But today as Ethel walked on through the Park, she smiled to herself expectantly. For Dwight had promised the next week to bring Sally Crothers to see her. "If only I can get on with her! She's my kind—I know she is—she's just exactly what I want. I don't want to be anything wild—not Mrs. Grewe nor Fanny Carr. I want to be myself, that's all, and happy with my husband!"
She turned abruptly toward her home. "In the meantime I am going back to give the baby his bath," she thought. She glanced at the watch on her gloved wrist. And a man who looked like a detective, or a villain in the "movies," looked after her in an envious way.
"Who's her date with!" he wondered.
CHAPTER XXI
The days dragged by. She had anxious times. What would Sally Crothers be like? "And what in the world will she think of me? If she doesn't like me—very much—the very first time, I'll have lost my chance. For she's busy, her life is full of things—planning gardens and running about with her friends. And she won't so much as bother her head!" Ethel felt a dismal sinking. In vain she strove to assure herself. Joe, Nourse and then Dwight, one after the other, had all bowed down before her. "Oh, that was very simple!" she thought. "They're only men!" It would be a woman this time, and one of the most brilliant kind. "What a dull little fool she'll find me, in spite of all I do or say!" It would be all the more difficult because Mrs. Crothers was older. "That will count against me. No doubt she's beginning to show her age; and I'm young, and she doesn't want any young things to come snooping about her husband! Then there's Amy and the quarrel they had, and she'll put me and Amy in the same class! I'll have all that to fight against!" The idea of settling everything all in one brief encounter. Oh, it was too maddening!
"Now, Ethel Lanier, for goodness' sake stop fidgeting like a nervous old maid! This isn't the minister coming to call!"
On the day before the expected call, Ethel was just on the point of going out for the afternoon to do some shopping and shake off these silly fears, when the telephone rang and a few moments later the maid came in and told her there was a visitor downstairs. In an instant with a rush of excitement Ethel knew it was Sally at last. Dwight, in his easy, careless way, had mixed his dates and was bringing Sally a day ahead! How stupid of him! "What have I on?"
"Did she come up?" she breathlessly asked.
"No, Mrs. Lanier, she's waiting below."
"Did she give her name?"
"Yes—Mrs. Carr."
"Oh." Ethel gasped and sank down in a heap. "All right, ask her to come up," she said, in a tone of indifference.
When the maid had gone, she almost called her back. She did not want to see Fanny Carr. Still—why not? Oh, let her come. And in the two or three minutes that followed, Ethel passed from a mood of depression to one of easy good-natured contempt. She was no longer afraid of Fanny, for Ethel was getting Joe in hand. "And as soon as I do," she reflected, "and my husband makes a name as an architect doing great big things, what harm can Fanny do me?" As she thought of the brilliant people who were so soon to be her friends, she looked upon Fanny Carr and her like with no more hatred but only compassion. What stupid lives they were leading.
And so when Fanny came into the room Ethel received her kindly.
But Fanny rather smiled at that. She looked a bit seedy as to her dress, and yet she had a confident air. She took in the fine clothes of her handsome young hostess, and Ethel's very gracious air and the almost pitying tone of her voice—and then with a hard little smile, "My, what a change," said Fanny softly. Ethel frowned at her tone. This might be rather awkward.
"You mean this way of doing my hair?" she rejoined good-humouredly. "I was hoping you would notice it."
"Does he?" asked Fanny.
"What do you mean? Oh, Joe never—"
"No. Dwight, my dear." The hard voice of her visitor had become suddenly low and clear. Ethel looked at the woman then and slowly reddened to her ears. And the consciousness of blushing made her all the angrier.
"What on earth do you mean!" she demanded. Her voice too was very low, and it trembled only a little; but there was a glint in her brown eyes. Fanny gave a tense little laugh.
"Look here," she said. "Don't let's waste time. Joe may be coming home, you know, and we must get this over first."
"We'll soon get it over." Ethel's voice was shaking ominously. Fanny noticed and spoke fast.
"Well, then, it's just this," she said. "You've made up your mind to cut Joe off from all his old friends, including me. And I might have stood for that—"
"How kind!"
"If I hadn't learned of the raw deal you're giving him. Strip him of friends and then treat him like this? Oh, no, not if I can help it!" Plainly Fanny was working herself into a rage to match that of her hostess.
"You'd better be very clear, Mrs. Carr," Ethel exclaimed, leaning forward. Her visitor looked straight back at her, and answered:
"Very. I mean Dwight."
Ethel rose abruptly.
"That will be enough, I think."
"Oh, will it?"
Ethel wheeled upon her:
"What a—loathsome mind you have! Will you leave me, please!"
"No, I'll show you this. And then we'll get to business." And Fanny produced a large envelope, from which she took out a few typewritten pages. "Just look these over," she advised, "and then tell me whether I shall go." And as Ethel hesitated, "You'd better. They're very important."
Ethel took them and read them, and as she did so her rage and scorn changed first into bewilderment and then into a sickening fright She felt all at once so off her ground. She had always heard of detectives and their reports of shadowed wives, but that sort of thing had just been in the papers and had never seemed very real. "This is about me!" she thought. It told of every meeting she had had with Dwight, in his studio and in other places, once at the Ritz where they had dined and gone to the opera, twice in the Park where they had walked. Such clean times, all three of them, but how cheap and disgusting they now appeared! For here were bits about Dwight's past, his record with women—two were named. He had been a co-respondent once! And his studio was described in detail, with emphasis on a big lounge in one corner! . . . Suddenly it was laughable! And so she laughed at Fanny! And Fanny replied:
"You mean he won't believe it!"
Ethel went on laughing. Joe wouldn't believe it. She wished he would come and turn this woman out on the street. She felt relief unspeakable.
"You've forgotten," Fanny added, "that you lied to him about your friend."
"How dare you say that?"
"Because I have the facts. On the second of December Joe brought Dwight to dine with you, and you acted as though you'd never met. I gathered that from Joe himself when I saw him the next day. While the truth of it was you'd been seeing Dwight ever since the first of October."
"Yes? That will be easy enough to explain." But Ethel felt herself turning white. She sank down and thought, "Now you'll need all your nerve. Don't get faint, you've got to think clearly." But she was not given time.
"And all that had been going on while you were supposed to be home with the baby." Mrs. Carr leaned forward briskly. "Now the thing for you to do is exactly what I tell you. But before I do that, there's just one thing I wish you to understand about me. If you want to keep Joe, keep him. I don't want him—I never did. I've laughed at you again and again for what you thought I was trying to do. All I want is to be let alone to go on with Joe as I always have. What I mean by that you won't understand, because you don't understand my life. A woman like me in this city needs one man who'll be her friend—the big brother idea—to help and advise her, carry her through when she's down a bit. And Joe has always been like that.
"Why? Because of Amy. When she first came to New York, you remember, it was on a visit to me. I had known her back in boarding school. Well, the visit lengthened out. I saw how crazy she was for the town, and I was fairly well off then, so I let her stay and gave her a home—let her meet my friends, Joe included. I had a husband at the time who was in the real estate business. He knew Joe. So I took Joe and handed him over to Amy. And though she would have been glad enough to forget the debt, Joe wasn't that kind. So that's my hold on him—perfectly clean and above-board. And I need him in my business. There are times when I'm down and need his money, other times when I need his name. But that is all. And if he has been fool enough to marry a giddy young girl like you, that's his own look-out—I won't interfere. I mean I won't interfere with you so long as you don't interfere with me. You let me go on with Joe as before, and he'll never see these papers."
With a sudden fierce impulse, in spite of herself, Ethel crumpled them up in her hands.
"Don't be a fool," said Fanny. "They're only copies. Give them back." Ethel did so, mechanically. "Now what will you do? Which way will you have it? He may be here any minute now."
She waited, but got no reply. She saw the girl shiver a little.
"What's the use of being so solemn and scared?" she impatiently asked. "You're running no more risk than before. So far as I'm concerned, my dear, you can go right on with Dwight if you wish. All I'm asking is a square deal."
"But she'll ask and ask," thought Ethel. "She'll ask of me anything she wants. And she'll get me so tangled in other lies that then I wouldn't have even a chance of making Joe see how things really are."
This thought cleared her mind a little.
"No," she said. "You can tell him."
"What!"
Ethel looked down at her hands in her lap, and noticed how tightly they were clenched. She smiled at them.
"Tell him."
"You're sure of that?"
Ethel nodded.
"Very well!"
"She's uneasy," thought Ethel, "and disappointed—not sure of herself.
I've done the right thing."
But as in almost perfect silence they sat waiting for Joe to come home, her decision wavered again and again, and it took all her courage to hold herself in. She made occasional trite remarks, and received replies of the same kind. On them both the tension was growing.
"This means everything to you, too, Fanny, dear!" Ethel reflected viciously. "If Joe believes me—you're done for!"
At each slight stir that Fanny made, Ethel hoped she had lost her courage and was getting ready to go. But Fanny stayed And as she sat there motionless, what a strong figure she grew to be, moment by moment, in Ethel's eyes—strong in spite of the life she led, of clothes, rich feeding, drinking, dancing, old age swiftly coming on. Strong nevertheless, in an odious way, in the loathsome point of view of her world toward love and marriage. It had set her to prying and handed her here—with these papers in her hands! That was her way of looking at life, and a mighty strong way it appeared!
Suddenly Ethel's eye was caught by Amy's photograph on the table. By degrees in the last few months Joe had ceased to notice it there. But how he would notice it now, very soon, as soon as he'd read what Fanny had brought. For Amy had taught Joe long ago to be jealous, never too sure of a wife.
"So Amy is here again, after all. . . . I wonder what I shall say to Joe? . . . Oh, rubbish! Use more common sense! All I've got to do is to make him see why I never told him about Dwight. It was only part of that plan I had. But what a fool! Oh, what a fool!"
When at last Joe's key was heard in the door, both women leaned slowly forward, as though the strain were unbearable. And then as Joe came into the hall, Fanny said suddenly, sharp and clear:
"No, I won't keep quiet! Joe has got to be told of this!" Ethel wheeled on her:
"How odious!"
"I can't help it—he's my friend!"
And the next moment, with Joe in the room, both women were talking to him at once—angrily, incoherently, almost shoving each other away. But only for a moment. It was too disgusting! Ethel left off and stood rigid there, while Fanny talked on rapidly. She was speaking of how Ethel had cut off Joe from Amy's friends. Ethel heard only bits of this, for it all seemed so confused and unreal. But she noticed how nervously tired he looked, all keyed up from his day at the office. She remembered that his partner was out of town on business, that Joe had been running the office alone. "He will be hard to manage," she thought. He interrupted Fanny in a sharp, excitable tone.
"What's it all about?" he asked.
"It's time you saw where you stand, Joe Lanier. Look at this girl. I don't blame her, God knows. Look how young she is, and then look at yourself. Here, take a look at yourself in that mirror. Are you still young? Can't you see the lines, the gray hairs, Joe? They're coming—oh, they're coming! Can you supply all the love she wants?"
"Fanny?" he snapped out her name in so ugly a voice that she lost no time. She shoved those papers into his hands and began to tell him what they were. But Joe refused to read them and grew each moment angrier.
"Joe!" cried Fanny sharply. "When you brought Dwight to dinner here, he met your wife as though for the first time. Did you know they had been friends for months?" And at his startled look, she added, "If you didn't, you'd better read all this!" There fell a sudden silence.
"I'll explain everything—when we're alone," Ethel managed to put in.
How queer and thick her own voice sounded.
Now Joe had gone into the hall with Fanny. Curtly he said good-night to her. The door closed, and there was silence again. Why didn't he come? He must be standing there in the hall trying to get hold of himself. Oh, how terribly hurt he must feel! But she checked the sudden lump in her throat. "Remember now—just common sense!" This was a time for keeping clear! But Joe had come back into the room, and passing the gilt mirror into which Fanny had told him to look, he stopped a moment.
"Don't do that, Joe!" In an instant, in spite of herself, her love for him rose up in a wave, with fear and pity and anger, too. She came to him, and her voice was shaking. "Oh, Joe—Joe! Can't you see it's all lies? It's so loathsome—every word! And so cheap—so cheap and mean!"
As she spoke, his eyes were rapidly scanning the report he still had in his hands. Again she noticed how tired he was. He looked up at her:
"I know it is! But why didn't you treat it like that? Why did you try to make her keep quiet? Weren't you trying, when I came in?"
"No! No! It was just her odious trick—her pretending!"
"Pretending? How about you? Why did you pretend, when I brought Dwight here, that you'd never laid eyes on him before? Had you or hadn't you? Careful, now! Fanny says it is all here!"
"I'll explain in one word!"
"What's the word? Say it, please—and for God's sake clear this up!"
She was breathing hard, frightened, her mind in a whirl. Oh, to be able to think clearly! Use a little common sense!
"Just a minute!" she gasped. "You'll see in a minute—"
"I see a good deal! It's right in your eyes! What are you looking so scared about! And what did she say about my being old! I am old—and you're young, young! And a beauty—just the kind for Dwight! Don't I know of his love affairs? Wasn't he at it way back in Paris? Hasn't he been—ever since?"
"Be careful, Joe," she cried angrily. But in his condition, nerves on edge, he paid no heed and went rapidly on:
"I'm just a business man! And you've made me feel your contempt for all that! And he's a musician, he's different—he has exactly what you want! So you went to his studio twice a week—for months and months—without letting me know—although he was a friend of mine! And you went to the Ritz and the opera! And then I brought him here to dine! God, how you two must have smiled at each other—when I wasn't looking!"
"Joe! Joe!"
"You lied to me, didn't you, when he came! You say you'll explain it in a word! Well, what's the word? I'm waiting!"
"There isn't any!" Her face was white. "I don't care to explain to you now!" she cried. He looked at her. She could see he was trembling, and she nearly changed her mind. But her anger came again. "I won't!" she thought. "Not tonight!"
"Then you and I are through, you know," he said very huskily. He turned and went into the hall, and a moment later the outer door closed. Ethel sat down and stared blankly.
"I acted like an idiot!"
CHAPTER XXII
As she sat there she grew furious with herself for having bungled so. Why hadn't she explained to him? Why hadn't she simply told him her plan for giving him back his friends? All at once she could hear herself saying what she should have said to Joe:
"I may have been wrong about it, Joe, but I thought the best way to bring you back to all the things you used to love was to let you think you were doing it. So I let you and Dwight come together alone. I kept in the background, as I did about getting you into that club of yours. I was afraid to show my hand." On and on she talked to him. Oh, how simple and convincing, strong, and sensible and true. "Why didn't you say it, you little fool? You acted just like a scared young girl found out in doing something wrong!" She was ready to cry, but checked herself. "At least don't be a baby now. What are you to do about it?" She bit her lip. Now it was too late. She had made it worse—a hundred times! All at once she rose and began to walk. "Oh, rubbish!" she thought, impatiently. "You're not to give up, when everything else in your whole life was going so perfectly splendidly! . . . Why, of course. That's it. I'll call up Nourse, and have him come and explain to Joe how I went to him at the very start."
With a swift feeling of relief Ethel went to the telephone.
"Mr. Nourse is out of town."
"Oh, yes. Thank you. I'd forgotten. When do you expect him back?"
"Not until the end of the week."
As Ethel hung up the receiver she felt a little faint and queer. When Joe came back this evening she would have to face him alone! In vain she angrily told herself that it only needed common sense. The picture of his tired face, nerves all on edge, rose in her mind. The way his jealousy had flared up! No, it would not be easy! She might even—fail with him! At the thought, a foolish panic came. More walking was required. . . . She heard Susette beginning her supper, and she went in and sat with the child. And at first that worked out very well. Soon she was smiling and listening to the ceaseless chatter of the small girl. But suddenly Ethel exclaimed to herself, "Suppose I do fail, after all! If there's a divorce he'll take them both!" She jumped up in a frightened way, and went into her bedroom. She threw herself sobbing on the bed—but in a few minutes regained control with an effort and lay there motionless. The tangle was growing clearer now.
The very best she could hope was to make Joe half believe her, she thought. And that would mean she would have to drop Dwight and all chance of meeting those people he knew. She would live with a Joe so suspicious that she would be under his friend, Fanny Carr. "She'll be my friend, and bring me in touch with whatever other people she likes. I'll have to be nice to them—every one. And I'll live her life. Amy's life." She looked at the large photograph over on Joe's chiffonier. "Perhaps after all I shall be like her. How do I know what she was at my age? As I grow older, all hemmed in, why not stop caring for anything else?
"Oh, now do let's be sensible!" With an impatient movement of her lithe beautiful figure Ethel was up off the bed and walking the room with grim resolution in her brown eyes. Soon she was much quieter. She felt the warm youth within her rise. There must be a way! So far, so good. But the moment she tried to think what way, again at once she was off her ground. What could she do or say to Joe? Her failure to manage him that afternoon had shaken her confidence in herself. Ethel was only twenty-five, and now she felt even younger than that. All at once in a sickening way her courage oozed; she felt herself ignorant and alone. Why did not Joe come back, she asked. Was he going to stay away all night? And if he did, what would it mean? She remembered what he had said when he left: "Then you and I are through, you know." All right, then what was he going to do! "I don't even know how a man goes about it, if he wants to get a divorce!" And panic seized her as before. "I can't do this all by myself! I can't talk to him as I've got to talk—not till I know just what to say! I bungled it so! I need sound advice! Oh, for somebody to help me!" She thought of Dwight, but she would not go near him! She loathed the very sight of him now! Why had not he told her of those other affairs of his that could rise in this way against herself? Why had he allowed her to do those few little daring things, which looked so cheap and disgusting in the detective's typed report? And besides, if she did want to see him, could she, without being watched by some wretched detective? For the whole town seemed bristling with detectives and police. And the city of New York felt cold. As she lay on her bed, a sudden gay laugh from a neighbouring window recalled to her mind that night long ago, her first in New York, when she had listened excitedly and thought of all the stories here, both sad and comic.
"Well, I'm a story now," she thought. "And I suppose I'm comic!" The angry tears rose in her eyes. Oh, for a real friend! There was Emily Giles, of course, but this was Emily's night out; and besides, in matters of this kind she would be worse than useless. "What I need is a woman who knows this town—and all its ways—and what to do!" As the evening drew on and still Joe did not come, again and again she felt ready to scream. And though she savagely held herself in, each time was harder than the last.
"Something has simply got to be done!" she told herself after one outbreak like that. Then all at once came the recollection of young Mrs. Grewe downstairs. "I must have some one or I'll go mad!" And she hurried to the telephone. But in the hall she stopped and frowned. "No, I won't call her up," she thought. "That inquisitive telephone girl downstairs would begin to gossip about it at once." For the same reason Ethel did not take the elevator. She ran quickly down two flights and rang at Mrs. Grewe's door. There was silence. She waited some moments, then rang again. "Oh, she's out—I know she is!" The thought brought a sickening empty feeling. She would have to face this night alone!
But abruptly the door opened, and a sleepy startled maid looked at her in dull surprise.
"Is she out tonight? Is Mrs. Grewe out?" Ethel asked impatiently.
"Yes—she's out," the girl replied.
But glancing behind her Ethel saw a high hat and an overcoat on a chair, and with a quick little "Oh!" of dismay, she turned and hurried away down the hall. She heard the maid's chuckle behind her. "Oh-h!" She could feel her cheeks burning. And when she got back to her bedroom upstairs, out of the shame and humility rose a fierce anger which downed all her fears at the thought of this night or of anything else. "I'll never be like her!" she exclaimed. "There'll never be a high hat in my hall at this time of night—nor a Boston old maid—nor a snickering telephone girl downstairs! Never! I'll make myself ugly first! For I'm not like you, I'm not like you! I've had a child, to begin with—and I'm going to keep him, he's mine!"
There came again a period of swift determined thinking. And at last with a quick thrill of relief she remembered Mrs. Crothers was coming with Dwight to call the next day. Sally Crothers—Joe's old friend! "If she believed in me—really believed in all that I was trying to do—she could give me just the advice I need! It may be I'm just silly—and she could give me her common sense! She might even talk to Joe herself—and make him realize my whole plan! If only I can get her to help me!"
Ethel went at once to her desk and rapidly wrote a note to Dwight, saying she thought it would be better to let Mrs. Crothers come alone.
"For I could do nothing, with him around. And I've got to do everything!" she thought as she folded the envelope.
In the morning she heard from Joe. When a messenger came with a note, she tore it open and read this:
"Please give this man my suit-case and put in what things I need. I shall stay here at the club awhile—it will be better all around. I am sorry for the scene I made and I don't want another. If you have any real explanation, send me word and I will come. But understand it has got to be real. If it is not we can't go on. I guess you see that."
She read it again. Then glancing up at the messenger, who was plainly curious at the expression on her face, she frowned at him impatiently.
"Will you wait downstairs!" she said. "It will take some little time to find the things my husband wants."
Rid of him, she began again and read the letter with desperate care. Yes, Joe was trying to be fair. To have said he was sorry for that scene was rather decent in him. "Oh, yes, but he'll make another!" she thought. "Don't I know how he is—all tired and nervous and unstrung? If my explanation doesn't seem real he'll fly up and leave me, and then we'll be through!" She clenched the letter and told herself that her explanation must be real. It was her one chance—she must take time, and get good sensible advice. Joe had Fanny Carr about. That was certain. She'd never leave him alone. She was busily bolstering up her side. And Ethel needed somebody, too, on her side—right behind her. Sally Crothers—Joe's old friend!
She packed Joe's things and sent them to him with a little letter: "I am glad you said you were sorry, Joe, for the way you acted was very unfair. You are quite right in waiting now—it is better for both of us to cool down. But my explanation is simple and real—as you will see. I shall send for you in a few days. I love you, dear. I love you."
After that, she spent hours in anxious reflection. Now about Sally Crothers, she thought. Should she tell her the trouble she was in? No, not at once. New Yorkers hate trouble and always fly from it—so she must lead to it gradually. "When she comes I've got to make her like me—very much—so much she's surprised!" To begin with, looks—for looks did count. That much of what Amy had said was true. "But what I must do is not to look like her. Sally Crothers detested her, and I've got to overcome all that. I must show her I'm quite different." For a time Ethel's mind dwelt on details. It must all be so simple, yet not too severe. "For Sally is gay, I understand. What I want is to look halfway between Mrs. Grewe and Emily Giles. Black? No. Dark blue, with that old Rhinestone pin. Wave my hair? No, that's Amy again!"
But from such thoughts about her dress, or her tea table, flowers, the lights in the room, her mind kept darting anxiously off. All this was nothing! What should she say? "It's a woman of brains who is coming to call. Think of all she knows—and she earns her living—she has a profession of her own! How in the world shall I talk to her? She thinks me like Amy—there's Amy again! Oh, Amy, Amy, I don't want to hate you! You helped me once, you were dear to me, and you had heaps and heaps of good points! But please, please stop coming up in my life!
"Don't get into another panic, my dear. When she comes you must be natural. Your natural self—that always counts. Don't try to show off what you haven't got. Show her only what you have. Make her feel you're young and ready to learn—half mad to learn! No, that won't do—not mad, but keen for everything—interested in her life—in all she does and thinks and feels." She frowned. "No, that's too personal. And you can't be personal in New York—not very—they don't like it here. Every one's too busy. You must be interested in things—the town in general—music—books—people in a general way.
"'Here's the kind of a girl who will grow,' she must say, 'and who is worth my taking up!' But will she! Now here's that panic again! And can't you see, you little goose, this is just what may spoil everything? If you're scared, you'll lose! You've got to keep cool every minute she's here! Who is this Sally anyhow? What has she done that you won't do when you're as old as she is? . . . Yes, but don't you strike that note! No woman likes to be reminded that she is ten years older than any other woman on earth. She'll put me down as a cute young thing who has a dangerous way with men. Dwight has praised me to her, of course—but she'll put his liking down to that—the—the—the sex side! I must show her it isn't, that I've got more, that I don't want men but women now! But not too hard or eager, you know. Oh, I must watch her all the time, to see if I'm getting any hold. And then, the minute I see my chance, I must tell her my trouble—no, my big chance—all I was just on the point of doing with Joe, and could do now—if only I had her for a friend!"
Such thinking was spasmodic and often disconnected. Thoughts of Joe kept breaking in, and of what she should do if she failed with him. And again, putting down with an effort all such thoughts and fancies, she took Susette and the baby and went out for a walk in the Park. It was one of those balmy days that come in winter now and then, and Ethel sat down on a bench for a while.
But then she looked around with a start. Who was that on a bench nearby? A fat man with a black moustache, his derby hat tipped over his forehead, and his two small piggish eyes morosely and narrowly watching her. A detective—working for Fanny Carr! Ethel angrily rose and called to Susette and wheeled the baby carriage away. But just as she passed the fat man, a small fat boy ran up to him.
"Say, Pa," whined the urchin. "Buy me a bag of peanuts."
"Like hell I will," the fat man growled.
And Ethel blushed. How absurd she had been!
CHAPTER XXIII
In reply to her note, Dwight had telephoned that Sally would be there at five. Mrs. Crothers arrived at a quarter past. She was a small alert looking woman of thirty-five, slender, almost wiry, dark, with black hair worn over her temples. Her small mouth was strong and willful, but she had nice pleasant eyes. She was wearing a pretty tan hat and grey furs that she put back on her shoulders as she smiled and held out her hand.
"I'm so glad to meet you at last, my dear."
"Oh, thank you," said Ethel quickly. And then, because that sounded too grateful, she added, "Won't you sit down?" in rather a stilted little voice. This woman made her feel so young. "Now don't act like a school-girl!" With an appearance of lazy ease she turned and poked the small logs in the fire. "I do so love wood fires. Don't you?" she said, in carefully easy tones, but she did not hear the answer.
Mrs. Crothers was wearing a trim street suit of brown and dark green. "She dresses as I do, so that's all right," thought Ethel. "She's taking me in. So much the better. I'll do the same." And as they talked, she kept throwing glances at the dark face, rather narrow, the small and rather mischievous mouth, amid the grey eyes which looked as though they could be so very good-humoured and friendly. But with a little pang of dismay Ethel saw that these eyes were preoccupied and only half attending. "She has a hundred things on her mind, and she's asking, 'Now let's try to see if there's really anything here worth while.'" The preliminaries were already over. That part at least had gone smoothly enough. "We're off!" thought Ethel excitedly.
"How will you have your tea?" she asked.
"Clear with lemon."
"One lump or two?"
"Three or four."
"Oh, how funny," Ethel laughed. And then she reddened. "You little goose," she exclaimed to herself, "why did you say, 'how funny'?" She poured the tea with a trembling hand and proffered it with a plate of cakes and small toasted crumpets, dainties she had purchased with care at a smart little shop in the neighbourhood. And meanwhile she was answering the questions, pleasant but searching, though thrown out in a casual voice.
"Yes, my home was in Ohio. Such a dear old town," she said. But the next moment she bit her lips, for she had come so near to adding, "I wish I were back this very minute!" What was her visitor saying? She frowned and leaned forward attentively. Something about a small town in Vermont and the funny local politics there. "Where is she leading by that remark?" Oh, yes, suffrage! That was all right!
"Yes, indeed," declared Ethel eagerly, "I'm for suffrage heart and soul! I marched in the parade last Fall! Wasn't it glorious? Were you there?"
"Yes, I marched—"
"With the gardeners?" Ethel blushed again. "Landscape, I mean!" And her visitor smiled.
"Yes, with the gardeners," she said. "There were only four of us, but we felt like the Four Hundred." Ethel giggled excitedly.
"Wasn't it glorious?" she exclaimed. "You ninny!" she thought. "You said that once!" And she hastened to add, "And isn't it perfectly silly for men to try to keep us from marching?"
"You mean your husband doesn't approve?"
"Approve!" Ethel echoed with a sniff. "I'd like to see him disapprove. I have him in fair control, I think." And she knitted her brows in an eager way, for this was a chance to tell how she had done it.
"How long have you been married!" her visitor was asking.
"Let me see. Four years? No, two," she replied, with a quick smile.
"Time does so fly along in this town!"
"It does indeed. It seems hardly any time at all since the days when your husband and I were friends."
"Oh, yes, he has often told me about you!" And Ethel shot a swift anxious look. "I know you don't like him," she wanted to add. "But if you'll only give me a chance I'll show you what I have made of this man—or was making, at least, till all of a sudden right out of the clouds there dropped a fat detective!" She laughed at the thought and then grew rigid. How silly and pointless to laugh like that! Mrs. Crothers was telling now of the old group down about Washington Square, and Ethel was listening hungrily.
"What gorgeous times you must have had," she exclaimed, "in those old days!" The next moment she turned crimson. "I've said it now. 'Old'! I knew I should!" She caught Sally's good-natured smile and felt again like a mere child.
From this moment on she would take care! She avoided personal topics, and growing grave and dignified she turned the conversation from Joe to music, concerts, the opera, "Salome," "Louise." She carefully showed she was up to date, not only in music but in other things, books she had discussed years ago in the club of the little history "prof," and others she had been reading since—Montessori, "Jean Christophe." Hiding her tense anxiety under a manner smooth as oil, she talked politely on and on, and she felt she was doing better now. So much better! No more stupid breaks or girlish gush, but a modern intelligent woman of parts. And a glow of hope rose in her breast. A little more of this, she thought, and she would be ready to break off, and with a sudden appealing smile take her new friend into her confidence, tell of her trouble and ask for advice.
But the smile came from her visitor. Mrs. Crothers had risen and was holding out her hand. And as Ethel stared in dismay at that smile, which displayed such an easy indifference to her and all her view of life, her only woman friend in New York said:
"I'm so sorry I've got to run. I hope you'll come and see me."
From the door in the hallway Ethel came back in a sort of a daze—till her eye lit on the blue china clock on the mantel.
"Seventeen minutes!" she exclaimed. And then after one quick look around, she flung herself on the sofa in tears. "I bored her! How I bored her! How stupid I was, and comic—a child! And then solemn—too solemn—all music and art—and education and—how in the world do I know what I said? Or care! I hate the woman! I hate them all! Seventeen minutes! Isn't that just like New York?"
But from this little storm she soon emerged. Grimly sitting up on the sofa, she reached out a hand icy cold, took the tea-pot and poured out a cup. It was strong now, thank Heaven! And frowning gravely into space, Ethel sat and drank her tea.
CHAPTER XXIV
"Now the one thing," she told herself, "is to keep your nerve and be sensible. For this may decide your whole life, you know. . . All right, what next? What's to be done?
"I hate Sally Crothers," she began, "but I may go to see her, nevertheless. She asked me to. Didn't mean it, of course, she was plainly bored! No, I won't do it! I loathe the woman! . . . All right, my dear, but who else can you go to? Mrs. Grewe? She's doubtless at home—but there may be that detestable hat, tall, rich and shiny, in her hall. It looked as though it owned her soul! No, thanks—not yet—not for me! . . . Though she told me you soon get used to it. . . .
"Well, how about going back to Ohio, to the little history prof, and hating all men—one and all! That sounds exceedingly tempting! . . . I won't do it, though—because if I do, it means I'm beaten here—and I'd lose Susette and the baby!—. . . Quiet, now. . . . And then there's Dwight. He will probably call up soon and ask how Sally and I got on. I could go to him this very night! How perfectly disgusting! And yet it's just what Joe deserves! What right had he to believe that of me? . . . Now please keep cool. If I go to Dwight I become exactly like Mrs. Grewe—and I'd have to give up the children.
"No, it's back to Joe on my knees, to beg him to let me stay right here. And I'll succeed—I know I will! But won't I be under Fanny's thumb? And won't I take back Amy's friends? Like a good repentant scared little girl! And eat their rich meals and chatter as they do, and dance and grow old—and push Joe on to make more money—more and more—so that I can get fat and soft—like the rest of these cats!"
Again her face was quivering. But with an effort controlling herself, she went into the nursery. And on the floor with her wee son, slowly rolling a big red ball back and forth to each other, soon again she had grown quiet, almost like her natural self. She took supper alone, and then read a novel, page after page, without comprehending. An hour later she went to bed, and there lay listening to the town—to its numberless voices, distinct and confused, from windows close by and from the street, and from other streets by hundreds and from a million other homes, and from the two rivers and the sea—voices blurred and fused in one. And its tone, to Ethel's ears, was one of utter indifference—good-humoured enough but rather bored with "young things" weeping on its breast.
"Be Mrs. Grewe, if you like," it said, "or Sally Crothers or Fanny
Carr. Or go back home to your history prof. Each one of these things
has been done before by so many thousands just like you. Nobody cares.
You have no neighbours. Do exactly as you like."
"Thank you very much," she said. "I choose to be Sally Crothers first. And if that fails—well, between Fanny Carr and Mrs. Grewe there isn't much choice. Do you think so?"
"Oh, no," said the city. And it yawned. But Ethel lay there thinking.
"Excuse me," she spoke presently. "Sorry to annoy you again—but is there any God about?"
"None," came the sleepy answer. "Do as you like, I tell you."
She opened her eyes and sat up in bed.
"Now I've been getting morbid again! For goodness' sake let's try to be healthy and clear about this!"
And she tried to be. But for some time she made little headway. It was easy to grimly shut her teeth and resolve, "I've got to do this by myself, talk to Joe and simply make him believe me!" But as soon as she came to the details of what she should say to her husband, his face as she had seen it last—worn and nervous, overwrought—kept rising up before her. Could she convince him! "It's my last chance!" If only she knew how to go about it! She wanted to be heroic and face this crisis all alone—but she had been alone so much. Tonight it seemed to Ethel as though she had struggled alone for years. Was it all worth while, she asked herself. She could feel her courage ooze again. Her thinking grew vague and uneven. . . . And more and more the picture rose of the woman friend she had counted on having—Sally Crothers, who was so clever, an older woman who knew New York, knew what to do in such tangles as this, knew Joe, had known him back in that past which Ethel was trying to raise again. And it was exasperating! "If I could only get at her!" she thought.
Carefully, almost word by word, she went over in her mind her talk with
Mrs. Crothers that day, in order to find out her mistakes.
"Do you know what I think?" she said at the end. "I think in the first part you did pretty well. You made breaks and were clumsy, and she was amused—but she rather liked you, nevertheless. At least you were a novelty. But then you went and spoiled it all by making solemn fool remarks about the world in general. And thereupon Sally arose and went. . . . All right, next time I'll be different. I won't be solemn, nor afraid of saying anything incorrect. In fact I'll revel in it! She asked me to come and see her, in a tone which added, 'Don't.' But I'll be incorrect right there. I will go to see her; and what's more, I'll go tomorrow afternoon! And I won't call up first, for she'd say she was out. I'll get into her house and get her downstairs—and I'll break right through all smoothnesses and tell her exactly how and why I've got to have a woman friend! I'll give you the chance of your life, Sally Crothers, to throw out the life-line!
"If you don't I'll—just swim about for awhile. No use in thinking of that, though."
And suddenly she fell asleep.
CHAPTER XXV
Mrs. Crothers lived in a small brick house on a side street close to Washington Square. As Ethel looked out from her automobile, how dear and homey it appeared, with such a quiet friendly face. "Now for the plunge." She went up the low steps and rang the bell. Thank Heaven it was a rainy day, for when the maid came Ethel went right in, and the rain made that seem natural. At least no door had been shut in her face. She wanted to get inside this house!
"Is Mrs. Crothers at home?" she asked. The maid was not sure. Ethel gave her a card and was shown into a long cosy room with an old-fashioned air, where a small coal fire looked half asleep. She began to look around her. The walls were lined with book-shelves, with only a picture here and there. No wall-paper. "How funny." She frowned and added, "But it's nice." There was but little furniture, and plenty of room to move about. "What a love of a mirror." It was of gilt, and it reached from floor to ceiling between the two front windows. Gravely she looked at herself in the glass. "Oh, I'm not very excited."
The maid reappeared, and said, "Mrs. Crothers asks you to excuse her.
She's sick with a headache this afternoon."
"Oh, what a lie!" thought Ethel. She stood for a moment irresolute, her heart in her mouth. "I will, though!" she decided, and took out another card. "Then take her this little note," she said. And she wrote: "I know I am being quite rude—but if the headache is not too severe will you see me just for a little while! I would not bother you—honestly—but it is something so important—and it must be settled today." It took two of her cards, and even then it was horribly crowded and hard to read. "Never mind," she thought. "That's as far as I'll go. If she can't read that I'm done for!"
The maid had taken the message upstairs.
"Now I've done it, I've gone too far. I'm done for—oh, I'm done for! Well, look about you, Ethel, my love—it's the last look you'll ever get at this room! How dear it is, what taste, what a home. Books, pictures, a piano of course—and the very air is full of the things that have been said here after dinner, over coffee and cigarettes, by all the people you want to know. Not rich nor 'smart' like Newport—just people with minds and hearts alive to the big things that really count, the beautiful things! . . . Good-bye, my dears—you're not very kind."
"She'll be down in a moment," said the maid.
"Thank you!" Ethel had wheeled with a start; and again left alone, she stood without moving. "Well, here you are—you've got your chance! And how do you feel? Plain panicky! Never mind, that's just what will catch her attention! Be panicky! Oh, I am—I am!" And her courage oozed so rapidly that when her hostess came into the room, and with a smile that was rather strained, said "I am so glad to see you—" the girl who confronted her only stared, and suddenly shivered a little. Then she forced a smile and said, "How silly of me to shiver like that."
"Come here by the fire and sit down." Mrs. Crothers' voice was suddenly kind. "Now tell me how I can help you," she said.
"Thank you. Why, it's simply this. I've had trouble with Joe, my husband—just lately—in the last few days. And the trouble is so serious that—it's my whole life—one way or the other. At least it—certainly feels so! And I have no women friends I can go to. They're all his—hers, I mean."
"Hers!"
"Yes. My sister's. She is dead—but very much alive at times—through the friends she left behind her. I've been fighting them all my life, it seems—ever since I married Joe!"
"Why were you fighting them?" Ethel frowned:
"Because they—well, they were all just fat—in body and soul—the women, I mean—and the men were just making money for food and things to keep them so. Do you know what I mean—that kind of New Yorker?"
"I do," said Mrs. Crothers. "Was that the cause of your trouble with
Joe!"
"Partly—yes. You see when I tried to shake them off, they wouldn't be shaken—they hung on—because Joe was growing rich all of a sudden. Oh, I got pretty desperate! But then I learned of other friends that Joe had had here long ago—before he married her, you know. And I hunted for them—one by one. I could feel they were just what he needed, you see. I mean that back among such friends I hoped he'd stop just making money and get to work—on things he had dreamed of! You understand?"
"I think so—but not fully. Go on in your own way, my dear. Don't try to think. Keep talking."
"Thank you. I was in love with him. There was nobody else, man, woman or child—except Susette. She was Amy's little girl. You see, Mrs. Crothers, when Amy died I was there—I had just come to town. So I stayed with Joe to look after Susette. Then later on I began to feel that he was beginning to care for me. And I didn't like that—on Amy's account, for I worshipped her then. So I broke away and took a job. . . . Oh, what in the world am I getting at!"
"Don't try to think. Just tell me. You took a job. What was it?"
Ethel told of Greesheimer, and then of coming back to Joe, of his poverty and of her nursing Susette, of dreaming of children, of falling in love, of marriage and the birth of her boy.
"But all the time Amy had been there. Do you understand! Like a spirit, I mean! She had Joe first! She had shaped him!"
"Yes—"
"And so when he loved me even more, I do believe, than he ever loved her—still he did the thing she would have wanted. Amy had taught him to show his love by loading money on his wife. And that was what started everything wrong. For he got rich—for my sake—and the money brought Amy's friends back in a horde! Oh, now I'm repeating! I've said all that—"
"Please say it again! You're doing so well!" Ethel told about Fanny and the rest. "I tried to like them—honestly! But I simply couldn't!" she cried.
"Why couldn't you? Tell me plainly just what it was you wanted."
"What I wanted? Plainly? Oh, dear—I can't exactly—"
"What kind of people?"
Ethel frowned.
"Not just eaters!" she exclaimed. "I wanted men and women who—well, who were seeing something big—and beautiful and real in life! Life is so hard and queer in this town—so awfully crowded and mixed up—and empty, somehow. You know how I mean? But they see something in it all. Not clearly—it's way off, you know. And they're busy of course, and by no means saints. They have their worries and their faults and pettiness—they're human, too, But they're looking for something really worth while! Oh, I can't express it—I really can't!"
"Oh, yes you can, you've done quite well," said Mrs. Crothers steadily. "And now to narrow this down to Joe, you wanted him to be like that—in his work and so in his life with you. Was that it?"
"Yes! And he used to be! You must know that!"
"Yes—I knew that. Your husband and I were once very good friends."
"That's it, and I guessed it!" Ethel cried. "I was making wild guesses in the dark. And at last I put my finger on his partner, and we had a talk. It was a talk, a hard one—but I made him believe me in the end. And he told me a little about you—and I wanted to meet you, oh, so much! But he seemed to be out of touch with you, so he took me to Mr. Dwight instead. I had always wanted to sing, you know—and the rest of it—well, Mr. Dwight must have told you."
"Only a little," was the reply. "I don't yet fully understand. How did all this bring trouble with Joe? It's something serious, you said—"
"It's something very nasty." And Ethel began telling of Fanny's revelations. In the midst of it the door-bell rang.
"One moment." And Sally went into the hall. "Whoever it is, say I've a headache," Ethel heard her tell the maid. "The same old headache," Sally remarked as she grimly pulled the portieres. They waited in a tense little silence till the visitor had gone. "And Alice," Sally called to the maid. "If any one else comes, say I'm out." She turned back to Ethel, smiling:
"Suppose you stay to supper. I'll telephone my husband to dine at his club—and we'll go right on with this talk of ours. We'll go on," she added determinedly, "until we have Joe so in our toils that he'll be yours so long as he lives."
Ethel suddenly sniffed and swallowed hard, and said, "Oh, what a dear you are to me!"
Sally looked at her queerly.
"This is to be a talk without tears, but much good sensible planning," she said. "I don't blame you a bit for having been frightened—you've been through an ugly time. But I think with a little common sense—"
"I know," said Ethel, "that's just what I need. And that is why I came to you."
"Thank you," Sally smiled again. "Now go on about Mrs. Carr."
The talk went on, with interruptions for supper and Sally's two small children, far into the evening. And Mrs. Crothers did her share—filling in for Ethel the picture of Joe's old life, his work and dreams, and his first marriage. She told of several meetings with Amy. And all the time she kept watching, probing into this young second wife, skilfully raising Ethel's hopes, her vivid freshness and her youth, her hunger for a life she saw only in dazzling glimpses.
"Do you want my advice about meeting Joe! Then here it is," she said at the end. "I needn't say don't go on your knees—"
"You needn't!"
"I thought so—you're not that kind. And I wouldn't explain too much about Dwight, and those little things you did with him. Make Joe take you on faith or not at all. Have a long talk and make him listen—don't give him a chance to say a word. Talk right on and give him the picture of his two wives, and then let him choose—between letting you go, while he takes her friends, or dropping them and keeping you and finding what he had before. I can help you in that—but before I do, I think you've got to lay a ghost. She's in the way of everything. She has been in your home long enough. And her strength is the fact that you and Joe never mention her name to each other. I wonder if you realize how great a danger that has been. At any rate I'm very sure that you must break the silence now. It has been like a spell between you."
CHAPTER XXVI
The next afternoon she sat waiting for Joe. She had come home the night before feeling so strong and sure of her course. But beginning at the moment when she came into the empty apartment, subtly and by slow degrees again her home had cast its spell, as though the rooms were haunted. "I've got to lay the ghost," she thought. She had telephoned to Joe to come, and he had replied abruptly, "All right, I'll be there about four o'clock." It was just that now. Ethel poked the logs in the fireplace until there was a cheerful blaze. As she straightened up she caught sight of her face in the mirror over the mantel. Even in the firelight how gaunt and strained it looked to her.
"Not very attractive," she grimly thought. "This has got to be done by brains, my dear."
In a moment she heard Joe's key in the door. She heard him taking off his coat and then coming slowly into the room. With an effort she turned and looked at him. His face appeared even more tense and grey than it had two days before; the nerves seemed quivering under the skin. And she felt a pang of pity. "He wasn't to blame for the way he acted, it was his wretched nerves," she thought. "He'll have a break-down after this."
"Well, Ethel!"
"Oh, Joe, I'm so glad you're here." All at once she felt herself change. She had meant to be so firm with him; but now, after one quick anxious look, in a low eager voice she said, "I'm not going to talk much of myself. It won't do any good—I'm sure it won't. I love you, Joe, and I can see you still love me. We need each other. And if we can just be sensible now—and you can only believe in me—"
"God knows I want to, Ethel!" His tone was low, but so sharp and tense that she drew suddenly closer. He turned from her and sank into a chair, with his hands for a moment pressed to his eyes. "I'm sick of this—I'm not myself. Maybe I acted like a fool. . . . Some of that stuff from Fanny Carr doesn't hold together—it's too thin." He looked up at her. "But some of it does. And what you'll have to clear up now is why you never let me know."
"The reason I didn't," she answered quickly, "goes way back into the past. And it's not only about you and me—it's about—about somebody else." She stopped and her throat contracted. She set her teeth. "We must talk about Amy for a while."
There! At last she had brought it out! And she had seen her husband flinch. For a moment both were silent.
"Why!" he asked. She swallowed hard.
"Because we never have before. We've—gone two years without speaking her name. I had no idea how bad that might be." She broke off, for her voice was trembling so. "I don't know how much you've learned in that time—about Amy, I mean—but I've learned a lot, and—I think I'd better tell you. I must, you see, or you won't understand what I've been doing lately. I couldn't have explained before, without speaking of her—and I didn't do that. But I should have, Joe, and I will now—if only you'll be patient and let me do the talking."
"Well!"
"Some of it goes so very far back." She leaned forward with a queer little smile: "Amy was good to me when I came—and I had always worshipped her—I thought she was nearly everything. She made me feel how she—loved you, Joe—she had ambition, urged you on. But—oh, I've got to try to be clear. What kind of ambition was it, Joe! What did you have before you met her? How did you used to look at your work! You were coming up to do big things—but you married her and your work all changed. You threw over ideals to make money for her. And when your partner tried to hold you, Amy tried to break up the firm. Didn't she? Don't you remember?" She waited, but he did not speak. "How hard it is for him," she thought, "to admit a thing against her. This won't be easy." But she felt a little thrill of pride in him.
"So Bill has been talking, has he," he said.
"Yes, I made him." She went on. "Amy set herself against him—and against all your other old friends. Not at first—I want to be fair to her, Joe—don't think I'm blaming just her for all this. I'm sure that at first she was different—she wanted your friends to take her in. Remember those dinners you took her to, and that week-end party up in Vermont!"
Joe looked at her sharply:
"Who told you that?"
"Sally Crothers," said Ethel. "She was there."
"Sally Crothers? You know her!" he demanded. She smiled at the startled look on his face.
"Why, yes," she replied "You see I've been hunting so hard for you, Joe, among those friends you used to have. And I did it without ever letting you know. Dwight, too—he was only one of them." She frowned, and added briskly, "Just incidental, so to speak. But I don't care to talk of him now—I'm speaking only of Amy. And from what Sally Crothers has told me, poor Amy must have had some hard times. They weren't fair to her. If they'd given her time and a real chance, everything might have been different. But they didn't, they turned her down. And feeling hurt and angry—and feeling besides how she'd have to grow—in her mind, I mean, and her interests, to take any place among people like that—I think she hesitated. You might have helped her then, perhaps—but you didn't—and Amy was lazy, Joe—that had always been a part of her. So she wouldn't make the effort. Instead of coming up to you, she made up her mind to pull you down!"
"That isn't true!" he said harshly. "And if you've been taking for
God's own truth what Sally Crothers told you—"
"Stop! Please!" cried Ethel eagerly. "I didn't mean what I said just then—I put it badly—oh, so wrong! She didn't say, 'I'll pull him down.' She told herself your friends were snobs! And she said, 'I have friends who are human, and they're quite good enough for me!' So she went on with Fanny Carr. And others came, the circle grew. And it was all done day by day, and week by week. It happened—and you never knew. Nor did she. It was all so natural. But within a year she was going with people, and so were you, who cared for nothing you had wanted—women with no growth at all. They were all—oh, so common, Joe!"
"That's a bit snobbish, isn't it?"
"You can call it what you like! But I say you can find them all over town—richer and poorer, better and worse—women who want only common things—just clothes and food and what they call love—with not a wish that I can see except for money to live like that! I'm no prig, Joe! I want pretty clothes, and I want to be gay and have nice things. But you can get all I want of that and still get what is so much more!" Her voice dropped; she hurried eagerly on: "Real work you love and which makes you grow, and friends that keep you growing! Ideas and things to know about—and beauty, music, pictures—the opera—books and people, plays—and buildings! The new library—the station—the—the tower down on Madison Square! Your work, Joe! And your old friends! Men and women who really think and feel—not just alive in their bodies! I don't know much about all that. Do you, these days! Mighty little! Because she kept you away from it!"
"No!" But she caught the uncertain look in his eyes.
"Are you so sure? Why didn't she ever go to Paris? She must have been dying to go there and shop, but she never let you take her there. She was afraid to let you go near it again—the Beaux Arts work, the student life—afraid that you'd get thinking! So she kept you here and away from your friends. She even kept Crothers out of your firm. You partner fought her hard on that—and you held out—until one day Crothers came to your office and told you he had changed his mind. You remember?"
"Yes—"
"Did he give you his reason!"
"Yes—he did—"
"Did he bring Amy into it!"
"He did not—"
"He should have, Joe. For just the afternoon before, Amy had made a call on his wife—and had said things insulting enough so that her husband had to break off!"
"Sally told you that!"
"Why should she lie?" Ethel threw a quick glance into Joe's eyes. "He believes it!" she thought, and hurried on: "I've talked to her, Joe, in a way that was bound to get the truth. Oh, I've been hunting hard for you, dear! If Fanny Carr had told her detectives to follow me everywhere I've been, and not just hunt for the nastiness that was in her own mind about me—they could have shown what a hunt it has been! I had so little time, you see! You were all in the balance—you'd waited so long! Even now you've found you can't draw the plans—the ones you used to dream about! I know because I made you try! And I went to Nourse, to your old friend Dwight, and then to Sally Crothers—and asked them all to help me. And as I went on and learned about you as you used to be, I fell in love all over again with the man I found—not Amy's husband—mine, all mine!
"And I had almost got you back—when Fanny Carr, with her nasty view of me and what I was doing, brought you those perfectly rotten reports? And if you believe them, Joe, I'm through! Go to Nourse or to Sally Crothers, and they'll tell you I have spoken the truth. If you won't believe either them or me, go on alone without me—or else marry Fanny Carr. But if you do believe me and we're to go on together now, you'll have to drop Fanny for good and all, and leave Amy way behind. You'll have to take up your old friends and try to get Crothers into your firm. You may think your business is yours and not mine—but if it's my life, it's my business, too! It's like four walls around me now, and I want to break out and so do you—away from mere money! I've watched you, dear—seen what a struggle has gone on inside of you—it has worn you out! haven't you made money enough? Let's leave it, go to Paris, and get to work before it's too late for you to get back what you had! And if there's no money, never mind. It will come later on—but don't let's be afraid if it doesn't. Don't let's be afraid of pain—of fighting hard and suffering, Joe! I want more children! I want you! I want you mine, all mine, my dear—not her husband. Don't you see?"
She had been eagerly leaning toward him. Joe was staring into the fire; the look in his eyes had frightened her and made her hurry to be through.
"What is it?" she asked. And she waited a moment. "Don't you believe what I've told you, Joe?"
"Yes," he said, "I believe all that. I believe a good deal more than that." There was a little silence, and then suddenly he reached for her hand, held it tight and smiled into the fire in a twitching sort of way. "I haven't been quite as blind as you think. I've seen a good deal of what you were doing. But—" he frowned—"I'm older than you are. I know this job of mine clear through—way back to those dreams you spoke of. I've had some hard mean tussles about it—lately—and that's my only excuse for acting like a damn fool as I did—the other day. No use in talking of that any more—or of—Amy either. She's—dead."
"Joe!" Ethel whispered. Tears came in her eyes. He went steadily on:
"She had some fine points—you'll never know. There were things we needn't talk about now. But you've made me see things, too. I don't think she'll be in the way any more—I think we'll be able to speak of her."
"Of course! We must! I want to, dear!" Ethel's voice was shaking.
"Not now." With an effort he rose. "There's something else to worry about. You don't quite know me yet, you see."
"What do you mean?" She had risen, too, and caught his arm. "You're not well, Joe! You're white as a sheet!" He laughed a little.
"I'm not quite right. Something wrong in here, I guess." He pressed one hand to the base of his brain and scowled as though it hurt him. "Nothing serious, probably. But before it goes too far, I want you to know that when I get well I'm going to have a try at all that—the work you spoke of. I'm going to try—but I may be too late! I may be older than you think!" The tone of his voice was sharp and strained. "I don't know," he said. "The doctor may. About him—that's another point! It's a nerve specialist we need! Telephone your doctor and have him send one here tonight! I'm sorry, Ethel—damnably!"