Part 25

At last she was completely restored. The doctors and nurses could find no pretext for lingering, and that in itself was proof positive of her health and strength. She was having her meals with the family, was attending to her correspondence, was alarmed because she was taking on flesh so rapidly. She began offering to join me in London. When she wrote that she was starting the next day I telegraphed her not to come; and, after four more days of delay on various excuses, I went down. I should have liked to postpone this interview a week or ten days. Again I see you smiling at me, posing as madly in love with Mary Kirkwood yet able to put off the joy of being free to go to her. But, gentle reader, you must not forget that I had first to deal with Edna. And, from what you have learned of her, do you think I was wise or foolish to wish to meet her only when she could not possibly prevent candor by pleading a remnant of invalidism?

She was charmingly dressed to receive me, rushed forward before them all and flung her arms around my neck in a graceful, effusive fashion she had learned on the Continent. I received the shock as calmly as I could, noting the awkwardly concealed surprise of Margot and Hugh. We had lunch; she did most of the talking--a gay, happy-hearted rattling--the natural expression of a woman with not a care in the world. And I-- In spite of myself I felt like an executioner come to assassinate an unsuspicious and innocent victim. For the best side of her was to the fore, and all the unpleasant traits were so thoroughly concealed that they seemed to have been burned up in that terrible fever. I _knew_ they were still there, but I could not _feel_ it.

When we were alone in her sitting room, she said:

“Where’s your valet and your luggage?”

“In London,” said I.

“Oh, they’re coming on a later train.”

“No,” said I, seizing this excellent opportunity. “I’m going back this afternoon.”

She gave a cry of dismay. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t it a shame!” Then, rushing to the bell, “I’ll have my things got ready. I’ll go back with you. You shan’t be left alone, dearest.”

I seated myself. “Don’t ring,” I said. “Wait till we’ve talked the matter over.”

“I see you can’t really believe--even yet,” cried she laughingly. “I must convince you.” And she rang the bell.

“When your maid comes, send her away,” said I. “Don’t order her to pack. You can’t go with me.”

She looked at me anxiously. “How solemn you are!” she cried. “Has something gone wrong in that business?”

“Nothing,” said I. The maid came, was sent away. Edna moved toward me, would have sat in my lap or on the arm of my chair had I not prevented her by rising on the pretext of lighting a cigarette.

“You are very--very--strange,” said she. Then advancing toward me and gazing into my face, “Godfrey, there wasn’t any truth in that item--was there?” She looked like a sweet, lovely slip of a girl, all tenderness and sincerity.

“I’ve come to discuss our affairs--not malicious newspaper gossip,” said I, fighting for my usual manner of good-humored raillery. “First, tell me what is the meaning of this outburst of affection for me? Aren’t you satisfied with the settlements?”

“Oh, Godfrey, what a cynic you are!” laughed she. Then with an air of earnestness that certainly was convincing, she said: “Can’t you _feel_ that I love you?”

“I cannot,” replied I blandly. “On the contrary, I _know_ that you care nothing about me. So let’s talk business as we always have.”

She did not rave and vow and swear. She did not show the least excitement. She seated herself and, fixing upon me a look which I can only describe as tenacious, she said:

“Whether you believe me or not, I love you. And I shall not give you up.”

My internal agitation instantly cleared away. I am always nervous about crossing a bridge until my foot touches it; thenceforth I am too busy crossing to bother about myself. “Well--what do you propose?” said I.

“To be your wife,” replied she. “To show you how sorry I am for the way I have acted, to show you by thinking only of making you happy.”

“Yes? And what will you _do_ to make me happy?”

“Look after your comfort--your home, Godfrey.”

“But you don’t know about that sort of thing,” said I. “You know only how to make a house attractive to other people. You are far too fine for a private housekeeper.”

“I shall learn,” said she sweetly. “Those things are not difficult.”

I smiled at this unconscious confession of incapacity to learn the most difficult of all the arts. “You will practice on me, eh? Thank you--but no. You wouldn’t make me comfortable. You’d only harass yourself and deprive me of comfort--and for years. ‘Those things’ are less easy than you imagine. You are set in your ways, I in mine.”

“You don’t realize,” protested she confidently. “You must be lonely, Godfrey. You need companionship--sympathy. I can give it to you now--for, I am awake at last. I know my own mind and heart.”

I shook my head. “That sounds well, but what does it _mean_? Next door to nothing, my friend. You and I are not interested in the same things. We’ve nothing to talk about. I don’t know the things you know--the social, the fashionable side of life. You don’t know my side of life--and you couldn’t and wouldn’t learn enough to interest me. Any forced interest you might give would bore me. Pardon my frankness, but this is no time for polite falsehoods. The fact is we’ve outgrown each other. When we look out of our eyes, each of us sees an entirely different world; and neither of us cares about or even believes in the other’s world. We talk, only to irritate. We are absolutely and finally apart. It would be impossible for us to live together.”

She waited until I finished. I doubt if she listened. It was her habit not to listen to what she did not wish to hear. “Godfrey--Godfrey!” she cried, battling with the sobs that rose, perhaps in spite of her. “Do I mean nothing to you--I who have been everything to you? Does the word wife mean nothing to you?”

“You mean nothing to me,” replied I. “And I mean nothing to you. Let us not pretend to deceive ourselves.”

“But you did care about me once,” she pleaded. “I am not old and faded. I still have all the charms I used to have--yes, and more. Isn’t that so, dear?”

“You are more beautiful than you ever were,” said I. “But--you’ve gotten me out of the habit of you. And I couldn’t go back to it if I would.”

She buried her face in her hands and wept.

“At your old tricks,” said I impatiently. “It has always been your way to try to make me seem in the wrong. As a matter of fact, you lost years ago--lost before I did--all interest and taste for our life together. It was you who ended our married life, not I.”

“Yes, it was all my fault,” she sobbed. “Forgive me, dear. Take me back. Don’t cast me off. I’ll be whatever you say--do whatever you wish. Only take me back!”

I could not make an inch of progress toward the real motive behind this obviously sincere plea. As I sat silent, looking at her and puzzling, she began to hope that she had moved me. No--rather, she began to feel stronger in her deep rooted conviction that at bottom I loved her and had never wavered. She came across the room, dropped to her knees beside my chair and hid her face in my lap. Why is it that passion once extinguished can never light again? As she knelt there I appreciated all her physical charms; but I was appreciative with that critical calmness which is the absence of all feeling. I laid my hand on hers.

“Edna,” I said, “what _is_ the meaning of this?”

“I am telling you the truth, Godfrey,” replied she, lifting her gold-brown eyes to gaze at me. “As God is my judge, I am telling you the truth.”

“No doubt you think you are,” said I diplomatically. “But your good sense must tell you that there’s something wrong.”

“Yes--with you,” was her answer in a sad tone. “I hoped we could begin to be happy at once. I see now that I’ve got to win you back.”

I concealed my panic behind an amused laugh. “I suppose I’ve misled you into forming this poor estimate of my intelligence where you are concerned,” said I. “You have thought all these years that, because I said nothing, I did not understand. The truth is, for many years I have understood you thoroughly, Edna. You doubt it. You say to yourself, ‘If he had understood, he would have been furious and would not have allowed me to use him as a mere pocketbook.’”

Up she started, wounded to the quick. “Godfrey!” she cried. “How you hurt! Oh, my dear--spare me. If you had such a low opinion of me, don’t tell me about it. Perhaps I deserve your contempt. God knows, I thought I was doing right. Don’t be harsh with me, dearest. I am only a woman, after all.”

I shook my head smilingly. “Drop it,” said I. “You are entirely too strong a person to be able to hide behind a plea of weakness. I have let you use me for your own selfish pleasure all these years because I did not especially care. Also, it kept you away from me--which was highly agreeable to us both.”

The anguish in her eyes, whether it was genuine or not, looked so sincere that I avoided her gaze.

“But,” I went on, “I’m no longer in the mood to be used. You got through with me, as you thought, and divorced me and prepared to marry a man more to your liking----”

“Godfrey--you needn’t be jealous of him--of anyone!”

I made a gesture of resigned despair. Jealous! Her vanity rampant. It had seized upon an insignificant phrase and had found what it was eagerly looking for. “I am not jealous of him,” said I, “though it would be useless for me to try to convince you. Still, I repeat--I am not jealous. I was merely saying that you have cast me off, that I choose to regard your action as final, that I shall not let you fasten on me again simply because your selfishness and vanity happen to discover a new value in me. Do I make my position clear?”

“I see I can’t convince you of what’s in my heart,” said she with sweet resignation. “I had no right to expect it--to hope for it. But my life will convince you, Godfrey. I shall win you back!”

I retained my appearance of calmness. But I was the reverse of calm. I appreciated that she had me in her power. So far as I could judge, she was not after more money, but was under the spell of some form of hysteria that gave her the delusion of an actual desire to love me and to be loved by me. As she had a fortune in her own right, and a large one, I was without means of controlling her. I could not compel her to stick to her bargain and make the divorce legally final; and, even if I had been so disposed I had no ground for a divorce from her unless she should be consenting and assisting.

“If you cared for another woman, I might despair,” she went on. “But you don’t. My heart tells me that you don’t.”

Should I tell her? I strangled the impulse as it was born; my common sense lost no time in reminding me of the folly of that course.

“I’ll be so utterly yours, Godfrey,” she went on, “that you’ll simply _have_ to love me.”

I rose. “Let’s have no more of this nonsense,” said I. “Understand, once for all, Edna, the day when you can use me is past--gone forever. You are free--and so am I. We will annoy each other no more.”

She faced me, her bosom heaving, her widening eyes scrutinizing me. And what I saw in them made me quail. For there shone the arch-fiend jealousy. “Godfrey!” she exclaimed at last. “It must be another woman!”

I laughed--not pleasantly, I imagine. “Is there no end to your vanity?” said I.

“Another woman,” she repeated dazedly. “If that weren’t true you couldn’t treat me harshly--you would want me back--would love me----”

“If there were not another woman on earth, I would not go back to you,” said I.

But what woman would believe that of a man--especially of one upon whom she had put her private brand? She said in the same slow ferocious way: “Some woman has hold of you--is getting ready to make a fool of you.”

I laughed--nervously watching her mind dart from woman to woman of those we knew.

“Ah--you can’t deceive me!” she cried. “Mary Kirkwood! She has been stealing you away from me. And you, a fool like all men where women are concerned, can’t see through her.” Edna laughed wildly. “But she has _me_ to reckon with now. I’ll show her!”

“Mrs. Kirkwood is engaged to Hartley Beechman,” said I.

“A nobody of a novelist,” said Edna. “That’s a mere blind. She’s after _you_. After _my_ husband--the man _I_ love! We’ll see!”

Again I laughed--and I am sure my counterfeit of indifference was successful. “Have it your way,” said I. “But the fact remains that you and I are done with each other.”

“I shall set aside the divorce,” said she.

“As you please,” replied I, lighting a cigarette and preparing to leave the room. “If you are not content with the terms of settlement you can have more money. If that----”

“Why _do_ I love you?” cried she, all softness and piteous appeal again. “You who are so base that you think only of money! What weakness for me to love you! Yet, God help me, I do--I do! Godfrey----”

“I am going back to London,” said I.

She stretched out her arms, and her face was a grief-stricken appeal for mercy. “You can’t be so cruel to me--your Edna.”

I smiled mockingly at her and left the room.

XII

I have not been unaware of your anger and disgust with me, gentle reader, during the progress of the preceding scene. In real life--in your own life--you would have understood such a scene. But you are not in the habit of reading realities in books--real men, real women, real action. Everything is there toned down, put in what is called an artistic perspective. Well, I am not an artist, and perhaps I have no right to express an opinion upon matters of art. But I’ll venture. To me art means a point of view upon life; so, I see nothing artistic, nothing but more or less grotesque nonsense, in an art that is not a point of view but a false view. But to keep to Edna and myself.

You think I should have been moist and mushy, should have taken her back, should have burdened myself for the rest of my days with her insincere and unsympathetic personality. You are saying: “But after all she loved him.” Even so--what does the word love mean when used by a person of her character? It means nothing but the narrowest, blighting selfishness. She had for years used me without any thought for or of my feelings, wishes, needs. When we moved into our grand New York house she gave me as a bedroom the noisiest room in the house, one overlooking the street where the rattling of carriages, cabs, and carts and the talk and laughter of pedestrians kept me awake until far into the night and roused me about four in the morning--this, when I was working with might and main all day long and needed every moment of rest I could get. Why did she give me that room? Because she wanted the only available quiet room--beside her own bedroom--for a dressing room! She said the light in the room she gave me was unfit to dress by! I thought nothing of all this at the time. It is characteristic of American wives to do these things; it is characteristic of American men to regard them as the matter of course. I cite the small but not insignificant incident to show the minuteness of her indifference to me. I have already given many of the larger though perhaps less important instances, and I could give scores, hundreds, in the same tenor. She professed to love me at that time--and she either had or simulated a very ardent passion. But that was not love, was it? Love is generous, is considerate, finds its highest pleasure of self-gratification in making the loved one happy. Such a conception of love never entered her head--and how many American women’s heads does it enter? How it amuses me to watch them as they absorb everything, give nothing, sit enthroned upon their vanities--and then wonder and grow sulky or sour when their husbands or lovers tire of the thankless task of loving them and turn away--or turn them away.

If Edna had awakened to genuine love, gentle outraged reader, would she not have been overwhelmed with shame as she looked back upon her married life? Would she have come to me with the offer of her love as a queen with the offer of her crown? She would not have indulged in empty words; she would have tried to _do_ something by way of reparation. She would not have demanded that she be taken back; but, feeling that she had forfeited her rights, she would have tried to find out whether I would consent to take her back; and if she had found that I would not, she would have accepted her fate as her desert.

In those circumstances do you think I could have laughed at her and remained firm? No one not a monster could have done that.

But the thing she called love was not love at all, was merely as I described it to her--a newly discovered way of using me after she had thought all possible use for me exhausted. Such, gentle reader, is the simple truth. Yet because I had intelligence enough to see the truth and firmness enough not to be swayed by shallow and meaningless sentimentalities, you call me hard, harsh, cruel. One of your impulsive kindly souls would have taken her weeping to his arms, would have begun to live with her. And there the novel would have ended, with you, gentle reader, all tears and thrills. For, having no imagination, you would have been unable to picture the few weeks of cat-and-dog life after the “happy ending,” then the breaking apart in hatred and vindictiveness. But this is not an “artistic” novel. It is a story of life, a plain setting forth of actualities, in the hope that it may enable some men and women to understand life more clearly and to live their own lives more wisely and perhaps less mischievously.

I went to my daughter. “Margot,” said I, “your mother threatens to try to stop the divorce. It is best for both her and me that we be free. I am determined not to live with her again, for I abominate the sort of life she and you lead. If you will do what you can to bring her to her senses, I will see that you don’t regret it.”

Margot rather liked me, I believe. Not as a father; as a father I made her ashamed, like everything else American about her. But it was a resigned kind of shame, and she appreciated my money, my good nature about it and my services in bringing back her marquis and making possible her son the earl. I knew I could count on her active sympathy; for she would vastly prefer that her mother be the Princess Frascatoni.

My mother, Mrs. Loring; my mother, the Princess Frascatoni. Pronounce those two phrases, gentle reader, and you will grasp my meaning.

I was by no means sure she would have any influence with her mother, even though she was now the wife of one marquis and the mother of a marquis to be, with about half the high British peerage as relatives. But I was desperate, and a desperate man clutches at anything.

“I think you are right, papa,” said she in her mother’s own grave sweet way. “You and mamma never have been suited to each other. Besides, I don’t want her away off in America where I never expect to be again. Some of the girls who have married here like to go back there and receive the flattery and the homage. But it seems cheap to me. I’m sure I don’t care what the Americans think of me. I’m not snobbish, as I used to be. I am English now--loyal English to the core.”

“This is the place for your mother, too.” An idea occurred to me. “If I took your mother back with me, I would have my parents and hers live with us in a big place I’m going to buy in the country. You don’t know your grandparents well?”

She was coloring deeply. She must have heard more than her mother dreamed she knew. “No, papa,” said she.

“Your mother and I were disgracefully neglectful of them,” pursued I. “But I shall make up for it, as far as I can. I wish you would come over and visit us.”

“I should like it, papa,” murmured she, ready to sink down with shame.

“They are plain people,” I went on, “but they are good and honest--much ahead of these wretched parasites you’ve been brought up among.... Talk to your mother about them. Tell her what I have said.”

She understood thoroughly; that is the sort of thing fashionable people always understand. “I shall, papa,” said she. And I could see her putting on a fetching air of sweet innocence and telling her mother.

“And if she does not like it,” continued I--“can’t bear the scandal and ridicule among her fashionable friends--why, she can desert me. And that would give me ground for divorce.”

“She would be dreadfully unhappy over there,” said Margot.

“I am sure of it,” said I, and my accent was a guarantee.

Should I see Edna again and picture our life together in the house of love she was bent upon? I decided against it. Margot’s pictures might lack the energy and detail of mine. They would more than make up in bringing home to her the awful reality, as she would believe Margot where she might suspect me of merely threatening what I would never carry out. So, off I went to London--to wait.

About the hardest task in this world is inaction when every fiber of your being is clamorous for action. Yet I contrived to sit tight--for a week--for two weeks. I have always regarded myself as too impatient, too impetuous. And, beyond question, my natural tendency is to the precipitate. But looking back over my life I am astonished--and not a little pleased with myself--as I note how I have held myself in check, have confined my follies of rash haste to occasions when miscarriage was not a serious matter.

Armitage came--on the way from St. Moritz to America. As soon as I could command the right tone, I said:

“You’ve seen your sister and Mrs. Armstrong? How are they?”

“All right,” replied he indifferently. “Motoring in Spain at present, I believe.”

“Beechman--he’s with them?”

“No. He’s somewhere hereabouts, I believe. I saw him in Hyde Park the other day--looking as seedy as if he were pulling out of an illness. I spoke and he stared and scowled and nodded--like the bounder that he is.”

“You don’t care for him?” said I, rejoiced by this news of my rival’s seediness.

“Oh, one doesn’t bother to like or dislike that sort of chap.” He said this in a supercilious manner--a manner he had never had in the earlier period of our acquaintance. How the inner man does poke through the surface when the veneer of youth wears thin!

“For one who despises birth and wealth and rank,” said I, not without a certain malice, “you have a queer way of talking at times.”

Armitage winced, changed the subject by saying: “And what the devil’s the matter with _you_? You’re looking anything but fit yourself.”

“Oh--I’m up against it, as usual,” said I gloomily.

He laughed. My pessimism was one of the jokes of my friends. But, having seen so much of the ravages of optimism--of the cheer-boys-cheer and always-look-at-the-bright-side sort of thing, I had given myself the habit of reckoning in the possibilities of disaster at full value when I made plans. Little people ought always to be optimistic. Then, their enthusiasm--_if_ directed by some big person--produces good results, where they would avail nothing could they see the dangers in advance. But big people must not be--and are not--optimists, whatever they may pretend. The big man must foresee all the chances against success. Then, if his judgment tells him there is still a chance for success, his courage of the big man will enable him to go firmly ahead, not blunderingly but wisely. The general must be pessimist. The private must be optimist; for if he were pessimist, if he saw what the general must see, he would be paralyzed with fear and doubt.

“You’re always grumbling,” said Armitage. “Yet you’re the luckiest man I know.”

“Perhaps that’s why,” replied I.

He understood, nodded. “Doubtless,” said he.