The next evening Dr. Franklin got home for dinner before his wife had
returned from her tea. "Mrs. Franklin not home yet?" he asked of Doris,
their maid; he still said Mrs. Franklin a little consciously and liked
saying it. She told him, rather fluttered with the splendor of it--Doris
being as new to her profession as he to matrimony--that Mrs. Blair had
come for Mrs. Franklin in her "electric" and they had gone to a tea and
had not yet returned.
He went out into the yard and busied himself about the place while
waiting: trained a vine on a trellis, moved a garden-seat; then he
walked about the house surveying it, after the fashion of the happy
householder, as if for the first time. The house was new; he had built
it for them. From the first moment of his thinking of it it had been
designed for Amy. That made it much more than mere house. He was
thinking that it showed up pretty well with the houses of most of their
friends; Amy needn't be ashamed of it, anyhow, and it would look better
in a couple of seasons, after things had grown up around it a little
more. There would be plenty of seasons for them to grow in, he thought,
whistling.
Then he got the gentle sound of Edith's pretty little brougham and went
down to meet them. She and Amy looked charming in there--light dresses
and big hats.
He made a gallant remark and then a teasing one. "Been tea-tattling all
this time?"
"No," smiled Edith; "we took a ride."
"Such a beautiful ride," cried Amy. "Way up the river."
He had helped her out and Edith was leaning out talking to her. "I think
I'd better come for you about one," she was saying. He thought with
loving pride of how quickly Amy had swung into the life of the town.
During dinner he sat there adoring her: she was so fair, so beautifully
formed, so poised. She was lovely in that filmy dress of cloudy blue.
Amy's eyes were gray, but the darkness of her long lashes gave an
impression of darkness. Her skin was smooth and fair and the chiseling
of her features clean and strong. She held herself proudly; her fair
hair was braided around a well-poised head. She always appeared
composed; there never seemed any frittering or disorganizing of herself
in trivial feeling or movement. One out of love with her might find her
rather too self-possessed a young person.
So engaged was Deane in admiring her that it was not until they were
about to leave the table that he was conscious of something unusual
about her; even then he did not make out the excitement just beneath her
collected manner.
He wanted to show her what he had done to the vines and they went out in
the yard. Presently they sat down on the garden-seat which he had moved
a little while before. He had grown puzzled now by Amy's manner.
She was smoothing out the sash of her dress. She sang a little under her
breath. Then she said, with apparent carelessness: "Mrs. Williams was at
the tea today."
He knit his brows. "Mrs.--?" Then, understanding, his face tightened.
"Was she?" was his only reply.
Amy sang a little more. "It's her husband that your friend is living
with, isn't it?" she asked, and the suppressed excitement came nearer to
the surface though her voice remained indifferent.
He said "Yes" shortly and volunteered nothing. His face had not relaxed.
"What a sad face she has," Amy murmured.
"Think so?" He reached over and picked up a twig and flipped a piece of
it off his finger. "Oh, I don't know. I call it cold rather than sad."
"Oh, well, of course," cried Amy, "_your_ sympathies are all on the
other side!"
He did not reply. He would try to say as little as possible.
"I must say," she resumed excitedly, then drew herself back. "Mrs. Blair
was telling me the whole story this afternoon," she said quietly, but
with challenge.
The blood came to his face. He cleared his throat and impatiently threw
away the twig he had been playing with. "Well, Edith didn't lose much
time, did she?" he said coldly; then added with a rather hard laugh:
"That was the reason for the long ride, I suppose."
"I don't know that it is so remarkable," Amy began with quivering
dignity, "that she should tell me something of the affairs of the town."
After an instant she added, "I am a stranger here."
He caught the different note and turned quickly to her. "Dearest,
there's nothing about the 'affairs of the town' I won't tell you." He
put his arm around the back of the seat, the hand resting on her
shoulder. "And I must say I don't think you're much of a stranger here.
Look at the friends you've made already. I never saw anything like it."
"Mrs. Blair does seem to like me," she answered with composure. Then
added: "Mrs. Williams was very nice to me too."
His hand on her shoulder drew away a little and he snapped his fingers.
Then the hand went back to her shoulder. "Well, that's very nice," he
said quietly.
"She's coming to see me. I'm sure I found her anything but cold and
hard!"
"I don't think that a woman--" he began hotly, but checked himself.
But all the feeling that had been alive there just beneath Amy's cool
exterior flamed through. "Well, how you can stand up for a woman who did
what _that_ woman did--!"
Her cheeks were flaming now, her nostrils quivered. "I guess you're the
only person in town that does stand up for her! But of course you're
right--and the rest of them--" She broke off with a tumultuous little
laugh and abruptly got up and went into the house.
He sat there for a time alone, sick at heart. He told himself he had
bungled the whole thing. Why hadn't he told Amy all about Ruth, putting
it in a way that would get her sympathies. Surely he could have done
that had he told her the story as he knew it, made her feel what Ruth
had suffered, how tormented and bewildered and desperate she had been.
Now she had the town's side and naturally resented his championing of
what was presented as so outrageous a thing. He went over the story as
Edith would give it. That was enough to vindicate Amy.
He rose and followed her into the house. She was fingering some music on
the piano. He saw how flushed her face was, how high she carried her
head and how quick her breathing.
He went and put his arms around her. "Sweetheart," he said very simply
and gently, "I love you. You know that, don't you?"
An instant she held back in conflict. Then she hid her face against him
and sobbed. He held her close and murmured soothing little things.
She was saying something. "I was so happy," he made out the smothered
words. "It was all so--beautiful."
"But you're happy _now_," he insisted. "It's beautiful _now_."
"I feel as if my marriage was being--spoiled," she choked.
He shook her, playfully, but his voice as he spoke was not playful.
"Look here, Amy, don't say such a thing. Don't let such a thing get into
your head for an instant! Our happiness isn't a thing to talk like that
about."
"I feel as if--_that woman_--was standing between us!"
He raised her face and made her look into his own, at once stern and
very tender. "Amy love, we've got to stop this right _now_. A long time
ago--more than ten years ago--there was a girl here who had an awfully
hard time. I was sorry for her. I'm sorry for her now. Life's hit her
good and hard. We're among the fortunate people things go right for. We
can be together--happy, having friends, everybody approving, everybody
good to us. We're mighty lucky that it is that way. And isn't our own
happiness going to make us a little sorry for people who are outside all
this?" He kissed her. "Come now, sweetheart, you're not going to harden
up like that. Why, that wouldn't be _you_ at all!"
She was quiet; after a little she smiled up at him, the sweet,
reminiscently plaintive little smile of one just comforted. For the
moment, at least, love had won her. "Sometime I'll tell you anything
about it you want to know," he said, holding her tenderly and smoothing
her hair. "Meanwhile--let's forget it. Come on now, honey, change your
dress--get into something warmer and go for a ride with me. I've got to
make a couple of calls, and I want you along."
"You know," he was saying as he unfastened her dress for her, "after I
knew I was going to have you, and before I got you here, I used to think
so much about this very thing--the fun of having you going around with
me--doing things together. Now it seems--" He did not finish, for he was
passionately kissing the white shoulder which the unfastened dress had
bared. "Amy, dear,"--his voice choked--"oh, _doesn't_ it seem too good
to be true?"
His feeling for her had chased the other things away. She softened to
happiness, then grew gay. They were merry and happy again. All seemed
well with them. But when, on his rounds, they passed the Hollands' and
Ted waved from the porch he had an anxious moment of fearing she would
ask who that was and their crust of happiness would let them through. He
quickly began a spirited account of an amusing thing that had happened
in the office that day. His dream had been of a happiness into which he
could sink, not ground on the surface that must be fought for and held
by effort; but he did not let himself consider that then.