Chapter 12

She had said nine o'clock, but it was not quite half past eight, the next evening but one, when she appeared at the edge of the clearing. He was seated in the entrance to the upper story, his gaze fixed on the opening in the trees where the path emerged. At first glimpse of her in the long dark cloak, he flung away his cigarette and rushed toward her. He embraced her, then held her off as if to reassure himself that it was really she. "Do you still love me?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

The emerald eyes flashed up at him. Her face, revealed in the starlight, was gravely earnest and sweet. But beneath her calm, as beneath his, there was evidently still raging the hysteria that had whirled both clean out of the realm of sanity and sense�the fever that keeps whirling the soul it seizes from pinnacle to abyss and back again. "Ever since we separated," said she, "I've been imagining I was struggling to give up our love. But as the time for me to come got nearer and nearer, I realized what a fraud I was."

"Do you love me?"

"I am here."

They sat side by side in the entrance. "May I smoke?" he asked.

"Do." As he opened his cigarette case, "Let me have one."

"I didn't know you smoked."

"Oh�a little�at college. We girls used to do it, for the sensation of being devilish. Wouldn't you like me to smoke?"

"If you wish to."

"You don't approve?"

"Well�I don't exactly like for women to smoke or use slang. Those things seem sort of unsexing. Of course, it's only an idea."

She smiled indulgently, rolling the cigarette to loosen the tobacco, as Basil did, with a great air of being an old hand at it. "I'm afraid you're narrow."

"I guess I am."

"Gracious! What you must be thinking of me!"

As she said it, she gave that little audacious laugh of delight in her freedom to be frank. But he became grave, and it was with deep earnestness that he answered, "I love you."

She, too, was grave and thoughtful now. "What a difference that does make! Then everything�anything seems all right."

"And is!"

She put her arm through his. "Here, take your cigarette. I'll not distress you."

"No�do smoke."

"I'll confess the real reason. It makes such a nasty taste in my mouth."

He tossed his cigarette into the grass. His every gesture�and hers�betrayed what a strain they were undergoing, how deceptive was their appearance of sanity.

"Now, what did you do that for?" exclaimed she.

"I oughtn't to smoke when I'm going to kiss you."

She put her cigarette to his lips. "Please," she urged, "I like you to smoke. Don't you know a woman likes everything, even the unpleasant things, that make a man different from her? ... Smoke, and tell me what you've been doing. It's forty hours since we were together."

"I've been conscious of pretty nearly every one of them," said he. "I've done nothing but think of you."

"Sad thoughts?"

"Very. But I'll not do that again. What's the use, Courtney? We've got to have each other. What's the use of struggling against it?"

"I can't realize it�I can't," said she absently. "Last night�out at father's�I got up in the middle of the night and ran and looked at myself in the glass. And�" She paused.

"Yes?"

"I could look myself straight in the eyes and tell myself what I had been to you, and not feel like hiding. Is it that I'm not doing anything bad or that I'm so bad I don't know good from bad?"

"It's love," declared he gloomily.

"I can look back now and see that from the beginning�from the day I saw you cared�I've been coming straight to you. I was lying to myself."

"I, too," he confessed. "Courtney, we've been�and are�in the clutch of a force that's stronger than we."

"I�don't�know," said she slowly. Then, with her arms round his neck, "and I don't care. If conscience tolls its ugly bell, I'll shout 'Love! Love!' so loud that it'll be drowned. I must have love�I will have love. And how can I help loving you, who are so altogether wonderful in every way? You've only kissed me once since I came."

"Twice."

"And what's twice?"

For answer he gathered her into his arms, carried her up to the sitting room. With all of her within his arms, he sat in the big armchair. "Now!" he exclaimed. "We'll be happy!"

"Yes. Oh, what a scare when I was here before!"

She sat up and told him about Winchie's raising the hue and cry for her. He listened with a somber countenance. When she had, finished he said, "And where's Winchie now!"

"In bed�asleep."

"But�if he wakes!"

"Why, he'll lie perfectly quiet till he sleeps again. I told him never to repeat that escapade."

"But he may get frightened��"

"You forget, sir," said she smilingly, "he's my child. He could not be afraid.... What a mournful face!"

"I'm horribly jealous of him."

"If Winchie didn't keep us apart, he never could push us apart now."

"I'm very selfish," he said despondently. "I want all�all!"

"Here we are�sad again."

He sighed. "And in a few minutes you'll have to go."

"Why?"

"You can't stay away from the house. Something might happen."

"Croak! Croak!"

He passed his hand impatiently over his face. "I'm a fool!" he exclaimed. "I must learn to be content with what I have�when it's so much�so vastly more than I ever dared hope�or�" He stared out into the darkness. The ducks among the reeds close inshore were quacking discontented forebodings of rain. "I trifle with my good fortune."

"What's the matter, dear?" she asked, her cheek against his.

"Nothing. Nothing."

"What have you been thinking while I was away? ... Look at me, Basil."

"It seems to me I can't ever look�anyone in the face again."

She understood who "anyone" was. She pressed closer to him, said caressingly: "Except me. You can always look at me, and I at you. And what more do we want?"

He did not echo her tender reckless laugh, with its threat of a storm of hysterical tears. "You have good excuse for what you've done. But there's no excuse for me."

She seemed to be shrinking within herself. He gently put her on the arm of the chair, went to the window, stood there with his back to her. "The truth is, I've been in hell since you left, Courtney�a hell of remorse!"

"Remorse! Excuse!" Her bosom heaved; her eyes flashed. "Oh, you men! What hypocrites you are! ... Tell me, do you wish to give me up?"

He faced her. "I cannot give you up," was his inflexible reply.

"Then dismiss all these gloomy ideas," urged she. "Excuse? You think I have the excuse of�of his indifference, of his tyranny and bad temper�of his��"

"For God's sake, Courtney, don't say those things!"

"I think them�you think them. Why not say them?"

"Yes�you are right. I am a hypocrite."

"How easily we hurt each other," she sighed. Then, "But how easily it heals, too." She went on: "We were talking of excuses. Anyone can find an excuse for anything. Only weak people look for excuses." She elevated her head proudly. "I want no excuse for what I did, for what I'm doing. I need no excuse. Do I not own my heart, my self? I have the right of my youth, of my love. Isn't that enough?"

"The right of our love!" he exclaimed, as gay and confident as he had been depressed and doubtful. "We're wasting time. Let's talk and think only of love." And he drew her down into the chair, into his arms. "Courtney�when he does come�promise me you will not�will not��"

There he halted, for the wave that passed over her as she lay in his arms told him that she understood. "You know I will not," she said. "I belong to you, now."

"But he may��"

She laid her fingers on his lips. "Trust me," she said. "I've planned it all. Only, that's the one thing we mustn't ever talk about." She laughed, with desperate straining to be audacious. "There is honor, even in the dishonorable."

"You�dishonorable? I, perhaps�yes, certainly. But you�you belong to yourself. It is I who will play the part of dishonor. You can be as cold and distant as you like. I must smile and pretend to be a friend." He shrugged his shoulders, laughed unpleasantly.

"That's manly!" exclaimed she, nerves instantly unstrung.

"What can you expect of�of me?" he replied, so down that she straightway relented.

"Let's drop this subject, dear," she pleaded. "Let's never speak of it again�and think of it as little as possible. It's one of the conditions of our life. We will admit it�and ignore it."

"How can we drop a subject that crops out, comes to the tips of our tongues, every time we look at each other? But be patient, dear. I shall grow hardened��"

"Oh, but you must not, Basil!" she cried in dismay. "We must not. That's our danger, and we must fight it.... Isn't it pitiful! If we were two coarse people, mere animals, merely the ordinary man and woman, why, we'd be happy and never give remorse a thought."

"If we suffer more, we enjoy more," said he, clasping her as if some power had tried to snatch her away. "When I feel ashamed, Courtney, all I have to do is to remember your hair, to feel again its soft splendor on my face, between my fingers�and I am delirious."

"Love�always love!" she murmured. "No price too great to pay for it."

They heard steps�stealthy steps�upon the walk, just under the bedroom window. "Yes, yes, I hear," he whispered, as in the darkness she clutched his arm. He went to the open window, she sitting up, rigid, wide-eyed, with bated breath. Keeping in the shadow, he glanced down. He saw a man, half hidden in the shrubbery. A moment and his eyes focused so that he saw the outline of the man's face, the angle of his head�saw that the man was peering up toward that very window. He went softly back to her. "Go into the sitting room," he said. "I think it's one of those prowlers."

"Sh-h!" she warned. "Listen� On the stairs."

Both stopped breathing and listened. It was the faintest of sounds, but unmistakable. Yes, it was a robber. He was ascending the stairway�slowly, silently, steadily, up and up, step by step. Now they would miss the sound altogether; then it would come again�nearer, softer. Their hands were clasped�were like ice, but without a tremor.

"How did he get in?" she breathed.

"Don't you remember? I left the outside door unlocked�wide open."

"Sh-h!"

"Go back into the sitting room," he whispered.

"No�I stay here with you."

The awful sound, so faint, so relentless, was in the hall. "Go!" he commanded. "You'd be in my way, dear. If I need you, I'll call."

She saw that he was right�that at least he must not feel hampered. She pressed his hand, glided into the sitting room. Suddenly she almost cried out. "Is the bedroom door locked?" she called in a hoarse undertone.

He made a silent dash for it, to lock it. Too late. It opened. He could see nothing in the black hall. He made a forward leap, right hand clinched, left hand open and ready to inclose a throat. His fist thrust past the man's head, but his left fingers closed upon the throat, and his weight bore the man to the floor. But the prowler was not taken wholly by surprise. Basil instantly realized how fortunate it was that he had got the initial advantage. The two grappled; a short, sharp struggle and Gallatin felt the form under him relax. He took an even stronger hold on the throat, planted his knee squarely in the chest. "I've got him!" he cried to Courtney. "Go! Go!"

But he triumphed too soon. With a tremendous effort the prowler tore Gallatin's fingers from his throat. "Good God, Gallatin�is it you?" he gasped.

"Vaughan!"

Gallatin dropped all to pieces. But Courtney was instantly herself�and more. On went the lights, and she burst out laughing. Gallatin rose, staggered over to the window seat. Vaughan, not without difficulty, picked himself up from the floor, gazed savagely from Gallatin to his wife. She kept on laughing, more and more wildly, laughed until she fell into a chair, sat there laughing, with the tears rolling down her cheeks. "Was ever anything so ridiculous!" she gasped. And she looked from one to the other, and went off again.

Vaughan, straightening his collar and coat and waistcoat, appealed to Gallatin. "What's the meaning of this?" he demanded.

By way of reply Gallatin stared at him, as if debating whether or not to renew the attack.

"What does this mean, Courtney?" Vaughan said to her sharply.

"That's what we'd like to know," replied she.

"Why did Gallatin��"

"Serves you right," interrupted Courtney. "Why did you come prowling round here? Why didn't you go home?"

Vaughan looked sheepish. "Well, I wanted to make sure everything was all right here."

Courtney smiled with resentment in her raillery. "You were more anxious about your workshop than about your wife and child."

Vaughan reddened. "Oh, I knew everything was all right at the house," he stammered. His glance fell upon the tumbled bed. "Why!" he exclaimed. "Some one's living here!"

Gallatin, startled, was standing up with his hands clinched. But she had no fear. She did not feel guilty toward this man, who was nothing real to her; and she knew enough about him to know that his absolute belief that good women were good, and could not stray even in thought, made it impossible to tax his credulity. All that was necessary was boldness. "Mr. Gallatin is living here," said she composedly.

"Gallatin!" exclaimed Vaughan. "Why, I locked the whole place up." He wheeled on Basil. "How did you get in here?" he asked. "Didn't I make it plain to you from the outset�didn't we have a distinct understanding��"

"Richard!" interrupted Courtney sharply. "Mr. Gallatin is here because I sent him here."

Richard concentrated his angry attention upon her. "You! What right had you��"

"You will not address me in that tone," said she haughtily. "You come back home, like a thief in the night. You give me a fright. You half kill Mr. Gallatin, and then you begin to quarrel. I repeat, Mr. Gallatin is here because I sent him."

"I thought it best to live here while you were away," said Gallatin stiffly. He did not wish to throw upon Courtney the whole burden, yet he hardly dared speak, as he could not see how she hoped to extricate herself and him. In his guilt, in his ignorance of such a character as Richard's, he was amazed at her having hope. He thought her courage superhuman.

Vaughan glanced, half amused, half disdainful, from one to the other. "Are you two still disliking each other? I had forgotten that."

"You are mistaken," said Gallatin. "I do not dislike Mrs. Vaughan."

But Vaughan did not hear. "What on earth�" he suddenly ejaculated, staring at Gallatin, then at Courtney�"What on earth were you two doing here in the dark?"

Gallatin grew white as chalk. But Vaughan was looking at Courtney. "We weren't in the dark," said she, with never a tremor of eye or voice. "We were in the sitting room." As she spoke she threw open the door between the two rooms. Gallatin gazed into the sitting room like a man seeing a miracle. The lights there were all bright. The instant she had heard her husband's outcry, she had turned on the lights in both rooms, the buttons being on either side of the same wall just beyond the door frame; and she had closed the sitting-room door before the two rose from the floor.

"Come in here," she said, leading the way. "I kept getting more and more afraid at the house," she went on in rapid, easy explanation. "It was very lonesome�there were several robberies in the neighborhood�and Nanny and Lizzie and Mazie sleep so far away from my rooms. I took Winchie and went home for a couple of days, but it wasn't convenient for me to stay there�and so dull! I came back to-night, and strolled down here after dinner to make my peace with Basil�" Here she made a mocking bow to him�"and to ask him to please come up and guard the house. How well you're looking, Richard!"

"I do feel bang up," said Vaughan, "except here�" He touched his throat where Gallatin's fingers had closed in. "The trip was just what I needed. I went to a specialist in New York, and I serve notice on both of you that I've turned over a new leaf. I'll take regular exercise again�and stop grinding away all day and all evening. The great discovery of the fuel that will make it as cheap to be warm as to be cold can wait. Perhaps it'll come the sooner if I keep in condition."

"That's sensible," said Courtney. "And you must live at home, and let Mr. Gallatin stay on here."

"It's good advice. I'll take it," assented Vaughan promptly. "Being here tempts me to work when I ought to be resting." He threw a good-humored look at Gallatin. "I guess you're not likely to succumb to that temptation, old man."

"Not I," said Basil, with the first sickly hint of a smile.

"Gad, it's good to be home!" Vaughan was gazing at Courtney now, in his eyes the proprietorial look, bold, amorous. "She's looking well�eh�Gallatin?"

Basil did not answer. He was glowering at Vaughan, and biting his lip, and his fingers were twitching.

Courtney rose. "Let's all go up to the house," proposed she: "You'll come, won't you, Mr.�beg pardon�Basil?"

Gallatin stared coldly at her. Her "superhuman courage" now seemed sheer brazenness to him. "Thanks�no," said he in a suffocating voice.

"Hope I didn't damage you, Gallatin," said Vaughan with the rather careless solicitude of man for man.

"Not in the least," replied Gallatin curtly.

"Oh, come now, old man," cried Richard. "Look at my throat." He inspected it himself in the mirror ruefully. "If I can forgive you, you ought to forgive me. Come along, Courtney."

He took her by the arm, smiling at her, she mustering a return smile. Basil was looking intently at her, with an expression of cold fury. When he caught her eye he sneered. She, already at the breaking pitch, could not endure that contempt. She looked piteously at him, gave a low cry, sank upon the sofa, fell over in a dead faint.

Basil gazed stupidly at her. Vaughan dashed into the bath room, reappeared with a wet towel, rubbed her temples and her wrists with it. She opened her eyes, looked round�saw Basil. "Take me away!" she sobbed. "Take me away!"

Her husband gathered her into his arms as if she were a tired child. "Good night, Gallatin. See you in the morning," he said, and strode out with her.

Gallatin fell into one of those futile rages that are the steam of the strife between a man's desire and his courage. "It's my love for her," he assured himself, "that keeps me from following him and taking her from him." He found small comfort in this, however; for, he suspected it was only part�a minor part�of a truth, the rest of which was altogether to his discredit. He sat, he leaned, he stood at the bedroom window overlooking the path. Again and again he fancied he saw her, a new and deeper shadow in the shadows beneath the trees. Whenever the wind stirred a bush there, his fanciful hope made it her cloak. He knew it was impossible for her to return; but he could not give up. He did not leave the window until dawn. Then, he lay on the bed, exhausted, wretched, burning with hate for Richard, with rage against her, with contempt for himself.