SHE wrote Garvey asking an appointment.The reply should have come the next day or the next day but one at the farthest; for Garvey had been trained by Brent to the supreme courtesy of promptness.It did not come until the fourth day; before she opened it Susan knew about what she would read--the stupidly obvious attempt to put off facing her--the cowardice of a kind-hearted, weak fellow.She really had her answer--was left without a doubt for hope to perch upon.But she wrote again, insisting so sharply that he came the following day.
His large, tell-tale face was a restatement of what she had read in his delay and between the lines of his note.He was effusively friendly with a sort of mortuary suggestion, like one bearing condolences, that tickled her sense of humor, far though her heart was from mirth.
"Something has happened," began she, "that makes it necessary for me to know when Mr.Brent is coming back.""Really, Mrs.Spencer----"
"Miss Lenox," she corrected.
"Yes--Miss Lenox, I beg your pardon.But really--in my position--I know nothing of Mr.Brent's plans--and if I did, I'd not be at liberty to speak of them.I have written him what you wrote me about the check--and--and--that is all.""Mr.Garvey, is he ever--has he----" Susan, desperate, burst out with more than she intended to say: "I care nothing about it, one way or the other.If Mr.Brent is politely hinting that I won't do, I've a right to know it.I have a chance at something else.Can't you tell me?""I don't know anything about it--honestly I don't, Miss Lenox," cried he, swearing profusely.
"You put an accent on the `know,'" said Susan."You suspect that I'm right, don't you?""I've no ground for suspecting--that is--no, I haven't.He said nothing to me--nothing.But he never does.He's very peculiar and uncertain...and I don't understand him at all.""Isn't this his usual way with the failures--his way of letting them down easily?"Susan's manner was certainly light and cheerful, an assurance that he need have no fear of hysterics or despair or any sort of scene trying to a soft heart.But Garvey could take but the one view of the favor or disfavor of the god of his universe.He looked at her like a dog that is getting a whipping from a friend."Now, Miss Lenox, you've no right to put me in this painful----""That's true," said Susan, done since she had got what she sought."I shan't say another word.When Mr.Brent comes back, will you tell him I sent for you to ask you to thank him for me--and say to him that I found something else for which I hope I'm better suited?""I'm so glad," said Garvey, hysterically."I'm delighted.
And I'm sure he will be, too.For I'm sure he liked you, personally--and I must say I was surprised when he went.But I must not say that sort of thing.Indeed, I know nothing, Miss Lenox--I assure you----""And please tell him," interrupted Susan, "that I'd have written him myself, only I don't want to bother him.""Oh, no--no, indeed.Not that, Miss Lenox.I'm so sorry.
But I'm only the secretary.I can't say anything."It was some time before Susan could get rid of him, though he was eager to be gone.He hung in the doorway, ejaculating disconnectedly, dropping and picking up his hat, perspiring profusely, shaking hands again and again, and so exciting her pity for his misery of the good-hearted weak that she was for the moment forgetful of her own plight.Long before he went, he had greatly increased her already strong belief in Brent's generosity of character--for, thought she, he'd have got another secretary if he hadn't been too kind to turn adrift so helpless and foolish a creature.Well--he should have no trouble in getting rid of her.
She was seeing little of Spenser and they were saying almost nothing to each other.When he came at night, always very late, she was in bed and pretended sleep.When he awoke, she got breakfast in silence; they read the newspapers as they ate.And he could not spare the time to come to dinner.As the decisive moment drew near, his fears dried up his confident volubility.He changed his mind and insisted on her coming to the theater for the final rehearsals.But "Shattered Lives" was not the sort of play she cared for, and she was wearied by the profane and tedious wranglings of the stage director and the authors, by the stupidity of the actors who had to be told every little intonation and gesture again and again.The agitation, the labor seemed grotesquely out of proportion to the triviality of the matter at issue.At the first night she sat in a box from which Spenser, in a high fever and twitching with nervousness, watched the play, gliding out just before the lights were turned up for the intermission.The play went better than she had expected, and the enthusiasm of the audience convinced her that it was a success before the fall of the curtain on the second act.
With the applause that greeted the chief climax--the end of the third act--Spenser, Sperry and Fitzalan were convinced.
All three responded to curtain calls.Susan had never seen Spenser so handsome, and she admired the calmness and the cleverness of his brief speech of thanks.That line of footlights between them gave her a new point of view on him, made her realize how being so close to his weaknesses had obscured for her his strong qualities--for, unfortunately, while a man's public life is determined wholly by his strong qualities, his intimate life depends wholly on his weaknesses.
She was as fond of him as she had ever been; but it was impossible for her to feel any thrill approaching love.Why?
She looked at his fine face and manly figure; she recalled how many good qualities he had.Why had she ceased to love him?
