Bruce of the Circle A

by Harold Titus

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE SCOURGING

  In the last moments of twilight Ann sat alone in her room, cheeks stillflushed, limbs still trembling at intervals, pulses retaining theirswift measure. She was unstrung, aquiver with strange emotions.

  It was not wholly the fright of the afternoon that had provoked hernerves to this state; it was not alone the emotional surging loosed byher moment in Bayard's arms, her cheek against his cheek; nor was itentirely inspired by the fact, growing in portent with each passinghour, that Bruce had told her his work with Ned Lytton was all butended, that within a day or two he was sending her husband to her. Itwas a combination of all this, with possibly her husband's impendingreturn forming a background.

  Again and again she saw Bruce as he delivered his message, heard hiseven, dogged voice uttering the words. He had waited until they reachedthe hotel, he had let Nora leave them and, then, in the sunset quiet,standing on the steps where she had first seen him, he had refused tohear her thanks for saving her from bodily hurt, and had broken in:

  "It ain't likely I'll be in again for a while, ma'am. Your husband'sabout ready to move. I've done all I can; it'd only hurt him to stay onagainst his will. Sometime this week, ma'am, he'll be comin'."

  And that was Wednesday! She had been struck stupid by his words. She hadheard him no further, though he did say other things; she had watchedhim go, unable to call him back.

  It relieved Ann not at all to tell herself that it was this for whichshe had waited, had worried, had restrained herself throughout theseweeks; that she had come West to find her husband and that she was aboutto join him, knowing that he was strengthened, that he had been liftedup to a physical and mental level where she might guide him, aid him inthe fight which must continue.

  That knowledge was no solace. It was that for which she had outwardlywaited, but it was that against which she inwardly recoiled. Sherealized this truth now, and conscience cried back that it must not beso, that she must stifle that feeling of revulsion, that she mustwelcome her husband, eagerly, gladly. And it went on to accuse ... thatconscience; it shamed her because she had been held to the breast ofanother man; it scorned her because she had drawn herself closer to himwith her own arms; it taunted her bitterly because she could not readilyagree with her older self that in the doing she had sinned, because toher slowly opening eyes that moment had seemed the most beautifulinterval of her life!

  A peculiar difference in the vivacity of her impressions had beenasserting itself. The memory of the runaway had faded. Her picture ofthe moment when she strained her body against Bayard's was not so clearas it had been an hour before, though the thrill, the great joy of it,still remained to mingle with those other thoughts and emotions whichconfused her. The last great impression of the day, though--Bayard'ssolemn announcement of his completed task--grew more sharply defined,more outstanding, more important as the moments passed, because itseventuality was a thing before which she felt powerless in the face ofher conscience, before which all this other must be forgotten, beforewhich this new rebellious Ann must give way to the old long-suffering,submissive wife. She felt as though she had known her moment of beautyand that it had gone, leaving her not even a sweet memory; for hergrimmer self whispered that that brief span of time had been vile,unchaste. And yet, in the next moment, her strength had rallied and shewas fighting against the influence of tradition, against blindprecedents.

  A knock came on her door and Ann, wondering with a thrill if it could beBayard, both troubled and pleased at the possibility, stepped across thefloor to answer it.

  "Oh, Nora!" she said in surprise. "Come in,"--when the girl stood stillin the hall, neither offering to speak nor to enter. "Do come in," sheinsisted after a pause and the other crossed the threshold, stillwithout speaking.

  "I've been sitting here in the dark thinking about what happened thisafternoon," Ann said, drawing a chair to face hers that was by thewindow. "It was all very exciting, wasn't it?"

  Nora had followed across the room slowly and Ann felt that the girl'sgaze held on her with unusual steadfastness.

  "I guess it's a fortunate thing that Bruce Bayard came along when hedid. I ... I tremble every time I think of the way my horse went down!"She broke off and laughed nervously.

  Nora stood before her, still silent, still eyeing her pointedly.

  "Well ... Won't you sit down, Nora?"--confused by the portentous silenceand the staring of the other. "Won't you sit down here?"

  Mechanically the girl took her seat and Ann, wondering what this strangebearing might mean, resumed her own chair. They sat so, facing oneanother in the last sunset glow, the one staring stolidly, Ann coveringher embarrassment, her wonder with a forced smile. Gradually, that smilefaded, an uncertainty appeared in Ann's eyes and she broke out:

  "Why, what is the matter with you, Nora?"

  At that question the girl averted her face and let her hands drop downover the chair arms with careless laxity.

  "Don't you know what it is?" she asked, in her deep, throaty voice,meeting Ann's inquiring gaze, shifting her eyes quickly, moving hershoulders with a slight suggestion of defiance.

  "Why, no, Nora! You're so queer. Is something troubling you? Can't youtell me?"

  Ann leaned forward solicitously.

  The waitress laughed sharply, and lifted a hand to her brow, and shookher head.

  "Don't you know what it is?" she asked again, voice hardening. "Can'tyou see? Are you blind? Or are you afraid?

  "What'd you come out here for anyhow?" she cried, abruptly accusing, onehand out in a gesture of challenge, and Ann could see an angry flushcome into her face and her lower lids puff with the emotion.

  "Why, Nora...."

  "Don't tell me! I know what you come for! You come to look after yourworthless whelp of a man; that's why; an' you stayed to try to takemine!"--voice weakening as she again turned her face toward the window.

  "Why, Nora Brewster ..."

  The sharp shake of the girl's arm threw off Ann's hand that had gone outto grasp it and the rasp in Nora's voice checked the eastern woman'sprotest.

  "Don't try to tell me anything different! I know! Can't I see? Am I asblind as you try to make me think you are?"--with another swagger of theshoulders as she moved in her chair. "Can't I see what's goin' on? Can'tI see you makin' up to him an' eyein' him an' leadin' him on?--You, amarried woman!"

  "Nora, stop it!"

  With set mouth Ann straightened, her breathing audible.

  "I _won't_ stop. You're goin' to hear me through, understand? You'regoin' to know all about it; you're goin' to know what I am an' what heis an' what's been between us ... what you've been breakin' up. Then, Iguess you won't come in here with your swell eastern ways an' try totake him.... I guess not!"

  She laughed bitterly and Ann could see the baleful glow in her eyes.

  "I told you that he brung me here an' put me to work, I guess. Well,that was so; he did. I'll tell you where he got me." She hitchedforward. "He brung me from th' Fork. You come through there; all youknow 'bout it is that there's a swell hotel there an' it's a junctionpoint. Well, the's a lot more to know about th' Fork ... or was."

  She paused a moment and rubbed her palms together triumphantly, as ifshe had long anticipated this moment.

  "When I was there, the' wasn't no hotel; the' wasn't nothin' but ajunction an' ... hell itself. 'Twasn't a place with much noise about it,not so many killin's as some places maybe, but 'twas bad, low down.

  "The' was a place there ... Charley Ling's.... 'Twas a Chinese place,with white women. I was one of 'em."

  Ann gasped slightly and drew back, and Nora laughed.

  "I thought that'd hurt," she mocked. "I thought you couldn't stand it!

  "Charley's was a fine place. Sheep herders come there an' Mexicans an'sometimes somebody of darker color. We wasn't particular, see? We wasn'tparticular, I guess not! Men was white or black or red or yellow orbrown, but their money was all one color....

  "The' was dope an' b
ooze an' ... hell.... Charley's was a reg'lar boilon th' face of God's earth, that's what it was.... He--Bruce Bayard--gotme out of there."

  The girl breathed hard and swiftly. Her upper lip was drawn back and herwhite teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness as she sat forward in herchair, flushed, her accusing face thrust forward toward the bewildered,horrified Ann Lytton.

  "He got me there, so you know what I was, what I am. He brung me here,got me this job, has kept me here ever since,"--with a suggestion offaltering purpose in her voice. "It's been him ever since; just him.I'll say that for myself. I've been on th' level with Bruce an' ain'thad nothin' to do with others.

  "You see he's mine!"--her voice, which had dropped to a monotone, rosebitingly again. "He's mine; he's all I got. If 'twasn't for him, Iwouldn't be here. If he quits me, I'll go back to that other. I don'twant to go back; so long as he sticks by me I won't go back. If I leave,it'll be because I'm drove back....

  "That's what you're doin'. You're drivin' me back to Charley's ... orsome place like it...."

  She moved from side to side, defiantly, and leaned further forward,resting her elbows on her knees, staring out into the darkened streetbelow them.

  "You come here, a married woman; you got one man now, an' he don't suit.So you think you're goin' to take mine. That's big business for a ... arespectable lady, like yourself, ain't it? Stealin' a man off a womanlike me!"

  She laughed shortly, and did not so much as look up as Ann tried toreply and could not make words frame coherent sentences.

  "I've kept still until now, 'cause I ain't proud of my past, 'cause Ithought you, havin' one man, had enough without meddlin' with mine. ButI'm through keepin' my mouth shut now,"--menacingly. "I'm through, Itell you,"--wiping her hands along her thighs and straightening herbody slowly as she turned a malevolent gaze on the silent Ann. "You'retryin' to take what belongs to me an' I won't set by an' let you walkoff with him. I'll--

  "Why, what'd this town say, if I was to tell 'em you're Ned Lytton'swife instead of his sister? They all know you've been havin' Bruce comehere to your room; they all think he's your lover. First thing, they'dfire you out of th' hotel; then, they'd laugh at you as you walked alongth' street! It'd ruin him, too; what with keepin' your man out at hisranch so's he can see you without trouble!"

  Her voice had mounted steadily and, at the last, she rose to her feet,bending over the bewildered Ann and gesturing heavily with her right armwhile the other was pressed tightly across her chest.

  "That's what I come here to tell you to-night!" she cried. "That's whatyou know, now. But I want you to know that while I've been bad, as badas women get, that I've been open about it; I ain't been no hypocrite; Iain't passed as a good woman an' ... been bad--"

  "Nora, stop this!"

  Ann leaped to her feet and confronted the girl, for the moment furious,combative. They faced one another in the faint light that came throughthe windows and before her roused intensity Nora stepped backward,yielding suddenly, frightened by this show of vigorous indignation, forshe had believed that her accusation would grind the spirit, the pride,from Ann.

  "Why, you-u-u- ..."

  Ann's hands clenched and opened convulsively at her sides as she gropedfruitlessly for words.

  "You go now, Nora; go away from me! What you have said has been toocontemptible, too base for me even to answer!"

  She walked quickly to the door, opened it and faced about with a gestureof command. Nora hesitated a moment, then, without a word, walked fromthe room. In the hall she paused, back still toward Ann as though shehad more that she would say, as if, possibly, she considered theadvisability of going further; but, if that was true, she had noopportunity then, for the door closed firmly and the lock clicked.

  It was the most confused moment in Ann's life. The identification of herhusband, her several trying scenes with Bayard, would not compare withit. She heard Nora's slow, receding footsteps with infinite relief and,when they were quite gone, she realized that as she stood, back to thedoor, she was shaking violently. She was weakened, frightened by whathad passed, and, as she strove through those minutes to control herthoughts, to marshal the elements of the ordeal through which she hadcome, she became possessed by the terrifying conviction that she had nodefence to offer! That she could not answer the other woman'saccusations, that by telling Nora she was above replying to thosecharges she was only hiding behind a front of false superiority, aveneer of assurance that was as artificial as it was thin.

  She moved to her bed with lagging, uncertain steps and sat down with along sigh; then, drew a wrist across her eyes, propping herself erectwith the other arm.

  "She ... he belongs to her ..." she said aloud, trying to bringcoherence to her thinking by the uttered words. "He belongs ... toher...."

  A slow warmth went through her body, into her cheeks to make them flamefiercely. That was a sense of guilt coming over her, shaming her,torturing her, and behind it, inspiring, urging it along, giving itstrength, was that conscience of hers.

  At other times she had defied that older self; only that evening she hadregained some of the ground from which it had driven her by its lastassault, lifting herself above the judgments she had been trained torespect because, in transgressing them, she had experienced a free, holyjoy that had never been hers so long as she had remained within theirbounds. But now! That cry for escape was gone.

  She had been stealing another woman's man ... and such a woman!

  Never before had she faced such ugly truths as the girl had poured uponher. Of the cancerous places in the social structure she had known, ofcourse; at times she had even gone so far as to judge herself awide-awake, keen-seeing woman, but now ... she shuddered as the woman'swords came back to her, "White or black or red or brown; but their moneywas all th' same color." That was too horrible, too revolting; she couldnot accept it with a detached point of view. Its very truth--she did notdoubt it--smirched her, for she had been stealing the man of such awoman!

  Oh, that conscience was finding its revenge! That day it had beenoutraged, had been all but unseated; but now it came back with avengeance. She, the lawful wife of Ned Lytton, had plotted to win BruceBayard. No, she had not! one part of her protested, as she weakened andsought for any escape that meant relief. You did, you did! thunderedthat older self. By passively accepting, as a fact, her want of him, shehad sinned. By finding joy in his touch, at sight of him, she hadgrievously wronged not only Ned and herself but all people. She was acontaminated thing! She was as bad, worse than Nora Brewster, because,while Nora had sinned, she admitted it, had done it openly, and franklywhile she, Ann Lytton, had covered it with a cloak of hypocrisy, hadrefused to admit her transgressions even to herself and lied anddistorted happenings, even her thoughts, until they were made to appeaseher craven heart!

  "She said it; she said it!" Ann muttered aloud. "She said that I was ahypocrite. She said ... she did not hide!" Then, for a moment, she wasfirm, drawing her body, even, to firmness to contend more effectivelyagainst these suggestive accusations. What matter if she were married?What if Bayard did love an abandoned woman? What mattered anything butthat she loved him?

  And, as though it had waited for her to go that far to show her hand,that other self cried out: "To your God you have given your word to lovethis man, your husband! To your God you have promised to love no other!To your God you have pledged him your body, your soul, your life, comewhat may!"

  She cowered before the thought, tearless, silent, and sat there, goingthrough and through the same emotional experiences, always comingagainst the stone wall formed by her concepts of honor and morality.

  In another room of the Manzanita House another woman fought with herselfthat night. Nora, too, stood backed against her locked door a long timeafter she had gained its refuge, bewildered, trying to think her way toa clear understanding of all that had happened. Its entire consequencecame to her sooner than it had come to Ann. She groped along the wall toher matchsafe, scratched a light, removed the chimney from her lamp a
ndset the wick burning. She waved out the match absently, put the charredremains in the oilcloth cover of the washstand and said to herself,

  "Well, I've done it."

  It was as though she spoke of the accomplishment of an end theadvisability of which had been debatable in her mind, and as if therewere now no remedy. What was done, was done; events of the past couldnot be altered, their consequences could not be changed.

  She undressed listlessly, put on her nightgown and moved to the crinkledmirror to take down her hair.

  "I guess that'll fix her," she muttered. "She'll get out, now...."

  She looked at herself in the mirror as she began to speak, but, when hersight met its own reflection, her voice faltered, the words trailed off.She stood motionless, scrutinizing herself closely, critically; then sawa slow flush come up from her neck, flooding her cheeks. Uneasily hereyes dropped from their reflection, then shot back with a rallying ofthe dark defiance that had been in them; only for an instant, for thefire disappeared, they became unsteady.

  Her movements grew rapid. She drew hairpins from the coils and droppedthem heedlessly. She shook out her hair and brushed it with nervousvigor; then braided it feverishly, as if some inner emotion might findvent in that simple task.

  Time after time she shot glances into the mirror, but in each instanceshe felt her cheeks burn more fiercely, saw the confused humilityincreasing in her expression and, finally, her rapid breathing lost itsregularity, her lips quivered and her shoulders lifted in a sob. Shecovered her face with her hands, pressing finger tips tightly againsther eyes, struggling to master herself, to bring again that defiantspirit. But she could not; it had gone and she was fighting doggedlyagainst the reaction, knowing that it must come, knowing what it wouldbe, almost terror stricken at the realization.

  She paced the floor, stopping now and then, and finally cried aloud:

  "She _was_ stealin' him; he _is_ mine!"--as though some presence hadaccused her of a lie. Again, she repeated the words, but in a whisper;and conviction was not with her.

  She sat down on the edge of her bed, but could not remain quiet, andcommenced walking, moving automatically, almost dreamlike, distressed,flinging her arms about like a guilt-maddened Lady Macbeth. Each timeshe passed the mirror she experienced a terrible desire to meet her owngaze again, but she would not, for her own eyes accused her, boredrelentlessly into her heart.

  "An' I called her a hypocrite," she burst out suddenly, halted, turnedand rushed back toward the dresser, straining forward, forcing her gazeto read the soul that was bared before her, there in the mirror.

  "You lied to her!" she muttered. "You told her dirty lies; you'rethrowin' him down. You're killin' her... You ...

  "Oh, Bruce, Bruce!"

  She turned away and let the tears come again.

  "You'd hate me, Bruce, you'd hate me!"

  She threw herself full length on the bed. Jealousy had had its inning.All the bitterness that it could create had been flung forth on to thewoman who had roused it and then the emotion had died. Strong as it wasin Nora, the elemental, the childish, it was not so strong as herloyalty to Bayard's influence and the same thing in her that would havewelcomed physical abuse from him now called on her to undo her work ofthe evening, to strive to prevent his love for Ann from wasting itself,though every effort that she might make toward that end would cause hersuffering.

  It was midnight when Ann Lytton, still motionless, still chilling andflushing as thought followed thought through her confused mind, foundherself in the center of her dark room. The knock that had roused her tothings outside sounded again on her door, low and cautious.

  "Who is it?" she asked, unsteadily.

  "It's me, Nora."

  The tone was husky, weak, contrite.

  "Well, what do you want, Nora?"--summoning a sternness for the query.

  "I ... I want to come in; I want to tell you somethin' ... if you'll letme."

  Ann calculated a moment, but the quality of the other woman's voice,supplicating, uncertain, swung the balance and she unlocked the door,opening it wide. Nora stood in her long white gown, head hung, fingersnervously intertwining before her.

  A pitiable humility was about the girl, and on sight of it Ann's mannerchanged.

  "What is it, Nora? Won't you come in?"

  She stepped forward, took her by the hand and gently urged her into theroom, closing the door.

  "Sit on the bed, Nora, while I light the lamp."

  "Oh, M's. Lytton, please don't ..."--with an uneasy movement. "I'drather ... not have to look at you...."

  A pause.

  "Why, if you want it that way, of course, Nora. Sit down here. Aren'tyou cold?"

  She took a shawl from its hook, threw it across the other's shouldersand sat down on the bed, drawing Nora to her side. An awkward silencefollowed, then came the sound of Nora's crying, lifted to a pitch justabove a sigh.

  "Don't, Nora! Please, don't! What is it, now? Tell me ... do tell me,"Ann pleaded, growing stronger, of better balance, feeling some of hergenuine assurance returning.

  "I ... I lied to you. I ..." Nora began and stopped.

  Ann uttered no word; just inhaled very slowly and squared her shoulderswith relief.

  "I ... was jealous of you. When I saw him with his arms around you thisafternoon, I ... couldn't stand it. I had to do somethin'. I was droveto it."

  She brushed the damp hair back from her forehead and cleared her throat.She clutched Ann's one hand in both hers and turned to talk closely intoher face.

  "I ... it wasn't all lies. That part about me, about Charley Ling's, wastrue. It was true that Bruce took me out of there, too, but not for whatyou think. I ... I was pretty bad for a young girl, but I never knewmuch different until I knew Bruce ... I didn't know much.

  "I was at Ling's. I didn't lie about that," she repeated stoically,baring her shame in an attempt to atone for her former behavior. "I'dbeen there quite a while, when one night when the' was whiskey an' menan' hell, he come....

  "I'll never forget it. I can't. He was so big that he filled th' door,he was so ... different, so clean an' disgusted-like, that it stoppedth' noise for a minute. He stood lookin' us over; then he saw me an'looked an' looked, an' I couldn't do nothin' but hang my head when 'twasmy business to laugh at him.

  "He didn't say a word at first, but he come across to to me an' set downbeside me, an' when th' piano started again an' folks quit givin' usattention he said,

  "'You're only a kid.'

  "Just that; but it made me cry. He was so kind of accusin' an' sogentle. Nobody'd ever been gentle with me before that I could rememberof. They'd been accusin' all right, all right ... but not gentle. Hewent away that night an' I cried until it was light. In th' mornin' hecome back an' asked for me an' took me outdoors an' talked to me. Hetalked.... He didn't do no preachin'; he didn't say nothin' about bein'good or bein' bad. He just said that that place wasn't fit for coyotesto live in, that I'd never see th' mountains or th' stars or th'sunshine livin' there. He said that.... An' he said he'd get me a jobhere in Yavapai....

  "He did. Got me this job, in this hotel. He stuck by me when folksstarted to talk; he stopped it. He taught me to ride an' like horses an'dogs an' th' valley an' things like that. He give me things to read an'talked to me about 'em an' ... was good to me.

  "I've always been like his sister. That's straight, M's. Lytton; that'sno lie. He's been my brother; that's all. More 'n that, I'm about th'only woman he's looked at in three years until ... you come. He ain't asaint but he's ... an awful fine man."

  She was silent a moment and stroked the hand she had taken in hers.

  "That's all. That's all the' is to say. I've tried to get him, tried tomake him care for me ... a lot; but I ain't his kind,"--with a slowshake of the head as she withdrew one hand. "I can never be his kind ...in that way. I've known it all along, but I've never let myself believeth' truth. He didn't know, didn't even guess. That's how hopeless itwas. He ain't never seen that I'd do ... anythin' for him.


  "When you come, I saw th' difference in him ... right off. He ... You'rehis kind, M's. Lytton. You're what he's waited for, what he's lookin'for. I was jealous. I hated you from th' first. I was nice to you'cause he wanted it, 'cause that would make him happier. I foughtagainst showin' what I felt for his sake ... for him. Then, to-day, whenI seen how he looked after he'd had you in his arms where I've wanted tobe always, as I've wanted to make him look, I....

  "It made me kind of crazy. I felt like tellin' you what I was, lyin'about what I was to Bruce, thinkin' it might drive you away an' I mightsometime make him love me. But, after I'd done it, after I got it intowords, I knew it was against everything he'd ever taught me, againsteverything he'd ever been, an' that if you went 't would break hisheart. That's why I come back to tell you I lied, to tell you how itis....

  "You go to him now; you go before it's too late. I tried to come betweenyou ... an' didn't. You go to him before somethin' does...."

  She felt Ann's arm go about her and stifling her sobs she yielded to thepull until her head rested on the other woman's shoulder.

  "Oh, Nora, I can't tell you how this makes me feel; I can't. I'll neverbe able to. There's nothing I can say at all, nothing I can do, even!"

  The waitress lifted her face to peer closely at her.

  "Just one thing you can do," she said, lowly. "Go to him now. That'swhat I come back here for--to tell you I lied, so you would go."

  Ann straightened and shook her head sharply.

  "That's impossible," she said, emphatically. "Impossible."

  "Impossible, M's. Lytton?"--wiping her eyes.

  "Yes, Nora."

  "But why? He loves you!"

  "When you were here before you gave the reason--I'm a married woman."

  "But that ain't.... Why, do you _love_ your husband?"

  She grasped Ann's arm and shook it gently as she put that question in avoice that the tears had made hoarse, and leaned forward to catch theanswer. For an interval Ann did not reply, gave no sign that she hadheard, and Nora repeated her query with impressive slowness.

  "It isn't a question of loving, Nora," she finally said. "I'm his wife;I have a wife's duty to perform."

  "But do you love him?" the girl persisted.

  "No, I don't any more ..."--sadly, yet without regret.

  "An' you'd go back to him, M's. Lytton? You'd go back without lovin'him?"

  Incredulity was in her tone.

  "Of course. It is my place. He is coming to me soon, stronger, wiser, Ihope, and there's a chance that we will find at least a little peacetogether."

  "But the' won't be love,"--in a whisper.

  Ann gave a little shudder and braced her shoulders backward.

  "No, Nora. That is past. Besides, I--"

  "Don't be afraid to admit it!" the girl urged, speaking rapidly. "Don'tbe afraid to tell me. I know what you're thinkin'. You love BruceBayard! I know; you can't hide it from me, M's. Lytton."

  Ann's fingers twisted the coverlet.

  "And if I do?" she asked weakly. "What if I do?"

  "What if you do? Ain't lovin' a man answer enough for any woman?" criedthe other. "Is the' anything else that holds folks together? Is the'anything else that makes men an' women happy? Does your bein' a man'swife mean happiness? Your promisin' to love him didn't make you love,did it? Because a preacher told you you was one didn't make it so, didit? Nobody can make you love him, not even yourself, 'cause you said itwas duty that takes you back; that you don't love him. But you can'thelp lovin' Bruce Bayard!

  "Oh, M's. Lytton, don't fool yourself about this duty! It's up to a manan' a woman to take love, to take happiness, when it comes. You can'tset still an' watch it go by an' hope to have it come again; realhappiness don't happen but once in most of our lives. I know. I've beendown ... I've been happy, too ... I know!

  "An' duty! Why, ma'am, duty like you think you ought to do, is waste!You're young, you're healthy, you're pretty. You'll waste your bestyears, you'll waste your health, you'll waste your looks on duty!You'll waste all your love; you'll get old an' bitter an'....

  "If the's anything under heaven that's a crime, it's wasted love! Oh,M's. Lytton, I wasted my love when I was a kid, 'cause I didn't knowbetter. I sold mine for money. For God's sake, don't sell yours forduty! If the's anything your God meant folks to do was to get what joythey can out of life. He wouldn't want you to think of bein' NedLytton's wife as ... as your duty. He ... God ain't that kind, M's.Lytton; he ain't!"

  "Nora, Nora, don't say these things!" Ann pleaded. "You're wrong, youmust be! Don't tempt me to ... these new ways ... don't...."

  "New!" the girl broke in. "It ain't new, what I've been sayin'. It's asold as men an' women. It's as old as th' world. Th' things you try tomake yourself believe are th' new ones. Love was old before folks firstthought about duty. It seems new, because you ain't ever let yourselfsee straight ... you never had to until now."

  "Nora, stop I You must stop! You can't be right ... you can't be!"

  The waitress trembled against Ann and commenced to cry under the strainof her earnestness.

  "But I know I'm right, M's. Lytton, I know I am! I know what you'redoin'. Do--don't you see that you wouldn't be much different from what Iwas, if you went back to your husband, hatin' him an' lovin' another?Happiness comes just once; it's a sin to let it go by!"

  Slowly Ann withdrew her embrace from the girl. She sat with hands limpin her lap until Nora's sobbing had subsided to mere long-drawn breaths;then she rose and walked to the window, looking out into the moonlitnight. And when Nora, drying her eyes, regaining control of heremotions, started to speak again she saw that Ann was lost in thought,that it was unnecessary to argue further, so she went quietly from theroom. The rattle of the knob, the sound of the closing door did notrouse the woman she left behind. Ann only stared out at the far hillswhich were a murky blot in the cold light; stared with eyes that did notsee, for out of the storm of that night a new creature was coming intoactive life within her and the re-birth was so wonderful that it quitedeadened her physical senses.