That afternoon--or, was it the next?--I happened to go home early. I have
never been able to keep alive anger against any one. My anger against Anita
had long ago died away, had been succeeded by regret and remorse that I
had let my nerves, or whatever the accursed cause was, whirl me into such
an outburst. Not that I regretted having rejected what I still felt was
insulting to me and degrading to her; simply that my manner should have
been different. There was no necessity or excuse for violence in showing
her that I would not, could not, accept from gratitude what only love
has the right to give. And I had long been casting about for some way
to apologize--not easy to do, when her distant manner toward me made
it difficult for me to find even the necessary commonplaces to “keep
up appearances” before the servants on the few occasions on which we
accidentally met.
But, as I was saying, I came up from the office and stretched myself
on--the lounge in my private room adjoining the library. I had read myself
into a doze, when a servant brought me a card. I glanced at it as it lay
upon his extended tray. “Gerald Monson,” I read aloud. “What does the
damned rascal want?” I asked.
The servant smiled. He knew as well as I how Monson, after I dismissed him
with a present of six months' pay, had given the newspapers the story--or,
rather, his version of the story--of my efforts to educate myself in the
“arts and graces of a gentleman.”
“Mr. Monson says he wishes to see you particular, sir,” said he.
“Well--I'll see him,” said I. I despised him too much to dislike him, and I
thought he might possibly be in want. But that notion vanished the instant
I set eyes upon him. He was obviously at the very top of the wave. “Hello,
Monson,” was my greeting, in it no reminder of his treachery.
“Howdy, Blacklock,” said he. “I've come on a little errand for Mrs.
Langdon.” Then, with that nasty grin of his: “You know, I'm looking after
things for her since the bust-up.”
“No, I didn't--know,” said I curtly, suppressing my instant curiosity.
“What does Mrs. Langdon want?”
“To see you--for just a few minutes--whenever it is convenient.”
“If Mrs. Langdon has business with me, I'll see her at my office,” said I.
She was one of the fashionables that had got herself into my black books by
her treatment of Anita since the break with the Ellerslys.
“She wishes to come to you here--this afternoon, if you are to be at home.
She asked me to say that her business is important--and very private.”
I hesitated, but I could think of no good excuse for refusing. “I'll be
here an hour,” said I. “Good day.”
He gave me no time to change my mind.
Something--perhaps it was his curious expression as he took himself
off--made me begin to regret. The more I thought of the matter, the less I
thought of my having made any civil concession to a woman who had acted so
badly toward Anita and myself. He had not been gone a quarter of an hour
before I went to Anita in her sitting-room. Always, the instant I entered
the outer door of her part of our house, that powerful, intoxicating
fascination that she had for me began to take possession of my senses. It
was in every garment she wore. It seemed to linger in any place where she
had been, for a long time after she left it. She was at a small desk by the
window, was writing letters.
“May I interrupt?” said I. “Monson was here a few minutes ago--from Mrs.
Langdon. She wants to see me. I told him I would see her here. Then it
occurred to me that perhaps I had been too good-natured. What do you
think?”
I could not see her face, but only the back of her head, and the loose
coils of magnetic hair and the white nape of her graceful neck. As I began
to speak, she stopped writing, her pen suspended over the sheet of paper.
After I ended there was a long silence.
“I'll not see her,” said I. “I don't quite understand why I yielded.” And I
turned to go.
“Wait--please,” came from her abruptly.
Another long silence. Then I: “If she comes here, I think the only person
who can properly receive her is you.”
“No--you must see her,” said Anita at last. And she turned round in her
chair until she was facing me. Her expression--I can not describe it. I can
only say that it gave me a sense of impending calamity.
“I'd rather not--much rather not,” said I.
“I particularly wish you to see her,” she replied, and she turned back to
her writing. I saw her pen poised as if she were about to begin; but she
did not begin--and I felt that she would not. With my mind shadowed with
vague dread, I left that mysterious stillness, and went back to the
library.
It was not long before Mrs. Langdon was announced. There are some women
to whom a haggard look is becoming; she is one of them. She was much
thinner than when I last saw her; instead of her former restless, petulant,
suspicious expression, she now looked tragically sad. “May I trouble you to
close the door?” said she, when the servant had withdrawn.