile, misbegotten a passion as ever reared its
head under an honest man's roof. Admit it! Admit it."
"I'm not sure that I admit any such thing."
"Then, my dear fellow," he said, "your mental and moral capacity are on
precisely the same plane. . . . I'm sure you don't want to injure
Lucy. Give her this chance to straighten out and get untangled. If
there is any truth in your love for her you will see that this way is
best for her."
"I am thinking of her happiness."
"_Are_ you?"
"She's been very patient, John. I can't tell you how patient."
"For God's sake don't try to tell me. Haven't I had enough to bear?"
"I think Lucy won't be willing to wait a year."
"She must be made willing. You must help. A year soon passes--soon
passes. If things then are as they are now, then I shall believe that
your love for each other is strong and fine, and I shall renounce my
claim with a good grace--a good grace."
"If we can't wait a year, John!"
"You mean if you won't? In that case I shall not feel that Lucy is
entitled to a divorce, or either of you to any money at my hands.
Among the people who are necessary to you and Lucy, a wronged and
upright husband has great power. If you are such children, such fools,
as not to be willing to stand a test of your love, you will have to be
punished. It would mean that your passion has nothing to do with what
is understood by love. You would merely be pointed at and passed up as
a rather well-known young couple with adulterous proclivities."
There was a long, charged silence.
"The law and the prophets are all on your side, John, but----"
"You'll not answer now, please. You'll think it over. And don't
forget all the pleasant things that you can do in a year. There's that
hunting trip in Somaliland you used to talk about so much--there's
London and Paris--wonderful places for a man who's trying to cure
himself of an unlawful love."
"Trying to _cure_ himself?"
"Of course. Jesting aside, don't you think that what you and Lucy want
to do to Jock and Hurry and me is _wrong_? Of course you do. You're
not a devil. If, by uttering the wish, you could bring it about that
you had never loved Lucy, that she had never fallen out of love with me
and loved you over the heads of her children, that all might be as it
was when you first began to come to our house, wouldn't you utter that
wish? Of course you would."
He was smiling at me now, very gently and cunningly, and there was, at
the same time, in his eyes an awful pathos.
"Why, yes," I said, "I suppose so."
"Just bear out what I've always maintained," said he; "I've always
maintained that you were a good fellow--at heart."
"Am I to see Lucy again--before the year begins?"
"Is it very necessary?"
"I suppose not. But----"
"Well, I imagine Lucy will insist on seeing you. It will be a pity,
but after all she's only a little child in some ways. It's all going
to be very hard for you both, at first," he said gently. "So you shall
see each other again--if she says so."
Suddenly he reached out his hand, and I took it.
"Oh," he said, "I needed your help."