It was not until the early winter that I saw Lucy. It was by accident.
I sat just behind her at a musical comedy. She was with her husband.
They looked very prosperous. They seemed to be comradely enough.
Mostly I saw only the back of her head; once, her full profile; and
then at last she turned half around in her seat, and saw me. I don't
know what I did. I think I smiled, half rose to my feet, and lifted my
hand as if to take off a hat--which of course I didn't have on. She
nodded, and smiled brightly; but her eyes had that expression of
praying that I have so often mentioned.
It was long since I had thought of her for more than a few minutes at a
time. But now my heart began to beat furiously and all my sleeping
love for her waked in my heart.
And now she was telling her husband _who_ was sitting just behind them.
I went out after the act, intending to stay out. But Fulton followed
so quickly that he caught me just as I was leaving the theater.
"Hello, Archie," he said.
"Hello, John. How are you all?"
"Pretty well," he said; "and you?"
"Pretty well. Cartridges still looking up?"
"Yes. We're doubling the capacity of the plant for the second time
since the war started. Have a drink?"
We walked to the nearest saloon. "We heard that you were going to
enlist."
"I did think of it, and then I got cold feet."
"Like hell you did!"
"Well, reasons against it were found for me. Reasons which I ought to
have thought of for myself. Here's how."
"Santé!" said John. A moment later, "Going to Aiken?" he asked.
"Why, it depends."
There was an awkward silence.
"Lucy is very anxious," he then said, "to open our house again this
winter."
"As a matter of fact," said I glibly, "I've more than half decided on
Palm Beach."
A bell rang shrilly.
"Time to go back," he said.
"One moment, John. I'm not going back--of course. How is Lucy?"
"Oh, pretty well," he said stiffly; "I think she'll come through all
right. Had a tough time for a while."
Upon that he hurried off to rejoin her, and I turned my face once more
to the bar, and gave an order. I felt as if I had been through a
terrible ordeal. I was all in.
From now on I heard more often of the Fultons, for they were leading a
conspicuously gay life. Somebody had loaned them a house for six
weeks, and by all accounts Lucy was making money fly.
I saw her in the distance three times. Twice to bow and exchange
smiles. The other time she didn't see me. Seeing her meant two or
three days of torture; then her image and desirability would begin to
fade once more. But at least no other woman interested me in the least.
Presently they went to Aiken. A few days later I entrained for Palm
Beach; but found that I could not stand the place or the pace for long
periods of time, and fell into the habit of commuting with New York.
It was the war, I think, which made me so restless. It seemed to me
that the night had not been well slept, nor the most promising day well
begun until I had read the headlines in the papers. My hot wish to
fight as a soldier had cooled. More and more I wanted to be of
service, but in some way which seemed to me more imaginative and
intelligent. But I could not hit on the way. I must go to Paris, I
thought, then surely the inspiration of helpfulness would come. But I
could not very well go to Paris until the year of probation was up. If
Lucy still cared--well, it would be easy enough for me to care. I knew
now that her physical presence was sufficient to make me care--at any
given moment. "Oh," I thought, "I can't lose. Either I'll go to Paris
and be useful, or I'll begin a new life with the girl I love who loves
me."
Late in February Harry Colemain joined me at Palm Beach. He had
wintered at Aiken, and I had all the Aiken news from him. The place
had never been so full--people who usually went abroad, etc.,
etc.--some delightful new people, about all the old standbys. It was
not a sporting winter. Most of the men were feeling too poor for high
stakes. Would I believe it, the golf course was crowded all day? The
new hotel? It looked as if it was going to be a success. The clubs
were having the biggest year in their history. The golf club would be
able to reset the green with Bermuda grass. Some of the holes had come
through the summer splendidly. Some were better than they ever had
been, others were worse, etc., etc.
I asked him about this and about that. At last I said: "How are the
Fultons?"
"Well, John comes and goes. He seems to have gotten back his health.
The kids are fine . . . of course they are not what they _were_ as a
family. That's obvious. But Lucy seems to have come to her senses.
She was very gay at first. Then she went round looking--well, she
looked frightened. Lots of people noticed it. It was as if the doctor
had told her she had lung trouble. She quit riding and dropped out of
everything--except very quiet little dinners. Then she got very
interested in her yard, and had experts over from Berckman's and did a
lot of new planting . . ."
"But why did she look frightened? There wasn't anything the matter,
was there?"
"Well, you know the trouble she made for John, wouldn't be his wife and
all that? Well, he seems to have won her round to his way of looking
at compromise--or she got more or less fond of him again. I don't
know."
"I don't quite understand what you're driving at."
"You _don't_? Why, she's to have a baby. And everybody who knew there
had been trouble says, 'Thank God for that.'"
My hands began to tremble so that I had to hide them under the table at
which we were sitting.
"Bully, isn't it?" said Harry; fortunately he had turned his head to
look at two very lovely young women who had strolled into the palm
garden.
"Bully," I said.
"See those two, Archie?" he said in a guarded voice.
"Sure I see them."
"One of 'em's the famous Mrs. Paxton, who----"
"I know."
"Met her last autumn at----" He rose suddenly to his feet, and
advanced to meet the two women. "Hello, there! Glad to see you."
Mrs. Paxton's cool demure face broke into a delighted smile.
"Why, Harry!" she exclaimed. "Miss Coles, let me introduce Mr.
Colemain."
A moment later Harry had dragged me forward (literally) and I was being
introduced. Miss Coles had very beautiful brown eyes, very white
teeth, and a very deep dimple.
"Why," said Harry, "shouldn't all you good people dine with me?"
"Why not?" exclaimed Mrs. Paxton.
I started to say that I had a pressing engagement, discovered Miss
Coles' exceedingly beautiful eyes lifted to mine, and saw upon her face
an expression of the most alluring mockery, and so--"Why not?" said I.
We had a long and a merry dinner. I felt defiant of life, a man
without responsibilities, who owed nothing and to whom nothing was owed.
After dinner we went strolling in the moonlight. Harry and Mrs. Paxton
strolled in one direction, Miss Coles and I in another.
Miss Coles looked very beautiful, and she wore an expression of
childlike proprietorship which was very becoming to her.
"Why are you _Miss_ Coles?" I asked.
"I'm not--really." Her voice was little more than a whisper. "It's
more fun to be _Miss_ while the divorce is pending. I'm from
California--nobody knows me here."
"And you're getting a divorce?"
She nodded slowly. And then with a flash of engaging frankness: "No,
I'm not," she said; "_he_ is."
"Oh!"
We strolled on in silence for a moment, and then as if by agreement
came to a sudden halt and looked at each other.
Then she laughed softly, her head tilted back, and her round bare
throat showing very white in the moonlight.