Complete weird tales of.., p.1298
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 1298
The landlord of the Wildwood Inn sat sunning himself in the red evening glow.
“Well, doctor,” he said, “you look tired to death. Eh? What’s that you say?”
The young man repeated his question in a low voice. The landlord shook his head.
“No, sir. The big house on the hill is empty — been empty these three years. No, sir, there ain’t no family there now. The old gentleman moved away three years ago.”
“You are mistaken,” said the doctor; “his daughter tells me he lives there.”
“His — his daughter?” repeated the landlord. “Why, doctor, she’s dead.” He turned to his wife, who sat sewing by the open window: “Ain’t it three years, Marthy?”
“Three years to-day,” said the woman, biting off her thread. “She’s buried in the family vault over the hill. She was a right pretty little thing, too.”
“Turned nineteen,” mused the landlord, folding his newspaper reflectively.
The great gray house on the hill was closed, windows and doors boarded over, lawn, shrubbery, and hedges tangled with weeds. A few scarlet poppies glimmered above the brown grass. Save for these, and clumps of tall wild phlox, there were no blossoms among the weeds.
His dog, which had sneaked after him, cowered as he turned northward across the fields. Swifter and swifter he strode; and as he stumbled on, the long sunset clouds faded, the golden light in the west died out, leaving a calm, clear sky tinged with faintest green.
Pines hid the west as he crept toward the hill where she awaited him. As he climbed through dusky purple grasses, higher, higher, he saw the new moon’s crescent tipping above the hills; and he crushed back the deathly fright that clutched at him and staggered on.
“Rosamund!”
The pines answered him.
“Rosamund!”
The pines replied, answering together. Then the wind died away, and there was no answer when he called.
East and south the darkening thickets, swaying, grew still. He saw the slim silver birches glimmering like the ghosts of young trees dead; he saw on the moss at his feet a broken stalk of golden-rod.
The new moon had drawn a veil across her face; sky and earth were very still.
While the moon lasted he lay, eyes open, listening, his face pillowed on the moss. It was long after sunrise when his dog came to him; later still when men came.
And at first they thought he was asleep.
CHAPTER VI
EX CURIA
AND NOW, AT his attorney’s request, and before his report was made, they decided to run through the documents in the case once more, reviewing everything from the very beginning. So young Courtlandt, his attorney, lighted a cigar and unwrapped the pink tape from the bundle of papers.
There was enough daylight left to read by, for wall and ceiling still bore the faded imprint of the red winter sunset. Edgerton sat before the fire, his well-shaped head buried in his hands; Courtlandt, lounging on a sofa by the window, unfolded the first paper, puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and presently began to read without inflection or apparent interest:
Paris, December 24, 1902.
John Edgerton, Esq.
Sir: My client, Michael Innis, is seriously ill, and I am writing you on his behalf and at his urgent solicitation.
It would appear that, during the panic of 1884, my client came to your father’s assistance, at a time when your father’s financial ruin, involving also, I believe, the ruin of many of his friends, was apparently only a question of hours.
It would also appear that, upon your father’s death, you wrote Mr. Innis, voluntarily assuming your father’s unpaid obligations. (Copy of your letter herewith inclosed.)
It further appears that Mr. Innis, accepting the assurance of your personal gratitude, generously offered to wait for the sums due him, permitting you to pay at your own convenience. (Copy of Mr. Innis’s letter inclosed herewith.)
In the conclusion of this last letter (No. 2 on file) Mr. Innis mentions his lifelong respect for your father and his family, humorously drawing the social distinction between the late Winthrop Edgerton, Esq., and Michael Innis, the Tammany contractor; and rather wistfully contrasting the future prospects of Mr. Edgerton’s son, yourself, and the chances of the child of Michael Innis.
To this letter you replied (copy herewith), repeating in a manly fashion your assurance of gratitude, holding yourself at the service of Mr. Innis.
Now, sir, if your assurances meant more than mere civility, you have an opportunity to erase the deep obligations that your father assumed.
Mr. Innis is a man broken in mind and body. His fortune was invested, against my advice, in Madagascar Railways. To-day he could not realize a thousand dollars from the investment.
For twenty years his one absorbing passion has been the education and fitting of his only child for a position in the world which he himself could never hope to attain. Wealth and education, linked with an agreeable personality, may go anywhere in this century. And his daughter has had the best that Europe can afford.
Within a month all is changed. Sir, it is sad to see the stricken man lying here, watching his daughter.
And now, knowing that impending dissolution is near, terror of the future for her has wrung an appeal from him to you — a strange appeal, Mr. Edgerton. Money alone is little; he asks more; he asks your protection for her — not the perfunctory protection of a guardian for a ward, but the guidance of a father, the companionship of a brother, the loyalty of a husband.
The man is blinded by worship of his own child; your father’s son represents to him all that is noblest, most honorable, most desirable in the world.
Sir, this is a strange request, an overdrawn draft upon your gratitude, I fear. Yet I write you as I am bidden. An answer should be returned by cable with as little delay as possible. He will live until he receives it. Marriage by proxy is legal. Special dispensation is certain.
I am, sir, with great respect,
Your very humble servant,
WILLIAM CAMPBELL.
Att’y and Counselor at Law,
7 rue d’Issy.
When Courtlandt finished reading he folded the letter, glancing across at Edgerton: “That was written two years ago to-day, you remember? — this foreclosure of his mortgage upon your gratitude!”
“I remember,” said Edgerton.
“From the gratitude of the conscientious, good Lord deliver us!” murmured Courtlandt, unfolding another paper. “This is a copy of the asinine cablegram you sent, without consulting me.” And he read:
INNIS, 23 rue d’Abdul Hamid, Paris.
I assume all responsibility for your daughter’s future. Utterly impossible for me to leave New York. If you believe marriage advisable, arrange for special dispensation and ceremony by proxy.
JOHN EDGERTON.
Courtlandt rose and walked over to the fire where Edgerton was sitting. His client raised his head, eyes a trifle dazed from the pressure of his fingers on the closed lids.
“What the merry deuce did you send that cable for?” muttered Courtlandt under his breath.
“I don’t know — a debt of gratitude — and he did not want it paid in money. I — an appeal like that had to be honored, you see. I was ashamed to haggle at the day of reckoning. A man cannot appraise his own gratitude.”
“Such things cannot be asked of gratitude,” growled the attorney. “The business of the world is not run on impulse! What is gratitude?”
“It is not gratitude if it asks that question,” returned Edgerton; “and I fear that after all it was not exactly gratitude. Gratitude gives; a debt of honor exacts. There is no profit in following this line further, is there, Billy?”
“No,” assented Courtlandt, “unless it’s going to help us disentangle the unfortunate affair.” He unfolded another paper. “It’s too dark to read,” he observed, leaning forward into the firelight. The red reflection of the coals played over his face and the black-edged notepaper he was scanning. And he read, slowly:
January 3, 1903.
Dear Mr. Edgerton: For your very gentle letter to me I beg to thank you; I deeply appreciate your delicacy at a time when kindness is most needed. Had you not written as you have, I should have found it difficult to discuss a situation which I am only just beginning to realize must be as embarrassing to you as it is to me.
In the grief and distress which overwhelmed me when I was so suddenly summoned from the convent to find my father so ill, I did not, could not realize the step I was asked to take. All I knew was that he desired it, begged for it, and it meant to me nothing — this ceremony which made you my husband — nothing except a little happiness for the father I loved.
He made the responses for you, I kneeling at his bedside, scarce able to speak in my grief. There were two brief ceremonies, the civil and religious. He died very quietly that night.
Pray believe me that I understand how impossible it is for you to leave affairs of importance to come to Paris at this time. My aunt, who is with the Ursulines, has received me. It is very quiet, very peaceful; I have opportunity for meditation, and for studies which I left uncompleted. Mr. Campbell, whom you have so considerately retained for my legal guidance, is kind and tactful. He has, I believe, communicated with you in regard to the most generous provision you have made for me. Pray believe that I require very, very little. I regret the loss of my father’s fortune only because it should have perhaps compensated you a trifle for your kindness to my father in his last hours.
I hesitate — I feel the greatest reluctance and delicacy in addressing you upon a matter that troubles me. It is this, Mr. Edgerton: if, through gratitude to my father for service done your father, you offered to become responsible for me, perhaps — I do not know — perhaps, as you have done me the honor of protecting me with your name, it is all that could be expected — and I hasten to assure you that I am content. Indeed, had I realized, had I even begun to comprehend what I was doing — Yet what could I do but obey him at such a time?
So, if you think it well that we remain apart for a while, I am content and happy to obey your wishes. Your name, which I now bear, I honor; your wishes, monsieur, are my commands.
With gratitude, confidence, and respect, I remain,
Faithfully yours,
KATHLEEN INNIS EDGERTON.
Convent of the Ursulines, rue Daumont.
Courtlandt refolded the letter, and sat rubbing his eyes. “For Heaven’s sake let’s have a light!” he grumbled, leaning over and pushing the electric button.
The light broke out overhead, flooding the library, glistening among gay evergreen wreaths tied with bunches of Christmas holly which hung against the library windows.
Edgerton raised his pale face, then his head sank on his breast; he folded his arms, gazing absently into the fire. “Go on,” he said.
So Courtlandt read other letters from Mrs. Edgerton, brief notes, perfunctory, reserved, and naïve; and he read letters from Campbell, the attorney, acknowledging provisions made for his young client.
When he finished he refolded all the papers, retied them with pink tape, and laid them on the table at Edgerton’s elbow. “Now,” he said, “comes the question. You have arrived at the conclusion that Mrs. Edgerton desires and deserves her freedom. And you want to know what I think.”
“Yes,” said Edgerton.
“You gave me a month to look up the matter.”
“Yes, a month.”
“And now you want me to report, don’t you, Jack?”
Edgerton glanced up. “If you’re ready,” he said.
“I’m ready. First I want to ask you a question. Is there any woman you have met, before or since your marriage, whom you might fall in love with if you were free to do so?”
“No, I believe not — I don’t know. I am — I was not actuated by selfishness.”
“All right. Still, you are capable of loving somebody, are you not?”
“I fancy so. I should like to have a chance to marry — for love.”
“But you never met the right one?”
“There is — I have caught a glimpse — once — one woman—”
“Is that all?” laughed Courtlandt. “That’s not enough to bowl you over.”
“It was almost enough!” retorted Edgerton. Through his voice rang an undertone of impatience. His attorney looked up quickly.
“Oh, is it as serious as that? No wonder you want your freedom! Who is the woman?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” retorted the younger man sullenly. “I told you that I saw a woman once, whom I should like to have had a chance to see again. What of it? I never shall.”
“When was this, Jack?”
“Yesterday — if you want to know.”
“Where?”
“Driving in the park.”
“Who is she?”
“You could answer that question,” said Edgerton, wheeling around on his friend. “You were driving with her.”
Courtlandt stared, slowly turning redder and redder.
“You wanted to know,” observed Edgerton, eying him. “It means nothing, of course — I was riding along the bridle path and I caught a glimpse of you, and I saw her face. I thought her beautiful, that’s all. Drop the subject.”
“Certainly,” answered Courtlandt. He opened his match box and relighted his cigar; then he fell to musing, breaking the burnt match up into little pieces and tossing the morsels, one by one, into the fire.
“Jack,” he drawled, still busy with the match, “you gave me a month to report upon this matter concerning the dissolution of your marriage. It might interest you to learn the first step I took.”
“What was it?” inquired Edgerton, raising his troubled eyes.
“I went to Paris.”
“To — to see—”
“Certainly, to see Mrs. Edgerton.”
The men’s eyes met; the lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
“Mrs. Edgerton is very inexperienced, very young,” he said. “She is, of course, a Catholic. But if she desired her freedom a thousand times as fervently as you might desire yours, the law of her religion bars her way. You knew that of course.”
“I thought — sometimes—” began the other.
“You are wrong.”
Edgerton stared into the glowing coals.
“So you left it to me to see what could be done,” added the attorney dryly.
Edgerton assented.
“Well,” said Courtlandt, “I shouldn’t have accepted such a commission had I not known it was quite unselfish on your part. You told me that her letters to you were pitifully loyal and conscientious; that you felt like a jailer watching an innocent life prisoner; that if you only knew how to do it you would give her the liberty God meant her to enjoy — liberty to love and be loved. And you allowed me a month to find the way to settle this wretched affair.”
“Yes. Is there a way?”
“Only one,” replied Courtlandt gravely. He rose, offering his hand.
Edgerton also rose, tall, clean cut, closely cropped hair just tinged with gray at the temples.
“Only one way,” repeated Courtlandt deliberately, “and that is for you to discuss the situation with Mrs. Edgerton.
“What!” exclaimed Edgerton sharply, dropping his friend’s hand. “You know I can’t leave town to go to Paris.”
Courtlandt coolly consulted his watch. “I neglected to say that Mrs. Edgerton is in town. I believe” — he glanced at his watch again, then closed it with a snap—” I suggested that she waive ceremony and meet us here.”
“Here!” muttered Edgerton. “Wait a moment, will you? Do you mean to say that she is coming here to-night?”
“Why not?” said Courtlandt, his gray eyes narrowing. “If she chooses to accept my advice, if she is woman enough to overlook what is due her from her husband, why should she not come here as freely as you come?”
“Are you my attorney or hers?” demanded the other in astonishment.
“Yours, Jack — acting for your interest — which is hers, too — which must be hers. Where is your sense of honor? Where is your sense of justice? Has the glimpse of a woman’s face in the park seared your eyes? Is it true that an indifferent man can be just, but a man in love is a partisan? You could be coldly considerate and deal out passionless justice until yesterday. Now for the first time the fetters gall you. Is this the crisis where you flinch?”
He stood, jerking on his gloves, scanning Edgerton’s face.
“I told her that the proper place to discuss the situation was under her own roof; and I am right. Do you consider a public hotel the suitable environment for such a conference? Her pride and intelligence comprehended me. That’s all I have to say.”
“Why did you not tell me before this that she was in town? I understand the requirements of civilization, do I not?”
“I did not tell you, because we landed only yesterday morning.”
“She came over with you?”
“On my advice and at my earnest solicitation.”
Edgerton stared at him, tugging at his short mustache.
“What are we to discuss?” he demanded sullenly. “As she is Catholic we cannot discuss divorce. We could, of course, come to some conclusion concerning a modus vivendi.”
“I expect you to come to some such conclusion. Two years ago you were twenty-eight — an oversensitive young man, impulsive, illogical, and morbid concerning personal obligations. Without consulting your legal adviser you perpetrated a crime — for it is criminal to parody the highest safeguard to civilization — marriage. It was a crime; your wife is your accomplice — particeps criminis, my friend. Neither you nor she deserves mercy.”
He turned away, buttoning his gloves.
“It’s touched your temples with gray,” he observed. “You have learned something at thirty, Jack, even if it’s cost you what you think a mésalliance.”
As he stepped to the door a maid appeared with a card on a salver. Edgerton glanced at it, then looked straight into Courtlandt’s eyes.
“I’m sorry I needed this lesson in decency,” he said. “It was all right for you to administer it. You need not worry; I understand that I am at my wife’s disposal, not she at mine. I’ve kept my medicine waiting for two years, that’s all.”
“Well, doctor,” he said, “you look tired to death. Eh? What’s that you say?”
The young man repeated his question in a low voice. The landlord shook his head.
“No, sir. The big house on the hill is empty — been empty these three years. No, sir, there ain’t no family there now. The old gentleman moved away three years ago.”
“You are mistaken,” said the doctor; “his daughter tells me he lives there.”
“His — his daughter?” repeated the landlord. “Why, doctor, she’s dead.” He turned to his wife, who sat sewing by the open window: “Ain’t it three years, Marthy?”
“Three years to-day,” said the woman, biting off her thread. “She’s buried in the family vault over the hill. She was a right pretty little thing, too.”
“Turned nineteen,” mused the landlord, folding his newspaper reflectively.
The great gray house on the hill was closed, windows and doors boarded over, lawn, shrubbery, and hedges tangled with weeds. A few scarlet poppies glimmered above the brown grass. Save for these, and clumps of tall wild phlox, there were no blossoms among the weeds.
His dog, which had sneaked after him, cowered as he turned northward across the fields. Swifter and swifter he strode; and as he stumbled on, the long sunset clouds faded, the golden light in the west died out, leaving a calm, clear sky tinged with faintest green.
Pines hid the west as he crept toward the hill where she awaited him. As he climbed through dusky purple grasses, higher, higher, he saw the new moon’s crescent tipping above the hills; and he crushed back the deathly fright that clutched at him and staggered on.
“Rosamund!”
The pines answered him.
“Rosamund!”
The pines replied, answering together. Then the wind died away, and there was no answer when he called.
East and south the darkening thickets, swaying, grew still. He saw the slim silver birches glimmering like the ghosts of young trees dead; he saw on the moss at his feet a broken stalk of golden-rod.
The new moon had drawn a veil across her face; sky and earth were very still.
While the moon lasted he lay, eyes open, listening, his face pillowed on the moss. It was long after sunrise when his dog came to him; later still when men came.
And at first they thought he was asleep.
CHAPTER VI
EX CURIA
AND NOW, AT his attorney’s request, and before his report was made, they decided to run through the documents in the case once more, reviewing everything from the very beginning. So young Courtlandt, his attorney, lighted a cigar and unwrapped the pink tape from the bundle of papers.
There was enough daylight left to read by, for wall and ceiling still bore the faded imprint of the red winter sunset. Edgerton sat before the fire, his well-shaped head buried in his hands; Courtlandt, lounging on a sofa by the window, unfolded the first paper, puffed thoughtfully at his cigar, and presently began to read without inflection or apparent interest:
Paris, December 24, 1902.
John Edgerton, Esq.
Sir: My client, Michael Innis, is seriously ill, and I am writing you on his behalf and at his urgent solicitation.
It would appear that, during the panic of 1884, my client came to your father’s assistance, at a time when your father’s financial ruin, involving also, I believe, the ruin of many of his friends, was apparently only a question of hours.
It would also appear that, upon your father’s death, you wrote Mr. Innis, voluntarily assuming your father’s unpaid obligations. (Copy of your letter herewith inclosed.)
It further appears that Mr. Innis, accepting the assurance of your personal gratitude, generously offered to wait for the sums due him, permitting you to pay at your own convenience. (Copy of Mr. Innis’s letter inclosed herewith.)
In the conclusion of this last letter (No. 2 on file) Mr. Innis mentions his lifelong respect for your father and his family, humorously drawing the social distinction between the late Winthrop Edgerton, Esq., and Michael Innis, the Tammany contractor; and rather wistfully contrasting the future prospects of Mr. Edgerton’s son, yourself, and the chances of the child of Michael Innis.
To this letter you replied (copy herewith), repeating in a manly fashion your assurance of gratitude, holding yourself at the service of Mr. Innis.
Now, sir, if your assurances meant more than mere civility, you have an opportunity to erase the deep obligations that your father assumed.
Mr. Innis is a man broken in mind and body. His fortune was invested, against my advice, in Madagascar Railways. To-day he could not realize a thousand dollars from the investment.
For twenty years his one absorbing passion has been the education and fitting of his only child for a position in the world which he himself could never hope to attain. Wealth and education, linked with an agreeable personality, may go anywhere in this century. And his daughter has had the best that Europe can afford.
Within a month all is changed. Sir, it is sad to see the stricken man lying here, watching his daughter.
And now, knowing that impending dissolution is near, terror of the future for her has wrung an appeal from him to you — a strange appeal, Mr. Edgerton. Money alone is little; he asks more; he asks your protection for her — not the perfunctory protection of a guardian for a ward, but the guidance of a father, the companionship of a brother, the loyalty of a husband.
The man is blinded by worship of his own child; your father’s son represents to him all that is noblest, most honorable, most desirable in the world.
Sir, this is a strange request, an overdrawn draft upon your gratitude, I fear. Yet I write you as I am bidden. An answer should be returned by cable with as little delay as possible. He will live until he receives it. Marriage by proxy is legal. Special dispensation is certain.
I am, sir, with great respect,
Your very humble servant,
WILLIAM CAMPBELL.
Att’y and Counselor at Law,
7 rue d’Issy.
When Courtlandt finished reading he folded the letter, glancing across at Edgerton: “That was written two years ago to-day, you remember? — this foreclosure of his mortgage upon your gratitude!”
“I remember,” said Edgerton.
“From the gratitude of the conscientious, good Lord deliver us!” murmured Courtlandt, unfolding another paper. “This is a copy of the asinine cablegram you sent, without consulting me.” And he read:
INNIS, 23 rue d’Abdul Hamid, Paris.
I assume all responsibility for your daughter’s future. Utterly impossible for me to leave New York. If you believe marriage advisable, arrange for special dispensation and ceremony by proxy.
JOHN EDGERTON.
Courtlandt rose and walked over to the fire where Edgerton was sitting. His client raised his head, eyes a trifle dazed from the pressure of his fingers on the closed lids.
“What the merry deuce did you send that cable for?” muttered Courtlandt under his breath.
“I don’t know — a debt of gratitude — and he did not want it paid in money. I — an appeal like that had to be honored, you see. I was ashamed to haggle at the day of reckoning. A man cannot appraise his own gratitude.”
“Such things cannot be asked of gratitude,” growled the attorney. “The business of the world is not run on impulse! What is gratitude?”
“It is not gratitude if it asks that question,” returned Edgerton; “and I fear that after all it was not exactly gratitude. Gratitude gives; a debt of honor exacts. There is no profit in following this line further, is there, Billy?”
“No,” assented Courtlandt, “unless it’s going to help us disentangle the unfortunate affair.” He unfolded another paper. “It’s too dark to read,” he observed, leaning forward into the firelight. The red reflection of the coals played over his face and the black-edged notepaper he was scanning. And he read, slowly:
January 3, 1903.
Dear Mr. Edgerton: For your very gentle letter to me I beg to thank you; I deeply appreciate your delicacy at a time when kindness is most needed. Had you not written as you have, I should have found it difficult to discuss a situation which I am only just beginning to realize must be as embarrassing to you as it is to me.
In the grief and distress which overwhelmed me when I was so suddenly summoned from the convent to find my father so ill, I did not, could not realize the step I was asked to take. All I knew was that he desired it, begged for it, and it meant to me nothing — this ceremony which made you my husband — nothing except a little happiness for the father I loved.
He made the responses for you, I kneeling at his bedside, scarce able to speak in my grief. There were two brief ceremonies, the civil and religious. He died very quietly that night.
Pray believe me that I understand how impossible it is for you to leave affairs of importance to come to Paris at this time. My aunt, who is with the Ursulines, has received me. It is very quiet, very peaceful; I have opportunity for meditation, and for studies which I left uncompleted. Mr. Campbell, whom you have so considerately retained for my legal guidance, is kind and tactful. He has, I believe, communicated with you in regard to the most generous provision you have made for me. Pray believe that I require very, very little. I regret the loss of my father’s fortune only because it should have perhaps compensated you a trifle for your kindness to my father in his last hours.
I hesitate — I feel the greatest reluctance and delicacy in addressing you upon a matter that troubles me. It is this, Mr. Edgerton: if, through gratitude to my father for service done your father, you offered to become responsible for me, perhaps — I do not know — perhaps, as you have done me the honor of protecting me with your name, it is all that could be expected — and I hasten to assure you that I am content. Indeed, had I realized, had I even begun to comprehend what I was doing — Yet what could I do but obey him at such a time?
So, if you think it well that we remain apart for a while, I am content and happy to obey your wishes. Your name, which I now bear, I honor; your wishes, monsieur, are my commands.
With gratitude, confidence, and respect, I remain,
Faithfully yours,
KATHLEEN INNIS EDGERTON.
Convent of the Ursulines, rue Daumont.
Courtlandt refolded the letter, and sat rubbing his eyes. “For Heaven’s sake let’s have a light!” he grumbled, leaning over and pushing the electric button.
The light broke out overhead, flooding the library, glistening among gay evergreen wreaths tied with bunches of Christmas holly which hung against the library windows.
Edgerton raised his pale face, then his head sank on his breast; he folded his arms, gazing absently into the fire. “Go on,” he said.
So Courtlandt read other letters from Mrs. Edgerton, brief notes, perfunctory, reserved, and naïve; and he read letters from Campbell, the attorney, acknowledging provisions made for his young client.
When he finished he refolded all the papers, retied them with pink tape, and laid them on the table at Edgerton’s elbow. “Now,” he said, “comes the question. You have arrived at the conclusion that Mrs. Edgerton desires and deserves her freedom. And you want to know what I think.”
“Yes,” said Edgerton.
“You gave me a month to look up the matter.”
“Yes, a month.”
“And now you want me to report, don’t you, Jack?”
Edgerton glanced up. “If you’re ready,” he said.
“I’m ready. First I want to ask you a question. Is there any woman you have met, before or since your marriage, whom you might fall in love with if you were free to do so?”
“No, I believe not — I don’t know. I am — I was not actuated by selfishness.”
“All right. Still, you are capable of loving somebody, are you not?”
“I fancy so. I should like to have a chance to marry — for love.”
“But you never met the right one?”
“There is — I have caught a glimpse — once — one woman—”
“Is that all?” laughed Courtlandt. “That’s not enough to bowl you over.”
“It was almost enough!” retorted Edgerton. Through his voice rang an undertone of impatience. His attorney looked up quickly.
“Oh, is it as serious as that? No wonder you want your freedom! Who is the woman?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” retorted the younger man sullenly. “I told you that I saw a woman once, whom I should like to have had a chance to see again. What of it? I never shall.”
“When was this, Jack?”
“Yesterday — if you want to know.”
“Where?”
“Driving in the park.”
“Who is she?”
“You could answer that question,” said Edgerton, wheeling around on his friend. “You were driving with her.”
Courtlandt stared, slowly turning redder and redder.
“You wanted to know,” observed Edgerton, eying him. “It means nothing, of course — I was riding along the bridle path and I caught a glimpse of you, and I saw her face. I thought her beautiful, that’s all. Drop the subject.”
“Certainly,” answered Courtlandt. He opened his match box and relighted his cigar; then he fell to musing, breaking the burnt match up into little pieces and tossing the morsels, one by one, into the fire.
“Jack,” he drawled, still busy with the match, “you gave me a month to report upon this matter concerning the dissolution of your marriage. It might interest you to learn the first step I took.”
“What was it?” inquired Edgerton, raising his troubled eyes.
“I went to Paris.”
“To — to see—”
“Certainly, to see Mrs. Edgerton.”
The men’s eyes met; the lawyer shrugged his shoulders.
“Mrs. Edgerton is very inexperienced, very young,” he said. “She is, of course, a Catholic. But if she desired her freedom a thousand times as fervently as you might desire yours, the law of her religion bars her way. You knew that of course.”
“I thought — sometimes—” began the other.
“You are wrong.”
Edgerton stared into the glowing coals.
“So you left it to me to see what could be done,” added the attorney dryly.
Edgerton assented.
“Well,” said Courtlandt, “I shouldn’t have accepted such a commission had I not known it was quite unselfish on your part. You told me that her letters to you were pitifully loyal and conscientious; that you felt like a jailer watching an innocent life prisoner; that if you only knew how to do it you would give her the liberty God meant her to enjoy — liberty to love and be loved. And you allowed me a month to find the way to settle this wretched affair.”
“Yes. Is there a way?”
“Only one,” replied Courtlandt gravely. He rose, offering his hand.
Edgerton also rose, tall, clean cut, closely cropped hair just tinged with gray at the temples.
“Only one way,” repeated Courtlandt deliberately, “and that is for you to discuss the situation with Mrs. Edgerton.
“What!” exclaimed Edgerton sharply, dropping his friend’s hand. “You know I can’t leave town to go to Paris.”
Courtlandt coolly consulted his watch. “I neglected to say that Mrs. Edgerton is in town. I believe” — he glanced at his watch again, then closed it with a snap—” I suggested that she waive ceremony and meet us here.”
“Here!” muttered Edgerton. “Wait a moment, will you? Do you mean to say that she is coming here to-night?”
“Why not?” said Courtlandt, his gray eyes narrowing. “If she chooses to accept my advice, if she is woman enough to overlook what is due her from her husband, why should she not come here as freely as you come?”
“Are you my attorney or hers?” demanded the other in astonishment.
“Yours, Jack — acting for your interest — which is hers, too — which must be hers. Where is your sense of honor? Where is your sense of justice? Has the glimpse of a woman’s face in the park seared your eyes? Is it true that an indifferent man can be just, but a man in love is a partisan? You could be coldly considerate and deal out passionless justice until yesterday. Now for the first time the fetters gall you. Is this the crisis where you flinch?”
He stood, jerking on his gloves, scanning Edgerton’s face.
“I told her that the proper place to discuss the situation was under her own roof; and I am right. Do you consider a public hotel the suitable environment for such a conference? Her pride and intelligence comprehended me. That’s all I have to say.”
“Why did you not tell me before this that she was in town? I understand the requirements of civilization, do I not?”
“I did not tell you, because we landed only yesterday morning.”
“She came over with you?”
“On my advice and at my earnest solicitation.”
Edgerton stared at him, tugging at his short mustache.
“What are we to discuss?” he demanded sullenly. “As she is Catholic we cannot discuss divorce. We could, of course, come to some conclusion concerning a modus vivendi.”
“I expect you to come to some such conclusion. Two years ago you were twenty-eight — an oversensitive young man, impulsive, illogical, and morbid concerning personal obligations. Without consulting your legal adviser you perpetrated a crime — for it is criminal to parody the highest safeguard to civilization — marriage. It was a crime; your wife is your accomplice — particeps criminis, my friend. Neither you nor she deserves mercy.”
He turned away, buttoning his gloves.
“It’s touched your temples with gray,” he observed. “You have learned something at thirty, Jack, even if it’s cost you what you think a mésalliance.”
As he stepped to the door a maid appeared with a card on a salver. Edgerton glanced at it, then looked straight into Courtlandt’s eyes.
“I’m sorry I needed this lesson in decency,” he said. “It was all right for you to administer it. You need not worry; I understand that I am at my wife’s disposal, not she at mine. I’ve kept my medicine waiting for two years, that’s all.”
