HIS OWN WAY
The winter promised to be a busy one for Selwyn. If at first he had had
any dread of enforced idleness, that worry, at least, vanished before
the first snow flew. For there came to him a secret communication from
the Government suggesting, among other things, that he report, three
times a week, at the proving grounds on Sandy Hook; that experiments
with Chaosite as a bursting charge might begin as soon as he was ready
with his argon primer; that officers connected with the bureau of
ordnance and the marine laboratory had recommended the advisability of
certain preliminary tests, and that the general staff seemed inclined to
consider the matter seriously.
This meant work--hard, constant, patient work. But it did not mean money
to help him support the heavy burdens he had assumed. If there were to
be any returns, all that part of it lay in the future, and the future
could not help him now.
Yet, unless still heavier burdens were laid upon him, he could hold on
for the present; his bedroom cost him next to nothing; breakfast he
cooked for himself, luncheon he dispensed with, and he dined at
random--anywhere that appeared to promise seclusion, cheapness, and
immunity from anybody he had ever known.
A minute and rather finicky care of his wardrobe had been second nature
to him--the habits of a soldier systematised the routine--and he was
satisfied that his clothes would outlast winter demands, although
laundry expenses appalled him.
As for his clubs, he hung on to them, knowing the importance of
appearances in a town which is made up of them. But this expense was all
he could carry, for the demands of the establishment at Edgewater were
steadily increasing with the early coming of winter; he was sent for
oftener, and a physician was now in practically continual attendance.
Also, three times a week he boarded the Sandy Hook boat, returning
always at night because he dared not remain at the reservation lest an
imperative telegram from Edgewater find him unable to respond.
So, when in November the first few hurrying snow-flakes whirled in among
the city's canons of masonry and iron, Selwyn had already systematised
his winter schedule; and when Nina opened her house, returning from
Lenox with Eileen to do so, she found that Selwyn had made his own
arrangements for the winter, and that, according to the programme,
neither she nor anybody else was likely to see him oftener than one
evening in a week.
To Boots she complained bitterly, having had visions of Selwyn and
Gerald as permanent fixtures of family support during the season now
imminent.
"I cannot understand," she said, "why Philip is acting this way. He need
not work like that; there is no necessity, because he has a comfortable
income. If he is determined to maintain a stuffy apartment somewhere, of
course I won't insist on his coming to us as he ought to, but to abandon
us in this manner makes me almost indignant. Besides, it's having
anything but a salutary effect on Eileen."
"What effect is it having on Eileen?" inquired Boots curiously.
"Oh, I don't know," said Nina, coming perilously close to a pout; "but I
see symptoms--indeed I do, Boots!--symptoms of shirking the winter's
routine. It's to be a gay season, too, and it's only her second. The
idea of a child of that age informing me that she's had enough of the
purely social phases of this planet! Did you ever hear anything like it?
One season, if you please--and she finds it futile, stale, and
unprofitable to fulfil the duties expected of her!"
Boots began to laugh, but it was no laughing matter to Nina, and she
said so vigorously.
"It's Philip's fault. If he'd stand by us this winter she'd go
anywhere--and enjoy it, too. Besides, he's the only man able to satisfy
the blue-stocking in her between dances. But he's got this obstinate
mania for seclusion, and he seldom comes near us, and it's driving
Eileen into herself, Boots--and every day I catch her hair slumping over
her ears--and once I discovered a lead-pencil behind 'em!--and a
monograph on the Ming dynasty in her lap, all marked up with notes! Oh,
Boots! Boots! I've given up all hopes of that brother of mine for
her--but she could marry anybody, if she chose--_anybody_!--and she
could twist the entire social circus into a court of her own and
dominate everything. Everybody knows it; everybody says it! . . . And
look at her!--indifferent, listless, scarcely civil any longer to her
own sort, but galvanised into animation the moment some impossible
professor or artist or hairy scientist flutters batlike into a
drawing-room where he doesn't belong unless he's hired to be amusing!
And that sounds horridly snobbish, I know; I _am_ a snob about Eileen,
but not about myself because it doesn't harm me to make round
wonder-eyes at a Herr Professor or gaze intensely into the eyes of an
artist when he's ornamental; it doesn't make my hair come down over my
ears to do that sort of thing, and it doesn't corrupt me into slinking
off to museum lectures or spending mornings prowling about the Society
Library or the Chinese jades in the Metropolitan--"
Boots's continuous and unfeigned laughter checked the pretty, excited
little matron, and after a moment she laughed, too.
"Dear Boots," she said, "can't you help me a little? I really am
serious. I don't know what to do with the girl. Philip never comes near
us--once a week for an hour or two, which is nothing--and the child
misses him. There--the murder is out! Eileen misses him. Oh, she doesn't
say so--she doesn't hint it, or look it; but I know her; I know. She
misses him; she's lonely. And what to do about it I don't know, Boots, I
don't know."
Lansing had ceased laughing. He had been indulging in tea--a shy vice of
his which led him to haunt houses where that out-of-fashion beverage
might still be had. And now he sat, cup suspended, saucer held meekly
against his chest, gazing out at the pelting snow-flakes.
"Boots, dear," said Nina, who adored him, "tell me what to do. Tell me
what has gone amiss between my brother and Eileen. Something has. And
whatever it is, it began last autumn--that day when--you remember the
incident?"
Boots nodded.
"Well, it seemed to upset everybody, somehow. Philip left the next day;
do you remember? And Eileen has never been quite the same. Of course, I
don't ascribe it to that unpleasant episode--even a young girl gets over
a shock in a day. But the--the change--or whatever it is--dated from
that night. . . . They--Philip and Eileen--had been inseparable. It was
good for them--for her, too. And as for Phil--why, he looked about
twenty-one! . . . Boots, I--I had hoped--expected--and I was right! They
_were_ on the verge of it!"
"I think so, too," he said.
She looked up curiously.
"Did Philip ever say--"
"No; he never _says_, you know."
"I thought that men--close friends--sometimes did."
"Sometimes--in romantic fiction. Phil wouldn't; nor," he added
smilingly, "would I."
"How do you know, Boots?" she asked, leaning back to watch him out of
mischievous eyes. "How do you know what you'd do if you were in
love--with Gladys, for example?"
"I know perfectly well," he said, "because I am."
"In love!" incredulously.
"Of course."
"Oh--you mean Drina."
"Who else?" he asked lightly.
"I thought you were speaking seriously. I"--all her latent instinct for
such meddling aroused--"I thought perhaps you meant Gladys."
"Gladys who?" he asked blandly.
"Gladys Orchil, silly! People said--"
"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed; "if people 'said,' then it's all over. Nina!
do I look like a man on a still hunt for a million?"
"Gladys is a beauty!" retorted Nina indignantly.
"With the intellect of a Persian kitten," he nodded. "I--that was not a
nice thing to say. I'm sorry. I'm ashamed. But, do you know, I have come
to regard my agreement with Drina so seriously that I take absolutely no
interest in anybody else."
"Try to be serious, Boots," said Nina. "There are dozens of nice girls
you ought to be agreeable to. Austin and I were saying only last night
what a pity it is that you don't find either of the Minster twins
interesting--"
"I might find them compoundly interesting," he admitted, "but
unfortunately there's no chance in this country for multiple domesticity
and the simpler pleasures of a compound life. It's no use, Nina; I'm not
going to marry any girl for ever so long--anyway, not until Drina
releases me on her eighteenth birthday. Hello!--somebody's coming--and
I'm off!"
"I'm not at home; don't go!" said Nina, laying one hand on his arm to
detain him as a card was brought up. "Oh, it's only Rosamund Fane! I
_did_ promise to go to the Craigs' with her. . . . Do you mind if she
comes up?"
"Not if you don't," said Boots blandly. He could not endure Rosamund and
she detested him; and Nina, who was perfectly aware of this, had just
enough of perversity in her to enjoy their meeting.
Rosamund came in breezily, sables powdered with tiny flecks of snow,
cheeks like damask roses, eyes of turquoise.
"How d'ye do!" she nodded, greeting Boots askance as she closed with
Nina. "I came, you see, but _do_ you want to be jammed and mauled and
trodden on at the Craigs'? No? That's perfect!--neither do I. Where is
the adorable Eileen? Nobody sees her any more."
"She was at the Delmour-Carnes's yesterday."
"Was she? Curious I didn't see her. Tea? With gratitude, dear, if it's
Scotch."
She sat erect, the furs sliding to the back of the chair, revealing the
rather accented details of her perfectly turned figure; and rolling up
her gloves she laid her pretty head on one side and considered Boots
with very bright and malicious eyes.
"They say," she said, smiling, "that some very heavy play goes on in
that cunning little new house of yours, Mr. Lansing."
"Really?" he asked blandly.
"Yes; and I'm wondering if it is true."
"I shouldn't think you'd care, Mrs. Fane, as long as it makes a good
story."
Rosamund flushed. Then, always alive to humour, laughed frankly.
"What a nasty thing to say to a woman!" she observed; "it fairly reeks
impertinence. Mr. Lansing, you don't like me very well, do you?"
"I dare not," he said, "because you are married. If you were only free
_a vinculo matrimonii_--"
Rosamund laughed again, and sat stroking her muff and smiling. "Curious,
isn't it?" she said to Nina--"the inborn antipathy of two agreeable
human bipeds for one another. _Similis simili gaudet_--as my learned
friend will admit. But with us it's the old, old case of that eminent
practitioner, the late Dr. Fell. _Esto perpetua!_ Oh, well! We can't
help it, can we, Mr. Lansing?" And again to Nina: "Dear, _have_ you
heard anything about Alixe Ruthven? I think it is the strangest thing
that nobody seems to know where she is. And all anybody can get out of
Jack is that she's in a nerve factory--or some such retreat--and a
perfect wreck. She might as well be dead, you know."
"In that case," observed Lansing, "it might be best to shift the centre
of gossip. _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_--which is simple enough for
anybody to comprehend."
"That is rude, Mr. Lansing," flashed out Rosamund; and to his
astonishment he saw the tears start to her eyes.
"I beg your pardon," he said sulkily.
"You do well to. I care more for Alixe Ruthven than--than you give me
credit for caring about anybody. People are never wholly worthless, Mr.
Lansing--only the very young think that. Give me credit for one wholly
genuine affection, and you will not be too credulous; and perhaps in
future you and I may better be able to endure one another when Fate
lands us at the same tea-table."
Boots said respectfully: "I am sorry for what I said, Mrs. Pane. I hope
that your friend Mrs. Ruthven will soon recover."
Rosamund looked at Nina, the tears still rimming her lids. "I miss her
frightfully," she said. "If somebody would only tell me where she
is--I--I know it could do no harm for me to see her. I _can_ be as
gentle and loyal as anybody--when I really care for a person. . . . Do
_you_ know where she might be, Nina?"
"I? No, I do not. I'd tell you if I did, Rosamund."
"_Don't_ you know?"
"Why, no," said Nina, surprised at her persistence.
"Because," continued Rosamund, "your brother does."
Nina straightened up, flushed and astonished.
"Why do you say that?" she asked.
"Because he does know. He sent her to Clifton. The maid who accompanied
her is in my service now. It's a low way of finding out things, but we
all do it."
"He--sent Alixe to--to Clifton!" repeated Nina incredulously. "Your maid
told you that?"
Rosamund finished the contents of her slim glass and rose. "Yes; and it
was a brave and generous and loyal thing for him to do. I supposed you
knew it. Jack has been too beastly to her; she was on the verge of
breaking down when I saw her on the _Niobrara_, and she told me then
that her husband had practically repudiated her. . . . Then she suddenly
disappeared; and her maid, later, came to me seeking a place. That's how
I knew, and that's all I know. And I care for Alixe; and I honour your
brother for what he did."
She stood with pretty golden head bent, absently arranging the sables
around her neck and shoulders.
"I have been very horrid to Captain Selwyn," she said quietly. "Tell him
I am sorry; that he has my respect. . . . And--if he cares to tell me
where Alixe is I shall be grateful and do no harm."
She turned toward the door, stopped short, came back, and made her
adieux, then started again toward the door, not noticing Lansing.
"With your permission," said Boots at her shoulder in a very low voice.
She looked up, surprised, her eyes still wet. Then comprehending the
compliment of his attendance, acknowledged it with a faint smile.
"Good-night," he said to Nina. Then he took Rosamund down to her
brougham with a silent formality that touched her present sentimental
mood.
She leaned from her carriage-window, looking at him where he stood, hat
in hand, in the thickly falling snow.
"Please--without ceremony, Mr. Lansing." And, as he covered himself,
"May I not drop you at your destination?"
"Thank you"--in refusal.
"I thank you for being nice to me. . . . Please believe there is often
less malice than perversity in me. I--I have a heart, Mr. Lansing--such
as it is. And often those I torment most I care for most. It was so with
Alixe. Good-bye."
Boots's salute was admirably formal; then he went on through the
thickening snow, swung vigorously across the Avenue to the Park-wall,
and, turning south, continued on parallel to it under the naked trees.
It must have been thick weather on the river and along the docks, for
the deep fog-horns sounded persistently over the city, and the haunted
warning of the sirens filled the leaden sky lowering through the white
veil descending in flakes that melted where they fell.
And, as Lansing strode on, hands deep in his overcoat, more than one
mystery was unravelling before his keen eyes that blinked and winked as
the clinging snow blotted his vision.
Now he began to understand something of the strange effacement of his
friend Selwyn; he began to comprehend the curious economies practised,
the continued absence from club and coterie, the choice of the sordid
lodging whither Boots, one night, seeing him on the street by chance,
had shamelessly tracked him--with no excuse for the intrusion save his
affection for this man and his secret doubts of the man's ability to
take care of himself and his occult affairs.
Now he was going there, exactly what to do he did not yet know, but with
the vague determination to do something.
On the wet pavements and reeking iron overhead structure along Sixth
Avenue the street lights glimmered, lending to the filthy avenue under
its rusty tunnel a mystery almost picturesque.
Into it he turned, swung aboard a car as it shot groaning and clanking
around the curve from Fifty-ninth Street, and settled down to brood and
ponder and consider until it was time for him to swing off the car into
the slimy street once more.
Silvery pools of light inlaid the dim expanse of Washington Square. He
turned east, then south, then east again, and doubled into a dim street,
where old-time houses with toppling dormers crowded huddling together as
though in the cowering contact there was safety from the destroyer who
must one day come, bringing steel girders and cement to mark their
graves with sky-scraping monuments of stone.
Into the doorway of one of these houses Lansing turned. When the town
was young a Lansing had lived there in pomp and circumstance--his own
great-grandfather--and he smiled grimly, amused at the irony of things
terrestrial.
A slattern at the door halted him:
"Nobody ain't let up them stairs without my knowin' why," she mumbled.
"I want to see Captain Selwyn," he explained.
"Hey?"
"Captain Selwyn!"
"Hey? I'm a little deef!" screeched the old crone. "Is it Cap'n Selwyn
you want?"
Above, Selwyn, hearing his name screamed through the shadows of the
ancient house, came to the stairwell and looked down into the blackness.
"What is it, Mrs. Glodden?" he said sharply; then, catching sight of a
dim figure springing up the stairs:
"Here! this way. Is it for me?" and as Boots came into the light from
his open door: "Oh!" he whispered, deadly pale under the reaction; "I
thought it was a telegram. Come in."
Boots shook the snow from his hat and coat into the passageway and took
the single chair; Selwyn, tall and gaunt in his shabby dressing-gown,
stood looking at him and plucking nervously at the frayed and tasselled
cord around his waist.
"I don't know how you came to stumble in here," he said at length, "but
I'm glad to see you."
"Thanks," replied Boots, gazing shamelessly and inquisitively about.
There was nothing to see except a few books, a pipe or two, toilet
articles, and a shaky gas-jet. The flat military trunk was under the
iron bed.
"I--it's not much of a place," observed Selwyn, forcing a smile.
"However, you see I'm so seldom in town; I'm busy at the Hook, you know.
So I don't require anything elaborate."
"Yes, I know," said Boots solemnly. A silence.
"H--have a pipe?" inquired Selwyn uneasily. He had nothing else to
offer.
Boots leaned back in his stiff chair, crossed his legs, and filled a
pipe. When he had lighted it he said:
"How are things, Phil?"
"All right. First rate, thank you."
Boots removed the pipe from his lips and swore at him; and Selwyn
listened with head obstinately lowered and lean hands plucking at his
frayed girdle. And when Boots had ended his observations with an
emphatic question, Selwyn shook his head:
"No, Boots. You're very good to ask me to stop with you, but I can't.
I'd be hampered; there are matters--affairs that concern me--that need
instant attention at times--at certain times. I must be free to go, free
to come. I couldn't be in your house. Don't ask me. But I'm--I thank you
for offering--"
"Phil!"
"What?"
"Are you broke?"
"Ah--a little"--with a smile.
"Will you take what you require from me?"
"No."
"Oh--very well. I was horribly afraid you would."
Selwyn laughed and leaned back, indenting his meagre pillow.
"Come, Boots," he said, "you and I have often had worse quarters than
this. To tell you the truth I rather like it than otherwise."
"Oh, damn!" said Boots, disgusted; "the same old conscience in the same
old mule! Who likes squalidity? I don't. You don't! What if Fate has hit
you a nasty swipe! Suppose Fortune has landed you a few in the slats!
It's only temporary and you know it. All business in the world is
conducted on borrowed capital. It's your business to live in decent
quarters, and I'm here to lend you the means of conducting that
business. Oh, come on, Phil, for Heaven's sake! If there were really any
reason--any logical reason for this genius-in-the-garret business, I'd
not say a word. But there isn't; you're going to make money--"
"Oh, yes, I've got to," said Selwyn simply.
"Well, then! In the meanwhile--"
"No. Listen, Boots; I couldn't be free in your house. I--they--there are
telegrams--unexpected ones--at all hours."
"What of it?"
"You don't understand."
"Wait a bit! How do you know I don't? Do the telegrams come from Sandy
Hook?"
"No."
Boots looked him calmly in the eye. "Then I _do_ understand, old man.
Come on out of this, in Heaven's name! Come, now! Get your dressing-gown
off and your coat on! Don't you think I understand? I tell you I _do_!
Yes, the whole blessed, illogical, chivalrous business. . . . Never mind
how I know--for I won't tell you! Oh, I'm not trying to interfere with
you; I know enough to shun buzz-saws. All I want is for you to come and
take that big back room and help a fellow live in a lonely house--help a
man to make it cheerful. I can't stand it alone any longer; and it will
be four years before Drina is eighteen."
"Drina!" repeated Selwyn blankly--then he laughed. It was genuine
laughter, too; and Boots grinned and puffed at his pipe, and recrossed
his legs, watching Selwyn out of eyes brightening with expectancy.
"Then it's settled," he said.
"What? Your ultimate career with Drina?"
"Oh, yes; that also. But I referred to your coming to live with me."
"Boots--"
"Oh, fizz! Come on. I don't like the way you act, Phil."
Selwyn said slowly: "Do you make it a personal matter--"
"Yes, I do; dam'f I don't! You'll be perfectly free there. I don't care
what you do or where you go or what hours you keep. You can run up and
down Broadway all night, if you want to, or you can stop at home and
play with the cats. I've three fine ones"--he made a cup of his hands
and breathed into them, for the room was horribly cold--"three fine
tabbies, and a good fire for 'em to blink at when they start purring."
He looked kindly but anxiously at Selwyn, waiting for a word; and as
none came he said:
"Old fellow, you can't fool me with your talk about needing nothing
better because you're out of town all the time. You know what you and I
used to talk about in the old days--our longing for a home and an open
fire and a brace of cats and bedroom slippers. Now I've got 'em, and I
make Ardois signals at you. If your shelter-tent got afire or blew away,
wouldn't you crawl into mine? And are you going to turn down an old
tent-mate because his shack happens to be built of bricks?"
"Do you put it that way?"
"Yes, I do. Why, in Heaven's name, do you want to stay in a vile hole
like this--unless you're smitten with Mrs. Glodden? Phil, I _want_ you
to come. Will you?"
"Then--I'll accept a corner of your blanket--for a day or two," said
Selwyn wearily. . . . "You'll let me go when I want to?"
"I'll do more; I'll make you go when _I_ want you to. Come on; pay Mrs.
Glodden and have your trunk sent."
Selwyn forced a laugh, then sat up on the bed's edge and looked around
at the unpapered walls.
"Boots--you won't say to--to anybody what sort of a place I've been
living in--"
"No; but I will if you try to come back here."
So Selwyn stood up and began to remove his dressing-gown, and Lansing
dragged out the little flat trunk and began to pack it.
An hour later they went away together through the falling snow.
* * * * *
For a week Boots let him alone. He had a big, comfortable room,
dressing-closet, and bath adjoining the suite occupied by his host; he
was absolutely free to go and come, and for a week or ten days Boots
scarcely laid eyes on him, except at breakfast, for Selwyn's visits to
Sandy Hook became a daily routine except when a telegram arrived from
Edgewater calling him there.
But matters at Edgewater were beginning to be easier in one way for him.
Alixe appeared to forget him for days at a time; she was less irritable,
less restless and exacting. A sweet-tempered and childish docility made
the care of her a simpler matter for the nurses and for him; her
discontent had disappeared; she made fewer demands. She did ask for a
sleigh to replace the phaeton, and Selwyn managed to get one for her;
and Miss Casson, one of the nurses, wrote him how delighted Alixe had
been, and how much good the sleighing was doing her.
"Yesterday," continued the nurse in her letter, "there was a
consultation here between Drs. Vail, Wesson, and Morrison--as you
requested. They have not changed their opinions--indeed, they are
convinced that there is no possible chance of the recovery you hoped for
when you talked with Dr. Morrison. They all agree that Mrs. Ruthven is
in excellent physical condition--young, strong, vigorous--and may live
for years; may outlive us all. But there is nothing else to expect."
The letter ran on:
"I am enclosing the bills you desired to have sent you. Fuel is very
expensive, as you will see. The items for fruits, too, seems
unreasonably large, but grapes are two dollars a pound and fresh
vegetables dreadfully expensive.
"Mrs. Ruthven is comfortable and happy in the luxury provided. She is
very sweet and docile with us all--and we are careful not to irritate
her or to have anything intrude which might excite or cause the
slightest shock to her.
"Yesterday, standing at the window, she caught sight of a passing negro,
and she turned to me like a flash and said:
"'The Tenth Cavalry were there!'
"She seemed rather excited for a moment--not unpleasantly--but when I
ventured to ask her a question, she had quite forgotten it all.
"I meant to thank you for sending me the revolver and cartridges. It
seemed a silly request, but we are in a rather lonely place, and I think
Miss Bond and I feel a little safer knowing that, in case of necessity,
we have _something_ to frighten away any roaming intruder who might take
it into his head to visit us.
"One thing we must be careful about: yesterday Mrs. Ruthven had a doll
on my bed, and I sat sewing by the window, not noticing what she was
doing until I heard her pretty, pathetic little laugh.
"And _what_ do you think she had done? She had discovered your revolver
under my pillow, and she had tied her handkerchief around it, and was
using it as a doll!
"I got it away with a little persuasion, but at times she still
asks for her 'army' doll--saying that a boy she knew, named Philip,
had sent it to her from Manila, where he was living.
"This, Captain Selwyn, is all the news. I do not think she will
begin to fret for you again for some time. At first, you remember,
it was every other day, then every three or four days. It has now
been a week since she asked for you. When she does I will, as
usual, telegraph you.
"With many thanks for your kindness to us all, "Very respectfully
yours,
"Mary Casson."
Selwyn read this letter sitting before the fire in the living-room, feet
on the fender, pipe between his teeth. It was the first day of absolute
rest he had had in a long while.
The day before he had been at the Hook until almost dark, watching the
firing of a big gun, and the results had been so satisfactory that he
was venturing to give himself a holiday--unless wanted at Edgewater.
But the morning had brought this letter; Alixe was contented and
comfortable. So when Boots, after breakfast, went off to his Air Line
office, Selwyn permitted himself the luxury of smoking-jacket and
slippers, and settled down before the fire to reread the letter and
examine the enclosed bills, and ponder and worry over them at his ease.
To have leisure to worry over perplexities was something; to worry in
such luxury as this seemed something so very near to happiness that as
he refolded the last bill for household expenses he smiled faintly to
himself.
Boots's three tabby-cats were disposed comfortably before the blaze,
fore paws folded under, purring and blinking lazily at the grate. All
around were evidences of Boots's personal taste in pretty wall-paper and
hangings, a few handsome Shiraz rugs underfoot, deep, comfortable
chairs, low, open bookcases full of promising literature--the more
promising because not contemporary.
Selwyn loved such a room as this--where all was comfort, and nothing in
the quiet, but cheerful, ensemble disturbed the peaceful homeliness.
Once--and not very long since--he had persuaded himself that there had
been a chance for him to have such a home, and live in it--_not_ alone.
That chance had gone--had never really existed, he knew now. For sooner
or later he must have awakened from the pleasant dreams of
self-persuasion to the reality of his relentless responsibility. No,
there had never been such a chance; and he thanked God that he had
learned before it was too late that for him there could be no earthly
paradise, no fireside _à deux_, no home, no hope of it.
As long as Alixe lived his spiritual responsibility must endure. And
they had just told him that she might easily outlive them all.
He turned heavily in his chair and stared at the fire. Perhaps he saw
infernal visions in the flames; perhaps the blaze meant nothing more to
him than an example of chemical reaction, for his face was set and
colourless and vacant, and his hands lay loosely along the padded arms
of his easy-chair.
The hardest lesson he had to learn in these days was to avoid thinking.
Or, if he must surrender to the throbbing, unbidden memories which came
crowding in hordes to carry him by the suddenness of their assault, that
he learn to curb and subdue and direct them in pity toward that
hopeless, helpless, stricken creature who was so utterly dependent upon
him in her dreadful isolation.
And he could not so direct them.
Loyal in act and deed, his thoughts betrayed him. Memories, insurgent,
turned on him to stab him; and he shrank from them, cowering among his
pillows at midnight. But memory is merciless, and what has been is
without pity; and so remembrance rose at midnight from its cerements,
like a spectre, floating before his covered eyes, wearing the shape of
youth and love, crowned with the splendour of _her_ hair, looking at him
out of those clear, sweet eyes whose gaze was purity and truth eternal.
And truth is truth, though he might lie with hands clinched across his
brow to shut out the wraith of it that haunted him; though he might set
his course by the faith that was in him, and put away the hope of the
world--whose hope is love--the truth was there, staring, staring at him
out of Eileen Erroll's dark-blue eyes.
* * * * *
He had seen her seldom that winter. When he had seen her their relations
appeared to be as happy, as friendly as before; there was no apparent
constraint, nothing from her to indicate that she noticed an absence for
which his continual business with the Government seemed sufficient
excuse.
Besides, her days were full days, consequent upon Nina's goading and
indefatigable activity; and Eileen danced and received, and she bridged
and lunched, and she heard opera Wednesdays and was good to the poor on
Fridays; and there were balls, and theatres, and classes for
intellectual improvement, and routine duties incident to obligations
born with those inhabitants of Manhattan who are numbered among the
thousand caryatides that support upon their jewelled necks and naked
shoulders the social structure of the metropolis.
But Selwyn, unable longer to fulfil his social obligations, was being
quietly eliminated from the social scheme of things. Passed over here,
dropped there, counted out as one more man not to be depended upon, it
was not a question of loss of caste; he simply stayed away, and his
absence was accepted by people who, in the breathless pleasure chase,
have no leisure to inquire why a man has lagged behind.
There were rumours, however, that he had merely temporarily donned
overalls for the purpose of making a gigantic fortune; and many an
envious young fellow asked his pretty partner in the dance if it was
true, and many a young girl frankly hoped it was, and that the fortune
would be quick in the making. For Selwyn was well liked in the younger
set, and that he was in process of becoming eligible interested
everybody except Gladys and the Minster twins, who considered him
sufficiently eligible without the material additions required by their
cynical seniors, and would rather have had him penniless and present
than absent and opulent.
But they were young and foolish, and after a while they forgot to miss
him, particularly Gladys, whose mother had asked her not to dance quite
so often with Gerald, and to favour him a trifle less frequently in
cotillon. Which prevoyance had been coped with successfully by Nina,
who, noticing it, at first took merely a perverse pleasure in foiling
Mrs. Orchil; but afterward, as the affair became noticeable, animated by
the instinct of the truly clever opportunist, she gave Gerald every
fighting chance. Whatever came of it--and, no doubt, the Orchils had
more ambitious views for Gladys--it was well to have Gerald mentioned in
such a fashionable episode, whether anything came of it or not.
Gerald, in the early days of his affair with Gladys, and before even it
had assumed the proportions of an affair, had shyly come to Selwyn, not
for confession but with the crafty purpose of introducing her name into
the conversation so that he might have the luxury of talking about her
to somebody who would neither quiz him nor suspect him.
Selwyn, of course, ultimately suspected him; but as he never quizzed
him, Gerald continued his elaborate system of subterfuges to make her
personality and doings a topic for him to expand upon and Selwyn to
listen to.
It had amused Selwyn; he thought of it now--a gay memory like a ray of
light flung for a moment across the sombre background of his own
sadness. Fortunate or unfortunate, Gerald was still lucky in his freedom
to hazard it with chance and fate.
Freedom to love! That alone was blessed, though that love be unreturned.
Without that right--the right to love--a man was no man. Lansing had
been correct: such a man was a spectre in a living world--the ghost of
what he had been. But there was no help for it, and there Lansing had
been in the wrong. No hope, no help, nothing for it but to set a true
course and hang to it.
And Selwyn's dull eyes rested upon the ashes of the fire, and he saw his
dead youth among them; and, in the flames, his maturity burning to
embers.
If he outlived Alixe, his life would lie as the ashes lay at his feet.
If she outlived him--and they had told him there was every chance of
it--at least he would have something to busy himself with in life if he
was to leave her provided for when he was no longer there to stand
between her and charity.
That meant work--the hard, incessant, blinding, stupefying work which
stuns thought and makes such a life endurable.
Not that he had ever desired death as a refuge or as a solution of
despair; there was too much of the soldier in him. Besides, it is so
impossible for youth to believe in death, to learn to apply the word to
themselves. He had not learned to, and he had seen death, and watched
it; but for himself he had not learned to believe in it. When one turns
forty it is easier to credit it.
Thinking of death, impersonally, he sat watching the flames playing
above the heavy log; and as he lay there in his chair, the unlighted
pipe drooping in his hands, the telephone on the desk rang, and he rose
and unhooked the receiver.
Drina's voice sounded afar, and: "Hello, sweetheart!" he said gaily; "is
there anything I can do for your youthful highness?"
"I've been talking over the 'phone to Boots," she said. "You know,
whenever I have nothing to do I call up Boots at his office and talk to
him."
"That must please him," suggested Selwyn gravely.
"It does. Boots says you are not going to business to-day. So I thought
I'd call you up."
"Thank you," said Selwyn.
"You are welcome. What are you doing over there in Boots's house?"
"Looking at the fire, Drina, and listening to the purring of three fat
tabby-cats."
"Oh! Mother and Eileen have gone somewhere. I haven't anything to do
for an hour. Can't you come around?"
"Why, yes, if you want me."
"Yes, I do. Of course I can't have Boots, and I prefer you next. The
children are fox-hunting, and it bores me. Will you come?"
"Yes. When?"
"Now. And would you mind bringing me a box of mint-paste? Mother won't
object. Besides, I'll tell her, anyway, after I've eaten them."
"All right!" said Selwyn, laughing and hanging up the receiver.
On his way to the Gerards' he bought a box of the confection dear to
Drina. But as he dropped the packet into his overcoat-pocket, the memory
of the past rose up suddenly, halting him. He could not bear to go to
the house without some little gift for Eileen, and it was violets now as
it was in the days that could never dawn again--a great, fragrant bunch
of them, which he would leave for her after his brief play-hour with
Drina was ended.
The child was glad to see him, and expressed herself so, coming across
to the chair where he sat and leaning against him, one arm on his
shoulder.
"Do you know," she said, "that I miss you ever so much? Do you know,
also, that I am nearly fourteen, and that there is nobody in this house
near enough my age to be very companionable? I have asked them to send
me to school, and mother is considering it."
She leaned against his shoulder, curly head bent, thoughtfully studying
the turquoise ring on her slim finger. It was her first ring. Nina had
let Boots give it to her.
"What a tall girl you are growing into!" he said, encircling her waist
with one arm. "Your mother was like you at fourteen. . . . Did she ever
tell you how she first met your father? Well, I'll tell you then. Your
father was a schoolboy of fifteen, and one day he saw the most wonderful
little girl riding a polo pony out of the Park. Her mother was riding
with her. And he lost his head, and ran after her until she rode into
the Academy stables. And in he went, headlong, after her, and found her
dismounted and standing with her mother; and he took off his hat, and he
said to her mother: 'I've run quite a long way to tell you who I am: I
am Colonel Gerard's son, Austin. Would you care to know me?'
"And he looked at the little girl, who had curls precisely like yours,
and the same little nose and mouth. And that little girl, who is now
your mother, said very simply: 'Won't you come home to luncheon with us?
May he, mother? He has run a very long way to be polite to us.'
"And your mother's mother looked at the boy for a moment, smiling, for
he was the image of his father, who had been at school with her. Then
she said: 'Come to luncheon and tell me about your father. Your father
once came a thousand miles to see me, but I had started the day before
on my wedding-trip.'
* * * * *
"And that is how your father first met your mother, when she was a
little girl."
Drina laughed: "What a funny boy father was to run after a strange girl
on a polo pony! . . . Suppose--suppose he had not seen her, and had not
run after her. . . . Where would I be now, Uncle Philip? . . . Could you
please tell me?"
"Still aloft among the cherubim, sweetheart."
"But--whose uncle would you be? And who would Boots have found for a
comrade like me? . . . It's a good thing that father ran after that polo
pony. . . . Probably God arranged it. Do you think so?"
"There is no harm in thinking it," he said, smiling.
"No; no harm. I've known for a long while that He was taking care of
Boots for me until I grow up. Meanwhile, I know some very nice Harvard
freshmen and two boys from St. Paul and five from Groton. That helps,
you know."
"Helps what?" asked Selwyn, vastly amused.
"To pass the time until I am eighteen," said the child serenely, helping
herself to another soft, pale-green chunk of the aromatic paste. "Uncle
Philip, mother has forbidden me--and I'll tell her and take my
punishment--but would you mind telling me how you first met my Aunt
Alixe?"
Selwyn's arm around her relaxed, then tightened.
"Why do you ask, dear?" he said very quietly.
"Because I was just wondering whether God arranged that, too."
Selwyn looked at her a moment. "Yes," he said grimly; "nothing happens
by chance."
"Then, when God arranges such things, He does not always consider our
happiness."
"He gives us our chance, Drina."
"Oh! Did you have a chance? I heard mother say to Eileen that you had
never had a chance for happiness. I thought it was very sad. I had gone
into the clothes-press to play with my dolls--you know I still do play
with them--that is, I go into some secret place and look at them at
times when the children are not around. So I was in there, sitting on
the cedar-chest, and I couldn't help hearing what they said."
She extracted another bonbon, bit into it, and shook her head:
"And mother said to Eileen: 'Dearest, can't you learn to care for him?'
And Eileen--"
"Drina!" he interrupted sharply, "you must not repeat things you
overhear."
"Oh, I didn't hear anything more," said the child, "because I remembered
that I shouldn't listen, and I came out of the closet. Mother was
standing by the bed, and Eileen was lying on the bed with her hands over
her eyes; and I didn't know she had been crying until I said: 'Please
excuse me for listening,' and she sat up very quickly, and I saw her
face was flushed and her eyes wet. . . . Isn't it possible for you to
marry anybody, Uncle Philip?"
"No, Drina."
"Not even if Eileen would marry you?"
"No."
"Why?"
"You could not understand, dear. Even your mother cannot quite
understand. So we won't ever speak of it again, Drina."
The child balanced a bonbon between thumb and forefinger, considering it
very gravely.
"I know something that mother does not," she said. And as he betrayed no
curiosity:
"Eileen _is_ in love. I heard her say so."
He straightened up sharply, turning to look at her.
"I was sleeping with her. I was still awake, and I heard her say: 'I
_do_ love you--I _do_ love you.' She said it very softly, and I cuddled
up, supposing she meant me. But she was asleep."
"She certainly meant you," said Selwyn, forcing his stiffened lips into
a smile.
The child shook her head, looking down at the ring which she was turning
on her finger:
"No; she did not mean me."
"H-how do you know?"
"Because she said a man's name."
The silence lengthened; he sat, tilted a little forward, blank gaze
focussed on the snowy window; Drina, standing, leaned back into the
hollow of his arm, absently studying her ring.
A few moments later her music-teacher arrived, and Drina was obliged to
leave him.
"If you don't wait until I have finished my music," she said, "you won't
see mother and Eileen. They are coming to take me to the riding-school
at four o'clock."
He said that he couldn't stay that day; and when she had gone away to
the schoolroom he walked slowly to the window and looked out across the
snowy Park, where hundreds of children were floundering about with gaily
painted sleds. It was a pretty scene in the sunshine; crimson sweaters
and toboggan caps made vivid spots of colour on the white expanse.
Beyond, through the naked trees, he could see the drive, and the sleighs
with their brilliant scarlet plumes and running-gear flashing in the
sun. Overhead was the splendid winter blue of the New York sky, in
which, at a vast height, sea-birds circled.
Meaning to go--for the house and its associations made him restless--he
picked up the box of violets and turned to ring for a maid to take
charge of them--and found himself confronting Eileen, who, in her furs
and gloves, was just entering the room.
"I came up," she said; "they told me you were here, calling very
formally upon Drina, if you please. What with her monopoly of you and
Boots, there seems to be no chance for Nina and me."
They shook hands pleasantly; he offered her the box of violets, and she
thanked him and opened it, and, lifting the heavy, perfumed bunch, bent
her fresh young face to it. For a moment she stood inhaling the scent,
then stretched out her arm, offering their fragrance to him.
"The first night I ever knew you, you sent me about a wagon-load of
violets," she said carelessly.
He nodded pleasantly; she tossed her muff on to the library table,
stripped off her gloves, and began to unhook her fur coat, declining his
aid with a quick shake of her head.
"It is easy--you see!"--as the sleeves slid from her arms and the soft
mass of fur fell into a chair. "And, by the way, Drina said that you
couldn't wait to see Nina," she continued, turning to face a mirror and
beginning to withdraw the jewelled pins from her hat, "so you won't for
a moment consider it necessary to remain just because I wandered
in--will you?"
He made no reply; she was still busy with her veil and hat and her
bright, glossy hair, the ends of which curled up at the temples--a
burnished frame for her cheeks which the cold had delicately flushed to
a wild-rost tint. Then, brushing back the upcurled tendrils of her hair,
she turned to confront him, faintly smiling, brows lifted in silent
repetition of her question.
"I will stay until Nina comes, if I may," he said slowly.
She seated herself. "You may," she said mockingly; "we don't allow you
in the house very often, so when you do come you may remain until the
entire family can congregate to inspect you." She leaned back, looking
at him; then look and manner changed, and she bent impulsively forward:
"You don't look very well, Captain Selwyn; are you?"
"Perfectly. I"--he laughed--"I am growing old; that is all."
"Do you say that to annoy me?" she asked, with a disdainful shrug, "or
to further impress me?"
He shook his head and touched the hair at his temples significantly.
"Pooh!" she retorted. "It is becoming--is that what you mean?"
"I hope it is. There's no reason why a man should not grow old
gracefully--"
"Captain Selwyn! But of course you only say it to bring out that latent
temper of mine. It's about the only thing that does it, too. . . . And
please don't plague me--if you've only a few moments to stay. . . . It
may amuse you to know that I, too, am exhibiting signs of increasing
infirmity; my temper, if you please, is not what it once was."
"Worse than ever?" he asked in pretended astonishment.
"Far worse. It is vicious. Kit-Ki took a nap on a new dinner-gown of
mine, and I slapped her. And the other day Drina hid in a clothes-press
while Nina was discussing my private affairs, and when the little imp
emerged I could have shaken her. Oh, I am certainly becoming infirm; so
if you are, too, comfort yourself with the knowledge that I am keeping
pace with you through the winter of our discontent."
At the mention of the incident of which Drina had already spoken to him,
Selwyn raised his head and looked at the girl curiously. Then he
laughed.
"I am wondering," he said in a bantering voice, "what secrets Drina
heard. I think I'd better ask her--"
"You had better not! Besides, _I_ said nothing at all."
"But Nina did."
She nodded, lying there, arms raised, hands clasping the upholstered
wings of the big chair, and gazing at him out of indolent, amused eyes.
"Would you like to know what Nina was saying to me?" she asked.
"I'd rather hear what you said to her."
"I told you that I said nothing."
"Not a word?" he insisted.
"Not a word."
"Not even a sound?"
"N--well--I won't answer that."
"Oho!" he laughed. "So you did make some sort of inarticulate reply!
Were you laughing or weeping?"
"Perhaps I was yawning. How do you know?" she smiled.
After a moment he said, still curious: "_Why_ were you crying, Eileen?"
"Crying! I didn't say I was crying."
"I assume it."
"To prove or disprove that assumption," she said coolly, amused, "let us
hunt up a motive for a possible display of tears. What, Captain Selwyn,
have I to cry about? Is there anything in the world that I lack?
Anything that I desire and cannot have?"
"_Is_ there?" he repeated.
"I asked you, Captain Selwyn."
"And, unable to reply," he said, "I ask you."
"And I," she retorted, "refuse to answer."
"Oho! So there _is_, then, something you lack? There _is_ a motive for
possible tears?"
"You have not proven it," she said.
"You have not denied it."
She tipped back her head, linked her fingers under her chin, and looked
at him across the smooth curve of her cheeks.
"Well--yes," she admitted, "I was crying--if you insist on knowing. Now
that you have so cleverly driven me to admit that, can you also force me
to tell you _why_ I was so tearful?"
"Certainly," he said promptly; "it was something Nina said that made you
cry."
They both laughed.
"Oh, what a come-down!" she said teasingly. "You knew that before. But
can you force me to confess to you _what_ Nina was saying? If you can
you are the cleverest cross-examiner in the world, for I'd rather perish
than tell you--"
"Oh," he said instantly, "then it was something about love!"
He had not meant to say it; he had spoken too quickly, and the flush of
surprise on the girl's face was matched by the colour rising to his own
temples. And, to retrieve the situation, he spoke too quickly again--and
too lightly.
"A girl would rather perish than admit that she is in love?" he said,
forcing a laugh. "That is rather a clever deduction, I think.
Unfortunately, however, I happen to know to the contrary, so all my
cleverness comes to nothing."
The surprise had faded from her face, but the colour remained; and with
it something else--something in the blue eyes which he had never before
encountered there--the faintest trace of recoil, of shrinking away from
him.
And she herself did not know it was there--did not quite realise that
she had been hurt. Surprise that he had chanced so abruptly, so
unerringly upon the truth had startled and confused her; but that he had
made free of the truth so lightly, so carelessly, laughingly amused,
left her without an answering smile.
That it had been an accident--a chance surmise which perhaps he himself
did not credit--which he could not believe--made it no easier for her.
For the first time in his life he had said something which left her
unresponsive, with a sense of bruised delicacy and of privacy invaded. A
tinge of fear of him crept in, too. She did not misconstrue what he had
said under privilege of a jest, but after what had once passed between
them she had not considered that love, even in the abstract, might serve
as a mocking text for any humour or jesting sermon from a man who had
asked her what he once asked--the man she had loved enough to weep for
when she had refused him only because she lacked what he asked for.
Knowing that she loved him in her own innocent fashion, scarcely
credulous that he ever could be dearer to her, yet shyly wistful for
whatever more the years might add to her knowledge of a love so far
immune from stress or doubt or the mounting thrill of a deeper emotion,
she had remained confidently passive, warmly loyal, reverencing the
mystery of the love he offered, though she could not understand it or
respond.
And now--now a chance turn; of a word--a trend to an idle train of
thought, jestingly followed!--and, without warning, they had stumbled on
a treasured memory, too frail, too delicately fragile, to endure the
shock.
And now fear crept in--fear that he had forgotten, had changed. Else how
could he have spoken so? . . . And the tempered restraint of her
quivered at the thought--all the serenity, the confidence in life and in
him began to waver. And her first doubt crept in upon her.
She turned her expressionless face from him and, resting her cheek
against the velvet back of the chair, looked out into the late afternoon
sunshine.
All the long autumn without him, all her long, lonely, leisure hours in
the golden weather, his silence, his withdrawal into himself, and his
work, hitherto she had not misconstrued, though often she confused
herself in explaining it. Impatience of his absence, too, had stimulated
her to understand the temporary state of things--to know that time away
from him meant for her only existence in suspense.
Very, very slowly, by degrees imperceptible, alone with memories of him
and of their summer's happiness already behind her, she had learned that
time added things to what she had once considered her full capacity for
affection.
Alone with her memories of him, at odd moments during the day--often in
the gay clamour and crush of the social routine--or driving with Nina,
or lying, wide-eyed, on her pillow at night, she became conscious that
time, little by little, very gradually but very surely, was adding to
her regard for him frail, new, elusive elements that stole in to awake
an unquiet pulse or stir her heart into a sudden thrill, leaving it
fluttering, and a faint glow gradually spreading through her every vein.
She was beginning to love him no longer in her own sweet fashion, but in
his; and she was vaguely aware of it, yet curiously passive and content
to put no question to herself whether it was true or false. And how it
might be with him she evaded asking herself, too; only the quickening of
breath and pulse questioned the pure thoughts unvoiced; only the
increasing impatience of her suspense confirmed the answer which now,
perhaps, she might give him one day while the blessed world was young.
At the thought she moved uneasily, shifting her position in the chair.
Sunset, and the swift winter twilight, had tinted, then dimmed, the
light in the room. On the oak-beamed ceiling, across the ivory rosettes,
a single bar of red sunlight lay, broken by rafter and plaster
foliation. She watched it turn to rose, to ashes. And, closing her eyes,
she lay very still and motionless in the gray shadows closing over all.
He had not yet spoken when again she lifted her eyes and saw him sitting
in the dusk, one arm resting across his knee, his body bent slightly
forward, his gaze vacant.
Into himself again!--silently companioned by the shadows of old
thoughts; far from her--farther than he had ever been. For a while she
lay there, watching him, scarcely breathing; then a faint shiver of
utter loneliness came over her--of desire for his attention, his voice,
his friendship, and the expression of it. But he never moved; his eyes
seemed dull and unseeing; his face strangely gaunt to her, unfamiliar,
hard. In the dim light he seemed but the ghost of what she had known, of
what she had thought him--a phantom, growing vaguer, more unreal,
slipping away from her through the fading light. And the impulse to
arouse herself and him from the dim danger--to arrest the spell, to
break it, and seize what was their own in life overwhelmed her; and she
sat up, grasping the great arms of her chair, slender, straight,
white-faced in the gloom.
But he did not stir. Then unreasoning, instinctive fear confused her,
and she heard her own voice, sounding strangely in the twilight:
"What has come between us, Captain Selwyn? What has happened to us?
Something is all wrong, and I--I ask you what it is, because I don't
know. Tell me."
He had lifted his head at her first word, hesitatingly, as though dazed.
"Could you tell me?" she asked faintly.
"Tell you what, child?"
"Why you are so silent with me; what has crept in between us? I"--the
innocent courage sustaining her--"I have not changed--except a little
in--in the way you wished. Have you?"
"No," he said in an altered voice.
"Then--what is it? I have been--you have left me so much alone this
winter--and I supposed I understood--"
"My work," he said; but she scarcely knew the voice for his.
"I know; you have had no time. I know that; I ought to know it by this
time, for I have told myself often enough. And yet--when we _are_
together, it is--it has been--different. Can you tell me why? Do you
think me changed?"
"You must not change," he said.
"No," she breathed, wondering, "I could not--except--a little, as I told
you."
"You must not change--not even that way!" he repeated in a voice so low
she could scarcely hear him--and believed she had misunderstood him.
"I did not hear you," she said faintly. "What did you say to me?"
"I cannot say it again."
She slowly shook her head, not comprehending, and for a while sat
silent, struggling with her own thoughts. Then, suddenly instinct with
the subtle fear which had driven her into speech:
"When I said--said that to you--last summer; when I cried in the
swinging seat there--because I could not answer you--as I wished to--did
_that_ change you, Captain Selwyn?"
"No."
"Then y-you are unchanged?"
"Yes, Eileen."
The first thrill of deep emotion struck through and through her.
"Then--then _that_ is not it," she faltered. "I was afraid--I have
sometimes wondered if it was. . . . I am very glad, Captain
Selwyn. . . . Will you wait a--a little longer--for me to--to change?"
He stood up suddenly in the darkness, and she sprang to her feet,
breathless; for she had caught the low exclamation, and the strange
sound that stifled it in his throat.
"Tell me," she stammered, "w-what has happened. D-don't turn away to the
window; don't leave me all alone to endure this--this _something_ I have
known was drawing you away--I don't know where! What is it? Could you
not tell _me_, Captain Selwyn? I--I have been very frank with you; I
have been truthful--and loyal. I gave you, from the moment I knew you,
all of me there was to give. And--and if there is more to give--now--it
was yours when it came to me.
"Do you think I am too young to know what I am saying? Solitude is a
teacher. I--I am still a scholar, perhaps, but I think that you could
teach me what my drill-master, Solitude, could not . . . if it--it is
true you love me."
The mounting sea of passion swept him; he turned on her, unsteadily, his
hands clenched, not daring to touch her. Shame, contrition, horror that
the damage was already done, all were forgotten; only the deadly grim
duty of the moment held him back.
"Dear," he said, "because I am unchanged--because I--I love you so--help
me!--and God help us both."
"Tell me," she said steadily, but it was fear that stilled her voice.
She laid one slim hand on the table, bearing down on the points of her
fingers until the nails whitened, but her head was high and her eyes met
his, straight, unwavering.
"I--I knew it," she said; "I understood there was something. If it is
trouble--and I see it is--bring it to me. If I am the woman you took me
for, give me my part in this. It is the quickest way to my heart,
Captain Selwyn."
But he had grown afraid, horribly afraid. All the cowardice in him was
in the ascendant. But that passed; watching his worn face, she saw it
passing. Fear clutched at her; for the first time in her life she
desired to go to him, hold fast to him, seeking in contact the
reassurance of his strength; but she only stood straighter, a little
paler, already half divining in the clairvoyance of her young soul what
lay still hidden.
"Do you ask a part in this?" he said at last.
"I ask it."
"Why?"
Her eyes wavered, then returned his gaze:
"For love of you," she said, as white as death.
He caught his breath sharply and straightened out, passing one hand
across his eyes. When she saw his face again in the dim light it was
ghastly.
"There was a woman," he said, "for whom I was once responsible." He
spoke wearily, head bent, resting the weight of one arm on the table
against which she leaned. "Do you understand?" he asked.
"Yes. You mean--Mrs. Ruthven."
"I mean--her. Afterward--when matters had altered--I came--home."
He raised his head and looked about him in the darkness.
"Came home," he repeated, "no longer a man; the shadow of a man, with no
hope, no outlook, no right to hope."
He leaned heavily on the table, his arm rigid, looking down at the floor
as he spoke.
"No right to hope. Others told me that I still possessed that right. I
knew they were wrong; I do not mean that they persuaded me--I persuaded
myself that, after all, perhaps my right to hope remained to me. I
persuaded myself that I might be, after all, the substance, not the
shadow."
He looked up at her:
"And so I dared to love you."
She gazed at him, scarcely breathing.
"Then," he said, "came the awakening. My dream had ended."
She waited, the lace on her breast scarce stirring, so still she stood,
so pitifully still.
"Such responsibility cannot die while those live who undertook it. I
believed it until I desired to believe it no longer. But a man's
self-persuasion cannot alter such laws--nor can human laws confirm or
nullify them, nor can a great religion do more than admit their truth,
basing its creed upon such laws. . . . No man can put asunder, no laws
of man undo the burden. . . . And, to my shame and disgrace, I have had
to relearn this after offering you a love I had no right to offer--a
life which is not my own to give."
He took one step toward her, and his voice fell so low that she could
just hear him:
"She has lost her mind, and the case is hopeless. Those to whom the laws
of the land have given care of her turned on her, threatened her with
disgrace. And when one friend of hers halted this miserable conspiracy,
her malady came swiftly upon her, and suddenly she found herself
helpless, penniless, abandoned, her mind already clouded, and clouding
faster! . . . Eileen, was there then the shadow of a doubt as to the
responsibility? Because a man's son was named in the parable, does the
lesson end there--and are there no others as prodigal--no other bonds
that hold as inexorably as the bond of love?
"Men--a lawyer or two--a referee--decided to remove a burden; but a
higher court has replaced it."
He came and stood directly before her:
"I dare not utter one word of love to you; I dare not touch you. What
chance is there for such a man as I?"
"No chance--for us," she whispered. "Go!"
For a second he stood motionless, then, swaying slightly, turned on his
heel.
And long after he had left the house she still stood there, eyes closed,
colourless lips set, her slender body quivering, racked with the first
fierce grief of a woman's love for a man.