Part 14

Numbers of people came to see him in the hospital; flowers and fruits stood about until his eyes wearied of them. He was setting his teeth harder than he had ever done in his life, and he could not unclasp his jaws to breathe the sweetness of roses or taste the pulp of figs. His lawyer had, at his request, written--not telegraphed--to his mother; and in the letter lay a plain request that the news should be kept, by hook or crook, from Netta. The lawyer humored him, writing precisely what Lewis wished; but as that miraculous convalescence progressed, he wondered. No one, of course, would be such a brute as to suggest to Lewis that he change his plans to match his prospects. But--well, _but_.... They moved him to the hotel when he left the hospital, and guests and employees vied with each other for the task of pushing his wheelchair in and out of the elevator and dining room. A visiting nurse did the necessary things for a time, but the wounds healed as by a miracle. Six weeks after the accident Lewis was tensely calm: adjusting himself; writing to his firm; trying to apprehend, little by little, what a man with no legs would be able to do for fifty years. His mental mood had not yet relaxed to despair, and his body inflicted no fevers, no relapses upon him. But as he had not reckoned with Nature, so he had not reckoned with Netta, who was Nature’s protégée.

Mrs. Hunting--distraught, half maddened--had for a time kept Lewis’s command not to let Netta know. But though Netta never read newspapers and had few intimate friends, the news eventually came to her. Some one had noticed the identity of names. The moment Netta heard of it, she asked permission to absent herself, and rushed to Mrs. Hunting’s suburban home. She made no mistakes this time: her instincts served her well. Lewis’s mother had become, by this stroke, her chief ally, and from the first moment Netta treated her as such. Within an hour she had got from Mrs. Hunting precisely what she wanted. Nor is Mrs. Hunting to be too much blamed for playing into Netta’s hands. She had cried over the maiming of her boy, her heart had indeed been well-nigh broken. Yet, confusedly, she saw him as wreckage--beloved wreckage, no doubt; but there was no triumph in possessing him. She had wanted him all to herself, and now, inevitably, she had him thus; and her weak old shoulders trembled under the burden. Being everything to him, as he had hitherto defined it, was being the chief recipient of his favors. The poor woman was discouraged to the marrow; she had no gift for meeting new and shattering situations. Her grievance against Netta had always been on her own behalf--not really on her son’s. She was, of course, leagues away from understanding Lewis, who had indeed never done her the honor of explaining himself to her.

Netta cooed over her, Netta wrapped her in pity and compliments, Netta expressed remorse as inclusive as it was vague. Only the last of their talk need be recorded; and much had been decided between them earlier.

“But, Netta, how can I let you go when he told me not to let you know?”

“You can’t keep me from him. My boss will lend me the money to go, if I ask him.”

“No, no. I’ll give you the money. But do you realize what it means, Netta?”

“Do I realize? What do you take me for? I realize that Lewis is down and out, forever.”

The feeble tears stood in Mrs. Hunting’s eyes. “Yes, that’s true. He is. What are you going to do when you get there?”

“Take care of him, of course. He’s still my husband.”

“You forgive him for wanting to divorce you?”

Netta’s mouth twisted. Forgiveness was something she had never in the least understood. “It has all been a horrible mistake. And now Lewis will realize it. He’ll find that his wife is going to stand by him, no matter what has happened. Bygones are bygones.”

“Netta”--the older woman’s voice shook--“I didn’t know you had it in you. I guess I never understood you before.” She had never been further from understanding Netta than she was at that moment, but she spoke in the utmost honesty. To stick to a broken man who could give her nothing, who had cast her off with insult ... why, Netta was wonderful.

“You’re going to take him back,” she marveled humbly.

“Sure I am.”

“He ought to worship you, Netta.”

Even Netta was a little at loss to answer that. “Lewis doesn’t worship people, I guess. But we’ll be all right.”

“I never did believe in divorce,” sighed Mrs. Hunting. It was quite true, and she felt reminiscently ashamed of having so welcomed her son’s.

The two women kissed, and Netta, with Mrs. Hunting’s check in her bag, departed to pack and make reservations. Lewis’s mother watched her go, and pure admiration filled her heart. She wouldn’t have expected it of Netta who could so easily, after the divorce, have married again. If only the dear Lord would help her to carry it through! A little toneless prayer went up that night from Mrs. Hunting’s lips that Netta might find her strength and her reward. Netta, meanwhile, alert and flushed, was moving about her room, packing her trunk and humming. Never had she felt less need of pity. _She_ was again for Cydnus, to meet Mark Antony.

Her train, she found, would arrive at a hideously inconvenient hour; so she stopped short of her goal, had a night’s rest in another town, and motored over in the happy morning light. Her heart was beating hard as she faced the hotel clerk and registered. His quick, excited glance of sympathy and admiration encouraged her. She realized afresh the tremendous handicap in her favor. She was, after all, still a wife.

“I’ll telephone up,” stammered the clerk.

Netta bent across the counter and smiled at him gently. The result was to make him feel that some men had all the luck. For a hopeless cripple to get any woman back after trying to get rid of her--and such a good looking one....

“No,” she said. “I’ve got to see him. And I think it will be easier for both of us if I just walk in. I came as soon as I heard. Does he suffer?” She dropped her voice sympathetically.

“Not now. He’s made a wonderful recovery, they say.”

She nodded. “I’ll just go up and knock at his door. What is the number?”

He told her. “Shall I give you a room?”

Netta flushed a little. “Suppose you wait until I come down. Here is my trunk check.”

The elevator girl stared at Netta when she revealed her name and her errand. As soon as Netta was well down the corridor, the girl shot the car to the basement where her favorite bell boy would be haunting the pool-room entrance. She crooked a finger at him. “Say, Ted, who’d you s’pose I just took up to Mr. Hunting’s room? His wife! Gosh, she’s a wonder--and some looker. Goin’ to take him back, I guess. Don’t you ever talk to me about women again. There’s some of ’em that’s worth all the men in creation.” The elevator rose, preventing retort.

Netta already had laid her finger on the pulse of Nevada. She had been a little afraid of this special atmosphere which, she thought, might be like nothing else in our great country. But apparently, even in the stronghold of divorce, fidelity was valued. The mere glances of the clerk and the elevator girl had made that clear. Nevada itself would back her, she now suspected, just as Mrs. Hunting had done. She knocked at Lewis’s door and entered.

Lewis sat by the window, a rug spread over him from the waist down. He turned, expecting a bell boy. He saw Netta instead, and so profound was the shock that it seemed instantly inevitable. The fact was too monstrous for doubt. There was hopelessness beneath his hot flush, though his voice was cold and stern.

“Netta! Why are you here?”

Netta took off her gloves, went into the bathroom and washed her hands. She came back, drew up a chair near (but not too near) him and sat down. Only then did she speak.

“I’m here to talk to you, first of all, Lewis. And then to see what I can do for you.”

“How did you hear about this?” He pointed at the rug.

“It must have been in the papers. Some one spoke to me about it, finally. So I went to see Mother Hunting, and she told me everything.”

“Did she know you were coming out here?”

“Why, of course she knew, Lewis. She helped me to come and gave me her blessing.”

More virtue went out of him as he heard these words.

“My mother doesn’t understand anything about my position,” he said harshly. “There’s nothing you can do for me. Sorry you had the trip. And now you had better get out as soon as possible. How did they happen to let you up here?”

Netta made no show of temper--which was ominous, Lewis thought. A row, he considered, would be the very best thing that could happen.

“Well, you see, Lewis dear, I am still your wife. And I think,” she spoke gently to veil the brutality of what was to come--“most people would feel that a man in your position couldn’t refuse to see his wife, if she were willing to see him. It isn’t as if you ever had any real grounds against me, you know. I suppose you thought you’d marry again. Well, I don’t see how you ever can, do you?”

“Of course I shall never marry again,” he said shortly. She had got beneath his skin--Netta always did--and he felt weak tears starting.

“Somebody’s got to take care of you, Lewis, you know. And if your mother and I are willing to do it, between us, I guess you can only be thankful to us. I shall keep on working, of course.”

“I’d rather starve,” Lewis answered simply.

“That’s foolish,” his wife replied mildly “--dead silly. Where would you starve? And how? You can be very sure of one thing, Lewis. Your friends aren’t going to look after you while your own family stand ready to do it.”

“Why do you come and badger me like this?” It was weak, and he knew it; but he could not tell her in plain words that he hated her. The loss of his physical integrity somehow made it impossible to utter so complete and violent a truth.

Netta rose. “I suppose if I told you I loved you, Lewis, you wouldn’t understand. But I’ve always loved you. You knew when you left me, when you tried to divorce me, that I loved you. Do you suppose a woman who didn’t love you would come back to you, after the way I’ve been treated, and after what has happened to you? You can put it up to your precious lawyer if you want to. I guess you’ll find that even in the state of Nevada people will consider that a wife who’s ready to forgive what I’m ready to forgive, and to take care of you the rest of your life, is worth paying some attention to.”

“It’s no use talking, Netta. I don’t love you--not a damn bit. What do you want me for?”

She bent over him, not touching him. “Darned if I know, Lewis. But I do want you--and I intend to have you. I don’t see how you’re going to stop it. No, you needn’t worry--I’m not going to kiss you. Some day”--she looked at him strangely, scrutinizingly--“you’ll be asking for it. I’ll wait for that, thanks.”

A bell boy knocked and entered just then to take Lewis down to the dining room. If he was half an hour earlier than usual, he can hardly be blamed. The hotel was buzzing from lobby to kitchen. Word had already gone forth upon the streets of the town concerning the beautiful forgiving wife who had appeared like an angel in the desert. It must be remembered that in Nevada the presumption against the forsaken spouse is not very strong.

“You had better go down alone today, Lewis,” Netta said. “I’ll go out and do an errand or two, and lunch later.”

She left them in the lobby. There were two people she wanted to see before she talked with Lewis again. Thanks to Mrs. Hunting, she knew the names of both, and a telephone book did the rest.

The interview with Lewis’s lawyer came first. Netta did not attempt to commit him to anything. She merely announced her presence and her intentions; and she did not fail to refer obliquely to the fact that, however the situation broke, there could be no money in it for any one.

“Of course I know you’ll have to talk with my husband,” she said finally, as she rose. “But the fact is that he’s down and out, and I’m willing to forget everything and work for the rest of my life to support him. I’m afraid I am his only chance.” She shook her tawny head a little pathetically and departed.

Netta permitted herself a sandwich and a cup of coffee before the second encounter. It was possible, she realized, that Lewis had fallen in love; and in spite of Netta’s brave sarcasms she knew it also to be possible that another woman had fallen in love with him. If she, Netta, could keep on loving him, another woman might. And if the other woman were rich, she might even allow herself the luxury of a crippled husband. Her hand trembled a little as she rang the bell of Mrs. Tilton’s apartment.

She could have shouted for joy, once face to face with Mona Jeffers. If she couldn’t cut out that pale creature, she wasn’t much good, she opined. She prepared to do battle, rather contemptuously. But Mona surprised her at once.

“We heard that you had come on, Mrs. Hunting. My cousin just came in from shopping. Things get round pretty quickly in this place.” The girl was panting slightly, and Netta watched her, catlike, to see what would come. “Oh, I do hope it’s true, Mrs. Hunting, that you’re ready to make it up and take him back!”

So, even if Lewis wanted this chit, she didn’t want him. She had only Lewis to fight, after all.

“I certainly am, Miss Jeffers. I only want to stand by him and take care of him, if he’ll let me.”

“Oh, how glad I am, Mrs. Hunting. Why”--the girl spoke softly--“it is almost worth while it should have happened if it brings you together again.”

Precisely what Netta had thought; but she had not expected any one else to say it. Suspicion attacked her again.

“I wouldn’t say that, Miss Jeffers. It’s a pretty awful thing that’s happened. But he’s my husband, and I feel we belong to each other. The real reason I came to see you”--she went on very gravely--“was that I knew you were together at the time of the accident. I didn’t know but you and he had fallen in love with each other--meant to get married when he got his decree.”

The pale girl flushed. “Oh, no, Mrs. Hunting. There wasn’t a thing--ever!” She gave a little involuntary shiver.

Netta noted the shiver and could have laughed aloud. Whatever Lewis might have wanted, this girl didn’t want him. Poor old Lewis! His day of charm was over--excepting always for her. Funny: somehow he had “got” her for all time, but it looked as if he would never “get” any one else.

She smiled as she rose to go. “You must remember, Miss Jeffers, that Mr. Hunting has been trying to divorce me. I don’t know yet what he will do.”

“Do?” the girl exclaimed. “Why, of course he’ll worship you. Not many women would do what you are doing.”

Wouldn’t they? Netta wondered silently as she went out upon the street. Well, perhaps other people didn’t know what they wanted. She had never been troubled that way. But it was clear to her that no one was going to interfere with her taking on the whole burden of Lewis Hunting. Relief was in all their voices. Netta took a room at the hotel, but she did not try to see Lewis again. She dined outside the hotel and filled in the evening at a movie. In the theater she was aware of being covertly pointed out. Before retiring she sent a note to Lewis, saying that she should not see him until he sent for her.

Lewis, however, did not take long to capitulate. After talking with a few people he saw that, in the eyes of public opinion, he had no case. It was cold fact that Netta was behaving with great magnanimity. He was helpless, done for, and she was willing to take him on. The fact that he didn’t want to live with her seemed very small in comparison--everybody blew it away, and indeed the mere hint of it seemed to shock. Half a man has no right to the prejudices and preferences of the whole man. How could he fight against the heroine of the hour? He sent for his wife on the second day, and she came at once.

“Well, Lewis?”

“Well, Netta.”

That seemed to be all. Then he said haltingly, “I am very grateful to you, Netta.”

“You’ve got reason to be,” she answered briskly. “I’ll move next door tomorrow, and you won’t have to hire other people to wait on you. Perhaps I had better begin by taking you down to dinner tonight.” She moved about the room, tidying it. Her presence seemed to flow into the farthest crannies of the chamber, and his nerves began the old gestures of revolt. There was never to be peace.

“Let’s go down early,” he said roughly.

“All right.” She wheeled him into the elevator and wheeled him out and into the dining room. As they moved through the palm room, she heard an unattractive citizen remark aside, “I’ve got pretty cynical, living in this place; but by heck, a woman like that almost gives me back my faith in human nature.” Evidently Lewis had heard it too, for he flushed.

At the table he ordered, but ate little. Instead, he stared ahead of him--still flushed and curiously, stonily handsome. They talked very little. Netta too was flushed and shaken--with victory. She had got Lewis back forever, and food was unimportant. Money was the thing that was going to trouble her next.

Lewis was dealing with the future, as well as she. He was beginning to realize--the overheard words had thrust it on him--that not only must he live with Netta, endure her unmodulated hardness, perhaps even her strong caresses, but must always be humble with gratitude. He would have died rather than kneel to her, three months ago, when he had knees to kneel with; but, symbolically, he must do just that--forever.

“Let’s stick round the lobby awhile,” he proposed.

“All right, if you want to.”

But suddenly he clutched the chair-arm. “No--upstairs!” He had wanted to put off being alone with her, but he had been wrong. It was more terrible to sit there with her, hero and heroine, under those cynical eyes made soft again by the spectacle of them.

“All right,” said Netta again. “Just wait until I go to the newsstand and get some magazines.” She left him, and he closed his eyes.

A voice in his ear made him open them. “It’s terrible for you--her coming like this. But be brave. Nothing lasts forever. Be brave.” The speaker passed on--a woman he had never known but whom, like all the other hotel guests, he had noted for her distinction of bearing and garb. She was not in the least of Lewis’s--or of the others’--world, and she would never have employed a young woman so aggressive and sharp as Netta.

“Who is your friend?” he heard his wife ask. Strolling back with her magazines, she had noted the clothes, the air, the aspect of the older woman who had paused--though barely--by her husband’s chair.

“I never spoke to her before, and I haven’t any idea,” he replied. “There are all sorts of people round this place.”

He spoke very quietly. It was suddenly easier to be patient. Somehow that woman, with her mere passing murmur of sympathy, had picked his dignity out of the dust and handed it back to him. They had to wait for the elevator, and a cold draft assailed them, blowing directly through the little lobby from the street. Netta took off her scarf and folded it round his shoulders with a solicitous, possessive smile. The world looked on, with moist eyes.... Lewis set his teeth, squared his fine shoulders, and looked straight ahead of him with pride.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Copyright, 1925, by Harper & Brothers. Copyright, 1926, by Katharine Fullerton Gerould.

COWARD’S CASTLE[10]

By WALTER GILKYSON

(From _The Atlantic Monthly_)

Judge Avery held his pencil poised above the typewritten page of testimony, then marked the margin with a long firm line. He had not remembered the plaintiff’s evidence was so clear; that young man had brought it out very nicely with the neat indirectness of his questions. On page forty-eight--he turned back the rustling sheets. Yes, the witness had said about the same thing. With a faint smile of satisfaction he leaned over and began writing on the pad that lay upon the book-rest of his easy-chair.

For a moment he paused to read what he had written, the pencil trembling slightly in his thin blue-veined hand; there was a look of critical appraisal in his worn face, something vivid, keenly alive, beneath the bloodless texture of his skin. He struck out a word, replaced it with another; the wrinkle between his eyebrows deepened and he smoothed the white hair above his forehead absently, then laid down the pad. That was the last finding of fact. He would dictate the whole and his conclusions of law before Court tomorrow.

It must be nearly five, he thought. The sunlight had shrunk to a dusty orange bar across the red carpet at his feet; through the open window he could hear the cooing of the pigeons, the soft rustle of their wings as they moved upon the stone sill. Against the opposite wall the yellow bindings of the books ran in converging rows to a well of still gray light that seemed to gather at the end of the room; the surface of the table in the center shone like a ruddy disk above its dark carven legs; through the curtains that hung above the doorway to his right he could hear the voices of the tipstaves talking in the empty courtroom outside.

Rodenbaugh was late. Evidently he was going to finish the Minturn case this afternoon. A driving young man, Rodenbaugh--he swept uncommon clean for a new broom. The judge smiled a little grimly, glanced down at his knees, unpleasantly sharp and narrow beneath the neat fold of his trousers. Old age did queer tricks to the body, things that he didn’t like. No doubt it did the same things to the mind. He was seventy-three. That was a warning in itself. He rose and walked to the window, sniffed the dusty May air. He was sorry he didn’t get on better with Rodenbaugh. It was hard, at first, to like any one who had taken Langdon’s place on the bench.