Part 3

“How about driving in to hear Dr. Burk this morning? He isn’t afraid of the truth, and will tell us something worth listening to, I am sure. Jack, you’ll like him; come along, and we’ll have golf right after dinner.”

“I’ll play you some golf, but I am going to renig on the church proposition. I’ve strayed too far from the fold to be gathered into it now. May I borrow Delphie and go for a ride?”

“Sure, I’ll have Frank saddle her for you,” answered Walter.

The meal was finished; Aunt Marty left hastily to make ready for church. Betty lingered in the conservatory rearranging a few stray ferns.

“Dear, are you going?”

“Have I time to dress? It’s so late already.”

“Well, leave the plants alone and hurry.”

“Walter dear, if you don’t mind I think I shall stay at home. There are lots of little things I want to do and when they are finished perhaps I’ll ride a little with Jack.”

“No, don’t let me keep you home,” interposed Jack, trying to appear disconcerted at Betty’s indecision.

“As you like, dear,” answered Walter, “only be careful with Ringgold, she is as wild as a hare--she hasn’t had exercise lately.”

“You are sure you won’t mind?” asked Betty pleadingly, as she steadily looked into Walter’s eyes, for she knew his power of observance and his ability intuitively to arrive at conclusions which were often startlingly correct.

“I’m satisfied if you are,” he answered.

Betty was conscious of a feeling of guilt as she watched the two men go down the room side by side--Walter, a bit stooped, bald and slightly limping, Jack, tall, straight, thin, with a mass of dark hair. Her cheeks burned as she thought of her subterfuge, and felt herself drifting into deception.

“I’ll take good care of the little lady, Walt,” Jack was saying, as the car whisked away.

Jack lingered about on the veranda; Betty disappeared and did not return until she heard the low, long, familiar whistle come from the foot of the stairs. At that moment she appeared on the landing.

“Do come and talk to me, little boy?” begged Jack in a soft, loving tone.

“I’m sorry I didn’t go to church,” answered Betty regretfully, as she slowly descended to the lower step. This brought her head to a level with Jack’s shoulder.

“Did you stay for my sake? Don’t be stingy--say yes,” he coaxed.

“No--no indeed, there was lots to be done here.”

She stepped back up the stairs, half disgusted at both her own and Jack’s actions. She tried not to be one of those helpless girls who unconsciously betray themselves, and whose behavior is controlled solely by their impulses. She could not comprehend in what manner she had become apathetic toward Walter--Walter who was so tender, thoughtful, and true to her. She would have expressed the utmost surprise and disapprobation if she had heard that another had been detected in this immodest affair--if indeed, she had believed it possible.

“I stayed because I did not like to leave my guest alone, and because I really had things to do.”

“But I am vain enough to think that had I not been here the ‘things to do’ would have remained as they were.”

As Jack made this assertion he drew Betty gently back to him and pressed his lips to the top of her head. She stood as if held by a vice.

“Please--please, Jack, won’t you help me to be good? I owe so much to Walter.”

“Money is money, my little boy, but there is no such thing as a love debt. We know not where love goes or whence it comes. We only know that it has come to you--and to me. It has caught us as fish are caught in a net, and I can think of no escape.”

“But we must do something. Can’t we pray for guidance?”

“No--I can only pray that in some way I shall soon be able to make you mine.”

Again he kissed the top of her head, and as she turned to resist him, he folded her slowly but closely into his arms. She yielded--their lips met, every nerve and fibre tense in the two young bodies.

“You were mine in heaven, darling, long before you came to earth. I lost you--and all these years I’ve been searching for you; now I’ve found you, never, never to let you go--mine--you must be mine.”

“Oh, Jack, how can I ever look at Walter again?” sobbed Betty, tearing herself away. “I can never make my peace with God and him,” she said brokenly. “I shall always be afraid in the day lest my actions betray my guilt, and at night I shall be afraid to sleep for fear some self-accusing word may escape my lips.”

“It would be cruel for me to subject you to such misery,” said Jack, leading her to a comfortable couch, which stood before a large open fire. “Come with me--come until we can arrange to be each other’s?”

“Leave--leave Walter?” she asked, as if half dazed. The words seemed crude--unreal, if she had suddenly awakened from a dream whose content was even now vague and fast fading into the subconscious.

“Come, darling, we’ll solve it later,” said Jack, holding her closer in his arms. “My little boy is so frightened now.”

His words and movements indicated possession. She was now the ruling passion of his life----.

* * * * *

It was with great trepidation that Betty awaited the return of Walter; she still had time to rectify her wrongdoing and send Jack away forever. This action was in her power and she was fully conscious of its importance. And her chief thought was of the sorrow she was about to bring upon the man who had been father, husband and brother all in one--who had lived but to please her; surely she was listening to the mad promptings of a wild impulse. Then she strove to persuade herself that Walter was phlegmatic and plain, a person whose goodness consisted rather in the avoidance than the overcoming of temptation.

“Direct me, God, to the right choice,” said she aloud.

Jack held her at arm’s length and austerely scanned her features.

“Dearest, you know you love me--the joy of this hour is proof enough: these thrills are the thrills of love; the first that have ever come to you or to me. Come, dear, come with me. Do not leave my soul in anguish--my heart famished. Darling, come and I shall protect you always. Answer, my own--answer yes,” whispered Jack, as his lips repeatedly pressed warm kisses to hers--and the answer came slowly and softly--“Yes, I’ll come.”

“When? Now?”

“No, I must make it easy for Walter first. I must arrange things and it will take a long while.”

“I’ll be waiting for you, sweetheart, and even if my body be exiled from you forever my heart will still be yours.”

* * * * *

An epidemic of “flu” had spread over the country--multitudes were sick and dying. Many of the doctors had not returned from the war and the few left were inadequate in numbers to cope with the dreaded malady.

Dr. Baker looked up at his wife from the couch where he had fallen from exhaustion.

“Dear,” said she, “there is another desperate case in the Valley. Do you think you can possibly go out tonight? They are waiting at the ’phone for your answer.”

“Tonight! Not possible, Jane, I’m so tired I can scarcely walk another step. Tell them to try Johnson; they will just about catch him. Who is ill?” he asked, as his wife was leaving the room.

“Mr. Gary--Walter Gary.”

“Walter Gary?” repeated Dr. Baker, sitting upright.

“Yes.”

“Ask how long he has been ill.”

Mrs. Baker returned almost immediately. “It’s Mrs. Gary at the ’phone; she is begging you to come. She says her husband has just been taken, but he seems desperately ill.”

The doctor pulled himself to his feet.

“He’s just about the age and the build of the ones who go quickest.”

“Mrs. Gary said she would send for you at once if you would come,” continued his wife.

“Never mind, tell her I’ll be there as soon as I can make it.”

It was the latter part of the following week. Dr. Baker entered his home at midnight as noiselessly as possible, but his wife was waiting for him and accosted him from the top of the stairs.

“Is he better, Dick?”

“No, Jane, I’m afraid we’re going to lose him after all. I came home only to snatch a wink of sleep and shall be returning directly.”

“And you really think he is going to die?” asked Mrs. Baker, as she took her husband’s bag from him.

“It looks that way,” answered the Doctor, resignedly. He had become more or less callous to sickness and death, but this case, as he described it, was a very appealing one. He regarded young Gary as the combination of all that went to make a fine citizen, husband, and son, and to be cut down when he hadn’t well begun to live was more than he could understand.

“Perhaps he’ll pull through yet,” said Mrs. Baker, but the doctor only shook his head as he wearily stretched himself out on his bed for a short rest.

When he entered the sick room the next morning the blinds were drawn low to keep out the glare of the bright morning sun. Two figures in white moved noiselessly about the room. He seated himself beside the bed and gravely regarded his patient. There were two tanks of oxygen, basins, towels, and a few dishes here and there, and fumes of a disinfectant were plainly detectable as one crossed the threshold. All went to make up an atmosphere wherein a very ill or dying patient lay.

Betty stood opposite the doctor, her eyes sunken and her face white and drawn; with one hand she held pitifully to Walter, while the other clutched convulsively at her throat.

“Dr. Baker, do something more--for God’s sake do something for him,” she pleaded, “Walter--Walter,” she called softly, but earnestly. Then she threw back her head in despair and prayed ardently to God to save her husband.

“Save him, dear God. Do as you will with me, but save him.” She ended in a husky voice.

The realization of her profound love for her husband thrust itself upon her very forcibly in these hours when his life hung by a thread.

“All has been done that human hands can do, dear girl,” spoke the doctor quietly beside her.

Walter slowly opened his eyes and said, “Baby--I’ll--be--waiting--for--you.” The breath came in short, quick gasps and the eyes closed for the last time. Betty called and called, but no answer came--the voice was hushed forever.

An hour later they carried her limp form from the room. On regaining consciousness she sat up in bed and called again, “Walter--I want to go back with Walter.”

“But you musn’t, Mrs. Gary,” soothingly spoke the nurse at her side. “You can’t do him any good, and you must not jeopardize your own life more than you already have.”

“I--I--want to go,” groaned Betty. “They will take him from me soon, forever. Oh, my darling, my darling.”

“Rest awhile, you’ve been through so much,” pleaded the nurse. “Think, dear, don’t you want to help rid the community of this dreadful disease? It’s spreading so wildly that we must all do our part to eliminate it.”

“No--no,” sobbed Betty, “I only want to go with him--with him--with him----.”

Two months passed. Betty, pale, thin and worn by sickness and grief, walked arm in arm with Aunt Martha through the paths of the old fashioned garden. One glimpse of the grief-stricken girl would leave in the mind a picture one could never forget. The large eyes looked out from depths much deeper than ever before; the ashy pale cheeks made a startling contrast to the dark eyes. The figure was thin almost to emaciation and the dress was simple and black. The mischievous expression was replaced by one of listlessness and altogether she looked like one who had but a slender hold on life.

“Marty, do you think Dr. Baker would allow me to ride Walter’s horse alone?”

“Not today, you’re not strong enough yet. I wrote Jack that you might be well enough to see him today. He is coming out on the early train.”

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

“He’ll cheer you up, dear. I’ve been looking forward to his visit. Walter liked him and you’ve put him off so often. Now let him come.”

“I would rather not see anyone,” responded Betty, her eyes filling with tears.

“But Jack has been so thoughtful--see him for me. You’ll feel better for having had a little company.”

Slow steps sounded on the gravel path. Betty darted a look like a frightened deer in the direction from which they came. Jack approached them between an aisle of poplars.

“Have I caught you unawares?” he asked jocularly, and his face showed plainly that he was startled at the changed appearance of Betty.

“Oh no,” answered Aunt Marty, “my girl has just been asking for a horse-back ride.”

“I wanted to ride Walter’s horse alone for a little while,” interposed Betty sadly.

“You are not strong enough to do that,” said Jack.

“But I’d like to.”

“Take care of her, Jack,” said Aunt Marty, indicating a seat at the far end of the garden. “I must go and see about my chickens--two of my prettiest white ones were killed by a train.”

“Mrs. Ames,” Jack called laughingly after her, “can’t you train chickens better than to have them stand on a railroad track?”

The figure of the patient little old lady disappeared among box woods.

“She didn’t hear me,” he added, turning to Betty.

“She has three hundred and they all seem to know her,” answered Betty, relieved for the moment to find something impersonal to talk of. “Would you like to see the new puppies? There are five of them, Frank says. I haven’t seen them myself yet.”

“No, dear girl. I want to see you and you only. Why have you avoided me, when you know my heart has been aching so badly? and that I love you so deeply?”

Betty rose slowly from the bench, waved Jack away with her hand, and was about to leave him. “Please, will you never, never breathe a word--of--love to me again,” she asked.

“What?”--asked Jack, “were you only playing with me, Betty?”

“No--before God, I knew not what I did or said.”

“Come, come, my little girl, you are weak and faint--I’m a brute to worry you. Let’s be friends now and sweethearts later.”

Betty shuddered at the mention of the word.

“No,” she answered, shaking with emotion--“never have I been your sweetheart, and my grief is that I never realized how truly I did love Walter. He was ever present, dependable, and true. I felt that I could put out my hand in the dark and he was always there to guide and help me, yet I shunned that hand, and deliberately planned to ruin him--to ruin him--just as if I had been his worst enemy. The things one is sure of are the things one casts aside, and I, like a venturesome child, reached for those that were forbidden.”

As she talked her breath came more evenly; the stricture around her heart relaxed, she leant back in the garden seat, as she felt her throat tighten and tears rising to her eyes. She could not keep them back; she was not strong enough. They fell and fell, and from time to time she brushed them away with her handkerchief.

“Then you’ve stopped--loving me--my little boy has stopped loving me,” Jack repeated mechanically.

“It was only an ephemeral love--can you forget it and me?” she asked, gently touching his arm. Like the balmy air of spring was the gentleness of her presence beside him, and, unrelenting as she was, it was enough that she was there.

“And you’ll never be mine?” Jack added, turning again to look into the eyes that held the world for him.

“No--I am married. My husband is dead, but I am married and always shall be. I was not true to him while I had him for my own, but the veil is lifted from my eyes and until we see each other again I am his. For God knows that I loved him.”

At these words a peaceful expression settled upon the pale face, and Jack saw and realized that whatever of shallowness her nature had contained had been consumed in the flame of her tragedy. The real Betty was before him, showing the honesty, the nobility, of her true spirit--depth had taken the place of shallowness. She had lost and suffered and this made her still dearer to him, and sacred. He felt the urgings of his better nature bidding him to forget self in the presence of this sorrowing woman. And he saw that his love could not be--that his relationship to her henceforth would have to be on a more unselfish plane.

They slowly retraced their steps through the aisle of poplars.

“May I still be to you what Walter should have liked me to be?” asked Jack tenderly, and the answer came distinctly, “Yes, his friend and mine.”

“THE WHITE PETAL”

There never lived another man so utterly unreliable as Albert Wilbur. If he promised to be at a certain place at a certain time one could count definitely on his absence. But I never thought he would overlook an appointment as important as that which he had made to meet me at his country house on the night of August 3, 1919.

The two Wilbur boys--John and his adopted brother, Albert--were from childhood my most intimate friends, and I often found it necessary to help Albert out of serious difficulties.

As a boy he was exceptionally handsome and promising, but the vices to which he succumbed in later years not only robbed him of his good qualities, but also brought upon his friends lasting sorrow; for when I last saw him his indulgence in depravities had nearly approached a continuous performance.

John, my real chum, was the embodiment of manhood--the only thing I had against him was that he married my childhood sweetheart. Her name was Ellen. My love for her was real, it was deep, and it was earnest. Let me say it was no passing fancy, for there had never been anything to approach it until now. However, I was not blind to John’s qualities, and was compelled to admit to myself on more than one occasion that in selecting a husband Ellen had only shown her usual good judgment.

Since this catastrophe in my life I had retired into myself, determined to live a life of single blessedness. I resolved to consign to oblivion this period of my existence--existence I say, because this word most nearly describes my life at this time. I first tried hard work as a means to aid me in my purpose. This helped, but did not entirely fulfill the essentials. I discovered that what I needed was a change, a new environment: so I pulled up stakes, hard as it was to leave my three friends--for their little girl was just eleven, and had become my closest companion--and spent the next seven years roaming about the world, finding my pleasures in nature, books, new scenes and old cathedrals.

I had heard regularly from the Wilburs since my departure, but my sudden return was due to the last letter--it was written by a friend of the family. She informed me of a fatal automobile accident in which both John and Ellen had lost their lives. In sequence to this was a telegram from Albert. On my arrival in New York more letters from him awaited me. It was at least a week, however, before I started South for my ultimate destination. I gathered all my belongings--for something told me I would not soon return--and prepared for a rapid departure.

The night was cold for mid-summer, and I remember distinctly how I drew my raincoat about me as I walked from the gate across the lawn to where a dim light glowed through the trees. I had dismissed the carriage which had brought me from the lonely station, as our business was of a somewhat secret nature, and so much had been exchanged between us in regard to it that I counted on finding my friend waiting. As I brushed through the mist-laden shrubbery, I thought how welcome would be the grasp of his hand after so many years of separation, and how quickly the warmth of his presence would dispel the strange uncanny loneliness which had crept upon me during my long ride through the woods, with never a sound except the gentle patter of water dropping from the trees and the slop--slop of the horse’s hoofs in the mud of the road.

So I was more than annoyed, in fact, I was hurt and disgusted when the decrepit old fellow who had always been a part of the Wilbur household informed me that “Mister Albert” had wired that he would not be there until the morning. “Very sorry,” the wire ran, “impossible to keep appointment with Constable. Make him comfortable for night. Will be on in morning. ‘For Constable: Do forgive me, old fellow, and make yourself at home. You have the place to yourself. Guarantee no ghosts.’”

“Small comfort,” I murmured to myself, not being able to repress a sneer--the note was so characteristic of its author.

“Very good, sir,” said the spectre beside me, whose presence I had almost forgotten. “I have moved your bed into the library here, where there is an open fire. You’ll find whiskey and soda right on the table, and I’ll put your bag close by the bed. Anything else you’d like, sir?”

“No thanks, Watkins,” I said, recovering the old fellow’s name from some recess in my memory. “I shall do very well, no doubt. But I’m disappointed.”

“Yes, sir, yes, sir,” and with these words Watkins disappeared.

“I’ll be damned,” I muttered. “This is getting positively spooky.”

I looked down--a big mastiff pup, overgrown and generally loppy in appearance, evidently thinking himself addressed, arose slowly from the hearth rug and came towards me, wagging the entire rear end of his body in a gesture which seemed exaggerated at the time, though I have no doubt now that even that did not convey the real extent of his pleasure in having company.

“Well, old man,” I said, stroking his head, “it doesn’t seem so bad here, after all. Here’s looking at you,” and I sipped the glass of warming spirits that Watkins had poured for me. After the last drop had been swallowed I seemed to remember that Watkins had cast some apprehensive glances at this very glass before he left the room.

“Nonsense,” said I to myself, “it’s all imagination,” and I continued, “with a good fire, a good drink, and a good book, what more does man want, unless it be a dog? That’s where you come in, old chap,” and I reached down and patted him. “Let’s see what there is to read,” I continued, still addressing the dog for the sake of company.

Albert had one peculiar trait; he always took an austere pride in being a man of few books, and those such as no one else could understand. So I found little help in the scattered but much-thumbed volumes lying in odd corners about the room. Psychology, metaphysics, and a few seventeenth century works on alchemy made up the entire collection.