Chapter XXII Whispering Tongues
“Whispering tongues can poison truth,
And constancy dwells in realms above,
And life is thorny—and youth is vain—
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the brain.”
—Coleridge.
“Yes, the dear twins have gone at last. Whether or no they are leaving their young hearts here I can’t say, but they are certainly carrying two very nice ones away with them. Except that the female one is chiefly ice; but really, Erma quite thawed toward the end. Odd that he preferred her to Agatha: she’s no better looking and not half so popular—by the way, Lynn, talking of Agatha reminds me! what in the world have you done to Lighton?”
“My dear Del!”
“Refused him, again?”
“He has not, thanks be, compelled me to do so.”
“Then what has happened? I’ve seen him six times with Agatha in the past ten days. Oh, Lynn, why can’t you be sensible? To let such a thing slip through your fingers! Upon my word you make me feel sometimes like a donkey boy with a goad.”
“And you, my love, make me feel like Mephisto with a pitchfork.”
“Oh, Lynn! And, at all events, if you don’t want to marry him, now, why tell him so? You may be very glad of him a few years hence. Why not keep him hanging on?”
“Because, dear friend, I am neither a liar nor a cheat.”
“Well, why aren’t you? What’s the use of trying to be honest in a world of liars and cheats? What do you expect to gain by it?”
“I really can’t say. The reward of virtue, perhaps.”
“The reward of virtue, dearest, is usually a whack over the head.”
“So I have observed.”
“Is that why you are so desperately anxious to obtain it?”
“Not exactly.”
“What do you propose to do when it arrives?”
“Look and act as though it were the one thing on earth I had always longed for. Unless it is violent enough to stun me, in which case I shall set my teeth and say nothing.”
“Lynn, you’re a fool!”
“I have frequently suspected as much.”
“And oh, Lynn, I chatter and chatter—and all the time there is something I must say to you.”
“Say it.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“No; but, whatever it may be, Del, hurry up and tell me. You know suspense is the one thing I can’t bear.”
“Will you let me ask you something?”
“Anything—but I won’t promise to answer.”
“Will you answer me this? Have you ever cared for anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Any man, I mean!”
“Yes.”
“Much?”
“Very much.”
“Enough—well, enough to do anything foolish for?”
“Enough to do things that you would consider would qualify me for a madhouse.”
“Ah!”
Mrs. Hadwell drew a long breath and her face fell.
“You might have told me, dear,” she said, gently.
“I couldn’t, Del. But, anyway, it’s not what you think. Why do you ask me all this?”
“Was that why you refused Lighton?”
“No—yes; I would have refused him, anyhow.”
“But the other had something to do with it?” said Mrs. Hadwell, leaning forward, breathlessly.
Lynn said nothing but her face was sad. Although she felt that her secret must die with her brother she longed to-night for the sympathy which she could so easily obtain from this, her oldest and dearest friend.
“I—I would have liked to tell you, Del,” she said in a low voice. “But—I had promised to tell no one. It was not that I didn’t trust you. The circumstances were peculiar. I had others to consider.”
“Oh, Lynn, Lynn, it was some one that you couldn’t marry, then?” Mrs. Hadwell’s voice rose almost to a wail.
“Yes. But, Del, the more you say, the less you understand. Let us talk of something else.”
“Lynn, I can’t! Oh, do tell me just one thing more: you know that you can trust me. Have you done anything that was unconventional? stupidly unconventional? that might expose you to scandalous comments if it were known?”
“I—yes, I am afraid I have. But don’t talk of it, Del. I don’t feel very cheerful to-night.”
“But I must. Lynn, will you promise solemnly never again to do anything foolish—you know what I mean?—anything improper or reckless?”
Lynn was silent.
“Promise. Oh, Lynn, promise! You don’t know what danger you’re in. You have enemies; you are already talked about in certain circles. I won’t ask a question, dear, not a question: only promise”——
“Del, I can promise nothing.”
“You—you would do foolish things again?”
“Yes.”
“But, why—oh, Lynn, why?”
It was some moments before Lynn answered and, when she did, her voice was hard.
“Because all my happiness on earth—everything in life that counts—depends on my outraging certain very sensible conventions. Don’t worry if you can help it: I’m a fly, caught in the web of Fate: you can’t help me, I can’t help myself. If I—stopped, I should never forgive myself: I should never know another happy moment.”
“Lynn, I see I shall have to tell you—and it’s a thing I hate to do. There are stories afloat concerning you—I don’t know what, exactly—coupling your name with that of Ricossia.”
Lynn grew slowly white.
“Have you nothing to say, Lynn?”
“Nothing, Del.”
“You won’t explain—not even to me?”
“Del,” said her visitor, suddenly, bending forward and gazing intently in Mrs. Hadwell’s face, “if you had to face some personal trouble or misunderstanding, amounting to disgrace, even—or break a solemn and sacred oath—which would you do?”
“Break the solemn and sacred oath,” returned Mrs. Hadwell, promptly and cheerfully.
“Ah,” said Lynn, despairingly, “what’s the use of asking you, Del? You have no conscience about those things.”
“No, indeed; yet I am rich enough to afford one if I really wanted it. But you, my dear, have no business with so costly and useless an appendage. Can’t you get rid of it—for the present, anyway? It’s going to land you in a perfect sea of trouble; and, beyond, shining faintly, is that whack over the head of which we spoke. When you have tormented yourself sufficiently Society will hand you that; and then I suppose you will have nothing left to wish for?”
“Only death; and I’m pretty healthy!”
“And you will not explain? in spite of all I can say or do?”
“No, I’m very tired, Del. I’m going now, if you don’t mind.”
Half an hour later Amherst left Hadwell Heights, scowling unhappily. Miss Thayer had just left; she had had a headache and had returned early. He could not, in decency, call on her at her home after hearing this, much as he wanted to. He must wait until to-morrow.
He walked along Pine Avenue with his hands in his overcoat pockets. Lynn was the best girl that ever lived; but, after all, there was no smoke without fire, that was certain. She had committed some imprudence; what, he must find out before he took any steps to circumvent these slanders. Of course one thing was undeniable; she had bestowed a good deal of attention on Ricossia when she first met him. It was through her and her warm eulogies of his genius and beauty that he, himself, had first become interested in the young—but, after all, the boy couldn’t live a year and he must not call him what he really was. What beauty he possessed! the beauty of the very devil! and how women did go mad over him! It wasn’t wonderful if—
Then suddenly, like poison, Ricossia’s low, bell-like laugh at their last meeting rang in his ears. And his words—what were they? He had said that Lynn was not attracted by him in the ordinary way—bah! any one a degree above a cur would say that. Lynn loved him, Amherst, that was certain; but there were different kinds and degrees of love. Had he not seen a kind sweet woman, a devoted wife and mother, leave home, husband, children, everything that made her life; had he not seen her ready to pay with a life-time of odium and desolation for the feverish joy of a few anxious months? Lynn had a stronger nature than the majority of women; that was nothing; she would be likely to go to greater extremes for that very reason. She was so sensible, so logical, so prudent—were they not the very women who forsook all caution when vitally interested? Ricossia was a boy, a child; yes, and had it not passed into a proverb, the love of a woman of thirty for a youth?—what was he thinking of? where had his fancies led him? Doubt Lynn! Lynn, whom he had known from a child!—yes, known! the mockery of the word! Who ever knew another human being? Strangers we wandered into life; strangers we left it; strangers we were, each to other, always; husband to wife, child to mother—above all, lover to beloved. He groaned as he walked, but no feeling of resentment toward his betrothed held place as yet. Lynn, as he had told her, was the one woman on earth to him: he would abide by her explanation. If—he turned cold and faint at the thought—if, in the past, she had been infatuated with that “half-devil and half-child,” Ricossia; and, if she had done foolish things, mad things... yes, even wrong things—he could forgive them, knowing that she loved him, and him only, now. After all, when one considered Ricossia’s reputation, merely to be seen with him was enough; and she had, probably, traded unduly on her social position and good name. Perhaps it was nothing more than pity; the boy was dying and he was so young, so friendless. On the whole Amherst decided that he was probably acting like a fool; one might almost as well be jealous of a corpse as of Ricossia, who might be one at that moment for anything he knew to the contrary. With a sudden rush of compunction and self-reproach Amherst left Pine Avenue and, descending to the city, hailed a passing car. He would look the boy up; confound it all, the young fool might be dying a miserable death at this very moment while he maundered away like a simpleton in a melodrama. He would see how Ricossia was holding out, anyway; this last cold spell wasn’t just the best thing for a consumptive, and he would like to see the cub spend his last months on earth in comparative comfort, whether he deserved to or not. And, perhaps—but no! he couldn’t touch on that—not with him!
The car took him within a few blocks of his destination. He walked slowly on, feeling cheered and comparatively happy. When one has writhed in doubt and misery for a certain number of hours the reaction is usually strong; and Amherst wondered how he had ever come to attach so much importance to the babblings of a green-eyed tabby cat and the insults of a hound. He inhaled the clear night air with calm enjoyment; to-morrow he would see Lynn and then—and then—
He had nearly reached the Chatham when the door opened quietly and a woman descended the steps. As she advanced toward him she raised her head in a blind, unseeing sort of fashion. The light of a flickering gas jet shone clearly and pitilessly on her upturned face; a face which, though drawn and hollow-eyed, was strangely familiar—the face of his intended wife, Lynn Thayer.