"No."
"Well, then," her breath came unsteadily, "what was there in me to make you think I would accept it?"
He did not reply.
"Answer me. This is the time to answer me."
"The answer is simple enough," he said in a low voice. "Together we had made a failure of partnership. When that partnership was dissolved, there remained the joint capital to be divided. And I divided it. Why not?"
"That capital was yours in the beginning; not mine. What I had of my own you never controlled; and I took it with me when I went."
"It was very little," he said.
"What of that? Did that concern you? Did you think I would have accepted anything from you? A thousand times I have been on the point of notifying you through attorney that the deposit now standing in my name is at your disposal."
"Why didn't you notify me then?" he asked, reddening to the temples.
"BecauseI did not wish to hurt youby doing it that way. . . . And I had not the courage to say it kindly over my own signature. That is why, Captain Selwyn."
And, as he remained silent: "That is what I had to say; not allbecauseI wish toto thank you for offering it. . . . You did not have very much, either; and you divided what you had. So I thank youand I return it.". . . The tension forced her to attempt a laugh. "So we stand once more on equal terms; unless you have anything of mine to return"
"I have your photograph," he said.
The silence lasted until he straightened up and, rubbing the fog from the window glass, looked out.
"We are in the Park," he remarked, turning toward her.
"Yes; I did not know how long it might take to explain matters. You are free of me now whenever you wish."
He picked up the telephone, hesitated: "Home?" he inquired with an effort. And at the forgotten word they looked at one another in stricken silence.
"Y-yes; to your home first, if you will let me drop you there"
"Thank you; that might be imprudent."
"No, I think not. You say you are living at the Gerards?"
"Yes, temporarily. But I've already taken another place."
"Where?"
"Oh, it's only a bachelor's kennela couple of rooms"
"Where, please?"
"Near Lexington and Sixty-sixth. I could go there; it's only partly furnished yet"
"Then tell Hudson to drive there."
"Thank you, but it is not necessary"
"Please let me; tell Hudson, or I will."
"You are very kind," he said; and gave the order.
Silence grew between them like a wall. She lay back in her corner, swathed to the eyes in her white furs; he in his corner sat upright, arms loosely folded, staring ahead at nothing. After a while he rubbed the moisture from the pane again.
"Still in the Park! He must have driven us nearly to Harlem Mere. It is the Mere! See the café lights yonder. It all looks rather gay through the snow."
"Very gay," she said, without moving. And, a moment later: "Will you tell me something? . . . You see"with a forced laugh"I can't keep my mindfrom it."
"From what?" he asked.
"Thetragedy; ours."
"It has ceased to be that; hasn't it?"
"Has it? You saidyou said that w-what I did to you was n-not as terrible as what I d-did to myself."
"That is true," he admitted grimly.
"Well, then, may I ask my question?"
"Ask it, child."
"Thenare you happy?"
He did not answer.
"Because I desire it, Philip. I want you to be. You will be, won't you? I did not dream that I was ruining your army career when Iwent mad"
"How did it happen, Alixe?" he asked, with a cold curiosity that chilled her. "How did it come about?wretched as we seemed to be togetherunhappy, incapable of understanding each other"
"Phil! There were days"
He raised his eyes.
"You speak only of the unhappy ones," she said; "but there were moments"
"Yes; I know it. And so I ask you, why?"
"Phil, I don't know. There was that last bitter quarrelthe night you left for Leyte after the dance. . . . Iit all grew suddenly intolerable. You seemed so horribly unrealeverything seemed unreal in that ghastly cityyou, I, our marriage of crazy impulsethe people, the sunlight, the deathly odours, the torturing, endless creak of the punkha. . . . It was not a question ofof love, of anger, of hate. I tell you I was stunnedI had no emotions concerning you or myselfafter that last sceneonly a stupefied, blind necessity to get away; a groping instinct to move toward hometo make my way home and be rid for ever of the dream that drugged me! . . . And thenand then"
"He came," said Selwyn very quietly. "Go on."
But she had nothing more to say.
"Alixe!"
She shook her head, closing her eyes.
"Little girl!oh, little girl!" he said softly, the old familiar phrase finding its own way to his lipsand she trembled slightly; "was there no other way but that? Had marriage made the world such a living hell for you that there was no other way but that?"
"Phil, I helped to make it a hell."
"Yesbecause I was pitiably inadequate to design anything better for us. I didn't know how. I didn't understand. I, the architect of our futurefailed."
"It was worse than that, Phil; we"she looked blindly at him"we had yet to learn what love might be. We did not know. . . . If we could have waitedonly waited!perhapsbecause there were moments" She flushed crimson.
"I could not make you love me," he repeated; "I did not know how."
"Because you yourself had not learned how. Butat timesnow looking back to itI thinkI think we were very near to itat moments. . . . And then that dreadful dream closed down on us again. . . . And thenthe end."
"If you could have held out," he breathed; "if I could have helped! It was I who failed you after all!"
For a long while they sat in silence; Mrs. Ruthven's white furs now covered her face. At last the carriage stopped.
As he sprang to the curb he became aware of another vehicle standing in front of the housea cabfrom which Mrs. Ruthven's maid descended.
"What is she doing here?" he asked, turning in astonishment to Mrs. Ruthven.
"Phil," she said in a low voice, "I knew you had taken this place. Gerald told me. Forgive mebut when I saw you under the awning it came to me in a flash what to do. And I've done it. . . . Are you sorry?"
"No. . . . Did Gerald tell you that I had taken this place?"
"Yes; I asked him."
Selwyn looked at her gravely; and she looked him very steadily in the eyes.
"Before I gomay I say one more word?" he asked gently.
"Yesif you please. Is it about Gerald?"
"Yes. Don't let him gamble. . . . You saw the signature on that check?"
"Yes, Phil."
"Then you understand. Don't let him do it again."
"No. AndPhil?"
"What?"
"That check isis deposited to your creditwith the rest. I have never dreamed of using it." Her cheeks were afire again, but with shame this time.
"You will have to accept it, Alixe."
"I cannot."
"You must! Don't you see you will affront Gerald? He has repaid me; that check is not mine, nor is it his."
"I can't take it," she said with a shudder. "What shall I do with it?"
"There are wayshospitals, if you care to. . . . Good-night, child."
She stretched out her gloved arm to him; he took her hand very gently and retained it while he spoke.
"I wish you happiness," he said; "I ask your forgiveness."
"Give me mine, then."
"I wish you happiness," he said; "I ask your forgiveness."
"Give me mine, then."
"Yesif there is anything to forgive. Good-night."
"Good-nightboy," she gasped.
He turned sharply, quivering under the familiar name. Her maid, standing in the snow, moved forward, and he motioned her to enter the brougham.
"Home," he said unsteadily; and stood there very still for a minute or two, even after the carriage had whirled away into the storm. Then, looking up at the house, he felt for his keys; but a sudden horror of being alone arrested him, and he stepped back, calling out to his cabman, who was already turning his horse's head, "Wait a moment; I think I'll drive back to Mrs. Gerard's. . . . And take your time."
It was still earlylacking a quarter of an hour to midnightwhen he arrived. Nina had retired, but Austin sat in the library, obstinately plodding through the last chapters of a brand-new novel.
"This is a wretched excuse for sitting up," he yawned, laying the book flat on the table, but still open. "I ought never to be trusted alone with any book." Then he removed his reading glasses, yawned again, and surveyed Selwyn from head to foot.
"Very pretty," he said. "Well, how are the yellow ones, Phil? Or was it all débutante and slop-twaddle?"
"Few from the cradle, but bunches were arriving for the dance as I left."
"Eileen went at half-past eleven."
"I didn't know she was going," said Selwyn, surprised.
"She didn't want you to. The Playful Kitten business, you knowfrisks apropos of nothing to frisk about. But we all fancied you'd stay for the dance." He yawned mightily, and gazed at Selwyn with ruddy gravity.
"Whisk?" he inquired.
"No."
"Cigar?"mildly urgent.
"No, thanks."
"Bed?"
"I think so. But don't wait for me, Austin. . . . Is that the evening paper? Where is St. Paul?"
Austin passed it across the table and sat for a moment, alternately yawning and skimming the last chapter of his novel.
"Stuff and rubbish, mush and piffle!" he muttered, closing the book and pushing it from him across the table; "love, as usual, grossly out of proportion to the ensemble. That theory of the earth's rotation, you know; all these absurd books are built on it. Why do men read 'em? They grin when they do it! Love is only the sixth sensejust one-sixth of a man's existence. The other five-sixths of his time he's using his other senses working for a living."
Selwyn looked up over his newspaper, then lowered and folded it.
"In these novels," continued Gerard, irritably, "five-sixths of the pages are devoted to love; everything else is subordinated to it; it controls all motives, it initiates all action, it drugs reason, it prolongs the tuppenny suspense, sustains cheap situations, and produces agonisingly profitable climaxes for the authors. . . . Does it act that way in real life?"
"Not usually," said Selwyn.
"Nobody else thinks so, either. Why doesn't somebody tell the truth? Why doesn't somebody tell us how a man sees a nice girl and gradually begins to tag after her when business hours are over? A respectable man is busy from eight or nine until five or six. In the evening he's usually at the club, or dining out, or asleep; isn't he? Well, then, how much time does it leave for love? Do the problem yourself in any way you wish; the result is a fraction every time; and that fraction represents the proper importance of the love interest in its proper ratio to a man's entire life."
He sat up, greatly pleased with himself at having reduced sentiment to a fixed proportion in the ingredients of life.
"If I had time," he said, "I could tell them how to write a book" He paused, musing, while the confident smile spread. Selwyn stared at space.
"What does a young man know about love, anyway?" demanded his brother-in-law.
"Nothing," replied Selwyn listlessly.
"Of course not. Look at Gerald. He sits on the stairs with a pink and white ninny; and at the next party he does it with another. That's wholesome and natural; and that's the way things really are. Look at Eileen. Do you suppose she has the slightest suspicion of what love is?"
"Naturally not," said Selwyn.
"Correct. Only a fool novelist would attribute the deeper emotions to a child like that. What does she know about anything? Love isn't a mere emotion, eitherthat is all fol-de-rol and fizzle!it's the false basis of modern romance. Love is reasonnot a nervous phenomenon. Love is a sane passion, founded on a basic knowledge of good and evil. That's what love is; the rest!"he lifted the book, waved it contemptuously, and pushed it farther away"the rest is neuritis; the remedy a pill. I'm going to bed; are you?"
But Selwyn had lighted a cigar, and was again unfolding his evening paper; so his brother-in-law moved ponderously away, yawning frightfully at every heavy stride, and the younger man settled back in his chair, a fragrant cigar balanced between his strong, slim fingers, one leg dropped loosely over the other. After a while the newspaper fell to the floor.
He sat there without moving for a long time; his cigar, burning close, had gone out. The reading-lamp spread a circle of soft light over the floor; on the edge of it lay Kit-Ki, placid, staring at him. After a while he noticed her. "You?" he said absently; "you hid so they couldn't put you out."
At the sound of his voice she began to purr.
"Oh, it's all very well," he nodded; "but it's against the law. However," he added, "I'm rather tired of rules and regulations myself. Besides, the world outside is very cold to-night. Purr away, old lady; I'm going to bed."
But he did not stir.
A little later, the fire having burned low, he rose, laid a pair of heavy logs across the coals, dragged his chair to the hearth, and settled down in it deeply. Then he lifted the cat to his knees. Kit-Ki sang blissfully, spreading and relaxing her claws at intervals as she gazed at the mounting blaze.
"I'm going to bed, Kit-Ki," he repeated absently, "because that's a pretty good place for me . . . far better than sitting up here with youand conscience."
But he only lay back deeper in the velvet chair and lighted another cigar.
"Kit-Ki," he said, "the words men utter count in the reckoning; but not as heavily as the words men leave unuttered; and what a man does scores deeply; butalas for the scars of the deeds he has left undone."
The logs were now wrapped in flame, and their low mellow roaring mingled to a monotone with the droning of the cat on his knees.
Long after his cigar burnt bitter, he sat with eyes fixed on the blaze. When the flames at last began to flicker and subside, his lids fluttered, then drooped; but he had lost all reckoning of time when he opened them again to find Miss Erroll in furs and ball-gown kneeling on the hearth and heaping kindling on the coals, and her pretty little Alsatian maid beside her, laying a log across the andirons.
"Upon my word!" he murmured, confused; then rising quickly, "Is that you, Miss Erroll? What time is it?"
"Four o'clock in the morning, Captain Selwyn," she said, straightening up to her full height. "This room is icy; are you frozen?"
Chilled through, he stood looking about in a dazed way, incredulous of the hour and of his own slumber.
"I was conversing with Kit-Ki a moment ago," he protested, in such a tone of deep reproach that Eileen laughed while her maid relieved her of furs and scarf.
"Susanne, just unhook those two that I can't manage; light the fire in my bedroom; et merci bien, ma petite!"
The little maid vanished; Kit-Ki, who had been unceremoniously spilled from Selwyn's knees, sat yawning, then rose and walked noiselessly to the hearth.