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maocon hesoiution iist chadt 
 
 (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No, 2) 
 
 ^ APPLIED \hMI3E 
 
 '653 East Main Street 
 
 (71b) 288- 5999 - Fo. 
 
re- -m-'M 
 
 THE LETTER 
 
 ■OFTHE 
 
 J N TRACT 
 
 BAS!(/k[NC 
 
^/ 
 
 r 
 
 / 
 

 "/-Inn't you sec that my heart's breaking, too?' 
 
 s^v "V r V '" "•" f'""*^' ^''""^'"g '■" hea.l, 
 saaiy. .\o, I can t see that." 
 
C'OXTK AC'i 
 
 
 
 i A );■ 
 
 ■''BUSUKKS 
 
 Kwr'>«' . 
 
 • . >N DON 
 
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 • '///'. jifeld;!.- ,11' 
 
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 (•^^iii'l yoii SCO tli.ii :,iy h.^rl , Ln-iikin' i,,n-' 
 ,->h^ l.,„k,.d Inn. in il,o f,,,.. <;l.».kii,« her h.-n.l. 
 satl/y. '.No, I cairi s.r t!i:it." 
 
THE LETTER 
 OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 BASIL KING 
 
 AIITHOB OP 
 
 The Itmer SItriiu 
 
 ILLUSTBATED 
 
 HARPER ft BROTHERS FITBLISHERS 
 
 NEW TOKK AND LONDON 
 
 MCMXIV 
 
/ -.* _^ v^ mmi, .' 
 
 J. CI vj' 
 
 259011 
 
 Books bt tbs 
 AUTHOR OF "THE INNER SHRINE" 
 
 [BASIL KING] 
 Tvu LmTBB o» TBS CoimucT. Brd 
 Th» Wat Hohz. Illustrated 
 Thb Wild Olivb. lUuatrmted 
 Thb Inncr Sbbims. lUuitnted 
 Tbs SrBsrr Called Stbaiobt. lU'd. 
 L«T Not Man Pdt Asumdeb. Po«t 8vo 
 In tbb Oabobn of Chabitt. Post 8vo 
 Thb Steps or Honob. Post 8vo 
 The Giant's Stbenoth. Post 8vo 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS. NEW YORK 
 
 COPVHnHT. tS 14. T HAWPm * BROTHIIIS 
 IN THB UNITED STATIS OP AMSRICA 
 PUBLISNKD AUOUST, ISIA 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 <aur. 
 
 1. Tbanbobbuion '"" 
 
 n. RnENTHmn 
 
 HI. RSPBOACB ...... 
 
 IV. DiHGlB ' ' ** 
 
 V. Pbuuft. '** 
 
 » .... 160 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "Can't Yod Seb that Mt Hbabt's Bb«a«ino, 
 Too?" She Looked Hm in the Face, Shak- 
 mo Heb Head, Sadlt. "No, I Can't See 
 
 That" . . . 
 
 „ :rotiUtptKt 
 
 He Tdbned fbou the Gibl to His Wife. "I'm 
 WiiLDJO TO Explain Antthino Yoc Likb- 
 A» Fab AS I Can" ^ ^ 
 
 "Oh, Chip. Go Awat! I Can't Stand Ant Mobe 
 -Now." "Do Yoo Mean that You'll See 
 Me— Lateb— when We'bb m London?" . . •< ijj 
 
 Edith was Standino in the Doobwat, toe Man 
 
 Behind Her. "Chip, Mb. Ucon Knows We 
 
 Met in England" . . .... 
 
 IM 
 
THE 
 LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
THE LETTER OF THE 
 CONTRACT 
 
 TBANSGRESSION 
 
 JL her coffee ,n her room, she had looked in on 
 the children a. she generally did. instead „" 
 gong down to the drawing-room to write a 
 note her whole life might have been different 
 
 Jh\ '"»''" "'^ *^« 'J"-*'- «he often 
 ^ked herself in the succeeding years, only to 
 
 would have happened in any case. Since the 
 ;jct^^t^..I.usthavec.metoknowi::L^ 
 
 eoul;rvrsenutvarr:r°"^'^^ 
 
 oftheday. The ver^ :;Zr oTiruLTil 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 at one , so that her husband could post it as he 
 went to h.s office, gave to the act something of 
 the force of fate. 
 
 Everjthing that morning, when she came to 
 think of .t, had something of the force of fate 
 Why. on entering the drawing-room, hadn't she 
 gone straight to her desk, according to her in- 
 tention, if it wasn't that fate intervened? As a 
 matter of fact, she went to the oriel window 
 ookmg down mto Fifth Avenue, with vague 
 
 sS £„??•' "'"*'"• 't--oneofth7se 
 small Scotch comer windows that show you 
 both sides of the street at once. It was so much 
 the favorite conning-spot of the family that she 
 advanced to it from habit. 
 
 AjDd yet. if she had gone to her desk, that girl 
 might have disappeared before the lines of the 
 note were pemied. As it was. the girl was 
 there, standmg as she had stood on other occa- 
 sions-three or four, at least-between the two 
 it«e ,ron posts that spaced off the opening for 
 foot-passengers into the Park. She was looking 
 up at the house in the way Edith had noticed 
 before-not with the scrutiny of one who wishes 
 to see, but with the forlorn patience of the 
 unobtrusive creature hoping to be se6n. 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 In a neat gray suit of the fashion of 1904 and 
 •qmrrel fu«, she was the more unobtrusive be- 
 cause of a baokgn,und of light snow. She was 
 pathetically unobtrusive. Not that she seemed 
 poor: Bhe suggested, rather, some one lost or 
 daxed or partially blotted out. People glanced 
 at her as they hurried by. There were so^ 
 who turned and glanced a second time. She 
 might have been a person with a sorrow-a love- 
 sorrow. At that thought Edith's heart went out 
 to he. m sympathy. She herself was so happy, 
 with a happiness that had grown more intense 
 each month, each week, each day. of her six 
 years of married life, that it filled her imagina- 
 tion with a blissful, pitying pain to think that 
 other women suffered. 
 
 The pity was sincere, and the bliss came from 
 the knowledge of her security. She felt it 
 wonderful to have such a sense of safety as that 
 she experienced m gazing across the street at the 
 girl s wist ul face. It was like the overpower- 
 ng thankfulness with which a man on a rock 
 looks on while others drown. It wasn't callous- 
 ness; It was only an appreciation of mercies. 
 She was genumely sorry for the giri, if the girl 
 needed sorrow; but she didn't see what she 
 
 8 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 could do to help her. It wa» ^ell known that 
 out .n that life ' New York-ond of the world 
 mT^ "**"*" ""^ ^^pe»tB of p«„ion in 
 which hve. were wrecked; but from them ahe 
 fier«df was u surely protected by her husband's 
 love as. in her warm and well-stored house, she 
 was shielded from hunger and the storm. She 
 accepted this good fortune meekly and as a 
 special blessedness; but she couldn't help re- 
 joicmg aU the more in the knowledge of her 
 security. 
 
 The knowledge of her security gave luxury to 
 the sigh with which she turned in ihe cou«e of 
 « few minutes to write her note. The desk 
 stood under the mirror between the two win- 
 dows at the end of the small back drawing. 
 «H)m. The small back drawing-room projected 
 w ail ell from the larger one that crossed the 
 front of the house. She had just reached the 
 words, shall have great pleasure in accepting 
 your kind mvitation to-" when she heard her 
 husband s step on the stairs. He was coming 
 up from his solitary breakfast. She could hear 
 too. the rusUe of the newspaper in his hand as he 
 ascended. sofUy and tunelessly whistling. The 
 sound of that whistling, which generally accom- 
 
 A 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 panied his presence in the house, waa more en- 
 trancing to her thon the trill of nightingales. 
 
 The loneliness her fancy ascribed to the girl 
 over by the Pork empliasizcd her sense of pos- 
 •ession. She raised her head and looked into 
 the mirror. The miracle of it struck her afresh, 
 that the great, strong man she saw entering the 
 room, with his brown velvet house-jacket and 
 broad shoulders and splendid head, should be 
 hers. She herself waa a little woman, of soft 
 curves and dimpling smiles and no particular 
 beauty; and he had stooped, in his strength and 
 tenderness, to make her bonr of his bone and 
 flesh of his flesh, as she had become. And he 
 had become bone of her bone and flesh of her 
 flesh. She waa no more his than he was hers. 
 That was the great fact. She was no longer 
 content with the limited formula, "They twain 
 shall be one flesh "; they twain had become one 
 spirit and one life. 
 
 It was while asserting this to herself, not for 
 the firt.. time, that she saw him start. He 
 started back from the window— the laige cen- 
 tral window-to which he had gone, probably 
 with vague thoughts of the weather, like herself. 
 It was the manner of his start that chiefly at- 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 traded her attention. After drawing back he 
 peered forward. It was an absurd thing to 
 thmk of h.m; she knew that-of him of all 
 peopIe!-but one would almost have said that, 
 m h^ own house, he shrank from being seen. 
 But there was the fact. There was his attitude 
 -his t.ptoeing-his way of leaning toward the 
 mantelpiece at an angle from which he could see 
 what was going on in the Park and yet be pro- 
 tected by the curtain. 
 
 Then it came to her, with a flush that made 
 her tingle all over, that she was spying on him. 
 He thought her in the children's room up-stairs. 
 when all the while she was watching him in a 
 mirror. Never in her life had she known such 
 
 bWHI .f T; ^^"'''■"^ "^'^ ''-d. she scrib- 
 bled blindly, "dinner on Tuesday evening the 
 twenty-fourth at-" She was compelled by an 
 inner force she didn't understand to glance up at 
 the mirror again, but, to her relief, he had gone 
 l^ter she heard him at the telephone. To 
 avoid all appearance of listening she went to 
 the kitchen to give her orders for the day. On 
 her return he was in the hall, dressed for going 
 out Scanning his face, she thought he looked 
 suddenly care-worn. 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 "I've ordered a motor to take me down- 
 town." he explained, as he pulled on his gloves 
 He generally took the street-car in Madison 
 Avenue. 
 
 "Aren't you well?" she thought it permissible 
 to ask. 
 
 "Oh yes; I'm all right." 
 "Then why—?" 
 
 He made an effort to be casual: "Well I just 
 thought I would." 
 
 She had decided not to question him— it was 
 a matter of honor or pride with her, she was not 
 sure which— but while giving him the note to 
 post she ventured to say. "You're not worried 
 about anything, are you?" 
 
 "Not in the least." He seemed to smother 
 the words by stooping to kiss her good-by. 
 
 She followed him to the door. "You'd tell 
 me, wouldn't you, if you were worried?" 
 
 For the second time he stooped and kissed her. 
 again smothering the words. "Yes, dear: but 
 I'm not." 
 
 She stood staring at the glass door after he 
 had closed it behind him. "Oh. what is it?" 
 she questioned. Within less than an hour the 
 world had become peopled with fears, and all 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 she could do was to stare at the door through 
 which she could still see him dimly. 
 
 She could see him dimly, but plainly, for the 
 curtam of patterned filct-work hanging flat 
 agamst the glass was almost transparent from 
 withm the house, though impenetrable from 
 outside. Was it her imagination that saw him 
 look cautiously round beforo leaving the pro- 
 tection of the doorway? Was it her imagina- 
 tion that watched while he crossed the pavement 
 hurriedly, to spring into the automobile before 
 he could be observed? Was it only the needless 
 alarm of a foolish woman that thought him 
 anxious to reach the shelter of the motor lest he 
 should be approached or accosted? She tried 
 to thmk so. It was easier to question her own 
 
 doubt him. She assured herself of that as she 
 returned to her post in the oriel window. 
 
 The girl in gray was gone, and down the long 
 street, over which there was a thin glaze of ice. 
 the motor was creepmg carefully. She watched 
 It because he wa^ inside. It was all she should 
 see of him till nightfall. The whole of the long 
 day must be passed with this strange new some- 
 thuig m her heart-this something that wasn't 
 
 8 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 anything. If he would only come back for a 
 minute and put his arms about her and let her 
 look up mto his face she would knmo it wasn't 
 anything. She did know it; she said so again 
 and again. But if he would only discover that 
 he had forgotten somethiug-a handkerchief or 
 his cigar-casc; that did ' appen occasionally . 
 
 And then it was as if her prayer was to be 
 answered while still on her lips. Before the 
 vehicle had got so far away as to be indistin- 
 guishable from other vehicles she saw it stop. 
 I stopped and turned. She held her breath. 
 Slowly, very slowly, it began to creep up the 
 gent e slope again. She supposed it must be 
 the treacherous ground that made it move at 
 such a snail's pace. It moved as if the chauffeur 
 or his client were looking for some one. Grad- 
 ually It drew up at the curb. It was the curb 
 toward the Park-and from another of the little 
 openings with iron posts to space them off ap- 
 peared the girl in gray. 
 
 She advanced promptly, as if she had been 
 called. At the door of the car she stood Z 
 a few minutes in conversation with the occu- 
 pant. For one of the parties at least that 
 method of communication was apparently not 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 satisfactory, for he stepped out, dismissed the 
 cab. and accompanied the girl through the lit- 
 tie openmg into the Park. In a second or two 
 they were out of sight, down one of the sloping 
 pathways. *^ * 
 
 During the next two months Edith had no 
 explanation of this mystery, nor did she seek 
 one. After the first days of amazement and 
 questionmg she fell back on what she took to 
 
 tW^rr;""*!"*^-*"*"'^*- Sh« argued 
 that ,f he had seen her in some analogous situa- 
 tion however astounding, he would have trusted 
 her to the uttermost; and she must do the same 
 
 JUT; ^''.rj^^'^^^" Romany reasons, she 
 sa,d to herself, that would not only account for 
 the mcident. but do him credit. The girl might 
 be a stenographer dismissed from his office ask 
 ing to be r«mstated; she might be a poor'rela- 
 tion making an appeal; she might be a wretched 
 woman toward whom he was acting on behalf 
 of a fnend. Such cases, and similar cases 
 ^rose frequently. 
 
 The wonder was. however, that he never 
 spoke of it. There was that side to it, too. 
 It mduced another order of reflection. He 
 10 
 
 ■■*J#.' 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 
 paxtb^ for her amusement, partly for his own, 
 aJl the happenings, both trivial and important 
 of each day that his silence with regard "o 
 th« one. which surely must be considered 
 
 A wretched woman toward whom he was art 
 
 Te wl ; '"'*''^' "^"''" *--'! whom 
 he^was actmg. not on behalf of a friend. 
 
 That it migLt be all over and done with 
 would make no difference. Of course it was 
 
 plover and done with-if it was tha n" 
 man cou d love a woman as he had loved his 
 V |fe du^g the past six or seven years and 
 
 that. If ,t had been-*ven before they were 
 marned. even before he knew her- But sle 
 would ,..hoke that tl^ought back. She IS 
 
 She developed the will to trust. She devel- 
 oped a trust that acted on her doubts like a 
 narcot,<>-not solving them, but dulling their 
 poignancy into stupor. 
 So March went out.^and April passed, and 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 May came in, with leaves on the trees and 
 tulips in the Park, and children playing on 
 the bits of greensward. She had walked as 
 far as the Zoo with the two little boys, and, 
 havmg left them with their French governess, 
 was on her way home. People were in the 
 habit of dropping in between four and six, and 
 of late she had become somewhat dependent 
 on their comply. They kept her from think- 
 ing. Their scraps of gossip provided her, when 
 she talked to her husband, with topics that 
 steered her away from dangerous ground. He 
 himself had given her a hint that a certain 
 ground was dangerous; and, though he had 
 done it laughingly, she had grown so sensitive 
 as to see in his words more perhaps than they 
 meant. She had asked him a question on some 
 subject— she had forgotten what— quite re- 
 mote from the mystery of the girl in gray. 
 Leaning across the table, with amusement on 
 his lips and m his eyes, he had replied: 
 "Don't you remember the warning? 
 
 'Where the apple reddens 
 
 Never pry, 
 Lest we lose our Edens, 
 Eve and I.'" 
 It 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 Inw«jdly she had staggered from the words 
 as if he had struck her, though he had no rea- 
 son to suspect that. In response she merely 
 said, pensively: "En aommea nous la?" 
 "En aommea noua — where?" 
 "Where the apple reddens." 
 "Oh, but everybody's there." 
 "You mean all married people." 
 "Married and single." 
 "But married people more than single." 
 "I mean that we all have our illusions, and 
 we'd better keep them as long as possible. 
 When w^ don't — " 
 "We lose our Edens." 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "So that our Edens are no more than a sort 
 of fool's paradise." 
 
 "Ah, no; a sort of wise man's paradise, in 
 which he keeps all he's been able to rescue 
 from a wicked world." 
 
 She was afraid to go on. She might learn 
 that she and their children and their home 
 and their happiness had been what he had been 
 able to rescue from a wicked world— and that 
 wouldn't have appeased her. Her thoughts 
 would have been of the wicked world from 
 
 IS 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 which he had escaped more than of the pata- 
 dise m which he had found shelter. She was 
 no holy Elisabeth, to welcome Tannhftuser back 
 from the Venusberg. That he should have 
 been m the. Venusberg at all could be only a 
 degree less torturing to her than to know he 
 was there still. 
 
 So she kept away from subjects that would 
 have told her more than sh. feared already, 
 taking refuge in themes she had once consid- 
 ered vapid and inane. To miss nothing, she 
 hurried homeward on that May afternoon, so 
 as to be beside her tea-table in the drawing- 
 room before any one appeared. And yet, the 
 minute came when she cast aside all solici- 
 tudes and hesitations. 
 
 Going up the pathway leading to the open- 
 ing opposite her house, she noticed a figure 
 standing between the two iron posts. It was 
 not now a figure in gray, but one in white-in 
 white, with a rose-colored sash, and carrying 
 a rose-colored parasol. Edith quickcied her 
 pace unconsciously, urged on by fear lest the 
 girl should move away before she had time to 
 reach her. In spite of a rush of incoherent 
 emotions she was able to reflect that she was 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 
 perfectly cool, entirely self-possessed. She was 
 merely dominated by a „eed-the need of 
 
 wl,r? *" 'r '"■*' *'"■' P^""" ''"'J seeing 
 who she was. She had no idea what she her 
 
 selfwould door say.orwhetheror not she would 
 do or say anything. That was secondary; it 
 would take care of itself. The immediatT im- 
 pulse was too imperative to resist. She must 
 
 so Tr\T '^ r''"« '^''"^ °' her doing 
 so. If she had any thought of a resulting con- 
 sequence ,t was in the assumption that her 
 presence as wife and woman of the world 
 would dispel the noxious thing she l^^t 
 striving to combat for the past two months, 
 as the sun oissipates a miasma, 
 onf "Vk" f P™'"^^*'^ '^^'^ <=«'-eful and courte- 
 
 ZL* ,7*' ^' '"""'^ ^ P"'^"'' negligently, 
 gracefully, over the shoulder. It served t^ 
 conceal her face UU she had passed the stranger 
 by a p^ or two and glanced casually back- 
 
 Za vu '"*^* ^*"' ^°"^ ^' '^•"^-ver. with 
 full deliberation, for the woman took no notice 
 of her at a 1. Her misty, troubled blue eyes, of 
 which the lids were tpH «= :t t, • 
 
 fixed on th I *"° '^^P"*' ^^^ 
 
 nxed on the house across the way, 
 
 Edith saw now that, notwithstanding a cer- 
 
THK LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 ♦uin youtlifulness of dress and bearing, this was 
 a woman, not a girl. She was thirty-five at 
 least, though the face was of the blond, wist- 
 ful, Scandinavian type that fades from pallor 
 to pallor without being perceptibly stamped by 
 time. It was pallor like that of the white rose 
 after it has passed the perfection of its bloom 
 and before it has begmi to wither. 
 Edith paused, still without drawing the misty 
 
 eyes on herself. » 
 "Do you know the people in that house?" 
 
 she asked, at last. 
 The woman looked at her, not inquiringly 
 
 or with much show of comprehension, but 
 
 vaguely and as from a distance. Edith repeated 
 
 the question. 
 
 The thin, rather bloodless lips parted. The 
 answer seemed to come under compulsion from 
 a stronger will: "I— I know—" 
 
 "You know the gentleman." 
 
 The pale thin lips parted again. After a 
 second or two there was a barely audible 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I'm his wife." 
 
 There was no sign on the woman's part 
 either of surprise- or of quickened interest. 
 
 16 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 There wu only the brief heuUUon that pre- 
 ceded all her responses. 
 "Are you?" 
 
 "You knew he was married, didn't you?" 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "Have you known him long?" 
 "Eleven years." 
 
 "That's longer than I've known him." 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "Do you know how long I've known him?" 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "How do you know?" 
 "I remember." 
 
 "What makes you remember?" 
 "He told me." 
 "Why did he tell you?" 
 A glow of animation came into the dazed 
 face. "That's what I don't know. I didn't 
 care-much. He always said he would marry 
 ^me day. It had nothing to do with me. 
 We agreed on that from the first." 
 "From the first of— what?" 
 "Prom the first of everything." 
 Before putting the next question Edith took 
 time to think. Because she was so startlingly 
 cool and clear she was aware of feeling like one 
 a 17 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 who itudi with the revolver at her bieut or 
 the draught of cyanide in her hand, knowing 
 that within a few seconds it may be too late to 
 reconsider. And yet. she had never in her life 
 felt more perfectly collected. She looked up 
 the street and down the street, and across at 
 her o^m house, of which the cheerful windows 
 reflected the May sunshine. She bowed and 
 smiled to a man on foot. She bowed and smiled 
 two or three times to people passing in carriages 
 From the Park she could hear the shrieks of 
 children on a merry-go-round; she could fol- 
 low a catchy refrain from "The Belle of New 
 York " as played by a band at a distance. Her 
 sang-froid was extraordinary. It was while 
 making the observation to herself that her ques- 
 tion came oit. before she had decided whether 
 or not to utter it. She had no remorse for that, 
 however, since she knew she couldn't have kept 
 herself from asking it in the end. As weU ex- 
 pect the man staggering to the outer edge of a 
 precipice not to reel over. 
 "So it was — everything?" 
 In uttering the words she felt oddly shy. 
 She looked down at the pavement, then, with 
 a flutter of the eyelids, up at the woman 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 
 But the womoo henelf .howed no luch hen- 
 tetion. 
 
 "Oh yei." 
 
 "And is— still?" 
 
 And then the woman who wu not a girl, but 
 who was curiously like a child, suddenly took 
 fright. Tears came to her eyes; therts was a 
 convubive movement of the face. Edith could 
 »ee she was a person who wept easily. 
 
 "I won't tell you any more." 
 
 Tlie declaration was made in a tone of child- 
 ish fretfulness. 
 
 Edith grew soothing. " I'm sorry if IVe hurt 
 your feelings. Don't mind speaking, because 
 It doesn t make any difference to me— now " 
 The woman stared, the tears wet on her 
 cheeks. "Don't you— love him?" 
 
 Edith was ready with her answer. It came 
 firmly: "No." 
 "Didn't you— everf" 
 
 This time Edith considered, answering more 
 ■lowly. "I don't know. If I ever did-the 
 thmg ,s so dead-that I don't understand how 
 It could ever have been alive." 
 
 The woman dried her eyes. "I don't see 
 how you can help it." 
 
 10 
 
THE LETTEB OP THE CONTRACT 
 " You can't help it, can you?" Edith smiled, 
 with a sense of her own superiority. "I sup- 
 pose that's the reason you come here. I've 
 seen you before." 
 "Have you?" 
 
 "Yes; several times. And that is the rea- 
 son, isn't it?-because you can't help loving 
 
 The woman's tears begaa to flow again 
 Its because I don't know what else to do. 
 When he doesn't coms any more—" 
 "Oh, so he doesn't come." 
 
 "Not unless I make him. When he sees me 
 here — " 
 
 "WeU, what then?" 
 
 "He gets angry. He comes to tell me that 
 if I do it again — " 
 
 "I^ see. But he comes. It brings him. 
 Thats the main thing, isn't it? Well, now 
 that you've told me so much, I'll— I'll try to 
 -to send him." She was struck with a new 
 thought. "If you were to come in now— you 
 could— you could wait for him." 
 
 The frightened look returned. "Oh. but 
 he'd kill me!" 
 
 "Oh no. he wouldn't." She smiled again. 
 
TRANSGRESSK N 
 with a sense of her superiority. 'He wouldu't 
 kill you when he knew I didn't care." 
 "But don't you tare?" 
 She shook her head. "No. And I shall 
 never care again. He can do what he likes. 
 He's free-and so are you. I'd rather he went 
 to you. Eleven years, did you say? Why 
 he was your husband long before he was mine.'' 
 "Oh no; he was never my husband. We 
 agreed from the first — " 
 
 "He wasn't your husband according to the 
 strict letter of the contract; but I don't care 
 anything about that. It's what 7 call being 
 your husband. I'd rather you took him back. 
 ... Oh, my God! There he is." 
 
 He was standing on the other side of the 
 street watching them. How long he had been 
 there neither of them knew. Engrossed in the 
 subject between them, and screened by their 
 sunshades, they hadn't noticed him come round 
 the comer from Madison Avenue on his way 
 home. He stood leaning on his stick, strobng 
 an end of his long mustache pensively. He 
 wore a gray suit and a soft gray felt hat. For 
 a minute or more there was no change in his 
 attitude, even when the terrified eyes of the 
 n 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 women told him he was observed. As he be- 
 gan to thread his way among the vehicles to 
 cross the street he displayed neither haste nor 
 confusion. Edith could see that, though he 
 was pale and grave, he could, even in this 
 situation, carry himself with dignity. In its 
 way it was something to be glad of. She her- 
 self stood her ground as a man on a smking 
 ship waits for the waves to engulf him. 
 
 Reaching the pavement, he ignored his wife 
 to go directly to the woman. 
 "What does this mean, Maggie?" 
 His tone was not so much stem as reproach- 
 ful. The faded woman, who was still trying to 
 make herself young and pretty, quailed at it. 
 Edith came to her relief: 
 
 "Isn't that somethmg for you to explain. 
 Chip?" 
 
 He turned to his wife. "I'm willmg to ex- 
 plain anything you like, Edith— as far as I can." 
 "I won't ask you how far that is— because I 
 know already everything I need to know." 
 ■'Everything you need to know— what for?" 
 "For understanding my position, I suppose." 
 "Your position? Your position is that of 
 my wife." 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 "Oh no. it isn't. There's your wife." 
 
 be f?°Vr^ *''**■ ^^^- T*"** '*dy would 
 be the first to tell you—" 
 
 "She haa been the first to tell me. She's 
 been extremely kind. She's answered my 
 questions with a frankness—" 
 
 "But ymt're not kind, Edith. Surely you 
 «ee that-that mentally she's not-not Kke 
 every one else." 
 
 d„,"K?'.r'*'- ,^ ^°"'t *W"k / am now. I 
 doubt .f I ever shall be again. No woman can 
 be mentally like every one else after she's been 
 deceived as we've been." 
 
 "S/^ hasn't been deceived. Edith; and I 
 should never have deceived you if—" 
 
 She laughed without mirth. "If you hadn't 
 wanted to keep me in the dark." 
 "No; if I hadn't had responsibilities-" 
 Responsibilities! Do you call /;ia<"-her 
 gance mdicated the woma«. whose misty 
 
 io^ T\ r **•' °°^ *" '""^ ''"^'^ ^ ^ vain 
 effort to follow what they were saying-"do 
 you call that a responsibility?" 
 
 "I'm afraid I do, Edith." 
 
 "And what about— me?" 
 
 "Hasn't a man more responsibiUties than one?" 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 "A married maa hasn't more wives than 
 one." 
 
 "A married man has to take his life as his 
 life has formed itself. He was an unmarried 
 man first." 
 
 "Which means. I suppose, that the ties he 
 formed when he was an unmarried man—" 
 
 "May bind him still-if they're of a certain 
 kind." 
 
 "And yours ore— of a certain kind." 
 "They're of that kind. I haven't been able 
 to free myself from them. But don't you 
 thmk we'd better go in? We can hardly talk 
 about such things out here." 
 
 She bowed to another passing friend. He 
 too. lifted his hat. When the friend had gone 
 by she glanced hastily toward the house. 
 
 .. "^^' ^ *'*'''* ^^ "*'" ^^^ ^^' hurriedly. 
 "I'd rather talk out here." 
 
 "Very well, then. We can take a stroll in 
 the Park?" 
 
 "What? We three?" 
 
 "Oh, she's gone— if that's the only reason." 
 
 Tummg, Edith saw the woman with the 
 
 rose-colored parasol rapidly descending the 
 
 path by which she had come. 
 
4'f 
 
 pje turned from the girl to his wife. "I'm willing 
 
 X 1 to explam a.,j-thing y„u like-as far as I caT^ ^ 
 
TRANSGRESSIO:. 
 ^ "I'd still rather stay out here." she said. 
 If I were to go in, I think it would—" 
 "Yes? What?" 
 "I think it would kill me." 
 "Oh. come. Edith. Let's face the thinif 
 calmly. Don't let us become hysterical." 
 "Am I hysterical. Chip?" 
 "In your own way, yes. Where another 
 woman would make a fuss, you're unnaturally 
 frozen; but it comes to the same thing. I know 
 that your heart — " 
 
 "Is breaking. Oh. I don't deny that. But 
 I d rather it broke here than indoors. I don't 
 know why. but I can stand it here, with peo- 
 pie gomg by; whereas in there- " 
 
 "Oh, cut it. Edith, for God's sake! Can't 
 you see that my heart's breaking, too?" 
 
 She looked him in the face, shaking her head 
 
 sa%. "No. Chip. I can't see that. If there 
 
 had been any danger of it you wouldn't have—" 
 
 "But I couldn't help it. That's what you 
 
 don t seem to understand." 
 
 "No; I'm afraid I don't." 
 
 "Would you try to understand— if I were 
 
 to tell you?" * 
 
 "I think I know already most of what you'd 
 
I 
 
 THE LETTEB OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 W to say. She'.. woniM whom you knew 
 long before you knew „.e-.„d J„ J^ 
 you ve never been able—" 
 
 thZ' T ""! ^'"'«''*" *»' » ^^^»^ Lu- 
 theran panor-dead now-^staWished in New 
 
 Jersey. In some way she drifted to the staj 
 Her name was MargaretheKastenskioId. T^^n 
 she went on the stage she made it Magg-e Clare 
 She had about as much talent for the theater 
 - a paper dolf. When I first fc.cw her she wL 
 «t.ll getting odd iobs in thiru a.d fourth Mte 
 compames. Since then she hasn't playtd t 
 
 "I understand. There's been no need o/ it. 
 she s quite well dressed." 
 
 "Let me go on. will you, Edith? I was about 
 two or three and twenty then. She Ty ha^e 
 '"".'* ^-^-t- older. She wa. living I 
 U.at time w,th Billy Cummings. Andsomehol 
 .t^happened-after Billy died-and she was 
 
 She made an appealing gesture. "PUate/ 
 I know how those things come about-^r I^ 
 ITC^,: '" ^°"' ease^rd-rd rath" 
 without breaking down. 
 
 80 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 "AU the same. Edith." he went on. "you'll 
 r" ^ ^-^ y""*" going to do me anything 
 Wee jurtace. If ,he hadn't been a refin^' 
 educated sort of girl, entirely at sea in her sur- 
 roundmgs. and stranded-stranded for money 
 mmd you. next door to going to starve-and 
 no chance of getting a job. because she couldn't 
 act a httle b.t-if it hadn't been for all that-" 
 Oh. I know how you'd be generous!" 
 
 be IZv^' "°" '**"' ^"'^ '^^ ' -- to 
 
 "Is there any reason why I should know- 
 now that the fact is there?" 
 
 He looked at her steadily. "Edith! What 
 are you made of?" 
 
 SLi I xf ' ^" ^'"' ** '''"»•"» °' flesh and 
 blood; but I'm not sure that I am any longer 
 You can't kill the heart in a woman's body- 
 and stdl expect her to feel." 
 
 "But, Edith-Edith darling-there's no rea- 
 son why I shm^ld have killed the heart in your 
 body when I never dreamed of doing you a 
 wrong-that is. an intentional wrong." he cor- 
 rected. 
 
 "You knew you were doing some woman a 
 
 31 
 
THE LKTTEH OF THE CONTBACT 
 
 w»ong-«,me futun. woman, the woman you'd 
 
 T7»:" '" ^ " ^^^ you took up 
 ^l^y humming, dropped from hi, dead 
 
 "Oh that! That. dear, i, nothing but the 
 tiJk of femmiat meeting,. Men are men. 
 and women are women. You can't make one 
 law for them both. Beside,, it's too big a 
 aubject to go into now." * 
 
 "I'm not trying to. I wasn't thinking of 
 men m general: I was thinking only of you " 
 
 But. good I^rd. Edith, you don't think 
 I ve been better than any one else, do you?" 
 
 Her forlorn smile made his heart ache. "I 
 rf>dthmkso. I daresay it was a mistake- 
 It wo, a mistake. If you hadn't made it-" 
 But It was at least a mistake one can under- 
 stand. I could hardly be expected to take it 
 for granted-whatever men may be. op may 
 have the nght to be-that the man who asked 
 me to mar^ hi^_^d ^j,„ ^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^ 
 
 as I think few men have been loved by women 
 -I could hardly take it for granted that he 
 was already keeping-and had been keeping 
 for years-and would keep for years to come- 
 another — 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 He moved impatiently. "But. I tell you. 
 I couldn't get rid of her. I couldn't shake he 
 
 tWs^ It waa agreed between us be/ore I 
 married you-fo„, before 1 married you- 
 that everythmg wa, at an end. But. poor 
 ^uUhe doesn't know what an agreem^nH 
 There s somethmg lacking in her. She's al- 
 ^s been Uce a child, and of late years she's 
 been more so K you knew her as I do you'd 
 be sorry for her." ^ 
 
 "Oh. lam sorry for her. Her whole mind 
 M ravaged by suffering." 
 
 "I know it's my fault; but it isn't whoUy 
 or even ch.efly n,y fault. A woman like that 
 has no nght to suffer. She lost the privile^ 
 of suffermg when she became what she is. S 
 any rate, she has no right to haunt like a shadow 
 the man who's befriended hei— " 
 
 "But. I presume, she's befriended him. And 
 -an^^«,ntmues to befriend him-since that's 
 
 He avoided her eyes, looking up the street 
 and whistling tunelessly beneat 'his brelth 
 
 repit" '■""' *•* '^'""'^ ^'" ^^ 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 The tuneless whistling went on. She al- 
 lowed him time to get the full effect of her 
 meanmg. As far as she could see her wa^ 
 
 mel'h 1 rr.'^^P-'^-'- his responsi 
 men he dodged the question she knew what 
 she would have to do. 
 
 long and short of it is this. She's on my hands 
 
 s7" ^^2'^'"^'^°^^'- i--tsiZ 
 
 U a?! 'r "^/"' "* "^^ ^^'^ '^-*- Hang 
 It all shes-she's attached to me; has been 
 
 attached to me for more than te^ yea« 1 
 caat,^o«that;now.canI? And she's help- 
 less. How can I desert her? I can't do iV 
 y more than! could desert a poor old faith-' 
 ful dog-or a baby. Can I, now?" 
 "No; I dare say not." 
 "But I'll teU you what I'll do. I'll under- 
 ^e never to see her again-of ^ „^ f^ 
 wui. 1 il give you my word of honor-" 
 
 for Jhat •"' '" ''"'• "°'' '"'" -* -"^ 
 
 pnl^r/*""* ''° ^°" '^^ ^°'^ J-st teU me. 
 and whatever it is—" 
 
 "It's that, since you can't abandon her. you 
 abandon me." ' 
 
 84 
 
TBANSGEESSION 
 "Whatt" 
 
 She^^peatcd the word, more firnjy. 
 
 dol'^r-^'r""' l"^' •^ ^- - to aban- 
 don you. ShegavelumalitUenod. "Good- 
 
 She had turned and taken a step or two aJon«, 
 
 .t r:^t:" ------ 
 
 b^ing like a woman w^ aXe T '''*;' "' 
 potassium in her hand tn/^ u '^""*^^ *»' 
 or not to take" wtll T . T'""* '^^^^^^ 
 andl-died T^' . • t J""^ '*• ^ ^^ ^^ 
 wife^ ^,!* "' *^« ^'"^ -ho was your 
 
 yet-ifstooUn to say-but ^"\"'''* '' ^ 
 . It's—Jf. ^° f«y— but It isn't your wife. 
 
 '.Hi * something like that." 
 
 way cl"'*-'\^'"^- "Don't talk that 
 way. Comem. You can't stay out here " 
 
 35 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 She looked over at the house again. He 
 thought she shuddered. "I can't stay out 
 here; but I don't have to go in— there." 
 ''What do you mean? Where are you going?" 
 "Just now I'm going to Aunt Emily's." 
 "Very well. I'll send a carriage for you 
 after dinner— if you stay so late." 
 "No; don't do that." 
 "Do you mean — ?" 
 
 "I mean that I may stay there for two or 
 three days— perhaps longer. After that I'll— 
 I'll see." 
 
 "You'll see— what?" 
 
 "Where to go next." 
 
 "Oh, come, Edie, let's talk sense. You know 
 I can't allow that." 
 
 She smiled again, with that queer, forlorn 
 smile that seemed to stab him. "I'm afraid 
 the authority is out of your hands— now." 
 
 He let that pass. 
 
 "Even so, there are the children. Think 
 of them." 
 
 "I am thinking of them— which is why I 
 must hurry away. They'U be here in a min- 
 ute; and I-I can't see them yet. I shouldn't 
 be able to bear it." 
 
 36 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 "And do you think you'll be able to bear 
 our bemg separated for two or three days, 
 when you kr^ I ^^ore you? Why. you'l 
 break down within an hour." 
 
 I "^X" T\ '*• '^^"''^ ''^y I °>"«t hurry. 
 I shall break down within half an hour. You 
 don t suppose I can go on like this? I'm al 
 SytS^ir-- '-t get to Aunt 
 
 papSr ''" ^*"""''"^ ^' ^ '^'y- "Hello. 
 Up the pathway leading from the Zoo a lit- 
 «e wh,te-su.ted man of five came prancing a^d 
 --ammg. foHowed by another of three do"g 
 the same The French governess march J 
 pnmly and sedately behmd them. 
 
 You see?" Edith said. quicUy. "I „„,t 
 
 Zm "V- '"u *^'" to-night-or speak to 
 them-or bss them-or hear them say their 
 
 Aunt EmJy. a^ I did when she was ill. You 
 
 TlZT'^'J^'^'^''''^- TellJenny 
 she needn't send me anything-yet. I hav^ 
 
 some things ther^that I, eft LCtL^^t 
 
 37 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 "Oh, you're not going to stay all night." he 
 groaned. "You'll come back." 
 
 "Very well. If I come back-I come back. 
 It will be so much the better or so much the 
 worse, as the case may be. If I come back, it 
 wil be because I accept the compromise you 
 make between me and— and your other-" 
 
 He broke in hastily. "It's not a compromise 
 -and there s no 'other.' If you could see how 
 far from vital the whole thing is. from a man's 
 pomt of view — " 
 
 "Unfortunately. I'm only a woman, and can 
 see It only from a woman's point of view. So 
 that, rf I don't come back, it will be because- 
 becaus^the Edith who was your wife is dead 
 beyond resurrection." 
 
 "But she isn't!" 
 
 "Perhaps not. We must see. I shall know 
 a IMe." '"'"-''^^ ^ '^^y '-- y- 
 
 "And in the mean time you may be risking 
 your happiness and mine." 
 
 She shot him a reproachful glance. "Do j/ou 
 say that?" * 
 
 "Yes Edith. I do say it. If IVe broken the 
 letter of the contract, you may be transgress- 
 
 83 
 
TRANSGRESSION 
 fflg its spirit. Don't forget that. Take caxe 
 ^at I did. I did because I couldn't hel^ t 
 You can help it—" 
 
 "Oh no^ I can't. That's where you haven't 
 understood me. You say I don't see things 
 from your pomt of view, and perhap. I don't 
 But neither do you see them from mine. You 
 wonder why I don't go over there"-she nodded 
 toward the house-"where I had my home- 
 where my children have theirs-where you and 
 I... But I can't. That's all I can say. Im^y 
 
 -irr^;''"'^'''"'''^- B"tiustnow 
 I couldnt drag myself up the steps. It 
 would mean that we were going on as before, 
 wben aU that-that sort of thing-seems to me 
 W — ^so utterly over." 
 
 to iSk^^'"' '"*"*°"'' '"''"" ^°"'^" ^^^ *^« 
 
 "Perhaps I shaU. And time to think is all 
 Imaskmg. You understand that, don't you? 
 that Im not makmg anything definite-yet 
 ?i'ert""™'°^''-''toyo".Iwill. But 
 
 "Helk>. mama! Hello, papa!" The elder 
 boy galloped up. "We've seen the monkey^ 
 And one great big monkey looked like-" ' 
 
 39 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTHACT 
 
 ^ "Am. mamanl AM. j,apal N's avon, mi 
 te»^«^ea-^U des drdleal II y en avaU un 
 
 The «Mdren caught their father round the 
 knees. Stooping, he put his arms about them, 
 urgmg them toward their mother. They were 
 to. plead for him-to be his advocates. 
 
 Tell mama." he whispered to the older 
 
 boy. not to go to Amit Emily's to-night. 
 
 Tell her we can't do without her-that we 
 
 want her at home." He turned to the younger. 
 Dv,h maman que tu vaa pleurer n eUe U quiUe 
 
 '^P^'^lfaut gu'elle vienne t'ecouter L ta 
 
 But. when he raised himself. Edith was al- 
 ready walking swiftly up the Avenue. He 
 would have followed her. only that the chil! 
 dren seemed to restrain him. dinging to his 
 
 watch her whJe the thronging crowds and the 
 sbmrnenng sun-shot dust of the golden after- 
 noon blotted her from his sight-and the gr^t 
 
REaENTMENT '' 
 
 TT WM a strange sensation to be free. It was 
 X stJl more strange that it was not a sensa- 
 tion. I was a kind of numbness. She could 
 only feel that she didn't feel. In spite oTh^ 
 repeated silent assertions. "I'm free! I'm 
 iree! any consciousness of change eluded her 
 It was true tiiat there had been a moment 
 Uce a descent mto hell, from which she thought 
 »he must come up another woman. Aunt 
 Enuly and tiie lawyer had whirled her some- 
 where m a motor. Veiled as heavily as was 
 «ent with articulation, she haJ told " 
 tale that seemed abominable, though it was 
 no more than a narrative of the facts, ft 
 llf .. T" "^ ^"^^^^^-^ to learn that 
 sZ W r ?"^^' ^""^^ ^^ Published a 
 Z mof of her taken as she was re-entering 
 the motor to come away. But even the horror 
 of that moment passed, as something too un- 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 real to be other than a dream, and. except that 
 vir^ the children were sUying with Aunt 
 Emily instead of m their own home. aU was as 
 before. All was as before to a disappointing 
 degree-to a degree that maddenod her 
 
 It maddened her because it brought no ap- 
 peasement to that which for more than a year 
 had been her dominating motive-to do some- 
 thing to Chip that would bring home to him 
 a realizing sense of what he had done to her It 
 was not that she Wanted revenge. She waa pos- 
 .tive as to that. She wanted only to make il 
 understand. Hitherto he hadn't understood. 
 She had seen that in all his letters, right up to 
 
 t^^JTl ''\'°' ^'^'" *•» ^^-P"'' by what 
 seemed to her his moral obtuseness. she had 
 impIoKd him not to write again. It was to 
 help him to understand that which he was 
 eUher unable or unwilling to understand that 
 she had so resolutely refused to see him-partly 
 that, and partly Aunt Emily. She would have 
 died dit hadn't been for Aunt Emily-^ied or 
 
 Seriht*'^'"^"*'^^^*"^^^^^ 
 It frightened her chiefly because she pos- 
 sessed the capacity to do it. In a way it would 
 
RESENTMENT 
 be easier to do it tluin not^asier to do it. and 
 yet impossible to go on with the new situation 
 thus created after it was done. It would mean 
 being back in the old home and resuming the 
 old life; there would be what people called a 
 reconc.I.at.on. Chip would be coming and 
 gomg and whistling tunelessly all over the 
 We And the awful thing about it would 
 be that he had it in him to be as happy as if 
 this horrible thing had never taken plac^ 
 happier, doubtless, because it would be b.- 
 lund him He would not have understood; 
 she would have ceased trying to make him 
 understand; he would have so little seen the 
 significance of hU own acts as to feel free to 
 do the same thing all over again. 
 
 So the impulse to go back frightened her with 
 a fear that paralyzed her longing. If he had 
 said but once: "Edith. I know I've sinned 
 ««amst you; I know IVe made you suffer; 
 Ive broken the contract between us; I'm re- 
 pentant; forgive me." it might have been dif- 
 ferent. But he had said nothing of the kind. 
 His letters, beseeching though they were, only 
 aggravated her complaint against him. "What 
 else could I do? . . . The poor thing clung to me. 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 ... As far as it affected my devotion to you it 
 might liave happened in another phase of 
 creation." That was the amazing part of it. 
 that he should expect her to be content with 
 such an explanation, that he should try to de- 
 prive her of a wife's last poor pitiful privilege, 
 a sense of indignity. She was not only to con- 
 done what he had done, but as nearly as possible 
 she was to give it her approval. 
 
 As to tiiis aspect of tiie case she might not 
 have been so dete if it hadn't been for Aunt 
 Emily. Aunt Emily was very clear. She was 
 dear and just, without being wholly unsym- 
 pathetic toward Chip. That is, she pointed 
 out tiie fact that Chip did no more tiian most 
 men would do. He was no worae than «,« 
 average. He might even be a littie better. 
 But, according to Aunt Emily, the man didn't 
 hve who was worthy of a really good woman's 
 love. It was foolish for a really good woman 
 to put herself at tiie disadvantage, of casting 
 her pearls before-well. Aunt Emily was too 
 much of a lady to say what; it was '\ the more 
 foolish considering the quantity of feminine 
 tag-rag and bobtafl quite good enough to be 
 wives. 
 
 44 
 
RESENTMENT 
 Edith couldn't deny that her aunt had kept 
 herself on an enviably high plane of safety. 
 She had her money to herself, and no heart- 
 aches. She was respected, admired, and feared. 
 By a little circle of adorers, mostly composed 
 of spinsters younger, poorer, and less advan- 
 tageously placed than herself, she was even 
 loved. She was far from lonely; she was far 
 from having missed the best things in life. 
 She was traveled, well-read, philanthropic, and 
 broad-minded. She was likewise tall, stately, 
 and dominant, with an early Victorian face to 
 which a mid-Victorian wig. kept in place by 
 a band of plaits around the brow, was not un- 
 becoming. Nevertheless. Aunt Emily was en- 
 tirely modem, modem with that up-to-date 
 femimmty which with regard to men takes its 
 key from the bee's impulse toward the drone, 
 stinging him to death once he has fulfilled his 
 functions. 
 
 It was a help to Edith that Aunt Emily could 
 enter into the suflferings entailed by an out- 
 raged love without being hampered by the 
 weaknesses inherent in the love itself. She 
 could afford to be detached and impartial, 
 brmgmg to bear on the situation the interest 
 
 AK 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 eveiy intelligent penon take, in drama. R» 
 her participaUon Edith felt she couldn't be 
 too grateful to a relative on whom ahe had no 
 urgent claim beyond the fact that .he wa. now 
 her only one. Aunt Emily', clear vision might, 
 indeed, bo «»id to have found the way through 
 ft tangle of poignant condition, in which her 
 own poor heart had been able to do nothing 
 but fumble helplewly. ^^ 
 
 It wa. a way of wrrow.. and there had been 
 no choice but t6 take it. Chip had to be made 
 to feel. Her whole being had become con- 
 centrated on that result. From it she had ex- 
 pected not only realization for him, but a.- 
 suagement of longing for herwlf ; and the latter 
 hadn t come. She could hardly «« that any- 
 thmg had come at all. If it were not for Aunt 
 Emily she wouldn't have pereeived that she had 
 won a victory. Chip might realize now; she 
 didn t know; she probably would never know 
 It wa. perhaps the impossibflity of knowing* 
 that left her still unwtisfied. So long a. the 
 thing had not yet been done she had enjoyed 
 at least the relief of action. She wa. chal- 
 lenging Chip, she was defying Wm; he was 
 making her some sort of response, even when 
 
 46 
 
RESENTMENT 
 
 it w« made in ..lence. She nan. tlu, one and 
 he w« M* other. i«d thc« w« an interplay 
 of force, between them. Now all that w« 
 
 Where the other had been there was a blank 
 an emptjW Her heart when it cried ouMo 
 ^produced the queer, creepy effect of a man 
 ^g to h,m«lf-the« was no one to hear 
 or to am.wer. The«, was a needle but no 
 ^le. there was a law of gravitation, but noth- 
 ing to justify the power of attraction. 
 
 S^J"/^, '"'"'« *"*'""° »'»« '^^nt abroad 
 She didn't know what else to do. Aunt E^y 
 was nch and kind: but there were limiU to 
 hosp.tel.ty. One had to feel that there w« 
 a worfd beneath one's feet, and Europe s^m^ 
 to be there for that purpose. Besides, it was 
 -y to travel while the children were so you^" 
 
 t«kiBg them, and returned with the father's 
 consent. She was not bound to ask for t^L 
 
 but she considered it courteous to do so. I 
 while she did it he chose to take the oppor- 
 tumty to recognize her continued existence by 
 
 47 ' 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 an inquiry or a word-well. then, she said to 
 herself with a sob. it was there for him to make 
 use of. But he didn't take it. He maintained 
 the silence on which he had fallen back ever 
 mnce her final peremptory letter requesting 
 him not to write to her-she wondered if she 
 had made it more peremptory than she had 
 intended!-and so she sailed away without so 
 much as a gift from him to the children. She 
 could hardly bqar to look at the shore of the 
 continent that held him as it faded out of sight, 
 so bitterly she resented what she now called his' 
 callousness. 
 
 When the cold weather came she established 
 herself at Cap d'Ail. where the lofty perch of 
 the hotel above Monaco and the Mediterranean 
 seemed to lift her into a region of friendly, 
 flowery peace. She enjoyed this as much as 
 she could enjoy anything. No echo of the past 
 reached her here, and it was an unexpected relief 
 to be away from Aunt Emily's bursts of triumph 
 and felicitation. With a book she hardly looked 
 at in her hand she could sit at her window or 
 on the terrace, soothed incomprehensibly by the 
 blue-green sweep of the immemorial sea beside 
 which so many other sad hearts had watched 
 
 48 
 
RESENTMENT 
 
 before her own. She felt herself caught into a 
 feUowship that included not only Hagar and 
 Hecuba, but myriad, of unremembered women 
 whose tears alone might have filled this vast 
 jraajd ocean-drawing a comfort that was not 
 wholly morbid from the reflection that the^ 
 WM an end even to the breaking of hearts. 
 
 Here m this high, sequestered spot, which 
 nevertheless preserved the moridaniih to which 
 she was accustomed, she would gladly have 
 spent the winter alone with her clildreu an" 
 then- governess had there not arrived at the 
 hotel a woman she had known for many yeara 
 and who was in a position oddly similar to her 
 
 In New lork she was Mr.. Harry Scadding. 
 She was now Mrs. G. Cottle Scadding for pur- 
 
 ^Za'I "T, '''^°t''fi'^«t'°''- She also had 
 f.^ he«elf "; she also had had a snapd^ot 
 
 two lu""^'r'^''"''= '^^ "'^° t™^^ed with 
 two chJdren. It was impossible for Edith not 
 to meet her and engage in amicable conversa- 
 tions. durmg which the lady talked freely of 
 her case, discussing the merits and demerits 
 of her CO.. as though that person had been 
 a kmd of partner. 
 
 to 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 She was a lively young woman, frank and 
 amusing. Moreover, she knew the people who 
 made up Edith's small world, and Edith was 
 lonely. While the two sets of children played 
 together the two mothers sat on the terrace 
 and talked. It was talk in which Edith was 
 chiefly a listener, but a listener who couldn't 
 deny that she was entertained. She was un- 
 comfortable only when discerning compatriots 
 appeared, an^ with visible nods and smiles 
 rated them as "two of a kind." It was a kind 
 over which she and Chip had smiled and nodded 
 many a time during their wanderings in Europe, 
 never thinking that she herself should ever be 
 classed in the number. 
 
 She had been able to take the situation light- 
 ly then— this curious situation of the "freed" 
 American wife, with or without children, drift- 
 ing through Europe, aimless, and generaUy 
 better off when friendless. But she began to 
 be sorry for the type. Instead of shrinking 
 from Gertie in the presence of the discerning 
 compatriots, as she was at first inclined to do. 
 she made it a point to be seen with her, cham- 
 pioning the sisterhood of lonehness. There 
 were moments when this association might not 
 to 
 
RESENTMENT 
 
 trt.ti^T*' '"' '""'^ "«« '^ -o- 
 
 ZT ''^'''^-^ 't seemed to Edith^is- 
 "etxon was not a part of valor. Once or ^^^ 
 -he accompanied her friend to Nice; once S 
 twice to Monte Carlo. On each of th^o^ 
 casiona she found herself in a gathering JcS 
 -opohtan odds and ends in wWch shel^^^ 
 l^r ,^ !*'""P--Wp being new tThet 
 .he e obhged to take its bitter with its sweeT 
 That ,t was mostly bitter gave her additiorai 
 ground of complaint against Chip. He had 
 
 dnvenhertoakindofdeterioration.adeteriorl- 
 ^^ she couldn't define, but of which r:f 
 -ometbng noxious in the atmosphere, she was 
 
 ;%Htedher.ortar;ed':;h:r?atS 
 ^course with misgiving. With a fa.:^?^ 
 ^. «mple people, who apparently had noth- 
 2t» «t»ve for with the resUessness which 
 Jaract««^ the social fag^nds whom she was 
 
 £ld "**"'^^."^««»-: but she never got 
 beyond an occasional bow or smile, generdly 
 
 51 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 over some incident connected with the chil- 
 dren. Of one man she was afraid. She was 
 afraid of him without knowing why, except 
 that he seemed to watch her rather pityingly. 
 She resented the pity; she resented his watching 
 her at all. And yet . . . 
 
 If he hadn't been a grave man, evidently oc- 
 cupied with grave aflFairs, her resentment might 
 have become annoyance. In the cmjumstances 
 it was resentment modified by a litUe grati- 
 tude. She hardly understood her gratitude un- 
 less it was for a hint of solicitude in a world 
 where no one seemed to bother about her any 
 more. He did bother about her. She grew 
 sure of that. Not for an instant could she 
 thiilk of the quiet, rather wistful, regard with 
 which she caught him following her or the 
 children as being meant otherwise than 
 kindly. 
 
 She had no idea who he was. All she could 
 affirm from distant and somewhat superficial 
 observation was that he was Somebody— Some- 
 body of position, experience, and judgment- 
 Somebody to respect. She thought, too. that 
 he must be Somebody of distmction. partly be- 
 cause he looked it, and partly because he was 
 
HESENTMENT 
 
 served by a valet and a secretaiy scarcely less 
 d« mgu^hed than hin^elf. M ZZ\^^ 
 senous men well into the forties. Th^ yZ 
 wa. English, the secreta^ French, th ' LL^ 
 American She would not. however. Tav" 
 
 ^Z fV"-*-"*-"* '- - fellow-counC^ 
 Tn ^ "°* «=«Wentally heard him ZT 
 In r^ard to ertenials he was as ne^ S^ 
 «b e denationalized. He had evidenUy hC 
 a long t.me ab^ad. though he bore no o^ 
 county's special stamp. He roused he" cS 
 
 f c. « nurt It m a manner to malcp 
 her the more resolute in goine her „!™ 
 
 Not that it was a Zv ? ^ '^*^- 
 
 Tl,» „ T.u '^*"y reprehensible wav 
 
 The wo«t that could be said of it was thrS 
 
 edge of ^eWorld. None had been so mtht 
 Ed.th then found it necessary to submittoal 
 
 S3 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 introduction with daily, almost hourly, hazards 
 of encounter. 
 
 He was a young Frenchman like many hun- 
 dreds of his kind, who might have been a fin- 
 ished sketch in sepia. Sepia would have done 
 justice to the even tan of his complexion, to 
 the soft-brown of his eyes, of his hair, of his 
 mustache, and rendered the rich chestnut 
 which was of tener than not his choice for clothes. 
 Gertie flirted' with him outrageously— there 
 was no other phrase for it. It was the kind of 
 girting one was obliged to consider innocent, 
 since the alternative would have been too ap- 
 palling. Edith opted for the innocent construc- 
 tion, lending an abashed countenance to the 
 situation out of loyalty to the sisterhood of 
 loneliness. It was a countenance that grew 
 more ^I^ashed whenever, in the process of lend- 
 ing it, her eye met that of the man who had. 
 constituted himself, she was convinced, her 
 silent guardian. 
 
 Fortunately, Mrs. G. Cottle Scadding took 
 herself off to Italy, the young Frenchman dis- 
 appearing at the same time. It was a new 
 proof to Edith of the depth of need to which 
 she had come down that she missed them. 
 M 
 
RESENTMENT 
 She miMed their frivolity and incon«H,uentid. 
 
 Z^r *^'^ ''"'" "^^ *«^y ^^^ -he 
 had. She wa. thrown back. the«fo«^ on 
 h«_ovm desolation and on her memories of 
 
 She made the discovery with some alarm 
 that Ch,p was becoming to her mo.* and more 
 the cen er of a group of memories. She was 
 losmg km. That is. she was losing him as^ 
 acfaabty; she was losing him as the "v^ 
 ^und which her life had swung, even sin« he 
 knowledge of his great treason. She was no 
 more appalled by the loss than by the pereep- 
 tion of her own volatility. 
 
 It wa^a pereeption that deepened when, 
 some fortmght after GerUe's departure, the 
 young Frenchman reappeared. "He's come 
 back on my account," was Edith's ihstant re- 
 flection She was indign^it: and yet some- 
 thmg else stirred in her that was not indigna- 
 tion, and to which she was afraid to givVa 
 name. Perhaps there was no name to give it 
 As far as she could analyze its elements, they 
 lay m the twin facts that she was still young 
 enough to be attractive to men and to find 
 pleasure in her attractiveness. It was a plea^ 
 
 BS 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 Z f*-'!?"^ '■** ^«^ "^^y' apologetically, 
 but It raised it none the less. ^' 
 
 TMn '""uf "*"' ""* ^•'"^y^ thought that 
 
 Ue She had dedicated heraelf to Wm so en- 
 ^y that it wa. difficult to accept the idl 
 t^t any part of her might have ien held J 
 reserve for future possibilities. That her lif" 
 « have been blasted was bad enough; but 
 
 ^ It should renew its vigor and put forS. 
 
 ^oots for a second bloom was frightful. Tt 
 
 ^men m her position even married^a^ 
 She might marry again. She never wo^Z^ 
 
 !^ fiZ, u "" oomprehension of this lib- 
 erty filled her with dismay 
 
 possessed It had been theoretic only. The 
 
 faTt^hafl^'^T. '~"«'* ^''^ *« h« ^e 
 fact that she could act on it if she were eve^ 
 
 -i^hned Not that he asked he.. r^oT 
 He had only reached the point of inviting h^r' 
 
 to dme With him at Monte Carlo and Wkt 
 at the gammg afterward. She declined m 
 
KESENTMENT 
 
 inviution gently and without rancor toward 
 
 ^; but. in the idiom 3he us^ i„ tal^^U 
 
 . '"«n. »t gave her to think. "»»^ witn 
 
 It gave her to realize abo. The moment waa 
 
 covered she was a woman whom a relatively 
 
 a^one. She had passed out of the fellowship of 
 
 b::i! stx i:r tL^^"^' '*'' 
 
 ♦I..* xt . ''^ discovered, moreover 
 
 created for herself-that she should be invited 
 Z *!»" way to Giro's and that the« 2jJ 
 
 was^nTsh'f J^*** ^*'"°^- Sl'e cert^ 
 
 S^>e^.st^i:=f-£ 
 
 drawn mto Gertie's company, and yet wW 
 to'own Gerhe smce they were school-girls. 
 
 St 
 
THE LETTEB OF THE CONTRACT 
 When aU w« „jd „d done Gertie w« „ gopd 
 M die-m whatever met the eye ZHi 
 vo«>ed woman could hardly driw he^ l^" 
 •way from another. The longerThe Lt^ 
 ihe more clearly .he saw thatXc: Jd^^J 
 
 dme to-mght. let U3 «,y. at Giro's, or the Hotel 
 de Paris, and look in at th^ r ■ , 
 Mkcl»n,» : I ^ ^'*"'*» afterward? 
 
 *ia(Jame u always so sad " 
 
 srfoto!ri::rU:nrw:fr--"^- 
 
 -ainthatanother'rn'UrtnVLn' 
 and not long afterward a man did. ' 
 
 That was Sir Noel Ordway. She had met 
 
 ?hT^t3 toV" "'-' "•'^''« "^ ^-- 
 
 oMh ^i^r. ^'""'' practically on the advice 
 of the d^tmgnished stranger who continu^ S 
 
 58 
 
RESENTMENT 
 
 ft.Dowherw.theye.ofb«odi„gconce™. Tlut 
 fa. what he «„d amounted to advice. It ^ 
 « . measure, to show h™ that ,he app^cia^' 
 
 She met h.m suddenly at one of L many 
 
 ;^.t there. ■^^i'lroMors'd 
 
 before She knew she colored and betrayed « 
 ndiculoua selfK«n«;iousneM. He oT2^^ 
 was unruffled and «^ate. Hft^ Ws h^ S 
 the somewhat rigid dignity thaf cha^e.^' 
 all his movements. «"»ea 
 
 "Mrs. Cbpman Walker, I tUnk " 
 She acknowledged the words by a sli«hi in 
 
 lunchmg with the Misses Partridge." 
 Oh, they're there?" ft was fn .«, 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 Wlnfleld which will pe,h«p. exciue Z hU. 
 
 •%ht inchnaUon. while he continued: "n,e 
 M«« P«tridge «ked n,e to „y that they 
 
 -odd be gh«, to ^ you. if you'could ^^ 
 
 make it convenient to go over. They wided 
 S!j°!^i»^''»«'«y'dcometo.eeTort:^ 
 
 You d find then, at the VilU Victoi«. onle 
 Route de Prtjm." 
 
 thrtrfie would ffo at once, when he «ud in 
 
 ' I»nf that rtnick her as significant: 
 
 ^ft .J«y plea«nt at Cannes-more «, 
 
 ^wa, too great Besides, there was some- 
 Jung about hun-it might have been the ten- 
 derness of a man who himself knew what suf- 
 fenng was-that put Wm outside the region 
 Jf^^resentments. She only said: "LiSd; 
 
 if'J°^u ** *^** '''''° y"" 8°- Fo' one thing, 
 ^s furth„ amoved from the atmosphere thf 
 
 comes up to us from-^lown there." Hepointed 
 
 60 
 
BESENTMENT 
 
 htSJ"*" """^ "^ *^* ^ *»•- 
 
 She knew Uuit u Ae tlmnked him «d p«s. ,1 
 on riie .miled. «,d tUt rfie did «. from l^St- 
 ne« of heart. Certainly her heart wr '.«- 
 l«e«vy. Itwa.IeMhe«vybecu«,ofbi.„, i- 
 «««. becauM of thi. indication that nc .c on 
 ««dwhatbecameofher. She felt «, fursake,, 
 that ahnort anybody'. kindne„ would have 
 had the «une effect, almost anybody', can, fcv 
 her welfare; and w she came to respond to the 
 appeal of Noel Ordway. 
 
 at the VJla V.ctoire. The Misses Partridge 
 Imew eveiy one." Qf few people in eiiiC 
 hem^phen, could the expres«on be used witt 
 no more exaggeration. Possessing litUe in the 
 way of means, less in that of accomplishment,, 
 and nothing at all in the line of looks, they had 
 fonned a vast circle of acquaintance, chiefly by 
 a hearty unaffected interest in each individud 
 personality. No one. however unimportant. 
 
 rniT"'"''^ *''*'"• Miss Rosamond 
 who looked IJce a coachman, spent her time in 
 correspondence, romiding up absent friends; 
 Miss Gladys, who was thin and angular, coursed 
 
 SI 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 whatev^ neighborhood they happened to be 
 n gettmg the nice people to come and ,ee 
 them For reaaons not always clear to the 
 superfical the nice people came and sen 
 othe«. No two ladies ever received so many 
 letters of mtroduction. or wrote them. TheJ 
 Sunday luncheons at Cannes were as famous as 
 tneir bunday dmners in New York 
 
 In New York Edith had fought shy of them 
 -amly because qhip didn't do theL j^S 
 He spoke of «.em flippantly as "those two old 
 flyaways. and would never go to their house. 
 
 wL^'*!!'^ ?' ^'"^ '"""* "'^'y. though 
 ^n she did she got a perception of bh.;d 
 «oc.al mcWeness wWoh Chip could hardly 
 
 L w7 W. '* ^"^ *'^ •'"'^ ^""^ "''« tne- <J 
 m which there were no "sets." and where one 
 
 me the most mteresting people of all walks 
 
 Partndge. with their slight resources, physical 
 and material, accomplished it. envying them 
 somewhat their success. She wond' ri ,e^ 
 and^envied them less, after she had seen them' 
 
 Miss Rosamond's deep bass voice, the per- 
 fect expression of her red face and man-like 
 
RESENTMENT 
 way pf dressing, were the first influence in win- 
 ning her "My dear, there's the ve^. hIS 
 
 fc. you close b«ide us. where we couiJL;^ 
 a^^ the time. We stay there ourselves when 
 
 were opening and closing the villa. Big gar- 
 den for the children-runs right down to the 
 «a-and nothmg but nice people of your own 
 
 Edith couldn't help the suspicion that the 
 dishnguished stranger at Cap d'Ail had in- 
 ^red M.SS Partridge's solicitude, but neither 
 
 W ; rf *?"• ^'"^ ^''^^y" accompanied 
 her p the hotel in question, to bring her per- 
 *onal powers to bear on the proprietor, and to 
 help m the selection of rooms, so that next day 
 Edith was able to move over. Jn this way it 
 
 found herself seated beside Sir Noel Ord- 
 way. ■ " 
 
 The luncheon party w^ again a collection of 
 cosiaopohtan odds and ,nds-b«t with a dif- 
 fprence. There waa a foreign royalty with his 
 morganatic wife, the American wife of an Eng- 
 JJ peer, two or three notable Bus8ia,s. . 
 French pamter of international fame, together 
 with some half-dozen English and American, 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 '^ and tie young Englishman beside her 
 Between him «d her the friendship riJS 
 rapidly and miexpectedlv Tf » 
 pectedlythatitt^t^Sh^;!-!^- 
 beyond a« the possibilities hr^aginat^ 
 codd foresee that he should faM inl^e ^ 
 Wp woman who had had her tragic exp"^ 
 
 tiiat he made hw approaches, in as far as !,« 
 made them intentionallv «!t. j ^ , 
 didn't ^„ ♦!, '^°"°"f'y- She judged that he 
 didn t do that, that he was caught miawares 
 
 mg for kids." and offered to take the you^gste« 
 
 day. The lads were to go with their govern^ 
 but when he drove up to the door. ^IeS 
 had come out to see them off. it seemed rS 
 b^that she shouldn't accompany them Be- 
 «des. the governess was young and prettr 
 necessitating an elderly person for p^^i 
 propriety It was partly, too. in ^Wess 
 ness that Edith yielded to his persuasion a^ 
 ^tmg on a thick coat. Jumped in wiSi^e' 
 
BESENTMENT 
 
 He acted as his own chauffeur, and they drove 
 up the new road through the Esterels. Edith 
 sa beside hzm, and as they talked litUe she was 
 aWe to observe hm. to better effect than on the 
 previous day. She took him to be a year or 
 two younger than herself, tall and slight with 
 a stoop he had probably acquired S ^ 
 She had understood from Miss Partridge that 
 he was dehcate; and he looked it. ^e cir- 
 cumstance had kept him from entering the 
 army or gomg into diplomacy, sending hL to 
 
 ^a ?."? u^ ^"*^"- «« -«« ""-eyed 
 and blond, with a ragged mustache too Ln 
 
 to conceal the rather pathetic line of the mouth 
 
 that^'Se^TT ^? "" "PP^' «P «> «l'«rt 
 S m^ tK "^"^ ""^ "^'^'^ «^en when 
 
 the mouth was m repose, gave him the appear- 
 ance of an extremely aristocratic rodent 
 
 The dnve was repeated a day or two kter. 
 and longer excursions came after that-to St. 
 Raphael, to Valescure. and as far away « 
 Mentone and the Gorges du Loup. Edi" 
 couldn't, help liking the young man. first f^ 
 hB kmdness to the children, and then for him! 
 self. For hmiself she liked him because he 
 was so simple, straightforward, and sincere. 
 es 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 He ^ew confidential « Ume went on. telling 
 
 fl, ^ -x^""^ *'"^ ^""^ °^ the manor, tad 
 the bo« U was to be kept out of a pr^^^ 
 
 and away W England at the vei/mo^;? 
 o thehuntn^g. He formed the habH of dC 
 P ng m so frequently to tea with her. in t£ 
 
 h. m"""'';"^"" "' *^* ^°''^' that she fanc^ 
 ^Mi^es Partridge, who were friends of Sdy 
 
 O-^waysbegan'tolookuneasy. She wonderS 
 rf U|ey had given the young man all the i^^ 
 
 mation concerning her that was his due 
 
 She made up her mind to ask. Once the 
 ac w recognised it would be a safelrf 
 n that any possibilities of their being^^th^ 
 than fnends would be out of the way H^ 
 
 Zchr*':."''"'^""'*^-^'^terinl 
 
 March by askmg where she thought of ^Z 
 after she left Cimnes. The childL L!tl 
 ^ovei^ess had had tea with them. bTh^ 
 allied mto the garden. Other oc^uptts^ 
 ^e sun-pavdion had also wandered out amo.^ 
 U^e pansy beds and the blossoming mimos^ 
 Edith took her time before answering. 
 
 I don t know." she said at last. «Ifs «. 
 hard for me to make plans. You see. th^" 
 
HESENTMENT 
 
 sSfw'"''"''^ "' '""° «°'''* *«> Sweden. 
 bWiUerland. or Spain; and when that's the 
 
 She waited a few seconds before saying. "You 
 know about me. don't you?" 
 
 thlt^JX?^^''"™'"^"^- "^'^^^•'- 
 
 so,!!\'''^^/'". "^ •^'"^""gl't that she was 
 jorry she had raised the subject. He seemel 
 to unply that as far as he was concemedThe 
 P-J-nties in her situation were of no ^! 
 
 she could only express a measure of rehef. 
 
 Im gad of that. I hoped Miss Partridge 
 would tell you." «i"uge 
 
 r,J^\u^^^ ^" •'^ "^y^*' '^^ the blunt- 
 ness that was curiously, but characteristicaUy. 
 
 atja^mc with the hesitations of his generL' 
 you?^°" could get married again, couldn't 
 
 -^ T" ^^^ ^"^^^ helplessly. 
 On, but you could." 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 "Why?" 
 ••Oh. for a lot of re«ons I can't taJk about." 
 
 inen what did you do it for?" 
 She nmnaged a .nule. even if it .as a fo«»d 
 and feeble one. She undenrtood what he 
 meant by "it." 
 
 "I don't have to explain that, do I?" 
 "No I suppose not." She hoped he was go- 
 mg to drop the subject, when he lifted his hS 
 tolook at her with his rather pathetic blue eyes. 
 
 Uh. but I say, you're not serious in Uunking 
 you wouldn't, are you?" 
 
 "Perfectly serious. I should never look on 
 the matter as admitting discussion." 
 
 "Oh, but it does, you know." 
 
 •'Not for me." 
 
 f„J!I'"' t'^^^ °°* ^°' y**"' '^^ y«t -night 
 for— for other people." 
 
 She stiU forced an unsteady smile. "That's 
 something I don't have to worry about, at a^y 
 
 S-ioi.^^'""^"^«°^°"'"P~P'«'» 
 
 "I don't mean other people in general- 
 only m particular." 
 
 Iar"» *^°°'* ^"^ '^^ °"'" people-in particu- 
 
BESENTMENT 
 "Yes, you do. You know me " 
 "lonlyknowyou-likethat." She snapped 
 her fingers so as to give Wm an idea of the ^ 
 t..^lytrans.to.y nature of their acquaintance. 
 That isn t the way I know you." 
 Oh you don't know me at all. You 
 couldn't. You're too young. I belong to an! 
 other generation in point of time, and to ages 
 ago m the matter of experience." 
 "How old are you?" 
 She told him. 
 
 thats nothmg. My mother was four years 
 Oder than „yf,,h,^„^^^g^^ That sort 
 of thmg often runs in families " 
 
 She sprang «p^ "There's Chippie tramping 
 all over that flower -hm) n«™ tT*- 
 
 Chesley?" ^""^ '^'' ^""^ 
 
 The negligence of Miss Chesley enabled her 
 to make her escape, and when he rejoined her 
 in the garden he accepted the diversion her 
 ingenuity had fom>d. In a short time he took 
 his leave with no more display of emotion than 
 on previous occasions. 
 
 But he left her troubled and shaken. He 
 left her with the feeling that the foundations 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 of life, as she was leading it. were insecure. 
 Where she had thought she wa» strong and 
 determined she began to see she was weak and 
 irresolute. She began to sec herself as a 
 woman with such an instinctivr ,eed of pro- 
 tection that sooner or later sfc. -vjuld accept 
 it-from some one. If from .ny one, why 
 not from this man? She liked him; she was 
 sure of his goodness and kindness. He was 
 already fond of tjie children, and the children 
 of him. Moreover, she could be a mother to 
 him. and he needed mothering, as any one 
 could see. It might not be a romantic marriage 
 but It could easily be an ideal one. as far as 
 anything ideal still lay within the range of 
 her possibilities. It could be ideal in the sense 
 of a sincere affection both on his side and hers 
 aad a common life for perhaps higher aims than' 
 she had hved with Chip. 
 
 It would doubtless be the final stage to 
 the process of making Chip understand. She 
 wouldnt marry-^he couldn't-without some 
 inner reference to him. without a vital refer- 
 ence to him. If she did marry he would know 
 at last to what he had forced her. He would 
 have forced her to looking to another man for 
 
 70 
 
RESENTMENT 
 what she should have had from him-and then 
 he would be repentant. Surely he would be 
 «pentai.t then! K he wasn't he would never 
 be. All her efforts would have become in 
 vam. She would feel that for any good she 
 had accomplished she m.>ht as well have stayed 
 with him. That thought choked her with its 
 implication of agony escaped-and bliss for- 
 
 But it was looking too far ahead. Every- 
 thmg was looking too far ahead. Noel Ord- 
 way had not asked her to marry him-and 
 might never do so. She might have scared 
 him off. She hoped she had. That would be 
 simpler She was not so inexperienced es to 
 be without the knowledge that marriage with 
 bun would raise as many diflSculties as it would 
 settle-perhaps more. The day came when she 
 had to point that out to him. 
 
 But it did not come at once. Nearly a week 
 passed without his return. For Edith it was 
 u week of some disappointment, and a good 
 deal of relief. U she wasn't the happier for 
 his absence, she was more at ease. She could 
 be at ease till the time came for moving on in 
 one direction or another, when she would be 
 
 71 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 oppressed anew with the wnse of her helplew- 
 new. It became clearer to her that if she 
 inarried at aU it would be to be taken 
 care of. 
 
 The question was put formally before her at 
 a moment when she was least expecting it. 
 It was an afternoon late in March when she 
 was struggling along the Boulevard du Midi 
 m the teeth of a warm west wind. On her 
 left children played in the sands or threw sUcks 
 or bruised flowers into the huge breakers to 
 see them roUed shoreward. On her right the 
 palms m the villa gardens bowed their heads 
 eastward, while the mimosas tossed their yel- 
 ow branches wildly. Before her the Esterels 
 formed a jagged line of indigo flecked with 
 red. above which masses of stormy orange cloud 
 broke along the edges into pink. It was still 
 far from the hour of sunset, though the glamour 
 of subset was gathering in the air. 
 
 She L.ard his step behind her scarcely an 
 mstant before he spoke. 
 
 "Oh. I iay. Mrs. Walker. I want you to 
 marry me." 
 
 The statement was so starUing that in spite 
 Of aU her preparatory discussion with herself 
 
 7« 
 
RESENTMENT 
 
 ■he turned on him tragjcajjy. "Por Qod'a 
 ■ake. why?" 
 
 ^^ Well. becau« I'm awf uUy fond of you. you 
 
 His expression touched her. There was no 
 m«taking the kindliness in his eyes, or the 
 Jook of rather wan beseeching in his thin, 
 f °^^ ^«*- ^ ^ golfing suit of Harris 
 tweed he was not an unattractive figure, even 
 11 he wasn't handsome. 
 
 Again her words had little relation to the 
 things she had thought of beforehand. Her 
 heart was so much with him that she spoke with 
 an emoUon she had never shown to him before. 
 "Even if you are. don't you see, dear friend, 
 that you can't marry me?" 
 "Oh. but I can, you know." 
 She looked about her for a refuge where they 
 could talk, finding it in a rough shelter designed 
 for the protection of nurses watching children 
 playmg on the sands. It was empty for the 
 moment, except for a tiny, bare-legged girl of 
 three or four crooning over a big doll. Edith 
 led the way. "Come over here." They s, 
 down on a bench hacked with initials and clean- 
 ly dirty with sand. The litUe girl at the other 
 
 73 
 
MICROCOPY KSOIUTION TEST CH«>r 
 
 (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 
 
 _A :JPP LIED IM^GE In 
 
 =-^ 1^53 East Main Street 
 
 Kr.S fochesler, Ne* York 14609 u^ 
 
 ^S (^'6) 482 - 0300 - Phone 
 
 ^= (?I6) 2B8 - 5989 - Fa. 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 end of the bench rolled her big eyes toward them 
 with indifference, continuing to croon to her doll • 
 
 "Dors, mon enfant; dors, dors; ta mhe est 
 allee an hal. . . . Dors, mon enfant, dors; ta mere 
 
 est au theatre Tais-toi; tais-toi; ta mire 
 
 dine au restaurant Dors, ma eherie, dors " 
 
 Edith plunged into her subject as soon as 
 they were seated and turned toward each other. 
 "Tell me. If you married a divorced woman 
 wouldn't your whole position in England be-^ 
 be different?" 
 
 '•I shouldn't care anything about that." 
 
 "That's not what I'm asking you. I'm ask- 
 ing you if there wouldn't be ways in which it 
 would be hard for you?" 
 
 The honesty in his eyes pierced her like a 
 pain. "I shouldn't be thinking about that, 
 you know. I should be thinking about you." 
 
 ■Well, then, aren't there ways in which it 
 would be hard for me?" 
 
 "Not any harder than it is now. It's pretty 
 hard, isn't it?" 
 
 The tears sprang into her eyes, but she knew 
 she must control herself. "Yes; but it's in 
 the way of the ills I know. The ills I know not 
 of might be worse." 
 
 71 
 
RESENTMENT 
 
 "Oh, well, they wouldn't be that, you know." 
 
 "What about your people?" She sprang 
 the question on him suddenly. 
 
 "They'd be all right— in time." 
 
 The qualification was like a stab. She spoke 
 proudly. "I'm afraid I couldn't wait for 
 that." 
 
 "You wouldn't have to wait for anything. 
 They d jolly well have to put up with what I 
 dmded to do. I've got all the say, you know. 
 I m the head of the family." 
 
 "Yes, you might look at it in that way; but 
 you can easily see what it would be to me to 
 enter a family where I wasn't wanted." 
 
 "That's a bit strong," he corrected. "They'd 
 want you right enough, once they knew you 
 It would only be the— the fact of— the— " 
 She helped him out. "The divorce." 
 He nodded and finished. "That they'd jib 
 at. Even then—" 
 
 "Oh, please don't think I'm blaming them. 
 I should do exactly the same, in their case." 
 
 "They're reaUy not half bad, you know." he 
 tried to explain. "Mother's an awfully decent 
 sort, and so is Di. Aggie's a bit cattish. But 
 then she'll soon be married. Fellow named 
 
 74 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 Jenkins, in the Guards. And then," he added, 
 irrelevantly, "you're an American." 
 "Which is another disadvantage." 
 "No," he said, with emphasis. "The other 
 way round when it comes to a— a—" He 
 stumbled at the word, but faced it eventually: 
 "When it comes to a divorce, you know." 
 
 She looked at him mistily. "No, I don't 
 know. Aren't a divorced Englishwoman and 
 a divorced American in very much the same 
 position?" 
 
 He hastened to reassure her. "Oh, Lord, 
 no. Not in England they wouldn't be. A di- 
 vorced Englishwoman— well, she's in rather a 
 hole, you know; whereas a divorced American 
 woman— that's natural." 
 
 "I see," she responded, slowly. "It's not 
 considered quite so bad." 
 
 "Oh, not half so bad. One expects an Ameri- 
 can woman to be divorced— or something." 
 
 She couldn't be annoyed with him because 
 he was so honest and ingenuous. She merely 
 said. "So they'd think me the rule rather than 
 the exception." 
 
 "They'd just think you were American, and 
 let it go at that. Besides," he continued, ear- 
 
RESENTMENT 
 
 nestly, "when a woman's only been married in 
 America — " 
 
 "She's been hardly married at all. Is tliat 
 what they'd think in England?" 
 
 "Well, if they'd ever seen the chap around- 
 Eut when they haven't, you know—" 
 "They can't believe in him." 
 "Oh I don't say that. But-well, they 
 wouldn t think anything about him." 
 
 She shifted her ground slightly. "But you'd 
 thmk about him, wouldn't you?" 
 "Me? Why should /.?" 
 "Because I'd married him before I'd married 
 you— for one thing." 
 
 "Oh, but I shouldn't go into that, you know. 
 Ihat would be over and done with " 
 "Would it?" 
 "Well, wouldn't it?" 
 
 She mused silently, while the little girl with 
 the bare legs continued to croon to her doll with 
 a kind of chant: 
 _ "Dors, mm enfant, dors. . . . Ta mere ne re- 
 
 vtendra plus ce soir Elle dine avec le beau 
 
 monsuur que tu as ru. . . . Elle te dira honne 
 nutt demain. . . . Dors; sois sage~et dors." 
 "Even if it were over and done with," Edith 
 
 77 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRxVCT 
 said at last, "the fact would remain— suppos- 
 ing I married you— that your wife had had a 
 life in which you possessed no share — a very 
 living life, I assure you— and that her memo- 
 ries of that life were perhaps the most vital 
 thing about her." 
 
 "Oh. b'lt I say!" he protested. "That's the 
 very reason I'm so fond of you. I can see all 
 that already. I shouldn't interfere with it, 
 you know. It's what makes the difference 
 between you and other women. It's like the 
 difference between—" He sought for a simile. 
 "It's like the difference between a book that's 
 been written and printed, and has something 
 in it, and a silly blank book." 
 
 Her eyes filled with tears. "I wonder if 
 you have the least idea of what you're say- 
 ing?" 
 
 He sought for a more effective figure of 
 speech. "If you were walking about your 
 place, and found something wounded, you'd 
 want to take it h.<me and tend it, wouldn't 
 you, till you'd put it to rights again? And the 
 more you tended it the fonder of it you'd be. 
 But you wouldn't stop to ask whether a boy 
 had thrown a stone at it or whether it had been 
 
 78 
 
RESENTMENT 
 
 attacked by its mate. You'd let all tuat alone 
 — and just tend it." 
 
 Her tears were coursing freely now beneath 
 her veil. "Is that really the way you feel 
 about me.'" 
 
 He grew apologetic. 'Oh, I don't mean any 
 Good Samaritan business, don't you know.? 
 If I could look after you a bit you'd do the same 
 by me. I'm thinking of that, too. Look 
 here," he pursued, confidentially, but coloring; 
 "I'll tell you something, if you W3n't think 
 me an ass. I could have married two or three 
 girls— oh, more than that!— if I'd wanted to. 
 But I could see what they were after. It 
 wasn't me-not by a long shot. It was the 
 place— Foljambe— it's really quite a decent 
 place, you know— right in the shires— and the 
 hunting. They'd have thought it awful luck 
 to have to clear out of England every year, 
 just when the hunting begins— and stick in 
 this bally hole-or go to Egypt. But you 
 wouldn't." As she said nothing for the min- 
 ute, he insisted, "Would you, now?" 
 
 She shook her head musingly. "No I 
 shouldn't." 
 He looked relieved. "Well, that's just it. 
 
 79 
 
THE LETTER OK THE CONTHAC :' 
 
 Tliat's just what I thought." He colored more 
 deeply, with a hect! spot in each cheek. 
 "Life isn't all beer and skittles to me, don't 
 you know — and you'd be the kind of thing I 
 haven't got, don't you know.'" He leaned 
 toward her beseechingly. "Do you see now?" 
 
 "I think I do. You mean that we'd mutual- 
 ly take care of each other." 
 
 "Well, that's what it would amount to — 
 not to say any more about my being so awfully 
 fond of you. You won't forget that." 
 
 She smiled through her tears. "Oh no; I'm 
 not likely to forget it. I wish I could tell you — " 
 
 But she broke off because she could say no 
 more, struggling to her feet. He agreed to her 
 request that she should have time to think his 
 proposal over, and also that he should let her 
 return alone to the hotel, remaining in the 
 shelter with the crooning child long after she 
 had gone away. 
 
 But once she was out in the wind again she 
 found it difficult to give the matter concen- 
 trated thought. Much as she had been moved 
 while he talked to her, the emotion seemed to 
 be blown away by the strong air of reality. It 
 was like the crying in which she had sometimei 
 
RESENTMENT 
 indulged herself at a play, and which left no 
 aftermath of sadness. She could hardly tell 
 what aftermath had been left by Noel Ordway's 
 words; but as far as she could judge it had 
 everything in it to touch her and appeal to 
 her, except the possible. And yet so much that 
 was impossible haa happened to her already, 
 who knew but that the next incredible tiling 
 would be that she should become mistress of 
 Foljambe Park.' Why not? Since the haven 
 waa open to her, and Chip had left the poor 
 little craft of her life to toss in a sea too strong 
 for it, why not creep into any refuge that would 
 receive her? She would certainly be driven 
 sooner or later into some such port— then why 
 not into this? 
 
 She hurried homeward between the thunder- 
 ing breakers on the one hand and the tossing 
 palms on the other, her mind in a state of storm. 
 In the garden, as she passed toward the hotel, 
 she saw Miss Chesley with the children, but she 
 couldn't stop and speak to them. She hurried. 
 She wanted the protection of her room, of quiet, 
 of the accessories to mental peace. Perhaps 
 when she got these she should be able to think 
 — and decide; so she hurried on. 
 
 81 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 To avoid the miiiri hall, where people might 
 speak to her. she took the short cut through the 
 sun-pavilion, which would bring her nearer to 
 the stairs. But on throwing open the door 
 she stood still on the threshold with a li; le 
 soundless gasp. "Oh!" 
 
 He came toward her sedately, the glimmer of 
 a smile on the stamped gravity of his face. "I 
 took the liberty of waiting for you. I couldn't 
 bring myself to go back to Cap d'Ail without 
 knowing how you were." 
 
 As he held her hand he seemed to bend over 
 her with what she had already described to 
 herself as a brooding concern. She knew she 
 was blushing foolishly and that her knees 
 were trembling under her; and yet. curiously 
 enough, the little craft of her life seemed sud- 
 denly to find itself in quiet waters, ranged round 
 by protecting hills. She was confused and 
 sorry and glad and afraid all in one instant 
 Nothing but the habit of the hostess, which was 
 so strong in her. enabled her to capture a con- 
 ventional tone and say the obvious thing: 
 
 "I'm so glad you waited. Won't you sit 
 down, and let me ring for tea?" 
 
m 
 
 HEPHOACII 
 
 /-I HIP had never really noticed her ur til on 
 >-^ that Sunday morning in June it suddenly 
 
 with h<m alone. He had seen her. of cour.,e. 
 She had been at Mountain Brook-which was 
 he name of Emery Bland's plaee in New 
 Hampshire-every time he had gone there; 
 )ut. her quuhty being unobtrusive, he had paid 
 
 Mr " «rT'u "• *'"^t''-">°'«- both Bland and 
 Mr, Bland, bcmg emphatic in personality and 
 a kauve. he had been the mo.. eas.Iy fed to 
 .gnore th,s reticent girl, whose function was ap- 
 parently hm.ted to seeing her aunt provided 
 wnh a ,hawl. or her uncle with a cigar, at th« 
 rght opportun.t,es. If he thought of her at 
 all. ,t was as of the living spirit of the furni- 
 ture. Ihe tables and chairs became animate 
 in her, and articulate; but her claim to recog- 
 nition had never gone beyond the necessity for 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 a Iiand-shakc or a smile. When he did take her 
 hand— on arriving, or on coming down-stairs 
 in the morning— he received an impression of 
 somctliing soft and slim and tender; but the 
 moment of pleasure was always too fleeting 
 for conscious registration. Similarly, when, 
 from a polite instinct to include her in the con- 
 versation, he smiled vaguely in her direction, 
 he received a look gentle and beaming and al- 
 most apologetic in return; but it was never 
 more to him than if the dimly lustrous surfaces 
 of Mrs. Bland's nice Sheraton liad suddenly 
 become responsive. She made no demand; 
 and he offered no more than she asked. 
 
 Perhaps the fact that the girl was not really 
 the niece of either Mr. or Mrs. Biand had some- 
 thing to do with his tendency to treat her as 
 a negligible quantity. Mrs. Bland had ex- 
 plained the situation to him during his first 
 visit to Mountain Brook. 
 
 "Lily isn't our niece at all," she had said, in 
 a tone which seemed to reproach Lily with an 
 inadvertancc. "She's no relation to us what- 
 ever. We don't know v ho she is. She doesn't 
 even know herself. Since you insist," she con- 
 tinued, as though Chip had been pressing for 
 
REPROACH 
 
 information, "we got her out of an orphannge. 
 
 the year we built this house. Mr. Bland 
 
 seemed to think the house ought to have 
 
 somctlimg young in it; and so—" 
 
 "You nught have had a dog," Chip said, 
 dryly. 
 
 "You needn't laugh. It wasn't my desire 
 to adopt a child. I simply yielded to Mr. 
 Bland, as I do in everything. The only stipu- 
 lation I made was that she should call us uncle 
 and aunt. I couldn't bear to be called mother 
 by a child who wasn't my own; but Mr. Bland 
 IS so odd that he wouldn't have cared. I dare 
 say you've noticed how odd he is." 
 
 Chip could see that Bland might be odd 
 from his wife's point of view. He was the self- 
 made man who had shed the traces of self- 
 making. Mrs. Bland was fond of describing 
 herself as a self-made woman; but the stages 
 of the process by which she had "turned her- 
 self out" were visible. She would have been 
 disappointed had it not been so. Having con- 
 fessed from youth upward that her ambition 
 was "to make the most of herself," there had 
 never, in her case, been any question of the 
 ara celare ariem. She belonged to a number of 
 
 6 U 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 women's clubs of which the avowed object was 
 self-improvement," and attended such classes 
 on "current events" as would keep her posted 
 on the problems of the day without the bore of 
 reading the papers. As a self-made woman she 
 also looked the part, dressing for breakfast as 
 she would like to be found in the afternoon, 
 with but slight variation for dinner. In her full 
 panoply of plum or dove color she suggested 
 one of those knights eternally in armor who 
 decorate baronia^ halls. Chip considered it 
 probable that Emery Bland would never have 
 chosen her as the life-long complement to him- 
 self had he not taken that step while he was 
 stiU an obscure "up-state" country lawyer 
 and she the dignified young school-teacher who' 
 stood for "cultivation" in their little town. 
 Cultivation had always been to Mrs. Bland 
 what hunting is to the rider to hounds-the 
 zest was in the chase. The zest was in the 
 chase, and the quarry but an excuse for the 
 run Over hedges of lectures, and ditches of 
 talks," and through turnip-fields of serious 
 ponderous women like herself, green even in 
 winter, and after being touched by frost, Mrs. 
 Bland kept on in full career, with "cultivation" 
 
REPROACH 
 
 scudding ahead like a fox she never caught a 
 glimpse of. and which her hounds tracked only 
 by the scent. It was splendid exercise, and 
 helped her to feel in the movement. If she 
 failed to notice that her husband had long ago 
 run the fleet animal to earth, and aflixed the 
 mask as an adornment to his home, it was 
 only because their views of life were different. 
 No one would now suppose that there had 
 been a time in Emery Bland's life when it had 
 been his aim also to "cultivate himself," and 
 when he had actually used the phrase. Be- 
 tween the debonair, experienced New York 
 lawyer, so much in demand for cases requiring 
 discretion and so capable of dealing with them 
 —between him and the farmer's boy he had 
 been there was no more resemblance than be- 
 tween a living word and the dead root out of 
 which it has been coined. In Emery Bland's 
 case the word was not only living, but liliant, 
 eloquent, aod arresting to ear and eye. He 
 was one of those men who overlook nothing 
 that can be counted as self-expression, from 
 their dress to the sound of their syllables. 
 Superficially genial, but essentially astute, he 
 had made everything grist that came to bis 
 87 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 mill, flourishing on it not only in the financial 
 sense, but also in that of character. It was 
 said that he knew as many life histories as a 
 doctor or a priest, and generally the more 
 dramatic ones. The experience had clearly 
 made him cynical, but tolerant also, and hu- 
 man, with a tendency, as far as he was per- 
 sonaUy concerned, to being morally strait- 
 laced. He had seen so much of the picturesque 
 side of life that he could appreciate the prosa- 
 ic, which, in Chip's explanaUon, was why he 
 could stand by Mrs. Bland. Other people's 
 surfeits of champagne and ortolans had assured 
 his own taste for plain roast beef. But he him- 
 self ordered the porcelain on which his simple 
 fare was served, and the wines by which it was 
 accompanied, drunk from fine old Irish or 
 Bohemian glass. 
 
 Chip took this in by degrees. His first ac- 
 quaintance with a man who was to exercise some 
 influence on his future was purely professional. 
 He had gone to him as an offset to Aunt Emily. 
 If the results of this move were indirect— 
 since Aunt Emily had won the victory— they 
 became apparent in time. They became ap- 
 parent when iu Chip's bruised heart, where 
 
REPROACH 
 
 everything healthy seemed to have been stunned, 
 a shght curiosity began to awaken concerning 
 his new friend's personality. 
 
 He came to consider him a friend by acci- 
 dent-the accident of a club, where, finding 
 themselves sitting down to dine at the same 
 moment, they had taken the same table. Pri- 
 marily, it waa an opportunity to adjust some 
 loose ends of Chip's domestic affairs; incident- 
 ally, they stumbled on a common hobby in 
 Victorian English politics. There was no sub- 
 ject on whichEmery Bland was better informed, 
 with a learning that covered the whole long 
 stretch from Lord Melbourne to Lord Salis- 
 bury, and which he could garnish with anec- 
 dote ad libitum. It was a kind of conversation 
 of which Chip, who had been brought up partly 
 in England, rarely got a taste in New York, 
 and for which Bland, on his side, didn't often 
 find an interested listener. Something like an 
 intimacy thus sprang up. but an intimacy of 
 the kind common among men who have little 
 or no point of contact out of office hours or 
 away from the neutral ground of the club. 
 Within these limits the meetings had already 
 been numerous before it occurred to Chip— 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 more or less idly-that whUe Bland knew too 
 much of his sad background, he knew nothing 
 of Bland's. An occasional reference revealed 
 the lawyer as a married man, but beyond that 
 basic fact their acquaintance had no more 
 attachment to the main social structure of life 
 than a floating island of moss and flowers has 
 to the system of geological strata. It was Bland 
 himself who took the first step in the direction 
 of closer association. 
 "Well, how are you getting on?" 
 He asked the question while slipping into the 
 seat opposite Chip as the latter lunched at the 
 club, where they met most frequently. 
 "Oh. so so." 
 
 "H'm. So so. rAa<', what you call it." 
 The tone implied reproach or reproof or 
 expostulation. Chip kept his eyes on his knife 
 and fork. 
 
 "Well, what do you call it?" 
 
 "( '', I'm not obliged to give it a name. I 
 hear other people do that." 
 
 "And what do other people say-«ince you 
 seem to want me to ask the question?" 
 
 "I do. I think you ought to know. Thev 
 say it's a pity." 
 
 so 
 
BEPROACH 
 
 Chip took on the defiant air of a bad boy. 
 They can say it— and go to blazes." 
 "They'U say it. all right. Don't you worry 
 about that. But I rather think that you'll 
 do the going to blazes— at this rate." 
 
 Chip raised his haggard eyes. "Well, why 
 not? What is there any better than blazes 
 for me to go to? Besides.it isn't so awful- 
 when you've got nothing else." 
 
 "Oh, rot. Walker! I'm ashamed of you. I 
 can imagine a man of your type doing almost 
 anythmg else but taking to drink "• 
 
 Chip shrugged his shoulders with the habit 
 acquired in French schools. "On fait ce que 
 Von j,eut. I had three resources left to me- 
 wme. woman, and song. For song I've no ear; 
 for woman-well, that's all over; so it came 
 down to Hobson's choice." 
 
 "Hobson's choice be blowed! Walker's 
 choice! And you've just time enough left to 
 cast about for a set of alternatives. Why I've 
 seen scores of men in your fix; aad of some of 
 them it was the salvation." 
 "And what was it of the others?" 
 "Hell. But it was a heU of their own 
 making." 
 
 n 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 "All right. I'm willing to accept the word. 
 It's a hell of my own making— but it's hell, just 
 the same." 
 
 "But, good Lord! man, even if it is hell, you 
 don't want to wallow in it." 
 
 Chip smiled ruefully. "Oh, I like it. Kind 
 of penance, I like it as medieval sinners used 
 to like a hair shirt." 
 
 "Yes; but the hair shirt was kept out of 
 sight. You're parading your penance, as you 
 caU it, before the world. See here. Walker, 
 why don't you coine up and spend the week- 
 end with me in New Hampshire? My wife 
 would like to have you. To-day is Friday, 
 and I go up to-morrow morning. A Sunday 
 in the country would do you good." 
 
 Chip refused, but he long remembered why 
 he retracted his refusal. It was the look of 
 his apartment when he returned to it that 
 night. It was an apartment in a house at the 
 comer of Madison Avenue and a street in the 
 Thirties, dedicated to the use of well-to-do 
 bachelors. It had been a slight mitigation in 
 the collapse of life as he had built it up. that 
 rooms in so comfortable a refuge should have 
 been free for him. He had furnished them with 
 
 S2 
 
REPROACH 
 
 «ome care; and after his first distress had worn 
 off a little had found a measure of lawless satis- 
 faction in a return to the old unmarried ways. 
 But on th!; particular evening the aspect of 
 the place appalled him from the minute he 
 turned his latch-key in the lock. Under the 
 stimulus of Bland'.c counsels he had come home 
 early, which was in itself a mistake. It was 
 scarcely nine o'clock. There was an hour or 
 an hour and a half to pass before he could think 
 of going to bed. Any such interval as that was 
 always the hardest feature in the day for him. 
 But what smote him specially now was the air 
 of emptiness and loneliness. It met him as 
 an odor in the stale smeU of the cigar he had 
 smoked on coming up-town from the office, and 
 which still lingered in the rooms. He had for- 
 gotten to open a window, and the house valet 
 whose duty it was to "tidy up." had evidently 
 gone out. 
 
 In the small hall into which Chip entered 
 there was a bookcase with but two or three 
 odds and ends of books in it, for his habits of 
 reading had dropped away from him with every- 
 thing else. In the sitting-room one brown shoe 
 stood on the hearth-rug before the empty fire- 
 
 98 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 place; the other on the center-table, a collar 
 and necktie beside it. The soiled shirt he had 
 thrown off lay on the couch, a sleeve dragging 
 on the floor. On the mantelpiece, which he 
 had at first consecrated as a shrine for the 
 photographs of Edith and the children, and 
 flanked by two silver candlesticks like an 
 altar, there had intruded an open box of per- 
 fectos, an ash-tray that still held the butt-end 
 of a cigar, and an empty tumbler smelling 
 of whisky. There were traces of cigar ashes 
 eveiywhere-on .the arms of the easy-chairs, 
 on the rugs, and on the terra-cotta tiles of the 
 hearth. For the rest the room was a litter of 
 newspapers, aa the bedroom which opened off 
 it was a litter of clothes. 
 
 He was not disorderly; he was only care- 
 less, and incapable of creating order for him- 
 self. Disorder shocked him profoundly. He 
 always sat down in the midst of it, helpless, but 
 with a sense of inner misery. And so he sat 
 down in it now. "My God!" he said to him- 
 self, summing up in the ejaculation all the 
 wretchedness he had wrought, or that had been 
 wrought, about him. 
 
 It was at such minutes that his mind reverted 
 M 
 
RKPROACH 
 
 to Edith, with renewed stupefacUon over what 
 »he had done. Stupefaction waa the word. 
 Beflection on the subject only left him the 
 more hopelessly bewildered. If she hadn't 
 loved him her course might have been explic- 
 able. As it was, he found himself driven to a 
 choice between mental aberration on her part 
 and a witch's spell, inclining to the latter- 
 with the witch in the guise of Aunt Emily. 
 
 Not that he absolved himself. He made 
 no attempt to do that. But he looked upon 
 his offense as of the kind that naturally calls 
 for mercy rather than severity. What was 
 the letter of the contract in comparison with 
 the spirit?-and he had kept the spirit sacred- 
 ly. Of course he had done wrong. Who in 
 thunder, he asked. impaUently, ever dem'ed 
 that? But how many men had not done wrong 
 in the same way? Very few, was his answer. 
 The answer was the essence of his defense- 
 a defense which, according to all the laws of 
 human nature and common sense. Edith should 
 have accepted. That she shouldn't accept it. 
 or couldn't, or wouldn't, passed his compre- 
 hension. 
 
 As a rule, he tried not to think of it. He 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 tried not to think of it by filling up the time 
 with something else. When there had been 
 nothing else to fill up the time he had stupe- 
 fied himself with drink. He drank at first, 
 uot because he liked drinking, but because it 
 dulled his brain, his heart. It didn't excite 
 him; on the contrary, it brought him to a state 
 of lethargy which, if he was at the club, made 
 him willing to go home, or. if he was at home, 
 made it possible for him to go to bed and sleep. 
 It was only within a month or so that he had 
 begun to suspect' that other people noticed it; 
 and even then he hadn't been sure until Bland 
 had told him so that day. 
 
 He had, consequently, come back to his room 
 in the possession of his faculties, but with a 
 feeling of sometWng unfulfilled that emphasized 
 his desolation. He perceived then that a habit 
 was beginning to form in him with a tenacity 
 which it might be difficult to counteract. After 
 all, would anything be gained by counteracting 
 it? He had known fellows who drank them- 
 selves to death; and except in the last dreadful 
 stages it hadn't been so bad. They had cer- 
 tainly got their fun out of it, even if in the end 
 they paid high. He was paying high— and 
 
 S8 
 
REPROACH 
 
 perhaps getting nothing at all. Wouldn't it 
 be better if he went off this minute somewhere 
 and made a night of it?-made a night which 
 would be but the begimiing of a long succession 
 of nights of the same kind? Then when he 
 was nimed beyond recovery, or in his grave 
 Edith would know what she had done to him. 
 He had tried every other way of bringing it 
 home to her but that. That might succeed 
 where argument had failed. She couldn't have 
 a mind so much astray as not to be sorry when 
 she saw, or heard of, the wreck she would have 
 niade of him. 
 
 It was worth thinking of. and he sat and 
 thought of it. He tried to conjure up the 
 picture of himself as really besotted— he was 
 not besotted as yet, even when the worst was 
 saidl-degraded. revolting. He rose to take 
 a cigar, to help his imagination in the task to 
 which he had set it, but he remembered that 
 the cigar suggested a whisky-and-soda to go 
 with it, and there was a bottle of Old Piper in 
 the cupboard. He fell buck into his seat again 
 with the longing unsatisfied, but he continued 
 his dream. It was so pleasant a dream-that 
 IS. there were so many advantages to the course 
 97 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 he though' f taking, that he ended by ipring- 
 ing to hi« feet and naying, almost ale ad, "By 
 God. I'll do it." 
 
 The resolution being formed, there was m 
 large selection of ways and means of putting 
 it into execution. He could do this or that. 
 He could go here or there. It was a bewilder- 
 ment of choice that saved him. He sat down 
 again. 
 
 No; when it came to the point he wasn't 
 equal to it. It was not the end he shrank 
 from, but the means— the places to which he 
 would have to go, the people he would have to 
 consort with. He knew just enoujh of them 
 to be sickened in advance. It was with a sense 
 of fleeing to escape that he hurried to the tele- 
 phone and called up Emery Bland, asking to 
 be allowed to accept his invitation. 
 
 He arrived at Moimtain Biwk late on an 
 afternoon in early June, just as the sun, hover- 
 ing above the point of its setting, was throwing 
 an almost horizontal light on the northern and 
 western slopes of Monadnock. The mountain 
 raised its majestic mass as the last and success- 
 ful effort of a tumbling, climbing wilderness 
 of hills. Scattered amid the upward-sweeping 
 
REPROACH 
 
 •twtche. of maple and oak. groves of spruce 
 and pine had the effect of passing rain^Iouds. 
 In the clear air. against the clear sky, every 
 tree-top on the indented ridges stood out like 
 a litUe pinnacle. Ull with a long, downward 
 curve, both gracious and grandiose, the moun- 
 tainside fell to the edge of a gem-like, broken- 
 shored lake. It was a world extraordinarily 
 green and clean. Its cleanness was even more 
 amaang than its greenness. The unsullied 
 freshness 'f a new creation seemed to lie on it 
 all day long. It was a world which suggested 
 no past and boded no futur. . Its transparent 
 air. m which there was not a shred of atmosphere 
 lU high lights, and long shadows, and restful' 
 clambering woods, and singing birds, and sweet,' 
 strong winds were like those of some perpetual, 
 paradisical present, with no stoiy to tell, and 
 none that would ever be enacted. It was a 
 world in which Nature seemed to hold herself 
 aloof from man, refusing to be tamed by him, 
 rejecti^rf his caress, keeping herself serene, in- 
 violate, making his presence incongruous with 
 her sanctity. 
 
 It was this incongruity that struck Chip first 
 of all. Not that there were any of the unap- 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 proachable grandeurs of the Alps or the Selkirks 
 nor anything that towered or terrified or over- 
 awed All the hilly woodland was smiling and 
 fnendly-but remote. Man might buy a piece 
 of ground and camp on it; but if he had sensi- 
 
 Jat eluded him. the real thing-withdrawB. 
 He could be on the spot, but he could never be 
 of .t-not any more than he could give his 
 dweUmg the au- of sprmging from the soil. 
 
 Chip noticed ,that. too-the intrusive aspect 
 of any kmd of roof that man could make to 
 cover him unless it were a wigwam. Emezy 
 Bland had tried to temper this resentment of 
 the landscape to what was not indigenous to it- 
 self by maJcmg the Imes of his shelter a. simple 
 and as straight as possible. He was from L 
 first apologetic to the Spirit of the Mountam. 
 a^ who would say. "Hang it all. you've tempted 
 nie here, but I'll outrage you as little as I can » 
 So he perched his long, white house. ItaUan in 
 style If ,t had style at all. on the top of a knoll 
 whence he could look far into green depths, 
 with nothing in the way of excrescence but a 
 tile-paved open-air dining-room at one end. 
 and a shady spot of similar construction at 
 
 100 
 
REPROACH 
 
 the other, getting his effects fK,m proportion. 
 Somethmg in the way of lawn and garden he 
 wa^ obliged to have, and Mrs. Bland had in- 
 sisted on a pergola. He fought the pergola 
 for a year or two. but Mrs. Bland had had her 
 way. A country house without a pergola, she 
 sa,d. was something she had never heard of 
 A nne qud non was what she called it. So be- 
 yond the square of lawn with its border of 
 flowers tho pergola stretched its row of trim 
 wh,te wooden Doric pillars, while over the 
 latticed roof and through it hung bine and vine 
 grape, wistaria, and kadsu. Below the pergola' 
 the land broke to a brook that gurgled through 
 copses of alder, tangles of wild raspberry, and 
 dumps of blueberry and goldenrod. carrying 
 he waters of the lake to the Ashuelot. which 
 bore them to the Connecticut, which swept 
 them southward, till quietly, and almost as 
 unobserved by the human eye a^ when they 
 rose m the bosom of the hills, they fell into the 
 sea. 
 
 As there was no other guest. Chip was al- 
 lowed to do as he pleased. What he pleased 
 was chiefly to sit in the pergola, where the 
 mauve petals of the wistaria were dropping 
 
■I ' 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 about him. and fill his gaze with the mys+ic 
 peace of the mountain. On Sunday morning 
 the three Blands went to church, leaving him 
 m sole possession of this green, cool world, 
 with its quality of interpenetrating purity. He 
 took a volume of some ambassador's "Recol- 
 lections" from his host's shelves of Victorian 
 memoirs; but he never opened it. He also took 
 a cigar, but he didn't smoke. He only looked— 
 looked without effort, almost without conscious- 
 ness-up into the high wonderlands of peace, 
 whence whatever was brooding there seemed 
 to steal into his soul and cleanse it. It was this 
 sense of cleansing that he carried back as a sort 
 of possession to New York— that and the fact 
 imparted by Mrs. Bland during the afternoon, 
 regarded as unimportant, and yet retained, that 
 Lily Bland was not their niece. 
 
 He returned to Mountain Brook twice during 
 that summer, and in June of the following year 
 It was during this last visit that the girl who 
 had been to him hitherto no more than the liv- 
 ing element of the background gave him the 
 impression that she was seeking an opportunity 
 to speak to him. 
 Throughout Saturday it had been an im- 
 
REPROACH 
 pression almost too faint to be recorded; but 
 t was s-g^^cant to Mm that on Sunday morn 
 mg she didn't go to church. She shared the 
 house with hi-m. therefore, a fact of which h 
 wa^ scarcely aware tiU he saw her i. possession 
 of the pergola. W,h a book in her hand she 
 had esUbhshed herself in a chair not far from 
 ^at whidi by preference he had made bs oZ 
 The act roused his curiosity; but when he. Z 
 
 sue didn t keep km in suspense. 
 
 She closed her novel as he approached, look- 
 ing up at him with simple directness. "IVe 
 something to tell you." 
 
 Behind the attention he gave to these words 
 
 Wked at hei^which he had rarely done^ 
 you saw she was pretty. Her white skin had 
 a lummosity like that of satin, and the mouS 
 was sweet with a timid, apologetic tenderness 
 The glances one got from her were almost too 
 
 faiew they must be blue. Her hair had been 
 
 was of that hue for which there is no English 
 word, but which the PVench caU cendrf-^T, 
 
 108 
 
lii 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 something between flaxen and brown, but with 
 no relation to eithei--that might have been 
 bleached by a "treatment" only for its unmis- 
 takable gleam of life. It waved naturally over 
 the brows from a central parting, and massed 
 Itself into a great coil behind. She was dressed 
 simply in white linen, with a belt of "watered" 
 blue silk, and neat, pointed cuffs of the same 
 material. 
 
 Instinctively he knew that what she had to 
 tell him must be important, for otherwise she 
 would not have come out of the shy depths 
 mto which, like the Spirit of the Mountain, her 
 hfe seemed to be withdrawn. What it could 
 be he was unable even to guess at. He smiled, 
 however, and, taking a casual tone so as not to 
 strike too strong a note at first, he said, as he 
 sat down, "Have you?" 
 
 She continued to speak with the same simple 
 directness. "It's about some one you used to 
 know." 
 
 He grew more grave. "Indeed? I should 
 hardly have supposed that you could know 
 any one— whom I used to know?" 
 
 "I do. I know— You won't mind 
 speaking right out, will you?" 
 
 my 
 
REPROACH 
 ;;0f cou«e not. Say anything you like." 
 JVell. I know Miss Maggie Clare." 
 Great God!" He sank deeper into his 
 w.cker arm-chair throwing one ?eg ove^ i 
 up at her from under his brows 
 turner- "^^..r^'^y °^ her bearing was undis- 
 turb- Ive got a message to you from 
 
 He was unable to keep the note of resent- 
 ment out of his voice. "What?" 
 
 "She's very ill. I think she's going to die 
 She thmks so herself. She wants to know tf- 
 if you'd go and see her." 
 
 He slipped down deeper into his chair, his 
 
 ^^of":' -"''r'^^- '*-- <^-te like the 
 act of cowering. It was long before he spoke. 
 When he did so the tone of resentment w^ 
 
 TnTtotS" "^^^^^^ '-«—''- «he^ 
 "I think she does. In fact, it's the only 
 thjng she does realize very clearly now. She 
 talks of rt continually. i„ her dreamy way- 
 but a way that's quite heartbreaking. I ^ Jlv 
 thmk that if you were to see her-'' ^ 
 
 He looked up under his lids and brows as 
 
 lOj 
 
THE LKTTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 shehesfteted. "Well?" The tone was as sav- 
 age as courtesy would let him make it. 
 
 "That you'd forgive her." 
 
 His body bounded to an upright attitude, 
 his hands thrust deep into pockets. "No." 
 If the word had been louder it would have been 
 a shout. "I shall never forgive her." 
 
 There was no change in her sweet reason- 
 ableness. "I don't see what you gain by 
 that." 
 
 "I gain this much— that I don't do it." 
 "I still can't see that it makes your situation 
 
 any better, while it makes hers a good deal 
 
 worse." 
 
 "If hers is worse, mine M better. The woman 
 deliberately wrecked my life after I'd been 
 kind to her — ^for years."' 
 
 "The poor tlung didn't do it deliberately. 
 Mr. Walker. She did it because she couldn't 
 help it— because she loved you so." 
 
 He shook himself impatiently. "Ah. what 
 kind of love is that?" 
 
 The audacity of her response— the curious 
 audacity of shyness-seemed to him extraor- 
 dinary only when, later, he thought it over. 
 "I dare say it isn't a very high kind of love— 
 
 106 
 
REPROACH 
 
 but there was no quesUon of its being that- 
 from the first. Waa there?" 
 
 "All the more reason then why she should 
 have kept where she belonged." 
 
 "Yes. of course. And yet it's difficult for 
 love to keep itself where it belongs when it's 
 very— very consuming." 
 
 Hfe leaned back in his chair, eying her. If 
 he spoke roughly it was only because she had 
 roused all his emotions on his own behalf, as 
 well as a faint subconscious interest in herself 
 I^k here. Miss Bland. How much do you 
 know about this?" 
 
 "Oh. I know all about it." she assured him 
 hurrymg to explain, in answer to something 
 she saw m his face: "Uncle Emery didn't tell 
 me. I read it first in the papers-you remember 
 there was a lot of talk about it in the papers- 
 and then every one was talking of it. I couldn't 
 help knowing. Uncle Emery." she added, 
 only told me one tiny little thing, which 
 couldn t do any one any harm." 
 "And that was—?" 
 
 "Miss Clare's address. I asked him for it 
 when I found that I-that I wanted to go and 
 see her." 
 
 lOT 
 
p 
 
 THB LETTfiH OF THE CONTRACT 
 "And why on earth .hould you want to go 
 and see her-a young girl Hke you?" 
 
 Her blush was like a color from outside re- 
 fleeted in the soft luster of her skin as a t.^ 
 of sunset may be caught by the petaU of cer- 
 tam white flowers. 
 
 "I had a reason. It wasn't doing any one 
 any harm .' she repeated, "not even you." L 
 ^rtter self-defense she added: "Uncle Emery 
 didnt disapprove, and I've never told Aunt 
 W But IVe always been glad I .tT- 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because she's a sort of charge of Uncle 
 Emery s. for one thing-since you've put her 
 nhiscare. I help Am a little bit. And then 
 tte s«ter she lives with-you knew weM gS 
 her to hve with her sister, didn't you?-isn't 
 very kind to her. It's Just the mo' ey! Zl 
 tien she contmued. the soft color deepening. 
 I had another reason-more personal-that 
 I d rather not say anything about." 
 
 "I can't imagine anything in the whole bad 
 business that could be personal to you." 
 
 ^o. of course you can't. It's only person- 
 al by association-by imagination, probably." 
 
REPROACH 
 Sh, B«d. nothing clear., by adding: "You 
 
 tn:w:r^"^""^'^^--'-^-- 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 "I don't know who ray mother was. But 
 whoever she was-I'm sorry for her." 
 
 He began to get her idea. "You're prob- 
 ably quite wrong." he said, kindly; "„„d Itil 
 you know you're right I shouldn't let fancies 
 oi that sort run away with me." 
 "Oh I don't. And yet you can see that 
 
 I don't n* "' "' "'•' "'^^'^ ^''«— ««. 
 
 I don t feel supenor to her. It's like being a 
 gipsy-George Eliot's Fedalraa. for instance- 
 adopte^t by a kind family, but knowing she's 
 a giPV just the same." 
 
 He brought his knowledge of the world to 
 bear on her. "I assure you you're not in the 
 least like that kind of gipsy." 
 
 "Neither was Fedalma li:.e her kind; and 
 yet when she could do something for them she 
 went to them and did it." 
 
 "How old are you?" he said, abruptly, ask- 
 ing the same question which but a few weeks 
 before Noel Ordway had put to Edith, a^in 
 much the same way. 
 
 108 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 "We caU it twenty-three— because we keep 
 - / birthday on the date on which Uncle Emery 
 aid Aunt Zena took me; but I must be nearer 
 twenty-five." 
 
 He looked at her more attentively than he 
 had ever done. She was not really shy; she 
 wasn't even reserved; but she was repressed- 
 repressed as any one might be who lived under 
 the weight of Mrs. Bland's protesting, grudging 
 kindliness. It came back to him now. the tone 
 in which she had said, a year earlier, that she 
 couldn't be called mother by a child who didn't 
 belong to her. How that must have been 
 rubbed in" to the poor girl before him! 
 Other thmgs, too, came back to him, especially 
 on Bland's part certain stolen moments of ten- 
 derness toward the girl, that had been inter- 
 rupted in Chip's presence by a peremptory 
 voice, saying. "Now. Emery, don't spoil the 
 child," or "Lily, dear, can't you find anything 
 better to do than tease your uncle?" In it all 
 Chip had found two subjects of wonderment: 
 first, the strange egoism of this middle-aged 
 woman who could see nothing in the expansion 
 of her husband's affections but what was stolen 
 from herself; and then, the extraordinary freak 
 
 110 
 
REPROACH 
 of marital loyalty that could keep a man like 
 Emeor Bland, with his refinement and hi, 
 knowledge of the world, true to a woman whom 
 he had once loved, no doubt, in a youthful way. 
 but who was now his inferior by eveiy token of 
 character. A good enough woman she was of 
 her hnd: but it was no more her husband's 
 ^d than .t was that of the gods immortal. 
 What was the secret that kept these unequal 
 yoke-fellows together, sympathetic, and toler- 
 ably happy, when he and Edith, who were made 
 for each other, had by some force of mutual 
 expulsion been thrust apart? Bland himself 
 was o the type which, in the language that was 
 
 Chip would have called charmeur; and yet be 
 drfen^l to this Second-rate woman, and Ln! 
 sidered her. and even loved her in a placid. 
 steady.go.ng way. submitting at times to her 
 dictation. Chip couldn't understand it If 
 he hmself had been married to Mrs. Bland- 
 But that was unthinkable. What wasn't un- 
 thmkable. and yet became the more bewilder- 
 ing the more he tried to work the problem out. 
 was that he himself had failed to keep for his 
 own the woman who suited him in eveiy respect 
 lu ' 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 whose love he poswesaed and who posseased 
 hi*, who WM happy with him and he with her, 
 while Emery Bland had contrived to make 
 the most of the estimable but rather coarse- 
 gramed lady who sat at the head of his Uble, 
 and have a truly enviable life with her. No 
 one could be more keenly aware of the lady's 
 shortcomings, which lay within the realm of 
 taste and intelligence, than Bland himself. 
 What was his secret? Wa, it a principle, or 
 was It nothing but a lucky accident? Was it 
 •omething in a cast of character or a tenet of 
 a creed, or was it what any one could emulate? 
 These thoughts and questions passed rapidly 
 through Chip's mind, not for the first time, 
 during the two or three minutes in which there 
 was no somd about them but the murmur of 
 the brook, the humming of insects, and the 
 whisper of the summer wind through millions 
 of trees. 
 
 He reverted to Maggie Clare, the timbre of 
 his voice again growing harder. "What's the 
 matter with her?" 
 
 She was singularly gentle. "I suppose it 
 could be described most accurately as a broken 
 heart." 
 
 IM 
 
REPROACH 
 
 He fluked hoUy. "Oh. don't «,y that." 
 he cned. as if he had been «tung. 
 
 "I .houldn't say it if it didn't answer your 
 question." ' 
 
 "/ didn't break her heart." he declared, in 
 Marp aggressiveness of self-defense. 
 
 "Oh no. Even she doesn't think so. The 
 poor thing hasn't much mind left, as you know- 
 but what she has is concentrated on that point 
 -that you were not to blame in anything. 
 Please don't think that I'm in any way hinting 
 at such an accusation." 
 
 He looked at her stupidly. "Then if her 
 neart s broken, what's broken it?" 
 
 "The circumstances. I suppose. You don't 
 seem to understand that the poor soul must 
 iong ago have reached a point where her love 
 for you was absolutely the only thing she had." 
 Agam he seemed to shake himself, as though 
 to nd his body of something that had fastened 
 on It. "I never tuked her to love me like that. 
 I never wanted it." 
 
 She smiled, faintly and sweetly. "Oh well 
 that wouldn't make any difference. Love gives 
 Itself. It doesn't wait for permission. I should 
 thmk you'd have known that." 
 us 
 
:■: i; 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 He leaned forward, an arm resting on one 
 knee. While he reflected he broke into the 
 tuneless, almost inaudible, whisUing Edith 
 used to know so well. "I said I'd never see 
 her agam," he muttered, as the result of his 
 meditation. 
 
 "May I ask if that was a promise to any one. 
 or if it was something you just said to yourself 
 and about which you'd have a right to change 
 your mind?" 
 
 He continued to mutter. "I said it to— to 
 my wife." 
 
 "As a promise? Please forgive me for ask- 
 ing. I shouldn't, only that the request of a 
 dying woman — " 
 
 "I said it," he admitted, unwillingly; "but 
 rt wasn't exactly a promise. My wife said-" 
 He stopped and bit his lip. "She said she didn't 
 care." 
 
 "You can'tgo by that. Of course she did care." 
 "Then if she cared, I'd let twenty women 
 die, whoever they were — " 
 
 She rose with dignity. "That must be for 
 you to decide, Mr. Walker. I've given you the 
 message I was charged with. It isn't a matter 
 in which I could venture to urge you." 
 
 m 
 
REPROACH 
 He too. rose. "You do urge n.,," f, .^-d 
 
 eyT "I'tf 'r *'"'''^' •'"* ^'^^^y- - the 
 eyes. I m not so sure that I do. The whole 
 
 «u„g. too sacred to, our own inner ,iS 
 me to have an opinion. You must do what 
 you thznk right, and Maggie Clare-" 
 
 ately ^''"'"" "^""'^ °'^*" ^^ "'^J' ^e^per- 
 of'i^tt"""* she bear all the responsibility 
 
 swJ!'\T?-Tr r^'^P^-d I>y one of her 
 swift haJf-fnghtened smiles; but she didn't 
 wa, for an answer. Before Chip could bin 
 to stammer out an explanation that would gfve 
 hs pomt of view she wa. passing rapidly Jn 
 
 aad bleedmg-hearts, toward the house 
 
 But when he returned to town he went to 
 -e Maggie Clare. He went, and went ^liT 
 The experience became, in its way. the most 
 poignant in his life. He had not mich knol 
 «Ige of death and even less of sickness. The 
 wasted face and the sunken, burning eyes 
 wrought m him a kind of terror. It w^ Jth 
 
 115 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 an effort that he could take the long thm hand, 
 that already had the chill of the grave in its 
 limp fingers, into his own. As for kissing those 
 bloodless lips, so eager, so strained, which he 
 could see was what she wanted him to do, he 
 was unable to bring himself to it. Luckily he 
 was not obliged to talk, since her mind couldn't 
 follow coherent sentences. It was enough for 
 her to have him sit by the bed while she worked 
 her hands gropingly toward him, saying, "Oh, 
 Chip! oh. Chip!" and murmuring broken things 
 in Swedish. It was incredible to him that this 
 poor worn thing, this living shadow, that had 
 exhausted everything but its passion for him- 
 self, had once been a woman whom he loved. 
 He was glad when she died and could be 
 buried, so that he might consider that episode 
 as ended — if there was ever an end to anything 
 in this cursed life! And yet the occurrence 
 brought him another kind of shock. In the 
 death of one who for years had been so closely 
 associated with his thoughts it was as if his 
 own death had begun. He grew uneasy, mor- 
 bid. Such occupations as he found to fill the 
 hours when he was not at work grew insuffi- 
 cient. He came to hate the clubs, the rcstau- 
 
 118 
 
REPROACH 
 
 rants, the theaters, and such social gatherings 
 as he was now invited to. There was an even- 
 ing when from sheer boredom he went home 
 to h,s rooms as early as eight o'cloek-and the 
 bottle of Old Piper came out of its hiding, 
 place. 
 
 The real struggle followed on that. He had 
 not so far forgotten Emery Bland's warning 
 as to cease to put up a fight; but he saw now 
 that the fight would be a hard one. There was 
 again a period in which he weighed the advaji- 
 tages of "going to the bad" with all sails set 
 agamst a life of useless respectability. Going 
 to the bad had the more to recommend it since 
 he knew that Edith was in New York His 
 downfall might bring her back to him. in some 
 such way, from some such motive of saving 
 or pity, as that by which he himself had been 
 brought to Maggie Clare. 
 
 The argument being in favor of Old Piper 
 Old Piper supported it. Chip never forgot an' 
 evenmg when, as he staggered down the steps 
 of the club toward the taxi that had been 
 caUed for him. he met Emery Bland, who was 
 conungup. He would have dodged the lawyer 
 without recognition had it not been for the 
 
 * 117 
 
wv 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 latter's kindly touch on his arm, while a voice 
 of distress said : " Ah, poor old chap, what's this?" 
 
 He had just wit enough left to stammer: 
 "Edith's in New York. Go and tell her how 
 you saw me." 
 
 With that he staggered on, knowing that he 
 itlmost fell into the waiting vehicle. 
 
 Worse days ensued — for nearly a week. 
 Worse still might have followed had they not 
 been cut short suddenly. They were cut short 
 by a note which bore the signature, Lily Bland. 
 It was a simple note, containing nothing but 
 the request that he should come and see her 
 on one of a choice of evenings which she named. 
 He took the first one, which waa that of the 
 day of the note's arrival. 
 
 He had hardly seen her since then- talk at 
 Mountain Brook in the previous June. He 
 had not gone again that summer to New Hamp- 
 shire, and on the two cr three occasions on 
 which he had visited Bland's house in town she 
 seemed to have retreated once more to her old 
 place as the spirit of the furniture. He had 
 made eflforta to get nearer her, but she seemed 
 to elude his approaches. 
 
 He knew she would not have summoned him 
 
 118 
 
REPROACH 
 
 saw that hi. surmises were correct by her 
 ^ethod of recefving Wm. She was not fn the 
 
 wiUi a background of bindings of red and blX 
 
 yon etchuigs. and one brilhant, sinister snot 
 ^ color by F.,icien Hops. There was a JL 
 f; -monumental fireplace, and as he .nZlJ^ 
 a log was just breaking in the middle and spS 
 
 "oli^'"^^ ''' *""' "-^^^^ -"^'•^ W 
 
 It was the room of the successful New-Yorker 
 who dehghts in giving H^^elf all the ii 
 
 liri^ff : ^''-^'^-ed simply in some 
 hght stuff and scarcely dScolletee, seemed some- 
 what lost m the spaciousness of her sur.>und. 
 mgs She made no pretense at preliminary 
 Z d-nf u'""' ^°'"^ •*^«''^ to'her poS 
 
 wWchlet 5^ ' 'T •*'''° °' ^'•^ -'^« -th 
 which she had opened the similar conversation 
 at Mountain Brook "T',r„ xi. "'"^"'" 
 
 vou " W. • 7 , somethmg to tell 
 
 L.h« J T '''*^ ^''^ ""^^ '^^y ^^'- shak- 
 ing hands, she went on as soon aa they were 
 seated in the firelight: ^ 
 
 lU 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 "At least Uncle Emery had something to 
 tell you, and I asked him to let me do it." 
 
 "Why?" He put the question rather 
 blankly. 
 
 "Because I thought I could do it better." 
 But she caught herself up at once. "No; not 
 better. Of course, I can't do that. Only- 
 only I wanted him to let me do it." 
 
 Chip's heart bounded. Edith was in New 
 York. She had heard of his condition. She 
 was coming back to him. He was to have his 
 reward for taking pity on Maggie Clare. His 
 tongue and lips were parched aa he forced 
 out the words: 
 
 "Then it's good news— or you wouldn't want 
 to break it?" 
 
 She was not visibly perturbed. Rather, she 
 was pen.sive, sitting with an elbow resting on 
 the arm of her chair, the hand raised so as to 
 lay a forefinger on her cheek. " Don't you think 
 that we often make news good or bad by our 
 way of taking it?" 
 
 "That's asking me a question, when you've 
 got information to give me. What have you 
 to tell me. Miss Bland?" 
 "I've something to tell you that will give you 
 
 120 
 
KEPROACH 
 
 a great shock; so that I don't want to say it 
 till I know you're prepared." 
 
 God s sake. M,ss Bland, what is it? Is one of 
 the children hurt? Is one of then, dead?" 
 
 th.-/ .7u '^ ^" ^ ^'^' ^'^^- I ^'"•d that 
 this would be a great shock. There's a differ- 
 enc^and one can be prepared." 
 
 "Well I am. Please don't keep me in sus- 
 pense. Do tell me." 
 
 She sat now with hands folded in her lap. 
 p"ed"" '^""""- "''°' ^""'^ "°t P- 
 
 "Tell me what to do and I'll do it," he said 
 nervously, "only don't torture me." ' 
 
 One IS prepared." she said, tranquilly, "by 
 remembermg beforehand one's own strength- 
 by knowing that there's nothing one can't 
 bear, and bear nobly." 
 
 go 
 
 please 
 
 "But will you?" 
 
 "Will I what?" 
 
 "Will you try to say to yourself: I'm a man. 
 andlmequ^Itothis. It can't knock me down 
 It cant even stagger me. I'll take it in the 
 
 121 
 
{. 
 
 il 
 
 mi 
 
 THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 highest way I sha'n't let it degrade me or 
 send me for help to degrading things-" 
 
 He flung his hands outward. "Yes, yes 
 I know what you're driving at. I promise." 
 Only, for God's sake, tell me. Is it about-?" 
 Its about Mrs. Walker." 
 
 , "y,^!' !f. ' ^"PPOsed. But what is it? L. 
 she ill? Oh. she isn't dead?" 
 
 The cry made her ^eyes smart, but she kept 
 control of her voice. 
 
 "No. she's not dead. She's not even ill. 
 She s perfectly well, so I understand. But 
 
 ' I rr," '^^' ^°"°' '" ^^' ^^''' the way 
 in which he leaned forward as though he would 
 spnng at her, warned her that he knew what 
 was coming. She gave him time to get himself 
 m hand by rising and taking the two or three 
 paces to the fireplace, where she stood with a 
 hand on the mantel-board, which was above 
 her head, while she gazed into the embera. 
 ones been — married." 
 
 She didn't turn round. She knew by all the 
 subtle unnamed senses that he was huddled in 
 his big arm-chair in a state of collapse. For 
 the minute there was nothing to say or do. 
 Since the iron had to enter into his soul, it was 
 
REPROACH 
 
 better that it should be like this. It was better 
 
 e;:hir'i'^"''-''^-'^''''ertie^^^^^ 
 
 ca?t / '"'"P'"'^ "" »"« human being 
 can keep for another at such an houi^beS 
 than J he were to learn it in the solitude of^ 
 own „K,ms, or in the unsustaining frigidity o 
 
 at She was «^A h,m in every nerve that Lelped 
 
 irrtr"''"'^''''^"'*^^''^^--^ 
 
 hapT' or fi^ """"*" '"' P-ed-ten. per- 
 iiaps or fifteen-mstinct told her when to 
 «peak again. She did it without changrthe 
 position in which she stood, or tuminTL a 
 glance toward him. ^ 
 
 "You won't forget your promise?" 
 He spoke with the vacant, suffering tone of 
 a sick child, or of a person so sunk into wretled 
 
 .et'JrC- e? ^'''^^- "^- ^-'^ ^- 
 "marrrT^S!!^— — •'^•eted. 
 
 toZ::1tTo;vr-''--"'-«trong enough 
 lis 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 "But I'm not." 
 
 She turned partly. He was bent over in a 
 crushed, stupid attitude, his ha.->d8 hanging 
 h'mply between his knees. "Oh, Mr. Walker!" 
 
 He raised his forlorn eyes. "VVliy did you 
 want to tell me.'" 
 
 "Because I wanted to say that. I was afraid, 
 if any one else did it, they'd leave it out." 
 
 He gazed at her long with a dull, unintelli- 
 gent, unseeing expression. When Lu spoke he 
 was like a man who tries to get his wits together 
 after delirium or unconsciousness. "Do you 
 think I am — strong enough?" 
 
 "I know you are." 
 
 He lumbered to his feet, staggering heavily 
 to the chimney-piece, where he, too, laid his 
 hands upon the mantel-board, which was just 
 on a level with his height, bowing his forehead 
 upon them. As he did so she moved away. 
 Seeing his broad shoulders heave, and fearing 
 she heard something smothered — was it a 
 groan or a sob? — she slipped out of the room, 
 closing the door behind her. 
 
 But when, some twenty minutes later, he 
 himself came forth, his head bent, perhaps to 
 hide his red eyes and his convulsed visage, he 
 
 121 
 
REPROACH 
 
 found her at the door of the dining-room, with 
 a cup of tea in her hand. "Drink this," she 
 said, with gentle command. 
 
 He declined it with a shake of his head and 
 an impatient wove of the hand. 
 
 "Yes. do," she insisted. "It's nice and hot. 
 I'll have one, too." 
 
 Obediently he went into the dining-room. 
 He drank the tea standing and in silence, in 
 two or three gulps, while she. standing likewise, 
 made a feint of pouring a cup for herself. He 
 left without a good-night, beyond a hard, speech- 
 less wringing of her hand on his way to the door. 
 
 Two things seemed strange to Chip after 
 that evening— the one. that the fight with Old 
 Piper was ended; and the other, that in the 
 matter of Edith's marriage, once the immediate 
 shock had spent its strength, he bowed to the 
 accomplished fact with a docility he himself 
 could not understand. As for the fight with 
 Old Piper, there was no longer a reason for 
 waging it. In the new situation Old Piper 
 had lost its appeal, from sheer inadequacy to 
 meet the new need. The fact of the marriage 
 he contrived to keep at a distance. He could 
 do this the more easily because it was so mon- 
 
 125 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 strous. It was so monstrous that the mind 
 refused to take it in, and he made no attempt 
 to force himself. He asked neither whom she 
 had married nor why she had married, nor any- 
 thing else about her. It was a measure of 
 safety. As long as he didn't know he was able 
 to create a pretended fool's paradise of ignorance 
 which, in his state of mind, was none the less a 
 fool's paradise for being a pretense. Even a 
 fool's paradise was a protection. If it hadn't 
 been for the children, he might not have heard 
 so much as the man's name. 
 
 The children called him "papa Lacon." 
 Chip was obliged to swallow that. They spoke 
 of him simply and spontaneously, taking "papa 
 Lacon" as a matter of course. They varied 
 the appellation now and then by calling him 
 "our other papa." 
 
 It had been intimated to him, not long after 
 the second marriage, that he might see the chil- 
 dren with reasonable frequency, through the 
 good ofiBce-s of Mr. and Mrs. Bland. He soon 
 saw that the arrangements were really in charge 
 of Lily Bland, who brought the children to her 
 house, and took them home again. Chip saw 
 them in the library. 
 
 IM 
 
REPROACH 
 
 The first meeting waa embarrassing. Tom 
 was nearly eight, and Chippie on the way to six. 
 They entered the library together, dressed alike 
 in blouses and knickerbockers, their caps in 
 their hands. They approached slowly to where 
 he hod taken up a position he tried to make 
 nonchalant, standing on the hearth-rug with 
 his hands behind him. He felt curiously cul- 
 pable before them, like a convict being visited 
 by his friends in jail. He felt childish, too. as 
 though they were older than, and superior to, 
 himself. The childishness was shown in his 
 standing on his guard, determined not to be 
 the first to make the advances. He wouldn't 
 be even the first to speak. 
 
 They came forward slowly, with an air ju- 
 dicial and detached. Tom's eyes observed him 
 more closely than his brother's, who looked 
 about the room. Tom, as the elder, seemed to 
 feel the responsibility of the meeting to be on 
 his shoulders. He came to a halt, on reaching 
 the end of the library table. Chippie by his side. 
 
 "Hello, papa." 
 
 "Hello, Tom." 
 
 Encouraged by this exchange of greetings. 
 Chippie also spoke up. "Hello, papa." 
 
 117 
 

 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 "Hello, Chippie." 
 
 There followed a few seconds during which 
 the interview threatened to hang fire there, 
 when the protest in Chip's hot heart — which 
 was essentially paternal — broke out almost 
 angrily: 
 
 "Aren't you going to kiss me?" 
 
 It was Tom who pointed out the unreason- 
 ableness of emotion' in making this demand. 
 His brows went up in an expression of surprise, 
 which hinted at protest on his own part. " Well, 
 you're not sitting down." 
 
 Of course! It was obviously impossible for 
 two little mites to kiss a man of that height 
 at that distance. Chip dropi>ed into an arm- 
 chair, waiting jealously for the two dutiful 
 little pecks that might pass as spontaneous, 
 and then throwing his big arms about his 
 young ones in a desperate embrace. After that 
 the ice was broken, and, with the aid of the 
 games and the picture-books provided by Lily 
 Bland, the meeting could go forward to a glo- 
 rious termination in ice-cream. Now and then 
 there were difiScult questions or observations, 
 but they were never pressed unduly for reply. 
 
 "Papa, why don't you live with us anymore?" 
 iia 
 
HEPKOACH 
 
 "Papa, shall we have another papa after this 
 one? 
 
 "Papa, our other papa has a funny nose." 
 
 Laerar ' "'^ ^°" **"' '^ ^^^^' "' ^ P*P* 
 In general it was Chippie who put these 
 questions or made the remarks. Tom seemed 
 to miderstand already that the situation was 
 dehcate, and had moments of puzzled gravity 
 But. taking one thing with another, the oc- 
 casion passed off weU. as did similar meetings 
 through the rest of that winter and whenever 
 they were possible-whieh was not often- 
 m the summer that followed. It was a joy to 
 Chip when they began again in the autumn, 
 with a promise of regularity. But that joy 
 too, was short-lived. 
 
 It was his second time of seeing them after 
 the general return to town. Tom was hanging 
 on hs shoulder, while Chippie was seated on 
 his W. Chippie was agam the spokesman. 
 We ve got a baby sister at our house " 
 It seemed to Chip as if all the blood in his 
 body rushed back to his heart and stayed there. 
 He felt dizzy. sick. The walls of his fool's 
 paradise were dissolved as mist, revealing a 
 
 189 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 picture he had seen twice already, each time 
 wi.th an upleaping of the primal and the fatherly 
 in him; but now . . . Edith had bepn lying in 
 bed, wan. bright-eyed, happy, with a litUe 
 fuzzy head just peeping at her breast! 
 
 He put the boy from oflf his knee. Tom 
 seemed to divine something and stole away. 
 For a second or two both lads watched him 
 —Chippie looking lip straight into his face, 
 Tom gazing from the distant line of the book- 
 case, with his habitual expression of troubled 
 perplexity. Chip managed to speak at last, 
 getting out the words in a fairly natural tone. 
 "Look here, boys; I can't stay to-day. I've 
 got a— I've got a pain. Just play by your- 
 selves till Miss Bland comes for you. Be good 
 boys, now, and don't touch any of Mr. Bland's 
 things." 
 
 He was hurrying to the door when Chippie 
 interrupted him. "Where have you got a pain. 
 
 He tapped himself on the heart. "Here, 
 Chippie, here; and I hope you may never have 
 anything so awful." 
 
 As he went down the steps he found himself 
 saying: "Will this crucifixion never end? Have 
 
REPROACH 
 
 I deserved it? Wm th^ „_• 
 
 " iir rras tHe cnme so temhl^ tJ.o* 
 
 1 must be tortured by degrees like ISr*""* 
 
 evettoThinT"^-*" '^'''' ^'^ ''"-*•-«. »' 
 even to thmk. His mind seemed to go blank 
 
 till as he tramped down the street he came 
 
 meTnrmot" ''''"" '•^'•' ^^^'--'•-«- 
 
 prl'tir r""""' '"* '^ "P^**«l *h« ™- 
 pm^atzon. He repeated it because it shocked 
 
 iSlt h '* P™^*""* 1^ holy of holies, and 
 
 f'Jr.''''^'^'''- Itg'^vehimafierce 
 po^verted ,oy to feel that she whom he wS 
 
 Its treasures m the streets. ^ 
 
 He had never had a sanctuary but in her 
 OUier people's temples were to him not I' 
 
M 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 Now that the shrine had been proven empty, 
 and the goddess irrevocably flown, he got an 
 impious satisfaction from battering down the 
 altars and blaspheming the deity to whom 
 they had been raised. 
 
 "Damn her! Damn her!" 
 He repeated the curse at intervals till he 
 reached his rooms, the hateful rooms that he 
 rarely visited at this hour of the day. He was 
 not, however, thinking of their hatefulness now, 
 as he had come with an intention. 
 
 There was u fire laid in the fireplace, and he 
 lighted it. When it was crackling sufficiently 
 he drew Edith's photograph from its frame 
 and, after gazing at it long and bitterly, tossed 
 it into the blaze. He watched it blister and 
 writhe as though it had been a living thing. 
 The flame seized on it slowly and unwillingly, 
 biting at the edges in a curling wreath of blue, 
 and eating its way inward only by degrees. 
 But it ate its way. It ate its way till the whole 
 lovely person disappeared— first the hands, 
 and then the bosom, and then the throat and 
 the features. The sweet eyes still gazed up 
 at him when everything else was gone. 
 
 He had hoped to get relief by this bit of 
 
 132 
 
^ ^ 
 
 EEPROACH 
 
 ritual, but none came. When that which had 
 been the semblance of his wife was no more 
 than a little swoUen rectangle of black ash. and 
 the fire itself was dying down, he threw him- 
 self into a chair. 
 
 The reaction was not long in setting in. It 
 set in with a voice that might have come from 
 without, but which he nevertheless recognized 
 as his own: 
 
 "You fool! Oh, you fool! What difference 
 does this make to your love for her? You know 
 you love her, and that you will never cease lov- 
 ing her, and that what you envy her is— 'he 
 child." 
 
 What you envy her is— the child! He pon- 
 dered on this. It was like an accusation. The 
 admission of it— when admission came— was 
 the point of departure in his heart of a new 
 conscious yearning. 
 
IV 
 
 DANOEB 
 
 IT was what he had been afraid of on and off 
 for seven years. DThe wonder was that it 
 hadn't happened before. But, since it had not 
 happened, he had got out of the way of expect- 
 ing it. The fear of it used to dog him whenever he 
 went to the theater or the opera or out to dine. 
 There had been minutes in Fifth Avenue, or 
 Bond Street, or the Rue de la Faix, as the case 
 might be, when, at the sight of a feather or a 
 scarf or something familiar in a way of walking, 
 his heart and brain seemed to stop their func- 
 tion. He had known himself to stand stock- 
 still, searching wildly for the easy, casual 
 phrases he had prepared — ^for the purpose of 
 carrying off such a meeting as this, if ever it 
 occurred, only to find that he was mistaken — 
 that It was some one else. 
 
 There had been two or three years like that, 
 two or three years in which they had often 
 
DAN6EB 
 
 been in the same city, perhaps under the same 
 roof; but he had never so much as caught a 
 glimpse of her. In the earlier months that 
 had been a relief. He couldn't have seen her 
 and kept his self-control. He could follow the 
 routine of life only by a system he had invented 
 —a system for shutting her out of his thought, 
 that the sight of her would have wrecked. 
 
 Then had come another period in which he 
 felt he could have committed infamies just to 
 see her getting in or out of a carriage, or lunch- 
 ing in a restaurant, or buying something in a 
 shop. There were whole seasons when he 
 knew she was in New York from autumn to 
 spring; and, though he haunted all the places 
 where women who keep in the movement are 
 likely to be found, he never saw her. 
 
 He knew he could have discovered her plans 
 and followed her; but he wouldn't do that. 
 Besides, he didn't want to meet her in such a 
 way as to be obliged to speak to her. He 
 wouldn't have known what to say, or by what 
 name to call her. Such an encounter would 
 have annoyed her and made him grotesque. 
 It was more than he asked. He would have 
 been satisfied with a glimpse of her gloved hand 
 us 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 or her veiled face as she drove in the Park or 
 the Avenue. But he never got it. 
 
 After he married, the fear of n.oeting her 
 came back. It was fear as much for her sake 
 as for his own. He began to understand that 
 the embarrassjsent wouldn't be all on his side, 
 nor the suffering. He picked that up from 
 the children, as he l^ad picked up so many 
 things, piecing odds and ends of their speeches 
 together. He saw them so rarely now that 
 he attached the greater value to the hints they 
 threw out. He never questioned them about 
 her, but it was natural that they should take 
 a wider range of comment in proportion as they 
 grew older. So he learned that her dread of 
 seeing him was as great as his own of seeing 
 her. It was astonishing that in all those seven 
 years the hazards of New York should not have 
 thrown them together. 
 
 And now, at the moment when he might 
 reasonably have felt safest, there she was! 
 That is, she was on the steamer. For seven 
 or eight days they were to be cooped up on 
 the same boat. He could never go on deck 
 or into the saloon without having to pass her. 
 Worse still, she could never go outside her 
 us 
 
DANGER 
 
 cabin door without the risk of being obliged to 
 make him some sign of recognition. And a 
 sign of recognition between them— why, the 
 thing was absurd! Between them it must be 
 all— or nothing; and it couldn't be either. 
 
 He looked at the passenger-list again. Yes; 
 that was her name: Mr», Theodore Lacon. It 
 was not a name likely to be duplicated. In 
 all human probability it was she. As far as 
 he could gather from the list, she was traveling 
 alone, without so much as the companionship 
 of a maid. He, too, was alone; but, fortunate- 
 ly, his name was inconspicuous: Mr. C. Walker. 
 It was just the sort of name to be overlooked. 
 She might read the list half a dozen times 
 without really seeing it. If she were to no- 
 tice it, she might easily not reflect that the 
 initial stood for Chipman. It was conceiv- 
 able that if she didn't actually see him she 
 might not know that he was on the ship at 
 aU. 
 
 The thought suggested a line of action. He 
 was in his cabin at the time. He could stay 
 there. Looking through the port-hole, he saw 
 that they had not yet passed the Statue of 
 Liberty. While in dock he had kept to his 
 
 137 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 room, in order to read letters and avoid the 
 crowd that throngs the deck of an outgoing 
 rteamer. There was every likelihood that she 
 hadn't seen him any more than he had seen 
 her. If he kept himself hidden she might never 
 know! He could avoid the decks by day and 
 take his exercise by night. By night, too. he 
 could creep into the smoking-room and get a 
 Kttle change. But he' would stay away from 
 the general gathering-places on the ship and 
 spare her what pain he could. That they 
 should meet as strangers was out of the ques- 
 tion. That they should meet as social ac- 
 quaintances was even more so. They had been 
 ^ to each other-and they had been nothing. 
 No other relation was possible. 
 
 So the week passed, and they reached Liver- 
 pool. He was purposely among the last to go 
 ashore. In the great shed where the luggage 
 was distributed under initial letters, he was glad 
 to remember that W was so far from. Never- 
 theless, he allowed his eye to roam toward sec- 
 tion L. but found no one there whom he recog- 
 nized. He ran over in his mind the various 
 chances that she might not have come. It 
 was no uncommon thing to read in a list of 
 
 188 
 
DANGER 
 
 P«u»engers the names of people who hadn't 
 ■ailed. He had done so before. 
 
 Later he scanned, as discreetly as he could, 
 the occupants of the special train that was to 
 take them to London. He couldn't see that 
 she was anywhere among them. He sighed, 
 but whether from relief or disappointment he 
 was not sure. 
 
 As it was one o'clock, he took his seat in 
 the luncheon-car, making sure in advance that 
 she wasn't there. He had come to the conclu- 
 sion by this time that she was not on the train 
 at aU— that she hadn't been on the steamer. 
 He did not, however, regret his precautions, 
 because— well, because the sense of her prox- 
 imity had made him feel as he had felt in the 
 days— fourteen years ago now— when the very 
 streets of the city in which she lived were hal- 
 lowed ground. He had supposed that emotion 
 dead. Probably it was dead. It must be 
 dead. It was merely that, owing to the con- 
 straint of the voyage, his nerves were unstrung, 
 mducing the frame of mind in which people 
 see ghosts. Yes. that was it; he had been see- 
 ing ghosts. It was not a living tWng. this re- 
 newed yearning for a sight of her. It was only 
 
 139 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 the reflex of aomething past. It could be ex- 
 plained psychologically. It waa the sort of 
 evanescent sentiment inspired by old songs, or 
 by the scent of faded flowers, reviving old joys 
 tenderly, perhaps poignantly, but fleetingly, 
 insubstantially, and only as the wraiths of 
 what they were. Yes, that was it, he repeated 
 to himself as he lunched. It was nothing to 
 be afraid of, nothing incongruous with the fact 
 that he had left a wife and child in New York. 
 It was not an emotion; it was only the echo, the 
 shadow, the memory of an emotion, gone be- 
 fore it could be seized. 
 
 And then, suddenly, they were face to face. 
 He was on his way from the luncheon-car to 
 the compartment he shared with two or three 
 men at the other end of the train. She was 
 standing in the corridor, looking out at the 
 vaporous English landscape. Through the 
 mists overlying the flat fields and distant 
 parks trees loomed weirdly, the elms and 
 beeches in full leaf, the oaks just tinged with 
 green. Cottony white clouds drifted over- 
 head; the sun was dimly visible. Now and 
 then a line of hedge was white, or pink and 
 white, with the bursting may. 
 
 140 
 
DANGER 
 
 He didn't recognize the lady who barred hia 
 way along the narrow passage. As she stood 
 with one arm on the brass rail that crossed the 
 window he could see an ungloved hand; but 
 it might have been any hand. She wore a long 
 brown coat, rather shapeless, reaching to the 
 hem of her dress, while a large hat, about which 
 a green veil looped and drooped irregularly, 
 entirely concealing the head, helped to make 
 her, as he stood waiting for her to move, a 
 mere feminine figure without personality. 
 
 It was the sense that some one desired to 
 pass that caused her to turn slightly, glancing 
 up at him sidewise. Even so, he couldn't see 
 all of her face — not much more than the fore- 
 head and the eyes. But the eyes seemed to 
 come alive as he looked down into them, like 
 sapphires under slowly growing light. When 
 she turned, her movements had the deliberation 
 of bewilderment. She might have been just 
 wakened in a place she didn't know. 
 
 "Chip!" There was another half-minute of 
 incredulous gazing before she said anything 
 more. "What are you doing here?" 
 
 He felt the necessity of explaining his pres- 
 ence. "I was on the boat. I didn't know—" 
 
 Ml 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 "That I waa on it, too?" 
 
 "I— I did know that," he .tammered, "after 
 we sailed. Not before. It was the name in 
 the list—" 
 
 "But I never saw you. There weren't many 
 passengers. I was always on deck." 
 
 Her distress betrayed itself in the trembling 
 of her voice, in the shifting of her color, and in 
 the beating of the ungloved hand upon the 
 gloved one. 
 
 He felt his own confusion passing. It was 
 so natural to be with her, so right. His voice 
 grew steadier as he said: 
 
 "I didn't go about very much. I was 
 afraid — " 
 
 She nodded, speaking hastily. "I understand. 
 It was kind of you. And you're-alone?" 
 
 He cursed himself for coloring, but he 
 couldn't help it. He had a wife and child in 
 New York! He saw that she wanted to recog- 
 nize that fact from the first. She wanted to put 
 that boy and his mother between them. Her 
 husband and child stood between them. too. 
 He took that cue in answering. 
 
 "Yes; I've run over hurriedly on business. 
 And are you alone, too?" 
 na 
 
DANGER 
 
 She glanced toward the empty compartment 
 where her bags were stowed in the overhead 
 racks, and her books and illustrated papers lay 
 on the cushions. "I'm on my way to join 
 my—" It was her turn to color. 
 
 He nodded quickly, to show that he under- 
 stood. 
 
 "He's in Biarritz." she hurried on, for the 
 sake of saying something. "I'm to meet him 
 in Paris. I wasn't coming over at all this 
 spring. I wanted to stay with the children 
 at Towers—" 
 
 It was a safe subject. "How were the chil- 
 dren when you left?" 
 
 "Tom was all right; but Chippie has been 
 having the same old trouble with his tonsils. 
 They'll have to be cut again." 
 
 "I thought so the last time I saw him. And 
 he's growing too fast for his strength, poor lit- 
 tle chap. I notice," he added, gazing at her 
 more mtently than he had as yet permitted 
 himself to do. " that he begins to look like you." 
 
 She smiled for the first time. "Oh. but 7 
 think he looks like you." 
 
 "No; Tom takes after me. He's a Walker 
 Chippie's—" 
 
 14S 
 
;l 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 "A darling," she broke in. "But he's not 
 
 strong. Ever since he had the scarlet fever--" 
 
 "Yes, I know. But it might have been 
 
 worse. We might have lost him. Do you 
 
 remember the night—?" 
 
 She put her hand to her eyes as if to shut 
 out the vision of it. "Oh, that awful night! 
 And you were more afraid than I was. Mothers 
 are braver than fathers at Umes like that." 
 
 "It was watching the 'fight he put up. Gad, 
 he was plucky, the poor litUe chap! And he 
 was only three, wasn't he?" 
 "Three and five months." 
 "And he'U be eleven his next birthday. 
 How the years fly! By the way, won't it soon 
 be tune for Tom to be going to boarding- 
 school?" * 
 
 They were being pushed and jostled by 
 guards and passengers. Between sentences it 
 was necessary to make room f«- some one 
 going or coming. She was obliged to step back 
 into her compartment. Having taken the seat 
 m the comer by the window, she motioned with 
 her hand toward that in the opposite comer 
 by the door. In this way they were separated 
 by the length and width of the compartment, 
 
 144 
 
DANGEB 
 
 the distance marking the other gulf between 
 them. 
 
 She continued to talk of the chadren, looking 
 at first into the cavernous obscurity of Crewe 
 station, through which they were dashmg, and 
 then at the open country. The chfldren, with 
 then- needs, their ailments, then- future careers, 
 could not but be the natural theme between 
 them. It lasted while they passed Nuneaton, 
 Rugby, and Stafford, and were well on their 
 way to London. Suddenly he risked a question: 
 "Do they— understand?" 
 She was plamly agitated that he should dis- 
 turb the ashes that buried their past. Her 
 eyes shot him one piteous. appeaHng glance, 
 after which they returned to the passmg land- 
 scape. "Tom understands," she said, at last. 
 "Chippie takes it for granted." 
 "Takes it for granted— how?" 
 "Just as they both did— till Tom began to 
 get a little more experience. It seemed to 
 them quite the ordinary thmg to have"— she 
 hesitated and colored— "to have two fathers." 
 He winced, but risked another question: 
 "What makes you think that Tom's discovered 
 it to be unusual?" 
 
 us 
 
ri 
 
 THE LETTEB OF THE CONTRACT 
 "Because he's said so." 
 "In what way? Do you mind telling me?" 
 "I'd rather not tell you." 
 "But if I insist?" 
 
 "You'U insist at the risk of having your feel- 
 ings hurt." 
 
 "Oh, that!" A shrug of his shoulders and 
 
 a wry smile expressed his indifference to such 
 
 a res^ilt. "Did he ask you anything?" 
 
 She nodded, without turning from the win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Won't you tell me what it was? It would 
 help me in my future dealing with the boy." 
 She continued to gaze out at the park-like 
 fields, from which the mists had risen. "He 
 asked me if you hud done anything bad." 
 "And you told him—?" 
 "I told him that I didn't understand-that 
 perhaps I'd never understood." 
 
 "Thank you for putting it like that. But 
 you did understand, you know-perfectly. 
 \ou mustn't have it on your conscience 
 that — " 
 
 "Oh, we can't help the things we've got on 
 our consciences. There's no way of shuffling 
 away from them." 
 
DANGER 
 
 He allowed some minutes to pass before say- 
 
 mg gently: "You're happy?" ^ 
 
 She spoke while watching a flock of sheep 
 
 trottmg clumsily up a hillside from the noise 
 
 of the tram. "And you?" 
 
 "Oh. I'm as happy a^-weU. aa I deserve 
 to be. I m not ««happy." A pause gave 
 emphasis to his quesUon when he said, almost 
 repeatmg her tone: "And you?" 
 
 "I suppose I ought to say the same" A 
 dozen or twenty rooks alighting on an elm en- 
 gaged her attention before she added: "I've 
 no right to be unhappy." 
 "One can be unhappy without a right." 
 Yes; but one forfeits sympatiiy." 
 'Do you need sympathy?" 
 
 She ansTvered hurriedly: "No, not at all." 
 I do. 
 
 ffis words were so low that it was permissible 
 
 at first to make use of this privilege, but when 
 a mmute or more had gone by she said: "What 
 
 "Partly for the penalties I've had to pay. 
 but chiefly for deserving them." 
 It seemed to him Uiat her profile grew pen- 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 sive. Though it detached itseU clearly enough 
 against the pane, it was a soft profile, a httle 
 blurred in the outUne. with delicate curves of 
 nose and lips and chin-the profile to go with 
 dimpling smiles and a suffused sweetness. It 
 pained him to notice that, though the suffused 
 sweetness and the dimpUng smiles were still as 
 
 he remembered them, they didn't keep out of 
 
 her face certain lines that had not been there 
 
 when he saw her last. 
 "I think I ought to tell you," she said, after 
 
 long reflection, "that I understand that sort of 
 
 sympathy better now than I did some years ago. 
 
 One grows more tolerant, if that's the right 
 
 word, as one grows older." 
 "Does that mean that if certain things were 
 
 to do again— you wouldn't do them?" 
 She took on an air of dignity. "That's 
 
 something I can't talk about." 
 "But you think about it." 
 
 "Even so, I couldn't discuss it — with 
 you." 
 
 "But I'm the very one with whom you cotdd 
 discuss it. Between us the conversaUon would 
 be what lawyers call privileged." 
 
 She looked round at him for the first time 
 
 148 
 
DANGER 
 
 since entering the compartment. "Is anything 
 pnvJeged between you and me?" 
 "Isn't everything?" 
 "I don't see how." 
 "We've been man and wife—" 
 "That's the very reason. No two peoole 
 seem to me so far apart as those who'veTl 
 maa and wife-and aren't so any longer." 
 
 togett.'' ^' " " "^^' "*• '^'^ - - "ear 
 Her eyes were full of mute questioning. He 
 ^ade no attempt to approach her. but i^ lean- 
 ing .^ss the upholstered arm of his seat he 
 
 tTrki:^^"""^ ^""^ ''' "^^ '^^-^ •- 
 
 J-No two are so near together." he went on. 
 for the very reason that when they're sepa- 
 rated outwardly they're bound the more cloL7y 
 by the things of the heart and the soul and the 
 spmt After all, those are the ties that count 
 The legal dBsolving of bonds and making of 
 new ones IS only superficial. It hasn't put you 
 and me asundei-not the you and me." he 
 
 attitude seemed to indicate dissent, "not the 
 you and me that are really essential. No court 
 
 "* 149 • 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 and no judge could dissolve the union we en- 
 tered into when you were twenty-one and I was 
 twenty-seven, and our two lives melted into 
 each other like the flowing together of two 
 streams. Neither judge nor court can resolve 
 into their original waters the rivers that have 
 already become one." 
 
 ^^ She smiled faintly, perhaps bitterly. 
 "Doesn't your figure of speech carry you too 
 far? In our case the judge and the court were 
 only incidental. What reaUy dissolved our 
 union was — " 
 
 "I know what you're going to say. And it 
 wu against the letter of the contract. Of 
 course. I've never denied that, have I? But 
 in every true marriage there's something over 
 and above the letter of the contract— to which 
 the letter of the contract is as nothing. And 
 if ever there was a true marriage, Edith, ours 
 was." 
 
 "Stop!" Her little figure became erect. Her 
 eyes, which up to the present he had been com- 
 paring to forget-me-nots, as he used lo do, now 
 shone like blue -fired winter stars. "Stoo 
 Chip." ^' 
 
 "Why?" 
 
DANGEB 
 
 "Because I ask you to." 
 "But why should you ask me to, when Pm 
 only stating facts? It m a fact, isn't it? that 
 oup marriage was a true one in every sense in 
 which a marriage can be true, till other people 
 —no, let me go on!— till other people— your 
 Aunt Emily most of all— advised you to exact 
 your pound of flesh and the strict rigor of the 
 law. I gave you your pound of flesh, Edith, 
 right off the heart; so that if atonement could 
 be made in that way—" 
 
 "CUp, wiU you teU me what good there is in 
 bringing this up now? You're married to some 
 one else, and so am I. We can't go back, be- 
 cause we've burned the bridges behind ua— " 
 "But it's something to know that we'd go 
 back if we could." 
 "I haven't said so." 
 "True." 
 
 He feU silent because of the impossibaity of 
 speech. He made no move to go. To sit 
 with her in this way, without speaking, was 
 like an obliteraUon of the last seven years, re- 
 ducing them to a nightmare. It was a shock 
 to him, therefore, when she pointed to a dis- 
 tant spire on a hill, saying: 
 
THB LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 "There'B Harrow. We ihaU be in London 
 in half an hour." 
 
 In London in half an hour, and this brief 
 renewal of what never should have been in- 
 terrupted would be ended I He recalled similar 
 journeys with her over this very bit of line, 
 when the arrival in London had been but the 
 beginning of long delightful days together. And 
 now be might not see her for another seven 
 years; he might never isee her any more. It 
 was unnatural, incredible, impossible; and yet 
 the facts precluded any rebellion on his part 
 against them. Even if she were willing to 
 rebel he couldn't do it— with a wife and boy 
 in New York. He had married again on 
 purpose to satisfy his longing for a child— 
 a family. He felt very tenderly toward 
 them, the little chap and his mother; but 
 he was dear as to the fact that he felt 
 tenderly toward them, pityingly tender, large- 
 ly because when face to face with Edith he 
 wished to God that they had never been 
 part of his life. And doubtless she felt the 
 same toward her Mr. Lacon and the child of 
 that union. But she would never admit it— 
 not directly, at any rate. He might gather it 
 in 
 
DANGER 
 
 from hinta, or read it betveen the lines; but 
 he could never make her say so. Why should 
 she say so? What good would it do? Were 
 she to confess to him that she hated the man 
 toward whom she was traveling, he would ex- 
 perience an unholy satisfaction— b t, after all, 
 it would be unholy. 
 
 In the end he could find no simpler relief to 
 his feelings than to take down her belongings 
 from the overhead racks. 
 
 "I'll just run along and pick up my own 
 traps," he explained, "and come back to see 
 you properly looked after." 
 
 Though she assured him of her ability to 
 look after herself, he felt at liberty to ridicule 
 her pretensions. "You must have changed a 
 great deal if you can do that," he declared, as 
 he handed down a roll of rugs strapped with a 
 shawl-strap. 
 "I have changed a great deal." 
 "I don't see it. I can't see that you've 
 changed at all — essentially." 
 
 "Oh. but it's essentiaUy that I am changed. 
 
 Superficially I may be more or less the same— 
 
 8 little older; but within I'm another woman." 
 
 She took advantage of the fact that his back 
 
 us 
 
THE LETTEB OP THE CONTRACT 
 WM tuned to her, m he disentangled the 
 handles of panuola and umbrellas from the 
 network above, to say further: "Perhaps— 
 sbce we've met in this unexpected way— and 
 tallted-poesiWy a litUe too frankly— it may 
 be weU if I remind you that you'd still be con- 
 fronted with that fact-that I'm another wom- 
 an— even if our bridges weren't burned behind 
 us." He decided to let that pass without dis- 
 cussion, and because he said nothing she added: 
 "And I dare say I should find you another 
 man. So don't let us be too sorry. Chip, or 
 think that if we hadn't done what we Aow 
 done — " 
 
 Though he still stood with his back to her, 
 lifting down a heavy bag with a black canvas 
 covering, he could hear a catch in her voice 
 that almost amounted to a sob. Because there 
 was something in himself dangerously near re- 
 spondmg to this appeal, he uttered the first 
 words that came to him: 
 
 "HeUo! Here's a thing I recognize. Didn't 
 you have this—?" 
 
 As he stood holdmg the bag awkwardly be- 
 fore her she inclined her head. 
 "One of your wedding presents, wasn't it?" 
 
 IS* 
 
JU« IMM9Di«tr tut* 
 
 WDojou mean that you'll see me-late^when we'. 
 
DANGER 
 
 She found voice to say: "It's my dressing- 
 case. Mama gave it to me." 
 "And didn't I break a bottle in it once?" 
 She tried to catch his tone of casual reminis- 
 cence. "It's still broken." 
 
 "And isn't this the bag that got the awful 
 bang that time we raised a row about it when 
 we landed in New York? A silver box stove 
 in, or soi^ething of that sort?" 
 
 She succeeded in smiling, though she knew 
 the smile was ghastly. "It's still stove in." 
 "Gad, think of my remembering that!" 
 He meant the remark to be easy, if not pre- 
 cisely jocose; but the trivial, intimate details 
 wrung a cry from her: "Oh. Chip, go away! I 
 can't stand any more — now" 
 
 He pressed his advantage, standing over her, 
 the black bag still in his hands, as she cowered 
 in the comer, pulling down her veil. "'Now'! 
 'Now'! Do you mean that you'll see me— later 
 — when we're in Lotidon?" 
 
 The veil hid her face, but she pressed her 
 clasped hands against her lips as if to keep 
 back all words. 
 
 "Do you mean that, Edith?" he insisted. 
 Her breath came in little sobs. She spoke 
 W7 
 
\ i 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 « if the words forced themselves out in spite 
 of her efforts to repress them: "I'm— I'm stoy 
 bgattheRitz. IshaUbetherefoi-forsome 
 days— tiU— till— he sends for me." 
 
 "Good. I'm at the Piccadilly. IshaUcome 
 to-morrow at eleven." 
 
 Before she could withdraw her impUed per- 
 mission he was in the corridor on the way to 
 his own compartment; but at Euston he was 
 beside her door, ready to help her down. Amid 
 the noise and bustle of finding her luggage and 
 havmg It put on a taxi-cab, there was no op- 
 portunity for her to speak. He took care, be- 
 sides, that there should be none. Shewasact- 
 uaUy seated in the vehicle before she was able 
 to say to him, as he stood at the open win- 
 dow to ask if she had everything she re- 
 quired: 
 
 "Oh, Chip, about to-morrow — " 
 '■At eleven," he said, hastily. "I make it 
 eleven because if it's fine we might run down 
 and have the day at Maidenhead." 
 
 She caught at a straw. If she couldn't shelve 
 
 him, a day in the country, in the open air, would 
 
 be less dangerous than one in London. And 
 
 perhaps in the end she might shelve him. At 
 
 i« 
 
DANGER 
 
 any rate, she could temporize. "I've never 
 been at Maidenhead." 
 
 "And lunch at Skindle's isn't at all bad." 
 
 "I've never been at Skindle's." 
 
 "And after lunch we'll go out on the river- 
 the Clieveden woods, you know— and aU that." 
 
 "I've never seen the Clieveden woods." 
 
 "Then that's settled. At eleven. All right, 
 driver; go on." 
 
 ^^ But she stretched her hands toward him. 
 "Oh, Chip, don't come! I'm afraid. What's 
 the good? Since we've burned our bridges—" 
 He had just time to say: "Even without 
 bridges, there are wings. At eleven, then. 
 All right, driver; go on. The Bitz Hotel." 
 
 'WSJi 
 
• I 
 
 
 PENALTY 
 
 TTE went to Berne because she had let slip 
 X X the name of that place during the after- 
 noon at Maidenhead. It was the only hint of 
 the kind she threw out during the afternoons- 
 four in all— they passed together. He forgot 
 the connection in which they came, but he re- 
 tained the words: "He may have to go to 
 Berne." 
 
 He was between them as an awesome pres- 
 ence, never mentioned otherwise than allusively. 
 His name was too sinister to speak. Each 
 thought of him unceasingly, in silence, and with 
 anguish: but, as far as possible, they kept him 
 out of their intercourse. It was enough to 
 know that he was there, a fearful authority in 
 the background, able to summon her from this 
 brief renewal of old happiness, as Pluto could 
 recall Eurydice. 
 It was the supremacy of this power, which 
 
 ISO 
 
PENALTY 
 they themselves had placed in his hands, that 
 m the end drove Chip Walker to wondering 
 what he was like. 
 "What is he like?" he found the force to ask. 
 She looked distressed. "He's a good man." 
 He nerved himself to come to a point at 
 which he had long been aiming: "Look here. 
 Edith! Why did you marry him?" 
 
 "Do you mean, why did I many him in 
 particular, or why did I marry any one?' 
 "I mean both." 
 
 "Oh. I don't know. There-there seemed 
 to be reasons." 
 
 That was at Tunbridge Wells-in the twilight 
 on the terrace of the old Calverly Hotel. They 
 were sitting under a great hawthorn in fuD 
 bloom. The air was sweet with the scent of 
 It. It was sweet, too, with the scent of flowers 
 and of new-mown hay. In a tree at the edge 
 of the terrace a blackbird waa singing to a faint 
 crescent moon. There was stiU enough day- 
 hght to show the shadows deepening toward 
 i-ridge and over Broadwater Down, while on 
 the sk)pmg crest of Bishop's Down Common 
 human figures appeared of gigantic size as they 
 towered through the gloaming. 
 
 161 
 
 ii-'lJi'- >^: 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 Edith was pouring the after-dinner cofFee. 
 It was the first time they had dined together. 
 On the other days she had made it a point to 
 be back in London before nightfs"- but she 
 had so far yielded to him now as to be willing 
 to wait for a later train. 
 
 "What sort of reasons?" he urged. 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," she said again, pensively, 
 dropping a lump of sugar into his coffee-cup. 
 She added, while passing the cup to him: "It 
 isn't so easy for a woman to be — to be drifting 
 about — especially with two children." 
 
 "But why should you have drifted about, 
 when you knew that at a sign from you — ?" 
 
 She went on as if he hadn't spoken. "And 
 when I saw you had dismantled the house and 
 other people were living in it — I couldn't 
 help seeing that, you know, in driving 
 by-" 
 
 "But, good God, Edith, you wouldn't have 
 come back to me?" 
 
 She stirred her own coffee slowly. "N-no." 
 
 "Does that mean no or yes?" 
 
 "Oh, it means no. That is" — she reflected 
 long — "if I had gone back to you I should have 
 been sorry." 
 
PENALTY 
 
 "You would have considered it a weakness 
 — a surrender — " 
 She nodded. "Something like that." 
 "And you really had stopped— caring any- 
 thing about me?" 
 
 "It wasn't that so much as— so much as that 
 I couldn't get over my resentment." She 
 seemed to have found the explanatory word. 
 "That was it," she continued, with more de- 
 cision. "That's what I felt: resentment-a 
 terrible resentment. Whatever compromise I 
 
 thought of, that resentment against you for 
 
 for doing what you did— blocked the way. If 
 I'd gone back I should have taken it with me." 
 "But you don't seem to suffer from it now. 
 Or am I wrong?" 
 
 She answered promptly: "No; you're right. 
 That's the strange part of it. After I married 
 —it left me. It was as if old scores were wiped 
 out. That isn't precisely what I felt." she 
 hastened to add; "and yet, it was somethine 
 like that." 
 
 "You'd got even." 
 
 She shook her head doubtfully. "N-no. I 
 don't mean that. But the past seemed to be 
 dissolved— not to exist for me any more." 
 les 
 
THE LETTER i>F THE CONTRACT 
 
 "ffm! Not to exist for you any morel" 
 
 "I said seemed. That's what bewildered me 
 — ^from the beginning: thing*; T thought I felt 
 — or thought I didn't feel— for a while— only 
 to find later that it wasn't— w;, ,.': «>." She 
 went on with difficulty. "F ;i- autance — that 
 day— that day at the Park— I thought that 
 everything was killed within me. But it wasn't. 
 It came alive again." 
 
 "But not so much alive that you wanted to 
 come back to me." 
 
 "Alive — ^m a different way." 
 
 "What sort of different way?" 
 
 Her eyes became appealing. "Oh, what's 
 the good of talking of it now?" 
 
 "Because you haven't told me what I asked 
 — why you married him — why you married 
 any one." 
 
 She turned the query against himself: "Why 
 did you?" 
 
 "I didn't till after you did. I wouldn't have 
 done it then if — if I hadn't been so — well, to 
 put it plainly, so damned lonely." 
 
 She gave him one of the smiles that stabbed 
 him. "Well, then? Doesn't that answer your 
 question?" 
 
PENALTY 
 He thought it did, and for a while they lis- 
 tened to the blackbird's song in silence. It was 
 their Ust talk. They parted at the door of the 
 Rita with the intention of spending the next 
 day in Wmdsor Forest— or some other roman- 
 tic wood; but within a fe^- minutes she had 
 telephoned him that the summons had arrived. 
 Next morning she left for Paris. 
 
 And so he went to Berne. He hadn't meant 
 to go there when he said good-by to her at 
 \^ctoria. He had no intenUon of following 
 her or putting himself in her way. He had 
 purposely asked nothing of her plans, or so 
 much as the date of h« return to America. 
 He had not precisely made up his mind that 
 they were parting for good, but he was too 
 stunned to forecast the future. He was stun- 
 ned and sickened. He was stunned and sick- 
 ened and disconsolate to a degree beyond any- 
 thing he had thought possible in life. If it 
 hadn't been for the bit of business that had 
 brought him to London he would hardly have 
 had courage enough to get through the days. 
 But, the business coming to an end, he was 
 stranded. There was nothing to do but go 
 back to the wife and child whose existence 
 
 16« 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 he never remembered except with a pang of 
 ■elf-reproach. He meant to go back to them 
 — but not yet. It was too soon. Edith was 
 too much with him. The fact that her phys- 
 ical presence was withdrawn made her spiritu- 
 ally the more pervasive. The afterglow of 
 their days together couldn't fade otherwise 
 than slowly, like light when the sun goes 
 down. 
 
 So, when he should have been going to New 
 York, he went to Berne. It was not really in 
 the hope of being face to face with her again 
 or of having speech with her. Even if she came 
 there the dread presence would come with her 
 and keep them apart. But Berne was a little 
 place, a quiet place, restful, soothing, a haunt 
 of ancient peace. It had struck him, on former 
 visits there, that on this spot ignored by the 
 tourist, who changes trains subterraneously, 
 consecrated to old sturdiness and modem wis- 
 dom, serenely heedless of the blatant and the 
 up-to-date, a bruised spirit in^ght heal itself 
 in c seclusion cheered by green hills and dis- 
 tant suowy ranges. It was such solitude that, 
 in the fii.st place, he sought now. If in addi- 
 tion he could see the shadow of Edith passing 
 
 18« 
 
PENALTY 
 
 by— no more!— he felt that he would soon be 
 inwardly strong again. 
 
 At Berne there is a hotel known chiefly to 
 wise travelers— a hotel of old wines, old silver, 
 old traditions, handed down from father to son, 
 and from the son to the son's son. Standing 
 on the edge of the bluff which the city crowns, 
 it dominates from its windows and terraces the 
 valley of the Aar, Swift and unruffled, the 
 river glides through the meadows like a sinuous 
 ice-green serpent. Beyond the river and behind 
 the pastoral slopes of the Gurten hangs a cur- 
 tain of mist, which lifts at times to display the 
 line of the Bernese Oberiand, from the Wetter- 
 horn to the Bettfluh. 
 
 It is a hotel with which the learned people 
 who sit in international conferences and settle 
 difficult questions are familiar. It was shelter- 
 ing a conference when Chip Walker arrived. 
 Each of the nations had appomted three dis- 
 tinguished men to consult with three distin- 
 guished men from each of the other nations 
 on possible modifications in the rules of the 
 Postal Union when the use of aeroplanes be- 
 came general in that service. The distinguished 
 men met officially in a great room of the Bun- 
 
 11 167 
 
MrCROCOPY RBOIUIION TEST CHART 
 
 (ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 
 
 la^l^ 
 
 ST; '65J Eflst Main Street 
 
 ■^ (^'6) ■♦aa - 0300 - Phone 
 ^^ ('16) 288-5989 -Fa. 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 despalast; but unofficially they could be seen 
 strolling along the arcaded medieval streets, 
 or feeding the civic bears with carrots at the 
 bear-pit, or reading or smoking or sipping coffee 
 and liqueurs in the fine semicircular hall of the 
 hotel. They were French, or Austrian, or 
 Russian, or German, or English, or Danish, 
 or Dutch, as the case might be. There were 
 also some Americans. The great national types 
 were more or less easy to discern — except the 
 Americans. That is. Chip Walker could see 
 no one whom he could recognize offhand as a 
 fellow-countryman. Three gentlemanly, jovial 
 Englishmen were easily made out, because, in 
 Walker's phrase, they "flocked by themselves" 
 and in the intervals of sitting in the Bundes- 
 palast complained that Berne had no golf-links. 
 They also dressed for dinner and dined in the 
 restaurant. A few others did the same. But 
 the majority of the distmguished men preferred 
 to spend the evening in the costumes they had 
 worn all day, and, with their wives — there were 
 eight or ten dumpy, dowdy, smiling little wives 
 — were content with the table d'hote. Indeed, 
 the popularity of the table d'hote sifted the 
 simple, scholarly professors of Gottingen, Frei- 
 
 168 
 
PENALTY 
 burg, or Geneva from the representatives of 
 the larger and more sophisticated social world, 
 leaving the latter to eat in the restaurant, 
 a la carte. 
 
 In this way Chip came to observe a man of 
 some distinction who took his meals at a small 
 table alone and kept to himself. He was a 
 man who would have been noticeable anywhere, 
 if it were for no more than the dignified gravity 
 of his manner and the correctness of his dress. 
 Not only did he wear what was impeccably the 
 right thing for the right occasion, but his move- 
 ments were of the sedate precision that never 
 displaces a button. As straight and slim and 
 erect as a guardsman, he was nevertheless 
 stamped all over as a civilian. From the lines 
 in his gray, clean-shaven face of regular profile, 
 and the silvery touches in his hair. Chip judged 
 him to be fifty years old. He puzzled the 
 analyst of nationalities— though, as Chip put 
 it to himself, it was clear he must belong to one 
 of the peoples who were chic. He was, there- 
 fore, either English or French or Russian or 
 Austrian or American. There was a bare 
 chance of his being a Dane or a Swede. When 
 he spoke to a waiter or a passing acquaintance, 
 
 169 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 it was in so low a tone that Walker couldn't de- 
 tect the language he used. All one could aflSrm 
 from distant and superficial observation was 
 that he was Somebody— Somebody of position, 
 experience, and judgment— Somebody to re- 
 spect. 
 
 That, perhaps, was the secret of Walker's 
 curiosity— that he respected him. He would 
 have liked to talk to him— not precisely to ask 
 his advice, but to lay before him some of the 
 diflSculties that were inchoate in his soul. He 
 had an idea that this man with the grave, 
 suflfering face— yes, there was suffering in his 
 face, as one could see on closer inspection!— 
 would understand them. 
 
 He came to the conclusion that he was a 
 Russian, though he had an early opportunity 
 to find out. As he stood one day by the con- 
 cierge's desk the stranger entered, paused, spoke 
 a few words inaudible to Walker, and passed on. 
 It was a simple matter to ask his name of the 
 one man who knew every name in the hotel, 
 and he was on the point of doing so. He had 
 already begun: "Voulez vous Men me dire—?" 
 when he stopped. On the whole he preferred 
 his own speculations. In the long, idle hours 
 
 170 
 
PENALTY 
 
 they gave him something to think of that took 
 his mind from dwelling on his own entangled 
 affairs. 
 
 He counted, too, on the hazards of hotel life 
 throwing them one day together. He was al- 
 ready on speaking or nodding terms with most 
 of the distinguished men whom he could ad- 
 dress in a common language. This had come 
 about by the simple means of propinquity on 
 the terrace or in the semicircular hall. He 
 soon saw, however, that no diligence in fre- 
 quenting these places of reunion would help him 
 with the stately stranger whose interest he de- 
 sired to win. The gentleman took the air else- 
 where. 
 
 For contiguous to the terrace of the hotel is a 
 little public park called the Heine Schanze— 
 haunt, of well-behaved Bernese children, of 
 motherly Bernese housewives supplied with 
 knitting and the gossip of the town, of Bernese 
 patriarchs in search of gentle exercise and sun- 
 shine. This little park possesses a music-pa- 
 vilion, a duck-pond, a monument to the Postal 
 Union of 1876, many pretty pathways, and an 
 incomparable promenade. The incomparable 
 promenade has also an incomparable view on 
 m 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 those days when the Spirit of the Alps permits 
 it to be visible. 
 
 Two such days at least there were during 
 that month of June. Glancing casually over his 
 left shoulder as he marched one afternoon with 
 head bent and back turned toward the east, 
 Chip saw that which a few minutes before had 
 been but the misty edge of the sky transformed 
 mto a range of ineffable white peaks. The un- 
 expectedness with which the glistering spec- 
 tacle appeared made his heart leap. It was like 
 a celestial vision— like a view of the ramparts of 
 the Heavenly City. He clutched the stone top 
 of the balustrade beside which he stood, seeking 
 terms with which to make the moment indelible 
 in his memory. Nothing came to him but a 
 few broken, obvious words— sublime!— invio- 
 late!— eternal! and such like. 
 
 What he chiefly felt was his inadequacy for 
 even gazing on the sight, much lejs for record- 
 ing it, when he became aware that in the 
 crowding of people to the edge of the terrace 
 the stranger was standing near him. It was an 
 opportunity not to be missed. 
 
 "fa, c'eH meneiUeux, n'est-ce pas, mon- 
 sieurf" 
 
PENALTY 
 
 The words were banal, but they wonl.l serve 
 to break the ice. 
 
 "Yes; and it becomes more marvelous the 
 oftener it appears. I've never seen it „,ore 
 beautiful than to-day; but perliaps that's be- 
 cause I've seen it so manj times." 
 
 Chip wa^ disappointed to be answered in 
 Enghsh. and especially in the English of an 
 American. It brought the man too near for 
 confidence. They might easily find thevnselves 
 involved in a host of common acquaintances, 
 a fact that would preclude intimate talk. Had 
 he been a Russian the remoteness of each from 
 the other s world would have made the exchange 
 of secrets-perhaps of secret griefs-a possibili- 
 ty. Not so with a man whom one might meet 
 the next time one entered a club in New York 
 Such a man might even be. . . . But he dismissed 
 that alarming thought as out of the question. 
 Edith wasn t at Berne. If she had been he 
 would have seen her. He would not inquire at 
 the hotel, nor at any other hotel; but he knew 
 that m so small a town he must have had a 
 glimpse of her somewhere. While it was con- 
 ceivable that her husband might have come to 
 Berne leaving her elsewhere, this was not the 
 
 173 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 sort of man sl.e would have married. The tvoe 
 to appeal to her would 'e something like his 
 own — of course! 
 
 Nevertheless, as he had begun the conversa- 
 tion he Mt that in courtesy he must go on 
 
 r\: . "' f ' "^ ""' P°'"""« -'th his stick 
 to what he took to be the highest summit of the 
 range, and saying: "I suppose ^hafs the Jung- 
 
 The stranger moved nearer him. "No 
 you re too far to the west. That's the Breit- 
 horn. There's the Jungfrau "-he. too. pointed 
 thfi""'-^^"*^^'^'^ '^ ^'^ ^'-^^ and 
 He went on to indicate the Wetterhorn. the 
 Schreckhom. the Blumlisalp. the Finsteraar- 
 horn, and the Ebnefluh. They were like a row 
 of shmmg spiritual presences manifesting them- 
 selves to an unbelieving world. 
 For the moment they served their turn in help- 
 
 '"f^ . ^^y'''''' *° '"''^■^"'^ °^ conversation 
 with his fellow-countryman, in whom he had 
 lost some interest because he was a fellow- 
 countryman. 
 
 "You know a lot about Switzerland, don't 
 you? he observed, as the stranger, still point- 
 
 174 
 
PENALTY 
 
 ing with his stick and naming names-the Sil- 
 berhorn. the Gletschhorn. the Schneehorn. the 
 Niesen. the Bettfluh-that impressed the imagi- 
 nation with the force of the great white peaks 
 themselves, resolved the panorama into its 
 mmor elements. 
 
 The stick came do.-n, and the explanation 
 ceased I've lived a good deal abroad." was 
 the response, given quietly. "You. too. haven't 
 you? 
 
 With the question they turned for the first 
 time and looked each other in the eyes. While 
 Chip explained that he had spent his early years 
 in France or Italy or England according to the 
 interests of his parents, he was inwardly re- 
 markmg that the gray face, with its stiff lines 
 Its compressed lips, its unmoving expression, and 
 Its stamp of suffering, was really sympathetic, 
 bomethmg in the composure of the manner 
 and the measured way of speaking imposed 
 this new acquaintance on him as a superior 
 Instmctively he said "sir" to him, as to an 
 elder, though the difference in their ages could 
 not have been more than seven or eight years 
 It flattered him somewhat, too. that the man 
 who kept aloof from others should maie an ex- 
 
 175 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 ception of him and welcome his advances. They 
 parted with the tacit understanding that for the 
 future, in the routine of the hotel, they should 
 be on speaking terms. 
 
 There was, however, no further meeting be- 
 tween them till after dinner on the following 
 evemng. Turning from the purchase of stamps 
 at the concierge's desk. Chip saw his new ac- 
 quamtance. wearing an Inverness cloak over 
 his dmner-jacket. and a soft felt hat. lighting 
 a cigar. There was an exchange of nods. On 
 the older man's lips there was a ghost of a 
 smile. It seemed friendly. He spoke: 
 
 "You don't want to smoke a cigar in the lit- 
 tie park? It's rather pleasant there, with a 
 full moon like this." 
 
 So it was that within a few minutes they 
 found themselves seated side by side on one 
 of the benches of the terraced promenade 
 where they had met on the previous day 
 Though the row of shining spiritual presences 
 had withdrawn, the valley was spanned by a 
 velvety luminosity, through which the lights 
 of the lower town shone like stars reflected 
 m water. The talk was of the conference. The 
 stranger spoke of himself: 
 
 178 
 
PENALTY 
 "I've been interested in tl.e various methods 
 of international communication for many years 
 hi fact I've made some sligl.t study of them. 
 When the authorities were good enough to ap- 
 pomt me on this commission I was glad to 
 serve." 
 
 "Quite so," Chip murmured, politely. 
 "It's an attractive little town, too-one of 
 the few capitals in Europe that remain char- 
 actenstic of their countries, and nothing else- 
 wholly or nearly unaffected by the current of 
 We outs.de. But," he went on, unexpectedly. 
 I wonder what a man like you can see in it- 
 to remain here so long?" 
 
 C^hip was startled, "but he managed to say 
 I'ai-"^ that I see anything in particular. 
 "Waiting?" 
 
 The query was Derfectly courteous. It im- 
 plied no more than a casual curiositv-hardly 
 that. 
 
 "No; resting," Chip answered, with tore, i 
 nrmness. 
 
 "Ah, it's certainly a good place for resting " 
 Then, after a pause: "You're married, I think 
 you said." 
 
 177 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 Chip didn't remember having said so. and 
 replied to that effect. The stranger was un- 
 perturbed. 
 
 "No? But you are?" By way of pressing 
 the question, he added, with a glance at Chip 
 through the moonlight: "Aren't you?" 
 
 "I've a wife and little boy in New York." 
 Wtlker answered, soberly. 
 
 "Ah!" There was no emphasis on this ex- 
 clamation It signified merely that a certain 
 pomt m their mutual understanding had been 
 reached. "A happy marriage must be a great 
 —safeguard." ** 
 
 The tone was of a man making a moral re- 
 flection calmly, but Chip was startled again. 
 It was h.s turn to stare through the moonlight, 
 where the length of the bench lay betwL 
 them He felt that he was being challenged, 
 but that he must not betray himself too soon. 
 Safeguard against what, sir?" 
 There wa^ a faint laugh, or what might have 
 been a laugh had there been amusement in it 
 Against everything from which a married man 
 needs protection." 
 
 Chip would have dropped the subject but 
 for that sense that a challenge was being thrown 
 
 178 
 
PENALTY 
 
 him before which he could not back down 
 Nevertheless, he detern.ined to keep f^ ° 
 
 «un. that I know whut ,.ou .„ea„." " "°* 
 
 The stranger seemed to examine the burning 
 end of h.s e.gar. "Oh. nothing but the obru! 
 thmgs-pursuing another man's wife, for in 
 stanc.^ A man who's happi,, rn.„i.-a does't 
 
 Chip felt a curious chill. Who was thU J 
 and what the devil was he drilZr::' 
 
 loffT t ir-^'"' -b- knocking::^ 
 ash off the end of his own cigar: "And yet I've 
 known of such cases." ^ 
 
 "Oh so have I. But there was alwavs a 
 
 screw loose somewhere— T .r, "'^ays a 
 
 "uiuewnere i mean, a screw Innao 
 
 The response was surprisingly direct: "That's 
 what I hoped you'd be able to tell me." 
 Ihen you don't know, sir?" 
 
 don t know, because I'm not happily „,ar. 
 
 179 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 "But other 
 
 ried." A second later he added: 
 people may be." 
 
 So they were going to exchange secrets, after 
 all. "But you are married, sir?" To clear 
 the air, he felt himself obliged to add: "Hap- 
 pily or unhappily." 
 
 "I married a lady who had divorced her hus- 
 band." In the silence that followed it seemed 
 to Chip that he could hear the murmur of the 
 almost soundless river below. Somehow the 
 sound of the river was all he could thmk of. 
 Quietly moving, low-voiced couples paced up 
 and down the promenade, and from the music 
 pavilion in the distance came the whine and 
 shiver of the Mattiche. "In divorce," the 
 measured voice resumed, "there are some dan- 
 gerous risks. It's a dangerous risk for a man 
 to divorce his wife. It's a more dangerous risk 
 for a woman to divorce her husband. But to 
 marry a divorced husband or a divorced wife 
 is the most dangerous risk of all." 
 
 Chip's voice was thick and dry. "May I 
 ask, sir, on what you base your— your opin- 
 ion?" 
 
 "Chiefly on the principle that, no matter 
 how successfully the dead are buried, they may 
 
 ISO 
 
PENALTY 
 
 come back again as ghosts. No one can keen 
 them from doing that." ^ 
 
 thil't^''"'^'!. ^ P'"""""' '^' «"»* you held 
 this theory when you married?" 
 
 a Zt/'" '* "^ " *^'°'^' ^ *^'^'* ^^^'^ it as 
 
 Chip felt obliged to struggle onward. "And 
 do I understand you to be telling me now ult 
 the ghosts have come back?" 
 
 "Perhaps you could as easily teU me " 
 It was a minute or more before Chip was able 
 to say. m a voice he tried to keep firmf «« ^ 
 
 them than-than any oi.e else." 
 "So I understand." 
 
 The brief responses had the effect of dragging 
 h.m forward. "And would it be fair tT^k 
 why you say that?-that you understand?" 
 ^^Jh. quite faxr. It's partly because you ar« 
 
 "Then you think I ought to go away?" 
 
 oughtn^^'^C^m::^ --' --^^ - 
 "I came— to rest." 
 
 "I don't question that. I'm only struck by 
 by the long arm of coincidence." 
 
 181 
 
11 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 "That is, you believe I had another mo- 
 tive?" 
 
 With a gesture he seemed to wave this aside. 
 "That's hardly my affair. You're here; and, 
 since you are, I'd rather — " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 "I'd rather you didn't hurry away." 
 
 He rose on saying this, apparently with the 
 intention of going back to the hotel. Chip re- 
 mained seated. He smoked mechanically, with- 
 out knowing what he did. Questions rose to 
 his lips and died there. Was Edith in Berne? 
 Had she seen him? Was she keeping out of 
 his way? Was she being kept out of his 
 way? Was she suffering? Was it through her 
 that he had been recognized? The fact that 
 he had been recognized brought with it a kind 
 of humiliation. The humiliation was the great- 
 er because of the way in which he had singled 
 out this man and approached him. During all 
 those days of studying the stranger with re- 
 spectful discretion, seeking an opportunity to 
 address him, the stranger, without deigning him 
 a look, had known perfectly well who he was 
 and had been imputing motives to his presence. 
 The reference to the long arm of coincidence 
 last 
 
PENALTY 
 
 was stinging. Because it was so he tried to 
 muster his dignity. 
 
 "I've no intention of hurrying away," he 
 began; "but—" 
 
 "K you like. I'll put it this way," the meas- 
 ured voice broke in, courteously. "If you have 
 time to wait a little longer I should be glad if 
 you'd do it." 
 
 "Would there be any point to that?" 
 "I think you might trust me not to make 
 the request if there were not." He added 
 presently: "It's a wise policy to let sleeping 
 dogs lie; but when they've once been roused, 
 they've got to be quieted." 
 "Quieted— how?" 
 
 "I can't tell you that as yet. I may have 
 some vague idea concerning the process; I've 
 none at all as to the result." 
 
 Chip was not sure that the stranger said 
 good night. He knew he lifted his hat and 
 moved away. He watched him as, with stately, 
 unhastening step, he walked down the prome- 
 nade, the Inverness cape and soft felt hat sil- 
 houetted in the moonlight. 
 
 For the next forty-eight hours Walker hung 
 about the hotel like a culprit. He would have 
 
 12 
 
 183 
 
I 'I 
 
 I 
 
 'I! 
 
 THB LETTEB OP THE CONTHACT 
 other Ws' .,!, "•"^'" * «° ''-«y ^Me the 
 
 undignified, grotesque, like fhattf ^°^*''*" 
 tected insole bit of /ill.'^dlr""'" 
 
 'Perhaps not. But I WW a j xi 
 is iU Yon «.„ ^ • ■^^^ that lady 
 
 was Ul when she arrived m P.-- * , 
 ten days ago." *™ ^™" ^°don 
 
 "Tl T she's here." 
 
 ficSS '"iS^s^'sh::?'^"^"-'"' --<'«- 
 
 ^,/ Uoes she-does she want t<^to see 
 "She hasn't said so." 
 "Has she-said a ything about me at all?" 
 
 181 
 
PENALTY 
 "That, I think, I must leave you to learn 
 later. But I should like you to know at once 
 that I'm not keeping you here without a 
 motive." 
 
 The stately figure moved on, leaving Chip 
 to guess blindly at the possibilities in store. 
 
 More days passed— nearly a week. Chip 
 spent much of his time in the Heine Schanze. 
 noticmg that the distmguished stranger fre- 
 quented it less. Idleness would have got on 
 his nerves, and Berne begun to bore him, had 
 It not been for the knowledge that he was 
 mider the same roof with Edith. That gave 
 him patience. It was the kind of comfort a 
 man or a woman £ is in being near the prison 
 where some loved one is shut up in a cell. 
 
 It was again an afternoon when the shining 
 spiritual presences were making themselves vis- 
 ible—not with the gleaming suddenness with 
 which they had appeared ten days before, but 
 slowly, with vague wonders, as if finding it hard 
 to bring themselves within mortal ken. Round- 
 ing the comer of the promenade at the end re- 
 mote from the hotel, at a point from which he 
 had the whole line of the bluflf and the green 
 depths of the valley and the slopes of the Gur- 
 las 
 
 I 
 
PI 
 m 
 
 THE LETTER OP THE CONTBACT 
 
 ^b"^f; Trt '' ^'"^•^ "^^ - «"« «- 
 
 bZrf f,*^' ^* '*'^ * «^* '^'''t^ Moulder 
 b«mg .tself luminously b the eastern sk" 
 
 For long mmutes that was all. It might have 
 
 been^one^ofthegat.ofpearlofwhich\e'h:d" 
 
 earth-dweller could take his eyes. He stood 
 -..g^onh^stick his cigar smoldering b^ 
 
 Wted or that the mists rolled away, he only 
 «rew aware that what seemed like a gal £ 
 -me a bastion, and what seemed like a b^on 
 
 in the nudst of the tower and round about the 
 
 Nothmg had happened that he could define 
 beyond a heightening of his own capa.;rto 
 see Nothingonthathorizonseemedtoeige 
 or to recede: looking wrought the wonder; £ 
 «^er^w or he didn't see; and Just no; he 
 
 or read-he had forgotten where: "Immediate 
 Jl^there fell from his eyes as it had been sLTs » 
 
 sntit' r"'"''"'* ""'^ "^^ P'^^^^' ^J^ae the 
 spiritual presences ranged themselves slowly 
 
 m 
 
PENALTY 
 
 within hb vision — row upon row, peak upon 
 peak, dome upon dome, serried, ghostly — white 
 against a white sity, white in white air. 
 
 He withdrew his gaze only because the peo- 
 ple, ever eager for this spectacle which they 
 had seen all their lives, crowded to the parapet. 
 As the children were still in school, it was a 
 quiet throng, elderly and sedate. Leaning on 
 the balustrade, all faces turned one way, they 
 fringed the promenade, leaving the broad, paved 
 spaces empty. 
 
 For this reason Chip's eye caught the more 
 quickly at the other end of the terrace the 
 figures of a man and a woman who stood back 
 from the line of gazers. They were almost in 
 profile toward himself, the man's erect, stately 
 form allowing the fact that a woman was cling- 
 ing to his arm to be just perceptible. It re- 
 quired no such movement as that of a few min- 
 utes later — a movement by which the woman 
 came more fully into view — for Chip to recog- 
 nize Edith. 
 
 Hia Edith, his wife, clinging to another man's 
 arm, clinging to her husband's arm, clinging to 
 the arm of a husband who was not himself, 
 dependent on him, supported by him, possessed 
 
THE „„,, „ ^^^ CONTRACT 
 
 J« forehead like a^l d! r^bur^'.^ 
 drew it quickly. His f„, T J ^ '"*'*- 
 
 "w now that, in aU tt A ''^'^''"^^- He 
 had heard «h ""^ y^"« "''nee he 
 
 -« What wa.rl'1 rveX*"'" '^"^^- 
 his own success in wL !7 "J^P^^^^'P^ 
 at a distanee-6,r*T7.^^ '^'■"'^^"' ^'^^ 
 
 like this-this JZ *f '* ^""^ *° l'>°' 
 
 -^o"witht5:r:^^t^^-^oei- 
 
 upon him. "^' dependence 
 
 His first impulse was to set out of tJ. • • ,. 
 
PENALTY 
 
 grasp the appalling fact in silence and seclusion. 
 Second thoughts reminded him that there was 
 a situation to be faced and that he might as 
 well face it now as at any other time. What 
 sort of situation it would be he couldn't guess; 
 but he was sure that behind the immobile mask 
 of the other man's grave face there was some- 
 thing that would be worth the penetration. He 
 would give him a chance. He would go for- 
 ward to meet them. No, he wouldn't go for- 
 ward to meet them; he would wait for them 
 where he stood. No, he wouldn't wait for 
 them where be stood; he would slip into the 
 little rotunda close beside him— a little rotunda 
 generally occupied by motherly Bernese women, 
 but which for the moment the commanding 
 spectacle outside had emptied. 
 
 It wa3 a little open rotunda, with seats all 
 round and a rude table in the middle. In sit- 
 ting down he placed himself as nearly as pos- 
 sible in full view, but with his face toward the 
 mountains. It gave him a preoccupied air to 
 be seen relighting his cigar. It was thus op- 
 tional with the couple who began to advance 
 along the promenade to pass him by or to 
 pause and address him. 
 
 188 
 
'11 I 
 
 T£:e letter of the contract 
 
 .pp''^r'"*''"^'"""-«'^'" their 
 "Chip—" 
 
 He turned. Edith was standing in the door- 
 way, the n.an behind her. ThehlggardX 
 of her face and the feverishness of her eyes re- 
 m-ded Chip of the coming little Tolw^ 
 bom. He was on his feet-silent. He couldn't 
 
 sT '""'.' \" '"""•'• It --timeless nZ- 
 "^'^V^'' ''«"«« h«tened to speak: 
 
 I Jau-' ^^° ^''°'"' ^* ">«* « England. 
 
 want h,m not to know. And now he wants us 
 all to meet-I don't know why " 
 
 the first words that came to him: "Was there 
 
 Th vu"""""^«^ Mr.Laconkno^ 
 we have chddren-_^d things to talk over." 
 
 "If? "°T .^"^^ *^'*'" ^''^ *""«^' ««tedly. 
 it^Lr? '^-''^"-^-butlknoi 
 
 He looked puzzled. "Mor« in what way?" 
 
 More m this way." said the measured voice. 
 
 that had lost no shade of its self^ntrol. "I 
 
 understand that Edith feels she has made a 
 
 m.take-that you've both made a misSel'- 
 
 ISO 
 
CT 
 leir 
 
 lor 
 •e- 
 aa 
 I't 
 
gdith was standing in the doorway, the man behind 
 ■«-• iier. Chip, Mr. Lacon linows we met in England." 
 
behind 
 gland." 
 
PENALTY 
 
 "I never said so," she intemipted, hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 Lacon smiled, as nearly as his saddened face 
 could smile. "I didn't say you said so.»he cor- 
 rected.genUy. "I said I understood. There's 
 a di£ference. And, since I do understand, I feel 
 it right to o£fer you— to offer you both—" 
 
 Exhaustion compeUed her to drop into a 
 seat. "What are you going to say?" 
 
 "Nothing that can hurt you, I hope— or— 
 or Mr. Walker, either. Suppose we all sit down ?" 
 He foUowed his own suggestion with a dig- 
 nity almost serene. Chip took mechanically 
 the seat from which he had just risen. It of- 
 fered him the resource of looking more directly 
 at the range of glistening peaks than at either 
 of his two companions. 
 
 "The point for our consideration is this," 
 Lacon resumed, as calmly as if he were taking 
 part in a meeting at the Bundespalast. "Ad- 
 mitting that you've both made a mistake, is 
 there any possibility of retracing your steps?— 
 or must you go on paying the penalty?" 
 
 Chip spoke without turning his eyes from 
 the mountains: "What do you mean by- 
 the penalty?" 
 
 IM 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 "I suppose I mean the necessity of makirg 
 four people unhappy instead of two." 
 
 "That is," Chip went on. "there axe two 
 who must be unhappy in any case." 
 
 "Precisely. There are two for whom there's 
 no escape. Whatever happens now, nothmg 
 can save them. But, smee that is so, the qti«a- 
 tion arises whether it wouldn't be, let us say, 
 a greater economy of human material if the 
 other two — " 
 
 Edith looked mystified. " I don't know what 
 you mean. Which are the two who must be 
 unhappy in any case?" 
 
 Chip answered quietly, without turning his 
 
 head: "He's one; my— my wife is the other." 
 
 "Oh!" With something between a sigh and 
 
 a gasp she fell back against a pillar of the 
 
 rotunda. 
 
 "It's the sort of economy of human ma- 
 terial," Chip went on, his eye following the 
 lines of the Wetterhom up and down, "that a 
 man achieves in saving himself from a sinking 
 ship and leaving his wife and children to drown 
 —assuming that he can't rescue them." 
 
 "The comparison isn't quite exact," Lacon 
 replied, courteously. "Wouldn't it rather be 
 
 nil 
 
PENALTY 
 
 that if a man can save only one of two women, 
 he nevertheless does what he can?" 
 
 Edith still looked bewildered. "I don't 
 know what you're talking about, either of you 
 What is it? Why are we here? Am I one of 
 the two women to be saved?" 
 
 "The suggestion is," C p said, dryly, "that 
 Mr. Lacon wouldn't oppose your divorcing him. 
 while my— my present wife might divorce me; 
 after which you and I could marry again. Isn't 
 that it, sir?" 
 
 The older man nodded assent. "It's well 
 to use plain English when we can." 
 
 Chip continued to measure the Wetterhom 
 with his eye, "Rather comic the whole thing 
 would be, wouldn't it?" 
 
 ^ "Possibly," Lacon repUed. imperturbably. 
 "But we've accepted the comic in the institu- 
 tion of marriage, we Americans. It's too late 
 for us to attempt to take it without its possi- 
 bilities of opera bouffe." 
 "But aren't there laws?" Edith asked. 
 Again Lacon's lips glimmered with the ghost 
 of a smile. "Yes; but they're very complacent 
 laws. They reduce marriage to the legal per- 
 mission for two persons to live together as man 
 
 UT 
 
11 I}, 
 
 THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 and wife as long aa mutuaUy agreeable; but 
 the license is easily rescinded— and renewed." 
 "But surely marriage is more than that," she 
 protested. 
 
 Lacon's ghost of a smile persisted. "Haven't 
 we proved that it isn't?— for us, at any rate. 
 Hesitation to use our freedom in the future 
 would only stultify our action in the past. If 
 we go in for an mstitution with qualities of 
 opera bouffe isn't it well to do it light-heartedly? 
 —or as light-heartedly as we can." 
 
 Edith looked at him reproachfully. "Should 
 you be doing it light-heartedly?" 
 
 "I said as light-heartedly as we can." 
 "What makes you think that Chip and I— I 
 mean," she corrected, with some confusion. 
 "Mr. Walker and I— want to do it at all?" 
 "Isn't that rather evident?" 
 "I didn't know it was." 
 Chip glanced at them over his shoulder. It 
 seemed to him that Lacon's look was one of 
 Dity. 
 
 "You met in England," the latter said, dis- 
 playing a hesitation unusual in him, "with 
 something— somethmg more than pleasure, as 
 I judge; and— and Mr. Walker is here." 
 
 198 
 
PENALTY 
 
 ^^ "Yes, by accident," she declared, hurriedly. 
 "It was by accident in England, too." 
 
 '.J^^ r!^^^ ^^ ^* ''^^ ^'^^ ^ Potest. 
 Oh, I m not blaming you. On the contrary 
 nothing could be more natural than that you 
 should both feel as I-I imagine you do. You're 
 the wife of his youth-he's the husband of 
 yours. The ost things you've ever had in 
 your two lives are those you've had in common. 
 That you should want to bridge over the past, 
 and, if possible, go back — " 
 
 "We've burned our bridges," she interrupted, 
 quickly. 
 
 "Even burned bridges can be rebuilt if there's 
 the will to do it. The whole question turns on 
 the will. If you have that I want you to 
 understand that I shaU not be-be an obstacle 
 to the — to the reconstruction." 
 
 "Don't you caref" 
 
 "That's not the question. We've already 
 assumed the fact that my caring-as weU a, 
 that of a certain other person whom Mr. Walker 
 would have to consider-is secondary. It's too 
 late to do anything for us-*ssuming that she 
 understands, or may come to understand, the 
 position as I do. Your refusing happiness for 
 
 199 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 yourselves in order to stand by us, or ever to 
 stand by the children — the younger children, I 
 mean — wouldn't do us any good. On the con- 
 trary, as far as I'm concerned, if there could be 
 any such thing as mitigation — " 
 
 He broke off. Seeing the immobile features 
 swept as by convulsion. Chip took up the sen- 
 tence: "It would be that Edith should feel 
 free." 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "And her not feeling free would involve the 
 continuance of — ^the penalty." 
 
 "In its extreme form." He regained control 
 of himself. "That the penalty should be abro- 
 gated altogether is out of the question. Some 
 of us must go on paying it — all four of us. in- 
 deed, to some degree. And yet, any relief for 
 one would be some relief for all. Do you see 
 what I mean?" 
 
 The question was addressed to Edith spe- 
 cially. 
 
 "I'm not sure that I do," she replied, look- 
 ing at him wistfully. "Is it this?— that, as- 
 suming what you do assume, it would be easier 
 for you if I— I went away?" 
 
 "I shouldn't put it in just those words. I 
 too 
 
PENALTY 
 
 only mean that what's hardest fo;- you is hard- 
 est fo- me. I couldn't hold you to the letter of 
 one contract if you were keeping the spirit of 
 another. Do you see now?" 
 
 She didn't answer at once, so that Chip in- 
 tervened: "Hasn't some one said -Shake- 
 speare or some on^that the letter killeth? It 
 seems to me I've heard that." 
 
 "You probably have. Some one has said 
 
 ! • « . ?^ :^ ^^^' ^ a balancing clause. 
 The Spmt giveth life.' That's the vital part of 
 
 It. To find out where the spirit is in our present 
 situation is the question now." 
 She looked at him tearfully. "WeU, where 
 
 IS It? 
 
 He rose quieOy. "That's for you and Mr. 
 
 Walker to discover for yourselves. I've gone 
 
 as far as I dare." 
 
 "You're not going away?" she asked, hastily. 
 
 He smiled at them both. For the first time 
 
 m Chip s acquaintance with him it was a posi- 
 
 tive smile. "I think you'll most easily find 
 
 your way alone." 
 
 "Oh no. Wait!" she begged; but he had 
 already lifted his hat in his stately way and 
 begun to walk back toward the hotel. 
 
 201 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 
 Then came the bliss of being alone together. 
 In spite of everything, they felt that. Edith 
 leaned across the rude table, her hands clasped 
 upon it. She spoke rapidly, as if to malce full 
 use of the time. 
 "Oh, Chip, what are we to do?" 
 He too leaned across the table, his arms folded 
 upon it, the extinct cigar still between his fin- 
 gers. He gazed deep into her eyes. "It's a 
 chance. It will never come again. Shall we 
 take it?— or let it go?" 
 
 "Could you take it, if I did?" 
 "Could you— if I did?" 
 She tried to reflect. "It's the spirit," she 
 said, haltingly, after a minute. "Oughtn't we 
 to get at that?— just as he said. We've had so 
 much of— of the letter." 
 
 "Ah, but what ia the spirit? How do you 
 get at it? That's the point." 
 
 She tried to reflect further — ^further and 
 harder and faster. "Wouldn't it be— what we 
 feelf" 
 
 "What we feel is that—that we love each 
 other, isn't it? — that we love each other as 
 much as we did years ago — more! — more! 
 Isn't that it?" 
 
 80S 
 
 ■i. 
 
PENALTY 
 
 She nodded. "Yes, more — oh, much morel 
 And yet—" 
 
 "Yes?" he said, eagerly. "Yes? And what, 
 then?" 
 
 "And yet — oh. Chip, I feel something else!" 
 She leaned still further toward him, as if to 
 annihilate the slight distance between them. 
 "Don't you?" 
 
 "Something else — how?" 
 
 "Something else — ^higher — as if our loving 
 each other wasn't the thing of most importance. 
 I thought it was. All these years — I mean 
 latterly— I've thought it was. When we met 
 in England I was sure it was. Since I've been 
 back with him I've felt that I would have died 
 gladly just to have one more day with you, like 
 those at Maidenhead and Tunbridge Wells. 
 But now — oh. Chip, I don't know what to say!" 
 
 "Is it because he's been so generous?" 
 
 She shook her head. "Not altogether. No; 
 I don't think it's that at all. Ee's more than 
 generous; he's tender. You can't think how 
 tender he is — and always has been — ^with me 
 and with the children. That's why I married 
 him — why I thought I could find a sort of rest 
 with him. You see that, don't you? — without 
 13 MM 
 
i I 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 judsing me too hawhiy. He's that kind. I'm 
 'ued to it with him. He can't help being gen- 
 erous. I knew he would be when I told him 
 wed met in England. I told him because I 
 couldn't do anything else. It was a way of 
 talkmg about you-^ven if it was only that 
 way. But. oh. Chip, if I left him now and 
 went back to you — " 
 
 "Yes. darling? What?" He spoke huskily, 
 covenng both l,er hands with one of his and 
 crushmg them. "D you left him now and 
 came back to me— what?" 
 
 She hurried on. "And then there's-there's 
 ^ other woman. We mustn't forget her. 
 What s her name, Chip?" 
 "lily. She was Lily Bland." 
 "Yes, yes; of course. I knew that. And 
 she loves you? But how could she help loving 
 you? I'd hate her if she didn't. Curiously 
 enough I don't hate her now. I wonder why? 
 I suppose it's because I'm so sorry for her. 
 She's a sweet woman, isn't she?" 
 
 He answered, with head averted. "She's 
 
 as noble in her way as-as this man is in his." 
 
 That's just what I thought. I used to see 
 
 her when she came to our house to call for the 
 
 2tM 
 
 ii: I 
 
PENALTY 
 children. It never occurred to me that you'd 
 n>«ny her. If it had I don't know what I 
 should have- But it's no use going back to 
 that now. What would you do about her. 
 Chip, if we decided to-to take the chance 
 that's opened up—?" 
 
 "I don't know. I've never thought about 
 It. I— I suppose she'd let me go— just as he's 
 letting you go-if I put it to her in the right 
 way." 
 
 "And what would be the right way?" 
 "Oh, Lord, Edith, don't ask me. How do / 
 
 know? I should have to tell hei— the truth." 
 "And what would happen then?— to her I 
 
 mean." 
 
 "I've no idea. She'd bear up against it. 
 She's that sort of person. But then, inwardly, 
 she'd very likely break her heart." 
 
 "Oh, Chip, is it worth while? Think!" 
 
 "I am thinking." 
 
 "Is it the spirit? That's the thing to find 
 out." 
 
 He shook his head sadly. "I don't know 
 how to tell." 
 
 "But suppose I do? Would you trust to 
 me? Would you believe that the thing I felt 
 
 JW6 
 
THE LETTER OP THE CONTRACT 
 to^ right for me w« the right thing for u. 
 
 "I think I .hould." 
 
 "Well then, listen. If. thi. way. You 
 
 ll^^F'J ''"'* ^*"'-" ^^' ^'^ hi. hand now 
 in both of her.. twi.ting her finger, nervou.ly 
 m «.d out between hi.. "I don't have to tell 
 
 SLifi "T^""- Oh.howIloveyoul 
 It . a. If the very heart had gone out of my body 
 
 into your,. And yet. Chip-oh. don't be an- 
 gryl-it «*ms to me that if I left him now and 
 went back to you I .hould become wmething 
 vile. It »n'i becaui^ he'. «> noble and good 
 No. It ..n't that. And it i.n't ju.t the idea of 
 pawmg from one man to another and back 
 again. We have turned marriage into opera 
 bouffe. we Americans, and we might a. well 
 take It as we ve made it. It isn't that at all. 
 It .-Its exactly what you said just now: it's 
 IJ^e a man swimming away from a sinking ship, 
 and leavmg hi. wife and children to drown 
 because he can't rescue them. Better a thou- 
 sand times to go down with them, isn't it? 
 You may call it waste of human material, if 
 you like, and yet-well, you know what I mean. 
 I should be leaving him to drown and you'd 
 
 MS 
 
PENALTY 
 be leaving her to drown; and. even though we 
 ean'l give them happiness by standing by, yet 
 it's some satisfaction just to stand by. Isn't 
 that it? Isn't that the spirit?" 
 
 He withdrew his hand from hers to cover his 
 eyes with it. He spoke hoarsely: "It may be 
 I— I think it is." 
 
 "But, if it is. then the spirit of the contract 
 IS different now from what it would have been— 
 well, you know when. Then it meant that I 
 should have stood by yow— forgiven you, if 
 that's the word— and shown myself truly your 
 "^•fe, for hetter or for worse. I didn't under- 
 stand that. I only knew about the better. I 
 didn't see that a man and a woman might take 
 each other for worse— and stiU be true. If I 
 had seen it— oh. what a happy woman I should 
 have been to-day, and in all these years in 
 which I haven't been happy at all! That was 
 the spirit of the contract then, I suppose— but 
 now it's different. It confuses me a UtUe. 
 Doesn't it confuse you?" 
 "Perhaps." 
 
 "Let me take your hand again; I can talk 
 to you better like that. Now— nwo— we've 
 undertaken new responsibilities. We've in- 
 
 107 
 
THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 
 volved others. We've let them involve them- 
 selves. We can't turn our back upon them, 
 can we? No. I thought that's what you'd 
 say. We can't. The contract we've made 
 wi'h them must come before the one we made 
 with each other. We're bound, not only in 
 law but in honor. Aren't we?" 
 
 He made some inarticulate sign of assent. 
 
 "And I suppose that's what he meant by the 
 penalty — the penalty in its extreme form: that 
 we've put ourselves where we can't keep the 
 higher contract, the complete one, we made 
 together — because we're bound by one lower 
 and incomplete, to which we've got to be faith- 
 ful. Isn't that the spirit now, don't you think?" 
 
 Again he muttered something inarticulately 
 assenting. 
 
 "Well, then. Chip, I'm going." She rose 
 with the words. 
 
 "No, no; not yet." He caught her hand in 
 both of his, holding it as he leaned across the 
 table. 
 
 "Yes, Chip, now. What do we gain by my 
 staying? We see the thing we've got to do — 
 and we must do it. We must begin on the in- 
 stant. If I were to stay a minute longer now, 
 
 108 
 
 'M 
 
; recog- 
 
 PENALTY^ 
 it would be— it would be for things i 
 nized as no longer permissible. 
 I'm going now!" 
 
 There was something in her face that induced 
 him to relax his hold. She withdrew her hand 
 slowly, her eyes on his. 
 "Aren't you going to say good-by?" 
 She shook her head, from the litUe doorway 
 of the rotunda. "No. What's the use? What 
 good-by is possible between you and me? I'm 
 — I'm just going." 
 And she was gone. 
 
 With a quick movement he sprang to the 
 opening between two of the small pOlars. 
 Edith!" She turned. "Edith! Come here 
 Come here, for God's sake! Only one word 
 more." 
 
 She came back slowly, not to the door, but 
 to the opening through which he leaned, his 
 knee on the seat inside. "What is it?" 
 
 He got possession of her haid. "Tell me 
 again that quotation he gave us." 
 
 She repeated it: "'The letter kiUeth, but the 
 Spint giveth life.'" 
 
 " Good, isn't it? I suppose it m from Shake- 
 speare?" 
 
 KB 
 
1 
 
 ■I 
 
 j 
 
 J 
 
 i ' 
 
 f '■ \ 
 
 1 '1 ; 
 
 : 1 
 
 ! i 
 \ i 
 
 THE LETTER OF THE CONTRACT 
 "I don't know. I'll ask him— I'll look it up. 
 If ever I see you again I'll tell you." 
 
 "I wish you would, because— because, if it 
 gives us life, perhaps it '11 carry us along." 
 
 With a quick movement he drew her to him 
 and kissed her passionately on the lips. 
 
 A minute later he had sunk back on the seat 
 out of which he had sprung. He knew she was 
 disappearing through the crowd that, satiated 
 with gazing, was sauntering away from the 
 parapet. But he made no attempt to follow 
 her with so much as a glance. Slowly, vaguely, 
 mistily, like a man tired of the earthly vision, 
 he was lettmg his eyes roam along the line of 
 shining spiritual presences. 
 
 THE END 
 
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