It was early in March that West came to New York, and from then on Edith
Rogers lived what was to her a new life. She had persuaded Donald to let
her have a nurse for Bobbie, a young girl who came in every morning,
took the child out in the park, amused him during the day, and helped
with the housework. This left her comparatively free to spend a large
part of her time with West. Their automobile trips became a matter of
almost daily occurrence.
Thrown thus so much together, these two closed their eyes to the danger
which they both knew was impending; they walked gayly upon the edge of a
yawning chasm and refused to admit that one false step would send them
both crashing down into an abyss of chaos and destruction. In a few
weeks, from talking first of themselves, then of each other, during long
days when Donald labored patiently in his office down-town, it was but a
question of time when "you" and "me" became "we," and Edith would have
missed Billy West from her life more than she would have missed Donald,
because he had become more a part of it. Like a ship at anchor, with all
sails set and filled by a strong and ever increasing gale, it was
inevitably certain that before long either the anchor must give, or the
white sails of her reputation be blown to rags and tatters--bitter
state, indeed, for a wife and mother!
One of the things about West which appealed to her most was his ever
ready sympathy. Donald, made of sterner stuff, realized that sympathy,
overdone, weakens one's powers of resistance, and exaggerates one's
burdens. He expected his wife to bear what life accorded to her in the
way of hardship as patiently as he himself did. West, on the contrary,
was always sympathetic. Edith's cares, her worries, her troubles, he at
once made his own, and seemed only content if he could in some way
relieve them. That he had the means to do so, and could not, made it
all the harder for him. He would have given her anything he possessed,
yet knew she could accept only the veriest trifles. Flowers, theater
tickets, automobile rides, served to intensify, rather than lessen, her
longings for the things she must perforce do without. Expensive
restaurants implied expensive costumes, hats, jewels, which she did not
have and could not get, and she often wondered that her companion did
not feel ashamed of her in her home-made clothes.
By some system of more-than-rigid economy known only to herself she had
managed to procure a few of the things she felt she most needed: a long
automobile coat--reduced because shop-worn--a motor hat and veil, and
an evening gown which had once been part of the theatrical outfit of a
well-known star, and which she had picked up, second-hand, at a little
shop on Sixth Avenue. It was very magnificent; she felt almost ashamed
to wear it so often, but she knew that it showed off her charms to
the greatest advantage, having been designed, primarily, with that
end in view. Had she ever stopped to ask herself why she wanted to
exhibit these charms to West she would probably have been unable to
answer her own question, but she had long ago ceased to catechize
herself--sufficient it was that Billy was pleased that she looked well,
and that Donald did not blame her. She was floating happily along from
day to day, not daring to ask herself what the outcome of it all would
be.
She was seldom alone with West--alone, that is, in the sense of being to
themselves. She had not dared, after that first night, to have him at
the apartment--they had met at the doorstep, and their hours together
were spent over restaurant tables, or in theater seats, or the
automobile. She had a terrible fear that some time or other West would
reach out his arms to her and she knew that, if he did, she would go
to him without a question. He had assisted her in avoiding such a
_contretemps_, for he, too, knew his power, and was fighting to hold
what he had, rather than lose it in a vague and mysterious future, at
the character of which he could only guess. On one or two occasions,
when they had come in from automobiling, and West was waiting until
Donald should arrive from the office, preparatory to their all going to
dinner together, she had purposely brought Bobbie into the room. Once
when they had so come in, Bobbie was out with his nurse, and she had
wondered if Billy would take advantage of the fact. Much as she feared
it, she was conscious of a fierce hope that he would. These two were
like firebrands--he longed in every fiber to take her into his arms and
kiss her, and she knew it. She equally hungered for his embraces, and he
knew that this was so; in both their minds this maddening thought had
become a reality--a thousand times. She had acted it to herself over and
over, as he had done, and had felt, in her imagination, every thrill of
delight which this physical contact would give her, yet something, some
leash of conscience as yet not worn to the breaking point, held them
apart.
On this particular occasion he sat far from her, and held on to his
half-smoked cigar as though it had been his salvation. She busied
herself turning idly the leaves of a magazine. He knew, if he threw that
cigar away, he would go over to her and take her in his arms, and kiss
her, and he dared not to do it--for fear of what might come thereafter.
In April, he had been obliged to go away for three weeks, in connection
with some business affairs in the West, and the separation had come
almost as a relief to both of them. They had endured as far as human
flesh and blood could endure. West told her of the matters which made it
necessary for him to go, but she felt that they were not so important as
he represented, and knew in her heart that he was going away because he
wanted to give both himself and her an opportunity to readjust
themselves, to think matters over calmly, without the presence of each
other to affect their judgment.
The time of his absence seemed interminably long. Edith found that most
of the long series of introspective analyses to which she subjected
herself terminated in a mad desire to have him back again in New York.
His absence had shown her how absolutely she had been depending upon
him, how his going had taken from her everything that made her life
joyous and happy, leaving only the dull background of duty and work, two
things that she had come to regard merely as unfortunate necessities of
existence.
During his absence she spent a great deal more time with Bobbie than she
had been in the habit of doing of late, and found to her surprise that
the child depended upon her and thought of her less than he had done
before. His nurse was a kind-hearted young girl, who had come to love
the little boy deeply and mothered him in all sorts of ways. He had got
out of the habit of seeing his mother all day as he had done in the past
and, with the easy forgetfulness of childhood, clamored for Nellie, as
the girl was called, and their daily walks in the park, the games she
had thought out to amuse him, the easy comradeship that made her his
playfellow rather than a superior and distant grown-up. Edith resented
this, at first, but soon ceased her attempts to change matters and
busied herself in making dresses for the coming summer.
She saw West again on a drizzly afternoon in May. His frequent letters
had told her of his life while away and of the day of his return. He had
called rather unexpectedly about three o'clock, and they had gone for a
walk in the park. He seemed strangely silent, at first, and neither of
them spoke much for a few moments; they walked along side by side,
inwardly trying to bridge the gap which the past few weeks had made in
their lives. Presently he spoke.
"I cannot tell you how glad I am to be back again. I used to like the
West, but I do not think I could ever live there again."
She said what was nearest her heart. "I am glad, too--very glad," then
grew confused and silent.
"I brought you a little souvenir," he said, taking a small package from
his pocket, and handing it to her. She opened the box it contained and
drew out a magnificent gold chain purse. "I had it made from some of the
gold from our mine," he continued hesitatingly; "I thought you might
like it."
"Oh, Billy!" she cried, and looked up at him with darkening eyes. "How
lovely of you to think of me! It is beautiful--beautiful." She gloated
over its exquisite workmanship with all the joy of suddenly possessing
something which had always seemed very far away.
"I hoped you would like it," he said.
"Oh--I do--more than I can tell you. I never expected to have one,
though I have longed for it all my life." She smiled, dangling the purse
delightedly from its gold chain. "I only wish I had more to put in it,"
she concluded thoughtlessly.
"So do I--Edith--so do I." His tone betrayed the intensity of his
feelings. "I wish I could do more for you--but I haven't the right--I
haven't the right." His voice trailed off helplessly. "I only wish I
had."
She said nothing to this. It was perilous ground and they both knew it.
"How is Donald?" he asked suddenly.
"Oh, he's very well. Busy as ever. Won't you come in and see us this
evening?"
"No--not this evening. I have a man with me from Denver that I must be
with. He is going on to Boston at midnight. One of our directors," he
added by way of explanation. "But we must take a ride in the machine
to-morrow. I suppose it will be quite rusty for want of use."
"I suppose so. I've missed our trips."
He looked at her closely. "Yes, I can see that," he said, "you do not
look so well--you are pale and tired. What have you been doing with
yourself?"
"Oh, nothing much. Sewing, mostly." She did not tell him that her
principal occupation had been waiting for him to return.
"You need the fresh air. Suppose we take a run down to Garden City and
have luncheon there. I'll look in and see Donald in the morning and say
hello. Does he know I am back?"
"No--I don't think so. I didn't mention it."
He said nothing to this at first and did not even look at her. "I
wonder if Donald minds my--our--our going about so much together," he
ventured, at last. "Do you think he does?"
"I don't think so," she replied. "Why should he? I think he is rather
glad that I have had so much pleasure." She hesitated a moment, then
went on. "He has never said anything. You know how fond he is of you."
"Yes--I know it." He spoke as though the thought brought up unpleasant
ideas. "Isn't life a terrible tragedy?" he said, as though to himself.
"The things we want most, it seems, we can never, never have, without
hurting someone else to get them."
"Donald says that is sure proof that we ought not to have them," she
said in a low voice.
"And do you think so, too?" he asked eagerly.
"I--I do not know."
He hesitated a moment, then went on impetuously. "Is duty after all
everything in the world? Is there not a duty to ourselves as well as to
others? May not one duty conflict with another, and make it hard to know
which one we ought to follow? Must two people make themselves utterly
wretched, to give happiness to a third? Isn't it somehow sort of
unequal--paying too great a price for a thing that is not worth it?"
She did not answer him, nor did he expect her to do so. He was in
reality only thinking aloud--expressing the thoughts which had been
uppermost in his mind for the past three weeks, and, woman-like, she
took refuge in silence, for she knew that were she to answer him
truthfully she would agree with him.
"If two people love each other enough, doesn't it make up for anything
else in the world? We can't control our feelings. We can't help it, if
love comes to us and takes from us everything in our lives, and leaves
nothing behind but itself. There must be some purpose in it all. If
there is nothing left to us but love, why should we have to give that
up as well, and go on and on in wretched misery to the end? I can't do
it--and yet, I know that I must."
She trembled as she heard his words--so unlike the care-free man she had
come to know. He had changed very much, in these past few weeks. The
lines of suffering in his face were new to it, and only a great emotion
could have set them there. He loved her with a strong, compelling love,
and he was wrestling with the vital problems of duty and right. She, on
her part, loved him because of what pleasure he had given her, and was
wrestling with no problems whatever. Her only thought at the moment was
a great desire to have him put his arms about her and crush her to him.
This, however, he did not know, for he had idealized her and invested
her with all manner of high qualities and virtues which she by no means
possessed. She had begun to feel just a trifle annoyed by his constant
self-control. Somehow it seemed to belittle her own powers of
attraction. She feared, at times, that he might, casting prudence,
duty--honor to the winds, overwhelm her in a wild and rapturous outburst
of love, but the fact that he had not done so, up to now, annoyed her a
little, and almost made her desire the more that he would. She liked to
feel that West was a firebrand, that she herself was keeping him at a
distance--she did not enjoy the thought that he was controlling himself
in spite of her. He pedestaled her as a paragon of virtue, a creature of
restraint, which he, a devastating male, had caused to love him. She was
in reality far more frail than he, and the more he held aloof, the more
she burned for his caresses. Passion had made her shameless.
She walked along without replying for a long time, and he, misconstruing
her silence, thought he had offended her, by what he had said, and began
to speak of lighter things. He told her of his trip to Denver, of his
friends and acquaintances there, and she pretended to a deep interest,
but all the while she was longing to hear him burst forth with, "I love
you, I love you." After all, there was much of logic in her position,
for she knew perfectly well that the time would eventually come when he
would say those words to her, unless, indeed, he were to go away from
her, and avoid yielding to temptation by fleeing from it, and of this
there seemed not the slightest prospect. She knew she had a compelling
hold on him--he might for a time prevent himself from telling her his
feelings, but she could hold him near her as long as she pleased.
The rain made the afternoon unpleasant for walking. They turned into the
Casino and had a cup of tea, and chatted indifferently of subjects in
which neither of them was interested. West was in a hurry to get
away--he seemed less sure of himself than usual, and ill at ease. At
close to five o'clock they returned to the apartment and he left her,
with the understanding that he would stop for her in the machine at
eleven the next day.