EDITH LAY AWAKE A LONG TIME AFTER SHE HAD GONE TO BED, WONDERING IF, AFTER ALL, HER MOTHER HAD NOT BEEN RIGHT IN URGING HER TO MARRY FOR MONEYEDITH LAY AWAKE A LONG TIME AFTER SHE HAD GONE TO BED, WONDERING IF, AFTER ALL, HER MOTHER HAD NOT BEEN RIGHT IN URGING HER TO MARRY FOR MONEY
West spent the next few days in getting comfortably located in New York, laying in a supply of new clothes, and purchasing an automobile. His life in Colorado had been unusually simple, since, with his time almost entirely given over to business affairs, he had had neither inclination nor opportunity for amusement. Now, however, he felt himself on a holiday. His bank account was bulging with unspent income, and he frankly admitted to himself that he had come to New York to spend it. Edith, who seemed almost continually in his mind, provided the necessary outlet, and he pictured the two of them making many delightful excursions into the country about New York in the big touring car which he had selected.
During his visits to tailors, bootmakers, haberdashers, and the like, he found time to send her a huge box of violets on two different occasions, and, with a vague idea of salving his conscience, huntedup Donald one day and took him to luncheon.
It was nearly a week after his first visit to the Rogers’ apartment that he suddenly made up his mind to call, and, as luck would have it, Donald was not at home on that particular evening, having gone to a meeting of one of the engineering societies of which he was a member. The absence of a telephone brought West before the Rogers’ door without any previous knowledge of his friend’s absence. Edith, who was sitting alone, reading a magazine, and, to tell the truth, thinking of West himself and wondering what had become of him, received her caller with unfeigned gladness and insisted upon his remaining until Donald’s return, which, she assured him, would not be late. Between spending the evening alone at his hotel, and here with the woman he had half-begun to believe was dearer to him, in spite of the lapse of years, than anyone else in the world, there was no choice. West came in and sat down, delighted at the opportunity which fate had thus generously accorded him.
They talked along conventional lines for a time, West entertaining her with an account of his experiences during the past week, and dilating upon themerits of his new automobile, which he insisted she must try at once. Edith was delighted at the prospect—he told her that he was taking lessons in driving, and would soon be able to manage it with the best of them.
After a time, the topic having been exhausted, a silence came upon them, one of those portentous intervals that form a prelude to the expression of the unspoken thought, the unbidden wish.
Edith was more than ever conscious of some powerful attraction in this man; he seemed to represent vast possibilities—possibilities for future happiness—of what nature she did not dare even to ask herself. She felt, whenever she was with him, a strange confidence in the outcome of things; although what things she did not know. “I should be so glad to go,” she had said, in reply to his suggestion regarding the proposed automobile trips. “I am alone so much!” There had been a touch of sadness in her voice that did not escape him. He looked at her keenly. “Are you happy, Edith?” he asked with directness which startled her.
“Why—yes—of course I am. I hope you do not think that I was complaining. I only meant thatI am a good deal alone during the day, and—and—” She hesitated. He knew quite well that she was not happy—or, at least, that she found her life far more empty than she had ever dreamed it would be when she married.
“—And you will take pity on a lonely bachelor,” he completed her sentence for her. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t anyone else to go about with, you know.”
“And so you fall back on me. You’re not very complimentary, Billy. I’ll have to find someone to help you spend your money.” She laughed, watching him narrowly as she spoke. After her eight years of married life, the subtle flattery of this man’s attentions seemed doubly sweet, and, woman-like, she wanted to hold on to them, and enjoy them, as long as she could.
“I don’t think I’d care about any young girl,” he remarked gravely. “You know I always liked you better than anyone else, Edith, and I’m glad to say I still do.”
“In spite of my gray hairs,” she laughed. She had none, as a matter of fact, being especially youthful in appearance for a woman of nearly thirty, butshe longed for the compliment she felt sure her remark would elicit.
“In spite of everything,” he declared, “I have never forgiven Donald for cutting in and marrying you while I was away trying to make a fortune to lay at your feet.” He spoke banteringly, with a laugh, but something in his voice told her that he was far more in earnest than his manner indicated. “Now that I have made it, I am determined that you shall have some pleasure out of it.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Billy,” she said, with a touch of gravity in her manner. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it.”
“Nonsense. Think what old friends we are. If you will take pity on my loneliness, and all that, I shall feel that I am the one who should be grateful.” He rose from his chair and came over to where she sat, near the desk. “Do you know, Edith,” he said suddenly, “that in all the time I have been away I don’t suppose a single day went by that I did not think of you?”
“Don’t tell me that, Billy. If you thought of me once in six months you did well.” Her nervous laugh, as she attempted to meet his gaze, soundedunconvincing. She almost began to believe that he had thought of her every day.
“Do you remember that picture you once gave me—the one in the big Leghorn hat?”
“Why, yes,” she answered slowly.
“I’ve had it on my dresser always, wherever I’ve been—it was the last thing I looked at when I went to bed at night. So, you see, I did think of you every day—honestly.”
She felt her color coming—something in his manner, as he stood there gazing down at her, alarmed her. She felt that he still loved her, and that it would be only a question of time until he should tell her so. She was by no means prepared for any such rupture in their friendly relations, for rupture she knew it would certainly be, should he speak. She rose hastily and went toward the piano.
“Shall I play for you?” she asked. In the past it had been his invariable habit to ask her to do so.
“Will you?” His voice showed his appreciation of the fact that she had remembered.
“What would you like?”
“Oh, anything—it’s been so long since I’ve heard any good music!” He joined her at the piano.“How about that beautiful thing you used to sing sometimes—Massenet’s ‘Elegy,’ wasn’t it? Don’t you remember I always said I’d rather hear you sing that than listen to a grand opera?”
“Oh—I couldn’t. I haven’t sung for years.”
“What a pity! I shouldn’t think Donald would let you give it up.”
“Donald doesn’t care much for music.” She felt as she spoke that she had in some way criticized her husband and hastened to make amends. “He’s too busy—that’s the reason. Donald is working very hard, and has to do a lot of work at home—nights. If I sang, it would bother him.” She began to play the piece with considerable feeling and skill, and West, who was intensely fond of music, leaned over the piano and watched her happily. To have this woman all to himself seemed to him the only thing that fortune had denied him. The love which had lain so quiet all these years surged up within him with unsuspected force. His arms longed to draw her to him, to clasp her to his heart. He looked at her expressive, delicate face, her round, smooth neck, her dark, heavy hair, and wondered how Donald could bring himself to think that she could possiblybe happy in the position of a mere household drudge. His reflections did Donald scant justice; the latter, poor fellow, was trying with all his strength to lift both Edith and himself out of their present environment, but Donald was a silent man, who endured all things patiently, and he expected his wife to do the same.
West’s intentions, if, indeed, he admitted to himself that he had any at this time, were directed toward two ends—his own amusement and Edith’s. Perhaps amusement is not the exact word—it was more than that to him, for he could have amused himself with many women. He was really very fond of Edith, more so, perhaps, than he himself fully realized, and in giving her pleasure he gave himself pleasure as well. The idea of making love to her, of coming in any way between herself and Donald, had never entered his mind. After all, we so rarely erect barriers against certain experiences in life until after they have occurred, by which time barriers are no longer of any avail.
When Edith stopped playing, West begged her to go on, and presently, running into the accompaniment of “Oh, Promise Me,” she began to sing in aclear, sweet voice which brought back to him the evenings, long before, when she had sung this song to him. Unconsciously the years passed from them—he joined in the chorus of the song with his uncultivated, yet not unmusical, baritone, and once more they seemed back in the boarding-house parlor, she the young girl with life all before her, and he the happy-go-lucky Billy West, making and spending his small salary with joyous indifference as to the future.
He stayed until nearly half-past ten, hoping that Donald would return, but the latter evidently had been kept longer than he expected. Edith did not press him to remain—somehow, in spite of her old friendship for West, it seemed a bit queer, this sensation of being here alone in her apartment with a man other than her husband. She did not propose to conceal the fact of his having been there from Donald, but it seemed to her easier to tell Donald that Billy had called during his absence than to have him come in and find them together even as innocently engaged as they were. She knew that this feeling on her part was absurd, that Donald would not have the least idea of jealousy or suspicion—hewas too clean minded a man for that. Her scruples arose from a deeper cause. She had begun to think about West in a way that caused her to feel guilty of disloyalty to her husband when no disloyalty had occurred—to desire to avoid the appearance of evil where no evil existed. All that she had done had been to liken her life with Donald, to what it might have been had she married West. It is a curious fact that the best of women are willing at times to compare the husband at his worst, with the lover at his casual best, and judge both accordingly.
West rode back to his hotel in a maze of doubts. He was genuinely fond of Donald—he liked him better than any man he knew, and this, probably, because he was in all things so nearly the other’s opposite. He wondered whether Donald would object in any way to the attentions he proposed showing Edith—whether he would become jealous, and feel that his wife’s place was at home, rather than dashing about in a five-thousand-dollar automobile with another man. Perhaps it would be but natural that he should, although not by nature a jealous man, and West realized the confidence that he placedin both his wife and himself. What West did not realize was the effect which his money and the pleasures and luxuries it could command would have upon this woman whose married life had been one long lesson in economy. He had no conception of the contrast in Edith’s life between a quiet existence in a Harlem flat and the land of dreams to which his money was the open sesame, the golden key, unlocking the barriers between poverty on the one hand and all that the heart could desire on the other. He did not, could not, realize the upheaval which would necessarily take place in her life, the dissatisfaction which must inevitably ensue, if she were once drawn into a whirl of pleasures and excitements to which her existence for so many years had been totally foreign. If she and Donald lunched or dined together at an expensive restaurant it was an event, commemorating some anniversary—such as their wedding or a birthday. West, on the contrary, regarded dropping into any of the hotels or cafés for luncheon or dinner as a most ordinary performance—he was forced to do it himself, and his only desire was for company. As for going to the theater, he knew that the best seats were always obtainableat the hotels, or on the sidewalk—at a small advance in price, it is true. But what difference did that make to a man who had a hundred dollars a day to spend and no reason whatever for not spending it?
Even before West’s coming, the subtle poison of dissatisfaction had begun to eat its way into Edith’s heart. Money had always appeared to her a vital necessity in life—her mother had taken care of that—but in the flush of youthful enthusiasm she had believed that, with Donald at her side, she could endure comparative poverty with a light heart, until he had made his fortune, as so many another man had done before him. She had not thought, however, that the time would be so long. West came into her life at a moment when she was fertile soil for the seeds of discontent which he so unconsciously was planting in her nature.
She greeted her husband with indifferent coldness upon his return, about half-past eleven, and told him of West’s call. Donald was unfeignedly sorry that he had missed his friend, but showed no least trace of annoyance on learning that West and Edith had spent the evening together. “I hope he willcome often,” he said. “We have both been a bit lonely of late. It will do you good, dear, to have new interests in life. I am only sorry that I cannot do more for you myself.” He drew her to him, and kissed her tenderly, but, somehow, under his caress she shivered and grew cold. “Billy is a splendid fellow, and I don’t doubt you will be doing him a real kindness to help him amuse himself a bit until he has got settled in town. It makes a great difference to a man, to be away from New York for five years.”
West had suggested to Edith that they take a trial trip in the new automobile the following Friday, but of this Edith said nothing at the time. It was not that she wished to conceal the fact, but it seemed to her pointed, and as though drawing especial attention to an unimportant matter, to speak of it at this time. So she said nothing. After all, she had nothing to conceal or be ashamed of. It is true that, in her more introspective moments, she saw a dim shadow of danger ahead; but she put it resolutely aside, and contented herself with a sophistry which has led many another along devious paths. “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
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 Edithwould 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 mustperforce 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 askherself 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 acontretemps, 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 totake 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 goingaway 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 forgetfulnessof 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 groundand 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 evenlook 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, togive 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. Heloved 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 themore 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 himselfthan 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.
Edith came back from her walk very much out of sorts. It seemed to her as though Billy understood her so much better than Donald ever had, or, as far as she could see, ever would understand her, and yet their love, for such she admitted it to herself to be, was leading to nothing. The gloomy entrance of the Roxborough seemed to grate upon her nerves, and her feeling of dissatisfaction persisted throughout the evening. Donald had some work to do after dinner, and sat at his desk in silence for a long time, writing steadily. She, on her part, got out her sewing, and prepared to spend the evening darning Bobbie’s stockings. She hated it—she had always disliked to sew, but in a way it seemed a sort of penance, a duty, whereby she paid for the pleasures of the day.
Donald was more than usually quiet over his letters. Presently he sealed up the last one and, rising, began to walk uneasily up and down the room. She waited for him to speak, guiltily wondering if hesuspected anything. Presently he turned to her.
“Edith,” he said, “have you heard from Billy West?”
For a moment she hesitated. To what was this question leading? What had prompted it? Then she dropped her sewing into her lap and faced him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “He was here this afternoon.”
“Then he is back?” He glanced at her suddenly, but without suspicion. “Queer he didn’t let me know.”
“Oh, he just ran in for a moment to say he’d returned. He intended to look you up in the morning. He was very busy—he told me—some man from Boston to entertain—one of the directors of his company, I believe.”
Donald seemed for a moment engrossed in his thoughts. She observed a worried look cross his face, but could not determine its cause.
“I’m glad he’s back,” he said. “I’ve got a matter I want to talk over with him.”
“What is it?” His seriousness for a moment frightened her.
“It’s something I’ve been considering for a longtime. I hardly like to speak of it to him, and yet I don’t know anyone else to whom I can turn. It’s about that glass plant of ours, in West Virginia. We’re awfully short of capital, and I have an idea that there is trouble ahead. The money market is getting tighter and tighter. The outlook for business is bad. We are likely to need a little money, before long, to tide us over. I’m thinking of suggesting to Billy that if he wants to invest a few thousands on first-class security—bonds, he might very easily do much worse than put it into our concern.”
She took up her sewing again with a sigh of relief. So it was nothing but a matter of business, after all, with which she was not greatly concerned. Yet, before she replied, a curious pang of conscience smote her. Billy would do this, she knew; do it for her sake, if not, indeed, for Donald’s, and for a brief space she felt ashamed to think that Donald would owe the assistance he needed to the fact that Billy West loved her. The thought was fleeting—elusive—and in a moment was swallowed up in the greater knowledge of their love; yet, for that moment, she had ranged herself beside her husband,resenting the suggestion for his sake, finding in it something that humiliated and hurt her.
“If it is a good investment,” she presently exclaimed, “I don’t see why he should not put some money into it.”
“Of course it’s a good investment. I shouldn’t have my own in it, if it weren’t. We need only a small amount—nothing to West. He can’t begin to spend his income.” He looked moodily about the room. “I’m not envious, but I wish I had a tenth of it. There are so many things I’d like to do for you, dear, if I only could. I’m glad that he has been able to make the past few months more pleasant for you. Billy is one of the best fellows I’ve ever met—generous and unselfish to a fault. I’m very fond of him; I haven’t a friend I think more of.”
Again the pang of conscience smote Edith. The enormity of the deception which she and West had been practicing upon Donald appalled her, and he seemed so unsuspecting, so guileless. His next words, however, drove the thought from her mind.
“I wish he’d marry. He really needs someone to look after him. I wonder that your sister Alice doesn’t get along with him better. What’s the trouble,anyway? She hardly ever sees him. Why don’t you do more to bring them together?”
Edith instinctively resented the suggestion. Billy West was hers, by right of conquest. The thought of turning him over to anyone, even to her sister, annoyed her. “Alice thinks too much of someone else,” she replied primly.
“You mean Hall?”
“Yes. They’ve been as good as engaged for months. Mother objects, of course, but I think Alice loves him.”
Donald smiled. “In that case, we’ll have to find someone else for Billy. Emerson Hall is a splendid fellow, and I’d be glad to see Alice marry him.” He came over to Edith and patted her shoulder affectionately. “I never expected to play the rôle of a matchmaker, but I’d be mighty glad to see Billy fall in love with some nice girl, who would appreciate him, and help him to make something of his life. Just sitting around New York, spending thirty or forty thousand a year, isn’t good for any man. With his money he ought to travel, see the world, take up some hobby, have children—that’s about the most human thing a man can do. With all thatmoney at his command he could do so much for them.”
“Yes,” she assented, not daring to look at him.
“What I’m afraid of is that he’ll fall in love with some woman who’ll ruin his life—somebody that won’t have an idea above clothes, and automobiles, and physical enjoyment. There are so many like that, here in New York, and, if he should happen to care for one of them, it would spoil his whole future. Billy is really quite simple in his tastes. He’d love a big country place, and horses, and dogs, and all that. This gay New York life attracts him now, because he’s been away from it for so long, but in another six months he’ll be sick of it. I’m going to have a talk with him.”
Edith said nothing. What, indeed, was there for her to say? Donald’s words cut deep. For a brief space she almost hated herself. Was West’s love for her going to spoil his whole life? She shivered at the thought. Then the picture of the man, his smiling face, his attractive and alluring personality, rose before her, and drove away the doubts which had for the moment chilled her heart. She rose and put away her sewing. “Perhaps you had better letBilly West manage his own love-affairs,” she remarked quietly.
Donald, busily engaged in refilling his pipe, failed to see the trace of resentment which accompanied her words. “Oh, I don’t mean to interfere,” he said. “I’m not a fool. But Billy and I have been friends for a long time, and I don’t think he’d mind a little advice from me.”
“You are going to ask him about this—this money, to-morrow?” Edith inquired presently.
“Perhaps. I may sound him out, at least. We sha’n’t need the money for some weeks—may not need it at all, in fact, but I want to be prepared.”
He did talk the matter over with West the next day, and the latter fell in with the plan at once. He felt a deep sense of shame at the injury he was doing his friend, and was anxious to make amends in any way that he could. It occurred to him, also, that perhaps in this way he might, indirectly at least, help Edith. Deep down in his soul he despised himself, felt himself a traitor, in thought at least, if not yet in deed, to this man who loved and trusted him. For a moment he almost made up his mind to tell Edith atonce that he could not see her again, that they must part forever. The intention was an honest one, at the time. Even he did not admit, that one smile from her—one touch of her hand—would consign it to the paving operations in hell which is the destiny of so large a proportion of all good intentions.
He refused Donald’s invitation to luncheon, explaining that he meant to take Edith out for a drive in the car. Donald even thanked him for this. “You are a brick, Billy,” he said, gripping his hand at parting. “Since you’ve been back, Edith has been like another woman. I believe she’s gained ten pounds, and all her nervousness is gone. Being out in the air so much, I suppose. But we can’t let her monopolize you. Why don’t you get married, Billy?”
The suddenness of the question threw West for the moment off his guard. “Married!” he exclaimed. “Why—I—what do you mean?” He looked at his friend narrowly.
“It’s plain enough, isn’t it? Here you are, a young and good-looking chap with plenty of money. What more natural than to marry, and have a home, and children? It’s the only way to be really happy.All this”—he waved his hand toward the vista of roofs and pinnacles which stretched endlessly northward—“doesn’t really get you anywhere. You know that, as well as I.”
“I—I guess you’re right. I’d be glad enough to get away from it all—with a woman I loved. I’d never want to see New York again. But—I—” he hesitated, faltered—“I guess I won’t marry yet awhile, Don—not yet awhile.”
“Better think it over, old man,” he heard Donald call out to him, as he turned away.
All the way up-town he hated himself, hated the circumstances which had placed him in this horrible situation, with love on the one side, duty on the other, tearing at his heart. He felt so depressed that he stopped on the way and drank two highballs. They served to drive away the fog of doubts which had begun to envelop him.
By the time he reached the Roxborough, his spirits had commenced to revive. The presence of Edith, her happy, smiling face, her unconcealed joy at seeing him, completed the change. After all, he was only taking for a spin in the country the woman he loved, the woman he had always loved. There wasnothing wrong in that. He had not been false to Donald by any overt act. God had put this love into his heart, and he had only responded as his nature made him respond. The futility of blaming the whole affair upon God did not at the moment occur to him. It was a convenient way of shifting the responsibility, and one that has been much utilized since the days of Adam.
Edith, on her part, felt that the time had come for an understanding of some sort between West and herself. It would be unfair to all concerned, she decided, to allow matters to drift as they had been drifting. If West should tell her that he loved her, it would give her a reason for not seeing him, an excuse for driving him away. Until he did speak, she could do nothing. She was by no means certain that, should he declare himself, she would forthwith proceed to put him out of her life. That question she left for the emotions of the moment to decide. But she believed that, until the moment arrived, she was quite helpless, for either good or ill. To break with West, her husband’s friend and her own, now, without apparent reason, would be to assume that he loved her, and loved her wrongfully—shewas not certain that this was true, not sufficiently certain, at least, to deny herself the joy of finding out.
For all these reasons she decided to do her best to force West to declare himself. Then she would have a crisis to face—a reality, not a mere supposition. And whatever course she then decided upon, whether love, or duty, it would at least be definite and final, and the present state of affairs was neither.
By this complex system of reasoning Edith Rogers justified herself in her intention to force from West a declaration of his love, and justified herself so completely that, when she joined him at the entrance to the apartment, she had almost convinced herself that she was about to commit a most laudable and praiseworthy act.
It is a curious, but undeniable, fact that there is something in the effect of rapid motion upon the senses that generates love. Possibly it is the poetry of movement which attunes the mind to thoughts of a less practical nature. The dance, the swift motion of an ocean liner, the whirl of a motor car, are they not responsible for a multitude of sins; else why the ballroom flirtations, the love-affairs on shipboard, the eloping heiress and the chauffeur? Certain it is that there was something in the drive to Garden City at Edith’s side that morning, which engendered in West a more passive attitude, a more willing yielding to their growing love for each other, than he had felt while walking with her in the park the day before. She, on her part, dismissed all unpleasant thoughts from her mind, and reveled in the joy of the moment. The day was brilliant, though somewhat cold. The heavy fur-lined coat she wore had been purchased a short time before by West, for her especial use; she appreciated the motivewhich had prompted him to do this—he thought so continually of her comfort, her happiness.
She turned and glanced at him, and noted with pleasure, even with a secret glow of happiness, the strong, handsome lines of his face, ruddy in the sharp wind, the strength of his arms, the poise of his shoulders. Through the coat which enveloped her she could feel the subtle warmth of his body—she nestled closer to him, and basked in a delightful realization of his strength, his mastery over the on-rushing car, his steady, unfailing nerves, which alone stood between her and death. It seemed so fine to know that her life rested in his hands, that a momentary weakness, a trifling slip on his part might hurl them both to destruction against some tree, or rock, or ever present telegraph pole. She began to wonder, after all, how she had ever lived these years without love, real, dominating love, such as she believed this to be, to illumine and glorify her life. Everything, indeed, with Donald seemed so sordid. There was the everlasting talk of money, the continual effort to make ends meet, the constant fear lest she spend a little more than his income would justify. All this had passed from her, to-day.She moved along in a cloud of wonderful, waking dreams, and life seemed once more a joyous, sentient thing. She even forgot Bobbie, and it almost seemed as though, if she could spend all the rest of her life by West’s side, anything else would be of but minor importance.
West interrupted her day-dreams. “Are you warm enough, dear?” he asked suddenly.
“Oh, yes, quite,” she gasped against the wind and wondered if he realized how in using that term of endearment he had caused a glow of happiness to flood her until her faced burned. It was something he had never done before, yet it did not seem strange to her. Their personalities seemed vibrant, attuned to each other and to some great harmony of love which was a part of the rushing wind, the brilliant sunshine, the blue sky. She felt that he was going to say something to her—something that she dreaded, yet waited for as a bride for her bridegroom. Somehow all thought of disloyalty to Donald had vanished. It was not that she put it aside, or trampled upon it—in this glorified atmosphere of love it simply no longer existed.
Presently he turned to her, as they were slowlymounting a long stretch of hill. “I wish we could go on and on, and never stop, for all the rest of our lives,” he said, looking at her hungrily. She met his gaze with a glad smile and they told each other with their eyes what had been growing in their hearts for all these months. The road stretched before them, gray and lonely. West put his left arm about her with a caressing motion that seemed to embrace within it not only herself, but all her hopes and fears, her troubles and her joys. She did not passively yield herself to his embraces, she leaped to him, her brain on fire, her soul in her eyes. When their lips met, she hardly knew it, all the music of the heavenly choirs seemed singing in her ears, and in that moment of supreme happiness neither future nor past for her existed. In an instant he had turned from her and, with his hands on the steering wheel, swept the road ahead with cautious eyes. The whole thing seemed like a dream—a fantasy of the imagination, yet she knew it was the realest thing in her life at the moment, the one great experience that eclipsed all lesser experiences as though they had never been at all.
They did not say much for a long time, for eachseemed to feel the irrevocability of the thing that had befallen them. It was not as though West had kissed her, as a man might kiss a flirtatiously inclined woman. She knew that to him, at least, that kiss had meant a seal of love; what it had meant to her she had not yet in her own mind decided.
After what seemed to her hours, he spoke again. “I am thinking of going away, Edith,” he said, and his voice seemed to come to her from a long way off, and wake her from happy dreams.
“Going away?” she asked, with a new timidity. “Where?”
“To Europe, to Cairo, to the East.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot stay here any longer.”
“Why not?” she found herself asking. “Why not?”
“Because I love you, dear, and because, if I stay here, I am afraid of what might happen. I want to go away, to get out into the great, wide places of the world, where air, and sunshine, and love are free and God-given. I hate New York and all it means. I cannot stay in it any longer—as things are.”
“Then I shall not see you—any more?” she asked in a voice from which she was unable to keep a quivering sense of loss, of pain.
“Not unless you will go with me,” he said suddenly, turning and looking into her face.
“Go with you—go with you?” She repeated the words mechanically, as though the thought suggested by them had not yet found a place in her mind. “How could I?”
“Why not?” His voice became suddenly intense, trembling with feeling. “I love you, and I want you, always, close by my side. I cannot think of going on, all the years of my life, without you. I know how wrong, how disloyal it all must seem to you, but I cannot help it. I love you—I love you—what more is there for me to say? If you wish it, I will go away from you at once—to-day, and never see you again, if it breaks my heart. Shall I?”
She gave a faint cry. The thought hurt her, in its unexpected cruelty. “How can you ask me that?”
The car was running very slowly now, along a stretch of road bordered by high trees, faintly greenin their early spring garb. He let the machine come to a standstill beside the road and took her fiercely into his arms. “Edith, I cannot go without you—my God—I cannot. Come with me, dearest, come, and forget all the troubles and cares of your life here.” He pressed her to him with quivering muscles and kissed her. “Will you? Will you?” he demanded, and his voice seemed to her a command, rather than a question.
She yielded to his embrace gladly, with a joyous sense of freedom. “Yes—yes!” she cried, and lay still in his arms.
Presently they heard, far behind them, the sound of another car ascending the hill. West put her from him, started the machine, and they rushed along against the southeast wind, their hearts big with their new-formed plan.
Then a long silence came upon them. Perhaps they were both thinking of the pain which their love must cause to Donald, the inevitable consequences which must flow from it. It was a natural reaction from the exaltation of the moment before. Edith, too, was thinking of Bobbie, and already in her inmost soul had begun to resent the demands of this newemotion, which required her to tear out of her heart all that now lay within it, that there might be room for her love for West alone. Yet so strange are the ways of love, that, while resenting the result, she did not resent the love which caused it—to her Billy West was, for the time being at least, the sum of all earthly existence.
It was after one o’clock when they reached the hotel at Garden City, and in a few moments they had secured a table and were ordering luncheon. West suggested a cocktail, which seemed very grateful after the long ride. Edith did not feel hungry, but ate mechanically, hardly knowing what was set before her. She looked timidly at him, and felt her cheeks redden with a sudden flush. Somehow he seemed so big, so masterful, so different from Donald, and she knew that whenever he desired, from now on, to take her in his strong arms, she would not resist him, but would be glad. She seemed to feel toward him an intense physical attraction, something that she had never felt toward her husband, an unreasoning instinct, that made her long to be near him, to hear his voice, to put her hand in his, and forget everything else in the blessed knowledge that thisman of her desire possessed her completely and utterly.
These thoughts came to her as an undercurrent, far below the ripple of conversation with which the meal passed. Only once did they look over the precipice upon the edge of which they walked so lightly. She ventured, half-afraid, to ask him when he thought of leaving New York. His answer showed that he, too, had been thinking deeply of the matter which lay nearest their hearts.
“I must go to Denver first,” he said. “All my property is there, you know, and I shall have to arrange about it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I shall sell out my stock in the mine, and resign my position as vice-president. It may take a week or two to do that. After I have converted the stock into money, it will be necessary to put it into some good security, bonds probably, which will require no attention. That will leave me free to go abroad, and stay as long as I please, without having to bother about business affairs. We can go to Egypt, to Persia, to India, to Japan, and when we come back—” He hesitated, halted.
“When we come back! Can we ever come back, dear?” she asked timidly.
“Of course we can. Your husband will know that we love each other; and surely he will make it possible for us to be married. After all, you have never been happy with him. He should be glad to see you happy with someone else.”
The matter-of-fact way in which he spoke of their future jarred upon her. It was one thing to dream of running away to some imagined country of palms and eternal summer, in an ecstasy of love, but the details, the sordid necessities of the thing, seemed hard and cruel, even when viewed through the rosy spectacles of love. To think of coming back to New York and the chilly isolation of the social outcast did not appeal to her—it was like awakening from the dream to realities anything but pleasant. He must have seen her distaste, or felt it, for he changed the subject abruptly, merely remarking that he had decided to go to Denver that night.
“To-night?” she asked—“Why to-night? You have only just come from there.”
“The sooner I go, the better. Matters are in such shape now that I can sell out my interestsquickly. I found that out, while I was there. If I wait, it may be more difficult. The company is thinking of taking over some new properties, and that will require considerable money. I had better go at once.”
She trembled at the thought of what it all meant, but said no word to discourage him. Somehow the very success which had crowned her dreams now seemed to make them less beautiful—less to be desired. Why couldn’t they just go on loving each other, without all this—this upsetting of things? She suddenly found herself blushing at the realization of just what it was that her thoughts actually meant.
The run back to town was cheerless and cold, and singularly symbolic of her state of mind. The brightness of the morning had faded before the bank of ashen-colored clouds that whirled up from the southeast with a suggestion of winter in their formless masses. West drove the car at top speed, as though he, too, felt the approach of something chilling, an aftermath to their dreams. It was nearly five when they reached the ferry in Long Island City, and the lights in the stores and along the streetshad already begun to sparkle through the gathering mists of evening.
“We should have come back earlier,” said Edith, a bit worried. “Bobbie will wonder what has become of me.” She had left the child in Alice’s care, the nurse being out, and knew that the latter would be anxious to get back to the boarding-house and dinner. There was her own evening meal to prepare as well. At once all the realities of life arose to reach out to her, and draw her back to her old routine.
“We can easily make it by half-past five,” said West, as they turned from Thirty-fourth Street into Madison Avenue. “What time will Donald be home?”
“A little after five, I suppose. We shall probably find him at home when we get there.”
They drove up to the house just as Donald was ascending the steps. Edith felt an overpowering sense of guilt as he helped her from the machine; she said good-by to West rather hastily, as she stood beside her husband on the sidewalk. Nothing was said about the proposed trip to Denver; Donald asked them about their day’s outing, hoped they hadhad a pleasant time; further than that there was no conversation. As the motor rolled off, West looked back and nodded, and in a moment Edith found herself ascending the elevator with her husband, wondering if, after all, the experience of the day had not been a strange dream.
It seemed queer, unreal, to come down to the commonplace things of life. Potatoes had to be peeled, a steak cooked, all the details of the preparation of their simple dinner. Bobbie was cross and hungry, and hung about her skirts as she moved to and fro in the kitchen. Alice had hurried away, with a rather nasty remark concerning her long stay. More than ever she realized that life—her life—was so full of things that meant nothing to her, so barren of those that really counted. She placed the dinner upon the table with a heart full of bitterness, but she showed nothing of it to Donald.
He was full of his new venture in the glass business. A friend by the name of Forbes had come to him that afternoon with some patents for making glass tiling; there was a fortune in it, he rattled on, and she listened, only half-comprehending what it was all about. She had always tried to take an interestin her husband’s business affairs, but, to-night, her heart was too full of other things—things that alternately lifted her up into realms of hitherto unknown happiness, and then dropped her into the black depths of despair. After all, it would soon be over, she reflected, and then, frightened by her thoughts, put them from her, and choked down her dinner with a strange sense of desolation. Billy was gone—Billy, who had filled her days and nights with a new joy of living. Gone—gone! Suppose something were to happen to him! The thought that she might never see him again frightened her.
One evening, about two weeks after West had left New York for Denver, Alice Pope, Edith’s sister, came down to the Roxborough for the purpose of spending the evening.
The two girls were very much alike in temperament and training and had always been great friends, confiding to each other most of the affairs of their rather uneventful existence. Alice was two years younger than Edith, and while not so handsome a woman, was the stronger nature of the two; as was evidenced by her somewhat more firmly molded chin, her lips, less full than Edith’s, and her gray eyes, which, set somewhat more closely together, gave to her face an expression of shrewdness and determination only relieved by her good-natured and rather large mouth.
She was not a frequent visitor at the Rogers’ apartment, at least in the evening, as she and Donald did not get along very well—they were good enough friends, but neither found the other very congenial.Alice thought Donald hard and unsympathetic, a feeling which arose largely from the tales of woe with which Edith so frequently regaled her. Donald, feeling this attitude of criticism, and too proud to attempt to controvert it, remained silent, which but convinced Alice the more of his lack of warmth and geniality. Thus the two preserved a sort of armed neutrality, the effect of which was to keep them forever at arm’s length.
Edith was in a state of extreme nervousness, and even the pretense of looking at a magazine hardly served to conceal the fact from Donald—he would inevitably have noticed it, had he not been busily occupied at his desk.
The cause of her nervousness reposed safely within the bosom of her dress. It was a letter from West which had come for her, three days before, and its contents had caused her the gravest concern. She felt glad that Alice was coming—glad that Donald had decided to go out for a stroll. She had been inwardly debating the advisability of taking her sister into her confidence, when the door-bell rang.
It was about eight o’clock, and Donald was just going out to post his letters.
“Hello, Sis!” said Alice, as she came in, then she nodded to Donald.
“Good-evening, Alice,” Edith replied. “Where’s mother? I thought she was coming with you.”
“She’ll be along presently.” The girl took off her long pony-skin coat and threw it carelessly upon the couch. “She stopped at Mrs. Harrison’s for a few minutes to return a book she had borrowed.” She shivered slightly. “Pretty cold, isn’t it? Never knew such a late spring.”
Edith turned to Donald, who was putting on his coat. “Get some quinine capsules, Donald—two grain. Bobbie’s cold is worse to-night.”
“Have you had the doctor?” inquired her husband.
“Oh, no, it isn’t as bad as that. Just a little fever.”
“Very well. I’ll be back presently.” He took up his hat and went out.
Edith, instead of joining her sister, began to walk aimlessly about the room. She had with difficulty concealed her agitation from Donald, and, now that he had gone, she still could not decide whether or not it would be wisdom on her part to confide in her sister.She felt the necessity of confiding in someone.
Alice presently observed the nervousness, and commented upon it in her usual frank way. “For heaven’s sake, Edith,” she remarked, “sit down. Don’t walk about like that. You make me nervous. What’s the matter with you, anyway?”
“Oh, nothing!” Edith threw herself dispiritedly into a chair, and, with an expression which bespoke an utter weariness of spirit, gazed moodily at her hands, roughened and red from the washing of dishes.
“Nothing?” said Alice, looking at her closely. “You look as though you had lost your last friend.”
“Perhaps I have.” The answer was significant, although to Alice it meant nothing.
“What do you mean by that?” she inquired. “I think you might try to be a little more agreeable. It wouldn’t hurt you any. If you are going to sit here and hand out chunks of gloom all the evening, I think I’ll go home.” It was characteristic of Alice to be determinedly cheerful on all occasions, a trait born not so much of any inherent optimism as of a dislike for being made uncomfortable.
Edith looked at her hesitatingly. “Don’t mindme, Alice,” she presently observed, in an apologetic voice, “I’m worried.”
“Do you suppose I can’t see that? You’ve been acting like an Ibsen play for the past three days. Why don’t you get it off your mind?” She hitched her chair about, and faced her sister with a curious look. “I’m safe enough. You ought to know that by this time. Come—out with it. What’s wrong? Let’s have the awful details.”
“It isn’t anything to joke about,” remarked Edith, not entirely relishing her sister’s tone.
“I’m not joking—not a bit of it. If you are in any trouble, Sis, you know you can count on me. I may be able to help you out; two heads are better than one, you know.”
With a sudden glance, Edith decided to take her sister into her confidence. Her question, quick and unexpected, aroused Alice to new interest. “Do you like Billy West?” she asked.
“Billy West? Of course I do. What’s he got to do with it?”
“Everything!”
Alice hitched her chair still closer, and looked at her sister in surprise. “You don’t mean tosay—?” she began, then concluded her remark with a significant whistle.
“Alice,” said her sister, “you’ve known Billy for a long time. You know he is one of Donald’s bestfriends—”
“I always thought so. He must like one of you pretty well, judging by the amount of time he spends here.”
“You didn’t know, perhaps, that he was very much in love with me, years ago, before he went to Colorado.”
“I always suspected it. Pity you didn’t marry him. He made about half a million out there, didn’t he, in that gold mine?”
“I don’t know just what he made. That has nothing to do with it. Ever since he came back to New York to live, three months ago, I’ve seen a great deal of him—”
“I should say you had. If I hadn’t thought him such a good friend of Donald’s I’d have been suspicious long ago. I’ve envied you often enough, your auto rides, and luncheons at the Knickerbocker, and dinners, and theater parties. He doesn’t mind spending his money—that’s one thing sure, but Inever thought—” She paused and looked at her sister with renewed interest. “Is he in love with you now?”
“Yes.” Edith spoke slowly—almost as though to herself. The thought was apparently not distasteful to her.
“You don’t say so! The plot thickens. So that’s why he’s been here morning, noon and night. Does Donald know?”
“Donald! Of course not.”
“Has Billy said anything?”
“Said anything? To whom?”
“To you, of course. Has he told you that he still loves you?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t exactly fair of him.” Alice was a good deal of a Puritan at heart, and not at all lacking in frankness. “He ought not to have done it. I’m not so strong for Donald, goodness knows, but it strikes me as being pretty rough on him, just the same. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes, and I told Billy so.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he had tried his best to keep from tellingme, all these months. He went away, once, in April, you remember, and stayed nearly a month, to try to forget, but it didn’t do any good. He says he loves me more every day, and at last he had to tell me of it—he couldn’t keep from it any longer.”
“Well, what good has it done? He has sense enough to see that it’s perfectly hopeless, hasn’t he?”
“No, that’s the worst of it.”