Dulcie had not heard of his engagement to Mary. Mills told her, and that
settled it. She had very decided ideas on such matters. A man had no
right to fall in love with two women. If such a thing happened, there
was only one way out of it. He had given his promise and he must keep
it. He begged, but could not shake her. She cared a great deal, but she
would not take him away from Mary.
Mary knew nothing of what had occurred; she thought that Mills was
working too hard. She was working hard herself, but she was very happy.
She had a hope chest and sat up sewing late o' nights.
Before Mary and Mills were married Dulcie's mother died, and Dulcie went
abroad to live with an aunt. Five years later she married an American
living in Paris. He was much older than she, and it was rumored that she
was not happy. Ten years after her marriage she returned to Washington a
widow.
It was at once apparent that she had changed. She wore charming but
sophisticated clothes, made on youthful lines so that she seemed nearer
twenty-five than thirty-five. Her hair was still soft and shining. She
had been a pretty girl, she was a beautiful woman. But the greatest
change was in her attitude toward life. In Paris her golden-rule
philosophy had been turned topsy-turvy.
Hence when she met Mills and found the old flames lighted in his eyes,
she stirred the ashes of her dead romance and discovered a spark. It was
pleasant after that to talk with him in dim corners at people's houses.
Now and then she invited him and Mary to her own big house with plenty
of other guests, so that she was not missed if she walked with Mills in
the garden. She meant no harm and she was really fond of Mary.
The years had not been so kind to Mills as to Dulcie. They had stolen
some of his slenderness, and his hair was thin at the back. But he wrote
better books, and it was Mary who had helped him write them. She had
made of his house a home. She was still the same sturdy soul. Her bright
color had faded and her hair was gray. Life with Mills had not been an
easy road to travel. She had traveled it with loss of youth, perhaps,
but with no loss of self-respect. She knew that her husband was in some
measure what he was because of her. She had kept the children away from
his study door; she had seen that he was nourished and sustained. She
had prodded him at times to increased activities. He had resented the
prodding, but it had resulted in a continuity of effort which had added
to his income.
Dulcie came into Mary's life as something very fresh and stimulating.
She spoke of it to Mills.
"It is almost as if I had been abroad to hear her talk. She has had such
interesting experiences."
It was not Dulcie's experiences which interested Mills; it was the
loveliness of her profile, the glint of her hair, the youth in her, the
renewed urge of youth in himself.
Priscilla Dodd saw what had happened. Priscilla was the aunt with whom
Dulcie had lived in Paris; and she was a wise, if worldly, old woman.
She saw rocks ahead for Dulcie.
"He's in love with you, my dear."
Dulcie, in a rose satin house coat which shone richly in the flame of
Aunt Priscilla's open fire, was not disconcerted.
"I know. Mary doesn't satisfy him, Aunt Cilla."
"And you do?"
"Yes."
"The less you see of him the better."
"I'm not sure of that."
"Why not?"
"I can inspire him, be the torch to illumine his path."
"So that's the way you are putting it to yourself! But how will Mary
like that?"
"Oh, Mary"--Dulcie moved restlessly--"I don't want to hurt Mary. I
don't want to hurt Mary," she said again, out of a long silence, "but
after all I have a right to save Mills' soul for him, haven't I, Aunt
Cilla?"
"Saving souls had better be left to those who make a business of it."
"I mean his poetic soul." Dulcie studied the toes of her rosy slippers.
"A man can't live by bread alone."
Yet Mills had thrived rather well on the bread that Mary had given him,
and there was this to say for Mills, he was very fond of his wife. She
was not the love of his life, but she had been a helpmate for many
years. He felt that he owed many things to her affection and strength.
Like Dulcie, he shrank from making her unhappy.
It was because of Mary, therefore, that the lovers dallied. Otherwise,
they said to each other, Mills would cast off his shackles, ask for his
freedom, and then he and Dulcie would fly to Paris, where nobody probed
into pasts and where they could make their dreams come true.
They found many ways in which to see each other. Dulcie had a little
town car, and she picked Mills up at all hours and took him on long and
lovely rides, from which he returned ecstatic, with wild flowers in his
coat and a knowledge of work left undone.
Gossip began to fly about. Aunt Priscilla warned Dulcie.
"It is a dangerous thing to do, my dear. People will talk."
"What do Mills and I care for people? Oh, if it were not for Mary--" She
had just come in from a ride with Mills, and her eyes were shining.
"I wish we were not dining there to-night," said Aunt Priscilla. "I
wonder how Mary manages a dinner of eight with only one servant."
"She is so splendid and competent, Aunt Cilla. Mills says so. Everybody
says it. Things are easy for her that would be hard for other people."
"I wonder what she thinks of you?"
Dulcie, drawing off her gloves, meditated.
"I fancy she likes me. I know I love her, but not so much as I love
Mills."
Fifteen years ago Dulcie would have died rather than admit her love for
a married man. But since then she had seen life through the eyes of a
worldly-minded old husband, and it had made a difference.
At dinner that night Dulcie was exquisite in orchid tulle with a string
of pearls that hung to her knees. Her hair was like ripe corn, waved and
parted on the side with a girlish knot behind. Her skin was as fresh as
a baby's. Mary was in black net. She had been very busy helping the
cook, and she had had little time to spend on her hair. She looked ten
years older than Dulcie, and her mind was absolutely on the dinner. The
dinner was really very good. Mills had been extremely anxious about it.
He had called up Mary from down-town to tell her that he was bringing
home fresh asparagus. He wanted it served as an extra course with
Hollandaise sauce. Mary protested, but gave in. It was the Hollandaise
sauce that had kept her from curling her hair.
There were orchids for a centerpiece--in harmony with Dulcie's gown. In
fact, the whole dinner seemed keyed up to Dulcie. The guests were for
the most part literary folk, to whom Mills wanted to display his Egeria.
After dinner Dulcie sang for them. She had set to music the words of one
of Mills' poems, and she was much applauded.
After everybody had gone Mary went to bed with a headache. She was glad
that it was Saturday, for Sunday promised a rest. She decided to send
the children over to her mother and to have a quiet day with Mills. She
wouldn't even go to church in the morning. There was an afternoon
service; perhaps she and Mills might go together.
But Mills had other plans. He walked as far as the church door with
Mary, and left her there. Mary wasn't sorry to be left; her headache had
returned, and she was glad to sit alone in the peaceful dimness. But the
pain proved finally too much for her, so she slipped out quietly and
went home.
Clouds had risen, and she hurried before the shower. It was a real April
shower, wind with a rush and a silver downpour. Mary, coming into the
dark living-room, threw herself on the couch in a far corner and drew a
rug over her. The couch was backed up against a table which held a lamp
and a row of books. Mary had a certain feeling of content in the way the
furniture seemed to shut her in. There was no sound but the splashing of
rain against the windows.
She fell asleep at last, and waked to find that Mills and Dulcie had
come in. No lights were on; the room was in twilight dimness.
Mills had met Dulcie at her front door. "How dear of you to come," she
had told him.
He had spoken of his desertion of Mary. "But this day was made for you,
Dulcie."
They had walked on together, not heeding where they went, and when the
storm had caught them they were nearer Mills' house than Dulcie's and so
he had taken her there. They had entered the apparently empty room.
"Mary is still at church. Come and dry your little feet by my fire,
Dulcie." Mills knelt and fanned the flame.
Mary, coming slowly back from her dreams, heard this and other things,
and at last Dulcie's voice in protest:
"Dear, we must think of Mary."
"Poor Mary!"
Now the thing that Mary hated more than anything else in the whole world
was pity. Through all the shock of the astounding revelation that Mills
and Dulcie cared for each other came the sting of their sympathy. She
sat up, a shadow among the shadows.
"I mustn't stay, Mills," Dulcie was declaring.
"Why not?"
"I feel like a--thief--"
"Nonsense, we are only taking our own, Dulcie. We should have taken it
years ago. Loving you I should never have married Mary."
"I had a conscience then, Mills, and you had promised."
"But now you see it differently, Dulcie?"
"Perhaps."
Mills was on his knees beside Dulcie's chair, kissing her hands. The
fire lighted them. It was like a play, with Mary a forlorn spectator in
the blackness of the pit.
"Let me go now, Mills."
"Wait till Mary comes--we'll tell her."
"No, oh, poor Mary!"
Poor Mary indeed!
"Anyhow you've got to stay, Dulcie, and sing for me, and when Mary comes
back she'll get us some supper and I'll read you my new verses."
Among the shadows Mary had a moment of tragic mirth. Then she set her
feet on the floor and spoke:
"I'm sorry, Mills, but I couldn't cook supper to-night if I died for
it--"
From their bright circle of light they peered at her.
"Oh, my poor dear!" Dulcie said.
"I'm not poor," Mary told her, "but I'm tired, dead tired, and my head
aches dreadfully, and if you want Mills you can have him."
"Have him?" Dulcie whispered.
"Yes. I don't want him."
Mills exploded.
"What?"
"I don't want you, Mills. I'm tired of being a prop; I'm tired of
planning your meals, I'm tired of deciding whether you shall have
mushrooms with your steak or--onions. You can have him, Dulcie. I know
you think I've lost my mind." She came forward within the radius of the
light. "But I haven't. As long as I thought Mills cared I could stick it
out. But I have learned to-night that he loved you before he married me.
You gave him to me, Dulcie, and now you want him back."
Indian giver! Like a flash Dulcie's mind went to the little Mary of the
pigtails and pointing forefinger.
"You want him and you can have him. Perhaps if you had taken him years
ago he might have been different. I don't know. Perhaps even now he can
live up to all the lovely, lovely things that you and he are always
talking about. But I've had to talk to Mills about what he likes to eat
and what we have to pay for things; I've had to push him and prod him
and praise him, and it has been hard work. If you want him you can have
him, Dulcie."
Mills had a stunned look.
"Don't you love me, Mary?"
"I think I've proved it," she said quietly; "but I couldn't possibly go
on loving you now. You have Dulcie to love you, and one woman is enough
for any man. I don't know what you are planning to do, but you needn't
run away or do anything spectacular. I'll make it as easy for you as
possible. And now if you don't mind I'll go up and take a headache
powder; my head is splitting."
Left alone, they tried to regain their air of high romance.
"Poor Mary!"
But the words rang hollow. One couldn't possibly call a woman poor who
had given away so much with a single gesture.
They tried to talk it over but found nothing to say. At last Mills took
Dulcie home. She asked him in and he went. Aunt Priscilla was out, and
tea was served for the two of them from a lacquered tea cart--Orange
Pekoe and Japanese wafers. It was delicious but unsubstantial. Dulcie
with her coat off was like a wood sprite in leaf green. Her hair was
gold, her eyes wet violets; but Mills missed something. He had a feeling
that he wanted to get home and talk things over with Mary.
At last he rose, and it was then that Dulcie laid her hand on his arm.
"Mills, I can't."
"Can't what?"
"Let you leave Mary."
"Why not?"
"It wouldn't be right."
"It would be as right as it has ever been, Dulcie."
"I know how it must look to you, but--but I knew all the time that wrong
is wrong. I thought I was a different Dulcie from the girl of long ago,
but I'm not. I still have a conscience; I can't take you away from
Mary."
"You're not taking me away. You heard what she said--she doesn't want
me."
And Dulcie didn't want him! He saw it in that moment! The things that
Mary had said had scared her. She didn't want to prod and push and
praise. She didn't want to decide what he should have for dinner. She
didn't want to weigh the merits of beefsteak and mushrooms or beefsteak
and onions--onions!
He felt suddenly old, fat, bald-headed! The glow had faded from
everything. He did not protest or attempt to persuade her. He took his
hat, kissed her hand and got away.
Aunt Priscilla coming in found Dulcie in tears by the fire.
"I've given him up, Aunt Cilla."
"Why?"
"Well, it wouldn't be right."
She came into Aunt Priscilla's bedroom later to talk it over. She had
on the rosy house coat. She spoke of going back to Paris.
"It will be better for both of us. After all, Aunt Cilla, we are what we
are fundamentally, and we Puritans can't get away from our consciences,
can we?"
"Some of us," said Aunt Priscilla, "can't."
The old woman lay awake a long time that night, thinking it out. She was
glad that Dulcie had stopped the thing in time. But she had a feeling
that the solution of the situation could not be laid to an awakened
conscience. She hoped that some day Dulcie would tell her the truth.
* * * * *
It was still raining when Mills reached home. The house was dark, the
fire had died down. He went up-stairs. The boys were in bed. There was a
light in Mary's room. He opened the door. Mary was propped up on her
pillows reading a book.
He stopped, uncertain, on the threshold.
"Come in," she said, "my head's better."
He crossed the room and stood beside her.
"Oh, Mary," he said, and his face worked. He dropped on his knees by the
bed and cried like a child.
She laid her hand on his head and smoothed his thin hair.
"Poor Mills!" she said softly; "poor old Mills!" Then after a moment,
brightly: "It will do us both good to have some coffee. Run along,
Mills, and start the percolator; I'll be down in a minute to get the
supper."