Cicily, under her husband's intent gaze, felt a glow of embarrassment.
To conceal her emotion, she turned, and seated herself in a chair, where
she relaxed into a posture as listlessly indifferent as she could
contrive in this moment of pleasurable turmoil.
Now, indeed, she realized that the moment of her vindication in this
man's estimation was at hand. It was her brain that had evolved the ruse
by which his enemies would be worsted. Delancy and Hamilton might still
retain doubts as to the issue of the affair, but she had none. Her
instinct, which had so ably guided her to this point, now assured her
that victory was assured. It must be, then, that the husband who had
treated her claims and pretensions so fleeringly would henceforth
recognize her worth. He had been helpless in the grasp of circumstance,
and the flood of disaster had threatened to overwhelm him. She had
plucked him forth from the whirlpool, had brought him safe to shore.
She had most nobly justified herself in the role of Mrs. Partner....
This was her hour of supreme delight. The lines of fatigue had vanished
from the lovely face as if by magic; her eyes were happy, shining in a
clear contentment; her scarlet lips were molded into a smile of joy, and
from them a dimple crept to make a tiny shadow in the pale oval of the
cheek.
As for Hamilton, that young business man found himself in a maze of
perplexity, as he stood for a long time in silence, studying the fair
picture of femininity there offered to his gaze. In his breast, various
emotions warred lustily. He was a-thrill with elation over the
possibility of outwitting the foes who had used every wile and
subterfuge of trickiness to ruin him. He was moved to a profound
admiration for the intelligence that had originated and carried out a
counter plot so instantly effective in his interests. But underlying
these was a grievous hurt to his egotism. The pride of the male was
wounded sore. Where he, the head of the house, the lord of the home, the
man of affairs, had ignominiously failed, that frail creature, his
wife, whom he had criticised and rebuked time and again, had snatched
victory from defeat by clever and unscrupulous machinations worthy of a
master of high finance. This feat was something incredible, yet it was
true that it had been achieved. It was something absolutely contrary to
all the conventions in which he had been reared. It was directly opposed
to his personal beliefs, as he had expressed them times without number,
to all and sundry--notably to his wife. Here was the sting to his
vanity. He had been wrong. Of that, there could be no doubt. In other
cases, in all probability, his contentions would have been justified;
but there was small consolation in this fact, since in his own vital
concerns he had been proven wrong. He winced as he reflected on the
humility that would be becoming on his part.... Then, he was moved to a
sudden rapture, and forgot his hurt pride, as he realized again the
exceeding worth of the woman whom he loved. Under the urge of this
feeling, he exclaimed with candid vehemence of admiration:
"You darling little liar!" The fondness in his voice made the epithet a
word of sweetest praise.
Cicily stirred animatedly, casting off her assumed listlessness, in the
bliss of this honest tribute from him who had so sternly flouted her
aforetime. Her eyes of gold lighted radiantly as they were lifted to
his.
"Oh, no--a big liar, I'm very much afraid." She leaned forward, and her
voice was gloating as she continued: "Oh, Charles, isn't it just
splendid! And it was all so gloriously simple! Why, it isn't on my
conscience one tiny little bit. You see, they lied, and so, of course, I
was justified in lying. It was to save you, and to help our workers down
there. So, I lied, and I'm glad of it." She gurgled unrestrainedly for a
moment. "Do you know, Charles, dear, a woman can beat a man lying, any
time!... Oh, it's great!"
But Hamilton, not being under the thrall of intuitions, was not yet
ready to rejoice over a victory that remained to be won.
"Wait," he admonished. "You know, we haven't heard from Johnson yet. We
don't know what he'll do."
"Pooh!" Cicily retorted confidently, for in her wisdom she accepted the
dictum of her instinct without reserve. "If it should be necessary,
why, I'll convince him, too."
His curiosity prompted Hamilton to ask a leading question.
"How did you come to think of it?" he inquired eagerly.
"Oh, I just thought of it because--because--" Cicily halted, completely
at a loss. She knew very well how she had come to think of it. The idea
had been the kindly gift of intuition--that was all there was to it. But
the explanation of the fact to a mere man, with his finical dependence
on logic and all manner of foolishness in the way of reasoning, offered
considerable difficulty. So, she rested silent, puzzling over a means
for making the truth lucid to a member of the non-intuitional sex.
"Well, because what?" Hamilton repeated, suggestively.
"Why, just because--" Unable to find adequate words for interpreting the
cause, Cicily attempted a diversion. "And, anyhow, I'm so glad! Now, you
do see that I can help you, that I can do something for you that
counts." For the life of her, the young wife could not resist a
temptation to boast a little over her accomplishment in the world of
business. She even ventured to hint as to the "because" which she had
left unexplained. "Surely, Charles, now you must see how it's possible
for us women to help our husbands outside the home--once in a while, at
least. Really, there is some room in business on occasion for intuition,
just as there is in other things. But the few men who possess the gift
don't call it by its right name--not they! I imagine they're too busy
and prosperous to call it anything."
"You mustn't think I'm not grateful, Cicily," Hamilton answered, with
surprising meekness. "I know how much I shall owe you, if this deal goes
through." He went to the chair where his wife was sitting, and kissed
her tenderly. "Yes, you'll find me grateful enough," he repeated
earnestly, as he straightened again, and stood regarding her with
lover-like intentness.
Cicily, however, was not wholly content with the expression of feeling
on her husband's part. Her ambition toward really sharing his whole life
was not to be thwarted by accepting a single success, and the resultant
gratitude on the part of the one served, as a sufficient achievement.
"It's not gratitude that I want, Charles," she declared, resolutely;
"that is, not gratitude alone. I want recognition."
"But I do recognize everything, Cicily," Hamilton urged, manifestly at a
loss to understand his wife's precise meaning. Then, of a sudden, his
vision cleared, and he spoke with a new gentleness, yet with something
of the old authority. "I recognize most clearly that here and now is the
real turning point of our lives. We have both made mistakes--"
"Oh, both?" Cicily questioned, rebelliously. Her serene confidence in
herself did not relish the open confession of error.
"Yes," Hamilton maintained, judicially; "we've both made mistakes. I've
cared too much for business. I admit that fully and freely. I let it
intrude on my home life; I let it hamper the expression of my love for
you. As for you, you adorable creature, you've been headstrong beyond
belief. You've been impulsive to the limit of that very impulsive
temperament of yours. You've been unreasonable to the verge of
distraction. But, thank heaven! you've been--as you'd call
it--intuitional, too. That redeems you from criticism--as it may redeem
me from ruin in my business. So, darling, isn't it fair, when I say that
I'm going to change, to say that I want you to change, too? To sum it
up, dear heart, we must begin all over again."
Nevertheless, Cicily, although she was a-quiver with delight over the
open revelation of her husband's changed feeling toward her and toward
himself, did not hesitate to combat his determination. She shook her
head slowly in negation of his proposal, and spoke with the energy of
profound conviction:
"It's too late, Charles. We can't go back."
"But, Cicily," Hamilton remonstrated, greatly hurt by her resistance to
his humble resolve, "you don't understand! I admit that I was
wrong--more than partly to blame, perhaps." That was as far as he could
go. The wife who loved him smiled secretly at the obvious effort with
which he acknowledged so much. It was enough to satisfy her in that
direction--more than enough! But there remained still the fact that she
was totally out of harmony with his scheme of turning backward to begin
their life together afresh, after a finer plan of conduct.
"There's no such thing as going backward in life, Charles," she
declared, intently. "We must go forward--only forward!"
"No," Hamilton answered, gravely. "That would never do. The old struggle
would come up again. You were right in your argument, Cicily, and I see
it now. I recognize the existence of that modern triangle, as you
described it. One must choose, inevitably. It's either you or business.
I chose once, and I went wrong. Now, let me choose again, dear. Oh, you
must believe me, sweetheart. You are the dearer--infinitely the dearer
to me! It is you I love--only you!" There was genuine passion in the
man's voice. It rang heavenly harmonies in the soul of the wife. For the
moment, she was half-inclined to throw away the troubles begotten of
ambition, the strivings engendered by ideals, to rest content with the
happiness of love's transports. She fought the temptation stoutly, but
it was almost beyond her woman's strength to resist. She feinted for
time by haphazard questioning, voiced in broken, uncertain tones while
she strove to maintain her purpose:
"What are you going to do, Charles? How will you prove that I am dearer
to you, after all, than is this hateful business?"
"How am I going to prove it?" Hamilton repeated, with immense
self-satisfaction. "Why, I'm going to sell out to Morton, to-morrow."
At this explicit statement of his purpose, Cicily was swiftly recalled
from her temporary mood of yielding.
"You're going to quit?" she demanded, sharply. "Is that what you mean,
Charles?"
"Yes," came the complacent answer, firm in the intensity of sudden
resolve. "I have it all planned out, already. We'll take a steamer the
last of the week for another--a better, wiser--honeymoon. We'll go to
the Italian lakes, to Switzerland. Then, afterward, we'll drop down to
that little village in the south of France. You remember the place,
don't you, dearest?"
"Yes," Cicily answered, very softly. Her cheeks were flushed with tender
memories of that embowered nook which had given lotos-eating pause to
their wedding-journey. Her eyes were dreamy with fond reminiscence, as
she imagined again the quaint beauties of that lover's paradise. But, by
a fierce effort of will, she threw off the spell that threatened to
defeat her most cherished ambition; and she spoke with an accent of
supreme determination, in a voice become suddenly vibrant with new
energy. "But I won't go!" Her face, too, had lost the delicate, yielding
lines of the woman wooed and won, rejoicing in submission; it was again
alert, set to fixedness of plan that would brook no denial. At sight of
the change in her, Hamilton stared in dismay. He could not understand
this development in her. He had humiliated himself in vain. He had
offered the abandonment of all that could offend her, yet she remained
obdurate, discontented, defiant of his every desire. He almost groaned,
as he cast himself disconsolately into a chair, and buried his head in
his hands, despairing of any understanding as to the whims of a woman.
"Don't you see, dear," Cicily went on, gently persuasive, "that we
can't--we just can't!--quit? Why, Charles, being a quitter is the one
thing that you've most hated all your life. And I, too, have hated it.
No, you can't quit, because you're held here by duty--by duty to
yourself, by duty to those men and women, our little brothers and
sisters, who depend on you for their livelihood."
"The trust will take care of them," Hamilton declared mechanically,
without lifting his face from his hands.
"You know how the trust will take care of them," Cicily retorted, with a
touch of bitterness. "It will pay them a starvation wage--no more!"
"But you're jealous of business!" Hamilton objected, raising his head to
gaze curiously at this most paradoxical person. "And, now, you are
urging me to keep at it. I don't understand."
Cicily laughed aloud, in genuine enjoyment. Her eyes were alight with
the fires of victory.
"I used to be jealous of it," she admitted, joyously. "I'm not any
longer--because I've beaten it. Your offer just now proves that, doesn't
it?... But, now that I have won a triumph over my old rival, why, we've
got to go forward."
"Together?" There was a tender, half-fearful doubt in the husband's
voice as he asked the question that meant so much to him, for he loved
this variable wife of his in this moment more than he had ever dreamed
that he could love a woman.
The wife's head drooped shyly, and her face flamed. Her word came very
softly spoken, but it rang a peal of happiness in the heart of her
husband.
"Yes."
The man rose from his chair, and went to his wife's side, where he
stooped, and took her face in his hands, and raised it until he could
look deep into the eyes of gold.
"You will care again, as you used to care?"
And she answered bravely, although a gentle confusion held her all
a-tremble:
"I will care because--because I've never stopped caring!"
"Thank God!" Hamilton said reverently, and gathered her into his arms.
Afterward, the twain lovers talked of many things, as lovers will, of
things grave and gay, of things silly and profound. They talked of
business affairs, into which Cicily might on occasion flash the light of
intuition to clear the way for grosser reason. They discussed the
mutuality of interests that would be theirs, a lesson of supreme worth
to a conventional world. They arranged philanthropic schemes for the
betterment of conditions for the little brothers and sisters who gained
a sustenance by toil at their behest. But, most of all, they talked
those divine absurdities that are the privilege of all true lovers. The
husband bewailed the incredible stupidity that had led him into neglect
of the most adorable being in the universe; the wife mourned over the
stern necessity that had driven her to sacrifice ineffable happiness on
the altar of conscience.
[Illustration]
They drew apart a little, when Delancy came bustling in from his
conversation over the telephone; but they scarcely had ears for his
jubilant announcement of victory.
"Johnson thinks it's great!" the old gentleman cried, triumphantly.
"He's coming right up here in his machine, with a lawyer, to draw the
papers.... And I've 'phoned for our attorney to get here as fast as he
can. My boy, we've got 'em! Hooray!"
Hamilton responded with a perfunctory enthusiasm, but his eyes never
left his wife's face.
As for Cicily, she sat silent, her eyes veiled, reveling in the glad
riot of her thoughts. Through her brain went echoing the words spoken by
her Aunt Emma, which had served in a measure to guide her course of
action, and she smiled in perfect content as she mused on their meaning
in her life. She had sought "to make other people happy." She had
striven valiantly in behalf of the workers in the factory; she had
struggled for her husband. Well, she had succeeded for them--surely, she
had made other people happy; and out of her labors for those others she
had won the supreme happiness for herself.
But it was after Delancy had left them that Hamilton reached into the
inner pocket of his waistcoat, and plucked forth a little packet of
tissue paper, which he unrolled with a touch that was half-caressing. Of
a sudden, Cicily, watching, uttered a cry of delight.
"You cared--so much?" she questioned, with shy eagerness, as she put
out her left hand.
The husband slipped the wedding-ring to its place.
"I cared so much," he said softly; "and infinitely more!"
The amber eyes of the wife were veiled with tears, as she lifted them to
his.
"Oh, thank God, it is back again!" she whispered.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Making People Happy, by Thompson Buchanan