The High Heart

by Basil King

  CHAPTER XVII

  In similar small happenings April passed and we had reached the middleof May. Easter and the opera were over; as the warm weather was comingon people were already leaving town for the country, the seaside orEurope. Personally, I had no plans beyond spending the month of August,which Mr. Grainger informed me I was to have "off," in making a visit tomy old home in Halifax. Hugh had ceased to talk of immediate marriage,since he had all he could do to live on what he earned in selling bonds.

  He had taken that job when Mildred could lend him no more withoutdipping into funds that had been his father's. He was still resolute onthat point. He was resolute, too, in seeing nothing in the charms ofCissie Boscobel. He hated red hair, he said, making no allowance for theumber-red of Australian gold, and where I saw the lights of Limogesenamel he found no more than the garish tints of a chromolithograph.When I hinted that he might be the hero of some young romance onCissie's part, he was contented to say "R-rot!" with a contemptuous rollof the first consonant.

  Larry Strangways was industrious, happy, and prospering. He enjoyed themen with whom his work brought him into contact, and I gathered that hiswriting for daily, weekly, and monthly publications was bringing himinto view as a young man of originality and power. From himself Ilearned that his small inherited capital was doubling and tripling andquadrupling itself through association with Stacy Grainger'senterprises. For Stacy Grainger himself he continued to feel anadmiration not free from an uneasiness, with regard to which he made nodirect admissions.

  Of Mrs. Brokenshire I was seeing less. Either she had grown used todoing without her lover or she was meeting him in some other way. Shestill came to see me as often as once a week, but she was not soemotional or excitable. She might have been more affectionate thanbefore, and yet it was with a dignity that gradually put me at adistance.

  Cissie Boscobel I didn't meet during the whole of the six weeks exceptin the company of Mrs. Rossiter. That happened when once or twice I wentto the house to see Gladys when she was suffering from colds, or when myformer employer drove me round the Park. Just once I got the opportunityto hint that Lady Cissie hadn't taken Hugh from me as yet, to which Mrs.Rossiter replied that that was obviously because she didn't want him.

  We were all, therefore, at a standstill, or moving so slowly that Icouldn't perceive that we were moving at all, when in the middle of aMay forenoon I was summoned to the telephone. I was not surprised tofind Mr. Strangways at the other end, since he used any and every excuseto call me up; but his words struck me as those of a man who had takenleave of his senses. He plunged into them without any of the usualmorning greetings or preliminary remarks.

  "Are you game to go to Boston by the five-o'clock train to-day?"

  I naturally said, "What?" but I said it with some emphasis.

  He repeated the question a little more anxiously.

  "Could you be ready to go to Boston by the five-o'clock train thisafternoon?"

  "Why should I be?"

  He seemed to hesitate before replying.

  "You'd know that," he said at last, "when you got on the train."

  "Is it a joke?" I inquired, with a light laugh.

  "No; it's not a joke. It's serious. I want you to take that train andgo."

  "But what for?"

  "I've told you you'd know that when you got on the train--or before youhad gone very far."

  "And do you think that's information enough?"

  "It will be information enough for you when I say that a great deal maydepend on your doing as I ask."

  I raised a new objection.

  "How can I go when I've my work to attend to here?"

  "You must be ready to give that up. If any one makes any trouble, youmust say you've resigned the position."

  As far as was possible over the wire I got the impression of earnestnesson his part and perhaps excitement; but I was not yet satisfied.

  "What shall I do when I get to Boston? Where shall I go?"

  "You'll see. You'll know. You'll have to act for yourself. Trust yourown judgment as I trust it."

  "But, Mr. Strangways, I don't understand a bit," I was beginning toprotest, when he broke in on me.

  "Oh, don't you see? It will all explain itself as you go on. I can'ttell you about it in advance. I don't know. All I can say is thatwhatever happens you'll be needed, and if you're needed you'll be ableto play the game."

  He went on with further directions. It would be possible to take my seatin the train at twenty minutes before the hour of departure. I was to beearly on the spot so as to be among the first to be in my place. I wasto take nothing but a suit-case; but I was to put into it enough to lastme for a week, or even for a week or two. I was to be prepared forroughing it, if necessary, or for anything else that developed. He wouldsend me my ticket within an hour and provide me with plenty of money.

  "But what is it?" I implored again. "It sounds like spying, or thesecret service, or something melodramatic."

  "It's none of those things. Just be ready. Wait where you are till youget your ticket and the money."

  "Will you bring them yourself?"

  "No. I can't; I'm too busy. I'm calling from a pay-station. Don't ringme up for any more questions. Just do as I've asked you, and I knowyou'll not regret it--not as long as you live."

  He put up the receiver, leaving me bewildered. My ignorance was suchthat speculation was shut out. I kept saying to myself: "It must bethis," or, "It must be that," but with no conviction in my guesses. Onedreadful suspicion came to me, but I firmly put it away.

  A little after twelve a special messenger arrived, bringing my ticketand five hundred dollars in bank-notes. I knew then that I was in for agenuine adventure. At one I put on my hat and coat, locked the doorbehind me, and went off to my hotel. Mentally I was leaving a work towhich, from certain points of view, I was sorry to say good-by, but Icould afford no backward looks.

  At the hotel I packed my belongings and left them so that they could besent after me in case I should not return. I might be back the nextmorning; but then I might never come back at all. I thought of thosevillagers who from idle curiosity followed the carriage of Louis XVI.and Marie Antoinette as it drove out of Varennes, some of them never tosee their native town again till they had been dragged over half thebattle-fields of Europe. Like them I had no prevision as to where I wasgoing or what was to become of me. I knew only--gloatingly, and with akind of glory in the fact--that I was going at the call of LarryStrangways, to do his bidding, because he believed in me. But thatthought, too, I tried to put out of my mind. In as far as it was in mymind I did my best to express it in terms of prose, seeing myself not asthe heroine of a mysterious romance--a view to which I was inclined--butas a practical business woman, competent, up-to-date, and unafraid. Iwas afraid, mortally afraid, and I was neither up-to-date nor competent;but the fiction sustained me while I packed my trunks and sent atelegram to Hugh.

  This last I did only when it was too late for him to answer or interceptme.

  "Called suddenly out of town," I wrote. "May lead to a new place. Willwrite or wire as soon as possible." Having sent this off at half pastfour, I took a taxicab for the station.

  My instructions were so far carried out successfully that, with acolored porter wearing a red cap to precede me, I was the first to passthe barrier leading to the train, and the first to take my seat in thelong, narrow parlor-car. My chair was two from the end toward theentrance and exit. Once enthroned within its upholstered depths Iwatched for strange occurrences.

  But I watched in vain. For a time I saw nothing but the straight, emptycavern of the car. Then a colored porter, as like to my own as one peato another, came puffing his way in, dragging valises and otherimpedimenta, and followed by an old gentleman and his wife. These theporter installed in chairs toward the middle of the car, and, touchinghis cap on receipt of his tip, made hastily for the door. Similararrivals came soon after that, with much stowing of luggage intooverhead racks, and kisses, and injunction
s as to conduct, andfarewells. Within my range of vision were two elderly ladies, a smartlydressed young man, a couple in the disillusioned, surly stage, a couplewho had recently been married, a clergyman, a youth of the cheapsporting type. To one looking for the solution of a mystery the materialwas not promising.

  The three chairs immediately in front of mine remained unoccupied. Ikept my eye on them, of course, and presently got some reward. Shortlybefore the train pulled out of the station a shadow passed me which Iknew to be that of Larry Strangways. He went on to the fourth seat,counting mine as the first, and, having reached it, turned round andlooked at me. He looked at me gravely, with no sign of recognitionbeyond a shake of the head. I understood then that I was not torecognize him, and that in the adventure, however it turned out, we wereto be as strangers.

  One more thing I saw. He had never been so pale or grim or determined inall the time I had known him. I had hardly supposed that it was in himto be so determined, so grim, or so pale. I gathered that he was takingour mission more to heart than I had supposed, and that, prompt inaction as I had been, I was considering it too flippantly. Inwardly Iprayed for nerve to support him, and for that presence of mind whichwould tell me what to do when there was anything to be done.

  Perhaps it increased my zeal that he was so handsome. Straight and slimand upright, his features were of that lean, blond, regular type I usedto consider Anglo-Saxon, but which, now that I have seen it in so manyScandinavians, I have come to ascribe to the Norse strain in our blood.The eyes were direct; the chin was firm; the nose as straight as anancient Greek's. The relatively small mouth was adorned by a relativelysmall mustache, twisted up at the ends, of the color of the coffee-bean,and, to my admiring feminine appreciation, blooming on his face like aflower.

  His neat spring suit was also of the color of the coffee-bean, and sowas his soft felt hat. In his shirt there were lines of tan and violet,and tan and violet appeared in the tie beneath which a soft collar waspinned with a gold safety pin. The yellow gloves that men have affectedof late years gave a pleasant finish to this costume, which was quitecomplete when he pulled from his bag an English traveling-cap of severalshades of tan and put it on. He also took out a book, stretching himselfin his chair in such a way that the English traveling-cap was all Icould henceforth see of his personality.

  I give these details because they entered into the mingled unwillingnessand zest with which I found myself dragged on an errand to which I hadno clue. Still less had I a clue when the train began to move, and I hadnothing but the view of the English traveling-cap to bear me company.But no, I had one other detail. Before sitting down Mr. Strangways hadcarefully separated his own hand-luggage from that of the person whowould be behind him, and which included an ulster, a walking-stick, anda case of golf-clubs. I inferred, therefore, that the wayfarer who ownedone of the two chairs between Mr. Strangways and myself must be a man.The chair directly in front of mine remained empty.

  As we passed into the tunnel my mind lashed wildly about in search ofexplanations, the only one I could find being that Larry Strangways waskidnapping me. On arriving in Boston I might find myself confronted by amarriage license and a clergyman. If so, I said to myself, with anextraordinary thrill, there would be nothing for it but submission tothis _force majeure_, though I had to admit that the averted head, theEnglish traveling-cap, and the intervening ulster, walking-stick, andgolf-clubs worked against my theory. I was dreaming in this way when thetrain emerged from the tunnel and stopped so briefly at One Hundred andTwenty-fifth Street that, considering it afterward, I concluded that thepause had been arranged for. It was just long enough for an odd littlebundle of womanhood to be pulled and shoved on the car and thrown intothe seat immediately in front of mine. I choose my verbs with care,since they give the effect produced on me. The little woman, who wasswathed in black veils and clad in a long black shapeless coat, seemednot to act of her own volition and to be more dead than alive. Theporter who had brought her in flung down her two or three bags andwaited, significantly, though the train was already creeping its wayonward. She was plainly unused to fending for herself, and only when, asa reminder, the man had touched his hat a second time did it occur toher what she had to do. Hastily unfastening a small bag, she pulled outa handful of money and thrust it at him. The man grinned and was gone,after which she sagged back helplessly into her seat, the satchel openin her lap.

  That dreadful suspicion which had smitten me earlier in the day cameback again, but the new-comer was so stiflingly wrapped up that even Icould not be sure. She reminded me of nothing so much as of the veiledBegum of Bhopal as she sat in the durbar with the other Indianpotentates, her head done up in a bag, as seen in the pictures in theillustrated London papers. For a lady who wished to pass unperceived itwas perfect--for every eye in the car was turned on her. I myselfstudied her, of course, searching for something to confirm my fears, butfinding nothing I could take as convincing. For the matter of that, asshe sat huddled in the enormous chair I could see little beyond aswathing of veils round a close-fitting hat and the folds of the longblack coat. The easiest inference was that she might be some poor oldthing whom her relatives were anxious to be rid of, which was, I think,the conclusion most of our neighbors drew. Speaking of neighbors, I hadnoticed that in spite of the disturbance caused by this curiousentrance, Larry Strangways had not turned his head.

  I could only sit, therefore, and wait for enlightenment, or for anopportunity. Both came when, some half-hour later, the ticket-collectorspassed slowly down the aisle. Other passengers got ready for them inadvance, but the little begum in front of me did nothing. When at lastthe collectors were before her she came to herself with a start.

  She came to herself with a start, seizing her satchel awkwardly andspilling its contents on the floor. The tickets came out, and somemoney. The collectors picked up the tickets and began to pencil and tearthem; the youth of the cheap sporting type and I went after the coins.Since I was a young woman and the lady with her head in a bag might betaken for an old one, I had no difficulty in securing his harvest, whichhe handed over to me with an ingratiating leer. Returning the leer asmuch in his own style as I could render it, I offered the handful ofsilver and copper to its owner. To do this I stood as directly as mightbe in front of her, and when, inadvertently, she raised her head I triedto look her in the eyes.

  I couldn't see them. The shimmer I caught behind the two or three veilsmight have been any one's eyes. But in the motion of the hand that tookthe money, and in the silvery tinkle of the voice that made itself aslow as possible in murmuring the words, "Thank you!" I couldn't bemistaken. It was enough. If I hadn't seen her she at least had seen me,and so I went back to my seat.

  I had got the first part of my revelation. With the aid of the ulster,the walking-stick, and the golf-clubs I could guess at the rest. I knewnow why Larry Strangways wanted me there, but I didn't know what I wasto do. By myself I could do nothing. Unless the little begum took theinitiative I shouldn't know where to begin. I could hardly tear off adisguise she had chosen to assume, nor could I take it for granted thatshe was not on legitimate business.

  But she had seen me, and there was something in that. If the owner ofthe vacant chair turned up he, too, would see me, and he wouldn't wear aveil. We should look each other in the eyes, and he would know that Iknew what he was about to do. The situation would not be pleasant forme; but it would conceivably be much less pleasant for anybody else.

  I waited, therefore, watching the beautiful green country go tearing by.The smiling freshness of spring was over the hillsides on the left,while the setting sun gilded the tiny headlands on the right and turnedthe rapid succession of creeks and inlets and marshy pools into sheetsof orange and red. Fire illumined the windows of many a passing house,to be extinguished instantaneously, and touched with occasional flamesthe cold spring-tide blue of the sea. Clumps of forsythia were inblossom, and here and there an apple-tree held out toward the sun abranch of early flowers.

  When the
train stopped at New Haven I was afraid that the owner of theulster and the golf-clubs would appear, and that my work, whatever itwas to be, would be rendered the more difficult. But no new arrivalentered. On the other hand, the passengers began to thin out as the timecame for going to the dining-car. In the matter of food I determined tostay at my post if I died of starvation, especially on seeing that theEnglish traveling-cap was equally courageous.

  Twilight gradually filtered into the world outside; the marshes, inlets,and creeks grew dim. Dim was the long, burnished line of the Sound,above which I could soon make out a sprinkling of wan yellow stars. Wanyellow lights appeared in windows where no curtains were drawn, and whata few minutes earlier had been twilight became quickly the night. It wasthe wistful time, the homesick, heart-searching time. If the little ladyin front of me were to have qualms as to what she was doing they wouldcome then.

  And indeed as I watched her it seemed to me that she inserted herhandkerchief under her series of coverings as if to wipe away a tear.Presently she lifted two unsteady hands and began to untie her outerveil. When it came to finding the pins by which it was adjusted shefumbled so helplessly that I took it on myself to lean forward with thewords, "Won't you allow me?" I could do this without moving round towhere I should have been obliged to look her in the face; and it was sowhen I helped her take off the veil underneath.

  "I'm smothering," she said, very much as it might have been said by alittle child in distress.

  She wore still another veil, but only that which was ordinarily attachedto her hat. The car being not very brightly lighted, and most of ourfellow-travelers having gone to dinner, she probably thought she hadlittle to fear. As she gave no sign of recognition on my rendering mysmall services I subsided again into my chair.

  But I knew she was as conscious of my presence as I was of hers. It wasnot wholly surprising, then, that some twenty minutes later she shouldswing round in the revolving-chair and drop all disguises. She did itwith the words, tearfully yet angrily spoken:

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I'm going to Boston, Mrs. Brokenshire," I replied, meekly. "Are youdoing the same?"

  "You know what I'm doing, and you've come to spy on me."

  There is something about the wrath of the sweet, mild, gentle creature,not easily provoked, which is far more terrible than the rage of anirascible old man accustomed to furies. I quailed before it now, but notso much that I couldn't outwardly keep my composure.

  "If I know what you're doing, Mrs. Brokenshire," I said, gently, "itisn't from any information received beforehand. I didn't know you wereto be on this train till you got in; and I haven't been sure it was youtill this minute."

  "I've a right to do as I please," she declared, hoarsely, "withouthaving people to dog me."

  "Do I strike you as the sort of person who'd do that? You've had someopportunity of knowing me; and have I ever done anything for which youdidn't first give me leave? If I'm here this evening and you're here,too, it's pure accident--as far as I'm concerned." I added, with somedeepening of the tone, and speaking slowly so that she should get themeaning of the words: "I'll only venture to surmise that accidents ofthat kind don't happen for nothing."

  I could just make out her swimming eyes as they stared at me through theremaining veil, which was as black and thick as a widow's.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Wouldn't that depend on what you mean?"

  "If you think you're going to stop me--"

  "Dear Mrs. Brokenshire, I don't think anything at all. How can I? We'reboth going to Boston. By a singular set of circumstances we're seatedside by side on the same train. What can I see more in the situationthan that?"

  "You do see more."

  "But I'm trying not to. If you insist on betraying more, when perhapsI'd rather you wouldn't, well, that won't be my fault, will it?"

  "Because I've given you my confidence once or twice isn't a reason whyyou should take liberties all the rest of your life."

  To this, for a minute, I made no reply.

  "That hurts me," I said at last, "but I believe that when you'veconsidered it you'll see that you've been unjust to me."

  "You've suspected me ever since I knew you."

  "I've only suspected you of a sweetness and kindness and goodness whichI don't think you've discovered in yourself. I've never said anything ofyou, and never thought anything, but what I told Mr. Brokenshire twomonths ago, that you seem to me the loveliest thing God ever made. Thatyou shouldn't live up to the beauty of your character strikes me asimpossible. I'll admit that I think that; and if you call itsuspicion--"

  Her anger began to pass into a kind of childish rebellion.

  "You've always talked to me about impossible things--"

  "I wasn't aware of it. One has to have standards of life, and do one'sbest to live up to them."

  "Why should I do my best to live up to them when other people-- Look atMadeline Pyne, and a lot of women I know!"

  "Do you think we can ever judge by other people, or take their actionsas an example for our own? No one person can be more bound to do rightthan another; and yet when it comes to doing wrong it might easily bemore serious for you than for Mrs. Pyne or for me."

  "I don't see why it should be."

  "Because you have a national position, one might even say aninternational position, and Mrs. Pyne hasn't, and neither have I. If wedo wrong, only our own little circles have to know about it, and theharm we can do is limited; but if you do wrong it hurts the wholecountry."

  "I must say I don't see that."

  "You're the wife of a man who might be called a national institution--"

  "There are just as important men in the country as he."

  "Not many--let us say, at a venture, a hundred. Think of what it meansto be one of the hundred most conspicuous women among a population of ahundred millions. The responsibility must be tremendous."

  "I've never thought of myself as having any particularresponsibility--not any more than anybody else."

  "But, of course, you have. Whatever you do gets an added significancefrom the fact that you're Mrs. Howard Brokenshire. When, for example,you came to me that day among the rocks at Newport, your kindness wasthe more wonderful for the simple reason that you were who you were. Wecan't get away from those considerations. When you do right, right seemssomehow to be made more beautiful; and when you do wrong--"

  "I don't think it's fair to put me in a position like that."

  "I don't put you in that position. Life does it. You were born to behigh up. When you fall, therefore--"

  "Don't talk about falling."

  "But it would be a fall, wouldn't it? Don't you remember, some ten ortwelve years ago, how a Saxon crown princess left her home and herhusband? Well, all I mean is that because of her position her story rangthrough the world. However one might pity unhappiness, or sympathizewith a miserable love, there was something in it that degraded hercountry and her womanhood. I suppose the poor thing's inability to liveup to a position of honor was a blow at human nature. Don't you thinkthat that was what we felt? And in your case--"

  "You mustn't compare me with her."

  "No; I don't--exactly. All I mean is that if--if you do what--what Ithink you've started out to do--"

  She raised her head defiantly.

  "And I'm going to."

  "Then by the day after to-morrow there will not be a newspaper in thecountry that won't be detailing the scandal. It will be the talk ofevery club and every fireside between the Atlantic and the Pacific, andMexico and Montreal. It will be in the papers of London and Paris andRome and Berlin, and there'll be a week in which you'll be the mostdiscussed person in the world."

  "I've been that already--almost--when Mr. Brokenshire made his attack inthe Stock Exchange on--"

  "But this would be different. In this case you'd be pointed at--it'swhat it would amount to--as a woman who had gone over to all those evilforces in civilization that try to break down what the good forces arebuildi
ng up. You'd do like that unhappy crown princess, you'd strike ablow at your country and at all womanhood. There are thousands of poortempted wives all over Europe and America who'll say: 'Well, if she cando such things--'"

  "Oh, stop!"

  I stopped. It seemed to me that for the time being I had given herenough to think about. We sat silent, therefore, looking out at therushing dark. People who drifted back from the dining-car glanced at us,but soon were dozing or absorbed in books.

  We were nearing New London when she pointed to one of her bags and askedme if I would mind opening it. I welcomed the request as indicating areturn of friendliness. Having extracted a parcel of sandwiches, sheunfolded the napkin in which they were wrapped and held them out to me.I took a pate de foie-gras and followed her example in nibbling it. Onmy own responsibility I summoned the porter and asked him to bring abottle of spring-water and two glasses.

  "I guess the old lady's feelin' some better," he confided, when he hadcarried out the order.

  We stopped at New London, and went on again. Having eaten three or foursandwiches, I declined any more, folding the remainder in the napkin andstowing them away. The simple meal we had shared together restoredsomething of our old-time confidence.

  "I'm going to do it," she sighed, as I put the bag back in its place."He's--he's somewhere on the train--in the smoking-car, I suppose.He's--he's not to come for me till--till we're getting near the Back BayStation in Boston."

  I brought out my question simply, though I had been pondering it forsome time. "Who'll tell Mr. Brokenshire?"

  She moved uncomfortably.

  "I don't know. I haven't made any arrangements. He's in Newport for oneor two nights, seeing to some small changes in the house. I--I had totake the opportunity while he was away." As if with a sudden inspirationshe glanced round from staring out into the dark. "Would you do it?"

  I shook my head.

  "I couldn't. I've never seen a man struck dead, and--"

  She swung her chair so as to face me more directly.

  "Why," she asked, trembling--"why do you say that?"

  "Because, if I told him, it's what I should have to look on at."

  She began wringing her hands.

  "Oh no, you wouldn't."

  "But I should. It would be his death-sentence at the least. It's true hehas probably received that already--"

  "Oh, what are you saying? What are you talking about?"

  "Only of what every one can see. He's a stricken man--you've told me soyourself."

  "Yes, but I said it only about Hugh. Lots of men have to go throughtroubles on account of their children."

  "But when they do they can generally get comfort from their wives."

  She seemed to stiffen.

  "It's not my fault if he can't."

  "No, of course not. But the fact remains that he doesn't--and perhapsit's the greatest fact of all. He adores you. His children may give hima great deal of anxiety but that's the sort of thing any father looksfor and can endure. Only you're not his child; you're his wife.Moreover, you're the wife whom he worships with a slavish idolatry.Everything that nature and time and the world and wealth have made ofhim he gathers together and lays it down at your feet, contented ifyou'll only give him back a smile. You may think it pitiful--"

  She shuddered.

  "I think it terrible--for me."

  "Well, I may think so, too, but it's his life we're talking of. Histenure of that"--I looked at her steadily--"isn't very certain as it is,do you think? You know the condition of his heart--you've told meyourself--and as for his nervous system, we've only to look at his faceand his poor eye."

  "I didn't do that. It's his whole life--"

  "But his whole life culminates in you. It works up to you, and yourepresent everything he values. When he learns that you've despised hislove and dishonored his name--"

  Her foot tapped the floor impatiently.

  "You mustn't say things like that to me."

  "I'm only saying them, dear Mrs. Brokenshire, so that you'll know howthey sound. It's what every one else will be saying in a day or two. Youcan't be what--what you'll be to-morrow, and still keep any one'srespect. And so," I hurried on, as she was about to protest, "when hehears what you've done, you won't merely have broken his heart, you'llhave killed him just as much as if you'd pulled out a revolver and shothim."

  She swung back to the window again. Her foot continued to tap the floor;her fingers twisted and untwisted like writhing living things. I couldsee her bosom rise and fall rapidly; her breath came in short, hardgasps. When I wasn't expecting it she rounded on me again, with flamesin her eyes like those in a small tigress's.

  "You're saying all that to frighten me; but--"

  "I'm saying it because it's true. If it frightens you--"

  "But it doesn't."

  "Then I've done neither good nor harm."

  "I've a right to be happy."

  "Certainly, if you can be happy this way."

  "And I can."

  "Then there's no more to be said. We can only agree with you. If you canbe happy when you've Mr. Brokenshire on your mind, as you must havewhether he's alive or dead--and if you can be happy when you'vedesecrated all the things your people and your country look to a womanin your position to uphold--then I don't think any one will say younay."

  "Well, why shouldn't I be happy?" she demanded, as if I was withholdingfrom her something that was her right. "Other women--"

  "Yes, Mrs. Brokenshire, other women besides you have tried theexperiment of Anna Karenina--"

  "What's that?"

  I gave her the gist of Tolstoi's romance--the woman who is married to anold man and runs away with a young one, living to see him weary of theposition in which she places him, and dying by her own act.

  As she listened attentively, I went on before she could object to myparable.

  "It all amounts to the same thing. There's no happiness except in right;and no right that doesn't sooner or later--sooner rather than later--endin happiness. You've told me more than once you didn't believe that; andif you don't I can't help it."

  I fell back in my seat, because for the moment I was exhausted. It wasnot merely the actual situation that took the strength out of me, butwhat I dreaded when the man came for his prize from the smoking-car. Imight count on Larry Strangways to aid me then, but as yet he had notrecognized my struggle by so much as glancing round.

  Nor had I known till this minute how much I cared for the littlecreature before me, or how deeply I pitied the man she was deserting. Icould see her as happier conditions would have made her, and him as hemight have become if his nature had not been warped by pride. Anyimpulse to strike back at him had long ago died within me. It might aswell have died, since I never had the nerve to act on it, even when Ihad the chance.

  She turned on me again, with unexpected fierceness.

  "It doesn't matter whether I believe all those things or not--now. It'stoo late. I've left home. I've--I've gone away with him."

  Though I felt like a spent prize-fighter forced back into the ring, Iraised myself in my chair. I even smiled, dimly, in an effort to beencouraging.

  "You've left home and you've gone away; but you won't have gone awaywith him till--till you've actually joined him."

  "I've actually joined him already. His things are there beside thatchair." She nodded backward. "By the time we've passed Providence he'llbe--he'll be getting ready to come for me."

  I said, more significantly than I really understood: "But we haven'tpassed Providence as yet."

  To this she seemingly paid no attention, nor did I give it much myself.

  "When he comes," she exclaimed, lyrically, "it will be like amarriage--"

  I ventured much as I interrupted.

  "No, it will never be like a marriage. There'll be too much that'sunholy in it all for anything like a true marriage ever to becomepossible, not even if death or divorce--and it will probably be the oneor the other--were to set you free."

 
; That she found these words arresting I could tell by the stunned way inwhich she stared.

  "Death or divorce!" she echoed, after long waiting. "He--he may divorceme quietly--I hope he will--but--but he won't--he won't die."

  "He'll die if you kill him," I declared, grimly. I continued to be grim."He may die before long, whether you kill him or not--the chances arethat he will. But living or dead, as I've said already, he'll standbetween you and anything you look for as happiness--after to-night."

  She threw herself back, into the depths of her chair and moaned. Luckilythere was no one near enough to observe the act. As we talked in lowtones we could not be heard above the rattle of the train, and I think Ipassed as a companion or trained nurse in attendance on a nervousinvalid.

  "Oh, what's the use?" she exclaimed at last, in a fit of desperation."I've done it. It's too late. Every one will know I've gone away--evenif I get out at Providence."

  I am sorry to have to admit that the suggestion of getting out atProvidence startled me. I had been so stupid as not to think of it, evenwhen I had made the remark that we had not as yet passed that town. AllI had foreseen was the struggle at the end of the journey, when LarryStrangways and I should have to fight for this woman with the powers ofdarkness, as in medieval legends angels and devils fought over acontested soul.

  I took up the idea with an enthusiasm I tried to conceal beneath a smileof engaging sweetness.

  "They may know that you've gone away; but they can also know that you'vegone away with me."

  "With you? You're going to Boston."

  "I could wait till to-morrow. If you wanted to get off at Providence Icould do it, too."

  "But I don't want to. I couldn't let him expect to find me here--andthen discover that I wasn't."

  "He would be disappointed at that, of course," I reasoned, "but hewouldn't take it as the end of all things. If you got off at Providencethere would be nothing irrevocable in that step, whereas there would bein your going on. You could go away with him later, if you found youhad to do it; but if you continue to-night you can never come backagain. Don't you see? Isn't it worth turning over in your mind a secondtime--especially as I'm here to help you? If you're meant to be aMadeline Pyne or an Anna Karenina, you'll get another opportunity."

  "Oh no, I sha'n't," she sobbed. "If I don't go on to-night, he'll neverask me again."

  "He may never ask you again in this way; but isn't it possible thatthere may eventually be other ways? Don't make me put that into plainerwords. Just wait. Let life take charge of it." I seized both her hands."Darling Mrs. Brokenshire, you don't know yourself. You're too fine tobe ruined; you're too exquisite to be just thrown away. Even the hungry,passionate love of the man in the smoking-car must see that and know it.If he comes back here and finds you gone--or imagines that you nevercame at all--he'll only honor and love you the more, and go on wantingyou still. Come with me. Let us go. We can't be far from Providence now.I can take care of you. I know just what we ought to do. I didn't comehere to sit beside you of my own free will; but since I am here doesn'tit seem to you as if--as if I had been sent?"

  As she was sobbing too unrestrainedly to say anything in words, I tookthe law into my own hands. The porter had already begun dusting the dirtfrom the passengers who were to descend at Providence on to those whowere going to Boston. Making my way up to him, I had the inspiration tosay:

  "The old lady I'm with isn't quite so well, and we're going to stop herefor the night."

  He grinned, with a fine show of big white teeth.

  "All right, lady; I'll take care of you. Cranky old bunch, ain't she?Handle a good many like that between Boston and Ne' Yawk."

  Mrs. Brokenshire made no resistance when I fastened the lighter of hertwo veils about her head, folding the other and putting it away. Neitherdid she resist when I drew her cloak about her and put on my own coat.But as the train drew into Providence station and she struggled to herfeet in response to my touch on her arm, I was obliged to pull and dragand push her, till she was finally lifted to the platform.

  Before leaving the car, however, I took time to glance at the Englishtraveling-cap. I noted then what I had noted throughout the journey. Notonce did the head beneath it turn in my direction. Of whatever hadhappened since leaving the main station in New York Larry Strangwayscould say that he was wholly unaware.