Chapter 15

My father and mother accepted Hilda with the sweetest good grace. She was not what they had hoped for; she was not what they had expected or feared. To my father it seemed, he was good enough to say so, that I had played the man. And he could not, he said, help loving any woman, whether she came from the roof of the world or its cellar, who had loved his son so faithfully and so long.

And the rings on Hilda's finger, and the pride in her new estate, and the pretty clothes that my mother helped her to buy worked a wondrous change in her. People couldn't help looking after her, she was so pretty, so graceful, and had so much faith and worship in her eyes.

We had put off our date of sailing a little, so that my friends might see that I was not ashamed of what I had done, but that I gloried in it, and that my parents showed a face of approval to the world. Those days of postponement were, I think, the best days of my life. A treasure had been given into my guardianship, and it seemed to me that I was going to be worthy of the trust.

Then, the very day before we were to sail, I met Lucy face to face in the street; and began to tremble a little. She held out both hands; she was always so natural and frank.

"So you've done it!" she exclaimed; "I think she's sweet, and so good-looking."

Then the smile faded from her lips, and she made the praying eyes at me, and I knew that I had only to be with her a moment to love her.

"Of course," she said, "it's all right our meeting and speaking _now_."

"Of course," I said, and they sounded lame words, lamely spoken.

"Do you believe in post-mortems?" she asked.

"No," I said, "but I like them."

"We--Oh, it's lucky we had parents and guardians, isn't it? When did you come to the end of your rope?"

I could only shake my head.

"Was it when you--heard about me?"

"I like post-mortems, but I don't approve of them."

So she abandoned the post-mortem.

"Tell me," she said, "why you married her? Was she an old flame?"

"No, Lucy--a new flame."

"I hope you will be very, very happy," she said.

"But you doubt it."

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Why indeed?"

"Listen. It--it wasn't any of it your fault. I tried to make you like me, and succeeded, and the harm was done--but now we've settled down to a harmless and quiet old age."

Had we? Oh, why had that pansy face and those great praying eyes come into my life again? Would it be always so when we met, the heart leaping, and the brain swimming, and the body shaken with tenderness and desire?

I spoke no word of betrayal, but so standing a little to one side of the passing crowds on the sidewalk, looking into that upturned face, seeing those eyes so sad and prayerful above the smiling mouth, I betrayed my wife for the first time, and Lucy read me like a primer, and she knew that I loved her--either _still_ or once more. Of her own emotions her face told me nothing.

"I hear," she said, "that you are both to volunteer as nurses. I think that is splendid."

"If only I can live so as to help someone, Lucy. I am going to try very hard. And I am going to try very hard to be a good husband, for my wife has showered me with noble and priceless gifts."

After a moment: "I hope," said Lucy, "you're going on the American line. The Germans seem to be torpedoing everything else in sight."

"We're sailing on the _Lusitania_."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"They couldn't do anything to her. She's too big. You'll have some distinguished company."

"Really! I haven't seen the passenger list."

"Why, there's Justus Miles Forman, and Charles Frohman, and Alfred Vanderbilt and I don't know who all. . . . Well," she held out her hand suddenly; "I've chores to do, thousands of them, so good luck to you, and good-by, if I don't see you again."