"TOO MUCH FOR ANY WOMAN TO FORGIVE."
Though summer comes very slowly to New England, it yet does come, and
when it has fully arrived its sumptuous beauty makes amends for all
delays.
It was summer again at Savin Hill. There was the ocean in its
splendor just as it had been the year before. The year before? Was
it not rather a dozen years before? This was the question Lawrence
put to himself as he stood on one of the cliffs from which he could
see the towers of the Ffolliott summer residence. He and his wife had
come down to Seaview to stay for awhile. He thought that, unless he
chose, he would not be likely to see the Ffolliotts. He could hardly
understand why he longed to be at the old familiar shore. He supposed
it was because he was not quite well,--not ill, by any means, but not
in his usual robust health. He hardly knew what was the trouble. He
seemed to have recovered from the attack of the dog. The physician
whom he consulted did not mention any disease, but he gave strong
advice against work at present. "Just have a good time," he had said,
at which Lawrence had laughed.
Now, as he stood on this cliff, his eyes dwelt upon that château-like
house which had once been a home to him. Never a home to him again.
Sometimes his dishonorable way of leaving that place so rankled in
him that he wanted to cry aloud, or weep like a hysterical woman.
That was because he was not well, of course, though not ill; no,
indeed, not ill. He would soon be at work again. When he could once
work he would cease to be so weak. As for Prudence, she no longer
hung upon him with passionate caresses; she was careless, though
good-natured. He fancied he had seen a half-concealed contempt in her
glance of late. Well, no one could despise him as much as he despised
himself. He sometimes thought that he was one of those poor creatures
who could do evil, but who were not strong enough to stop thinking
about it after it was done.
"In short," he said, aloud, "I haven't the courage of my wickedness."
At first Prudence had made him forget everything but herself; she was
a kind of hasheesh to him. But she was getting weary of him,--nay,
was already weary.
Lawrence had sat down on the cliff by this time. Somebody was coming
up the other side. In a moment a boy's head appeared. Lawrence leaned
forward quickly. Leander Ffolliott sprang up and came forward,--a
little taller for one year's growth, but otherwise much the same.
"I bet ten to one 'twas you," he said, "when I saw you first."
He held out his hand, and the two greeted each other cordially.
Lawrence was sorry for himself that he should be so glad to see this
youth, but he perceived by Leander's manner that the boy knew nothing
of any reason why they should not be on good terms. This knowledge
touched the man. He leaned back and put his hands under his head as
he gazed at his companion. How ridiculously glad he was to see him!
There stood the boy, feet wide apart, hands in his pockets, hat
tipped to the back of his head.
"You ain't well, are you?" was Leander's first question.
"Pretty well, thank you. How is it with you?"
"Tip-top. I say, where's Devil? Is he alive?"
"Very much alive. We take him everywhere."
"That so? Wish you'd give him to me."
"I will."
"Golly! Will you?" The boy jumped on one foot, and then on the other.
"I'll go back with you after him. But mebby you'll bring him?"
"No. You may take him."
Leander screwed up one eye and contemplated Lawrence on the rock
before him.
"I will. Say, you married Prue, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"So I thought, near's I could tell. Folks been awful mum 'bout the
whole thing. I s'pose 'twas kind of odd, wa'n't it?"
"Perhaps."
"Yes, I guess 'twas," was the response, "'cause I asked Caro one day
if 'twas odd. She said 'twasn't odd, 'twas natural; but I didn't
believe her, all the same. Been sick much?"
"I'm not sick."
"You don't look right, somehow. Let's go down to the house. Folks'll
be awful glad to see you. Come on."
"I don't think I'll go now."
"Why not? I say, ain't it funny that the Britisher's there again this
summer?"
"Is he?"
"Yes. Comes a lot. Sparkin' sis, I s'pose. Sparkin' Prue last summer,
you know,--wife takin' sulphur somewhere. Wife dead now. I say, is
Prue's much of a brick's ever."
"I think so."
"It must be awfully jolly, then, to have her around all the time,
same's you have folks when you're married to 'em. I wanted Prue
to wait for me, 'n' marry me. She said she would; but you see she
didn't."
"Yes, so I see; but if I should happen not to live you might have a
chance still."
Leander eyed the speaker for some seconds in silence before he said,
"You wa'n't drowned when the _Vireo_ went to pieces?"
"Apparently not."
"Yes, it does seem so. Did she go on a rock?"
"No; run into."
"And what became of you 'n' Prue?"
"Picked up."
"So you thought you'd get married?"
"Yes."
"Well, the folks felt awful when they thought you were all dead;
'n' so did I. Afterward I overheard marmer say she didn't think it
possible you could be such a scamp. I s'pose she meant as not to
be drowned. Funny, though, wasn't it?"
"Very."
"They were goin' to put on black, but Caro wouldn't; she said you
wa'n't drowned. I say, how do you lug the crow round?"
"We have a big cage and have it in the baggage-car."
Leander contemplated this fact in silence for a time. It was plain
that some things puzzled him. Then he took out his watch, evidently
something new, for he had already looked at it twice in this
interview.
"I guess it's about time she was here," he remarked.
"Who?" asked Lawrence, quickly.
"Why, Caro, of course. I was going to show her how my new fish-pole
works. It's down below there. Oh, there she is now."
Lawrence sprang to his feet. He was too late. Carolyn stepped up on
to the rock where the two stood.
She had not noticed any sound of voices; she was there in front of
this man, and could not retreat. But she gave no sign of wishing to
retreat. After the first instantaneous and uncontrollable flutter of
features, she was calm,--how calm she was! So Lawrence thought. He
supposed it was the calmness of contempt. He knew that she ought to
feel contempt for him; more than that, he ought to wish her to feel
it.
If he had only been manly in his manner of desertion! If he had only
told her that his old passion for Prudence had sprung into life again
stronger than ever; that would have been bad enough, but that now
seemed honor itself compared with what he had really done.
He gave one look into her steady, lovely eyes. Had she always been as
beautiful as she was now?
He told himself, meanly and bitterly, that she couldn't have suffered
much from what he had done. After all, he might have been very much
mistaken in his estimate of her love for him. Perhaps women could not
love deeply, anyway.
Lawrence did not know how pale he was; but he soon perceived that
Carolyn was growing white after her glance at him.
"I hope you'll be kind enough to speak to me, Miss Ffolliott," he
said, as soon as he could command his voice.
When he had spoken thus, he was afraid there was too much pleading in
his tone.
He had often pictured himself as writing to her, explaining
everything, and beseeching her to pardon him; but he had never quite
dared, even in his thoughts, to stand before her as he did now. And
yet he had come to this shore because he longed to come; he must have
known in the bottom of his thoughts that here it would be possible to
meet her, though he might guide his movements so as to make such a
meeting improbable.
"Certainly," Carolyn answered, promptly, "I will speak to you. I am
sorry to see you looking so ill."
"You need not be sorry. I have been ill, but I am greatly improved
now. I hope to go to work in the fall."
He turned about somewhat confusedly to look for his hat, which was
lying on the rock. He picked it up and seemed to be going. But he
did not go. In the midst of his painful consciousness was the wish
that Leander were not present. But the boy was quite visible, and was
plainly listening to every word, while his eyes dwelt first upon one
face and then upon the other. Was he scenting a "secret?" He still
retained his love of secrets, and it must be a jolly one that could
make these two people look precisely like this. Things had been very
odd indeed the time the _Vireo_ did not come back; perhaps he really
would find out now.
"Did you bring your fishing-rod, Lee?" asked Carolyn.
"Yep," said the boy, but he did not stir.
The girl turned. "Come," she said, "and let us see how it works." She
spoke with perfect steadiness, but a small, bright red spot had now
appeared on each cheek.
"Miss Ffolliott!" exclaimed Lawrence.
She paused and looked back at him. Lawrence had now forgotten the
boy; he had almost forgotten everything but that he must try and get
this girl's forgiveness. For the instant nothing in the world, save
her forgiveness, seemed worth anything.
"I wanted to ask you one question," he said, humbly.
He did not know that his hand which held his hat was trembling
pitiably; but Carolyn saw it tremble. She seemed to hesitate, then
she said, quickly:
"Leander, run down to the beach and wait for me."
Leander mumbled something, but he did not quite dare to disobey when
his sister spoke like that. He walked away as slowly as he could
possibly move, and he was continually turning his head back to look
at these two. But even at this gait he did in time reach the little
sandy beach, and they saw him sitting there and piling up sand over
his feet.
Now Carolyn turned and asked, "Did you wish to say something to me,
Mr. Lawrence?" and immediately, "Will you please sit down? You look
very ill."
"No; I will stand. I won't detain you long. I wanted to ask you if
you think you can ever forgive me?"
Lawrence's voice was low and shaken; his hollow eyes, darkly marked
beneath them, were fixed on the girl's face.
She hesitated; he hastened to say, "I hope you don't think I mean for
not marrying you,--I know well enough that that was a happy chance
for you,--but for the grossly insulting way in which I left you. It
is very little to say it was not planned--that I did not seek--that
it was a chance--that--"
But the man would not intimate what part Prudence had acted on that
evening. He resumed, in a harsh tone, "Chance gave me the opportunity
to be a villain, and I embraced the opportunity. Now can you forgive
me?"
Still Carolyn was silent. She was standing without the least
movement, save the tremulous motion of the knot of silk at her
throat. She was not looking at her companion; her eyes were fixed on
the ground.
Presently he began again. "I see how it is. It is too much to beg of
any woman to forgive. Now I ought to ask you to forgive me for asking
you to forgive. Can you do that?"
He did not wait for an answer to this last question. Still with his
hat in his trembling hand, he turned away and began to descend the
rock. But a sudden and imperative physical weakness made him stumble.
He could have cursed that weakness.
Carolyn sprang forward; she caught hold of his arm.
"You _are_ ill!" she said, in a half whisper. "Will you sit down here
for a moment?"
From very helplessness Lawrence was obliged to comply. He sat down;
he did not try to speak. He had nothing more to say; and he was
beginning to know how foolish he had been to say as much as he had
said.
Carolyn sat down also, a few feet away from him. The tide had turned,
and the waves were splashing intermittently against the base of the
rocks below them; out in the bay the water had assumed that look of
new life which the incoming of the tide produces. The girl dully
wondered why, at such a moment, she should note all this. But she
did think of these phenomena more keenly than when her mind was at
liberty. And at the same time it seemed as if she saw nothing and
knew nothing but that ghastly face with its terribly brilliant eyes
that had been looking at her like eyes from some other world.
She moved her hands now, as if some movement, however slight, would
be a help to her.
This was Prudence Ffolliott's husband. And it was plain that he was
not happy. But perhaps that was because he was ill. She tried not to
be confused by the pity his physical weakness excited in her. She
wished to be kind, but not too kind. She wondered what was the exact
way in which she ought to behave.
She glanced swiftly at Lawrence. He was sitting with his hands
resting on his knees, his gaze fixed unseeingly before him; she knew
that he did not see anything; and she knew how indignant he would be
if he realized how weak he looked. She must not wound him. Her eyes
melted, her whole face softened indescribably, and her voice, when
she spoke, partook of this change.
"You see, don't you," he said, quickly, "that all that I can say to
you is to beg for pardon. After that I will not annoy you."
"I forgive you," she answered, at last. "I forgave you long ago."
"God bless you for that! Oh, Caro, God bless you for that!"
The words burst from his white lips, and the old familiar name came
unconsciously.
How differently he was behaving from the way he had meant to
behave if he ever saw Carolyn again! When he had spoken thus, some
consciousness of this fact seemed to come to him. He sat up more
erectly. Then he rose to his feet.
"It was all a mistake, our engagement," said Carolyn, now speaking
as if she were referring to the affairs of some other woman. "I am
to blame. I ought never to have allowed it. Let us not mention the
subject again."
"Very well. But you have been to blame in nothing. Good-by."
Lawrence walked slowly down towards the beach where Leander was still
piling up sand. He did not even see that youth, or hear him when he
shouted, "Remember about Devil." The man walked on as fast as he
could. The boy gazed after him, muttering that he should like to know
what was the matter, anyhow. He immediately climbed the rocks again.
Evidently his sister did not hear him, and Leander stood gazing at
her in silence, with a growing conviction that he had by no means
fathomed the matter, but that he would do so yet.
Carolyn was sitting crouched forward, with her knees drawn up and her
hands over her face.
"If she's crying, she'll be whimpering so I can hear her," thought
the boy. But she did not whimper so that any one could hear her.
Leander waited until he became impatient; then he called out that if
she wanted to see the fishing-rod she had better come along.
The girl rose immediately and accompanied her brother; she succeeded
in displaying a proper degree of interest in the rod, so that its
owner offered no criticism on her conduct.
As for Lawrence, he did not stop in his walk, following the shore
until he reached the hotel. He had not expected to find his wife in,
but she was at a table in their sitting-room, apparently writing
letters. The crow was on the back of her chair, occasionally
thrusting his head about so that he could look over her shoulder, as
if he could read the words she had written.
Lawrence sat down quickly. He thrust his hand into the breast-pocket
of his coat and drew out his cigar-case. Having selected a cigar, he
did not light it, but sat looking at it.
Prudence laid down her pen.
"You look rather done up," she remarked, in an indifferent voice.
"Yes, I feel so," was the response.
"I shouldn't think you'd walk so far," she said, with the same
indifference.
There was no answer to this.
Presently Lawrence said, "I've given Devil away."
At this the bird drew himself up and looked at the speaker.
"What?" came somewhat sharply from Prudence.
Lawrence repeated his words.
"But I'm not going to part with the crow," said Prudence, positively.
"He knows all my secrets,"--here she laughed,--"and, besides, he's my
mascot. No, I sha'n't part with him."
"He hasn't brought you any great luck, it seems to me."
Lawrence put his unlighted cigar back in the case, stretched out his
legs, and gazed at the toes of his shoes.
"That's true enough," returned Prudence, "but I'm always hoping he
will. I'm going to keep him. To whom did you give him?"
"Leander Ffolliott."
Prudence started perceptibly. She looked for an instant intently at
her husband, her eyes narrowing in their old way as she did so.
"Have you been there?" she asked.
"No; I saw the boy on the rocks."
"Perhaps you saw the boy's sister also."
"Yes, I did."
"Oh!"
Prudence tipped her head back and laughed ringingly, her eyes
still upon her husband's face. There was a little added color on
her cheeks. The laugh was somehow so exasperating, so strangely
insulting, that Lawrence rose to his feet in a fury. But he sat down
again directly and resumed his old position.
"You seem to be amused," he remarked, coldly.
"Yes." She laughed again. "I was imagining the meeting,--such
astounding propriety as I know characterized it. You would do the
right thing, and Caro is nothing if not proper. Caro is a darling
girl, and I love her dearly, but you must confess that she _is_
proper, Rodney dear."
"Yes, I confess that," he said, grimly.
"Certainly; she would never take the least little part in a French
novel."
"Never," he agreed, with emphasis.
Prudence gazed at her husband a moment without speaking. Her eyes
changed. She rose and went to him; she stood by his side, put an arm
lightly about his neck, and bent down slightly towards him. He sat
perfectly quiet.
"I'm sorry you allowed yourself to get so tired," she said.
"Oh, I shall get over that," he replied, carelessly.
"Yes, but it hurts you."
He smiled in silence.
She moved slightly nearer. There was the old indefinite something in
her manner which had once charmed him so.
"Don't reproach yourself," she said, pleadingly; "you know you didn't
love her then."
No answer.
Prudence bent nearer and kissed her husband's lips. But they did not
respond.
"You loved me," she murmured, kissing him again.
In the silence that followed, during which Lawrence sat like a stone,
Prudence gradually drew away from him. She stood looking at him, and
the softness left her face.
"Perhaps you don't love me any more," she said, finally.
Lawrence roused himself. Everything seemed black before him, but he
was conscious of trying to be gentle and courteous.
"Perhaps I never loved you," he answered.
"Oh!"
It was strange how the woman's countenance had darkened; it did not
look grieved, but angry. At that instant, if her face had worn a
different look, Lawrence's heart might have suddenly melted and some
things have happened differently. But no, he told himself afterward,
how could she change herself? What was to be would be. The old
fatalistic saying recurred to him again and again. But what was he,
that he should blame any one for anything?
"Prudence," he said. He put out his thin, burning hand and took hers;
but in a moment she withdrew it. She stood before him, her graceful,
erect figure in a blaze of sunshine that poured in through the window
behind her.
Lawrence wondered that her touch could give him no thrill now; his
blood ran coldly beneath her kiss. Was he beginning to know her? or
was it that he had known her when she had so enthralled him?
These questions went through his mind so persistently that he was
confused.
"I have been a puppet in your hands," he said. He added, with an
inexplicable smile, "But then, there was Mark Antony."
He leaned wearily back in his chair. Prudence went to her own chair
and sat down in it. The crow hopped round to her knee; he sat there
looking at her, first with one eye and then with the other. She
thought it was curious that she should recall, just at this moment,
that night she had spent in the Boston hotel after the _Vireo_ had
been run down, the night before she had been married. She and the
crow had been together then, and she had thought of killing him. It
seemed to her that the bird had called her a liar--a liar. She tried
to throw off this remembrance.
She looked at the man sitting so wearily opposite her. So he believed
he had never loved her? Well, she still believed that she had loved
him. It was galling that he should have told her that. He ought to
have known better than to say such a thing. So she had been a kind of
Cleopatra to him? Well, he was not a Mark Antony to be held by love;
but he hadn't loved, he said. She also was becoming confused. She
put her cold fingers up to her temples and pressed them there for an
instant.
"Never shall amorous Antony
Kiss kingdoms out for you."
Where had she read those lines? But it was no matter where she had
read them.
"Your interview with Carolyn seems to have had a disastrous effect,"
she said. "What did she say to you?"
"She said she forgave me."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; I asked her, you know."
"You asked her?" she said, with an elevation of the eyebrows.
Lawrence nodded. In a moment his wife said, "Now I should really hate
to have a man ask me to forgive him for not marrying me. I should
hate that. I should want somebody to come and thrash that man for me."
Lawrence raised his head and met his companion's sparkling glance of
resentment.
"Of all the stupid things you ever did, Rodney Lawrence, that was the
most stupid."
"But I didn't ask her precisely that," he said. "I told her she was
lucky not to have me for a husband; but I did beg for forgiveness for
the way in which I left her."
"Oh!"
Prudence's way of uttering this interjection was as if she had struck
a stinging blow across her companion's face. He winced inwardly, but
still he met the stroke bravely. He had told her this in accordance
with a resolve he had made long ago that he, on his part, would
have no concealments from his wife. Perhaps the discovery that
she sometimes prevaricated, sometimes colored simple statements,
sometimes told downright falsehoods, had strengthened this resolve
in him. On his side he would have simple, straightforward truth. But
what was he, that he should rebuke her? Had he not broken the most
sacred word a man can give,--broken it in the most insulting way
possible? This thought came to him when he was tempted to rebuke.
Then he would tell himself, with a corroding bitterness of feeling,
that as a man sows so he must reap. He was reaping now.
"I suppose you think you love Carolyn." Prudence said this after a
silence.
[Illustration: "LAWRENCE SPRANG TO HIS FEET."]