ELEANOR’SHOUSE

BYWILLASIBERTCATHER

TAKENFROM“MCCLURE’SMAGAZINE,”VOLUME29,MAY-OCTOBER,1907

“Shallyou,then,”Harrietventured,“gotoFortuney?”ThegirlthrewastartledglancetowardthecornerofthegardenwhereWestfieldandHaroldwereexaminingaleakinthebasinofthelittlefountain,andHarrietwassorrythatshehadputthequestionsodirectly.Ethel’sreply,whenitcame,seemedamereemissionofbreathratherthanarticulation.

“Ithinkweshallgolater.It’sverytryingforhimthere,ofcourse.Hehasn’tbeentheresince.”Sherelapsedintosilence,—indeed,shehadnevercomeveryfaroutofit,—andHarrietcalledtoWestfield.Shefoundthatshecouldn’thelpresentingEthel’ssingularinadeptnessatkeepingherselfinhand.

“Come,Robert.Haroldistiredafterhisjourney,andheandEthelmusthavemuchtosaytoeachother.”

BothHaroldandhiswife,however,brokeintohurriedrandomremarkswithaneagernesswhichseemedlikeaprotest.

“ItisdelightfultobenearyouhereatArques,withonlyawallbetweenourgardens,”Ethelspurredherselftosay.“ItwillmeansomuchtoHarold.Hehassomanyoldassociationswithyou,Mrs.Westfield.”

Thetwomenhadcomebacktothetea-table,andastheyoungeroneoverheardhiswife’slastremark,hishandsomebrownfacetookontheblanknessofdisapproval.

Ethelglancedathimfurtively,butHarrietwasunabletodetectwhethersherealizedjustwhyortowhatextentherremarkhadbeenunfortunate.Shecertainlylookedasifshemightnotbeparticularlyacute,droopingaboutinherbiggarden-hatandherlimpwhitefrock,whichhadnotbeenverywellputon.However,somesenseofmaladroitnesscertainlypenetratedhervagueness,forsheshrankbehindthetea-table,gatheringherscarfabouthershouldersasifsheweremysteriouslyblownuponbyachillingcurrent.

TheWestfieldsdrewtogethertotaketheirleave.Haroldsteppedtohiswife’ssideastheywenttowardthegatewiththeirguests,andputhishandlightlyonhershoulder,atwhichshewaveringlyemergedfromhereclipseandsmiled.

Harrietcouldnothelplookingbackatthemfromunderhersunshadeastheystoodthereinthegateway:themanwithhistensebrownfaceandabstractedsmile,thegirldrooping,positivelyswayinginhersoftnessanduncertainty.

Whentheyreachedthesunnysquareoftheirowngarden,Harrietsankintoawickerchairinthedeepshadowofthestuccowallandaddressedherhusbandwithconviction:

“Iknownow,mydear,whyhewishedsomuchtocome.Isensedityesterday,whenIfirstmether.ButnowthatI’veseenthemtogether,it’sperfectlyclear.HebroughtherheretokeepherawayfromFortuney,andhe’scountingonustohelphim.”

Westfield,whowascarefullyexamininghisrose-trees,lookedathiswifewithinterestandfrankbewilderment,aformofinterrogationwithwhichshewasperfectlyfamiliar.

“Ifthereisonethingthat’splainereventhanhismisery,”Harrietcontinued,“itisthatsheisheadedtowardFortuney.They’vebeenmarriedovertwoyears,andhecouldn’t,Isuppose,keepheracrosstheChannelanylonger.Sohehassimplydeflectedhercourse,andwearethepretext.”

“Certainly,”Westfieldadmitted,ashelookedupfromhispruning,“onefeelssomethingnotaltogethercomfortablewiththem,butwhyshoulditbeFortuneyanymorethanahundredotherthings?Thereareopportunitiesenoughforpeoplewhowishtoplayatcross-purposes.”

“Ah!ButFortuney,”sighedhiswife,“Fortuney’sthesummingupofallhispast.It’sEleanorherself.Howcouldhe,Robert,takethispoorgirlthere?Itwouldbecruelty.Thefigureshe’dcutinaplaceofsuchdistinction!”

“Ishouldthinkthatifhecouldmarryher,hecouldtakehertoFortuney,”Westfieldmaintainedbluntly.

“Oh,astohismarryingher!ButIsupposewearealltoblameforthat—allhisandEleanor’soldfriends.Wecertainlyfailedhim.Wefledatthepoorfellow’s

approach.Wesimplycouldn’tfacetheextentofhisbereavement.Heseemedamerefragmentofamandraggedoutfromunderthewreckage.Theyhadsogrowntogetherthatwhenshediedtherewasnothinginhimleftwhole.Wedreadedhim,andweregladenoughtogethimofftoIndia.Ievenhopedhewouldmarryoutthere.Whenthenewscamethathehad,Isupposedthatwouldendit;thathewouldbecomemerelyachapterinnaturalhistory.But,yousee,hehasn’t;he’smorewidowedthanbefore.Hecan’tdoanythingwellwithouther.Yousee,hecouldn’tevendothis.”

“This?”repeatedWestfield,quittinghisgardeningabruptly.“AmItounderstandthatshewouldhavebeenofassistanceinselectinganotherwifeforhim?”

Harrietpreferredtoignorethathistoneimpliedanenormity.“Shewouldcertainlyhavekepthimfromgettingintosuchaboxashe’sinnow.Shecouldatleasthavefoundhimsomeonewhowouldn’tlaceratehimbyhereverymovement.Oh,thatpoor,limp,tactless,terrifiedgirl!Haveyounoticedtheexasperatingwayinwhichshewalks,even?It’sasifsheweretreadingpain,forbearingandforgiving,whenshebutstepstothetea-table.Therewasneverapersonsohauntedbythenotionofherownuntidypicturesqueness.Itwearsherthinandconsumesher,likeherunhappypassion.Iknowhowhefeels;hehatesthewayshelikeswhatshelikes,andhehatesthewayshedislikeswhatshedoesn’tlike.And,markmywords,sheisbentuponFortuney.That,atleast,Robert,hecertainlycan’tpermit.AtFortuney,Eleanorislivingstill.Theplaceissointensely,sorarelypersonal.Thegirlhasfixedhereye,madeuphermind.It’ssymbolictoher,too,andshe’scirclingaboutit;shecan’tenduretobekeptout.Yesterday,whenIwenttoseeher,shecouldn’twaittobeginexplainingherhusbandtome.SheseemedtobeafraidImightthinkshehadn’tpokedintoeverything.”

Whilehiswifegrewmoreandmorevehement,Westfieldlaybackinagarden-chair,halfsuccumbingtothedrowsywarmthoftheafternoon.

“Itseemstome,”heremarked,withadiscreetyawn,“thatthepoorchildisonlyputtingupagoodfightagainstthetormentingsuspicionthatshehasn’tgotintoanything.Shemaybejustdecentlytryingtoconcealheruncertainty.”

Harrietlookedathimintentlyforamoment,watchingtheshadowsofthesycamore-leavesplayacrosshisface,andthenlaughedindulgently.“Theideaofherdecentlytryingtoconcealanythingamusesme.Sothat’showmuchyou

knowofher!”shesighed.“She’stakenyouinjustasshetookhim.Hedoubtlessthoughtshewouldn’tpoke;thatshewouldgoonkeepingthedoorofthechamber,breathingfaintbenedictionsandsmilinghermoonbeamsmileashecameandwent.But,underallhermeeknessandairofpoeticallyforegoing,shehasaforthcomingnessandanoutputtingnesswhichallthebrutalityhe’sdriventocan’tdiscourage.I’veknownherkindbefore!Youmaycliptheirtendrilseverydayofyourlife,onlytofindthemrenewedandsweetlytakingholdthenextmorning.She’dfindthecrevicesinpolishedalabaster.Can’tyouseewhatshewants?”Mrs.Westfieldsatupwithflashingeyes.“ShewantstobetohimwhatEleanorwas;sheseesnoreasonwhysheshouldn’tbe!”

Westfieldrubbedthestiffblondhairabovehisearinperplexity.“Well,why,inHeaven’sname,shouldn’tshebe?Hemarriedher.Whatlesscansheexpect?”

“Oh,Robert!”criedHarriet,asifhehadutteredsomethingimpious.“Butthen,youneverknewthem.Why,Eleanormadehim.Heistheworkofherhands.Shesavedhimfrombeingsomethingterrible.”

Westfieldsmiledironically.

“Washe,then,inhisnaturalstate,so—soverymuchworse?”

“Oh,hewasbetterthanheisnow,eventhen.Buthewassomehowterriblyoffthekey.Hewasthemostimmaturethingeverbornintotheworld.Youthwasadiseasewithhim;healmostdiedofit.Hewassoabsorbedinhisownwakingup,andhesooverestimateditsimportance.HemadesuchaclamoraboutitandsothrustitupononethatIusedtowonderwhetherhewouldevergetpastthestageofopeningpackagesundertheChristmastreeandshouting.Isupposehedidknowthathisexperienceswerenotunique,butI’msurehefeltthatthedegreeofthemwaspeculiarlyhis.

“WhenhemetEleanorhelosthimself,andthatwaswhatheneeded.Shehappenedtobeborntemperedandpoised.Thereneverwasatimewhenshewasn’tdiscriminating.Shecouldenjoyallkindsofthingsandpeople,butshewasnever,nevermistakeninthekind.Thebeautyofitwasthatherdistinctionshadnothingtodowithreason;theywerepurelyshadesoffeeling.

“Well,youcanconjecturewhatfollowed.Shegavehimtheonethingwhichmadeeverythingelsehehadpertinentanddignified.Hesimplyhadbetterfiberthananyofusrealized,andshesawit.Shewasinfallibleindetectingquality.

“Twoyearsaftertheirmarriage,IspentsixweekswiththematFortuney,andeventhenIsawtheirpossibilities,whattheywoulddoforeachother.Andtheywentonandon.Theyhadallthereis—exceptchildren.Isupposetheywereselfish.AsEleanoroncesaidtome,theyneededonlyeternityandeachother.But,whateveritwas,itwasOlympian.”

II

Harrietwaswalkingonemorningonthegreenhillthatrises,toppedbyitssprawlingfeudalruin,behindArques-la-Bataille.Thesunlightstillhadthemagicalgoldenhueofearlyday,andthedewshoneonthesmooth,grassyfoldsandcleftsthatmarktheoutlinesoftheoldfortifications.Belowlaythedelicatelycoloredtown,—seenthroughagroveofglisteningwhitebirches,—theshining,sinuouscurvesofthelittleriver,andthegreen,openstretchesofthepleasantNormancountry.

Assheskirtedthebaseofoneofthethicktowersontheinneredgeofthemoat,hersunshadeoverhershoulderandherwhiteshoesgraywithdew,sheallbutsteppeduponamanwholayinashadedcornerwithintheelbowofthewallandthetower,hisstrawhattiltedoverhiseyes.

“Why,HaroldForscythe!”sheexclaimedbreathlessly.

Hesprangtohisfeet,baringhisheadinthesun.

“Sitdown,do,”heurged.“It’squitedrythere—themasonrycropsout—andtheview’sdelightful.”

“Youdidn’tseemtobedoingmuchwiththeviewasIcameup.”Harrietputdownhersunshadeandstoodlookingathim,takinginhiscarelessmorningdress,hisgray,unshavenfaceandheavyeyes.“ButIshallsitdown,”sheaffectionatelyassuredhim,“tolookatyou,sinceIhavesofewopportunities.Whyhaven’tyoubeentoseeme?”

Forscythegazedattentivelyathercanvasshoes,hesitatingandthrustingouthislowerlip,animpetuousmannerismshehadlikedinhimasaboy.“Perhaps—perhapsIhaven’tquitedared,”hesuggested.

“Whichmeans,”commentedHarrietreproachfully,“thatyouaccreditmewithaverydisagreeablekindofstupidity.”

“You?Oh,dear,no!Ididn’t—Idon’t.Howcouldyousupposeit?”Hehelpedhertoherseatontheslantofgrayrock,movingabouthersolicitously,butavoidinghereyes.

“Thenwhydoyoustandthere,hesitating?”

“Iwasjustthinking”—heshotheranervousglancefromunderafrown—“whetherIoughtnottocutawaynow,onyouraccount.I’minthedevilofawayintheearlymorningsometimes.”

Mrs.Westfieldlookedathimcompassionatelyashestoodpokingtheturfwithhisstick.Shewonderedhowhecouldhavereachedeight-and-thirtywithoutgrowingatallolderthanhehadbeeninhistwenties.Andyet,thatwasjustwhattheirhappinesshaddoneforthem.Ifithadkeptthemyoung,gloriouslyandresplendentlyyoung,ithadalsokeptthemfromarrivinganywhere.Ithadprolongedhisfloweringtime,butithadn’tmellowedhim.Growingolderwouldhavemeantmakingconcessions.Hehadnevermadeany;hadnotevenlearnedhow,andwasstillstrikingbacklikeaboy.

Harrietpointedtotheturfbesideher,andhedroppeddownsuddenly.

“I’mreallynotfittoseeanyonethismorning.Thesefirsthours—”Heshruggedhisshouldersandbegantopullthegrass-bladesswiftly,oneatatime.

“Arehardforyou?”

Henodded.

“Becausetheyusedtobeyourhappiest?”Harrietcontinued,feelingherway.

“It’squeer,”hesaidquietly,“butinthemorningIoftenfeelsuchanabsurdcertaintyoffindingher.Isupposeonehasmorevitalityatthistimeofday,akeenersenseofthings.”

“Mypoorboy!Isitstillashardasthat?”

“Didyouforamomentsupposethatitwouldeverbeany—easier?”heasked,withashortlaugh.

“Ihopedso.Oh,Ihopedso!”

Forscytheshookhishead.“YouknowwhyIhaven’tbeentoseeyou,”hebroughtoutabruptly.

Harriettouchedhisarm.“Yououghtnottobeafraidwithme.IfIdidn’tloveherasmuchasyoudid,atleastIneverlovedanythingelsesowell.”

“Iknow.That’sonereasonIcamehere.YouwerealwaystogetherwhenIfirstknewher,andit’seasytoseeherbesideyou.SometimesIthinktheimageofher—comingdownthestairs,crossingthegarden,holdingoutherhand—isgrowingdimmer,andthatterrifiesme.Somepeopleandsomeplacesgivemethefeelingofher.”Hestoppedwithajerk,andthrewapebbleacrossthemoat,wheretheslopingbank,softenedandmadeshallowerbytheslowcenturies,wasyellowwithbuttercups.

“Butthatfeeling,Harold,mustbemoreinyouthananywhere.There’swhereshewineditandbreatheditandstoreditforyears.”

Haroldwaslookingfixedlyatthebarespotunderhishandandpullingthegrass-bladesoutdelicately.Whenhespoke,hisvoicefairlystartledherwithitssoundofwaterworkingunderground.

“Itwaslikethatonce,butnowIloseitsometimes—forweekstogether.It’sliketryingtoholdsomedelicatescentinyournostrils,andheavierodorscomeinandblurit.”

“Mypoorboy,whatcanIsaytoyou?”Harriet’seyesweresodimthatshecouldonlyputoutahandtobesurethathewasthere.Hepresseditandhelditamoment.

“Youdon’thavetosayanything.Yourthinkingreachesme.It’sextraordinaryhowwecanbetraineddown,howlittlewecandowith.Ifshecouldonlyhavewrittentome—iftherecouldhavebeenasign,ashadowonthegrassorinthesky,toshowthatshewentonwithme,itwouldhavebeenenough.Andnow—Iwouldn’taskanythingbuttobeleftalonewithmyhurt.It’sallthat’sleftme.It’sthemostpreciousthingintheworld.”

“Oh,butthat,mydearHarold,istooterrible!Shecouldn’thaveenduredyourdoingit,”murmuredHarriet,overcome.

“Yes,shecould.She’dhavedoneit.She’dhavekeptmealiveinheranguish,inherincompleteness.”

Mrs.Westfieldputoutherhandentreatinglytostophim.Hehadlainbesideher

onthegrasssoofteninthedaysofhiscourtship,ofhisfirsttempestuoushappiness.Itwasincrediblethatheshouldhavechangedsolittle.Hehadn’tgrownolder,orwiser,or,inhimself,better.HehadsimplygrownmoreandmoretobeEleanor.Themiseryofhisentanglementtouchedherafresh,andsheputherhandstohereyesandmurmured,“Oh,thatpoorlittleEthel!Howcouldyoudoit?”

Sheheardhimboundup,andwhensheliftedherfacehewashalfthelengthofthewallaway.Shecalledtohim,buthewavedhishatmeaninglessly,andshewatchedhimhurryacrossthesmoothgreenswellofthehill.Harrietleanedbackintothewarmangleofmasonryandtriedtosettleintothedeeppeaceoftheplace,wheresomanyfolliesandpassionshadspentthemselvesandebbedbackintothestillnessofthegrass.Butasenseofpainkeptthrobbingabouther.ItseemedtocomefromthespotwherepoorForscythehadlain,andtoriselikeamiasmabetweenherandthefarmsandorchardsandthegray-greenwindingsoftheriver.Whenatlastsherosewithasigh,shemurmuredtoherself,“Oh,mypoorEleanor!Ifyouknow,Ipityyou.Whereveryouare,Ipityyou.”

III

Thesilenceoncebroken,ForscythecameoftentoMrs.Westfield’sgarden.Hespentwholemorningsthere,watchingherembroider,orwalkedwithherabouttheruinsonthehilltop,oralongthestreamsthatwoundthroughthefertilefarmcountry.Thoughhesaidlittlehimself,hemadeitsupremelyeasyforhertotalk.Hefollowedheraboutingratefulsilencewhileshetoldhim,freelyandalmostlightly,ofhergirlhoodwithEleanorSanford;oftheirlifeataconvent-schoolinParis;ofthecopyof“ManonLescault”whichtheykeptsewedupinthelittlepinepillowtheyhadbroughtfromSchenectady;oftheadroitmachinationsbywhich,onherfete-day,undertheguardianshipofaninnocentauntfromAlbany,EleanorhadmanagedtoconveyallherbirthdayrosesouttoP�re-la-ChaiseandarrangethemunderdeMussel’swillow.

Harrietevenfoundaquiethappinessinbeingwithhim.Shefeltthathewasmakingamends;thatshecouldtrusthimnottorenewtheterribleexperiencewhichhadcrushedherattheirfirstmeetingonthehill.WhenhespokeofEleanoratall,itwasonlytorecallthebeautyoftheircompanionship,athingshelovedtoreflectupon.Foriftheyhadbeenselfish,atleasttheirselfishnesshadnevertakentheformofcomfortableindolence.Theyhadkepttheedgeoftheirzestforaction;theiraffectionhadnevergrownstockyandmiddle-aged.How,Harrietoftenaskedherself,couldtwopeoplehavecrowdedsomuchintotencircumscribedmortalyears?And,ofcourse,thebestofitwasthatallthethingstheydidandtheplacestheywenttoandthepeopletheyknewdidn’tintheleastmatter,wereonlytheincidentalmusicoftheirdrama.

Theend,whenitcame,had,bythemercyofHeaven,comesuddenly.AnillnessofthreedaysatFortuney,theirownplaceontheOise,anditwasover.Hewasflungoutintospacetofindhiswayalone;tokeepfightingaboutinhiscircle,foreveryearningtowardthecenter.

Onemorning,whenHaroldaskedhertogoforalongwalkintothecountry,Harrietfeltfromthemomenttheyleftthetownbehindthemthathehadsomethingserioustosaytoher.Theywerehavingtheird�jeunerinthegardenofalittleauberge,sittingatatablebesideayellowclaywallovergrownwithwall-peaches,whenhetoldherthathewasgoingaway.

“Idon’tknowforjusthowlong.Perhapsaweek;perhapstwo.I’dhatetohave

youmisunderstand.Idon’twantyoutounderestimatethegoodyou’vedonemetheselastweeks.But,yousee,thisisasortof—asortoftryst,”heexplained,smilingfaintly.“WegotstrandedonceinanabsurdlittletowndownontheMediterranean,notfarfromHy�res.Welikeditandstayedfordays,andwhenweleft,Eleanorsaidwe’dgobackeveryyearwhenthegrapeswereripe.Weneverdidgoback,forthatwasthelastyear.ButI’vebeentherethatsameweekeveryautumn.Thepeoplethereallrememberher.It’salittlebitofaplace.”

Harrietlookedathim,holdingherbreath.Theblackkittencameupandbrushedagainsthim,tappinghisarmwithitspawandmewingtobefed.

“Isthatwhyyougoawaysomuch?Ethelhastoldme.Shesaidtherewassomebusiness,butIdoubtedthat.”

“I’msorryithastobeso.Ofcourse,Ifeeldespicable—doallthetime,forthatmatter.”Hewipedhisfaceandhandsmiserablywithhisnapkinandpushedbackhischair.“Yousee,”hewenton,beginningtomakegeometricalfiguresinthesandwithhiswalking-stick,“yousee,Ican’tsettledowntoanything,andI’msodriven.Therearetimeswhenplacespullme—placeswherethingshappened,youknow.Notbigthings,butjustourownthings.”Hestopped,andthenaddedthoughtfully,“Goingtomissherisalmostwhatgoingtomeetherusedtobe.Igetinsuchastateofimpatience.”

Harrietcouldn’t,shesimplycouldn’t,altogetherdespisehim,anditwasbecause,ashesaid,shedidknow.Theysatinthequiet,sunnylittlegarden,fullofdahliasandsunflowersandthehumofbees,andsherememberedwhatEleanorhadtoldheraboutthisfishing-villagewheretheyhadlivedonfigsandgoat’smilkandwatchedthemeagervintagebeinggathered;how,whentheyhadtoleaveit,gotintotheircompartmentandflashedawayalongthepanoramicMediterraneanshore,shehadcried—shewhoneverweptforpainorweariness,Harrietputinfondly.Itwasnotthebluebayandthelavenderandthepinehillstheywereleaving,butsomepeculiarshadeofbeingtogether.Yettheywerealwaysleavingthat.Everydaybroughtcolorsinthesky,onthesea,intheheart,whichcouldnotpossiblycomejustsoagain.Thatto-morrow’swouldbejustasbeautifulneverquitesatisfiedthem.Theywanteditall.Yes,whatevertheywere,thosetwo,theywereOlympian.

Astheywerenearinghomeinthelateafternoon,ForscytheturnedsuddenlytoHarriet.“IshallhavetocountonyouforsomethingwhileIamaway,you

know.”

“Aboutthebusiness?Oh,yes,I’llunderstand.”

“Andyou’lldowhatyoucanforher,won’tyou?”heaskedshakily.“It’ssuchahellishexistenceforher.I’ddoanythingifIcouldundowhatI’vedone—anything.”

Harrietpausedamoment.“Itsimplycan’t,youknow,goonlikethis.”

“Yes,yes,Iknowthat,”herepliedabstractedly.“Butthat’snottheworstofit.TheworstisthatsometimesIfeelasifEleanorwantsmetogiveherup;thatshecan’tstanditanylongerandisbeggingmetoletherrest.”

Harriettriedtolookathim,buthehadturnedawayhisface.

IV

Forscythe’sabsencestretchedbeyondafortnight,andnooneseemedverydefinitelyinformedastowhenhemightreturn.Meanwhile,Mrs.Westfieldhadhiswifeconsiderablyuponherhands.Shecouldnot,indeed,accountforthedegreetowhichsheseemedresponsible.Itwasalwaysthere,gropingforherandpullingather,asshetoldWestfield.Thegardenwallwasnothighenoughtoshutoutentirelytheotherside:thegirlpacingthegravelpathswiththemeek,bentstepwhichpoorHarrietfoundsoexasperating,herwistfuleyespeeringfromunderhergarden-hat,herpreposterousskirtstrailingbehindherlikethebrier-torngownofsomewanderingGriselda.

Duringthelong,dullhoursinwhichtheyhadtheirteatogether,Harrietrealizedmoreandmorethejusticeofthegirl’sposition—ofherclaim,sincesheapparentlyhadnopositionthatonecouldwelldefine.ThereasonablenessofitwasallthemoretryingsinceHarrietfeltsocompelledtodenyit.Theyreadandwalkedandtalked,andthesubjecttowhichtheyneveralludedwasalwaysintheair.Itwasinthegirl’slong,silent,entreatinglooks;inherthinhands,nervouslyclaspingandunclasping;inherceaselesspacingabout.Harrietdistinctlyfeltthatshewasworkingherselfuptosomething,andshedeclaredtoWestfieldeverymorningthat,whateveritwas,shewouldn’tbeapartytoit.

“Icanunderstandperfectly,”sheinsistedtoherhusband,“howhedidit.HemarriedhertotalktoheraboutEleanor.Eleanorhadbeenthethemeoftheircourtship.Therestoftheworldwentonattendingtoitsownbusinessandshakinghimoff,andshestoppedandsympathizedandlethimpourhimselfout.Hedidn’tsee,Isuppose,whyheshouldn’thavejustawifelikeothermen,foritdidn’toccurtohimthathecouldn’tbejustahusband.Hethoughtshe’dbecontenttoconsole;heneverdreamedshe’dtrytoheal.”

AsforEthel,Harriethadtoadmitthatshe,too,couldbeperfectlyaccountedfor.Shehadgoneintoit,doubtless,inthespiritofself-sacrifice,amoodshewasromanticallyfondofpermittingherselfandhumanlyunabletoliveupto.Shehadmarriedhiminonestageoffeeling,andhadinevitablyarrivedatanother—hadcome,indeed,totheplacewhereshemustbejustonethingtohim.Whatshewas,orwasnot,hungonthethrowofthediceinawaythatsavoredoftremblingcaptivesandbarbarousmanners,andHarriethadtoacknowledgethatalmostanythingmightbeexpectedofawomanwhohadletherselfgotosuch

lengthsandhadyetgotnowhereworthmentioning.

“Sheiscertainlygoingtodosomething,”Harrietdeclared.“Butwhatevercanshehopetodonow?Whatweaponhassheleft?Howisshe,aftershe’spouredherselfoutso,evertogatherherselfupagain?Whatshe’lldoisthehorror.It’ssuretobeineffectual,andit’sequallysuretohavedistinctlydramaticaspects.”

Harrietwasnot,however,quitepreparedfortheissuewhichconfrontedheronemorning.ShesatdownshakenandaghastwhenEthel,paleandwraith-like,glidedsomnambulantlyintohergardenandaskedwhetherMrs.WestfieldwouldaccompanyhertoFortuneyonthefollowingday.

“But,mydeargirl,oughtyoutogotherealone?”

“WithoutHarold,youmean?”theotherinaudiblysuggested.“Yes,IthinkIought.Hehassuchadreadofgoingbackthere,andyetIfeelthathe’llneverbesatisfieduntilhegetsamonghisownthings.Hewouldbehappierifhetooktheshockandhaddonewithit.Andmygoingtherefirstmightmakeiteasierforhim.”

Harrietstared.“Don’tyouthinkheshouldbelefttodecidethatforhimself?”shereasonedmildly.“Hemaywishtoforgettheplaceinsofarashecan.”

“Hedoesn’tforget,”Ethelrepliedsimply.“Hethinksaboutitallthetime.Heoughttolivethere;it’shishome.Heoughtnot,”shebroughtout,withafiercelittleburst,“tobekeptaway.”

“Idon’tknowthatheoranyoneelsecandomuchinregardtothat,”commentedHarrietdryly.

“Heoughttolivethere,”Ethelrepeatedautomatically;“anditmightmakeiteasierforhimifIwentfirst.”

“How?”gaspedMrs.Westfield.

“Itmight,”sheinsistedchildishly,twistingherhandkerchiefaroundherfingers.“Wecantakeanearlytrainandgetthereintheafternoon.It’sbutashortdrivefromthestation.I’msure”—shelookedpleadinglyatHarriet—“I’msurehe’dlikeitbetterifyouwentwithme.”

Harrietmadeaclutchatherselfandlookedpointedlyattheground.“Ireallydon’tseehowIcould,Ethel.Itdoesn’tseemtomeaproperthingtodo.”

Ethelsatstraightandstill.Herliquideyesbrimmedoverandthetearsrolledmildlydownhercheeks.“I’msorryitseemswrongtoyou.Ofcourseyoucan’tgoifitdoes.Ishallgoalone,then,to-morrow.”Sheroseandstoodpoisedinuncertainty,herhandonthebackofthechair.

Harrietmovedquicklytowardher.Thegirl’sinfatuateobstinacycarriedapowerwithit.

“Butwhy,dearchild,doyouwishmetogowithyou?Whatgoodcouldthatpossiblydo?”

Therewasalongsilence,tremblingandgentletears.AtlastEthelmurmured:“Ithought,becauseyouwereherfriend,thatwouldmakeitbetter.Ifyouwerewithme,itcouldn’tseemquiteso—indelicate.”Hershouldersshookwithasuddenwrenchoffeelingandshepressedherhandsoverherface.“Yousee,”shefaltered,“I’msoataloss.Ihaven’t—anyone.”�

Harrietputanarmfirmlyaboutherdroopingslenderness.“Well,forthisventure,atleast,youshallhaveme.Ican’tseeit,butI’mwillingtogo;morewillingthanIamthatyoushouldgoalone.ImusttellRobertandaskhimtolookupthetrainsforus.”

Thegirldrewgentlyawayfromherandstoodinanattitudeofdeepdejection.“It’sdifficultforyou,too,ourbeinghere.Weoughtnevertohavecome.AndImustnottakeadvantageofyou.Beforelettingyougowithme,ImusttellyoutherealreasonwhyIamgoingtoFortuney.”

“Therealreason?”echoedHarriet.

“Yes.Ithinkhe’stherenow.”

“Harold?AtFortuney?”�

“Yes.Ihaven’theardfromhimforfivedays.Thenitwasonlyatelegram,datedfromPontoise.That’sverynearFortuney.SincethenIhaven’thadaword.”

“Youpoorchild,howdreadful!Comehereandtellmeaboutit.”Harrietdrew

hertoachair,intowhichshesanklimply.

“There’snothingtotell,exceptwhatonefears.I’velostsleepuntilIimagineallsortsofhorriblethings.Ifhehasbeenalonetherefordays,shutupwithallthosememories,whoknowswhatmayhavehappenedtohim?Ishouldn’t,youknow,feellikethisifhewerewith—anyone.Butthis—oh,youareallagainstme!Younoneofyouunderstand.YouthinkIamtryingtomakehim—inconstant”(forthefirsttimehervoicebrokeintopassionatescorn).“Butthere’snootherwaytosavehim.It’ssimplykillinghim.He’sbeenfrightfullyilltwice,onceinLondonandoncebeforeweleftIndia.TheLondondoctorstoldmethatunlesshewasgotoutofthisstatehemightdoalmostanything.Theyevenwantedmetoleavehim.So,yousee,Imustdosomething.”

Harrietsatdownonthestoolbesideherandtookherhand.

“Whydon’tyou,then,mydear,doit—leavehim?”

Thegirllookedwildlytowardthegardenwall.“Ican’t—notnow.Imighthaveonce,perhaps.Oh!”withaburstoftrembling,“don’t,pleasedon’ttalkaboutit.Justhelpmetosavehimifyoucan.”

“Hadyourather,Ethel,thatIwenttoFortuneyalone?”Harrietsuggestedhopefully.

Thegirlshookherhead.“No;he’dknowIsentyou,andhe’dthinkIwasafraid.Iam,ofcourse,butnotinthewayhethinks.I’venevercrossedhiminanything,butwecan’tgoonlikethisanylonger.I’llgo,andhe’lljusthaveto—choose.”

HavingseenEthelsafelytoherowndoor,Harrietwenttoherhusband,whowasatworkinthelibrary,andtoldhimtowhatshehadcommittedherself.Westfieldreceivedtheintelligencewithmarkeddiscouragement.HedislikedherbeingdrawnmoreandmoreintotheForscythes’affairs,whichhefoundverydepressinganddisconcerting,andheflatlydeclaredthathewantednothingsomuchastogetawayfromallthathysterianextdoorandfinishthesummerinSwitzerland.

“It’sanobsessionwithhertogettoFortuney,”Harrietexplained.“Toheritsomehowmeansgettingintoeverythingshe’soutof.Ireallycan’thaveherthinkingI’magainstherinthatdefinite,pettysortofway.SoI’vepromisedtogo.Besides,ifsheisgoingdownthere,whereallEleanor’sthingsare–-”

“Ah,soit’stokeepherout,andnottohelpherin,thatyou’regoing,”Westfielddeduced.

“Ideclaretoyou,Idon’tknowwhichitis.I’mgoingforbothofthem—forherandforEleanor.”

V

Fortuneystoodinitsclusterofcoolgreen,half-wayupthehillsideandoverlookingthegreenloopoftheriver.Harrietremembered,assheapproachedit,howEleanorusedtosaythat,afterthesouth,itwasgoodtocomebackandresthereyesthere.Nowherewereskiessogray,streamssoclear,orfieldssopleasantlyinterspersedwithwoodland.Thehillonwhichthehousestoodoverlookedanislandwherethehaymakerswerebusycuttingasecondcrop,swingingtheirbrightscythesinthelonggrassandstoppingtohailtheheavylumber-bargesastheypassedslowlyuptheglassyriver.

Ethelinsisteduponleavingthecarriagebytheroadside,sothetwowomenalightedandwalkedupthelongdrivewaythatwoundunderthelinden-trees.Anoldmanwhowasclippingthehedgelookedcuriouslyatthemastheypassed.Exceptforthesnippingofhisbigshearsandoccasionalhalloosfromtheisland,apale,sunnyquietlayovertheplace,andtheirapproach,Harrietreflected,certainlysavoredalltoomuchofareluctancetobreakit.ShelookedatEthelwithalltheexasperationoffatigue,andfeltthattherewassomethingpositivelystealthyabouthersoft,driventread.

Thefrontdoorwasopen,but,astheyapproached,abentoldwomanranoutfromthegardenbehindthehouse,herapronfullofgourds,callingtothemassheran.Etheladdressedherwithoutembarrassment:“IamMadameForscythe.Monsieurisawaitingme.Yes,Iknowthatheisill.Youneednotannounceme.”

Theoldwomantriedtodetainherbysalutationsandquestions,triedtoexplainthatshewouldimmediatelygetroomsreadyforMadameandherfriend.Whyhadshenotbeentold?�

ButEthelbrushedpasther,seemingtofloatoverthethresholdandupthestaircase,whileHarrietfollowedher,protesting.Theywentthroughthesalon,thelibrary,intoHarold’sstudy,straighttowardtheroomwhichhadbeenEleanor’s.

“Letuswaitforhimhereinhisstudy,please,Ethel,”Harrietwhispered.“We’venorighttostealuponanyonelikethis.”

ButEthelseemeddrawnlikethevictimofmesmerism.Thedooropeningfrom

thestudyintoEleanor’sroomwashungwithaheavycurtain.Sheliftedit,andtheretheypaused,noiselessly.ItwasjustasHarrietrememberedit:thetapestries,theprie-dieu,theLouis-Seizefurniture—absolutelyunchanged,exceptthatherownportrait,byConstant,hungwhereHarold’susedtobe.Acrossthefootofthebed,inatennis-shirtandtrousers,layHaroldhimself,asleep.Hewaslyingonhisside,hisfaceturnedtowardthedoorandonearmthrownoverhishead.Thehabitofbeingonhisguardmusthavesharpenedhissenses,forastheylookedathimheawokeandsprangup,flushedanddisordered.

“Ethel,whatonearth—?”hecriedhotly.

Shewasfrightenedenoughnow.Shetrembledfromheadtofootandpressedherhandstightlyoverherbreast.“Younevertoldmenottocome,”shepanted.“Youonlysaid,”withawildburstofreproach,“thatyoucouldn’t.”

Haroldgrippedthefootofthebedwithbothhandsandhisvoiceshookwithanger.“Pleasegodown-stairsandwaitinthereception-room,whileIaskMrs.Westfieldtoenlightenme.”

SomethingleapedintoEthel’seyesasshetookanotherstepforwardintotheroomandletthecurtainfallbehindher.“Iwon’tgo,Harold,untilyougowithme,”shecried.Drawingupherfrailshoulders,sheglanceddesperatelyabouther—attheroom,atherhusband,atHarriet,andfinallyather,thehandsome,disdainfulfacewhichglowedoutofthecanvas.“Youhavenorighttocomeheresecretly,”shebrokeout.“It’sshamefultoheraswellastome.I’mnotafraidofher.Shecouldn’tbutloatheyouforwhatyoudotome.Shecouldn’thavebeensocontemptibleasyouallmakeher—sojealous!”

Forscytheswungroundonhisheel,hisclenchedhandsbangingathisside,and,throwingbackhishead,facedthepicture.

“Jealous?Ofwhom—myGod!”

“Harold!”criedMrs.Westfieldentreatingly.

Butshewastoolate.Thegirlhadslippedtothefloorasifshehadbeencutdown.

VI

Onerainynight,fourweeksafterhervisittoFortuney,ForscythestoodatMrs.Westfield’sdoor,hishatinhishand,biddinghergoodnight.Harrietlookedwornandtroubled,butForscythehimselfwascalm.

“I’msogladyougavemeachanceatFortuney,Harold.Icouldn’tbeartoseeitgotostrangers.I’llkeepitjustasitis—asitwas;youmaybesureofthat,andifeveryouwishtocomeback–-”

Forscythespokeupquickly:“Idon’tthinkIshallbecomingbackagain,Mrs.Westfield.Andpleasedon’thesitatetomakeanychanges.AsI’vetriedtotellyou,Idon’tfeeltheneedofitanylonger.Shehascomebacktomeasmuchassheevercan.”

“Inanotherperson?”

Haroldsmiledalittleandshookhishead.”Inanotherway.Shelivedanddied,dearHarriet,andI’mallthereistoshowforit.That’spitifulenough,butImustdowhatIcan.Ishalldieveryfarshortofthemarkbutshewasalwaysgenerous.”

HeheldouthishandtoMrs.Westfieldandtookhersresolutely,thoughshehesitatedasiftodetainhim.

“TellEthelIshallgoovertoseeherinthemorningbeforeyouleave,andthankherforhermessage,”Harrietmurmured.

“Pleasecome.Shehasbeenseeingtothepackinginspiteofme,andisquitewornout.She’llbeherselfagain,onceIgetherbacktoSurrey,andshe’sverykeenaboutgoingtoAmerica.Goodnight,dearlady,”hecalledafterhimashecrossedtheveranda.

Harrietheardhimsplashdownthegravelwalktothegateandthenclosedthedoor.Shewentslowlythroughthehallandintoherhusband’sstudy,whereshesatquietlydownbythewoodfire.

Westfieldrosefromhisworkandlookedatherwithconcern.

“Whydidn’tyousendthatmadmanhomelongago,Harriet?It’spastmidnight,andyou’recompletelydoneout.Youlooklikeaghost.”Heopenedacabinetandpouredheraglassofwine.

“Ifeellikeone,dear.I’mbeginningtofeelmyage.I’venospirittoholditoffanylonger.I’mgoingtobuyFortuneyandgiveuptoit.Itwillbepleasanttogrowoldthereinthatatmosphereoflovelythingspastandforgotten.”

Westfieldsatdownonthearmofherchairanddrewherheadtohim.“Heisreallygoingtosellit,then?Hehascomeroundsureenough,hasn’the?”

“Oh,hemeltstheheartinme,Robert.Hemakesmefeelsooldandlonely;thatheandIareleftoverfromanotherage—alovelytimethat’sgone.He’sgivingupeverything.He’sgoingtotakeherhometoAmericaafterherchildisborn.”

“Herchild?”

“Yes.Hedidn’tknowuntilafterthatdreadfuldayatFortuney.Shehadnevertoldanyone.Hesayshe’ssoglad—thatitwillmakeuptoherforeverything.Oh,Robert!ifonlyEleanorhadlefthimchildrenallthiswouldn’thavebeen.”

“Doyouthink,”Westfieldaskedafteralongsilence,“thatheisglad?”

“Iknowit.He’sbeensogentleandcomprehendingwithher.”Harrietstoppedtodrythetearsonhercheek,andputherheaddownonherhusband’sshoulder.“Andoh,Robert,Ineverwouldhavebelievedthathecouldbesosplendidaboutit.It’sasifhehadcomeuptohispossibilitiesforthefirsttime,throughthissilly,infatuatedgirl,whileEleanor,whogavehimkingdoms–-”

Shecriedsoftlyonhisshoulderforalongwhile,andthenhefeltthatshewasthinking.Whenatlastshelookedup,shesmiledgratefullyintohiseyes.

“Well,we’llhaveFortuney,dearest.We’llhaveallthat’sleftofthem.He’llneverturnback;Ifeelsuchastrengthinhimnow.He’llgoondoingitandbeingfinerandfiner.Anddoyouknow,Robert,”herlipstrembledagain,butshestillsmiledfromhermistyeyes,“ifEleanorknows,Ibelieveshe’llbeglad;for—oh,myEleanor!—shelovedhimbeyondanything,beyondevenhislove.”