"No, no, don't say it!" she cried.
"You may think you do, just this moment, but it's only because--you've
been moved. And what you believe you want isn't me, it's what I was. But
I'm not that any more,--I'm simply recalling that, don't you see? And
even then you wouldn't wish me, now, as I was. That sounds involved, but
you must understand. You want a woman who will be wrapped up in your
career, Hugh, and yet who will not share it,--who will devote herself
body and soul to what you have become. A woman whom you can shape. And
you won't really love her, but only just so much of her as may become the
incarnation of you. Well, I'm not that kind of woman. I might have been,
had you been different. I'm not at all sure. Certainly I'm not that kind
now, even though I know in my heart that the sort of career you have made
for yourself, and that I intend to make for myself is all dross. But now
I can't do without it."
"And yet you are going to marry Hambleton Durrett!" I said.
She understood me, although I regretted my words at once.
"Yes, I am going to marry him." There was a shade of bitterness, of
defiance in her voice. "Surely you are not offering me the--the other
thing, now. Oh, Hugh!"
"I am willing to abandon it all, Nancy."
"No," she said, "you're not, and I'm not. What you can't see and won't
see is that it has become part of you. Oh, you are successful, you will
be more and more successful. And you think I should be somebody, as your
wife, Hugh, more perhaps, eventually, than I shall be as Hambleton's. But
I should be nobody, too. I couldn't stand it now, my dear. You must
realize that as soon as you have time to think it over. We shall be
friends."
The sudden gentleness in her voice pierced me through and through. She
held out her hand. Something in her grasp spoke of a resolution which
could not be shaken.
"And besides," she added sadly, "I don't love you any more, Hugh. I'm
mourning for something that's gone. I wanted to have just this one talk
with you. But we shan't mention it again,--we'll close the book."...
At that I fled out of the house, and at first the thought of her as
another man's wife, as Hambleton Durrett's wife, was seemingly not to be
borne. It was incredible! "We'll close the book." I found myself
repeating the phrase; and it seemed then as though something within me I
had believed dead--something that formerly had been all of me--had
revived again to throb with pain.
It is not surprising that the acuteness of my suffering was of short
duration, though I remember certain sharp twinges when the announcement
of the engagement burst on the city. There was much controversy over the
question as to whether or not Ham Durrett's reform would be permanent;
but most people were willing to give him the benefit of the doubt; it was
time he settled down and took the position in the community that was to
be expected of one of his name; and as for Nancy, it was generally agreed
that she had done well for herself. She was not made for poverty--and who
so well as she was fitted for the social leadership of our community?
They were married in Trinity Church in the month of May, and I was one of
Ham's attendants. Ralph was "best man." For the last time the old Willett
mansion in Powell Street wore the gala air of former days; carpets were
spread over the sidewalk, and red and white awnings; rooms were filled
with flowers and flung open to hundreds of guests. I found the wedding
something of an ordeal. I do not like to dwell upon it--especially upon
that moment when I came to congratulate Nancy as she stood beside Ham at
the end of the long parlour. She seemed to have no regrets. I don't know
what I expected of her--certainly not tears and tragedy. She seemed
taller than ever, and very beautiful in her veil and white satin gown and
the diamonds Ham had given her; very much mistress of herself, quite a
contrast to Ham, who made no secret of his elation. She smiled when I
wished her happiness.
"We'll be home in the autumn, Hugh, and expect to see a great deal of
you," she said.
As I paused in a corner of the room my eye fell upon Nancy's father.
McAlery Willett's elation seemed even greater than Ham's. With a gardenia
in his frock-coat and a glass of champagne in his hand he went from group
to group; and his familiar laughter, which once had seemed so full of
merriment and fun, gave me to-day a somewhat scandalized feeling. I heard
Ralph's voice, and turned to discover him standing beside me, his long
legs thrust slightly apart, his hands in his pockets, overlooking the
scene with typical, semi-contemptuous amusement.
"This lets old McAlery out, anyway," he said.
"What do you mean?" I demanded.
"One or two little notes of his will be cancelled, sooner or
later--that's all."
For a moment I was unable to speak.
"And do you think that she--that Nancy found out--?" I stammered.
"Well, I'd be willing to take that end of the bet," he replied. "Why the
deuce should she marry Ham? You ought to know her well enough to
understand how she'd feel if she discovered some of McAlery's financial
coups? Of course it's not a thing I talk about, you understand. Are you
going to the Club?"
"No, I'm going home," I said. I was aware of his somewhat compassionate
smile as I left him....