Part 5

For the Westfield Hunt Club was up in arms at the first suggestion of powder. All the small talk that spring bore on the matter of enlisting, or on the men who had enlisted. Everyone wished to be a rough rider, and if a commission in that favorite corps had been the certain prerogative of an offer of service, all the able-bodied bachelors in the colony would have enrolled themselves. As it was, there were numerous applicants for this particular aggregation of fighters, but only Kenneth Post, the master of the hounds, succeeded in joining it. Half a dozen obtained billets elsewhere: Guy Perry on one of the war vessels despatched to Cuban waters, young Joe Marbury in another of the volunteer regiments, and Dick Weston, pretty Mrs. Baxter's brother, on one of the yachts converted into a coast guard for the protection of our Atlantic cities against bombardment by the battle-ships of Spain.

Harry Spencer was also one of the half dozen. When he promptly proffered his services to the Government, it was somehow taken for granted that he would get a good post; and presently he justified his reputation by receiving an invitation to join the staff of a brigade on the eve of embarking for Cuba. No one at Westfield impugned his courage or questioned his patriotism, but some of the women in discussing the matter later agreed that he had to go. Mrs. Cole put it in a nutshell when she said:

"If by any chance Lydia cares for him, she would never have spoken to him again had he remained at home."

But there were cases, too, of disappointment. Andrew Cunningham, who, in spite of conjugal bonds, was eager to go to the front, was rejected on account of his age and weight, much to his chagrin and to the secret satisfaction of his better-half. Douglas Hale was discarded on the plea of color-blindness, though, as he pathetically informed his acquaintance, the doctor who examined him declared that he had never seen a finer physical specimen in other respects. Hence it will be perceived that there was a nucleus left for the maintenance of a steady fire of conversation at the club-house for the benefit of the stay-at-homes.

At first, in keeping with the course of events, it centred on the possibilities of the destruction of New York, Boston, or Portland by the enemy's fleet; and after that bogy was laid, and the phantom fleet located, it reverted to that ever-fresh topic for controversy, the cause of the blowing up of the Maine. Then it turned to Manila, and when the events of that splendid victory had been threshed threadbare, scented trouble with Germany. The victory at Santiago set every tongue a-wagging and raised enthusiasm to fever pitch; but presently the struggles of our poorly rationed troops prompted an inquiry into the merits of General Shafter as a commander, and one heard the hum of speculation as to what would have happened if Cervera had not come out when he did.

Some of the members showed themselves positive arsenals of statistics and secret information from the scene of action. Instead of dwelling on his misfortunes at golf, Douglas Hale's shibboleth all summer was the letter which he carried in his pocket from Guy Perry, who had the good fortune to be in the van of the battle of Santiago. This he read to every man or woman of his acquaintance who would let him, and cherished as an historical document which put him in close touch with the authorities at Washington. Andrew Cunningham tried to make the best of his disappointment by showing himself an audible authority on the size and equipment, identity and immediate location of every battle-ship, cruiser, and torpedo-boat in the navy, and as to our future needs to fit us to cope with the naval armaments of the other great powers of the world. As to the women, they were utterly absorbed in making bandages and comfort bags.

Such were the diversions of the spring and early summer. By August the heroes returned from the front and began to reappear on their native heath. Other sporting garb gave place to regimental attire, and, to be in fashion, both men and women wore army slouch hats and suits akin to khaki. One of the first of the Westfield colony to reach home was Guy Perry, looking brown as an Indian from his long exposure to the sun outside the harbor at Santiago. On the day after his return his engagement to Miss Peggy Blake was formally announced, much to the delight of everybody, but to no one's surprise--a fact which slightly dismayed the radiant couple, who were apparently under the delusion that their tryst had been kept a profound secret. They were certainly an attractive-looking pair as they dashed about the country on Guy's dog-cart, proclaiming their good fortune to the world. Peggy's rough rider hat, perched on the back of her head, suited her style of beauty; and as they bubbled over with health and happiness, more than one camera fiend took a shot at them as a charming epitome of the strenuous life.

On the other hand, Kenneth Post returned on a litter, almost a skeleton from fever; and Gerald Marcy, who against his own doctor's advice had finally succeeded in getting stalled in camp in Florida, was limping with rheumatism. Nevertheless, he was able to be about, and, though on ordinary occasions a socially tactful spirit, he did not attempt to conceal his pride at being the only one of the middle-aged men who had succeeded in dodging the authorities and serving his country.

But the hero who brought back the stateliest palm of glory from Cuba was Harry Spencer, for he had his arm in a sling from a flesh wound caused by a Spanish bullet at San Juan Hill, and had been subsequently in the hospital, threatened with blood poisoning. He was emaciated and interesting-looking, so Mrs. Cole, who had a glimpse of him, declared, and he went straight to the small cottage at Westfield where he had spent the previous summer.

Two days subsequent to his return the spirit moved Mrs. Cole to call on Lydia, and on the afternoon of the day she paid this visit it was noticed that she sat pensive and silent while the other women at the club were drinking tea. It was Mrs. Barker who called attention to the circumstance by asking:

"What are you incubating on, Fannie?"

Mrs. Cole hesitated for a moment, then she said tragically, "I am afraid she cares for him."

No one had to ask who was meant.

"What did I tell you?" exclaimed Mrs. Cunningham.

"What makes you think so?" asked the practical Miss Marbury.

Fannie Cole shook her head. "Not from anything she said. She didn't mention the subject. It was from what she didn't say. She made me think of a pent-up volcano."

Proceeding from the intimate source it did, this testimony, though metaphorical, was felt to be most interesting.

"And if the volcano bursts, what will become of poor Herbert?" murmured Mrs. Baxter.

"That's it, of course. Yet it isn't the only thing," responded Mrs. Cole. "What will become of Lydia? What will become of all three of them?" The sociological vista which opened before her was evidently so appalling that she leaned back limply in the straw chair on which she was sitting. But the attitude was productive of philosophy, for she suddenly said with the air of one rhapsodizing, but who nevertheless utters an indictment against Providence:

"If the divinity which shapes our ends really intended Lydia to be happy, why was Harry Spencer allowed to return when he did?" Warming to the vividness of her imagination, she continued briskly, "The ideal course of events would have been this: First, the baby should never have been born; secondly, Herbert Maxwell should have felt an uncontrollable patriotic call to go to the war; he should have fought with distinguished valor and brilliancy--sufficient to inscribe his name on the pages of history--and he should have been shot dead. That would have satisfied him. Then would have been the time for Harry Spencer to come home. With him and Herbert's fortune Lydia might have been radiantly happy. As it is--" Mrs. Cole paused, palsied by the perplexities of reality, and unwilling to venture on prophecy.

But Mrs. Baxter saw fit to finish the sentence for her by a not altogether logical utterance: "As it is, it was Mr. Spencer who went to the war and has come back alive and a hero. If Lydia liked him before, it is of course all the harder for her not to like him now."

Mrs. Cunningham uttered a sort of groan. Then she said emphatically, "There can be but one end to it, in my opinion. Sooner or later she will leave her husband and run away with him."

There was a general nodding of heads--all but Mrs. Cole's.

"And what will they do with that poor baby?" interjected Miss Marbury.

Fannie Cole sat up by way of protest. "My dears," she said with gasping alertness, "that would be comparatively normal, and it cannot be the correct solution. Don't you see it's impossible? Neither of them has any money. If she would, he wouldn't, and neither of them would." She looked around the circle with a smile of triumph, knowing that her stricture was unanswerable.

"I never thought of that," said Mrs. Baxter, voicing the general perplexity.

VI

Late one afternoon, about a month after, Lydia Maxwell was sitting in her drawing-room at Westfield. An exquisite tea service stood on a table close at hand. But tea had been served. At least the visitor who had been spending the afternoon with her had drunk his and had been gone about ten minutes. Her baby, left by the nurse on the way to her own evening meal, was cooing on the sofa at her side, fended by pillows from toppling over on its head, and provided with the latest novelties in costly toys. The child was now nearly two, and her wardrobe was a credit to her mother's decorative instincts. Lydia enjoyed the combination of the infant and herself and spared no pains to produce an effective picture on all occasions, whether the setting were the drawing-room, a victoria, or a village cart. She counted on mounting Guendolen at the earliest possible day on the tiniest of ponies as a picturesque hunting attendant. Nor had her husband failed to appreciate what an opportunity was here afforded for the artist. Six months earlier he had threatened--the phrase was Lydia's--to have her and baby done by Sargent on his next visit; in fact, Herbert had written to him. The offer had been tempting from the point of view of immortality, but left alone with the child, she had shaken her head and said:

"It would be lovely if it were just right, Guen, but he might take it into his head to form a vicious conception of mamma. And as for you, he couldn't help making you the speaking image of Grandma Maxwell. Living pictures are safest for us, dear, for we can control the canvas."

Now she sat pensive and tense, her hands clasped in her lap. "Why do I love him so?" she murmured under her breath, rebelling against the consciousness which gripped her. Yet in another moment she asserted with the abandonment of one defending his faith against all comers, "But how I do love him!"

A jocund, inarticulate effort at conversation by the child reminded her of its presence. Reaching out her hand, she felt the silky softness of the delicate infantile locks, and then the dainty texture of the frilled dress. Again she said, talking to herself: "The problem is, what will become of you, cherub? You must go with me, of course--if I go."

Her baby cooed by way of response. There was a noise in the hall as of someone arriving.

"A visitor for you, Guen," she said. Hurriedly leaning over, she raised her finger as one would to hold the attention of a dancing dog, and gave this cue for imitation.

"Say pa-a-pa--pa-a-pa."

The earlier lessons had been fairly learned, for after a brief struggle the dawning intelligence freed itself in an unequivocal if throaty reproduction of the pious salutation.

"You little pet! Now again."

"Pa-a-pa."

"At last. A sop to Cerberus," Lydia murmured.

The door opened and the master of the house entered. He had just come back from an afternoon ride, and in the few minutes which had elapsed since his return Lydia knew that he had been to the sideboard in the dining-room--a man's way of alleviating despondency. His glance, avoiding or ignoring his wife, sought eagerly the object which he expected to find--his infant daughter. This was the bright spot in his day. The baby acknowledged his advent by a crow and by shaking a solid silver rattle. Maxwell, walking across to the other side of the room, sat down and held out his arms invitingly. But Lydia intervened to defer the customary toddling journey in order to exhibit her pupil's latest accomplishment.

"Listen to her now, Herbert," she said, and gave the necessary signal.

"Pa-a-pa." The verisimilitude was undeniable.

Something very like a groan escaped Maxwell, though his countenance lighted up. Was he thinking how happy he might have been had fate so willed?

The performance was repeated successfully a second time; then the child was despatched on her travels across the carpet. When she ran staggering into her father's arms he folded her to his breast and pressed his lips against the fair, silky tresses. She was accustomed to be thus cuddled by him, though to-night there was an added fervor in his endearments, owing to her efforts at speech. Meanwhile Lydia from her angle of the sofa observed them in demure silence. She had given him an entrancing quarter of an hour, for which she was thankful. Besides, it might put off the evil day--the day of rupture, decision, breaking up of the present anomalous domestic relations--which was impending. He had been devoted, forbearing, unselfish, he had lavished on her every luxury, but he was impassible. He did not divert or interest her; his serious side lacked originality; his gayer moods were noisy and deficient in subtlety; the reddish inelegance of his physique repelled her. But what was to be the end? This was the riddle which for diverse reasons she had yet failed to solve. Its solution must depend on the future words of both of them, and she had had no final explanation with either. For the present she would fain have things remain as they were, until she could find the key.

The return of the nurse interrupted Maxwell's happiness. Grudgingly he gave up his treasure. As soon as the child had been carried off, he rose, and standing with his back to the blaze of the wood-fire, which the first sharpness of autumn made agreeable, he faced his wife.

"I met Spencer coming from here."

"He stayed to tea."

"And was here all the afternoon?"

"You know he comes every afternoon."

"And nearly every morning?"

"Yes."

"What is to be the end of this, Lydia?"

She was preparing his tea, which he was accustomed to take after the departure of Guendolen. "How do you wish to have it end?" she asked presently.

"I would have you promise me never to see him again, and to go abroad with me for two years. Let us change the scene entirely. You owe it to me, Lydia, and to our child." This was no new discussion, but he was making one last determined effort to counteract the influences working against him.

"But you know I love him."

"So you have informed me. You have informed me also that it has stopped there."

"It is true. Why, I scarcely know. Perhaps it would have been juster to you if I had left you and gone to him."

"I do not understand."

"No matter, then."

"But you loved me once," he exclaimed resolutely. "That is, you told me so."

"Yes, I told you so. And I did love you as I understood loving then. I liked you, that's what it really was, and I liked the things which a marriage with you brought me."

"You mean you married me for my money?"

"I did not know it at the time."

"What do you mean, then?"

Lydia clasped her hands behind her head and leaned back in her seat. "I am trying to be frank with you," she said. "I am trying to make you the only reparation in my power--to let you see me just as I am, just as I see myself. We are what we are. I discovered that long ago."

He caught up this appeal to fatalism with a quicker appreciation of her significance than he was wont to show.

"You need never see this man again unless you choose. You are my wife; I am your husband. Does that stand for nothing?"

"I should choose to see him," she answered with low precision, ignoring the rest. "There is the trouble."

He winced as though from a buffet. "Good God, Lydia, what have I done? Is there anything within my power which you desired which I haven't given you?"

"You have been very generous."

"Generous!" The word evidently galled him. "Do you realize that to regain your love I would gladly sacrifice every dollar of the five million I own?"

For a moment she made no response. The idea of living with a penniless Maxwell was one which she had never entertained, and it made clearer to her the hopelessness of her plight.

"I am not worth it, Herbert," she said gently.

He, too, paused, baffled and at a loss how to proceed. "You are so cold," he asserted with an access of indignation.

"Cold?" The quality of the interrogation expressed the incredulity of newly discovered self-knowledge.

"To me."

"Yes, to you, Herbert."

He bent his brow upon her. "I suppose if I had devoted myself to some other woman I might not have lost you. I had hints enough from our kind friends, which I ignored because I did not choose to soil our wedlock by such a foul pretense." His conclusion betrayed the loyalty of his emotions, but there was the sneer of gathering temper in his tone.

Lydia shook her head with a fastidious smile. "With some women that might have been the remedy. It could have made no difference with me."

"It is not too late yet," he cried with loud-mouthed menace. "You forget that I am human--that I am a man."

She raised the pages of a book beside her and let them fall gradually. "You must do as you choose about that."

"Then what is the remedy?" he shouted.

"I used an inappropriate word. There is no remedy in our case."

"Lydia, you are goading me to ruin."

Striding up and down the room, he struck his leather breeches smartly with his riding-crop--which he had brought from the hall because the baby liked to play with it--so that they resounded. He halted before his wife and exclaimed hoarsely:

"What are we to do, then?"

She had been warned by feminine innuendoes before marriage of the Maxwell vehemence below the surface, and she perceived that their affairs had reached a crisis.

"Sit down, Herbert, please. I cannot bear noise. If we are to arrange matters, we must talk quietly in order to decide what is really best under all the circumstances."

He gave an impatient twist to his head. "I wish you to know that I am master here after this," he announced. Nevertheless, he walked to the chair near the fireplace, which he had first occupied, and sitting down, folded his arms.

"Well, what have you to say?"

"To begin with, Herbert, there is no escape for either of us from this calamity. And you must not suppose that I do not realize how dreadful it is for us both. So far as there is fault, it is mine. I ought never to have married you. But the past is the past; I do not love you now; I can never love you again."

"One way out of it," he said between his teeth, "would be to kill the man you do love."

"How would that avail?"

"I have thought more than once of shooting him down like a dog," he blurted.

Lydia shook her head. "You never could do that when it came to the point. And in case of a duel, he is more handy than you. Besides, who fights duels nowadays? And think of the newspapers! You know as well as I that such a thing is out of the question--on Guen's account if for no other reason. It would be blazoned all over the country."

"On Guen's account! Why did you not think of her before you sacrificed us both?"

She looked back at him unruffled. "I am thinking of her now," she replied with her finished modulation. "I have told you I am what I am."

"Do not repeat that shallow sophistry," he exclaimed fiercely. "You are what you choose to be." But in the same breath he fell back in his seat with the air of one confounded. Then, resting his elbow on the arm of the chair and his cheek on his hand, he gazed at her from under his reddish, beetling brows as one might gaze at the sphinx. "What, then, do you suggest?" he asked wearily.

Lydia had shrugged her shoulders at his last stricture. Now raising again the cover of the book beside her and letting the leaves slip through her fingers, she replied slowly, "I suppose if you were a foreign husband you would accept the inevitable and console yourself as best you could. We should go our respective ways and ask no questions. I should be discreet and--and things would remain as they are so far as Guen is concerned."

"I see. But I am an American husband, and, though they have the reputation of being the most accommodating in the world, they draw the line at such an arrangement as you suggest."

"I thought very likely that you would. Then we must separate. Sooner or later, I suppose, you will be entitled to a divorce, if you wish it."

There was a pause. "Where will you go?" he asked in a hollow tone.

"I have not thought," she answered.

It was the truth. Clever and discerning as she was, she had put off the inevitable from day to day, basking in the glamour of the present. What would her lover say? Would he be ready to venture all for her sake? to throw convention to the winds and glory in their passion? She did not know; she had never asked him. They had never discussed the future. She needed time--time to think and time to ascertain. Then a sudden thought seized her, and she spoke:

"I shall take Guen."

"Guen?" There were agony and revolting consternation in his exclamation.

"I am her mother. She is a mere baby. Am I not her natural guardian?"

He sprang to his feet. "I should not permit it!" he thundered. "I should go to law; I should appeal to the courts."

Her wits showed themselves her allies. "But if you drive me from this house, the courts will give her to me," she said triumphantly. "What, after all, have I done? You are jealous, and you dismiss me. They will let me have my baby."

The horror inspired by her cool, confident declaration choked his utterance. He raised his riding crop in his clenched fist as though he were impelled to strike her. "You--you--" he articulated, but no suitable stigma was evolved by his seething brain. His arm fell, but he stood with set teeth and bristling mien, like a wild boar at bay.

His fury had the effect of enhancing Lydia's appearance of calm. "There is no use in getting excited. I'm only telling you what is likely to happen if we have recourse to desperate measures. She's a girl, and I brought her into the world--had all the stress of doing so. Why shouldn't I have her? I've heard lawyers say that when parents separate the courts consider what is for the best good of the children. Surely it is for the best good of a baby girl of two that she should go with her mother. That's the modern social view, Herbert, and a man has to make the best of it."

As she proceeded Lydia had warmed to the plausible justice of her argument. Recognizing that she had put herself in the best possible position for the time being, she rose to go. Maxwell, gnawing at his lips, stood pondering her dire words. The appalling intimation that he might lose his precious child had numbed his senses with dread. He knew his wife's cleverness, and that there must be some truth in her statement. Might she not even at the moment be premeditating an attempt to carry her away? Every other thought became at once subordinate to his resolve to safeguard his treasure. As though he suspected that his wife had risen under a crafty impulse to get the start of him, he blocked her pathway by stepping between her and the door.