At half-past six o'clock from Wall Street, Jack Lightbody let himself into his apartment, called his wife by name, and received no answer.
"Hello, that's funny," he thought, and, ringing, asked of the maid, "Did Mrs. Lightbody go out?"
"About an hour ago, sir."
"That's odd. Did she leave any message?"
"No, sir."
"That's not like her. I wonder what's happened."
At this moment his eye fell on an open hat-box of mammoth proportions, overshadowing a thin table in the living-room.
"When did that come?"
"About four o'clock, sir."
He went in, peeping into the empty box with a smile of satisfaction and understanding.
"That's it, she's rushed off to show it to some one," he said, with a half vindictive look toward the box. "Well, it cost $175, and I don't get my winter suit; but I get a little peace."
He went to his room, rebelliously preparing to dress for the dinner and theater to which he had been commanded.
"By George, if I came back late, wouldn't I catch it?" he said with some irritation, slipping into his evening clothes and looking critically at his rather subdued reflection in the glass. "Jim tells me I'm getting in a rut, middle-aged, showing the wear. Perhaps." He rubbed his hand over the wrinkled cheek and frowned. "I have gone off a bit—sedentary life—six years. It does settle you. Hello! quarter of seven. Very strange!"
He slipped into a lilac dressing-gown which had been thrust upon him on his last birthday and wandered uneasily back into the dining-room.
"Why doesn't she telephone?" he thought; "it's her own party, one of those infernal problem plays I abhor. I didn't want to go."
The door opened and the maid entered. On the tray was a letter.
"For me?" he said, surprised. "By messenger?"
"Yes, sir."
He signed the slip, glancing at the envelope. It was in his wife's handwriting.
"Margaret!" he said suddenly.
"Yes, sir."
"The boy's waiting for an answer, isn't he?"
"No, sir."
He stood a moment in blank uneasiness, until, suddenly aware that she was waiting, he dismissed her with a curt:
"Oh, very well."
Then he remained by the table, looking at the envelope which he did not open, hearing the sound of the closing outer door and the passing of the maid down the hall.
"Why didn't she telephone?" he said aloud slowly.
He looked at the letter again. He had made no mistake. It was from his wife.
"If she's gone off again on some whim," he said angrily, "by George, I won't stand for it."
Then carelessly inserting a finger, he broke the cover and glanced hastily down the letter:
My dear Jackie:
When you have read this I shall have left you forever. Forget me and
try to forgive. In the six years we have lived together, you have
always been kind to me. But, Jack, there is something we cannot give
or take away, and because some one has come who has won that, I am
leaving you. I'm sorry, Jackie, I'm sorry.
Irene.
When he had read this once in unbelief, he read it immediately again, approaching the lamp, laying it on the table and pressing his fists against his temple, to concentrate all his mind.
"It's a joke," he said, speaking aloud.
He rose, stumbling a little and aiding himself with his arm, leaning against the wall, went into her room, and opened the drawer where her jewel case should be. It was gone.
"Then it's true," he said solemnly. "It's ended. What am I to do?"
He went to her wardrobe, looking at the vacant hooks, repeating:
"What am I to do?"
He went slowly back to the living-room to the desk by the lamp, where the hateful thing stared up at him.
"What am I to do?"
All at once he struck the desk with his fist and a cry burst from him:
"Dishonored—I'm dishonored!"
His head flushed hot, his breath came in short, panting rage. He struck the letter again and again, and then suddenly, frantically, began to rush back and forth, repeating:
"Dishonored—dishonored!"
All at once a moment of clarity came to him with a chill of ice. He stopped, went to the telephone and called up the Racquet Club, saying:
"Mr. De Gollyer to the 'phone."
Then he looked at his hand and found he was still clutching a forgotten hair brush. With a cry at the grotesqueness of the thing, he flung it from him, watching it go skipping over the polished floor. The voice of De Gollyer called him.
"Is that you, Jim?" he said, steadying himself. "Come—come to me at once—quick!"
He could have said no more. He dropped the receiver, overturning the stand, and began again his caged pacing of the floor.
Ten minutes later De Gollyer nervously slipped into the room. He was a quick, instinctive ferret of a man, one to whose eyes the hidden life of the city held no mysteries; who understood equally the shadows that glide on the street and the masks that pass in luxurious carriages. In one glance he had caught the disorder in the room and the agitation in his friend. He advanced a step, balanced his hat on the desk, perceived the crumpled letter, and, clearing his throat, drew back, frowning and alert, correctly prepared for any situation.
Lightbody, without seeming to perceive his arrival, continued his blind traveling, pressing his fists from time to time against his throat to choke back the excess of emotions which, in the last minutes, had dazed his perceptions and left him inertly struggling against a shapeless pain. All at once he stopped, flung out his arms and cried:
"She's gone!"
De Gollyer did not on the word seize the situation.
"Gone! Who's gone?" he said with a nervous, jerky fixing of his head, while his glance immediately sought the vista through the door to assure himself that no third person was present.
But Lightbody, unconscious of everything but his own utter grief, was threshing back and forth, repeating mechanically, with increasingstaccato:
"Gone, gone!"
"Who? Where?"
With a sudden movement, De Gollyer caught his friend by the shoulder and faced him about as a naughty child, exclaiming: "Here, I say, old chap, brace up! Throw back your shoulders—take a long breath!"
With a violent wrench, Lightbody twisted himself free, while one hand flung appealingly back, begged for time to master the emotion which burst forth in the cry:
"Gone—forever!"
"By Jove!" said De Gollyer, suddenly enlightened, and through his mind flashed the thought—"There's been an accident—something fatal. Tough—devilish tough."
He cast a furtive glance toward the bedrooms and then an alarmed one toward his friend, standing in the embrasure of the windows, pressing his forehead against the panes.
Suddenly Lightbody turned and, going abruptly to the desk, leaned heavily on one arm, raising the letter in two vain efforts. A spasm of pain crossed his lips, which alone could not be controlled. He turned his head hastily, half offering, half dropping the letter, and wheeling, went to an armchair, where he collapsed, repeating inarticulately:
"Forever!"
"Who? What? Who's gone?" exclaimed De Gollyer, bewildered by the appearance of a letter. "Good heavens, dear boy, what has happened? Who's gone?"
Then Lightbody, by an immense effort, answered:
"Irene—my wife!"
And with a rapid motion he covered his eyes, digging his fingers into his flesh.
De Gollyer, pouncing upon the letter, read:
My dear Jackie: When you read this, I shall have left you forever—
Then he halted with an exclamation, and hastily turned the page for the signature.
"Read!" said Lightbody in a stifled voice.
"I say, this is serious, devilishly serious," said De Gollyer, now thoroughly amazed. Immediately he began to read, unconsciously emphasizing the emphatic words—a little trick of his enunciation.
When Lightbody had heard from the voice of another the message that stood written before his eyes, all at once all impulses in his brain converged into one. He sprang up, speaking now in quick, distinct syllables, sweeping the room with the fury of his arms.
"I'll find them; by God, I'll find them. I'll hunt them down. I'll follow them. I'll track them—anywhere—to the ends of the earth—and when I find them—"
De Gollyer, sensitively distressed at such a scene, vainly tried to stop him.
"I'll find them, if I die for it! I'll shoot them down. I'll shoot them down like dogs! I will, by all that's holy, I will! I'll butcher them! I'll shoot them down, there at my feet, rolling at my feet!"
All at once he felt a weight on his arm, and heard De Gollyer saying, vainly:
"Dear boy, be calm, be calm."
"Calm!" he cried, with a scream, his anger suddenly focusing on his friend, "Calm! I won't be calm! What! I come back—slaving all day, slaving for her—come back to take her out to dinner where she wants to go—to the play she wants to see, and I find—nothing—this letter—this bomb—this thunderbolt! Everything gone—my home broken up—my name dishonored—my whole life ruined! And you say be calm—be calm—be calm!"
Then, fearing the hysteria gaining possession of him, he dropped back violently into an armchair and covered his face.
During this outburst, De Gollyer had deliberately removed his gloves, folded them and placed them in his breast pocket. His reputation for social omniscience had been attained by the simple expedient of never being convinced. As soon as the true situation had been unfolded, a slight, skeptical smile hovered about his thin, flouting lips, and, looking at his old friend, he was not unpleasantly aware of something comic in the attitudes of grief. He made one or two false starts, buttoning his trim cutaway, and then said in a purposely higher key:
"My dear old chap, we must consider—we really must consider what is to be done."
"There is only one thing to be done," cried Lightbody in a voice of thunder.
"Permit me!"
"Kill them!"
"One moment!"
De Gollyer, master of himself, never abandoning his critical enjoyment, softened his voice to that controlled note that is the more effective for being opposed to frenzy.
"Sit down—come now, sit down!"
Lightbody resisted.
"Sit down, there—come—you have called me in. Do you want my advice? Do you? Well, just quiet down. Will you listen?"
"I am quiet," said Lightbody, suddenly submissive. The frenzy of his rage passed, but to make his resolution doubly impressive, he extended his arm and said slowly:
"But remember, my mind is made up. I shall not budge. I shall shoot them down like dogs! You see I say quietly—like dogs!"
"My dear old pal," said De Gollyer with a well-bred shrug of his shoulders, "you'll do nothing of the sort. We are men of the world, my boy, men of the world. Shooting is archaic—for the rural districts. We've progressed way beyond that—men of the world don't shoot any more."
"I said it quietly," said Lightbody, who perceived, not without surprise, that he was no longer at the same temperature. However, he concluded with normal conviction: "I shall kill them both, that's all. I say it quietly."
This gave De Gollyer a certain hortatory moment of which he availed himself, seeking to reduce further the dramatic tension.
"My dear old pal, as a matter of fact, all I say is, consider first and shoot after. In the first place, suppose you kill one or both and you are not yourself killed—for you know, dear boy, the deuce is that sometimes does happen. What then? Justice is so languid nowadays. Certainly you would have to inhabit for six, eight—perhaps ten months—a drafty, moist jail, without exercise, most indigestible food abominably cooked, limited society. You are brought to trial. A jury—an emotional jury—may give you a couple of years. That's another risk. You see you drink cocktails, you smoke cigarettes. You will be made to appear a person totally unfit to live with."
Lightbody with a movement of irritation, shifted the clutch of his fingers.
"As a matter of fact, suppose you are acquitted, what then? You emerge, middle-aged, dyspeptic, possibly rheumatic—no nerves left. Your photograph figures in every paper along with inventors of shoes and corsets. You can't be asked to dinner or to house parties, can you? As a matter of fact, you'll disappear somewhere or linger and get shot by the brother, who in turn, as soon as he is acquitted, must be shot by your brother, et cetera, et cetera!Voila!What will you have gained?"
He ceased, well pleased—he had convinced himself.
Lightbody, who had had time to be ashamed of the emotion that he, as a man, had shown to another of his sex, rose and said with dignity:
"I shall have avenged my honor."
De Gollyer, understanding at once that the battle had been won, took up in an easy running attack his battery of words.
"By publishing your dishonor to Europe, Africa, Asia? That's logic, isn't it? No, no, my dear old Jack—you won't do it. You won't be an ass. Steady head, old boy! Let's look at it in a reasonable way—as men of the world. You can't bring her back, can you? She's gone."
At this reminder, overcome by the vibrating sense of loss, Lightbody turned abruptly, no longer master of himself, and going hastily toward the windows, cried violently:
"Gone!"
Over the satisfied lips of De Gollyer the same ironical smile returned.
"I say, as a matter of fact I didn't suspect, you—you cared so much."
"I adored her!"
With a quick movement, Lightbody turned. His eyes flashed. He no longer cared what he revealed. He began to speak incoherently, stifling a sob at every moment.
"I adored her. It was wonderful. Nothing like it. I adored her from the moment I met her. It was that—adoration—one woman in the world—one woman—I adored her!"
The imp of irony continued to play about De Gollyer's eyes and slightly twitching lips.
"Quite so—quite so," he said. "Of course you know, dear boy, you weren't always so—so lonely—the old days—you surprise me."
The memory of his romance all at once washed away the bitterness in Lightbody. He returned, sat down, oppressed, crushed.
"You know, Jim," he said solemnly, "she never did this, never in the world, not of her own free will, never in her right mind. She's been hypnotized, some one has gotten her under his power—some scoundrel. No—I'll not harm her, I'll not hurt a hair of her head—but when I meethim—"
"By the way, whom do you suspect?" said De Gollyer, who had long withheld the question.
"Whom? Whom do I suspect?" exclaimed Lightbody, astounded. "I don't know."
"Impossible!"
"How do I know? I never doubted her a minute."
"Yes, yes—still?"
"Whom do I suspect? I don't know." He stopped and considered. "It might be—three men."
"Three men!" exclaimed De Gollyer, who smiled as only a bachelor could smile at such a moment.
"I don't know which—how should I know? But when I do know—when I meet him! I'll spare her—but—but when we meet—we two—when my hands are on his throat—"
He was on his feet again, the rage of dishonor ready to flame forth. De Gollyer, putting his arm about him, recalled him with abrupt, military sternness.
"Steady, steady again, dear old boy. Buck up now—get hold of yourself."
"Jim, it's awful!"
"It's tough—very tough!"
"Out of a clear sky—everything gone!"
"Come, now, walk up and down a bit—do you good."
Lightbody obeyed, locking his arms behind his back, his eyes on the floor.
"Everything smashed to bits!"
"You adored her?" questioned De Gollyer in an indefinable tone.
"I adored her!" replied Lightbody explosively.
"Really now?"
"I adored her. There's nothing left now—nothing—nothing."
"Steady."
Lightbody, at the window, made another effort, controlled himself and said, as a man might renounce an inheritance:
"You're right, Jim—but it's hard."
"Good spirit—fine, fine, very fine!" commented De Gollyer in critical enthusiasm, "nothing public, eh? No scandal—not our class. Men of the world. No shooting! People don't shoot any more. It's reform, you know, for the preservation of bachelors."
The effort, the renunciation of his just vengeance, had exhausted Lightbody, who turned and came back, putting out his hands to steady himself.
"It isn't that, it's, it's—" Suddenly his fingers encountered on the table a pair of gloves—his wife's gloves, forgotten there. He raised them, holding them in his open palm, glanced at De Gollyer and, letting them fall, suddenly unable to continue, turned aside his head.
"Take time—a good breath," said De Gollyer, in military fashion, "fill your lungs. Splendid! That's it."
Lightbody, sitting down at the desk, wearily drew the gloves to him, gazing fixedly at the crushed perfumed fingers.
"Why, Jim," he said finally, "I adore her so—if she can be happier—happier with another—if that will make her happier than I can make her—well, I'll step aside, I'll make no trouble—just for her, just for what she's done for me."
The last words were hardly heard. This time, despite himself, De Gollyer was tremendously affected.
"Superb! By George, that's grit!"
Lightbody raised his head with the fatigue of the struggle and the pride of the victory written on it.
"Her happiness first," he said simply.
The accent with which it was spoken almost convinced De Gollyer.
"By Jove, you adore her!"
"I adore her," said Lightbody, lifting himself to his feet. This time it came not as an explosion, but as a breath, some deep echo from the soul. He stood steadily gazing at his friend. "You're right, Jim. You're right. It's not our class. I'll face it down. There'll be no scandal. No one shall know."
Their hands met with an instinctive motion. Then, touched by the fervor of his friend's admiration, Lightbody moved wearily away, saying dully, all in a breath:
"Like a thunderclap, Jim."
"I know, dear old boy," said De Gollyer, feeling sharply vulnerable in the eyes and throat.
"It's terrible—it's awful. All in a second! Everything turned upside down, everything smashed!"
"You must go away," said De Gollyer anxiously.
"My whole life wrecked," continued Lightbody, without hearing him, "nothing left—not the slightest, meanest thing left!"
"Dear boy, you must go away."
"Only last night she was sitting here, and I there, reading a book." He stopped and put forth his hand. "This book!"
"Jack, you must go away for a while."
"What?"
"Go away!"
"Oh, yes, yes. I suppose so. I don't care."
Leaning against the desk, he gazed down at the rug, mentally and physically inert.
De Gollyer, returning to his nature, said presently: "I say, dear old fellow, it's awfully delicate, but I should like to be frank, from the shoulder—out and out, do you mind?"
"What? No."
Seeing that Lightbody had only half listened, De Gollyer spoke with some hesitation:
"Of course it's devilish impudent. I'll offend you dreadfully. But, I say, now as a matter of fact, were you really so—so seraphically happy?"
"What's that?"
"As a matter of fact," said De Gollyer changing his note instantly, "you were happy,terrificallyhappy,alwayshappy, weren't you?"
Lightbody was indignant.
"Oh, how can you, at such a moment?"
The new emotion gave him back his physical elasticity. He began to pace up and down, declaiming at his friend, "I was happy,ideallyhappy. I never had a thought, not one, for anything else. I gave her everything. I did everything she wanted. There never was a word between us. It wasideal"
De Gollyer, somewhat shamefaced, avoiding his angry glance, said hastily:
"So, so, I was quite wrong. I beg your pardon."
"Ideallyhappy," continued Lightbody, more insistently. "We had the same thoughts, the same tastes, we read the same books. She had a mind, a wonderful mind. It was anidealunion."
"The devil, I may be all wrong," thought De Gollyer to himself. He crossed his arms, nodded his head, and this time it was with the profoundest conviction that he repeated:
"You adored her."
"Iadoredher," said Lightbody, with a ring to his voice. "Not a word against her, not a word. It was not her fault. I know it's not her fault."
"You must go away," said De Gollyer, touching him on the shoulder.
"Oh, I must! I couldn't stand it here in this room," said Lightbody bitterly. His fingers wandered lightly over the familiar objects on the desk, shrinking from each fiery contact. He sat down. "You're right, I must get away."
"You're dreadfully hard hit, aren't you?"
"Oh, Jim!"
Lightbody's hand closed over the book and he opened it mechanically in the effort to master the memory. "This book—we were reading it last night together."
"Jack, look here," said De Gollyer, suddenly unselfish before such a great grief, "you've got to be bucked up, boy, pulled together. I'll tell you what I'll do. You're going to get right off. You're going to be looked after. I'll knock off myself. I'll take you."
Lightbody gave him his hand with a dumb, grateful look that brought a quick lump to the throat of De Gollyer, who, in terror, purposely increasing the lightness of his manner, sprang up with exaggerated gaiety.
"By Jove, fact is, I'm a bit dusty myself. Do me good. We'll run off just as we did in the old days—good days, those. We knocked about a bit, didn't we? Good days, eh, Jack?"
Lightbody, continuing to gaze at the book, said:
"Last night—only last night! Is it possible?"
"Come, now, let's polish off Paris, or Vienna?"
"No, no." Lightbody seemed to shrink at the thought. "Not that, nothing gay. I couldn't bear to see others gay—happy."
"Quite right. California?"
"No, no, I want to get away, out of the country—far away."
Suddenly an inspiration came to De Gollyer—a memory of earlier days.
"By George, Morocco! Superb! The trip we planned out—Morocco—the very thing!"
Lightbody, at the desk still feebly fingering the leaves that he indistinctly saw, muttered:
"Something far away—away from people."
"By George, that's immense," continued De Gollyer exploding with delight, and, on a higher octave, he repeated: "Immense! Morocco and a smashing dash into Africa for big game. The old trip just as we planned it seven years ago. IMMENSE!"
"I don't care—anywhere."
De Gollyer went nimbly to the bookcase and bore back an atlas.
"My boy—the best thing in the world. Set you right up—terrific air, smashing scenery, ripping sport, caravans and all that sort of thing. Fine idea, very fine. Never could forgive you breaking up that trip, you know. There." Rapidly he skimmed through the atlas, mumbling, "M-M-M—Morocco."
Lightbody, irritated at the idea of facing a decision, moved uneasily, saying, "Anywhere, anywhere."
"Back into harness again—the old camping days—immense."
"I must get away."
"There you are," said De Gollyer at length. With a deft movement he slipped the atlas in front of his friend, saying, "Morocco, devilish smart air, smashing colors, blues and reds."
"Yes, yes."
"You remember how we planned it," continued De Gollyer, artfully blundering; "boat to Tangier, from Tangier bang across to Fez."
At this Lightbody, watching the tracing finger, said with some irritation, "No, no, down the coast first."
"I beg your pardon," said De Gollyer; "to Fez, my dear fellow."
"My dear boy, I know! Down the coast to Rabat."
"Ah, now, you're sure? I think—"
"And Iknow," said Lightbody, raising his voice and assuming possession of the atlas, which he struck energetically with the back of his hand. "I ought to know my own plan."
"Yes, yes," said De Gollyer, to egg him on. "Still you're thoroughly convinced about that, are you?"
"Of course, I am! My dear Jim—come, isn't this my pet idea—the one trip I've dreamed over, the one thing in the world I've longed to do, all my life?" His eyes took energy, while his forefinger began viciously to stab the atlas. "We go to Rabat. We go to Magazam, and we cut—so—long sweep, into the interior, take a turn, so, and back to Fez, so!"
This speech, delivered with enthusiasm, made De Gollyer reflect. He looked at the somewhat revived Lightbody with thoughtful curiosity.
"Well, well—you may be right. You always are impressive, you know."
"Right? Of course I'm right," continued Lightbody, unaware of his friend's critical contemplation. "Haven't I worked out every foot of it?"
"A bit of a flyer in the game country, then? Topple over a rhino or so. Stunning, smart sport, the rhino!"
"By George, think of it—a chance at one of the brutes!"
When De Gollyer had seen the eagerness in his friend's eyes, the imps returned, ironically tumbling back. He slapped him on the shoulder as Mephistopheles might gleefully claim his own, crying, "Immense!"
"You know, Jim," said Lightbody, straightening up, nervously alert, speaking in quick, eager accents, "it's what I've dreamed of—a chance at one of the big beggars. By George, I have, all my life!"
"We'll polish it off in ripping style, regiments of porters, red and white tents, camels, caravans and all that sort of thing."
"By George, just think of it."
"In style, my boy—we'll own the whole continent, buy it up!"
"The devil!"
"What's the matter?"
Lightbody's mood had suddenly dropped. He half pushed back his chair and frowned. "It's going to be frightfully extravagant."
"What of it?"
"My dear fellow, you don't know what my expenses are—this apartment, an automobile—Oh, as for you, it's all very well for you! You have ten thousand a year and no one to care for but yourself."
Suddenly he felt almost a hatred for his friend, and then a rebellion at the renunciation he would have to make.
"No—it can't be done. We'll have to give it up. Impossible, utterly impossible, I can't afford it."
De Gollyer, still a little uncertain of his ground, for several moments waited, carefully considering the dubious expression on his friend's face. Then he questioned abruptly:
"What is your income—now?"
"What do you mean bynow?"
"Fifteen thousand a year?"
"It has always been that," replied Lightbody in bad humor.
De Gollyer, approaching at last the great question, assumed an air of concentrated firmness, tempered with well-mannered delicacy.
"My dear boy, I beg your pardon. As a matter of fact it has always been fifteen thousand—quite right, quite so; but—now, my dear boy, you are too much of a man of the world to be offended, aren't you?"
"No," said Lightbody, staring in front of him. "No, I'm not offended."
"Of course it's delicate, ticklishly delicate ground, but then we must look things in the face. Now if you'd rather I—"
"No, go on."
"Of course, dear boy, you've had a smashing knock and all that sort of thing, but—" suddenly reaching out he took up the letter, and, letting it hang from his fingers, thoughtfully considered it—"I say it might be looked at in this way. Yesterday it was fifteen thousand a year to dress up a dashing wife, modern New York style, the social pace, clothes that must be smarter than Thingabob's wife, competitive dinners that you stir up with your fork and your servants eat, and all that sort of thing, you know. To-day it's fifteen thousand a year and a bachelor again."
Releasing the letter, he disdainfully allowed it to settle down on the desk, and finished:
"Come now, as a matter of fact there is a little something consoling, isn't there?"
From the moment he had perceived De Gollyer's idea. Lightbody had become very quiet, gazing steadily ahead, seeing neither the door nor the retaining walls.
"I never thought of that," he said, almost in a whisper.
"Quite so, quite so. Of course one doesn't think of such things, right at first. And you've had a knock-down—a regular smasher, old chap." He stopped, cleared his voice and said sympathetically: "You adored her?"
"I suppose I could give up the apartment and sell the auto," said Lightbody slowly, speaking to himself.
De Gollyer smiled—a bachelor smile.
"Riches, my boy," he said, tapping him on the shoulder with the same quick, awakening Mephistophelean touch.
The contact raised Lightbody from revery. He drew back, shocked at the ways through which his thoughts had wandered.
"No, no, Jim," he said. "No, you mustn't, nothing like that—not at such a time."
"You're right," said De Gollyer, instantly masked in gravity. "You're quite right. Still, we are looking things in the face—planning for the future. Of course it's a delicate question, terrifically delicate. I'm almost afraid to put it to you. Come, now, how shall I express it—delicately? It's this way. Fifteen thousand a year divided by one is fifteen thousand, isn't it; but fifteen thousand a year divided by two, may mean—" He straightened up, heels clicking, throwing out his elbows slightly and lifting his chin from the high, white stockade on which it reposed. "Come, now, we're men of the world, aren't we? Now, as a matter of fact how much of that fifteen thousand a year came back to you?"
"My dear Jim," said Lightbody, feeling that generosity should be his part, "a woman, a modern woman, a New York woman, you just said it—takes—takes—"
"Twelve thousand—thirteen thousand?"
"Oh, come! Nonsense," said Lightbody, growing quite angry. "Besides, I don't—"
"Yes, yes, I know," said De Gollyer, interrupting him, now with fresh confidence. "All the same your whiskies have gone off, dear boy—they've gone off, and your cigars are bad, very bad. Little things, but they show."
A pencil lay before him. Lightbody, without knowing what he did, took it up and mechanically on an unwritten sheet jotted down $15,000, drawing the dollar sign with a careful, almost caressing stroke. The sheet was the back of his wife's letter, but he did not notice it.
De Gollyer, looking over his shoulder, exclaimed:
"Quite right. Fifteen thousand, divided by one."
"It will make a difference," said Lightbody slowly. Over his face passed an expression such as comes but once in a lifetime; a look defying analysis; a look that sweeps back over the past and challenges the future and always retains the secret of its judgment.
De Gollyer, drawing back slowly, allowed him a moment before saying:
"And no alimony!"
"What?"
"Free and no alimony, my boy!"
"No alimony?" said Lightbody, surprised at this new reasoning.
"A woman who runs away gets no alimony," said De Gollyer loudly. "Not here, not in the effete East!"
"I hadn't thought of that, either," said Lightbody, who, despite himself, could not repress a smile.
De Gollyer, irritated perhaps that he should have been duped into sympathy, ran on with a little vindictiveness.
"Of course that means nothing to you, dear boy. You were happy,ideallyhappy! You adored her, didn't you?"
He paused and then, receiving no reply, continued:
"But you see, if you hadn't been so devilish lucky, so seraphically happy all these years, you might find a certain humor in the situation, mightn't you? Still, look it in the face, what have you lost, what have you left? There is something in that. Fifteen thousand a year, liberty and no alimony."
The moment had come which could no longer be evaded. Lightbody rose, turned, met the lurking malice in De Gollyer's eyes with the blank indecision screen of his own, and, turning on his heel, went to a little closet in the wall, and bore back a decanter and glasses.
"This is not what we serve on the table," he said irrelevantly. "It's whisky."
De Gollyer poured out his drink and looked at Lightbodyen connoisseur.
"You've gone off—old—six years. You were the smartest of the old crowd, too. You certainly have gone off."
Lightbody listened, with his eyes in his glass.
"Jack, you're middle-aged—you've gone off—badly. It's hit you hard."
There was a moment's silence and then Lightbody spoke quietly:
"Jim!"
"What is it, old boy?"
"Do you want to know the truth?"
"Come—out with it!"
Lightbody struggled a moment, all the hesitation showing in his lips. Then he said, slowly shaking his head, never lifting his eyes, speaking as though to another:
"Jim, I've had a hell of a time!"
"Impossible!"
"Yes."
He lifted his glass until he felt its touch against his lips and gradually set it down. "Why, Jim, in six years I've loved her so that I've never done anything I wanted to do, gone anywhere I wanted to go, drank anything I've wanted to drink, saw anything I wanted to see, wore anything I wanted to wear, smoked anything I wanted to smoke, read anything I wanted to read, or dined any one I wanted to dine! Jim, it certainly has been adomestictime!"
"Good God! I can't believe it!" ejaculated De Gollyer, too astounded to indulge his sense of humor.
All at once a little fury seemed to seize Lightbody. His voice rose and his gestures became indignant.
"Married! I've been married to a policeman. Why, Jim, do you know what I've spent on myself, really spent? Not two thousand, not one thousand, not five hundred dollars a year. I've been poorer than my own clerk. I'd hate to tell you what I paid for cigars and whisky. Everything went to her, everything! And Jim—" he turned suddenly with a significant glance—"such a temper!"
"A temper? No, impossible, not that!"
"Not violent—oh, no—but firm—smiling, you know, but irresistible."
He drew a long breath charged with bitter memories and said between his teeth, rebelling: "I always agreed."
"Can it be? Is it possible?" commented De Gollyer, carefully mastering his expression.
Lightbody, on the new subject of his wrongs, now began to explode with wrath.
"And there's one thing more—one thing that hurts! You know what she eloped in? She eloped in a hat, a big red hat, three white feathers—one hundred and seventy-five dollars. I gave up a winter suit to get it."
He strode over to the grotesquely large hat-box on the slender table, and struck it with his fist.
"Came this morning. Jim, she waited for that hat! Now, that isn't right! That isn't delicate!"
"No, by Jove, it certainly isn't delicate!"
"Domesticity! Ha!" At the moment, with only the long vision of petty tyranny before him, he could have caught her up in his hands and strangled her. "Domesticity! I've had all I want of domesticity!"
Suddenly the eternal fear awakening in him, he turned and commanded authoritatively:
"Never tell!"
"Never!"
De Gollyer, at forty-two, showed a responsive face, invincibly, gravely sympathetic, patiently awaiting his climax, knowing that nothing is so cumulatively dangerous as confession.
Lightbody took up his glass and again approached it to his lips, frowning at the thought of what he had revealed. All at once a fresh impulse caught him, he put down his glass untasted, blurting out:
"Do you want to know one thing more? Do you want to know the truth, the real truth?"
"Gracious heavens, there is something more?"
"I never married her—never in God's world!"
He ceased and suddenly, not to be denied, the past ranged itself before him in its stark verity.
"She married me!"
"Is it possible?"
"She did!"
What had been an impulse suddenly became a certainty.
"As I look back now, I can see it all—quite clear. Do you know how it happened? I called three times—not one time more—three times! I liked her—nothing more. She was an attractive-looking girl—a certain fascination—she always has that—that's the worst of it—but gentle, very gentle."
"Extraordinary!"
"On the third time I called—the third time, mind you," proceeded Lightbody, attacking the table, "as I stood up to say good-by, all at once—the lights went out."
"The lights?"
"When they went on again—I was engaged."
"Great heavens!"
"The old fainting trick."
"Is it possible?"
"I see it all now. A man sees things as they are at such a moment."
He gave a short, disagreeable laugh. "Jim, she had those lights all fixed!"
"Frightful!"
Lightbody, who had stripped his soul in confession, no longer was conscious of shame. He struck the table, punctuating his wrath, and cried:
"And that's the truth! The solemn literal truth! That's my story!"
To confess, it had been necessary to be swept away in a burst of anger. The necessity having ceased, he crossed his arms, quite calm, laughing a low, scornful laugh.
"My dear boy," said De Gollyer, to relieve the tension, "as a matter of fact, that's the way you're all caught."
"I believe it," said Lightbody curtly. He had now an instinctive desire to insult the whole female sex.
"I know—a bachelor knows. The things I have seen and the things I have heard. My dear fellow, as a matter of fact, marriage is all very well for bankers and brokers, unconvicted millionaires, week domestic animals in search of a capable housekeeper, you know, and all that sort of thing, but for men of the world—like ourselves, it's a mistake. Don't do it again, my boy—don't do it."
Lightbody laughed a barking laugh that quite satisfied De Gollyer.
"Husbands—modern social husbands—are excrescences—they don't count. They're mere financial tabulators—nothing more than social sounding-boards."
"Right!" said Lightbody savagely.
"Ah, you like that, do you?" said De Gollyer, pleased. "I do say a good thing occasionally. Social sounding-boards! Why, Jack, in one-half of the marriages in this country—no, by George, in two-thirds—if the inconsequential, tabulating husband should come home to find a letter like this—he'd be dancing acan-can!"
Lightbody felt a flood of soul-easing laughter well up within him. He bit his lip and answered:
"No!"
"Yes."
"Pshaw!"
"Acan-can!"
Lightbody, fearing to betray himself, did not dare to look at the triumphant bachelor. He covered his eyes with his hands and sought to fight down the joyful hysteria that began to shake his whole body. All at once he caught sight of De Gollyer's impish eyes, and, unable longer to contain himself, burst out laughing. The more he laughed at De Gollyer, who laughed back at him, the more uncontrollable he became. Tears came to his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, washing away all illusions and self-deception, leaving only the joy of deliverance, acknowledged at last.
All at once holding his sides, he found a little breath and cried combustibly:
"Acan-can!"
Suddenly, with one impulse, they locked arms and pirouetted about the room, flinging out destructive legs, hugging each other with bear-like hugs as they had done in college days of triumph. Exhausted at last, they reeled apart, and fell breathless into opposite chairs. There was a short moment of weak, physical silence, and then Lightbody, shaking his head, said solemnly:
"Jim—Jim, that's the first real genuine laugh I've had in six vast years!"
"My boy, it won't be the last."
"You bet it won't!" Lightbody sprang up, as out of the ashen cloak of age the young Faust springs forth. "To-morrow—do you hear, to-morrow we're off for Morocco!"
"By way of Paris?" questioned De Gollyer, who likewise gained a dozen years of youthfulness.
"Certainly by way of Paris."
"With a dash of Vienna?"
"Run it off the map!"
"Good old Jack! You're coming back, my boy, you're coming strong!"
"Am I? Just watch!" Dancing over to the desk, he seized a dozen heavy books:
"'Evolution and Psychology,' 'Burning Questions!' 'Woman's Position in Tasmania!' Aha!"
One by one, he flung them viciously over his head, reckoning not the crash with which they fell. Then with the samepas de ballethe descended on the hat-box and sent it from his boot crashing over the piano. Before De Gollyer could exclaim, he was at the closet, working havoc with the boxes of cigars.
"Here, I say," said De Gollyer laughing, "look out, those are cigars!"
"No, they're not," said Lightbody, pausing for a moment. Then, seizing two boxes, he whirled about the room holding them at arms' length, scattering them like the sparks of a pin-wheel, until with a final motion he flung the emptied boxes against the ceiling, and, coming to an abrupt stop, shot out a mandatory forefinger, and cried:
"Jim, you dine with me!"
"The fact is—"
"No buts, no excuses! Break all engagements! To-night we celebrate!"
"Immense!"
"Round up the boys—all the boys—the old crowd. I'm middle-aged, am I?"
"By George," said De Gollyer, in free admiration, "you're getting into form, my boy, excellent form. Fine, fine, very fine!"
"In half an hour at the Club."
"Done."
"Jim?"
"Jack!"
They precipitated themselves into each other's arms. Lightbody, as delirious as a young girl at the thought of her first ball, cried:
"Paris, Vienna, Morocco—two years around the world!"
"On my honor!"
Rapidly Lightbody, impatient for the celebration, put De Gollyer into his coat and armed him with his cane.
"In half an hour, Jim. Get Budd, get Reggie Longworth, and, I say, get that little reprobate of a Smithy, will you?"
"Yes, by George."
At the door, De Gollyer, who, when he couldn't leave on an epigram, liked to recall the best thing he had said, turned:
"Never again, eh, old boy?"
"Never," cried Lightbody, with the voice of a cannon.
"No social sounding-board for us, eh?"
"Never again!"
"You do like that, don't you? I say a good thing now and then, don't I?"
Lightbody, all eagerness, drove him down the hall, crying:
"Round 'em up—round them all up! I'll show them if I've come back!"
When he had returned, waltzing on his toes to the middle of the room, he stopped and flung out his arms in a free gesture, inhaling a delicious breath. Then, whistling busily, he went to a drawer in the book-shelves and came lightly back, his arms crowded with time-tables, schedules of steamers, maps of various countries. All at once, remembering, he seized the telephone and, receiving no response, rang impatiently.
"Central—hello—hello! Central, why don't you answer? Central, give me—give me—hold up, wait a second!" He had forgotten the number of his own club. In communication at last, he heard the well-modulated accents of Rudolph—Rudolph who recognized his voice after six years. It gave him a little thrill, this reminder of the life he was entering once more. He ordered one of the dinners he used to order, and hung up the receiver, with a smile and a little tightening about his heart at the entry he, the prodigal, would make that night at the Club.
Then, seizing a map of Morocco in one hand and a schedule of sailings in the other, he sat down to plan, chanting over and over, "Paris, Vienna, Morocco, India, Paris, Vienna—"
At this moment, unnoticed by him, the doors moved noiselessly and Mrs. Lightbody entered; a woman full of appealing movements in her lithe body, and of quick, decisive perceptions in the straight, gray glance of her eyes. She held with one hand a cloak fastened loosely about her throat. On her head was the hat with the three white feathers.
A minute passed while she stood, rapidly seizing every indication that might later assist her. Then she moved slightly and said in a voice of quiet sadness:
"Jackie."
"Great God!"
Lightbody, overturning chair and table, sprang up—recoiling as one recoils before an avenging specter. In his convulsive fingers were the time-tables, clinging like damp lily pads.
"Jackie, I couldn't do it. I couldn't abandon you. I've come back." Gently, seeming to move rather than to walk, advancing with none of the uncertainty that was in her voice, she cried, with a little break: "Forgive me!"
"No, no, never!"
He retreated behind a chair, fury in his voice, weak at the thought of the floating, entangling scarf, and the perfume he knew so well. Then, recovering himself, he cried brutally:
"Never! You have given me my freedom. I'll keep it! Thanks!"
With a gradual motion, she loosened her filmy cloak and let it slip from the suddenly revealed shoulders and slender body.
"No, no, I forbid you!" he cried. Anger—animal, instinctive anger—began to possess him. He became brutal as he felt himself growing weak.
"Either you go out or I do!"
"You will listen."
"What? To lies?"
"When you have heard me, you will understand, Jack."
"There is nothing to be said. I have not the slightest intention of taking back—"
"Jack!"
Her voice rang out with sudden impressiveness: "I swear to you I have not met him, I swear to you I came back of my own free will, because I could not meet him, because I found that it was you—you only—whom I wanted!"
"That is a lie!"
She recoiled before the wound in his glance. She put her long white hand over her heart, throwing all of herself into the glance that sought to conquer him.
"I swear it," she said simply.
"Another lie!"
"Jack!"
It was a physical rage that held him now, a rage divided against itself—that longed to strike down, to crush, to stifle the thing it coveted. He had almost a fear of himself. He cried:
"If you don't go, I'll—I'll—"
Suddenly he found something more brutal than a blow, something that must drive her away, while yet he had the strength of his passion. He crossed his arms, looking at her with a cold look.
"I'll tell you why you came back. You went to him for just one reason. You thought he had more money than I had. You came back when you found he hadn't."
He saw her body quiver and it did him good.
"That ends it," she said, hardly able to speak. She dropped her head hastily, but not before he had seen the tears.
"Absolutely."
In a moment she would be gone. He felt all at once uneasy, ashamed—she seemed so fragile.
"My cloak—give me my cloak," she said, and her voice showed that she accepted his verdict.
He brought the cloak to where she stood wearily, and put it on her shoulders, stepping back instantly.
"Good-by."
It was said more to the room than to him.
"Good-by," he said dully.
She took a step and then raised her eyes to his.
"That was more than you had a right to say, even to me," she said without reproach in her voice.
He avoided her look.
"You will be sorry. I know you," she said with pity for him. She went toward the door.
"I am sorry," he said impulsively. "I shouldn't have said it."
"Thank you," she said, stopping and returning a little toward him.
He drew back as though already he felt her arms about him.
"Don't," she said, smiling a tired smile. "I'm not going to try that."
Her instinct had given her possession of the scene. He felt it and was irritated.
"Only let us part quietly—with dignity," she said, "for we have been happy together for six years." Then she said rapidly:
"I want you to know that I shall do nothing to dishonor your name. I am not going to him. That is ended."
An immense curiosity came to him to learn the reason of this strange avowal. But he realized it would never do for him to ask it.
"Good-by, Jackie," she said, having waited a moment. "I shall not see you again."
He watched her leaving with the same moving grace with which she had come. All at once he found a way of evasion.
"Why don't you go to him?" he said harshly.
She stopped but did not turn.
"No," she said, shaking her head. And again she dared to continue toward the door.
"I shall not stand in your way," he said curtly, fearing only that she would leave. "I will give you a divorce. I don't deny a woman's liberty."
She turned, saying:
"Do you allow a woman liberty to know her own mind?"
"What do you mean?"
She came back until he almost could have touched her, standing looking into his eyes with a wistful, searching glance, clasping and unclasping her tense fingers.
"Jack," she said, "you never really cared."
"So it is all my fault!" he cried, snapping his arms together, sure now that she would stay.
"Yes, it is."
"What!" he cried in a rage—already it was a different rage—"didn't I give you anything you wanted, everything I had, all my time, all—"
"All but yourself," she said quietly; "you were always cold."
"I!"
"You were! You were!" she said sharply, annoyed at the contradiction. But quickly remembering herself, she continued with only a regretful sadness in her voice:
"Always cold, always matter-of-fact. Bob of the head in the morning, jerk of the head at night. When I was happy over a new dress or a new hat you never noticed it—until the bill came in. You were always matter-of-fact, absolutely confident I was yours, body and soul."
"By George, that's too much!" he cried furiously. "That's a fine one. I'm to blame—of course I'm to blame!"
She drew a step away from him, and said:
"Listen! No, listen quietly, for when I've told you I shall go."
Despite himself, his anger vanished at her quiet command.
"If I listen," he thought, "it's all over."
He still believed he was resisting, only he wanted to hear as he had never wanted anything else—to learn why she was not going to the other man.
"Yes, what has happened is only natural," she said, drawing her eyebrows a little together and seeming to reason more with herself. "It had to happen before I could really be sure of my love for you. You men know and choose from the knowledge of many women. A woman, such as I, coming to you as a girl, must often and often ask herself if she would still make the same choice. Then another man comes into her life and she makes of him a test to know once and for all the answer to her question. Jack, that was it. That was the instinct that drove me to try if Icouldleave you—the instinct I did not understand then, but that I do now, when it's too late."
"Yes, she is clever," he thought to himself, listening to her, desiring her the more as he admired what he did not credit. He felt that he wanted to be convinced and with a last angry resistance, said:
"Very clever, indeed!"
She looked at him with her clear, gray look, a smile in her eyes, sadness on her lips.
"You know it is true."
He did not reply. Finally he said bruskly:
"And when did—did the change come to you?"
"In the carriage, when every turn of the wheel, every passing street, was rushing me away from you. I thought of you—alone—lost—and suddenly I knew. I beat with my fists on the window and called to the coachman like a madman. I don't know what I said. I came back."
She stopped, pressing back the tears that had started on her eyelids at the memory. She controlled herself, gave a quick little nod, without offering her hand, went toward the door.
"What! I've got to call her back!" He said it to himself, adding furiously: "Never!"
He let her go to the door itself, vowing he would not make the advance.
When the door was half open, something in him cried: "Wait!"
She closed the door softly, but she did not immediately turn round. The palms of her hands were wet with the cold, frightened sweat of that awful moment. When she returned, she came to him with a wondering, timid, girlish look in her eyes.
"Oh, Jack, if you only could!" she said, and then only did she put out her hands and let her fingers press over his heart.
The next moment she was swept up in his arms, shrinking and very still.
All at once he put her from him and said roughly:
"What was his name?"
"No, no!"
"Give me his name," he said miserably. "I must know it."
"No—neither now nor at any other time," she said firmly, and her look as it met his had again all the old domination. "That is my condition."
"Ah, how weak I have been," he said to himself, with a last bitter, instinctive revolt. "How weak I am."
She saw and understood.
"We must be generous," she said, changing her voice quickly to gentleness. "He has been pained enough already. He alone will suffer. And if you knew his name it would only make you unhappy."
He still rebelled, but suddenly to him came a thought which at first he was ashamed to express.
"He doesn't know?"
She lied.
"No."
"He's still waiting—there?"
"Yes."
"Ah, he's waiting," he said to himself.
A gleam of vanity, of triumph over the discarded, humiliated one, leaped up fiercely within him and ended all the lingering, bitter memories.
"Then you care?" she said, resting her head on his shoulder that he might not see she had read such a thought.
"Care?" he cried. He had surrendered. Now it was necessary to be convinced. "Why, when I received your letter I—I was wild. I wanted to do murder."
"Jackie!"
"I was like a madman—everything was gone—nothing was left."
"Oh, Jack, how I have made you suffer!"
"Suffer? Yes, I have suffered!" Overcome by the returning pain of the memory, he dropped into a chair, trying to control his voice. "Yes, I have suffered!"
"Forgive me!" she said, slipping on her knees beside him, and burying her head in his lap.
"I was out of my head—I don't know what I did, what I said. It was as though a bomb had exploded. My life was wrecked, shattered—nothing left."
He felt the grief again, even more acutely. He suffered for what he had suffered.
"Jack, I never really could haveabandonedyou," she cried bitterly. She raised her eyes toward him and suddenly took notice of the time-tables that lay clutched in his hands. "Oh, you were going away!"
He nodded, incapable of speech.
"You were running away?"
"I was running away—to forget—to bury myself!"
"Oh, Jack!"
"There was nothing here. It was all a blank! I was running away—to bury myself!"
At the memory of that miserable hopeless moment, in which he had resolved on flight, the tears, no longer to be denied, came dripping down his cheeks.