“You were quite right,” he cried; “this young idiot Sandby has been
telling Vigné that he loves her; and now Vigné assures me, with tears,
that she likes it! They want to get married--next week, tomorrow, this
evening.” Linda stood by the window; soon the magnolia-tree would be
again laden with flowers. She gathered her courage into a determined
composure of tone. “I saw Bailey outside,” she admitted. “He told me. It
seems excellent to me.”
Arnaud Hallet incredulously challenged her. “What do you mean--that you
gave him a trace of encouragement!” Linda replied:
“I said that I was certain you would consent.” She halted his
exasperated gesture. “You think Vigné is nothing but a child, and yet
she is as old as I was at our wedding. My mother was no older when
Bartram Lowrie married her. I think Vigné is very fortunate, Bailey is
as nice as possible; and, as he said, it isn't as if you knew nothing of
the Sandbys; they are as dignified as the Lowries.”
An expression she had never before seen hardened his countenance into
a sarcasm that travestied his customary humor. “You realize, of course,
that except for what his father gives him young Sandby is wretchedly
poor. He's nice enough but what has that to do with it? And, in
particular, how does it touch you, Linda Condon? Do you suppose I can
ever forget your answer that time I first asked you to marry me? You
wouldn't consider a poor man; you were worth, really, a hundred thousand
a year; but, if nothing better came along, you might sacrifice yourself
for fifty.”
“I remember very well,” she answered; “and, curiously enough, I am
not ashamed. I was very sensible then, in a horrible position with
extravagant habits. They were me. I couldn't change myself. Without
money I should have made you, any man, entirely miserable. Arnaud, I
hadn't--I haven't now--the ability to see everything important through
the affections, like so many many women. You often told me that; who
hasn't? I have always admitted it wasn't pleasant nor praiseworthy. But
how, to use your own words, does all that affect Vigné? She isn't cold
but very warm-hearted; and, instead of my experience, she has her own so
much better feeling.”
“I absolutely refuse to allow anything of the sort,” he declared
sharply. “I won't even discuss it--for three years. Tell this Sandby
infant, if you like, to come back then.”
“In three years, or in one year, Vigné may be quite different, yes-less
lovable. Happiness, too, is queer, Arnaud; there isn't a great deal of
it. Not an overwhelming amount. If it appears for an instant it must be
held as tightly as possible. It doesn't come back, you know. Don't turn
to your book yet--you can't get rid of us, of Vigné and me, like that;
and then it's rude; the first time, I believe, you have ever been
impolite to me.”
“Forgive me,” he spoke formally. “You seem to think that I am as
indifferent as yourself. You might be asking the day of the week to
judge from your calm appearance. The emotion of a father, or even of
a mother, perhaps, you have never explored. On the whole you are
fortunate. And you are always protected by your celebrated honesty.” She
said:
“I promised Bailey your consent.”
“Why bother about that? It isn't necessary for your new romantic mood.
An elopement, with you to steady the ladder, would be more appropriate.”
She repeated the fact of her engagement. Her dread for him had vanished,
its place now taken by a distrust of what, in her merged detachment and
suffering, she might blunderingly do. At the back of this she realized
that his case, his position, was hopeless. Without warning, keen and
undimmed, his love for her flashed through his resentful misery. There
was no spoken acknowledgement of surrender; he sank into his chair
dejected and pitiable, infinitely gray. His shoes, on the brightness of
the hooked rug, were dingy, his coat drawn and wrinkled.
Linda saw herself on her knees before him, before his patience and
generosity, sobbing her contrition into his forgiving hands. She
longed with every nerve--as she had so often before--to lose herself in
passionate emotion. She had never been more erect or withdrawn, never
essentially less touched. After a little, waiting for him to speak,
she saw that he, too, had retreated into the profound depths of his own
illusions and despairs.