The Empty Sack Part 50

"I must really go in now, dear. I'm so afraid of catching cold. But-but good night!"

Having kissed him, she went down the steps, turning once more to look back at him. Silhouetted against the oblong of light between two rough pilasters, he was mechanically taking out his case and selecting a cigarette.

"You're splendid, Bob," she said, with a ring of sincerity that startled him. "That's the way to love a woman. If there were only more men like you! And-I _will_ say it, in spite of the things you've just made me confess-there must be something very, very good in a girl to-to call forth that kind of love."

But Jennie herself made that kind of love more difficult. On returning to town Bob found her changed. During all the weeks of the _modus vivendi_ she had been gentle, submissive, grateful, accepting his terms in the provisional spirit in which she understood them, and carrying them out. When Teddy's affairs were settled-and they never defined what they meant by that-she knew they were to have a reckoning; but the reckoning was to be postponed till then.

And now, all at once, she seemed disposed to force it on. His visit to his family had frightened her. It frightened her the more in that he said so little about it. He, too, was changed. He was silent, pensive.

He watched her more and talked to her less; but when he watched her his eyes, so she said to herself, had a queer kind of sorrow in them. She didn't wonder at that. Anyone's eyes would have had sorrow in them-anyone who was seeing Teddy nearly every day and filling him up with fort.i.tude. If it had not been for Teddy's sake she would have done her best to get Bob "out of it" long ago.

Her fear now was of not being able to make this attempt of her own accord. In other words, she shrank from being found out before confessing of her own free will. Twenty words from Mrs. Collingham to her son would rob her, Jennie, of such poor shreds of good intention as she still possessed.

The trouble was, first, the lack of opportunity, and then, the waiting for the right emotional moment. It was not a thing you could spring at any chance hour of the day. Something must lead up to it and make it natural.

But a week after his return from Sugar Maple Point, the occasion seemed to present itself. It was one of those evenings in late September when indoors was too stifling. In pursuance of his plans for distracting the family, which meant so much to Teddy, Bob had motored the mother and daughters to a small country restaurant, where they had had supper, and had brought them home again. Lizzie and the two girls having said good night, Jennie was about to do the same, but he held her by the hand.

"Don't go in. Let's walk a bit."

"So it's come," Jennie thought. "I must do it before we get home."

Even so she put it off. He, too, put off whatever in himself was burning to find words. They said as little as they could without being altogether silent, and that little was mere commonplace.

"Wonderful night, isn't it?"

"Yes; and I think we're going to have a breeze. It isn't so hot as an hour ago."

"Anyhow, the hot weather must be nearly over. It will be October in a day or two."

"But we often have very hot days in October. I remember that last year-"

So they came to Palisade Walk and turned into it. Though the moon was not yet up, the effulgence of its approach made a halo above the city.

Manhattan was a line of constellations the riverway a gulf of darkness in which were scattered stars. Along the parapet, shadowy couples, mostly lovers, formed little ghostly groups, while here and there was the point of light of a cigarette or cigar.

They came to a halt, Jennie leaning against one of the dragon's teeth, looking over at the city, Bob standing a little back from her.

"I've never been here at night before," he said. "I'd no idea it was so beautiful."

"We don't come very often ourselves. We live so near that I suppose we're used to it."

"We had some wonderful evenings at Sugar Maple Point; but that was another kind of thing."

She a.s.sembled her forces without turning to look at him or making any change in her tone.

"I suppose you talked to your mother while you were up there?"

"Oh, of course!"

"About me?"

Divining what was coming, he was on his guard. "You were mentioned-naturally."

"And she told you things?"

"Some things."

"Some things about me that-that were new to you?"

"Yes; some things about you that were new to me."

"Did she tell you-everything?"

"I'm not in a position to say that it was everything; but-but I rather think it was. What of it?"

"Oh-only, that-that I'm as bad as she said I was. I-I wanted you to know that it was true."

The long stillness was broken only by a moan like that of a wounded monster from a ferryboat far away.

"Why do you want me to know that?" he asked, at length.

"So that you'll see now that when-when everything is over about Teddy-you'll be-you'll be free."

"But suppose I don't want to be free?"

"But I want it for you."

"Why?"

"Oh, it's very simple." She turned, leaning with her back to the rock.

"It's just this, Bob-I'm not fit to be your wife. I never was fit. I never shall be fit. There it is in a nutsh.e.l.l. It isn't education and social things that I'm talking about. I'm-I'm too-I don't know how to put it-but you're so big-"

"We'll drop all that, Jennie, if you don't mind, because it isn't a case of fitness on either your part or mine; it's one of love."

She hung her head.

"Oh, love! I-I don't think I-I know what it is."

"I'm sure you don't. It's what I've told you. I want to show you what it's like. Do you know what I said to the old lady when she got off those things? She didn't want to do it, mind you," he hastened to explain. "She wanted to keep your secrets and be true to you-but I dragged them out of her. And do you know what I said to her? Well, I'm going to repeat it to you now. I said I wouldn't believe anything against you-not even on your own evidence."

"Is that love, Bob-or is it just being stubborn?"

"I shall let you find that out for yourself-as we go on."

"Oh! as we go on?"

"Yes, as we go on, Jennie. We're going on. Don't make any mistake about that. I know how you feel. Everything looks so dark to you now that you can't believe it will ever be light again; but it will be, Jennie. All families and all individuals go through these experiences-not as terrible as yours, perhaps-but terrible all the same. Not one of us is spared. Sometimes it seems to you as if you just couldn't go through with it; but you can. You must hang on-and bear it-and it will pa.s.s.

That's what I'm here for-to help you to hang on-and, Jennie, clinging together, as we're doing, we'll come out to the light-even Teddy-and your mother. Oh, look! There the light is now-the light everlasting-that always comes back, if we only wait for it!"

At the pointing of his finger and his sudden cry she turned to face the eternal wonder of the moonrise.