When we came back, I said: “Now we must be going.”
“Oh, but surely you'll stay for supper!” cried Joe's wife.
“No,” replied I, in a tone that made it impossible to insist. “We
appreciate your kindness, but we've imposed on it enough.” And I shook
hands with her and with Allie and the minister, and, linking Joe's arm in
mine, made for the door. I gave the necessary directions to my chauffeur
while we were waiting for Anita to come down the steps. Joe's daughter was
close beside her, and they kissed each other good-by, Alva on the verge of
tears, Anita not suggesting any emotion of any sort. “To-morrow--sure,”
Anita said to her. And she answered: “Yes, indeed--as soon as you telephone
me.” And so we were off, a shower of rice rattling on the roof of the
brougham--the slatternly man-servant had thrown it from the midst of the
group of servants.
Neither of us spoke. I watched her face without seeming to do so, and by
the light of occasional street lamps saw her studying me furtively. At last
she said: “I wish to go to my uncle's now.”
“We are going home,” said I.
“But the house will be shut up,” said she, “and every one will be in bed.
It's nearly midnight. Besides, they might not--” She came to a full stop.
“We are going--home,” I repeated. “To the Willoughby.”
She gave me a look that was meant to scorch--and it did. But I showed at
the surface no sign of how I was wincing and shrinking.
She drew farther into her corner, and out of its darkness came, in a low
voice: “How I _hate_ you!” like the whisper of a bullet.
I kept silent until I had control of myself. Then, as if talking--of a
matter that had been finally and amicably settled, I began: “The apartment
isn't exactly ready for us, but Joe's just about now telephoning my man
that we are coming, and telephoning your people to send your maid down
there.”
“I wish to go to my uncle's,” she repeated.
“My wife will go with me,” said I quietly and gently. “I am considerate of
_her_, not of her unwise impulses.”
A long pause, then from her, in icy calmness: “I am in your power just now.
But I warn you that, if you do not take me to my uncle's, you will wish you
had never seen me.”
“I've wished that many times already,” said I sadly. “I've wished it from
the bottom of my heart this whole evening, when step by step fate has been
forcing me on to do things that are even more hateful to me than to you.
For they not only make me hate myself, but make you hate me, too.” I laid
my hand on her arm and held it there, though she tried to draw away.
“Anita,” I said, “I would do anything for you--live for you, die for you.
But there's that something inside me--you've felt it; and when it says
'must,' I can't disobey--you know I can't. And, though you might break
my heart, you could not break that will. It's as much my master as it is
yours.”
“We shall see--to-morrow,” she said.
“Do not put me to the test,” I pleaded. Then I added what I knew to be
true: “But you will not. You know it would take some one stronger than your
uncle, stronger than your parents, to swerve me from what I believe right
for you and for me.” I had no fear for “to-morrow.” The hour when she could
defy me had passed.
A long, long silence, the electric speeding southward under the arching
trees of the West Drive. I remember it was as we skirted the lower end
of the Mall that she said evenly: “You have made me hate you so that it
terrifies me. I am afraid of the consequences that must come to you and
to me.”
“And well you may be,” I answered gently. “For you've seen enough of me to
get at least a hint of what I would do, if goaded to it. Hate is terrible,
Anita, but love can be more terrible.”
At the Willoughby she let me help her descend from the electric, waited
until I sent it away, walked beside me into the building. My man, Sanders,
had evidently been listening for the elevator; the door opened without my
ringing, and there he was, bowing low. She acknowledged his welcome with
that regard for “appearances” that training had made instinctive. In the
center of my--our--drawing-room table was a mass of fresh white roses.
“Where did you get 'em?” I asked him, in an aside.
“The elevator boy's brother, sir,” he replied, “works in the florist's shop
just across the street, next to the church. He happened to be down stairs
when I got your message, sir. So I was able to get a few flowers. I'm
sorry, sir, I hadn't a little more time.”
“You've done noble,” said I, and I shook hands with him warmly.
Anita was greeting those flowers as if they were a friend suddenly
appearing in a time of need. She turned now and beamed on Sanders. “Thank
you,” she said; “thank you.” And Sanders was hers.
“Anything I can do--ma'am--sir?” asked Sanders.
“Nothing--except send my maid as soon as she comes,” she replied.
“I shan't need you,” said I.
“Mr. Monson is still here,” he said, lingering. “Shall I send him away,
sir, or do you wish to see him?”
“I'll speak to him myself in a moment,” I answered.
When Sanders was gone, she seated herself and absently played with the
buttons of her glove.
“Shall I bring Monson?” I asked. “You know, he's my--factotum.”
“_I_ do not wish to see him,” she answered.
“You do not like him?”
After a brief hesitation she answered, “No.” Not for worlds would she just
then have admitted, even to herself, that the cause of her dislike was her
knowledge of his habit of tattling, with suitable embroideries, his lessons
to me.
I restrained a strong impulse to ask her why, for instinct told me she had
some especial reason that somehow concerned me. I said merely: “Then I
shall get rid of him.”
“Not on my account,” she replied indifferently. “I care nothing about him
one way or the other.”
“He goes at the end of his month,” said I.
She was now taking off her gloves. “Before your maid comes,” I went on,
“let me explain about the apartment. This room and the two leading out of
it are yours. My own suite is on the other side of our private hall there.”
She colored high, paled. I saw that she did not intend to speak.
I stood awkwardly, waiting for something further to come into my own head.
“Good night,” said I finally, as if I were taking leave of a formal
acquaintance at the end of a formal call.
She did not answer. I left the room, closing the door behind me. I paused
an instant, heard the key click in the lock. And I burned in a hot flush of
shame that she should be thinking thus basely of me--and with good cause.
How could she know, how appreciate even if she had known? “You've had to
cut deep,” said I to myself. “But the wounds'll heal, though it may take
long--very long.” And I went on my way, not wholly downcast.
I joined Monson in my little smoking-room. “Congratulate you,” he began,
with his nasty, supercilious grin, which of late had been getting on my
nerves severely.
“Thanks,” I replied curtly, paying no attention to his outstretched hand.
“I want you to put a notice of the marriage in to-morrow morning's
_Herald_.”
“Give me the facts--clergyman's name--place, and so on,” said he.
“Unnecessary,” I answered. “Just our names and the date--that's all. You'd
better step lively. It's late, and it'll be too late if you delay.”
With an irritating show of deliberation he lit a fresh cigarette before
setting out. I heard her maid come. After about an hour I went into the
hall--no light through the transoms of her suite. I returned to my own part
of the flat and went to bed in the spare room to which Sanders had moved my
personal belongings. That day which began in disaster--in what a blaze of
triumph it had ended! Anita--my wife, and under my roof! I slept with good
conscience. I had earned sleep.