"But these French are so clever that they understand perfectly with their eyes."Susan sent the maid to bed and sat in a dressing gown brushing her hair.It was long enough to reach to the middle of her back and to cover her bosom.It was very thick and wavy.Now that the scarlet was washed from her lips for the night, her eyes shone soft and clear with no relief for their almost tragic melancholy.He was looking at her in profile.Her expression was stern as well as sad--the soul of a woman who has suffered and has been made strong, if not hard.
"I got a letter from my lawyers today," he began."It was about that marriage.I'll read."At the word "marriage," she halted the regular stroke of the brush.Her eyes gazed into the mirror of the dressing table through her reflection deep into her life, deep into the vistas of memory.As he unfolded the letter, she leaned back in the low chair, let her hands drop to her lap.
"`As the inclosed documents show,'" he read, "`we have learned and have legally verified that Jeb--not James--Ferguson divorced his wife Susan Lenox about a year after their marriage, on the ground of desertion; and two years later he fell through the floor of an old bridge near Brooksburg and was killed.'"The old bridge--she was feeling its loose flooring sag and shift under the cautious hoofs of the horse.She was seeing Rod Spenser on the horse, behind him a girl, hardly more than a child--under the starry sky exchanging confidences--talking of their futures.
"So, you see, you are free," said Palmer."I went round to an American lawyer's office this afternoon, and borrowed an old legal form book.And I've copied out this form----"She was hardly conscious of his laying papers on the table before her.
"It's valid, as I've fixed things.The lawyer gave me some paper.It has a watermark five years old.I've dated back two years--quite enough.So when we've signed, the marriage never could be contested--not even by ourselves."He took the papers from the table, laid them in her lap.She started."What were you saying?" she asked."What's this?""What were you thinking about?" said he.
"I wasn't thinking," she answered, with her slow sweet smile of self-concealment."I was feeling--living--the past.I was watching the procession."He nodded understandingly."That's a kind of time-wasting that can easily be overdone.""Easily," she agreed."Still, there's the lesson.I have to remind myself of it often--always, when there's anything that has to be decided.""I've written out two of the forms," said he."We sign both.
You keep one, I the other.Why not sign now?"She read the form--the agreement to take each other as lawful husband and wife and to regard the contract as in all respects binding and legal.
"Do you understand it?" laughed he nervously, for her manner was disquieting.
"Perfectly."
"You stared at the paper as if it were a puzzle.""It is," said she.
"Come into the library and we'll sign and have it over with."She laid the papers on the dressing table, took up her brush, drew it slowly over her hair several times.
"Wake up," cried he, good humoredly."Come on into the library." And he went to the threshold.
She continued brushing her hair."I can't sign," said she.
There was the complete absence of emotion that caused her to be misunderstood always by those who did not know her peculiarities.No one could have suspected the vision of the old women of the dive before her eyes, the sound of the hunchback's piano in her ears, the smell of foul liquors and foul bodies and foul breaths in her nostrils.Yet she repeated:
"No--I can't sign."
He returned to his chair, seated himself, a slight cloud on his brow, a wicked smile on his lips."Now what the devil!" said he gently, a jeer in his quiet voice."What's all this about?""I can't marry you," said she."I wish to live on as we are.""But if we do that we can't get up where we want to go.""I don't wish to know anyone but interesting men of the sort that does things--and women of my own sort.Those people have no interest in conventionalities.""That's not the crowd we set out to conquer," said he."You seem to have forgotten.""It's you who have forgotten," replied she.
"Yes--yes--I know," he hastened to say."I wasn't accusing you of breaking your agreement.You've lived up to it--and more.But, Susan, the people you care about don't especially interest me.Brent--yes.He's a man of the world as well as one of the artistic chaps.But the others--they're beyond me.
I admit it's all fine, and I'm glad you go in for it.But the only crowd that's congenial to me is the crowd that we've got to be married to get in with."She saw his point--saw it more clearly than did he.To him the world of fashion and luxurious amusement seemed the only world worth while.He accepted the scheme of things as he found it, had the conventional ambitions--to make in succession the familiar goals of the conventional human success--power, wealth, social position.It was impossible for him to get any other idea of a successful life, of ambitions worthy a man's labor.It was evidence of the excellence of his mind that he was able to tolerate the idea of the possibility of there being another mode of success worth while.
"I'm helping you in your ambitions--in doing what you think is worth while," said he."Don't you think you owe it to me to help me in mine?"He saw the slight change of expression that told him how deeply he had touched her.
