Three evenings in succession a tall young man with an ulster turned up high above his chin and a derby hat lowered well over his eyes circled the block of which the Gleason lot and cottage was a part. The first time, in front of the house itself, he had merely halted, hands deep in his pockets, obviously uncertain; then, as though under strain of an immediate engagement beyond, had hastened on. The second time he had passed up the walk, half way to the door; had of a sudden changed his mind, and disappeared rapidly as before. The third evening, the present, however, there had been no uncertainty, no hesitation. Instead, he had walked straight to the knocker, and, a gray-haired man in lounging-jacket and carpet slippers answering his ring, had come to anchor in the familiar den. From his moorings in the single comfortable chair the place afforded, which had been compellingly pressed upon him, he was listening to the other’s explanation. 147

“I think she’ll return soon, though, very soon.” Mr. Gleason adjusted his horn-rimmed eyeglasses and peered near-sightedly at his big open-faced silver watch. “She said she’d be back early and it’s nearly nine now.”

“Something going on, something important, I mean?”

“No; I don’t think so. Just out for a little air, and dropped in on one of the girls maybe. She’s got three freshmen she’s coaching now, and with that out-of-town class and the house here—” The long bony fingers tapped absently tip to tip. “It’s the only time that she has and I encourage, insist almost, that she go.”

“Yes.”

The tapping fingers went still.

“I think sometimes I’m a bit guilty that she at her age—that it should seem to be necessary, I mean—Maybe I imagine it, but it seems to me as though Elice was sort of fagged and different this winter.”

The visitor unbuttoned his coat leisurely.

“I hadn’t noticed it,” he refuted.

“No? I’m glad to hear you say it. You’d have noticed, I guess, if any one. Probably it’s all my imagination.” 148

“Elice herself hasn’t said anything, intimated anything?”

“Not a word or a hint. Certainly not.” Something akin to surprise spoke in the quick reply. “She even wanted to take on another out-of-town class, but I vetoed that. She’s as her mother was, Elice: always planning on doing just a little more.”

“Than she ought, you think?”

“Yes.”

Without apparent excuse, unconsciously, the visitor rebuttoned his double-breasted coat.

“Some people,” he commented, “work—more than they ought to, to forget; and others again do—various things.”

“What? I beg your pardon.”

“To forget, to attain callousness, to cease to feel. There are many formulas tried, many.”

“I fear I fail to understand.”

“Doubtless. I don’t understand myself. I was simply rambling. Pardon me.”

Over the horn nose-glasses Mr. Gleason scrutinized the face of the younger man intently.

“Certainly. For what, though, I admit I’m mystified.” He glanced away perfunctorily. “Everything is running normally, I suppose, in your department?” 149

“Yes, about as usual, I guess, practically so.”

“Better than usual according to Dean Sanford,” cheerfully. “He’s inclined to brag a little this year, justifiedly, too, one must admit from the attendance.”

“Yes, the attendance is excellent—among the students. Among the faculty—did the dean seem inclined to brag any on the faculty?”

“No; he only talked a few moments.” Mr. Gleason produced the big timepiece again hastily. “Nine o’clock. I wonder what can be keeping Elice,” he fidgeted.

The visitor smiled, an odd smile, neither of bitterness nor yet of amusement.

“Not inclined particularly to brag on his faculty, the dean, I gather?” returned Armstrong.

The older man straightened. Out of kindness he would retreat so far; but if pursued—

“No, he barely mentioned the faculty, as I remember.”

“Not even the professor of chemistry?”

The horn-rimmed glasses had left their owner’s nose and, as they had a way of doing when the old man was abstracted, swung like a pendulum from his fingers.

“Not even the professor of chemistry?” repeated Armstrong. 150

Very quietly the older man held his ground, very steadily.

“Just what is it you wish to know, Steve?” he asked directly. “You gathered, of course, it was a board meeting I referred to—and confidential naturally. I think I need say no more.”

“No, no more, certainly. I was merely curious to know if you knew. You’ve satisfied my curiosity, I believe.”

“Satisfied! I’m afraid you’re taking a bit for granted. I repeat, if you’ll tell me explicitly what you wish—”

“I was mistaken, then, after all,” with a peculiar direct look. “You don’t really know, Sanford didn’t announce—I’m surprised. I never fancied he’d miss the opportunity. It’s superhuman repression!”

For fully half a minute Mr. Gleason said nothing; then at the interrupting sound of footsteps in the storm vestibule, followed an instant later by the click of a latch-key, he leaned suddenly toward the younger man.

“That’s Elice now,” he said. The voice was almost childishly hurried and curious. “What was it that you wondered I didn’t know, that Sanford didn’t announce?”

From under shaded lids Armstrong observed 151 the change and smiled. The smile vanished as a shadow passed through the entrance.

“I merely marvelled that the dean didn’t announce that there would be no professor of chemistry after another week, the close of the present semester,” he said evenly. “That is, until a new one is appointed.”

“Steve!” The old man’s face went gray,—gray as the face of a believer whose gods have been offered sacrilege. In the silence the shadow advanced to the doorway of the room itself; very real, paused there waiting, all-seeing, listening. “You mean you’re leaving the department then, quitting for good?”

“For good, no, hardly.” Again a laugh, but tense now, forced. “Nor quitting. In plain English I mean I’m kicked out, fired. By request, very insistent request, I’ve resigned.” With an effort he met the girl’s eyes fairly. “I’ve babbled my last lecture in college halls, piped my swan song. The curtain is down, the orchestra has packed its instruments. Only the echo now remains.”

“Tell me about it, Steve.” The old man had gone, dodderingly, on a pitifully transparent pretext. The girl had tossed coat and gloves 152 on one chair and herself had taken another, removing her hat as she spoke.

“Begin at the beginning and tell me what’s the matter—what this all means.”

“There is no beginning that I know of,” with a shrug that fell far short of the indifferent. “What it means I’ve already told you.”

The hat followed the coat, hanging where it caught on the latter by one pin. “Let’s not dissimulate for the present,” pleaded the girl, “or juggle words. There’s a time for everything.”

“And the present?”

“Don’t, please! As a favor, if you wish. Begin at the beginning.”

“I repeat, there is none to my knowledge. There’s only an end.”

“The end, then,” swiftly; “the reason for it. Don’t you wish to tell me?”

“No, I don’t wish to. I intend to tell you, however. It was all regular, my retirement; no one at fault among the powers that are. I had been warned—and failed to profit. It was very regular.”

“Yes, yes; but the reason! Tell me that.”

“Certainly. I was just coming to it. I failed to materialize at the department two days in succession. I overslept.” 153

“Steve Armstrong! Steve—what do you fancy I’m made of! Do you mean to tell me or merely to—dissect?”

“No, not dissect, to tell you. That’s why I came; to tell you several things, this among the rest. Elice, don’t do that, don’t cry. Please!—I don’t intend to be a brute, I didn’t mean anything. I’m simply ashamed to tell you straight from the shoulder. I’m down in the gutter. You’ll hear, though, anyway. I might better—I was drunk, irresponsible, two days in succession. That’s all.”

“You—that way; you, Steve Armstrong!” No tears now, no hysterics; just steady, unbelieving expectancy. “I can’t believe it—won’t. You’re playing with me.”

“No, it’s true. I won’t say ‘God knows it’s true.’ I’m not dog enough yet to—blaspheme. It’s simply true.”

“Steve!” The girl was on her feet, half way to him. “I never dreamed, never—You poor boy!”

“Elice, don’t—don’t touch me. I ask it—don’t!”

“What—you can’t mean—that!”

“Yes. Sit down, please.” The voice was thick. “I have several things to tell you. This was only one.” 154

For long, interminably long it seemed to the watcher, the girl stood where she had paused, midway; the figure of her still, too still, her face shading first red to the ear tips, then slowly colorless as understanding drove home. A half-minute probably, in reality, immeasurably longer to them both it seemed, she stood so. Without a word she went back to her seat, remained there, unnaturally still, her arms, bare to the elbow in half sleeves, forming a great white V as the clasped hands lay motionless in her lap.

For another half-minute no word was spoken, no sound from without drifted into the room. Suddenly the girl turned, her great dark eyes met those of the man, held them steadily.

“You said there was something else you wished to tell me. I can’t imagine anything more, anything you didn’t tell just now. However, I’m listening.”

The man said nothing, nor moved—just looked at her.

“I repeat, I’m listening.”

“Yes, I notice.” Armstrong pulled himself together absently. “I was thinking of something else; I’d forgotten momentarily. I always was an absent-minded specimen; and lately—I’ve been worse than usual lately.” 155

The girl merely waited this time, the great brown eyes wide and dry.

“When it comes to telling you, though,” stumbled on the man, “what I came to tell you to-night, what I don’t wish to tell you but must—Elice, don’t look at me, please; don’t! My nerve’s gone. Don’t you wish to ask me questions instead?”

“Perhaps,” obediently the girl turned away, “after you’ve made things clear a bit. Don’t fancy I’m trying to make it hard for you. I’m not, only, only—Remember, I’m all in the dark yet, all confused.”

“Yes, I know—and I’m to blame. I’ve been trying for a week to bring myself to tell you, one thing at a time; but I couldn’t, and now—everything’s tumbled on my head together now.”

“Everything? Steve, begin somewhere, anywhere. Don’t suggest things; tell me. It’s been ten days since you called last. Why was that?”

“I was afraid. I tried to come, but I couldn’t.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of you, of myself, of life. I’ve known that long to a certainty that the play was over between you and me, but I couldn’t bring myself 156 to say the word. It’s just this I was afraid of. This!”

“You mean to tell me now that all is over?” Unconsciously this time the girl had shifted facing; quietly—again, too quietly—was putting the query direct: “That’s what you’re telling me now?”

“Yes.”

“And why—Am I the cause—have I by word or act—have I?”

“No.”

“Is it because you’ve lost your chair in the University?”

“No.”

“Why, then?”

“Because we’ve ceased to be necessary to each other, have grown apart.”

“You think we’ve changed?... I’ve not changed.”

“No. It’s I who have changed, have grown away from you.”

“Since when? Let’s have it all. Let’s understand everything. Since when?”

“I don’t know when, can’t set a date. I merely know.”

“That—that you don’t care for me any more?”

157

A halt, a long, long halt.

“Yes, Elice,” said a voice at last. “I’ve found out that I don’t care for you any more.”

As before, the girl said nothing, never stirred.

“I shan’t try to defend myself, try to explain,” stumbled on the man. “I couldn’t if I would. The thing has simply come about—I wish to ask you to release me.”

“Steve!” Of a sudden the girl was on her feet, the forced composure of a moment ago in tatters, the tiny hands locked tight. “I can’t believe it, can’t credit it. I love you, Steve, in spite of all you’ve told me; more, because you need me more now.” The locked fingers opened. She came a step forward in mute appeal. “Tell me that you don’t mean it, that you’re merely acting, that, that—” As suddenly she halted. Her face hidden in her hands, she dropped back into the seat. “Forget, please,” she halted, “that I did that. I didn’t mean to. I—I—forget it.”

“Elice—dear!” Aroused beyond his purpose, his determination, the man sprang from his seat, his eyes ablaze, glorious. “Elice—”

“No, not pity! Never, a thousand times no! Leave me alone a minute. I release you, yes, 158 yes; but don’t come near me now. I’m hysterical and irresponsible. Don’t, please!”

Precisely where he stood Armstrong paused, looking down. After that first involuntary sound he had not spoken or come closer. He merely remained there, waiting, looking; and as he did so, though the room was far from close, drops of sweat gathered on his forehead and beneath his eyes. With a restless hand he brushed them away and sat down. Another minute passed, two perhaps; then suddenly, interrupting, incongruous, there sounded the strained rasp of his laugh.

“Elice,” followed a voice, “aren’t you through—nearly?” Again the laugh; grating, unmirthful. “I’ve done this sort of thing identically in novels several times, done it realistically, I thought; but it never took this long by minutes. Aren’t you almost through?”

Surprised out of herself the girl looked up, incredulous.

“Something must be wrong, art or reality, one or the other. I—I wonder—which was wrong, Elice?”

As suddenly as the mood of abandon had come it passed; incredulity, its successor, as well. In the space of seconds the miracle was wrought, 159 and another woman absolutely sat there looking forth from the brown eyes of Elice Gleason.

“Steve! I thought I was ready for anything after what you just told me, what you just asked. But this deliberate—insult.... Did you mean it, Steve, really; or are you merely acting?... Don’t look away; this means the world to you and me, and I want to be sure, now.... Did you mean it, Steve, the way you did it, deliberately? Tell me.”

“Mean it? Certainly. It’s important, what I asked, from an artist’s point of view. Either I was wrong or else reality is—overdone.... Repression’s the word, all critics agree, repression invariably.”

“Steve Armstrong! Stop! I won’t stand it. Listen. It’s unbelievable, but I must take you at your word—your own word. Do you mean exactly what you’ve said, and done?”

Again the moisture sprang to Armstrong’s face, but this time there was no attempt at procrastination.

“Yes, Elice,” he said, and looked her fair.

“Yes? Think. This is final.”

“Yes.”

An instant the look held; the brown eyes dropped. 160

“I repeat, then, you are released, free.” She sat very still. “Is there anything else you wish to say?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know.... You mean, if I have I’m to say it now. I can’t come again.... You’re not going to forgive me?”

“Forgive? Certainly, if there is anything to forgive. I had no thought otherwise.”

“I’m not to come again, though. You mean that?”

“I fail to see the object.... To use an expression of your own, it’s desecration to disturb the corpse.”

“Even if—”

“Let’s not argue about nothing. I’m not cursed with nerves ordinarily, but there are times—” She arose slowly, stood there beside her chair, gracefully slender, gracefully imperious. “You’ve chosen deliberately, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” Armstrong too had arisen in his dismissal, involuntarily obedient. “But you said, before I told you, before you understood, that afterward, perhaps—You remember you said that?”

“Yes; I remember. Things are changed now, though. What I had in mind you’ve answered yourself.... One thing I would like 161 to ask, however, one thing that I hope you will answer truly, no matter whether it hurts me or not. It’s this: Was I to blame in any way whatever, by word or act or suggestion, for your losing your place in the University? Will you answer me that—and truly?”

From the chair where he had thrown it down Armstrong took up the long ulster and buttoned it mechanically to his throat.

“No, Elice,” he repeated; “you’re not at fault in any way, by word or act or suggestion. There’s no one at fault except myself.”

“Thank you. I would always have feared, if I hadn’t asked, that somehow unintentionally—” She was silent.

Armstrong hesitated, waiting until there was no longer hope.

“You have nothing else you wish to say, then?” he asked at last.

“Nothing; unless it is this, that you know already: I shall always believe in you, Steve, always.”

“Believe in me!” The shade of the old ironic smile did duty. “You think I shall still become wealthy and famous?”

“Perhaps not,” swiftly. “I never demanded either qualification of you. Why should I lie 162 now? Both are right and desirable in their place, provided they come normally; but their place is second, not first. You know what I mean. I believe that you will always be clean and fair and likeable—always.”

Involuntarily the man turned away, until his face was hidden.

“You believe this, and still—you don’t give advice or—or warning?”

“I repeat, I believe in you. Even if it weren’t an insult advice would not be necessary.”

A last second they stood there, so near, so very near together and still so infinitely far apart. Dully, almost ploddingly, the man turned to leave.

“Thank you, Elice,” he said. “That’s probably the last kind word I’ll hear for a long time. Perhaps, too, it’s justified, perhaps—who knows? Good-night and—good-bye.”

The girl did not follow him, did not move.

“Good-bye, Steve,” she echoed.

BOOK II

165

BOOK II