Tramping on Life Part 116

"Johnnie," as we walked away, "don't you think you had better pack up and leave? _The next time_ I am going to sue for a divorce."

We walked home arm in arm. I simulated so well that it was Baxter who begged pardon for even suspecting me.

But I felt like a dog. I, for my part, determined to bid farewell to Hildreth that very evening, before she retired for the night, in her cottage--take train to New York, and so to Paris, without first finis.h.i.+ng my _Judas_, as I had intended.

We would bury forever in the secret places of our hearts what had already happened between us ... this was my first impulse....

My next was--that we should up and run away together, and defy Penton Baxter and the world.

Hildreth could see by the strangeness in my behaviour, as I came into the cottage, to kiss her good-night ... and stay a little while--a new custom of ours, as we grew bolder--could see that I had something on my mind.

I related to her all that had taken place between me and Penton that morning....

"The cad," she cried, "the nasty cad, to talk to you so about me ... I would have told you myself because you are my lover ... but he had no right to tell you ... as far as he has proof positive, you are merely a mutual friend....

"But that's the way with him. He has mixed his own life up so that it is all public, to him.

"Yes," she cried impetuously and pa.s.sionately ... "it's true ... I have not been faithful to him before...."

"--and you returned to him? wasn't that weak?"

I took her hands in mine, with mind and soul made up at last....

"This time you can go through with it. Here's a man who will stand by you forever. I can earn a living for both of us, and--"

"Don't let's discuss the horrid old subject any more to-night ... I'm tired of discussing ... as you love me, read some poetry to me ... or I shall scream!"

"Have you ever read the sonnets of George Santayana?... I know most of them by heart ... let me quote you his best ...

'O world, thou choosest not the better part!

It is not wisdom to be only wise, And on the inward vision close the eyes, But it is wisdom to believe the heart.

Columbus found a world, and had no chart Save one that faith deciphered in the skies To trust the soul's invincible surmise Was all his science and his only art.

Our knowledge is a torch of smoky pine That lights the pathway but one step ahead Across a void of mystery and dread.

Bid, then, the tender light of faith to s.h.i.+ne By which alone the mortal heart is led Unto the thinking of the thought divine!'"

"I wish I had written that!" I said, in a hushed, awed voice, after a moment's silence....

"Now kiss me good-night and go to your tent ... I feel restless, troubled in spirit, to-night," she said, continuing:

"Perhaps I have been too harsh with Penton....

"He is steering on a chartless sea with no compa.s.s....

"No wonder he, and all radicals and pioneers in human thought, blunder ridiculously....

"The conservative world has its charts, its course well mapped out....

"I suppose I am not strong enough, big enough, for him."

"Hus.h.!.+ now it is you who're just talking!" I replied.

"You're jealous!"

"By G.o.d, yes. I _am_ jealous, though I suppose I ought to be ashamed of it."

She sat in bed, propped up with pillows. She had been reading Shakespeare's sonnets aloud to me. The big green-shaded reading lamp cast a dim light that pervaded the room.

She reached out both arms to me, the wide sleeves falling back from them, and showing their feminine whiteness....

I sat down beside her, caught her to me, kissed her till she was breathless....

"There ... there ... please! _Please!_"

"What! you're not tiring of my kisses?"

"No, dearest boy, but I have a curious feeling, I tell you ... maybe we're being watched...."

"Nonsense ... he believes I told him the truth."

And I caught her in my arms again, half-reclining on the bed.

"s.h.!.+" she flung me off with a sudden impulse of frightened strength, "I hear someone."

"It's only the wind."

"Quick!... my G.o.d!"--

I s.n.a.t.c.hed up a volume of Keats. It fell open at "St. Agnes Eve." I hurled myself into a chair ... gathering my breath I began aloud, as naturally as I could--

"St. Agnes' Eve! ah, bitter chill it was; The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold--"

At that very instant, Penton burst in at the door.

He paused a dramatic moment, his back to it, facing us.

I stopped reading, in pretended astonishment.