Marjorie waited, with a quietness which was only outward, for Francis.
She did not even know whether he would come; she had only seen him
once; he had said he was sorry for the way he had acted, and asked her
to forgive him, but then it wasn't the first time he had done that.
"It's getting to be just a little morning custom of his," said Marjorie
to herself, trying to laugh. But she was in earnest about seeing him.
Away down deep in her she was not quite sure why she wanted to. She
was not angry with him--she seemed to herself past that. Of course,
there were things to arrange.
It seemed like a sorry ending to it all. She had meant to ride
triumphantly through the work, and walk off leaving a crushed Francis
behind her; and make such a success of something back in New York that
he would spend years being very, very sorry. . . . Well, he did seem
sorry. But it was only because he felt guilty about her being ill,
not, so far as she could tell, because he cared a bit about her any
more. And it really was not his fault, her illness. She had been well
and happy, and even liked the work. The doctor had said that the
miasma in the swamp, and her sitting by it for hours, making a wreath
of flowers like a small girl, were alone responsible. And even if he
was softening the blow, she had been tired and worried before she came
up; the housework at the cabin wouldn't have been enough. She must
tell Francis so. He _did_ take things so hard.
When he came, led by Peggy, neither of them seemed to know what to say
for a little while. Francis sat down by her and spoke constrainedly,
and then merely stared and stared.
"Well, what is it then?" demanded Peggy, who was hovering about, and,
unlike the Ellisons, seemed to have no emotions to disturb her. "Has
she two heads, or had you forgotten her looks entirely?"
"I think I must have forgotten her looks entirely," he answered slowly,
never taking his eyes off Marjorie. "You know--well, I hadn't seen
you, Marjorie, for some time. But you always were beautiful."
Marjorie turned pink up to the ribbon bow that sat out like a little
girl's at one temple.
"Was I?" was all she found to say.
"Yes," he said, and said no more.
At this juncture Peggy rose.
"Well, I'm sorry not to stay here and help you carry on this fluent
conversation," she said, tossing her head. "But I have an engagement
elsewhere. If you want me ring the bell."
This was more or less metaphorical--probably a quotation from
Thackeray--because there was no bell in sight. But at any rate Peggy
left with one of her goddess-like sweeps, and was to be heard
thereafter calling Mr. Logan with a good-will. Presently the others,
sitting silently, heard his voice answer gaily, and then no more. They
had met and were off together as usual.
"You see," said Marjorie, "he really didn't care for me. I think he
and Peggy will marry each other one of these days, even if she is only
sixteen."
"She will get over being sixteen, of course," said Francis, still in
the preoccupied voice. "I suppose it's her superb vitality that
attracts him. She is actually making him almost human."
Marjorie smiled faintly at that.
"You don't like him much, do you?" she said.
"Do you remember, in your letters, how you always called him 'your
friend with the fits?'"
"Well, wasn't he?" said Francis defensively.
"Well, I don't think it was fits," she answered, balancing her ideas as
if they had met only to discuss Logan; "it was some sort of a nervous
seizure. At any rate, Peggy nursed him through one of the attacks, so
if she does marry him she knows the worst. But maybe they won't be
married. I remember, now, he told me once that an emotion to be really
convincing must be only touched lightly and foregone."
"That man certainly talks a lot of rot," said Francis. It was curious
how, whenever they were together, they fell into intimate
conversation--even if everything in the world had been happening the
minute before. The thought came to Marjorie. "Now, my emotions,"
Francis went on, "have certainly been too darn convincing for comfort
for the last year. If I could have touched any of them lightly and
foregone them I'd have been so proud you couldn't see me for dust. But
they weren't that kind. . . . Marjorie, I've been through hell this
last while that you've been sick."
"I'm sorry," she said. It gave her the opening she had been looking
for. "But that partly was what I sent for you to talk about. Not
hell--I mean--well, our affairs. I'm well enough now to be quite quiet
and calm about them, and I think you are, too. That is," she added,
half laughing, "if you could ever be quiet and calm about anything.
What I've seen of you has either been when you've been repressing
yourself so hard that I could see the emotions bubble underneath, or
when you'd stopped repressing, and were telling me what you really
thought of me."
"Oh, don't!" he said, wincing.
"Well, why not, Francis? You see, it's sort of as if we were both dead
now, and talking things over calmly on the golden shore. . . . Isn't
it lovely here! Oh, you don't know how nice it is to be getting well!"
"And I made you go through all that," he said chokingly, reaching out
instinctively for one of the thin little hands that lay contentedly
outside the silk shawl, and then pulling back again.
Marjorie looked at him consideringly. She couldn't help thinking, for
a moment, how lovely this would be if it wasn't a case of the golden
shore; if Francis and she hadn't messed things up so; if they had come
up here because they loved each other, and trusted each other to make
happiness; and if Francis, instead of taking his hand back that way,
had held hers as if he had the right to. And she remembered suddenly
their marriage night. He had flung himself down beside her and wrapped
her in his arms, and she had not quite liked it; she had shrunk away
from him. She was so weak now, and it felt a little lonely--if he put
his arms around her now she thought she would like it. But then she
was ill yet, and emotional; probably it was the same feeling that made
men propose to their nurses when they were convalescing. A nurse had
told her about it once, and added that it was considered very unethical
to take a man up on that sort of a proposal. That was it--you just
wanted somebody to be kind to you.
"Perhaps if I had a cat," said Marjorie inadvertently, aloud.
"Would you like one?" demanded Francis. "I'll get it this afternoon."
"Yes, I guess so," she answered, coloring again. "But what made you
think of a cat?"
"Oh, I just did," she answered untruthfully. "You see--you see, I'm
not strong yet, and my mind rambled around in an inconsequent sort of
way. It just happened on cats. But, Francis, you mustn't reproach
yourself. I know you are feeling altogether too badly about what you
did. But you mustn't. That's just the way you're made. You haven't
nice tame emotions, and in a way you're better so. Why, people like
you, all energy and force and attraction, get so much farther in life.
You're going to be a wonderful success, I know, just because you are so
intense. You meant all right. I know lots of girls who would have
been awfully flattered at your being so jealous. They'd have thought
it meant you were in love with them terribly."
"They'd have thought right," he said.
She looked at him--she had been talking with her eyes on a green tree
over in the distance. His head was bowed, and his hands clenched on
his knees, and he had spoken again in the muttering voice he had begun
with.
"I suppose you were," she said with a little wistful note in her voice
that neither of them knew was there. "But never mind; I want to talk
now about what we are both to do next. If you are really feeling as
badly as you say about my being sick, I don't suppose you mind how long
I take to get well. I'm afraid it will be quite a little while longer."
He started to speak, but she held up one hand and stopped him.
"And after that I'll go back to Lucille, if Billy isn't home."
"He is," said Francis. "He came over in one of the transports in July,
while you were ill. That was the only reason I didn't drag Lucille up
here."
"Where are they?" demanded Marjorie a little blankly. But after all
she should have expected this.
"In the flat you and Lucille had. Lucille likes it."
"How can she?" sighed Marjorie. "Well, she's never tried this. . . .
I wonder what I'd better do? I think I heard something about a place
where they have flats just for business women. Perhaps Billy could
arrange for me to get one before they're all gone. He always loved
attending to things like that for people. I can't go back to Cousin
Anna. I've been through too much. Why, you mayn't think it, but I'm
grown up, Francis! I'm about twenty years older than that foolish
little girl you married. I--I wonder I haven't wrinkles and a little
wisp of fuzzy gray hair!" she added, trying to smile.
"Don't!" said Francis again, looking at her childish face, with its
showers of loose curls, that was trying to be so brave. He dropped his
eyes again to the clenched hands that were tensed, one on either knee.
"I was foolish and young, too, then," he added. "I think I'm older,
too."
"Yes . . . it was a mistake," she said in a far-off voice.
"I wish it hadn't been," he said.
"Why, I was thinking that, too!" she said. "Isn't it a pity that we
weren't as old then as we are now! Responsible, I mean, and wanting as
much to do right things. That was one thing about it all. I want to
do right more than anything else these days; and I think you do, too.
And it wasn't in style then--do you remember our talking it over up
here once, when we were having a little friendly spat? But I
suppose----"
"I suppose you would never have married me if you'd been so old and
wise," he said.
She considered.
"But neither would you have," she objected.
Francis looked up at her suddenly, flashingly. "You know better," he
burst out. "You know I'd marry you over again if I were forty years
old, and as wise as Solomon. The kind of love I had for you isn't the
kind that gets changed."
Marjorie lay for a minute silently. Then she looked at him
incredulously.
"But you said----" she began very softly.
"I said things that I ought to be horsewhipped for. I loved you so
much that I was jealous. I do think I've learned a little better.
Why, if you wanted to talk to some other man now, even if I knew you
loved him madly, if it would make you happier I think I'd get him for
you. . . . No. No, I don't believe I could. I want you too much
myself. But--I've learned a better kind of love, at least, than the
kind that only wants to make you miserable. I _did_ get Pennington for
you when you were so ill, and wanted him instead of me. Count that to
me for righteousness, Marge, when you think about me back there in the
city."
"Then--you mean--that you love me just as much as ever?"
She lay there, wide-eyed, flushed and unbelieving.
"As much? A thousand times more--you know it. Good heavens, how could
any one live in the house with you and not care more and more for you
all the time?"
"But, then, why did you----"
"Because I was a brute. I've told you that. And because it made me
unhappier and unhappier to see you drifting away from me, and then,
every time I could have done anything to draw you a little closer I'd
lash out and send you farther away with my selfishness and jealousy. I
didn't know it was any surprise to you. It's been the one thing you've
known from the beginning----"
She shook her head.
"Every time you lost your temper you said you'd stopped loving me. And
that nobody could love the bad girl I was, to flirt and deceive you----"
"I've no excuse. I haven't even the nerve to ask you to try it a
little longer. But believe this, Marjorie; the very hardest thing you
could ask me to do----"
She laughed a little, starry-eyed,
"If I asked you to go and do the cooking and cleaning for your beloved
men, that you made me do?" she asked whimsically.
He nodded matter-of-coursely.
"It would mean Pennington doing my directing, and I don't think he's up
to it; he's a fine second in command, but he can't plan. Yes, I'd do
it in a minute, though it would probably mean the job I'm making my
reputation on going smash. Do you want me to? If the whole thing went
to the devil it would be a small price to pay for getting even another
half-chance to make good with you. May I, Marjorie? Say I may!"
He was bending forward, alert and passionate, as if it were a chance to
own the world that he was begging for. She told him so.
"It is--my world. I mean it, Marjorie. I don't deserve it, and I
don't see how you can trust me, but let me do that. Or anything. I
don't care how hard or how ridiculous, if it would mean that some day I
could come back to you and you'd consider--just consider--being my
wife."
"But, Francis! But, Francis, I don't want you to be ridiculous! I
don't want you to fall down on your work. I don't want you to do
anything----"
"I know you don't. That's the worst of it. And it's coming to me."
She was silent for a little while.
"It hadn't occurred to you, then, that perhaps--perhaps living in the
house with you might have made me--well, a little fonder of you?"
She did not know what she had expected him to do when she said that.
Anything but what he did do--sit perfectly still and unbelieving, and
look as if she had stabbed him.
"No," he said finally. "That couldn't happen. Don't talk to me that
way, Marjorie. It's cruel. Not that you haven't the right to be
cruel."
It was Marjorie's time of triumph, that she had planned for so long, in
those days when the work was hard and things were lonely sometimes.
But she did not take it. She only put out one shy hand, for it was a
little hard for her to go on talking, she was getting so tired, and
said timidly:
"But it is true, Francis. I--I am fond of you. And if there's
anything to forgive, I have. You know you can't be so dreadfully angry
with people when--when you like them. You--why, you don't have to wait
and have tests. I'll stay with you now, if you want me."
He stared at her a little longer, still incredulous. Then with an
inarticulate cry he was down on his knees beside her long chair, and he
had her in his arms, just as he had held her the night before he went
away, just after they were married. No, not just the same; for though
he held her as closely and as tenderly, there was something of fear
still in the way he kept his arms about her; as if he did not really
think it was true. He knelt there for a long time, and neither of them
moved. He did not call her affectionate names; he only kept repeating,
"Marjorie! Marjorie! Marjorie!" over and over again, as if her name
would keep her close to him, and hold her real.
She laughed a little again presently.
"It's really so, you know, Francis."
"I don't believe it in the least!" said Francis, in a more assertive
voice than he had used yet. He laughed, too. She looked at the dark,
vivid face so near hers, and so changed from what it had been five
minutes before.
"Well, you did take a lot of convincing!" she said demurely. "I felt
so bold----"
"Darling," said Francis, kissing her parenthetically, "do you think it
would be too much for you if you sat on my knees a little while? I
can't get at half enough of you where you are. And doctors say that
being too long in one position is very bad for invalids."
"You might try," said Marjorie docilely; "though, honestly, Francis, I
don't feel any more like an invalid than you do. I feel perfectly well
and strong--let me see if I can stand up!"
He really shouldn't--Mrs. O'Mara told him that severely two hours
afterwards--but at that particular moment he would have done anything
in the world Marjorie requested. He lifted her to a standing position
very carefully, and held her supported while she tried how she felt
being really on her feet again. It was the first time. Until now,
Pennington had carried her in and out, while Francis felt a deadly envy
in his heart.
"See, I'm all well!" she said triumphantly, looking exactly, as he told
her, like a doll, with her lacy draperies and her shoulder-length
curls, and her slim arms thrown out to balance herself. He let her
stand there a minute or so, and then pulled her gently over and held
her for a while.
At least, they thought it was a while. It was much more like two
hours; there was so much to talk over, and explain, and arrange for
generally. They decided to stay just where they were, for a little
while at least, after Francis's work was done. Marjorie was to get
strong as quickly as possible, and they were both, after their long
practice at being unhappy, to try to be as happy as possible. And the
very first time that Francis was jealous, or objected to any one
kissing her hand or traveling from New York to take her away from a
cruel husband, Marjorie was to leave him forever. This was his
suggestion.
"But I don't think I would," said Marjorie thoughtfully, lifting her
head a little from his shoulder. "I never did, did I, no matter what
you did to me? You couldn't even make me go when you sent me--I
preferred malarial fever."
Francis said nothing to that, except to suddenly tighten his arms about
her. He was not yet at the point where he could make a joke of her
illness. She had been too near the Valley of the Shadow for that.
So they were still sitting very comfortably together, discussing their
mutual life--they had planned as far as the tenth year of their
marriage--when Peggy descended upon them again.
Marjorie flushed and made a faint effort to escape, but Francis sat
immovably, exactly as if Peggy were not there at all.
"Oh!" said Peggy.
"We've made up," said Francis coolly.
"Then I suppose you won't be wanting me on the premises," said Peggy,
making a dive for the door.
"I would be delighted if there was a whole procession of you, like a
frieze," said Francis, "walking by and seeing how happy I am."
"Oh, but I wouldn't!" protested Marjorie. "Do let me get up and be
respectable, Francis. There _will_ be a procession going by
presently--you know the men all come and ask how I am every day."
At that reluctantly he did put her back in her chair, where she lay for
a little longer, starry-eyed and quite unlike an invalid. Peggy went
inside, judging that in spite of Francis's protests they would be
perfectly happy alone; and, besides, she wanted to tell her mother.
The two on the veranda stayed where they were.
"But what about the cooking?" demanded Marjorie presently.
"It's been all right while you were sick. We are going to get through
sooner than I thought."
"Oh, I'm so glad," she sighed. "I really did want you to get the work
done, and succeed--I never hated you that much, at the worst."
"Don't talk about the work!" he said passionately. "The work didn't
matter a bit. And I tell you this, Marjorie, if I can help it you
shall never do another stroke of work as long as you live!"
"That's going too far, as usual," said Marjorie calmly. "You certainly
are a tempestuous person, Francis Ellison! I'd be unhappy without
something to do. . . . May I play on the banjo sometimes in the
evening, and will you stay quite close to me when I do?"
"You mean----" he asked.
"I mean that you didn't destroy all those notes when you lost your
temper with me. To begin with, you left note-shaped places in the
dust, on all the things you had put there for me--you really will have
to let me do a little dusting occasionally, dear!--and so I hunted.
One note was under the fresh banjo strings. . . . And you may well be
glad you forgot it."
"Why, dearest? Did it make you a little sorry for me?"
"Oh, so sorry! In spite of all you'd said and done, somehow--somehow
when I read that I think I began to fall in love with you all over
again. . . . I cried, I know. I didn't know then that was what was
the matter with me, but I know now it was. You had wanted me so much,
there in our dear little cabin; and try as I would to keep telling
myself that it was a last year's you, it kept feeling like a this
year's."
"It was," he said fervently. "It was this year's, and every year's, as
long as we both live."
"As long as we both live," echoed Marjorie.
They were both quiet for a while. The sun was setting, and the rays
shone down through the trees; through a gap they could see the west,
scarlet and gold and beautiful. Things felt very solemn. Marjorie put
out one hand mutely, and Francis took it and held it closely. It was
more really their marriage day than the one in New York, when they were
both young and reckless, and scarcely more than bits of flotsam in the
tremendous world-current that set toward mating and replacement. They
belonged together now, willingly and deliberately; set to go forward
with what love and forbearance and earnestness of purpose they could,
all the days of their life. They both felt it, and were still.
But presently Marjorie's laughter awakened Francis from his muse. He
had been promising himself that he would make up to her--that he would
try to erase all his wild doings from her mind. She should forget some
day that he had ever put her in an automobile, and borne her away,
Sabine fashion, to where he could dominate her into submission and
wifehood. He had gone very far into himself, and that light laugh of
hers, that he loved, drew him back from the far places.
"What is it, dear?" he asked.
"I was just thinking--I was just thinking what awfully good common
sense you showed, carrying me off that way. And how proud of it I'll
be as long as I live!" said Marjorie.