XIV

As Betty ascended the terrace, she was amazed to see Jack Emory sitting

on the veranda. He threw aside his cigarette and came to meet her.

"Anderson had gone to the other end of Long Island--Sag Harbor," he

said; "and as I did not like to follow him into his home on a matter of

business, I came back. New York is one vast oven; I could not make up

my mind to wait there. I'd rather take the trip again."

Betty concealed her vexation, and replied that she was sorry he had had

a disagreeable journey for nothing, while wondering if her conscience

would permit her to absent herself for seven hours on the morrow.

But Harriet had read one novel through and begun another. It was

evident that she had not left Mrs. Madison's side, and Jack had been

home for two hours. Betty lightly forbade her to tire herself further

that day, and after luncheon they all went for a drive. When Mrs.

Madison retired for her nap at four o'clock, Betty, who longed for the

seclusion of her room and the delight of re-living the morning hours,

established herself in the middle of the veranda, with Harriet beside

her and Jack swinging in a hammock at the corner. "Thank heaven she

wants to go to Europe in September," she thought. "If I had to be

duenna for six months, I should become a cross old-maid. I'll never

forgive Sally for deserting me."

She could have filled the house with company, but that would have meant

late hours and the sacrifice of such solitude as she now could command.

She had always disliked the burden of entertaining in summer, never

more so than during this, when her loneliest hours were, with the

exception of just fifteen others and twenty-one minutes, the happiest

she ever had known.

Jack and Harriet manifested not the slightest desire to be together,

and Betty went to bed at nine o'clock, wondering if she were not boring

herself unnecessarily.

She was deep in her first sleep when her consciousness struggled toward

an unaccustomed sound. She awoke suddenly at the last, and became aware

of a low, continuous, but peremptory knocking. She lit a candle at once

and opened the door. Miss Trumbull stood there, her large bony face

surrounded by curl-papers that stood out like horns, and an extremely

disagreeable expression on her mouth. She wore a grey flannel wrapper

and had a stocking tied round her throat. Betty reflected that she

never had seen a more unattractive figure, but asked her if she were

ill--if her throat were ailing--

Miss Trumbull entered and closed the door behind her.

"I'm a Christian woman," she announced, "and an unmarried one, and I

ain't goin' to stay in a house where there's sech goin's on." "What do

you mean?" asked Betty coldly, although she felt her lips turn white.

"I mean what I say. I'm a Christian--"

"I do not care in the least about your religious convictions. I want to

know what you wish to tell me. There is no necessity to lead up to it."

"Well--I can't say it. So there! I warn't brought up to talk about sech

things. Just you come with me and find out for yourself."

"You have been prying in the servants' wing, I suppose. Do I understand

that that is the sort of thing you expect me to do?"

"It ain't the servants' wing--where I've been listenin' and watchin'

till I've made sure--out of dooty to myself." She lowered her voice and

spoke with a hoarse wheeze. "It's the room at the end of the second

turning."

Betty allowed the woman to help her into a wrapper, for her hands were

trembling. She followed Miss Trumbull down the hall, hardly believing

she was awake, praying that it might be a bad dream. They turned the

second corner, and the housekeeper waved her arm dramatically at

Harriet's door.

"Very well," said Betty. "Go to your room. I prefer to be alone."

Miss Trumbull retired with evident reluctance. Betty heard a door close

ostentatiously, and inferred that her housekeeper was returning to a

point of vantage. But she did not care. She felt steeped in horror and

disgust. She wished that she never had felt a throb of love. All love

seemed vulgar and abominable, a thing to be shunned for ever by any

woman who cared to retain her distinction of mind. She would not meet

Senator North to-morrow. She did not care if she never saw him again.

She would like to go into a convent and not see any man again.

She never ceased to be grateful that she was spared hours of musing

that might have burnt permanently into her memory. She had not walked

up and down the hall for fifteen minutes before the door at the end of

the side corridor opened and Emory came out.

Betty did not hesitate. She advanced at once toward him. He did not

recoil, he stood rigid for a moment. Then he said distinctly,--

"We have been married three months. Will you come downstairs for a few

moments?"

She followed him down the stair, trembling so violently that she could

not clutch the banisters, and fearing she should fall forward upon him.

But before she had reached the living-room she had made a desperate

effort to control herself. She realized the danger of betraying

Harriet's secret before she had made up her mind what course was best,

but she was not capable of grappling with any question until the shock

was over. Her brain felt stunned.

Emory lit one of the lamps, and Betty turned her back to it. He was

very white, and she conceived a sudden and violent dislike to him. She

never before had appreciated fully the weakness in that beautiful

high-bred intellectual face. It was old-fashioned and dreamy. It had

not a suggestion of modern grip and keenness and determination.

"I have deceived you, Betty," he began mournfully; but she interrupted

him.

"I am neither your mother nor your sister," she said cuttingly. "I am

only your cousin. You were under no obligation to confide in me. I

object to being made use of, that is all."

"I am coming to that," he replied humbly. "Let me tell you the story as

best I can. We did not discover that we loved each other until after

you left. It had taken me some time to realize it--for--for--I did not

think I ever could change. I was almost horrified; but soon I made up

my mind it was for the best. I had been lonely and miserable long

enough, and I had it in my power to take the loneliness and misery from

another. I was almost insanely happy. I wanted to marry at once, but

for a few days Harriet would not consent. She wanted to be an

accomplished woman when she became my wife. Then she suggested that we

should be married secretly, and the next day we went over into Virginia

and were married--in a small village. She begged me not to tell you

till you came back. When you returned, her courage failed her, for

after all you were her benefactor and she had deceived you. She

protested that she could not, that she dared not tell you. It has been

an extremely disagreeable position to me, for I have felt almost a cad

in this house, but I understood her feeling, for you had every reason

to be angry and scornful. So we agreed to go to Europe in September and

write to you from there. She wanted to go at once--soon after you

returned; but I must wait till certain money comes in. I cannot live on

what you so generously gave her. She would not go without me, and in

spite of everything, I am almost ashamed to say, I have been very happy

here--"

"Is that all? I will go to my room now. Goodnight." She hurried

upstairs, wishing she had a sleeping powder. As she closed the door of

her room, the tall sombre figure of Harriet rose from a chair and

confronted her. Betty hastily lit two lamps. She could not endure

Harriet in a half light,--not while she wore black, at all events.

"He has told me," she said briefly, answering the agonized inquiry in

those haggard eyes. "I told him nothing."

Harriet drew a long breath and swayed slightly. "Ah!" she said. "Ah!

Thank the Lord for that. I hope you will never have to go through what

I have in this last half-hour." She seemed to recover herself rapidly,

for after she had walked the length of the room twice, she confronted

Betty with a tightening of the muscles of her face that gave it the

expression of resolution which her features always had seemed to demand.

"This is wholly my affair now," she said. "It is all between him and

me. It would be criminal for you to interfere. When I realised I loved

him, I made up my mind to marry him at once. I knew that you would not

permit it, and although I hated to deceive you, I made up my mind that

I would have my happiness. I intended to tell you when you got back,

but after what you said to me that day I was scared you'd tell him. If

you do--if you do--I swear before the Lord that I'll drown myself in

that lake--"

"I have no intention of telling him. As you say, it is now your own

affair."

"It is; it is. And although I may have to pay the price one day, I'll

hope and hope till the last minute. I shall not let him return to

America, and perhaps he will never guess. Somehow it seems as if

everything must be right different over there, as if all life would

look different."

"You will find your point of view quite the same when you get there,

for you take yourself with you. I'd like to go to bed now, Harriet, if

you don't mind. I'm terribly tired."

"I'll go. There is only one other thing I want to say. I shall have no

children. I vowed long ago that the curse I had been forced to inherit

should not poison another generation. Your cousin's line will die,

undishonoured, with him. The crimes of many men will die in me. No

further harm will be done if Jack never knows. And I hope and believe

he never will. Good-night."