 CHAPTER 41 Why did Dickie go? Margaret, I have the queerest message from Richard. I cannot make it out." My mother-in-law rustled into my room, her voice queeriless, her face expressing the utmost bewilderment. What is it, mother? I asked nervously. It was late afternoon of the day in which Robert Gordon had revealed his identity as my father, and my nerves were still tense from the shock of the discovery. Why, Richard has left the city. He telephoned me just now that he had an unexpected offer at an unusual sum to do some work in San Francisco, I think, he said, and that he would be gone some months. If he accepted the offer he would have no time to come home. He said he would write to both of us to-night. What do you suppose it means? I do not know. I returned slowly and truthfully, but there was a terrible frightened feeling at my heart. Dickie gone for months without coming to bid me good-bye? My world seemed to whirl around me, but I must do or say nothing to alarm my mother-in-law. Her weak heart made it imperative that she be shielded from worry of any kind. I rallied every atom of self-control I possessed. There is nothing to worry about, mother, I said carelessly. Dickie has often spoken recently about this offer to go to San Francisco. It was always tentative before, but he knew that when it did come he would have to go at a minute's notice. You know he always keeps a bag packed at the studio for just such emergencies. The last part of my little speech was true. Dickie did keep a bag packed for the emergency summons he once in a while received from his clients, but I had never heard of the trip to San Francisco. But I must reassure my mother-in-law in some way. Well, I think it's mighty queer, she grumbled, going out of the room. You adorable little fibber! Lillian said tenderly, rising and coming over to me. Her voice was gay, but I, who knew its every intonation, caught an undertone of worry. Lillian! I exclaimed sharply, what is it? Do you know anything? Hush, child! she said firmly, I know nothing. You will hear all about it tomorrow morning when you receive Dickie's letters. Until then you must be quiet and brave. It was like her not to adjure me to keep from worrying. She never did the usual futile things. But all through my wakeful night, whenever I turned over or uttered the slightest sound, she was at my side in an instant. Never until death stops my memory will I forget that next morning with its letters from Dickie. There was one for my mother-in-law, none for me. But I saw an envelope in Lillian's hand, which I was sure was from my husband, even before I had seen the shocked pallor which spread over her face as she read it. Oh, Lillian, what is it? I whispered in terror. Wait! she commanded. Do not let your mother-in-law guess anything is amiss. But when Mother Graham's demand to know what Dickie had written to me had been appeased by Lillian's offhand remark that country males were never reliable, and that my letter would probably arrive later, the elder woman went to her own room to puzzle anew over her son's letter, which simply said over again what he had told her over the telephone. When she had gone Lillian locked the door softly behind her, then coming over to me, sank down by my bedside and slipped her arm around me. You must be brave, Madge, she said quietly. Read this through and tell me if you have any idea what it means. I took the letter she held out to me and read it through. Dear Lill, the letter began. You have never failed me yet, so I know you'll look after things for me now. I am going away. I shall never see Madge again, nor do I ever expect to hear from her. Will you look out for her until she is free from me? She can sue me for desertion, you know, and get her divorce. I will put in no defense. Most of her funds are banked in her name, anyway. But for fear she will not want to use that money, I am going to send a check to you each month for her which you are to use as you see fit, with or without her knowledge. I am enclosing the key of the studio. The rent is paid a long ways ahead, and I will send you the money for future payments and its care. Please have it kept ready for me to walk in at any time. Mother always goes to Elizabeth's for the holidays, anyway. Keep her from guessing as long as you can. I'll write to her after she gets to Elizabeth's. I guess that's all. If Madge doesn't understand why I am doing this, I can't help it. But it's the only thing to do. Yours always, Dickie. The room seemed to whirl around me as I read. Dickie gone forever, arranging for me to get a divorce. I clung blindly to Lillian as I moaned. Oh, what does it mean? Think, Madge. Madge, have you and Dickie had any quarrel lately? Nothing that could be called a quarrel, no, I returned, and not even the shadow of a disagreement since my accident. Then Lillian said musingly, either Dickie has gone suddenly mad, she stopped and looked at me searchingly. Or what, Lillian? I pleaded. Tell me, I am strong enough to stand the truth, but not suspense. I believe you are, she said, and you will have to help me find out the truth. Now, remember this may have no bearing on the thing at all, but Harry saw Gray Straper talking to Dickie the other day. He said Dickie didn't act particularly well pleased at the meeting, but that the girl was, as Harry put it, fit to put your eyes out. She looked so stunning. But it doesn't seem possible that if Dickie had gone away with her he would write that sort of a note to me and leave no word for you. Fit to put your eyes out, the phrase stung me. With a quick movement I grasped the hand mirror that lay on the stand by my bed and looked critically at the image reflected there. One hollow-eyed, with one side of my face and neck still flaming from my burns, I had a quick perception of the way in which my husband, beauty-lover that he is, must have contrasted my appearance with that of Grace Draper. Lillian took the mirror forcibly from me and laid it out of my reach. This sort of thing won't do, she said firmly. It only makes matters worse. Now just be as brave as you possibly can. Remember, I am right here every minute. I could only cling to her, though seemed in all the world no refuge from me but Lillian's arms. The weeks immediately following Dickie's departure are almost a blank memory to me. I seemed stunned, incapable of action, even of thinking clearly. If it had not been for Lillian, I do not know what I should have done. She cared for me with infinite tenderness and understanding. She stood between me and the imperative curiosity and bewilderment of my mother-in-law, and she made all the arrangements necessary for my taking up my life as a thing apart from my husband. It seemed almost like an interposition of Providence that two days after Dickie's bombshell, his mother received a letter from her daughter Elizabeth asking her to go to Florida for the rest of the winter. One of the children had been ordered south by the family physician, and Dickie's sister was to accompany her little daughter while the other children remained at home under the care of their father and his mother. Mother Graham dearly loves to travel, and I knew from Lillian's reports, and the few glimpses I had of my mother-in-law, that she was delighted with the prospect before her. How Lillian managed to quiet the elder woman's natural worry about Dickie, her half-formed suspicion that something was wrong, and her conviction that without her to look after me I should not be able to get through the winter, I never knew. I do not remember seeing my mother-in-law but once or twice in the interval between the receipt of Dickie's letter and her departure. The memory of her goodbye to me, however, is very distinct. She came into the room, cloaked and had it, ready for the taxi, which was to take her to the station. Katie was to go into New York with her, and see her safely on the train. Her face was pale, and I noticed listlessly that her eyelids were reddened as if she had been weeping. She bent and kissed me tenderly, and then she put her arms around me and held me tightly. I don't know what it is all about, dear child, she said. I hope all is as it seems outwardly, but remember, Margaret, I am your friend, whatever happens, and if it will help you any, you may remember that I, too, have had to walk the same sharp, paved way. Then she went away. I remembered that she had said something of the kind once before, giving me to understand that Dickie's father had caused her much unhappiness. Did she believe, too, I wondered, that Dickie was with Grace Draper, that this brief infatuation for the girl had returned when he had seen her again? For days after that I drifted, there is no other word for it, through the hours of each day. When it was absolutely necessary for Lillian to know some detail which I alone could give her, she would come to me, rouse me, and holding me to the subject by the sheer force of her will, obtain the information she wished, and then leave me to myself, or rather to Katie again. Katie was my devoted slave. She waited on me hand and foot, and made a most admirable nurse when Lillian was compelled to be absent. When I thought about the matter at all, I realized that Lillian was preparing to have me share her apartment in the city when I should be strong enough to leave my home. Harry Underwood had gone with my father to South America for a trip which would take many months, so I made no protest. I knew also, because of questions she had made me answer, that she had arranged with the Lotus Study Club to have an old teaching-comrade out of mine, a man who had experience in club lectures, take my place until I should be well enough to go back to the work. Insofar as I could feel anything, the knowledge that I was still to have my club work gratified me, the twenty dollars a week which it paid me, while not large, would preserve my independence until I could gain courage to go back to my teaching. For one feeling obsessed me was strong enough to penetrate the lethargy of mind and body in which Dickie's letter had thrown me. I spoke of it to Lillian one day. Do not use any of Dickie's money, I said, slowly and painfully, my own bank-book in desk. She took it out, and I also gave her the bank-book and papers my father had given me the day before he left for South America. Keep them for me, I whispered, and then at her tender, comprehending smile I had a sudden revelation. Then you know. Astonishment made my voice stronger. That Robert Gordon is your father? she returned briskly. Bless you, child! I have suspected it ever since I first heard of his emotion on hearing the names of your parents. But nobody else knows. I didn't think it necessary to tell your mother in law or Katie unless, of course, you want me to do so. Her smile was so cheery, so infectious, that I could not help but smile back at her. There was still something on my mind, however. This house must be closed, I told her, tried to find positions for Katie and Jim. I'll attend to everything, she promised, and I did not realize that her words meant directly opposite to the interpretation I put upon them, until after myself and all my personal belongings had been moved to Lillian's apartment in the city, and I had thrown off the terrible physical weakness and mental lethargy which had been mine. I had to do as I thought best about the house in Marvin-madge, she said firmly. I thoroughly respect your feeling about using any of Dickie's money for your own expenses, but you are not living in the Marvin house. It is simply Dickie's home which, as his friend, commissioned to see after his affairs, I am going to keep in readiness for his return unless I receive other instructions from him. Jim and Katie will stay there as caretakers until this horrible mistake, whatever it may be, is cleared up. Thus your home will be always waiting for you. Never my home again, I fear Lillian, I said sadly. There is no magic of healing like that held in the hands of a little child. It was providential for me that, a short time after Lillian took me to the apartment which had been home to her for years, her small daughter Marion was restored to her. The child's father died suddenly after all, and to Lillian fell the task of caring for and comforting the old mother of the man who had done his best to spoil Lillian's life. She brought the aged and feeble sufferer to the apartment, established her in the bedroom which Lillian had always kept for herself, and engaged a nurse to care for her. When I recalled Lillian's story, I remembered that her first husband's mother, without a jot of evidence to go upon, had believed her son's vile accusations against Lillian, my friend's forgiveness seemed almost divine to me. I am afraid I never could have equalled it. When I said as much to Lillian, she looked at me uncomprehendingly. Why, Maj, she said, there was nothing else to do. Marion's grandmother is devoted to her. To separate them now would kill the old woman. Besides, her income is so limited that she cannot have the proper care unless I do take her in. I thought you said Mr. Morton had a legacy about the time of his second marriage. He did, but most of it has been dissipated, I imagine, and what there is left is in the possession of his wife, a woman with no more red blood than a codfish. She would let his mother starve before she would exert herself to help her, or part with any money. No, there is nothing else to do, Maj. I'll just have to work a little harder, that's all, and that's good for me. Best reducing system there is, you know? The sheer indomitable courage of her, taking up burdens in her middle age which should never be hers, and assuming them with a smile and jest upon her lips, I felt suddenly ashamed of the weakness with which I had met my own problems. Lillian, I said abruptly, you make me ashamed of myself. I'm going to stop grieving, as much as I can, I qualified, and get to work. Tell me, how can I best help you? I'm going back to my club work next week. I am sure I shall be strong enough by then, but I shall have such loads of time outside. My friend came over to me impetuously and kissed me warmly. You blessed child, she said. I am so glad if anything has roused you. I am going to accept your words in the spirit in which I am sure they were uttered. If you can share Marion with me for a while, it will help me more than anything else. I have so many orders piled up I don't know where to begin first. Her grandmother is too ill to attend to her, and I don't want to leave her with any hired attendant. She has had too many of those already. Don't say another word, I interrupted. There's nothing on earth I'd rather do just now than take care of Marion. Thus began a long succession of peaceful days, spent with Lillian's small daughter. She was a bewitching little creature of nine years, but so tiny that she appeared more like a child of six. I had taught many children, but never had been associated with the child at home. I grew sincerely attached to the little creature, and she, in turn, appeared very fond of me. Lillian told her to call me Aunt Maj, and the sound of the title was grateful to me. Auntie Maj, Auntie Maj, the sweet childish voice rang the changes on the name so often that I grew to associate my name with the love I felt for the child. This made it all the harder for me to bear, when the child's hand, all unwittingly, brought me the hardest blow fate had yet dealt me. It was her chief delight to answer the postman's ring and bring me the mail each day. On this particular afternoon I had been especially busy and thus less miserable than usual. I heard the postman's ring, and then the voice of Marion. Auntie Maj, it's a letter for you this time. I began to tremble for some unaccountable reason. It was as though the shadow of the letter the child was bringing had already begun to fall on me. As she ran to me and held out the letter, I saw that it was postmarked San Francisco, but the handwriting was not Dickies. I opened it, and from it fell a single sheet of note paper inscribed. She laughs best who laughs last. Grace Draper. I looked at the thing until it seemed to me that the characters were alive and writhed upon the paper. I shudderingly put the paper away from me, and leaned back in my chair and shut my eyes. Then Marion's little arms were around my neck, her warm, moist kisses upon my cheek, her frightened voice in my ears. Oh, Auntie Maj! she said. What was in the naughty letter that hurt you so? Nasty old thing! I'm going to tear it up. No, no, Marion, I answered. I must let your mother see it first. Call her, dear, won't you please? When Lillian came, I mutely showed her the note. She studied it carefully, frowning as she did so. Pleasant creature, she commented at last, but I shouldn't put too much dependence on this, Maj. She may be with him, of course, but you ought to know that truth is a mere detail with Grace Draper. She would just as soon have sent this to you if she had not seen him for weeks and knew no more of his address than you. But this is postmarked San Francisco, I said faintly. Lillian laughed shortly. My dear little innocent, she said, it would be the easiest thing in the world for her to send this envelope and closed in one to some friend in San Francisco who would redirect it for her. I never thought of that, I said, fleshing. But, oh, Lillian, if he did not go away with her, what possible explanation is there of his leaving like this? Yes, I know, dear, she returned. It's a mystery, and one in the solving of which I seem perfectly helpless. I do wish someone would drop from the sky to help us. 40 It was not from the sky, however, but from across the ocean that the help Lillian had longed for in solving the mystery of Dickie's abandonment of me finally came. It was less than a week after the receipt of Grace Draper's message that Lillian and I, sitting in her wonderful white and scarlet living-room, one evening after little Marion had gone to bed, heard Betty ushering in callers. Betty must know them, or she wouldn't bring them in unannounced, Lillian murmured, as she rose to her feet, and then the next moment there was framed in the doorway the tall figure of Dr. Pettit, and with him wonder of wonders, the slight form, the beautiful, wistful, tired face of Catherine Sonat, whose ambition to go to France as a nurse I had been able to further. My dear, what has happened to you? Catherine exclaimed solicitously. I received no answer to my letter, saying I was coming home, so when I reached New York I went to Dr. Pettit. He thought you were at Marvin, but when he telephoned out there, Katie said you had had a terrible accident and that you had left Marvin. I was not quite sure, for she was half crying over the telephone, but I thought she said, for keeps. She stopped and looked at me with a hint of fright in her manner. I knew she wanted to ask about Dickie's absence and did not dare to do so. Everything you heard is true, Catherine. I returned, a trifle unsteadily, as her arms went around me warmly. I was more than a trifle upset by her coming, for associated with her were memories of my brother-cousin Jack Bicket, who had gone to the Great War when he had learned that I was married, and of whose death, somewhere in France, I had heard through Mrs. Stewart. Where is your husband, Dr. Pettit demanded, and there was that in his voice which told me that he was putting an iron hand upon his own emotions. Now the stock answer which Lillian and I returned to all inquiries of the sort was, in San Francisco, upon a big commission. It was upon my lips, but some influence stronger than my will made me change it to the truth. I do not know, I said faintly. He left the city very abruptly several weeks ago, sending word in a letter to Mrs. Underwood that he would never see me again. It is a terrible mystery. Dr. Pettit muttered something that I knew was a bitter anathema against Dickie, and then folded his arms tightly across his chest, as if he would keep in any further comment. But I had no time to pay any attention to him, for Catherine Sennat was uttering words that bewildered and terrified me. Oh, how terrible! she said. Jack will be so grieved. He had so hoped to find you happy together when he came home. Was the girl's brain turned, I wonder, because of grief for my brother-cousin's death? I had known before I secured the chance for her to go to France that she was romantically interested in the man who had been her brother's comrade, although she had never seen him. And from Jack's letters to Mrs. Stewart I had learned of their meeting in the French hospital and of the acquaintance which promised to ripen, which evidently had ripened, into love. I looked at her searchingly, and then I spoke, hardly able to get the words out for the wild trembling of my whole body. Jack grieved? I said. Why, Jack is dead. We had the notice of his death weeks ago from his friend Paul Calard. I saw them all look at me as if frightened. Dr. Pettit reached me first, and put something under my nostrils which vitalized my wandering senses. I straightened myself and cried out peremptorily. What is it? Oh, what is it? I saw Catherine look at Dr. Pettit as if for permission, and the young physician's lips formed the words, Tell her. No, dear, Jack isn't dead, she said softly. He was missing for some time, but was brought into our hospital terribly wounded, but he is very much alive now, and will be here in New York in two weeks. I felt the pungent revivifier in Dr. Pettit's hand steal under my nostrils again, and I pushed it aside and sat up. I am not at all faint, I said abruptly, and then to Catherine Sonot, please say that over again, slowly. She repeated her word slowly. I should have waited to come over with him, she added, for he is still quite weak, but Dr. Braithwaite had to send someone over to attend to business for the hospital. He selected me, and so I had to come on earlier. So it was true, then, this miracle of miracles, this return of the dead to life. Jack, the brother-cousin on whom I had depended all my life, was still in the same world with me. Some of the terrible burden I had been bearing since Dickie's disappearance slipped away from me. If anyone in the world could solve the mystery of Dickie's actions, it would be Jack Bickett. Dr. Pettit's voice broke into my reverie. I saw that Lilian and Catherine Sonot were deep in conversation. The young physician and I were far enough away from them, so that there was no possibility of his low tones being heard. He bent over my chair, and his eyes were burning with the light that terrified me. Tell me, he commanded, do you want your husband back again? Take your time in answering. I must know. There was something in his voice that compelled obedience. I leaned back in my chair and shut my eyes, while I looked at the question he had put me fairly and squarely. The question seemed to echo in my ears. I was surprised at myself that I did not at once reply with the passionate affirmative. Surely I had suffered enough to welcome Dickie's return at any time. Ah, there was the root of the whole thing. I had suffered. How I had suffered at Dickie's hands. As my memory ran back through our stormy married life, I wondered whether it were wise, even though it should be proved to me that Dickie had not gone away with Grace Draper, to take up life with my husband again. And then, womanlike, all the bitter recollections were shut out by other memories which came thronging into my brain, memories of Dickie's royal tenderness when he was not in a bad humor, of his voice, his smile, his lips, his arms around me. I knew, although my reason dreaded the knowledge, that unless my husband came back to me, I should never know happiness again. I opened my eyes and looked steadily at the young physician. Yes, God help me, I do, I said. Dr. Pettit winced as if I had struck him. Then he said gravely, Thank you for your honesty, and believe that if there be any way in which I can serve you, I shall not hesitate to take it. I am sure of that, I replied earnestly. And the next moment, without a farewell glance, a touch of my hand, he went over to Catherine, and in a voice very different in volume than the suppressed tones of his conversation to me, I heard him apologize to her for having to go away at once, heard her laughing reply that after the French hospital she did not fear the New York streets. And then the door had closed after the young physician, whose too evident interest in me had always disturbed me. I hastened to join Lillian and Catherine. I did not want to be left alone. Thinking was too painful. Just think, Catherine said as I joined them. I find that I am living only a block away. I am at my old rooming place. Luckily, they have a vacant room. Of course, I shall be fearfully busy with Dr. Braithwaite's work. But being so near, I can spend every spare minute with you. That is, if you want me, she added shyly. Want you, child? I returned, and I think the emphasis in my voice reassured her, for she flushed with pleasure, and the next minute with embarrassment, as I said pointedly. I imagine you have some unusually interesting and pleasant things to tell me, especially about my cousin. But after all it was left for Jack himself to tell me the interesting things. Catherine became almost at once so absorbed in the work for Dr. Braithwaite that she had very little time to spend with us. There was another reason for her absence, of which she spoke half apologetically one night, about a week after her arrival. There's a girl in the room next to mine who keeps me awake by her moaning, she said. I don't get half enough sleep, and the result is that when I get in from my work, I'm so dead tired, I tumble into bed instead of coming over here as I'm longing to do. The housekeeper says she's a student of some kind, and that she's really ill enough to need a physician, although she goes to her school or work each morning. I've only caught glimpses of her, but she strikes me as being rather a stunning looking creature. I wish she'd moan in the daytime though. Some night I'm going in there and give her a sleeping powder. Joking aside, I'm rather anxious about her. Whatever is the matter with her, physical or mental, it's a real trouble, and I wish I could help her. The real Catherine Sennott spoke in the last sentence. Like many nurses, she had a superficial lightness of manner behind which she often concealed the wonderful sympathy with and understanding for suffering which was hers. I knew that if the poor unknown sufferer needed aid or friendship she would receive both from Catherine. It was shortly after this talk that I noticed the extraordinary intimacy which seemed to have sprung up between Catherine and Lillian. I seemed to be quite set aside, almost forgotten when Catherine came to the apartment, and there was such an air of mystery about their conversation. If they were talking together and I came within hearing, they either abruptly stopped speaking or shifted the subject. I was just childish and weak enough from my illness to be a trifle chagrined at being so left out, and I am afraid my chagrin amounted almost to sulkiness sometimes. Lillian and Catherine, however, appeared to notice nothing, and their mysterious conferences increased in number as the days went on. There came a day at last when my morbidness had increased to such an extent that I felt there was nothing more in the world for me and that there was no one to care what became of me. I was huddled in one of Lillian's big chairs before the fireplace in the living room, drearily watching the flames through eyes almost too dim with tears to see them. I could hear the murmur of voices in the hall where Catherine and Lillian had been standing ever since Catherine's arrival a few minutes before. Then the voices grew louder, there was a rush of feet to the door, a hush from Lillian, and then, pale, emaciated, showing the effects of the terrible ordeal through which he had gone, my brother-cousin, Jack Bicket, who, until Catherine came home, I had thought was dead, stood before me. Oh, Jack! Jack! Thank God! Thank God! As I saw my brother-cousin, Jack Bicket, whom I had so long mourned as dead, coming toward me in Lillian Underwood's living-room, I stumbled to my feet, and with no thought of spectators or of anything saved the fact that the best friend I had ever known had come back to me, I rushed into his arms and clung to him wildly, sobbing out all the heartache and terror that had been mine since Dickie had left me in so cruel and mysterious a manner. I felt as a little child might that had been lost and suddenly caught sight of its father or mother. The awful burden that had been mine lifted at the very sight of Jack's pale face smiling down at me. I knew that some way, somehow, Jack would straighten everything out for me. There, there, Margaret! Jack's well-remembered tones, huskier, weaker by far than when I had last heard them, soothed me, calmed me. Everything's going to come out all right. I'll see to it all. Sit down, and let me hear all about it. There was an indefinable air of embarrassment about him, which I could not understand at first. Then I saw, beyond him, the lovely flushed face of Catherine Sennott, and in her eyes there was a faintly troubled look. I read it all in a flash. Jack was embarrassed because I had so impetuously embraced him before Catherine. I withdrew myself from his embrace abruptly, and drew a chair for him near my own. Are you sure you are fully recovered? I asked, and I saw Jack look wonderingly at the touch of formality in my tone. No, I cannot say that, he returned gravely, but I am so much better off than so many of the other poor chaps who survived, that I have no right to complain. Mine was a body wound, and while I shall feel its effects on my general health for years, perhaps all my life, yet I am not crippled. His tone was full of thankfulness, and all my pettiness vanished at the sudden swift vision of what he must have endured. The next moment he had turned my thoughts into a new channel. Margaret, he said gravely, I am terribly distressed to hear from Catherine that your husband has gone away in such a strange manner. So she had already told him the little pang of unworthy jealousy came back, but I banished it. Now there must be no more time lost, he went on. You have had no man to look after things for you, but remember now, your old brother Jack is on the job. First I must know everything that occurred on that last day. Did you notice anything extraordinary in his demeanor on that last morning you saw him? This was the old Jack, going directly to the root of the matter, wasting no time on his own affairs or feelings when he saw a duty before him. I felt the old sway of his personality upon me, and answered his questions as meekly as a child might have done. He was just the same as he had been every morning since my accident. I returned. Hmm! Jack thought a long minute, then began again. Tell me everything that happened that day, every visitor you had. Don't omit the most trifling thing he commanded. He listened attentively, as I recalled Harry Underwood's visit and Robert Gordon's. At my revelation that Robert Gordon had said he was my father, his calm judicial manner broke into excitement. Your father, he exclaimed, and then after a pause, I always knew he would come back some day, but go on, what happened when he told you he was your father? I went on with the story of my struggle with my own rancor against my father, of my conviction that I had heard my mother's voice urging my reconciliation with him, of my father's first embrace and kisses, even of the queer, smothered sound like a groan and the slamming of a door which I had heard. Then I told him of my father's gift of money to me, which I had not yet touched, but I noticed that toward the last of my narrative Jack seemed preoccupied. Did your husband come home to Marvin at all that day? he asked. No, he never came back from the city after he had once gone in until evening. But are you sure that this day he did not return to Marvin? He persisted. How do you know? Because no one saw him, I returned, and he could hardly have come back without someone in the house seeing him. He said no more as Lillian and Catherine came up just then, and the conversation became general. To my great surprise, I did not see him again after that first visit. Catherine explained to me that he had been called out of town on urgent business, but the explanation seemed to me to savor of the mysterious excitement that seemed to possess everybody around me. Finally one morning Lillian came to me, her face shining. I want you to prepare to be very brave, Madge, she said. There is someone coming whom I fear it will tax all your strength to meet. Dicky, I faltered, beginning to tremble. No child, not yet, she said, her voice filled with pity, but someone who has done you a great wrong. Grace Draper, coming to see me? My echo of Lillian's words was but a trembling stammer. The prospect of facing the girl, the threat of whose sinister personality had so marred the fabric of my marital happiness, terrified me. Her message to me posted in San Francisco where Dicky was, flaunted its insolent triumph again before my eyes. She laughs best, who laughs last. That she had intended me to believe she was with Dicky, I knew, whether her boasts were true or not. But how was it that she was coming to see me? Lillian put a reassuring hand upon my shoulder as she saw my face. Pull yourself together, Madge. She admonished me sharply. Let me make this clear to you. Grace Draper is not in San Francisco now. Whether she has been, or what she knows about Dicky, she has refused so far to say. She has finally consented to see you, however. But how, I murmured, bewildered. Do you remember the girl of whom Catherine spoke when she first came, the girl who moaned at night in the room next to hers? Oh, yes, and she was—Grace Draper. I do not know what made me think of the Draper when Catherine spoke of the girl, but I did, although I said nothing about it at the time. A little later, however, when the girl became really ill, and Catherine was caring for her as a mother or a sister would have done, I told our little friend of my suspicion. Of course Catherine watched her mysterious patient very carefully after that, and when she became ill enough to require a physician's help, Catherine managed it so that Dr. Pettit was called, and he recognized the girl at once. Ever since then Catherine has been working on the substitute for honour and conscience which the Draper carries around with her, but she was hard as nails for a long time. She is terribly grateful to Catherine, however, as fond of her as she can be of anyone, and she has finally consented to come here. Don't anger her if you can help it. When a little later, Grace Draper and I faced each other, it was pity instead of anger that stirred my heart. The girl was inexpressibly won, her beauty only a worn shadow of its former glory, but there was the old flash of defiant hatred in her eyes as she looked at me. Please don't flatter yourself that I have come here for your sake," she said, with her old smooth insolence. But this girl here, she indicated Catherine, took care of me before she knew who I was. She just about saved my life, and reason, too, when there was nobody else to care-whit whether I lived or died. Even my sister's gone back on me, so when I saw how much it meant to her to find out the truth about your precious husband, I promised her I'd come and tell you the little I knew. She drew a long breath and went on. In the first place I didn't go to San Francisco with Dickie Graham, although I'm glad if my little trick made you think so for a while. I didn't go anywhere with him except into a café for a few minutes, the day he left New York. It was just after he got back from Marvin, and he was pouring drinks into himself so fast that he was pretty hazy about what had happened, but I made a pretty shrewd guess as to his trouble. She turned to me, and I saw with amazement, that contempt for me was written on her face. You! she snarled, with your innocent face and your high and mighty ears, you must have been up to something pretty graceful to have your husband feel the way he did that day he started for San Francisco. He had to go out to Marvin unexpectedly that morning, almost as soon as he had arrived in the city. What or who he found there, you know best. Stop! said Lillian authoritatively, and for a long minute the two women faced each other, Grace Draper defiant, Lillian, with all compelling, almost hypnotic power that is hers when she chooses to exercise it. The accusation which the girl had hurled at me stunned me as effectually as an actual missile from her hand would have done. What did she mean? And then, before my dazed brain could work itself back through the mazes of memory, there came the horror of a taxi in the street, an imperative ring of the bell, a tramp of masculine footsteps in the hall, and then my husband's arms were around me, his lips murmuring disjointed incoherent sentences against my cheek. Madge, madge, little sweetheart, no right to ask forgiveness, deserved to lose you forever for my doubt of you, been through a thousand hells since I left. Over Dickie's shoulder I saw Jack's dear face smiling tenderly, triumphantly at me, realized that he must have started after Dickie as soon as he had heard my story of my husband's inexplicable departure and the light for which I had been groping suddenly illuminated Grace Draper's words. So you saw my father embrace me that day, I exclaimed, and at the words, the face of the girl who had caused me so much suffering, grew whiter, if possible, as she sank into a chair as if unable to stand. Yes, a wave of shamed color swept my husband's face, his words were low and hurried. But you must believe this one thing, I had made up my mind to come back and beg your forgiveness, indeed I was just ready to start in New York when your cousin found me and brought me the true explanation of things. I couldn't stand it any longer without you, Maj. I must have been mad to go away like that. You won't shut me out altogether, will you, sweetheart? I had thought that if Dickie ever came back to me, I should make him suffer a little of what he had compelled me to endure. But as I looked from the white-drawn face of the girl, who I sure still counted Dickie's love as a stake for which no wager was too high, to the anxious faces of the dear friends who had helped to bring him back to me, I could do nothing but yield myself rapturously to the clasp of my husband's arms. I couldn't have stood it much longer without you, Dickie, I whispered, and then, forgetting everything else in the world but happiness, my husband's lips met mine in a long kiss of reconciliation. A half-choked little cry startled me, and I saw Grace Draper get to her feet unsteadily and start for the door, with her hands outstretched gropingly before her, almost as if she were blind. Catherine's are not hurried to her, and then Jack spoke to me for the first time since he had brought Dickie into the room. Good-bye, Margaret, until I see you again, he said hurriedly. Good-bye, Dickie, I must go to Catherine. Good-bye, old chap! Dickie returned heartily, and in his tone I read the blessed knowledge that my cherished dream had come true, that my husband and my brother-cousin were friends at last, and from the look upon Jack's face as his eyes met Catherine's I knew that he too had found happiness. I saw the trio go out of the room, the girl who had wronged me and the friends who had helped me, then my eyes turned to the truest, most loyal friend of all, Lillian, who stood near us, frankly weeping with joy. I put out my hand to her, and drew her also into Dickie's embrace. How long a cry it had been since the days when I was wildly jealous of her old friendship with Dickie? Will you come away with me for a new honeymoon, sweetheart? Dickie asked, tenderly after a while, when Lillian had softly slipped away and left us alone together. Into my brain there flashed a sudden picture of the homely living-room in the Brennan house at Marvin, with the leaping fire which I knew Jim would have for us whenever we came, with Katie's impetuous welcome. I turned to Dickie with the passionate little plea. Oh, Dickie, I said earnestly, take me home. End of Chapter 43 and End of Revelations of a Wife by Adele Garrison