Part 5 (1/2)

”Where the apple reddens do not pry, Lest we lose our Eden--you and I.”

The couplet was quite unfamiliar to Stanton, but it rhymed sickeningly through his brain all night long like the consciousness of an over-drawn bank account.

It was the very next morning after this that all the Boston papers flaunted Cornelia's aristocratic young portrait on their front pages with the striking, large-type announcement that ”One of Boston's Fairest Debutantes Makes a Daring Rescue in Florida waters. Hotel Cook Capsized from Row Boat Owes His Life to the Pluck and Endurance--etc., etc.”

With a great sob in his throat and every pulse pounding, Stanton lay and read the infinite details of the really splendid story; a group of young girls dallying on the Pier; a shrill cry from the bay; the sudden panic-stricken helplessness of the spectators, and then with equal suddenness the plunge of a single, feminine figure into the water; the long hard swim; the furious struggle; the final victory.

Stingingly, as though it had been fairly branded into his eyes, he saw the vision of Cornelia's heroic young face battling above the horrible, dragging-down depths of the bay. The bravery, the risk, the ghastly chances of a less fortunate ending, sent s.h.i.+ver after s.h.i.+ver through his already tortured senses. All the loving thoughts in his nature fairly leaped to do tribute to Cornelia. ”Yes!” he reasoned, ”Cornelia was made like that! No matter what the cost to herself--no matter what was the price--Cornelia would never, never fail to do her _duty_!” When he thought of the weary, lagging, riskful weeks that were still to ensue before he should actually see Cornelia again, he felt as though he should go utterly mad. The letter that he wrote to Cornelia that night was like a letter written in a man's own heart-blood. His hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold the pen.

Cornelia did not like the letter. She said so frankly. The letter did not seem to her quite ”nice.” ”Certainly,” she attested, ”it was not exactly the sort of letter that one would like to show one's mother.”

Then, in a palpably conscientious effort to be kind as well as just, she began to prattle inkily again about the pleasant, warm, sunny weather. Her only comment on saving the drowning man was the mere phrase that she was very glad that she had learned to be a good swimmer. Never indeed since her absence had she spoken of missing Stanton. Not even now, after what was inevitably a heart-racking adventure, did she yield her lover one single iota of the information which he had a lover's right to claim. Had she been frightened, for instance--way down in the bottom of that serene heart of hers had she been frightened? In the ensuing desperate struggle for life had she struggled just one little tiny bit harder because Stanton was in that life? Now, in the dreadful, unstrung reaction of the adventure, did her whole nature waken and yearn and cry out for that one heart in all the world that belonged to her? Plainly, by her silence in the matter, she did not intend to share anything as intimate even as her fear of death with the man whom she claimed to love.

It was just this last touch of deliberate, selfish aloofness that startled Stanton's thoughts with the one persistent, brutally nagging question: After all, was a woman's undeniably glorious ability to save a drowning man the supreme, requisite of a happy marriage?

Day by day, night by night, hour by hour, minute by minute, the question began to dig into Stanton's brain, throwing much dust and confusion into brain-corners otherwise perfectly orderly and sweet and clean.

Week by week, grown suddenly and morbidly a.n.a.lytical, he watched for Cornelia's letters with increasingly pa.s.sionate hopefulness, and met each fresh disappointment with increasingly pa.s.sionate resentment.

Except for the Serial-Letter Co.'s ingeniously varied attentions there was practically nothing to help him make either day or night bearable.

More and more Cornelia's infrequent letters suggested exquisitely painted empty dishes offered to a starving person. More and more ”Molly's” whimsical messages fed him and nourished him and joyously pleased him like some nonsensically fas.h.i.+oned candy-box that yet proved br.i.m.m.i.n.g full of real food for a real man. Fight as he would against it, he began to cherish a sense of furious annoyance that Cornelia's failure to provide for him had so thrust him out, as it were, to feed among strangers. With frowning perplexity and real worry he felt the tingling, vivid consciousness of Molly's personality begin to permeate and impregnate his whole nature. Yet when he tried to acknowledge and thereby cancel his personal sense of obligation to this ”Molly” by writing an exceptionally civil note of appreciation to the Serial-Letter Co., the Serial-Letter Co. answered him tersely--

”Pray do not thank us for the jonquils,--blanket-wrapper, etc., etc.

Surely they are merely presents from yourself to yourself. It is your money that bought them.”

And when he had replied briefly, ”Well, thank you for your brains, then!” the ”company” had persisted with undue sharpness, ”Don't thank us for our brains. Brains are our business.”

VI

It was one day just about the end of the fifth week that poor Stanton's long-acc.u.mulated, long-suppressed perplexity blew up noisily just like any other kind of steam.

It was the first day, too, throughout all his illness that he had made even the slightest pretext of being up and about. Slippered if not booted, blanket-wrappered if not coated, shaven at least, if not shorn, he had established himself fairly comfortably, late in the afternoon, at his big study-table close to the fire, where, in his low Morris chair, with his books and his papers and his lamp close at hand, he had started out once more to try and solve the absurd little problem that confronted him. Only an occasional twitch of pain in his shoulder-blade, or an intermittent shudder of nerves along his spine had interrupted in any possible way his almost frenzied absorption in his subject.

Here at the desk very soon after supper-time the Doctor had joined him, and with an unusual expression of leisure and friendliness had settled down lollingly on the other side of the fireplace with his great square-toed shoes nudging the bright, bra.s.sy edge of the fender, and his big meerschaum pipe puffing the whole bleak room most deliciously, tantalizingly full of forbidden tobacco smoke. It was a comfortable, warm place to chat. The talk had begun with politics, drifted a little way toward the architecture of several new city buildings, hovered a moment over the marriage of some mutual friend, and then languished utterly.

With a sudden narrowing-eyed shrewdness the Doctor turned and watched an unwonted flicker of worry on Stanton's forehead.

”What's bothering you, Stanton?” he asked, quickly. ”Surely you're not worrying any more about your rheumatism?”

”No,” said Stanton. ”It--isn't--rheumatism.”

For an instant the two men's eyes held each other, and then Stanton began to laugh a trifle uneasily.

”Doctor,” he asked quite abruptly, ”Doctor, do you believe that any possible conditions could exist--that would make it justifiable for a man to show a woman's love-letter to another man?”

”Why--y-e-s,” said the Doctor cautiously, ”I think so. There might be--circ.u.mstances--”

Still without any perceptible cause, Stanton laughed again, and reaching out, picked up a folded sheet of paper from the table and handed it to the Doctor.

”Read that, will you?” he asked. ”And read it out loud.”

With a slight protest of diffidence, the Doctor unfolded the paper, scanned the page for an instant, and began slowly.