THE IRONICAL MOMENT
Three hours later Fargus dragged himself home, still limp with the
violence of that first uncontrolled burst of vengeance, which, like all
the passions, had been too intense in its inception not to necessitate
an exhausted reaction. But during these three hours he had already put
into motion that conception of a punishment which had come to him like a
flash at the end of his maddened flight through the city.
What was hardest was to return home. When he reached the street it was
already dark and the light in the second story was showing cheerily,
while from the hall the veiled glow spread a feeling of delicious
warmth. At the sight of the home he had grown so passionately to love
such a lust for murder welled up in him that, not daring to look upon
Sheila's treacherous face, he fled again.
It was almost half an hour later that he came again to his own door and
forced his reluctant feet up the steps. With the key in his hand he
remained a long moment, feeling all at once very old and exhausted. Then
with a shudder he opened the door.
"Is that you?" the voice of his wife cried instantly. In the greeting,
strangely enough, there was a note of gladness. "What kept you? I have
been waiting for ever so long."
"Business," he mumbled.
His delay had frightened her. In moments of danger and deception the
slightest deviation from the routine fires the imagination with vague
terrors. Reassured, she began to move about quickly, humming to herself.
Below Fargus listened, one hand raised, his lips moving involuntarily to
her singing, aghast at her composure.
"I'm coming--coming right away," she called down. "Go in and order
supper."
Before he had moved, she had run down the stairs.
"Heavens!" she cried, stopping short. "How tired you look!"
"Do I?" he said, looking on the floor. "Yes, a headache or something."
"You must take more rest," she said, laying her hand on his shoulder and
looking a moment anxiously in his face, before she took her seat at the
table.
He had wondered if he could keep his hands from her fair throat,--she
came and he could hardly restrain himself from falling at her feet. When
he looked at her at last his heart rebelled. He had believed that her
perfidy had ended his infatuation. He found in her loveliness the power
yet to wound--he suffered, he loved. It was not only the woman he could
not give up, but the half, the happier half, of his own self.
Seeing him so weary Sheila felt a sudden movement of pity, a maternal
tenderness she had not believed possible. Across the shining little
table, which she contemplated from time to time with an affectionate
eye, she saw always the intruding shadow of the lawyer, malignant and
inexorable, bringing with it the damp and the chill of the outer night.
It was a memory and a threat, the shadow of the cold, starved world of
poverty which clung to her. Before this real menace her vanities and her
whims vanished, and suddenly, on again looking at the man who had placed
her amid this coziness and warmth, the tears dimmed her eyes. All at
once she realized how desperately she clung to this home of hers, this
one satisfying reality in a stretch of past darkness and future menace.
Threatened in this joy of possession her heart was softened towards her
husband, whose suffering she now comprehended with her own. She raised
her head and said compassionately:
"How tired you are, dear! You aren't ill, are you?"
At this, her first caress, he twitched violently as from a shock of
pain, and drawing his hand hastily across his forehead he stammered
inaudibly:
"No, no."
He fastened his gaze desperately on his plate; to look at her would have
meant surrender. He had an immense impulse to seize her in his arms, to
overwhelm the fair, treacherous face with kisses, to forego and to
forget and to sink into a shameless, passionate subjection. To himself
he repeated again and again:
"Yes, yes, I love her--I want to love her!"
Sheila also was stirred by the responsive emotion one endearing word had
brought.
"If he loves me like that," she thought, trembling on the verge of a
confession, "he might forgive me anything."
And shaken with the daring of the thought she sought the courage to
throw herself on her knees and cry his mercy.
The pause lasted but a moment. Neither suspected what was in the soul of
the other or that three destinies hung on a word. A glance of affection
would have brought Fargus shamelessly to her knees, a flash of courage
and she would have confessed and been forgiven. The ironical moment
passed. She did not quite dare. But to distract him she said gently:
"I'm going to tell Mr. Bofinger to give you as good advice as he gave
me. And by the way, what has become of him all this time?"
That speech decided two fates. In Fargus every human emotion froze. From
the rage of subjection he passed violently to the rage of murder. Where
a moment before he had been on the point of stretching forth his hands
in supplication he was now shaken with a blinding passion to possess
himself with something murderous, with which to rush on her and blot out
forever both her treachery and his infatuation.
"Fargus!" she cried in horror. "What is it? Why do you look so?"
"Me?" he mumbled, thrusting away from him the knife by his plate with a
gesture she could not understand. "What--what was it?"
"I asked if Mr. Bofinger was away," she said, following him in alarm.
"And why you haven't seen him."
"Ah, Bofinger!" he cried, and his fist cracked on the table like the
sound of a curse.
"What jealousy!" she thought to herself, and reassured she began to
laugh openly.
"Why do you laugh?" he demanded fiercely.
"Monster of jealousy!" she said, smiling. "What a lot of trouble that
naughty remark of mine has made!"
"Go on," he said, drawing his eyebrows together. Then to himself he
added furiously: "Actress--vile actress, lie now to me if you can."
"I'm penitent, my dear; I own up," she said with mock humility. "Your
friend talked economy and poverty to me until I expected he was going to
send you back to your old ways. So to be rid of him I made up my mind to
make you jealous. You remember?" And looking at him with challenging
eyes she burst out laughing. "Since then, you can't bear to hear his
name. Isn't that true?"
"No," he said gruffly, cursing her cleverness. "No, I am not jealous."
"Fib!" she said, wagging a finger. "And it's all my fault."
"No."
"You're not made for telling lies," she said with a shake of her head.
"Leave that for those who know. Shall we ask Mr. Bofinger to supper
then--to-morrow night?"
He did not answer, raging at the skill with which she enmeshed him.
"And you're not jealous!" she cried, clapping her hands triumphantly.
Then rising and coming to his side with the fawning movement of a cat
she laid her hand on his arm, saying with a sudden shift to seriousness:
"Forgive me my foolish teasing. I'll feel awfully hurt if you let that
come between you and an old friend. As for Mr. Bofinger, you silly man,
he oils his hair and his eyes have a squint!"
"Then you want him?" he said, without raising his eyes from her jeweled,
supple fingers.
"Please--for to-morrow," she answered with the air of making an
atonement. "And--I'll not be so wicked again."
Strangely enough, in the presence of such perfected acting Fargus found
new strength and a fierce delight in matching wits.
"Well, well!" he said, forcing a fierce smile. "That was all, was it?
And you are sure you want Mr. Bofinger?"
"Please."
"That decides it then!" he said grimly; and to him the words were as the
casting of a die.
The emotion of vengeance is supreme among human passions. Beyond love
itself, of which it is often the ultimate phase, it is so exacting and
absorbing that only the most intense natures can guard it long in their
hearts without being thereby consumed. The generality of men prefer to
excuse and forget. The man who can pursue a vengeance relentlessly, and
at the sacrifice of his own desires, has in him either a little of the
woman or of the savage, in whom the egotism of civilization is unknown;
or a touch of that madness which distinguishes fanatics and
misanthropes, those who are ready to sacrifice themselves for humanity
or those who despise it. In measure as this supreme passion dominated
Fargus it educated him and, from a first tempestuous upsetting, it
calmed him and gave to him the strength of deception, the joy of
matching his wits against the woman and a confidence in the ultimate
day. His demeanor during the supper at which Bofinger was present
surprised him. Forewarned he viewed their adroit maneuvering to develop
a quarrel with scorn and amusement. He found in himself another man, the
creature of his new purpose, who suffered no longer. But at times the
other returned with the intensity of pain.
Two days after the supper with Bofinger, Fargus returned one night with
a vigor and a zest that impressed Sheila at once.
"Ah, you're different to-night," she said, looking at him with interest.
"Yes, Sheila, I am," he cried, taking her hand and squeezing it
joyfully. "Luck, great luck!"
Wondering much she followed him up-stairs, where without preliminaries
he brought out a bundle of papers and said with a smile:
"Sheila, we're going to have a business talk. Something unexpected has
happened. First--there!"
Picking out of the bundle a book he offered it to her with an expectant
smile. She took it with a feeling of apprehension, watching him in
almost dismay. It was a bank book inscribed with her name.
"For me?" she cried, "but--what--why?"
"You have said you don't have enough money," he answered drily. "You are
now to run the house--all expenses except rent. Every three months four
hundred dollars will be paid in to your account."
She looked and saw that amount entered to her credit. This development
in her husband so overwhelmed her that she could not for a time muster
words to thank him. When she started he cut her short.
"Now listen, Sheila, you've been wondering, haven't you, what has
worried me these last days." He stopped with a questioning look,
reveling in his new power of deception. "Three days ago I was afraid
that the chance to make millions was going to escape me. To-day I have
it in my hand. Yes, Sheila, millions--millions!"
Across her mind there passed the terrible thought that Bofinger had
found an opening, and she said anxiously:
"Is it a secret?"
"Absolutely," he answered. "A secret for every one!"
"It's a plan, then, of Mr. Bofinger's!" she said with conviction.
"Bofinger, heavens no!" he cried in real alarm. "He has no idea of it;
and, Sheila, no one must know, no one!"
"Never fear," she cried, relieved. "Not a word shall pass my lips, I
promise you! But, Max, you say millions," she added incredulously; "in
your enthusiasm don't you--what do you really mean?"
"No, millions!" he cried, smiting his palms. Then leaning forward and
grasping a knee in either squat hand he began nervously:
"To-morrow I'm leaving for Mexico. When I come back, if all goes well,
there is nothing you can wish for you can't have."
At this extraordinary promise, all of a sudden, like a mist, there
rolled up before the woman a glittering vision of luxury and splendor;
carriages beautifully fashioned, rolling behind swift horses, boxes at
the opera dimmed by apparitions of bewildering satins and silks, which
in turn disappeared before the fascination of glistening jewelry. She
shut her eyes and with a sigh relaxed in the gentle happiness. Fargus
lost not a sign of her emotion. He smiled as a master smiles. He held
her. He proceeded rapidly, finding in the thought of her deception a joy
which she imagined came from his words.
"Four years ago I staked out a miner who came to me with tales of the
Mexican silver mines. I supplied him on condition to have two thirds of
his findings. He is not the first I've done that for. He wrote me a week
ago that he was returning successful. To-day I saw him and, Sheila, not
only has he discovered a mine that promises everything, but he brings me
the chance to buy up one which they think is worked out, but which
really is filled with millions. There is in this business," he said,
nodding wisely, "something queer, a bit of treachery; but let the owners
look to themselves. The more fools they to be deceived! I shall go
to-morrow and investigate both with an expert, on the quiet. Now, in
order that I can close as soon as I am sure, I have brought these papers
to you to sign."
She received the papers without a glance, saying breathlessly:
"And you really believe there is a chance?"
"A chance? A certainty!"
She leaned over and took his hands, saying with tears in her eyes:
"O Max, if it is only true!"
"There, there, read over the papers," he said nervously, withdrawing his
hands. "If everything goes well I shall sell some of my restaurants and
cinch the bargain. The papers are a formality--your consent to the sales
in case they are made. Of course," he added with a shrug, "if nothing
turns up I shan't sell."
"Oh, don't speak of such a thing!" she said with a superstitious shiver.
"Where shall I sign?"
"There and there," he said, imposing his finger and hiding his eyes.
"To-morrow we'll go before a notary and you can acknowledge your
signature."
"And why that?" she said, signing carelessly.
"To show, my dear, that your signature is given willingly and not by
compulsion."
She lifted her head and met his glance. The two burst into laughter.
The next morning the deeds were duly executed at the Union Bank, where
Sheila was identified. After lunch she insisted on packing everything
herself. She arranged his tie, smoothed his coat, studying him with an
affection as sincere and deep as her hunger for the vision of wealth he
had so marvelously held out to her.
"Now remember," he said sternly, "if anyone asks, say I'm off on
business."
"I will."
"But you don't know where."
"Never fear."
"You might say, if necessary, that it was to look up some oyster beds."
"I will."
"Good-by, then," he blurted out, reaching out his hand.
"Not like that!" she cried in protest, and flinging herself into his
arms she kissed him. Then holding herself from him, seizing his
shoulders, she cried fervently:
"Oh, Max, bring me only what you promised, and I'll give you all without
reserve. All!"