by Anthology
He heard the big clock in the hall below solemnly strike the hour of twelve. It seemed centuries — eternities — since it had sounded before. And still the demons whispered busily in his ear, urging him to yield. Why not, when all his life he had followed the narrow path of duty and right, never once hesitating or turning aside? He knew that he had lived as a strong man should live, scourging on his rebellious soul when it faltered, bravely meeting temptation when it came and overcoming it, grimly crushing down the hunger in his heart when it rose to overwhelm him, and facing the world with smiling lips. For all this did he not deserve reward? There were men whom he had known— men whom he knew now — who had stooped to things he had put from him resolutely; who had followed the easy way and taken life as it had come to them, largely and with both hands and, in the end, easily achieved the happiness he had never known. There were men who had called him a fool for that he had striven to keep his soul clean and his honour untarnished and they, as they pursued their careless course, had prospered. Did not life owe him at least as much as it had given to them?
He heard the big clock in the hall below chime the hour of one with a lingering echo of its silver bell. It seemed centuries — ages — since it had struck before and still the demons whispered busily in his ear that duty had ceased to be a virtue and faith had become the folly of a supersensitive mind. There were men he had known who, like himself, had for years bound themselves to an unwavering rectitude and steadfastly held to the hard road their consciences directed, whose courage, wasted by many conflicts, had failed in the hour of supreme trial; and who, in their weakness and failure, had found help and encouragement the blind world had denied them while they still stood firmly on their feet. There was Leslie Gardiner, to whom the treasures of life had come with hardly an effort on his part, when he was ready for them. What though, unmindful of their worth, he had cast them aside? For at least a little while he had known the glory of a woman's love; and in spite of the stain upon him, in spite of the suffering he had caused her whom he had won, that love was his again whenever he should return to claim it. He had found help in his trial, the help of warm-hearted friends, who were striving to recover for him what his own cowardice had lost. But the man who had not faltered, who had fought without the inspiration the handsome Captain had had to uphold him, — what helping hand had been stretched out to aid him? It was fair enough. Leslie, with everything to spur him on, had had his chance and thrown it away. He, with nothing in his favour, — why should he not grasp the opportunity when it was offered to him?
The silver bell of the big clock in the hall below rang the hour of two. It seemed centuries — aeons — since he heard it before. Would the night never end? And still the demons clustered ever thicker about him and whispered busily in his ear. After all, the Captain might never come back. If he had determined to adhere to his fantastic plan of renunciation, he could not expect the girl to waste away her life waiting upon his pleasure; he could not expect other men to stand aside, nor seek to satisfy their desire for that which he refused. It would be absurd — no one would expect it, Leslie himself least of all. Then there were always the chances of the war.
And suppose he did come back — eventually? Suppose he did return after a year — two years — to find that his friend had married the woman he loved? Well, other men had broken faith and friendship and forgotten loyalty before and for far less reason. And the fault would be partly Leslie's, who by his silence had set the trap, so cleverly hidden that it remained unseen until stumbled upon; who by his silence had brought anguish and suffering not only to the girl who loved him and believed him dead, but to the friend who believed him dead and secure in that belief, had sought a little of the happiness that was his due. It would have been a little thing for the Captain to have written; a little thing for him to have confided in the friend who had been closer than a brother to him and to have saved this ghastly blunder. Leslie himself had been the first to break faith, the first to sever the ties of loyalty and friendship by refusing to trust the friend who had sacrificed so much for him. Was he deserving of consideration after that? Did the friendship of years, so thoughtlessly spurned and made light of, count for more than a lifetime of love? Men said that love was greater than friendship, greater than loyalty, — a power that overrode all bounds and limits of the complex relation of man to man. And the world believed and applauded and looked with pity and scorn on the one who put duty and generosity before all else and was willing to sacrifice his own good for the good of his fellow-man.
He heard the big clock in the hall below strike the hour of three. It seemed an incalculable time since it had struck before. And still the demons thronged at his ear and whispered to him to yield. And Evelyn? Might she not despise him and cast him off when she knew? But how could she know? He had acted sincerely and in good faith when he had spoken of his love to her that evening. He had not suspected that a snare lay across the clear way before him. It was merest chance that he had learned; the merest chance that he had stopped to speak to Hooker before going to bed; the merest chance that Hooker had told him — Or was it chance? He remembered that the officer's words had puzzled him, seeming to convey a hidden meaning that had better not be spoken openly. It was inconceivable, but did Tom know? But how could Tom know? It was manifestly impossible. It must have been a guess — a chance intuition — certainly not sure knowledge. After all, it was of no consequence. Evelyn would believe that he had not known that Leslie was still alive. She would believe that he married her in ignorance, she herself being unaware that her lover might one day return. And Hooker would not tell her. It would only make a bad matter worse and do good to no one. Yes, he could count on Hooker's silence. And perhaps Evelyn might learn to love him before Leslie returned. It often happened that when first love was thwarted, the hungry heart eagerly sought for another to fill the desire it had been taught. And Evelyn, above all else, was made to love. He must marry her as soon as possible. That was the first and most important thing. With a new home to care for, with new friends and interests surrounding her, she would forget more readily. And every day that she would be under the influence of her new life, every day that she would call him her husband, was precious, since at any time Leslie might come back. To marry her quickly, that was the thing; to bind her to him before her eyes were opened to the truth. It would be so easy. He would be a fool not to grasp the occasion when it offered — after waiting all these years.
The big clock in the hall below sounded the hour of four and the demons fled away, chuckling with diabolical glee. Their mission was accomplished. In the library Tom Hooker, surprised by weariness, slept profoundly, buried in the depths of his arm-chair. In the blue-and-gold bedroom where Mabel lay in happy oblivion, while dreams with rose-blushed wings caressed her smooth forehead and murmured low in her dainty ear of delightful days to come, Evelyn, her decision made, forgot her many cares and her mind, released from the problems of her life, fled back to her sunny childhood and the happiness of her college years. And on his tumbled and disordered bed, Jim Merriam rested quietly at last. For good or ill, he had chosen.
"Good gracious," said Mabel, when some hours later they had all assembled at the breakfast table; "I never in my life saw such a fagged-out set of people. You look as though you'd been up all night."
"Went to sleep in the library by mistake," confessed Tom. "And spilled tobacco ashes all over the red chair "— this with a cautious glance at his hostess — "Harris woke me up at seven — had a bath and went for a walk."
"You must be more careful, Tommy," said Mabel anxiously; "you're not strong enough yet to take liberties with yourself. How about you, Jim? Did you fall asleep standing up in the corner of the hall?"
"I didn't fall asleep — that was the trouble with me. I got to thinking of things and stayed awake until nearly four this morning."
Evelyn shot a rapid glance at him, but said nothing. There were dark circles under her eyes, but woman-like she had concealed the ravages made by her
troubled night more successfully than either of the men.
"I knew you were working too hard, James," said Mrs. Thornton compassionately; "you ought to give yourself a rest."
"Well, I hope to before long," replied Jim, as Evelyn coloured slightly. "There isn't so very much going on between now and the Christmas holidays. I think I can afford a month off if I want it."
"Then I think you'd better want it," said Mr. Thornton with a judicial air. "We would be very sorry to have you endanger your career by trying to do too much at the start."
"What are your plans for the morning?" asked the younger girl of the table generally. "If you haven't anything to propose that sounds more attractive, I'll take Tommy out in the roadster and get him in condition for a good nap after dinner."
"Would you care for a tramp?" suggested Jim, speaking to Evelyn, but avoiding her eyes. "I think it would freshen us up a little."
"Yes," she replied lifelessly; "I'd like it. What time are you planning to have dinner, mamma?"
"At half after twelve, dear, and" — with a pointed glance at Mabel and the naval officer — "don't any of you dare to be so much as a single minute late."
"Do you feel horribly guilty, Tommy?" asked Mabel with well-simulated remorse. "When mother begins to remember my shortcomings, I usually find it advisable to vanish. Coming, Eve?"
Evelyn nodded and rising from her place, followed her sister through the doorway, while the men retired to the sitting-room. Hooker endeavoured to draw the Professor aside for a little private conversation, but Jim persistently adhered to their host; and before the officer could accomplish his object, the girls had come down again.
"Where shall we go?" asked Jim as they hesitated on the steps. "I'm in favour of losing the haunts of civilisation as rapidly as possible."
"Then let's take the path over the hill and follow the river road," said Evelyn. "We can make the circuit in about two hours and a half, and that'll give me plenty of time to dress for dinner."
"Good idea," assented Merriam; "we never meet any one on the river road this time of year and it's good walking."
"I remember that when I was a little girl," said Evelyn, as they struck across the meadow to the foot of the ascent, "it used to be the height of my ambition to climb the hill path. I don't know just what I expected to find on the other side, but the very vagueness of my expectations lent an irresistible charm to the adventure. It was a terra incognita that might contain anything in the shape of knights and fairies and enchanted castles, with the addition of the entire setting of 'Alice in Wonderland' and the 'Water Babies.'"
"I remember very distinctly the first time you made the attempt and how you frightened your mother nearly to death, to say nothing of the rest of us."
"And I remember how scared I was by the time you found me," she answered, laughing. "What ever inspired you to look for me over the hill, Jim?"
"It was the first thing I thought of when they told me that you were lost. I knew how you insisted, every time I told you a story, that the knight errant hero always commenced his journey on the river road and that the princess he was seeking was immured at about the place where the old cider mill used to stand. Your conception of distances was conservative in those days."
"You found me under the twin cedars in the hollow and carried me home. And I cried all the way — the first part because I was frightened and the second part because I was sure I'd be horribly scolded for running away."
"You didn't look very scoldable. I never in my life saw such a pathetic little object as you were when I found you. Your little dress was positively in rags and your face was covered with dirt, except where the tears had washed it off or turned it into mud, and your hair was full of sticks and leaves and all kinds of miscellaneous stuff. And the kitten you'd taken along for company had scratched your hands in three places."
"You went back and got it after you'd taken me home, didn't you?"
"I knew how you adored the little beast. Your mother told me that you howled for it as soon as you had gotten over being scared and were sure you wouldn't be spanked."
They breasted the rise and after climbing steadily for fifteen minutes, came out on the crest and, with the instinct of long habit, turned and looked out over the valley spread below them.
"See!" said Merriam; "there's Mabs and Tommy."
A yellow motor-car ran swiftly along the road that wound ribbon-like under the leafless trees and, as they watched it, turned the spur of the hill and disappeared. The air was very still and the smoke from the houses rose straight upwards into the hard, blue sky. A flock of birds, flying southward, swept high above the valley, dwindled to a point, and vanished.
"You were awfully good to me in the old days, Jim. I've often thought since of how good you were to me."
"And now?"
"You've always been the same — always the same true friend I could depend on, no matter what came. I — I owe you more than I can ever pay."
"I never wanted payment, dear. Your happiness was reward enough for me."
"I've been very selfish. I accepted all you did for me without thinking that it was more than mere friendship would have given. You had accustomed me to it for so long that I took it for granted. If I had stopped to think, I might have made life easier for you."
"Eve, darling, please don't talk that way. The last thing in the whole wide world I'd want you to feel is that you were under any obligation to me. And I didn't want you to know before."
She was silent for a while and he waited, moistening his dry lips.
"Jim, I can't give you the love you ought to expect and that you deserve. I've tried hard — oh, so hard — since you spoke to me last evening to believe that I cared for you as you wanted me to — but it isn't there. But what I can give you, I will, if you'll take me without what I can't; and I'll do my best to be a good wife to you and help you and make up to you as much as I can for all you've suffered through me. Perhaps when we're married, the other will come — at least I can admire and respect you and be a friend to you and maybe that will take the place of love."
"That's all I could ask. I'll take you on those terms, dear — and may God forgive me!"
She did not resist when he drew her to him, but after he had kissed her cold lips, she released herself with a certain quiet dignity and he did not offer to touch her again.
She spoke freely of the wedding as they walked on. She would be ready, she said, whenever he was — she had few preparations to make — but she hoped that it might be soon and as simple as possible.
"Then let's say the week before Christmas," he answered. "That will give you nearly a month to get what you need, and I'll have time to find a house for us in Ann Arbor — unless you'd rather wait until you get out there and go around with me."
"No," she said, "I'll trust your judgment. You know my tastes as well as I do."
"I think you'll like it out there," he went on. "The university atmosphere will appeal to you and you'll find the society very agreeable. I have some warm friends among the faculty and you'll feel at home right from the start."
"I'm sure I will," she replied readily. "Ever since I graduated, I've missed the intellectual life of my college days and I'll be very glad to take it up again."
"After the wedding," he pursued, "I'll take three or four weeks off and we'll go south — Bermuda, if you say so, or one of the Florida coast resorts. Have you any preference?"
"That'll be very nice," she agreed. "No, I don't care which it is. I'll let you choose."
"I'd much rather you would," he said a little wistfully; "it's your trip."
"Then let's settle on Bermuda," she returned quickly. "I've never been there and always thought I'd like to go."
"Bermuda it is," he assented, made happy by her simulated interest. "I'll engage the passage before I go west again. You're sure you can get all the clothes and things you need by the week before Christmas, Eve?"
"Oh, yes — easily. There's very little I'll have to have new."<
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"How about the housekeeping paraphernalia?" he hinted. "I've always understood it was more or less of a job to collect all that."
"I declare, I forgot all about it," she replied with a short laugh; "but even with that there'll be time enough. Mother'll be only too glad to help out. In fact, I expect she'll be willing to attend to it all while we're away on our — our trip."
"It sounds almost too good to be true," he said with the enthusiasm of a boy. "I've dreamed so often of planning a home for us two — and now it's actually happening! I can hardly believe it!"
"Yes," answered Evelyn; "it's very nice. Will you give me your hand, please, Jim? I'm not as good at jumping gutters as I used to be."
When they reached the house again, Mabel and Tom Hooker had already returned, and Evelyn found her sister in the process of dressing. The younger girl looked searchingly at the flushed face of the elder and, with a sudden impulse, drew down her head and kissed her.
"Have you anything to tell me, dear?" she asked very tenderly, but Evelyn freed herself and answered pettishly, "I'm to marry Jim Merriam, if that's what you're after. I wish you wouldn't muss me so, Mabs. Now I'll have to do my hair all over again."
