Nevertheless, he stayed away from her for a week. At the end of that
time he received a peremptory little note bidding him call and expound
Newman's "Apologia" to her. She could not understand it and she must.
He smiled at the pretty imperiousness of the note so like herself; for
her circle had spoiled her, and whatever her husband's idiosyncrasies
she was certainly his petted darling.
He went, of course. And before long he was spending every afternoon in
the charming room so like a French salon of the Eighteenth Century that
the raucous sounds of San Francisco beyond the closed and curtained
windows beat upon it faintly like the distant traffic of a great city.
Masters had asked himself humorously, Why not? and succumbed. There was
no other place to go except the Club, and Mrs. Talbot was an infinitely
more interesting companion than men who discussed little besides their
business, professional, or demi-monde engrossments. It was a complete
relaxation from his own driving work. He was writing the entire
editorial page of his newspaper, the demand for his articles from
Eastern magazines and weekly journals was incessant; which not only
contributed to his pride and income, but to the glory of California. He
was making her known for something besides gold, gamblers, and Sierra
pines.
But above all he was instructing and expanding a feminine but really
fine mind. She sat at his feet and there was no doubt in that mind,
both naive and gifted, that his was the most remarkable intellect in
the world and that from no book ever written could she learn as much.
He would have been more than mortal had he renounced his pedestal and
he was far too humane for the cruelty of depriving her of the
stimulating happiness he had brought into her lonely life. There was no
one, man or woman, to take his place.
Nor was there any one to criticize. The world was out of town. They
lived in the same hotel, and he rarely met any one in their common
corridor. At first she mentioned his visits casually to her husband,
and Howard grunted approvingly. Several times he took Masters snipe
shooting in the marshes near Ravenswood, but he accepted his friend's
attitude to his wife too much as a matter of course even to mention it.
To him, a far better judge of men than of women, Langdon Masters was
ambition epitomized, and if he wondered why such a man wasted time in
any woman's salon, he concluded it was because, like men of any calling
but his own (who saw far too much of women and their infernal ailments)
he enjoyed a chat now and then with as charming a woman of the world as
Madeleine. If anyone had suggested that Langdon Masters enjoyed
Madeleine's intellect he would have told it about town as the joke of
the season.
Madeleine indulged in no introspection. She had suffered too much in
the past not to quaff eagerly of the goblet when it was full and ask
for nothing more. If she paused to realize how dependent she had become
on the constant society of Langdon Masters and that literature was now
no more than the background of life, she would have shrugged her
shoulders gaily and admitted that she was having a mental flirtation,
and that, at least, was as original as became them both. They were
safe. The code protected them. He was her husband's friend and they
were married. What was, was.
But in truth she never went so far as to admit that Masters and the
books she loved were not one and inseparable. She could not imagine
herself talking with him for long on any other subject, save, perhaps,
the politics of the nation--which, in truth, rather bored her. As for
small talk she would as readily have thought of inflicting the Almighty
in her prayers.
Nor was it often they drifted into personalities or the human problems.
One day, however, he did ask her tentatively if she did not think that
divorce was justifiable in certain circumstances.
She merely stared at him in horror.
"Well, there is your erstwhile friend, Sibyl Geary. She fell in love
with another man, her husband was a sot, she got her divorce without
legal opposition, and married Forbes--finest kind of fellow."
"Divorce is against the canons of Church and Society. No woman should
break her solemn vows, no matter what her provocation. Look at Maria
Groome. Do you think she would divorce Alexander? She has provocation
enough."
"You are both High Church, but all women are not. Mrs. Geary is a mere
Presbyterian. And at least she is as happy as she was wretched before."
"No woman can be happy who has lost the respect of Society."
"I thought you were bored with Society."
"Yes, but it is mine to have. Being bored is quite different from being
cast out like a pariah."
"Oh! And you think love a poor substitute?"
"Love, of course, is the most wonderful thing in the world. (She might
be talking of maternal or filial love, thought Masters.) But it must
have the sanction of one's principles, one's creed and one's
traditions. Otherwise, it weighs nothing in the balance."
"You are a delectable little Puritan," said Masters with a laugh that
was not wholly mirthful. "I shall now read you Tennyson's 'Maud,' as
you approve of sentiment, at least. Tennyson will never cause the
downfall of any woman, but if you ever see lightning on the horizon
don't read 'The Statue and the Bust' with the battery therof."