;- . . 
 
 H 
 
 11
 
 The Wild Goose 
 
 W |t. Or CALIF. LTBRAKY. I-OS ANGELE9
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 HIS DAUGHTER 
 
 WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN 
 
 THE SEVEN DARLINGS 
 
 THE INCANDESCENT LILT 
 
 THE PENALTY 
 
 IT, AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 THE SPREAD EAGLE, AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 THE FOOTPRINT, AND OTHER STORIES 
 
 IF YOU TOUCH THEM THEY VANISH 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
 
 "It is perfectly safe for you to come out from behind my wife !
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 By 
 
 Gouverneur Morris 
 
 New York 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons 
 1919
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1918, 1919, BY 
 THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE CO. 
 
 Publisked September, 1919
 
 The Wild Goose 
 
 213139G
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FRANCIS MANNERS woke up one morning with the 
 feeling that he was a long way from home, and that 
 he had been away a long time, and that he ought not 
 to stay away any longer. "Ought" is a strong feel- 
 ing; and there was no reason which he knew of to 
 justify it. He had gone to bed with the feeling that 
 he could not finish his work in California before the 
 middle of April; and he had waked the next morn- 
 ing a blustery one near the end of February with 
 the feeling that he ought to go home at once. 
 
 This, however, was impracticable. In order to pay 
 his most pressing obligations he had undertaken in 
 a moment (which he now felt to have been a dark 
 one) to fresco the dining-room walls of Mrs. Cooper 
 Appleyard's new house, and he had still to make the 
 preliminary sketch for the end with the two doors. 
 And this sketch of course had to be made among the 
 surroundings from which it was to draw its inspira- 
 tion. Mrs. Cooper Appleyard's new house was to be 
 Californian inside and out. 
 
 With the thought that he could perhaps get the 
 sketch finished by April Fool's Day, he turned on the 
 cold water in his bathtub and began to shave. While 
 he was shaving he told himself that he really ought 
 to go home at once. 
 
 1
 
 2 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 The inside of his bathroom door was one sheet of 
 looking-glass; and when he had finished shaving his 
 right cheek he consulted this to see if he was develop- 
 ing a stomach. His wife had once told him laugh- 
 ingly that she would never forgive him if he did, and, 
 as she had a laughing way of saying things that she 
 really meant, sooner than go back to her looking as 
 if he had swallowed a melon Manners would have 
 taken drastic measures. He observed with satisfac- 
 tion that his contours were still those of a young man, 
 and that the gray hairs above his temples were still 
 so few as to be enumerable. 
 
 He freshened the lather on the left side of his face 
 and finished shaving. Then he got into the very cold 
 water which he had been drawing, and sat down with 
 a gasp of real pain. He had the idea that disagreea- 
 ble things were good for him; but there was little 
 danger that he would ever become perfect through 
 overindulgence in them. He preferred that medi- 
 ocrity which distinguishes those who habitually pur- 
 sue the agreeable: agreeable foods, drinks, surround- 
 ings, temperatures, people. If there had been nothing 
 agreeable about cold baths he would have taken them 
 hot. But the real pleasure of getting out of one more 
 than made up for the pain of getting in. And, pass- 
 ing from tubs to triumphs, from the pleasures of the 
 body to those of the soul, wiser men than Francis 
 Manners have agreed that the way to heaven lies 
 through purgatory. 
 
 During a few moments of violent friction he hadn't 
 a care in the world ; and then as he stood on one foot 
 (occasionally hopping sideways or backward or for-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 3 
 
 ward to keep his balance) and drawing a black-silk 
 sock over the other, his serenity was once more dis- 
 turbed by the feeling that he really ought to go home. 
 
 He was subject to sudden intuitions, especially where 
 his wife and daughter were concerned. That more 
 often than not these turned out to be groundless did 
 not alter his faith in them, or his wife's dread of them. 
 In the past her husband's intuitions had more than 
 once precipitated those difficult situations for which 
 her own impulses had been responsible. 
 
 At the moment, so far as Francis Manners knew, all 
 was serene between them. That is to say, as serene 
 as things ever could be. For the husband had long 
 since abandoned any real hope of that perfect marital 
 serenity for which he had given the best that was in 
 him to give, and to which he might have been thought, 
 because of his great faithfulness in loving, to have 
 acquired a title that was without law. He was forty 
 years old, but he could look his wife in the eyes and 
 say truthfully: "My darling, I have loved you for 
 almost a generation." 
 
 The love which seemed as definite a part of Francis 
 Manners's nature as his feeling for form and color 
 was a victorious love. It had triumphed over such 
 failures toward it as would have doomed a lesser love 
 to an early death, and caused it perhaps to turn, there- 
 after, in its grave. Of course he loved his wife in 
 this way because he couldn't 'help it. He couldn't 
 help it any more than he could help the shape of his 
 ears; but he was human enough to take the kind of 
 pride in it which should more definitely have been 
 reserved for those accomplishments for which he was
 
 4 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 more or less responsible. To be proud of his eye for 
 color would have been childish, since he had been 
 born with it; to have been proud of the technique 
 which enabled him to make good use of color would 
 have been sensible. He was proud of neither. He 
 was proud only of that faithfulness in loving which 
 had cost him no effort whatsoever; and yet people 
 spoke of him as a proud man. One thing is certain: 
 both in his love for Diana and in his aversion to cold 
 water he was very human. 
 
 Manners was too great a swell by birth and achieve- 
 ment to care very much how his clothes were put on, 
 and he dressed himself, as a rule, in something under 
 seven minutes. But this morning he loitered about 
 his room in various stages of deshabille and smoked 
 a number of cigarets. And during this period of pro- 
 crastination he came to a number of decisions and 
 admissions. But none of these was sufficient to shake 
 the stability of the feeling with which he had waked. 
 
 Of course, if Diana was in a real difficulty of any 
 kind she would telegraph him to come home. She 
 would telegraph him, for instance, if their little daugh- 
 ter were seriously ill. But if, on the other hand, she 
 was only in a half-difficulty she would not telegraph. 
 
 He read over half-a-dozen of her short letters, se- 
 lected at random, and covering the whole period of 
 their three months' separation. And he noted that 
 her last letter of all, the one that he had received the 
 day before, was dated Sunday. In this fact there 
 was of course nothing disturbing. What disturbed 
 him was the knowledge that the letter had been writ- 
 ten in town, and not in the country.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 5 
 
 He now gathered all her letters together and went 
 through them with a view to finding out when they 
 had been written and where. And although a number 
 were not dated at all it was conclusively shown that 
 a large majority, especially during the last two months, 
 had been written in town. Three of these were dated 
 Sunday. 
 
 It had been agreed between them that when he had 
 to be away on business she would manage, much as 
 the city amused her, to spend most of the week look- 
 ing after their small daughter "Tarn" in the country. 
 They shared the theory that one of them ought al- 
 most always to be with Tarn. They were firmly de- 
 termined that Tarn should not grow up spoiled and 
 selfish, and if left too much to the indulgence of 
 Diana's mother, Mrs. Langham, who lived with them, 
 some such corruption of a fine little character was to 
 be feared. 
 
 Diana, then, was neglecting Tarn. Of course he 
 ought to go home! Talk of intuition! But it was 
 no thought of the neglected Tarn, wrapped about his 
 heart though she was, that made him suddenly ex- 
 perience a kind of anxious excitement. At the back 
 of all his thoughts there was always the vague dread 
 of what Diana might suddenly feel that she must do 
 next. In the last analysis, he sometimes thought. 
 Diana's wishes and inclinations were her sole means 
 of judging what was right and what was wrong. In 
 this of course he did her injustice. The truth was 
 that Diana's sense of right and wrong did not always 
 control her conduct. 
 
 What was Diana up to now?
 
 6 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 He would go home for a few days, just long enough 
 to find out what was wrong, and to make it right if 
 he could. Then he would come back to California and 
 peacefully finish the sketches for Mrs. Appleyard's 
 dining-room. The expense of the trip to a man who 
 was trying very hard to be economical himself so that 
 another might spend bothered him a little. It would be 
 hard to explain to Diana his sudden return to New 
 York; especially it would be hard if her reasons for 
 being so much away from Tarn were merely the usual 
 reasons: love of people, love of excitement, and a rest- 
 less energy which only bodily activity could calm. 
 
 He could not in the present instance help suspect- 
 ing that there must be a more specific reason. He 
 rather thought that she must have taken a sudden 
 fancy to some new "crowd" (almost a habit of hers), 
 who in return (a habit of theirs) had taken an im- 
 mense fancy to her. In such cases one party leads to 
 another so naturally and pleasantly that all sense of 
 time and proportion is easily lost sight of. 
 
 Diana, then, was simply having a mad, glad time. 
 He could visualize her. When she was excited and 
 in high spirits there was no prettier woman in New 
 York. His heart beat more quickly at the thought. 
 But even the most amusing crowds in New York 
 usually leave the city to its dull fate on Sunday; and 
 here was Diana spending a good many of her Sundays 
 in town!
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 "YES, SIR ! You may take it from me a wild goose 
 gander has got us men skinned to a frazzle !" 
 
 The insistent old duck-hunter who had scraped ac- 
 quaintance with Manners in the smoking compartment 
 slapped his thigh and repeated "You may take it from 
 me." 
 
 Manners had grown to like the old fellow. He 
 liked a great many people in a great many walks of 
 life, and his dislikes were few. Most of the people 
 whom he really disliked were people whom he did not 
 even know to speak to. 
 
 The old duck-hunter talked a great deal; but he 
 was not a boaster. He was interesting, too. For he 
 had observed even more than he had shot, and with 
 training might have been an eminent naturalist. 
 
 The train was east of Omaha, and it was long past 
 the hour at which /Manners usually turned in when 
 he was traveling. There had been something about 
 the old duck-hunter's accounts of the habits of wild 
 geese that had made the quarter hours pass in quick 
 succession. He had mixed his discursive narrative 
 with observations upon men and women and their 
 habits, and without intention, probably, he had suc- 
 ceeded in showing Manners into a heart that was at 
 once kind and shrewd. He had lost his wife when he 
 was a young man, and he had never cared about any 
 other woman. To that extent he himself had much 
 
 7
 
 8 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 in common with a wild goose. But there the resem- 
 blance ceased. He had meant to be faithful to his 
 wife's memory in all ways; spiritual and technical. 
 But in the latter way he had failed. He regretted 
 this, but not poignantly. If they were to meet here- 
 after in the Happy Hunting-Ground (as he put it), 
 she would understand and forgive. "And besides," 
 he had misquoted, "if in the days of Innocency even 
 Adam fell, what should poor Jack Falstaff do in these 
 days of villainy?" 
 
 "But the old wild goose," he said, "if he lost his 
 wife when he was only six or seven years old he'd be 
 faithful to her memory in thought and deed till the 
 day of his death. Often they live to be a hundred." 
 
 Somehow there came into Manners's mind a vision 
 of wild wintry hills, and of an old gray goose flying 
 high through the clear, piercing cold with the piled- 
 up anguish of eighty years of grief tearing at his wild 
 and faithful heart. In such a love as that there was 
 a something of chaos and infinity, he felt; a some- 
 thing not of this world. The starkness and loneliness 
 of such loving appalled him. Where did the dumb 
 bird find the will to go on living through the long 
 generations? Surely, he thought, he must want to 
 end it all and die. And perhaps there's just the terri- 
 ble part of it. He wants death. Every waking mo- 
 ment for eighty years he has wanted nothing but 
 death, and he doesn't know how to die. He doesn't 
 know how to kill himself. 
 
 He spoke his thought, and the old duck-hunter 
 said: "I'm not sure. They vary so in knowingness. 
 Once well, it may have been a case of suicide, and
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 9 
 
 again it may not. It was an old gray goose almost 
 white he was came down to me all alone dropped 
 right out of the flock which had taken alarm, and 
 sailed down to me from a mile up and more than a 
 mile away sailed down with his wings set and, 
 almost right into me. It was no accident. He was 
 so close that I could see his eyes. He was looking 
 right at me, and he wasn't afraid. I was so flabber- 
 gasted I missed. He passed over, and made a great 
 swinging circle, and then he came right for me again; 
 He wanted his. ... In all my gunning I've never 
 seen the like of that. The second time I let him 
 have it where well, Mr. Manners, I let him have it 
 where I think he wanted it. ... Makes you shiver 
 when you think of a poor dumb creature mourning 
 like that for its mate." 
 
 "But how could you know that he'd lost his mate ?" 
 
 "She'd have been with him if she'd been living, 
 and if she'd been with him she'd have come down 
 with him." 
 
 Upon an impulse which was quite new to him in 
 his experience of himself, Manners pulled from his 
 pocket a small leather case in which he had a photo- 
 graph of Diana and Tarn, and showed it to a stranger. 
 He could not have explained why he did this, nor 
 why he chose to take that stranger still further into 
 his confidence. 
 
 "I'm something of a wild goose myself," he said 
 simply; "we've been married for ten years, and I've 
 loved her for more than twenty. She's a lot younger 
 than I am, of course ; so I don't have to worry about 
 what I'd do if I was left behind."
 
 io THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 He smiled, and, after glancing at the photograph, 
 closed the case, and returned it to his pocket. 
 
 "But you're young yourself," said the old duck- 
 hunter. His only comment upon the photograph had 
 been to point to Tarn and say "She's some kid !" 
 
 "Yes," said Manners, "I suppose I am. But I'm 
 forty." 
 
 "O Lord, please bless and keep my Di and my 
 Tarn, and make them perfectly happy always. And 
 I'd like to be happy, too. And I'm going to be a 
 better father and husband, and not so selfish all the 
 time." 
 
 Francis Manners had no set time for praying, and 
 he seldom prayed. It is not sure that he even believed 
 in God, or in a future life. He thought very little 
 about either. But it is equally sure that he some- 
 times addressed God by name and asked him for 
 things. He was especially given to this at night when 
 Tarn and Diana were asleep, and the day had seemed, 
 perhaps, to hold out promises of better days to come. 
 He was easily discouraged and easily encouraged. To 
 have possessed a not-unwilling Diana gave him always 
 a mood of wonderful exaltation in which he almost 
 believed that she was done with her traipsings and 
 would end by loving him again, as she had loved 
 him in the beginning. And then all would indeed be 
 well. But the next Diana was apt to be an unwilling 
 Diana, so that for self-reproach he could not sleep. 
 And the next Diana after that might well prove to 
 be an absolutely impossible Diana. And thereafter, 
 of course, the future darkened, and he knew that noth- 
 ing would ever really be well with them again.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE n 
 
 At such times he wished to heaven that he could 
 think of some way of ending it all. 
 
 There was too much blood in his head, or else the 
 train made too much noise. He set many snares for 
 sleep but they enmeshed nothing. He was in for one 
 of those nights when uninvited thoughts run in circles 
 and trivial things become magnified until they cast 
 shadows across life itself. But his thoughts were not 
 all unpleasant, and lingered rosily at times over those 
 years with Diana which had contained for them both, 
 as nearly as may be, the sum of all human blisses. 
 
 He liked to think of himself as an unselfish man. 
 But he was not. He could, however, be immensely 
 generous, which is a very different thing, and his night 
 thoughts were often brightened with immolations 
 and self-sacrificings, which in a few more minutes of 
 thinking became so modified with conditions and com- 
 plexities as to lose their brightness. In short, he could 
 not in any horoscope of Diana's future leave himself 
 out. He wondered if this was due to some fault in his 
 character, or to the fact that the roots of their two 
 lives were indeed inextricably intertwined. Loving 
 her he could not of course be only her friend, nor view 
 and review her altogether from the standpoint of mere 
 friendship. 
 
 Sooner or later his thoughts always turned to the 
 first great trouble between them, that trouble which 
 had fallen upon him, innocent and undeserving, out 
 of a clear sky, and the dread of whose recrudescence 
 or recurrence always lurked deep in his being, ready 
 to leap up without warning, and, like the knowledge 
 of some dreadful inheritance that must some day
 
 12 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 have its way with him, to destroy his peace and im- 
 pugn his sanity. 
 
 k It is doubtful if, from his first inklings of the great 
 trouble, any of his waking hours had been wholly 
 free from its influence. It is certain that since that 
 moment he had never, as so very often before, painted 
 anything that was wholly gay and joyous. It was an 
 inconsiderable compensation to know that the wistful- 
 ness and melancholy which had crept into his work 
 had increased its market value. The gaiety and joy- 
 ousness of the old mood could well have founded and 
 maintained a home. 
 
 He thought of the little house that he had built 
 with his first earnings and the help of his bank. The 
 dear house, and the dear fields and orchards; and the 
 brook that made music when all the other voices of the 
 night were still. He thought of the low - ceilinged, 
 sweet, clean room that had been his and Diana's, of 
 Diana's dressing-table of white muslin with the big 
 silver mirror, and of Diana sitting before that mirror 
 by candle-light and looping up her hair. 
 
 He thought of their broad bed, and of the fresh 
 night air; fresh, in that remote hill country, even on 
 the hottest nights. And of the great, sweet freshness 
 of the early mornings; of waking and resting on his 
 elbow and watching Diana until she waked. Always 
 in those days she had waked smiling like a happy child ; 
 and with but the one thought, to be taken quickly into 
 his arms, as he had but the one thought: to take her. 
 She was like an armful of roses. 
 
 The little house was to have been home. It was to 
 have grown this way and that; grown as his fame
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 13 
 
 grew and his earning power; grown as his love grew 
 and his tribe increased. 
 
 When they had left the little house for good and 
 all left it for the impatient modern reason that it 
 was a little out of the way of people who lived in 
 other houses, and that it doesn't really do to get sunk 
 in the country, Manners had left behind him a certain 
 something of that precious quality which opposes 
 change. He would never again know days and nights 
 that had in them so much of heaven. And yet the 
 mood in which he had departed with Diana from the 
 little house had had in it more of sentiment than 
 regret. It had seemed to him that since he was tak- 
 ing Diana with him there could be nothing really 
 worth regretting. Still, when she was all ready in the 
 closed motor, and his foot was on the step, he had 
 said, "Wait, I forgot !" And he had darted back into 
 their house and up to their room, and he had given it, 
 with the gray eyes that missed nothing, one panoramic 
 look that should fix it in his memory forever, and he 
 had knelt suddenly and touched his lips to the floor. 
 
 They were going to Newport for the summer. They 
 could not afford to go to Newport. But when he had 
 said that they could not afford to go a shadow had 
 crossed Diana's face, the first that had ever crossed it 
 since she had told him that she loved him, and they 
 were going to Newport. 
 
 When they crossed the bridge he had thrust his head 
 out of the car window and looked back ; only the roof 
 of the little house and the two white chimneys showed 
 above the lilacs. The lilacs were in full bloom. They 
 were purple and white.
 
 14 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Many times since that day Francis Manners had, in 
 imagination, left the little house for the last time. But 
 the mere sentiment of that first actual going had been 
 succeeded in the imaginary departures by an ever- 
 growing regret, and of grief even that was akin to 
 anguish. For the house had come to be the symbol 
 of the thing that was never to be; no, not though, like 
 Ulysses, he went through hell to attain it. He might 
 work until his eyes cracked, and he might love until 
 his heart broke, but there could never be for him a 
 home with the voices of many children in the porches. 
 
 The line of an old song went through his mind : 
 
 "My home is not built, and my son is not born." 
 
 He still owned the little house and a semi-annual in- 
 terest payment on the mortgage would be due on the 
 first day of April. He kept a caretaker, a man who 
 knew a whole lot about plants, and it was simply won- 
 derful how the garden had come on. 
 
 He had never been a coward ; and Diana had wished 
 him to see their child born. He would never forget 
 that wild winter day and night in her mother's house. 
 The nurse was a fool. She lost her nerve completely. 
 Manners himself, gray with fright and the agony that 
 was his, too, had taken the chloroform cone from the 
 nurse's hysterical hand, and her place at the head of 
 the bed. He had followed the doctor's instructions as 
 methodically and accurately as if he had been trained 
 to the work. Through the night, at intervals, Diana's 
 mother had come into the room. She seemed to know 
 just what was going on at the moment without look-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 15 
 
 ing. She had taken off her dress and put on instead 
 a blue-silk dressing-gown. It had sleeves to the elbow 
 finished off with flounces of soft lace. She would 
 stand with one elbow and forearm resting on the man- 
 telpiece. She had been perfectly calm and matter-of- 
 fact. But her face, that was as beautiful as Diana's, 
 looked as if it had been carved out of gray granite. 
 
 Diana's hair had been done into very tight pig-tails. 
 She had on a pair of Manners's heavy golf stockings, 
 absurdly big for her, because in spite of the coal fire 
 that roared in the grate and the hot air that came from 
 the furnace, the room was too cold. They had kept 
 her covered as much as possible. They had spared her 
 all the pain that could be spared her. 
 
 There were no idle moments for Manners. He ad- 
 ministered the chloroform. He held her hand tight 
 tight. He made love to her, in a loud voice, so that 
 his words might pierce the veils of chloroform and 
 give her courage. 
 
 "Dearest Darling Frank ! Dearest Darling Frank !" 
 Even in the midst of unspeakable agony that cry of 
 love and of trust had been wrung from her again and 
 again. 
 
 O God! How they had loved each other through 
 the horrors of that night! Manners had thought that 
 she was going to die. Even the doctor had grown 
 very anxious toward the end, and had glanced more 
 and more often toward that dish of sterilized instru- 
 ments which serve their end when it has become evi- 
 dent that of two lives only one can be saved. 
 
 But the instruments had remained in the dish. 
 Diana was wonderfully strong. And her time, though
 
 16 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 it had been very long and very hard, had been as nor- 
 mal as the time of a wild animal. There had been a 
 cry fine as a needle, and Diana had asked a question. 
 
 "Why, Diana," the doctor had said, after hastily 
 assuring himself, "it seems to be a girl." 
 
 Manners had had but one thought: "She must 
 never know that he had hoped for a boy." He had 
 knelt swiftly and taken her oh, so tenderly, in his arms, 
 and his face close to hers had whispered "It's a girl, 
 my darling, and I'm so glad so glad!" 
 
 Then they had both begun to cry, their tears min- 
 gling, and the doctor had spoken sharply to Manners. 
 
 She had slept and she had waked. 
 
 "I won't ever have another," she had cried sud- 
 denly. "Never. And you mustn't ask me to, you 
 mustn't ask me to!" 
 
 A queer, pained look had come into Manners's face. 
 She was blaming him, and holding him responsible for 
 that which neither of them had thought to bring about 
 or to evade. Their little daughter had simply hap- 
 pened. 
 
 The doctor had touched Manners on the shoulder 
 and said: "Diana doesn't know what she is saying." 
 
 But the sleeping Diana had known perfectly well. 
 And thereafter she was to stick to what she had said. 
 At least so far as Manners was concerned. 
 
 It is not to be doubted that for a number of years 
 Diana Manners had been more concerned with her 
 husband's welfare than with his happiness. If he 
 went upon a journey she busied herself over the de- 
 tails of his packing and of his departure with some-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 17 
 
 thing of the same look that had been so often in her 
 eyes during the first years of their marriage. No one 
 could get things better done or more expeditiously 
 than Diana. She had immense energy and a genius 
 for the telephone. And what she could do well, 
 swiftly and without mistakes, she very naturally en- 
 joyed doing. That, and no sense of wifely duty, was 
 most likely the reason why she always insisted upon 
 packing her husband's things. It was in 1910 that 
 she had forgotten to put in the little box in which he 
 kept the studs for his evening shirts. He could not 
 remember any other omission during all the years of 
 their marriage. 
 
 She was very fond of her husband; and behind 
 his back stood up for his opinions and admired him 
 immensely; but to his face she seldom praised his 
 work or seemed to agree with his opinions. It was 
 much easier for her to find fault with the cut of his 
 coat or the color of his tie than to tell him that she 
 was proud to be seen with him, because now that the 
 lines of character in his face had begun to deepen he 
 was getting to look distinguished. 
 
 Diana would not go higher than the third story in 
 a hotel, for fear of fires; and for other people, though 
 by no means for herself, she was afraid of journeys 
 by ship or train. To have telegraphed her that he 
 was coming home would have meant for Diana a 
 certain amount of anxiety (not very poignant, of 
 course), and it had hardly even occurred to Manners 
 to do so. And he had reason to think that the sur- 
 prise of his sudden and unexpected appearance had 
 still an element that would afford her pleasure. She
 
 i8 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 was very fond of him. He knew that and depended 
 on the durability of that feeling. But he couldn't help 
 wishing that she would show her fondness for him 
 oftener and talk about it more. She was not de- 
 monstrative. 
 
 Why he had come home in this sudden and unex- 
 pected manner would be hard to explain. "I just felt 
 that I ought to come home" was hardly an explana- 
 tion ; and it was certainly not a good excuse for spend- 
 ing a lot of money when money was scarce, and for 
 delaying the execution of a handsome commission. 
 He had already tried it on Mrs. Appleyard, and she 
 had shown plainly that though she considered him 
 very charming, she was disgusted with him for so 
 arbitrarily and unreasonably holding up the comple- 
 tion of her new house. Artists, she had told him, 
 were all alike. They were all spoiled children. 
 
 Why did he feel that he ought to go home? The 
 intuition upon which he had acted could not be re- 
 solved into anything definite. It might mean that 
 Tarn was a little sick; but nothing to worry about; 
 or that Diana was. It might, with more likelihood, 
 turn out that Diana had already spent all the money 
 which he had been able to place to her account. It 
 might mean any of a dozen things. But if he had 
 thought that his sudden and unexpected appearance 
 might be embarrassing to Diana he would, of course, 
 have telegraphed. If he had ever had the impulse 
 to spy upon Diana's actions he had at least punctili- 
 ously refrained from doing so. And although he had 
 reason to believe that her heart was not to be relied 
 on, he trusted her as men trust women who are frank,
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 19 
 
 clean-minded and truthful. Diana might throw her 
 cap over the windmill; but she would first tell him 
 that she was going to. 
 
 There was one person to whom the explanation 
 which he intended to give of his home-coming would 
 be sufficient and convincing. He would tell Tarn that 
 he had come home because he could not bear to stay 
 away from her any longer. 
 
 With thoughts of the welcome that he would have 
 from Tam peace came to him. He no longer tried 
 to account for the intuition that was hurrying him 
 home, and, his sheets and blankets in a cindery snarl, 
 he settled into the position in which sleep would pres- 
 ently find him, and a little later dreamed that he was 
 an old gray goose who had lost his mate, and could 
 not bear to live any longer, and that he was volplan- 
 ing down from the skies straight for the muzzle of a 
 double-barreled shotgun. . . .
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FRANCIS MANNERS kept out of the city as much as 
 possible. And the small apartment which he rented 
 in the Sixties was usually spoken of as his wife's. It 
 was almost entirely for her convenience that the small 
 suite of small rooms had been rented at all, and in 
 the choice of the wall-papers, chintzes and furnishings 
 his taste had not been consulted. Nor had Diana 
 given free rein to her own. Her taste ran to ex- 
 tremely expensive simplicity. And although the effect 
 of the apartment was simple enough, it had been 
 achieved at a very small expense. Only the linen and 
 the toilet articles on Diana's dressing-table showed 
 that she could be extravagant. 
 
 Francis Manners had driven directly from the 
 Grand Central Station to his club in 43rd Street. 
 From there he had telephoned first to his house in 
 Old Westbury. 
 
 Tarn had reached an age when she delighted to 
 answer the telephone, and when he heard her shrill 
 voice saying: "Who is it, plis?" he began to tremble 
 all over. 
 
 "Who are you ?" he asked in a disguised voice. He 
 heard the receiver drop. He heard her crying: "It's 
 Fazzer! It's Fazzer." 
 
 Then he heard the cool and quiet voice of Diana's 
 mother. There was laughter in it. 
 
 20
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 21 
 
 "Tarn is so excited that she can't speak," she said. 
 "But where are you?" 
 
 "In New York. Is Diana there?" 
 
 Something told him that Diana was not there, or 
 she would by now be audible in the family group at 
 the other end of the telephone. 
 
 "Diana went to town yesterday. Have you tele- 
 phoned the apartment?" 
 
 "Thought I'd try home first. Did she intend to 
 come out to the country this afternoon, or don't you 
 know?" 
 
 "She said she would try. But of course you'll find 
 her and bring her out. You can't very well say what 
 train, can you? But what brings you back?" 
 
 "One thing and another. Are you all well? 
 
 "Very. Tarn especially." 
 
 "Isn't that fine!" he exclaimed. "Isn't that fine!" 
 
 "Wait a moment. Tarn seems to think she can 
 speak now." Again the child's shrill voice started up 
 the beating of his heart. 
 
 "I couldn't believe it was you," she said, "I was 
 so excited." 
 
 "I wish you could just see how excited father is," 
 said Manners. "He's shaking like a leaf on a tree. 
 And he's going to come out to the country just as 
 soon as ever he possibly can find mother and catch a 
 train, and of course the quicker you and I stop talk- 
 ing, the quicker I can find mother, and so my own 
 darling good-by to you, and take good care of your- 
 self." He stepped out of the booth and gave the 
 number of Diana's apartment. 
 
 Diana's maid, Hilda, answered him, and told him
 
 22 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 that Mrs. Manners had gone out for lunch ; she, Hilda, 
 could not say where. He also gathered that when 
 his wife went out to lunch she nearly always came 
 back about three. He had counted somehow on 
 getting in touch with Diana at once, and he came out 
 of the booth with an unreasonable feeling of depres- 
 sion. The truth was that he was very tired after his 
 long journey across the continent; tired bodily, opti- 
 cally, and mentally. 
 
 He telephoned to Sherry's, Delmonico's and the 
 Colony Club, but Diana was at none of these. And 
 as it was now a quarter before two he felt that he 
 ought to think of his own lunch. This in the end, 
 thought he had also ordered chicken livers Aquitaine, 
 consisted of half-a-dozen Cotuit oysters and a cup of 
 cafe au lait. The keen appetite with which he had 
 entered the club had left him. He did not feel like 
 speaking to anyone, but for once he seemed to know 
 half the men in the dining-room, and as he had been 
 away so long many of them came to his table to wel- 
 come him back, so that he was half an hour over a 
 meal that shouldn't have wasted ten minutes. 
 
 It was half-past two when he put down his travel- 
 ing bag in the tiny entrance-hall of Diana's apart- 
 ment, and looked at his watch. He would have to 
 wait at least half an hour before he saw her. And 
 if not interminable, it seemed at the least an impor- 
 tant period of time. He spent most of it on his feet, 
 and a quarter hour (double the length of the half) 
 as well. 
 
 It wasn't in any way Diana's fault. He would have 
 been the first to admit that. And if he did not ex-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 23 
 
 actly blame her, at least he felt irritated with her; 
 not steadily, but by fits and starts. Sometimes, at 
 the sight of something which reminded him of her 
 loveliness and charm the mirror on her dressing- 
 table, for instance an ineffable tenderness came over 
 him, and he drew long, slow breaths. 
 
 There were some new books on the drawing-room 
 table and he paused, in his caged prowlings, to ex- 
 amine the titles: "Twinkletoes," "The Idiot," "The 
 Seven That Were Hanged." And when he had 
 looked at the fly-leaves of these books Manners knew 
 that someone whom Diana liked had given them to 
 her, because she had taken the trouble to write her 
 name in them. Would she never come? 
 
 The first thing that he had noticed on entering the 
 drawing-room was the photograph of himself in a 
 narrow silver-gilt frame that previously Diana had 
 always kept on her dressing-table. 
 
 "First she turns me out of her room," he had 
 thought, "and now she turns my picture out." 
 
 But he had gone at once to see if she had not sub- 
 stituted another photograph of him which he knew 
 she liked better. She had not. And he had felt child- 
 ishly hurt. 
 
 He looked at the photograph again, went close to 
 it, and spoke to it. "What's the matter with her any- 
 way?" he asked. The photograph very naturally did 
 not answer. It did not even seem to have heard the 
 question which had been addressed to it. "You've 
 been here all the time," said Manners, "and I've been 
 away. You could tell me an awful lot if you only 
 would. But you won't. I suppose it's because
 
 24 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 we have nothing in common except that we look 
 alike." 
 
 He heard the hall door open, and a moment later 
 Diana's voice. "Whose bag? Why, for heaven's 
 sake! . . . Frank!" 
 
 Somehow he had already gathered that Diana was 
 not alone. And that knowledge damped the ardor 
 of the embrace with which he must otherwise have 
 greeted her. 
 
 "Why, Frank !" she said. "How you frightened me !" 
 
 They had not really kissed* Their cheeks had 
 touched for a moment, and now she had backed away 
 from him, and although she didn't look in the least 
 frightened she did look a little bewildered and 
 troubled. Then she remembered her companion. 
 
 "Ogden," she called, "come and meet my hus- 
 band . . . of all the surprises!" 
 
 A moment later she had introduced to her husband 
 a man named Fenn. 
 
 It is doubtful if at that moment he made upon 
 Manners a single distinct impression of any kind. If 
 he seemed anything to Manners he seemed shy, gen- 
 tle, embarrassed and very much in the way. Ordi- 
 narily Manners would have exerted himself to be 
 amusing and polite. But he was really very tired, 
 the waiting had put his nerves on edge, and the man- 
 ner of his meeting with the woman whom he loved 
 with all his tender heart had been very disappointing 
 that and the photograph and everything took from 
 him his usual power of free and easy speech. Diana 
 came to the rescue. 
 
 "I don't know what's happened," she said, "or why
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 25 
 
 you are here. But of course you want to go to the 
 country at once to see Tarn, and I suppose of course 
 that you want me to go with you." 
 
 "Of course," he said, and turned to Fenn. "I'm 
 awfully sorry to be in the way; but I am and it can't 
 be helped." 
 
 Mr. Fenn said something about "only going to the 
 movies," and relapsed at once into a gentle and em- 
 barrassed silence. It was obvious that he wanted to 
 get away and that he did not know how. Manners 
 helped him. He thrust out his hand: 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry," he said. "It's horrid of me, 
 but I haven't seen my wife and baby for months and 
 months. And I know you'll understand. Awfully 
 glad to have met you." 
 
 Mr. Fenn turned somewhat awkwardly toward the 
 door. Diana smiled brightly at him and said: "Sorry, 
 Ogden, 'nother time!" 
 
 She seemed to be no more interested in his de- 
 parture than if he had been the paperhanger, and she 
 turned to her husband, still smiling. 
 
 But the smile drooped a little at the corners, and 
 Manners was shocked to observe that Diana really 
 looked as if she might be thirty. His irritation and 
 his disappointment faded before a feeling of pity and 
 compassion. His Diana was tired, and she wasn't 
 looking well, and she wasn't happy, and he couldn't 
 make her happy. He had never seen her look so 
 badly. Even her color was not good. 
 
 "You've been overdoing, dear," he said. Usually 
 she would have denied the imputation or shrugged it 
 aside. But she didn't this time. She said: "Shouldn't
 
 26 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 wonder." And she added: "How you did frighten 
 me!" 
 
 Almost immediately she left him to pack the little 
 bag which served her as a sort of link between what 
 she kept in town and what she left in the country, 
 and Manners, having lit a cigaret, resumed his caged 
 prowlings. In the telling American of it he felt "All 
 in," "Sunk." Diana had not been pleasantly sur- 
 prised. During his absence he had gained no ground 
 with her. She had been sadder at parting than she 
 was glad at meeting. He wished to ask her at once 
 what was the matter. But he knew that Hilda was 
 with her and that he must wait. It seemed to him 
 that he had had to do almost more waiting in his life 
 than anyone he knew. His had been enforced wait- 
 ings. He could never during any one of them have 
 had the satisfaction of saying with Ravenswood "I 
 bide my time." He bided his times, indeed, but only 
 because he was made to. 
 
 Was Diana really beginning to lose her looks? To 
 him that could never make any difference. His love 
 for Diana was not founded upon her looks, nor were 
 the flames of it fanned by them. But to Diana it 
 would be so tragic. With regard to her looks and to 
 the development of her character it had always seemed 
 to him as if for once Time was surely going to stand 
 still. At the station only a few months before she 
 had looked like a young girl. And to-day she looked 
 her age, which was thirty. And of course she knew 
 it. Compassion possessed him and hurt him. He 
 longed to take her in his arms and hold her tight 
 tight.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 27 
 
 He went softly to her bedroom door. But she had 
 not finished packing and Hilda was with her. 
 
 "Most finished?" he asked. 
 
 "Almost/' she said. "We'll have to get some things 
 at the Parlor Market. Do you mind? You see, we 
 weren't either of us expected to-night." 
 
 Manners returned to the drawing-room; but this 
 time he had not long to wait. He would not let Hilda 
 help him with the bags, and Diana went ahead to open 
 the doors. He took it for granted that Diana had 
 ordered a taxi. What an able little person she was. 
 There was nothing that she couldn't get done! If 
 only she wouldn't scatter her energy so ! How won- 
 derful if she had put it all into building up a home; 
 all her energy, all her ability, all her charm and love- 
 liness ! 
 
 They were no sooner in the taxi than he took her 
 hand in his, and he held it all the way to the Parlor 
 Market, and thereafter to the Pennsylvania Station. 
 "I'm tired and fussed," he explained, "and it goes 
 right through me and soothes me. If you only knew 
 how I love you!" 
 
 He felt a faint pressure from her fingers, and she 
 said very quietly and gravely: 
 
 "I do know, Frank." 
 
 In the old wonderful days she would have looked 
 at him with those wonderful blue eyes of hers, eyes 
 that were sometimes gay and imploring at the same 
 moment, and she might have answered: 
 
 "If you only knew how I love you !" 
 
 "Diana, dear," he said, "there's something on your 
 mind, something that's troubling you."
 
 28 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 But she said there was nothing. And he believed 
 her. Having her say definitely that there was noth- 
 ing was a real relief to him. She qualified her denial. 
 
 "It's been a little hard about money," she said. 
 "That Chicago person has never sent the check for 
 his wife's portrait." 
 
 "Why, you poor child!" exclaimed Manners, "I 
 supposed of course that you had that." 
 
 "I knew how much you had to worry you," said 
 Diana. "And so I just did the best I could without 
 it. But I never knew anything about money before. 
 And you can be sure of one thing. I'm not going to 
 be extravagant any more." 
 
 It was the first time that she had ever made a posi- 
 tive promise of reform about anything. Her usual 
 formula was: "Why, I suppose I'll have to try; but 
 I don't suppose I can." 
 
 Somehow that promise, though she had phrased it 
 in the form of a mere statement, made him feel as 
 if a barrier was breaking down between them. Now 
 at last she understood that his complaints about her 
 extravagance had not been those of a mean and ill- 
 natured man, but of one who had been sorely tried 
 and harassed. But he merely squeezed her hand and 
 said: 
 
 "Then we'll be out of debt in no time."
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 As the short journey drew toward an end, all Man- 
 ners's feelings of fatigue and oppression kft him. 
 It wouldn't be long now before he would see Tam, 
 and hear her voice, and carry her upward leaping to 
 his breast, and hold her as tightly as he dared, and 
 his long, wearisome journey would end in at least one 
 meeting of lovers. He became so immersed in an- 
 ticipation of that happy event that he found difficulty 
 in finding topics for conversation. He asked random 
 questions about things and persons, and his mind 
 made no records of Diana's answers. He would ask 
 her many of those same questions, the next day, when 
 they went for their walk, and she would say "But you 
 asked me that yesterday!" And he would have no 
 recollection of having asked her. 
 
 "Who's Fenn?" he asked. 
 
 "There were a lot of them when I was little. They 
 went West. And this one has only been in New York 
 a short while. He's very shy." 
 
 "I thought he seemed ill-at-ease. But that was 
 natural enough; finding me there ivas awkward." 
 
 But Manners at this time was not in the least in- 
 terested in Fenn. 
 
 "Everything all right at the farm?" 
 
 "Yes. But McCoy is clamoring for wages. His 
 letters are really outrageous." 
 
 29
 
 30 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "He doesn't mean to be impertinent, and he's really 
 devoted to us. Seen a lot of Mary Hastings?" 
 
 "Not very much somehow." 
 
 "Pshaw ! I love to have you see her." 
 
 A momentary vision of the famous Mrs. Hastings 
 arose before his mind's eye. Her beauty was a real 
 joy to him. He had always proclaimed that she was 
 the most beautiful woman in the world. She was 
 Diana's closest friend; she had a splendid influence 
 on Diana, and it hurt him to think that they had not 
 been seeing very much of each other. 
 
 And now the hack which they had hired turned into 
 the short shady driveway that led to their house. 
 And he spoke no more. Before the hack had stopped 
 he was out of it, abandoning Diana and the luggage. 
 He tore open the front door, and rushed into the hall 
 crying : "Tarn ! Tarn ! Tarn !" 
 
 And there came a rush of little feet and a shrill 
 voice crying "My Fazzer! My Fazzer!" And then 
 they were in each other's arms, and somehow it could 
 be seen that they were one flesh, one blood, one heart, 
 one soul, and that God had made them for each 
 other. 
 
 Neither Diana nor her mother, who had come out 
 of the library where she had been trying to keep Tarn 
 quiet, looked at them. For there was a kind of holi- 
 ness about their rapture which it was not fitting for 
 mortal eyes to behold. 
 
 And then he was sitting, and had Tarn astride of 
 his knees facing him, and their eyes glistened very 
 brightly with delight. He had demanded that she 
 tell him everything that she had been doing, but
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 31 
 
 because for her the winter had had but one tremen- 
 dously important event it was about that that she told 
 him. 
 
 "Once," she said, "Muzzer took me to town to 
 spend the night. And Mr. Fenn took us to the Hip- 
 podrome, and there was a giant and a dwarve and I 
 stayed up till the middle of the night !" 
 
 Something of Manners's gladness went right out 
 of him. 
 
 "Oh, Diana," he cried, "how could you? I'm so 
 disappointed." 
 
 "Tarn was so crazy to go," said Diana. "She talked 
 of nothing else." 
 
 "But she can only go to the theater for the first time 
 in her life once," said Manners, "and I did so want 
 to be there that time. Who," he asked, with the least 
 trace of temper in his voice, "is this Mr. Fenn who 
 comes along and gobbles up my privileges?" 
 
 "He's awful nice," said Tam, " 'n he can blow 
 wings." 
 
 But Manners had forgotten Fenn and the Hippo- 
 drome, and his disappointment, and with an "Oh, my 
 darling!" he had once more clasped his little daughter 
 to his breast. 
 
 Between kissing Tam good-night and dinner-time 
 there was half an hour during which Manners and 
 his mother-in-law sat in front of the library fire and 
 talked about Diana. 
 
 At night, at a little distance, Mrs. Langham was 
 still beautiful. Her back was perfectly straight and 
 her small head was splendidly erect The gray hair 
 hardly showed against the light brown ; she was slen-
 
 32 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 der and always becomingly dressed. Like Diana, she 
 was extraordinarily neat. Manners had only one fault 
 to find with his mother-in-law; she was almost wil- 
 fully inclined to indulge Tam and to spoil her. 
 
 "Diana seems to be dead-beat," he said. "I do wish 
 she wasn't so restless." 
 
 "It's the vice of her generation," said Mrs. Lang- 
 ham. "You suffer from it yourself, Frank." 
 
 "I keep it in bounds, and make it paint pictures." 
 
 "If Diana only had something to do. Restlessness 
 is a symptom of idleness. And, like any bad habit, 
 the more it's indulged in the worse it grows." 
 
 "She has something on her mind," said Manners. 
 "Have you thought that? Something is troubling 
 her. I've asked her to tell me what it is, but she says 
 there's nothing." He laughed, but not mirthfully. 
 "She'll tell me," he said, "when she gets good and 
 ready, and not before." 
 
 Mrs. Langham was devoted to her son-in-law. And 
 all through the troubles that he had had with Diana 
 she had felt herself to be entirely on his side. But 
 she had been very careful not to show this by any 
 word or act. She believed firmly that people who 
 take sides openly, or in any way interfere, as between 
 husband and wife, are more apt to make matters worse 
 than better. She had a sense of justice which even 
 the love of a mother for her daughter could not bias ; 
 and, in her judgment, Manners, all things considered, 
 was an excellent husband; while Diana was by no 
 means an excellent wife. During the first years of 
 their marriage she had entertained the highest hopes 
 of Diana. These hopes had diminished until, al-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 33 
 
 though still a part of her general maternal faith, they 
 were not untinged with cynicism. 
 
 According to her observations very few women 
 made really good wives until they had lost their looks. 
 Their husbands were apt to have more love, then, she 
 thought, and less care. 
 
 "You'd hate me," said Manners, "if I took her back 
 to California with me." 
 
 "No. But I should decline absolutely to be respon- 
 sible for Tarn in the meanwhile. I have brought up 
 five children of my own, thank you." 
 
 "I sometimes wish." said Manners, "that once in 
 a while you had corrected one of your children with 
 a rod." 
 
 "Poor Mr. Langham and I told you at the time 
 that you were marrying a handful." 
 
 A smile of great sweetness stole over Manners's 
 face. He rose and stood with his back to the fire, 
 still smiling. 
 
 "And good Lord," he said, "how I still love her!" 
 
 It was at this moment that Diana appeared in the 
 doorway. She had had a hot bath and looked re- 
 freshed. Whether she had color or not made a great 
 difference in Diana's looks. How bright and crisp 
 her -dark-brown hair was, and how charmingly she 
 carried her head. 
 
 "I think dinner's ready," she said. 
 
 "If it is," said her husband, "then one thing is as 
 sure as anything can be: I am going to dine with two 
 extremely pretty women." 
 
 He had an arm for each of them and he hurried 
 them, laughing and protesting, to the dining-room.
 
 34 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Diana had very little to say. She announced, how- 
 ever, that she was dead-tired and that she was going 
 to bed right after dinner. Manners glanced at that 
 bright brown head, and wondered for the hundredth 
 time that day just what particular troubling thought 
 it contained. If he had known his heart would have 
 stood still. 
 
 Diana looked calm and serene. What would Man- 
 ners have thought if she had yielded to the impulse 
 which was urging her to leap to her feet, to throw 
 down the candlesticks, to smash glasses and to scream: 
 "For God's sake, let me go! I want to die! I want 
 to die!" 
 
 Dinner was short, but although Manners and Mrs. 
 Langham kept up an energetic conversation, it passed 
 slowly. Calm and serene though she seemed, Diana 
 could not altogether deceive her mother and her hus- 
 band; and she, equally versed in their moods and 
 habits of mind, knew their talk and laughter for the 
 pretense they were. 
 
 "The quicker I leave these young things together," 
 thought Mrs. Langham, "to blow the clouds away or 
 kiss them away, the better." 
 
 And shortly after dinner she wished them good- 
 night upon a plea of letter-writing, and ascended to 
 her room, humming gaily as she went. But there was 
 no gaiety in her; neither did she write any letters. 
 For a long time now she had felt that she was living 
 over a volcano. She could only hide this feeling from 
 others. Alone in her own room the corners of her 
 handsome, courageous mouth drooped. And it was 
 an old woman who that night lay down at twelve
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 35 
 
 o'clock in her narrow bed, and slept no wink till after 
 four. 
 
 "And I'm going up too," said Diana, almost imme- 
 diately after the sound had come to them of Mrs, 
 Langham's door closing. "I suppose you'll be stop- 
 ping in to say good-night to me?' 
 
 She met his look bravely, and even waved to him 
 from the stair. He could not know that when she 
 had closed the door of her room she dropped on her 
 knees by the bed, and began to sob like a broken- 
 hearted child. 
 
 There was still so much of the child in Diana that 
 she cried all the time she was undressing and looping 
 up her hair for the night, and after she had washed 
 her face with cold water she cried some more, and 
 had to wash it again. From her prayers she rose, 
 not with placidity and resignation in her face, but 
 with resentment. Of the short-lived look of refresh- 
 edness that had followed her hot bath there was no 
 longer any trace. There were dark circles under her 
 eyes, and she looked haggard. 
 
 Her husband came to her presently in his pajamas 
 and a long wrapper of white toweling. He seated 
 himself on the edge of the bed and took both her 
 hands in his. He looked into her eyes a long time, 
 and it seemed to him that in their blue depths he 
 could detect fear and animosity. The beating of his 
 heart became less emphatic. 
 
 "Diana, dear," he said, "you are fond of me, aren't 
 you?"
 
 36 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "I don't think you know how fond of you I am," 
 she said. 
 
 He leaned over her and slid his left arm under her 
 shoulders. In his right hand he still held both hers. 
 
 "Diana, darling," he said, "doesn't it make any 
 difference that I love you with my whole heart and 
 soul?" 
 
 "It makes a lot of difference, Frank." 
 
 He loosed her hands and took her altogether into 
 his arms. His face dropped to hers, but she turned 
 hers away, so that it was her cheek that he kissed, 
 and in the same instant of time he knew that she had 
 begun to cry. 
 
 Francis Manners had his great moments, and the 
 passion that shook him turned, as at the touch of a 
 magician's wand, into pity and chivalry. He rubbed 
 his cheek against hers, and almost in his natural voice 
 he said: 
 
 "I know how tired you are, darling. I'm only say- 
 ing good-night." 
 
 He lowered his arms from about her, and rose once 
 more to a sitting position. Diana neither looked nor 
 spoke her gratitude. She never did. In certain ways 
 the grave itself could be no more reluctant to disclose 
 its secrets than Diana. As a matter of fact she was 
 so grateful to her husband that she dareti not speak 
 about it. He smiled upon her so sweetly that his 
 smile had in it something of the angelic. And her 
 heart, at once wayward and compassionate, was tor- 
 tured with remorse. 
 
 Soon after he had left her she fell into the sleep 
 that follows mental exhaustion. Her last thoughts
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 37 
 
 were of the many great hurts she had done her hus- 
 band. And before sleeping she, whom he had never 
 suspected of making a resolution of any kind, made 
 many noble and wonderful resolutions, all with his 
 happiness in view, and believed that this time she 
 would keep them. 
 
 In moments of dejection Manners believed that for 
 his wife such words as "compassion, mercy, pity, self- 
 sacrifice, justice" had no meaning whatever, when 
 the truth was that they held for her so much mean- 
 ing that her repeated failures to be compassionate, 
 merciful, pitiful, self-sacrificing and just tormented 
 her. It was a pity that Diana was so inarticulate. 
 Her husband thought that he knew her like a book. 
 He did not know her at all. 
 
 Some such moment of dejection was upon Manners 
 now. His chivalrous mood had been succeeded by 
 one of discouragement and self-pity, and the man 
 whose last smile had had in it something of the angelic 
 looked now extremely human and cross. "That was 
 no way for a wife to welcome a husband when he'd 
 been away for months and months!" "Wouldn't you 
 think she'd want to make up to me for all the hurts 
 she's given me?" "Damn all this modern restless- 
 ness, and all this business about people who ought to 
 be one feeling that they must live their own sacred, 
 selfish, separate lives in their own way." With such 
 thoughts he worked himself into a rage. The blood 
 got into his head and he could not sleep. "I've loved 
 her for twenty years," he thought. "I've been faith- 
 ful. I've supported her, and worked my hands off 
 for her, and it means nothing to her. Nothing!"
 
 38 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 It was a pity that he could not have known that 
 that very love of his, which she did actually at times 
 seem to hold in such small esteem, had more than 
 once waved her back from the brink of a precipice 
 toward which she was rushing.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 DIANA had her breakfast in bed and sewed during 
 most of the morning. At such times her room was the 
 clearing-house for all family affairs and for her own 
 personal ones. Either the door was open and she was 
 interviewing the cook or the waitress ; or the door was 
 shut and she was telephoning with friends in the city. 
 Manners came and went, but as Tarn was nearly 
 always at his heels there were no opportunities for 
 really intimate conversation. 
 
 He had waked more sure than ever that something 
 specific was troubling Diana; and the anger that he 
 had felt against her was all gone. She didn't look 
 well, even after her long sleep, and she didn't look 
 happy, and he couldn't keep his mind off her health 
 and her happiness. 
 
 Tarn was a real nuisance that morning, for her 
 father's heart was not in the business of playing and 
 romping. But he did not wish her to know this, and 
 he forced a gaiety which deceived no one but Tarn. By 
 noon his nerves had been brought to a fine edge, and 
 it was not till then that he had a few minutes alone 
 with Diana. As on the preceding night he seated him- 
 self on the edge of her bed, and contemplated her for 
 quite a long time without speaking. Diana made a 
 great many of her own clothes, and at the moment her 
 eyes were busy with the shirtwaist which she had 
 
 39
 
 40 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 begun that morning, so that their expression was hid- 
 den from her husband. 
 
 "I think you might put that thing down and talk 
 to me," he said. 
 
 It will be remembered that Diana had gone to sleep 
 with her mind filled with good resolutions. She put 
 down her work obediently, and with real sweetness of 
 expression looked up to meet her husband's eyes. This 
 time, cost what it might yea, though she broke her 
 heart she was going to keep those good resolutions, 
 every one of them. He should perhaps have kissed 
 her, told her not to be late for lunch, and left her. But 
 this is doubtful. Her nerves were on edge, too. Per- 
 haps it did not matter much what he said or did. 
 
 "I want to know what's wrong, Diana." 
 
 Her expression lost its sweetness instantly. 
 
 "Why should anything be wrong?" 
 
 "I'm sure I don't know; but I should like to, and 
 also what it is." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders, and she knew that if 
 she was going to keep some of her good resolutions 
 she would have to break others. 
 
 "It isn't right for you to keep anything from me," 
 he said. 
 
 "Oh, Frank," she exclaimed, "don't talk about right 
 and duty. Did I ever do anything right because it was 
 right? If I ever do do right it's because I want to." 
 
 "You tell me there is nothing wrong," said Man- 
 ners, "but I know you much too well to believe that. 
 On the whole you are the most truthful person I know, 
 so that on the few occasions when you have attempted 
 to deceive you have made a perfect botch of it."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 41 
 
 Diana couldn't help smiling at this description of 
 herself. It was perfectly accurate. 
 
 "So I know there's something," he went on, "but I 
 can't be sure that you are ever going to tell me what 
 it is. Won't you please tell me, dear ? Maybe I could 
 do something to help?" 
 
 "There isn't anything," she said. And he knew that 
 she was not telling the truth. 
 
 "Have it your own way !" he exclaimed, with some 
 temper. "But you ought to remember that the things 
 I imagine will be a good deal worse than what you 
 could tell me, if you only would, and show a little con- 
 sideration." 
 
 "Frank," she said, "I have some things to tell you, 
 and I think you'll be pleased. But it's time for me to 
 dress, and I'm not going to tell you now." 
 
 "All right, dear. Can I stay and watch you dress?" 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't, Frank. It makes me 
 nervous." 
 
 He sighed and went out obediently. ' There had been 
 a time when if in the course of twenty-four hours he 
 had not seen Diana in all stages of dress and undress, 
 she would have felt slighted. The best picture he had 
 ever painted had been of Diana without any clothes on 
 at all. He had painted it for the sheer love of paint- 
 ing it. And then he had destroyed it. 
 
 But it was good to know that the things which she 
 was going to tell him would please him. And his imag- 
 ination began to feed on this promise, leaping from 
 small things to great, until his breast was filled with 
 hopes of an exceeding rosiness. 
 
 He had always believed that she had a splendid
 
 42 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 character, and that some time it would triumph over 
 all her faults and failures. Perhaps even now that 
 bright hour was at hand. 
 
 The frost had begun to come out of the ground 
 and so they kept to the macadamed roads. Diana 
 had already told him very briefly, almost sulkily, that 
 she had made up her mind to give more of her time 
 to Tarn, and to be economical. But she did not say 
 that in all other ways she had resolved to make him 
 a better wife. Her resolutions, indeed, were all going 
 to pieces under the pressure of continuous introspec- 
 tion, and, of course, Manners, whose hopes had been 
 so rosy, was disappointed. 
 
 "I wish you could say," he said, "that you were 
 going to live my life our life a little more. You 
 are away from me so much with people I hardly know, 
 and whom I don't care two straws about. It hurts me 
 like the devil." 
 
 "I thought we'd settled all that years ago." 
 
 "If doing things I beg you not to do is settling them, 
 why then we did years ago." 
 
 They covered several hundred yards without 
 speaking. 
 
 "Suppose, for instance," said Manners, "you came 
 back from a journey, and went to the apartment to 
 wait for me, and I burst in on you with a perfectly 
 strange lady. You wouldn't like it. Even though you 
 don't love me, you wouldn't like it. But it's all right 
 for you to burst in on me with a strange man in tow. 
 And I'm supposed to take it as a matter of course. 
 But I don't inside."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 43 
 
 "Nowadays," said Diana, "every woman has her 
 own friends." 
 
 "Things might have been better for us," he hinted 
 darkly, "if you hadn't insisted on having yours." 
 
 And he had one of those sharp pangs of jealousy 
 which still tormented him at times, though the orig- 
 inal cause of them had long ceased to exist. 
 
 "You rode deliberately for the first tumble," he 
 said, "and ever since you've fteen riding for another. 
 And when you get it you'll say that it just happened 
 and nobody could help it, and I'll have to be contented 
 with that. It's fine that you are going to look after 
 Tam better, and be economical ; but why not turn the 
 new leaf all the way over? Live our life, Diana, and 
 be a real wife to me!" 
 
 All that he had said seemed to pass from Diana 
 like water from a duck's back. And she made no com- 
 ment. Manners, who in all justice had long been 
 sorely tried by her stubbornness and independence, 
 began to lose his temper. 
 
 "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "why don't you 
 divorce me, and then you could go your own way, 
 lamented of course, but uncriticized !" 
 
 It was not the first time that in a crackle of temper 
 he had made some such suggestion to her; only to be 
 brought short up with an "Oh, don't be silly!" But 
 on the present occasion Diana startled him by saying: 
 "And if I did would you let me have Tam?" 
 
 "I've loved you," he said quickly. "I've been faith- 
 ful to you, I've taken care of you; now, just because 
 you are restless and bored with your lot, you think 
 you'd like to divorce me, and have Tam too. You
 
 44 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 as much as declare in one breath that you are no good 
 and that you are fit to bring up a child. If you didn't 
 manage to hurt me so like the devil, Diana, I could put 
 back my head and laugh." 
 
 Diana said nothing and they walked on and on. 
 
 "Diana," there was no temper in his voice now, only 
 a developing fear, "you don't really mean that you'd 
 like to be free, and take 'tarn away from me?" 
 
 "You said I couldn't*have Tarn." 
 
 "Most certainly you can't, unless your reasons for 
 getting rid of me are better than I think them." 
 
 He glanced sideways and observed to his horror that 
 although she walked bravely along with her head in 
 the air, her mouth was all puckered, and slow tears 
 were running out of her eyes. Upon the strength of 
 that sight he was able to change his whole voice and 
 manner. 
 
 "March around New York certainly does beat the 
 Dutch!" he exclaimed. "There isn't a darn thing to 
 do; no golf, no tennis, no people, no nothing. If I 
 only had the money I'd grab you and Tam by the 
 scruffs of your necks and carry you back to California 
 with me." 
 
 But his heart was leaping with a wild alarm. 
 "There is something wrong," he kept thinking, "some- 
 thing terribly wrong." 
 
 "March is almost nice in California," he went on, 
 "and April is wonderful." 
 
 Still struggling against her tears, but in a matter- 
 of-fact voice, Diana asked him when he had to go 
 back. And he told her that he had to go back at once, 
 and that indeed he ought not to have come away at all.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 45 
 
 "I've finished the whole bally room," he said, "ex- 
 cept one end. I can't get even the sketch for that to 
 suit me." 
 
 "Couldn't you do it here ?" He shook his head. 
 
 "It has things in it that don't even grow around 
 here," he explained. "No. It's got to be done on the 
 spot. And of course poor Mrs. Appleyard is in a 
 dreadful hurry." 
 
 "Is she nice?" 
 
 "Y-e-e-s. But she looks like Ellen Terry, and 
 knows it."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 NEXT day Diana went to town by an early train. 
 Manners could not believe that the shopping of which 
 she made an excuse could be very urgent; and the 
 prospect of passing one whole day of his short visit 
 without her depressed him extremely. "She's as cool 
 about it," he thought, "as if I were a permanency." 
 But he made no effort to dissuade her, and kissed her 
 good-by with a good heart. 
 
 Ajid indeed most of the day passed pleasantly 
 enough for him. March had come in, soft and gentle 
 as a lamb. Here and there in sunny angles his sharp 
 eyes detected fine and tender young blades of green 
 grass. It was a hopeful day. It made him feel as if 
 he could find within him, without too much searching, 
 the strength and ambition to begin life over again. It 
 was one of those days when, even in the teeth of logic 
 and experience, his wish is the father of a man's 
 thought. 
 
 And his thoughts, during the earlier hours of ftie 
 day, fashioned a future that was rosy and contented. 
 He believed that out of the curious harassed phase 
 through which Diana was passing her real character 
 would emerge. A miracle was not needed. It was 
 only necessary that during one crumb of time she 
 should see herself as others saw her. 
 
 But the day was not entirely devoted to thinking 
 and wishing. Mrs. Langham and Tarn, in whom the 
 
 46
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 47 
 
 home instinct was as strong as it was in Manners him- 
 self, had spent most of their winter improving the 
 rented premises and establishing those interesting 
 accessories which grew up about an owned home. In 
 November they had planted dwarf fruit-trees; eight 
 in all. There were two varieties each of apple, pear, 
 peach, and cherry. And the nurseryman had prom- 
 ised them fruit in the first season. About the roots of 
 these adorable little trees Tarn had stamped the earth 
 her own self. 
 
 "You never know how long you are going to live 
 in a rented house," Mrs. Langham thus explained her 
 extravagance; for the trees had cost two dollars and 
 a half apiece. "And if we should stay here several 
 years they will make the place so much more inter- 
 esting." 
 
 "Just as soon as the fruit begins to form," said 
 Manners, "the trees ought to be covered with mosquito 
 netting or something to keep the birds off. If we 
 could only get some very fine-meshed fish-nets like I've 
 seen in Scotch gardens! They're tarred, and so they 
 last practically forever." 
 
 In November they had also planted and caused to 
 be planted in the grass some thousands of mixed bulbs. 
 How many hundreds of these Tarn had placed her own 
 self in the holes which the gardener had made it would 
 be impossible to say. By way of being neighborly 
 they dug up one bulb to see how it was getting on, and 
 behold it was already well rooted, and from its dis- 
 tended and bursting crown a rigid spike of white, 
 deepening into pale green at the point, was thrusting 
 vigorously upward.
 
 48 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "Isn't spring wonderful?" exclaimed Manners. 
 "Isn't it wonderful! Everything that's cold and dis- 
 couraged takes heart and starts for the light. Did 
 you know, Tam, that sometimes the grass grows so 
 fast that you can hear it ?" 
 
 "Have you heard it, Fazzer ?" 
 
 "Never. But so many people say they have that I 
 believe it's true. Maybe Grandma has?" 
 
 No, but Grandma's father had. He had been ex- 
 traordinarily intimate with Nature. Grandma had 
 once seen him her own self standing bareheaded and 
 barehanded on the tiptop of a stepladder, and scoop- 
 ing masses of swarmed wild bees from a lower limb 
 of the big black walnut that had grown in front of 
 their house and putting them into a hive. Even spiders 
 wouldn't bite him. When he was sick he made his 
 own medicines out of different kinds of plants that he 
 found in the fields and woods. 
 
 "And," said Tam, without realizing that she was 
 gilding the nature-lovingness of this much-discussed 
 and almost mythological ancestor, "he had sixteen 
 children." 
 
 "Now let's show your father the chickens," said 
 Mrs. Langham. 
 
 As she led the way to where a practical chicken- 
 coop had been improvised from an old dog-kennel, 
 Manners found himself admiring for the thousandth 
 time the light, alert walk of his mother-in-law. 
 Very easily she might have been mistaken at a little 
 distance for Diana. The chicken-run contained five 
 White Leghorn hens and their proud, husband. They 
 were quite tame and evidently expected to be fed.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 49 
 
 Tarn, although she winced, and flew other signals of 
 nervousness, let them peck the palm of her hand. And 
 it made Manners very proud to think that his little 
 daughter was not a cry-baby. 
 
 A real carpenter had made the dog-kennel what it 
 was; but he had had plenty of amateur assistance. 
 Tarn had done most of the whitewashing; and the 
 posts for the chicken-wire had been driven by Mr. 
 Fenn. 
 
 The day had been almost altogether pleasant up to 
 the mentioning of Mr. Fenn's name, which seemed, at 
 this third or fourth casual mention of it since Man- 
 ners's return, to take on a certain importance. And he 
 had now to force an expression of that natural interest 
 which he took in everything that interested Tam. It 
 was an automatic and uninterested palm which he 
 offered to the hungry beaks of Tarn's poetry. 
 
 "And what," he asked lightly, "was Mr. Fenn doing 
 out here?" 
 
 And with equal lightness Mrs. Langham answered: 
 "We've had him over a number of week-ends. He's 
 a great friend of Diana's." 
 
 "So it would seem," said Manners. Half-kneeling 
 he continued to offer his palm to the chickens; for 
 every time it was pecked Tam squealed with delight. 
 Mrs. Manners looked down on the pair and there came 
 into her eyes an expression in which a kindly cynicism 
 seemed to be mixed with compassion. 
 
 Manners was thinking to himself: "It couldn't be. 
 He's so timid looking." 
 
 Wipe a damp slate lightly with a wet sponge and
 
 50 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 instantly the marks of the slate-pencil seem to disap- 
 pear. But as the wet dries, unless the wiping has been 
 thorough, the marks reappear. It would be so with 
 the attempt which Manners now made to erase all 
 thoughts of Fenn from his mind. 
 
 In the afternoon, having made a rendezvous with 
 Tarn for teatime, he stretched his legs swiftly over 
 many miles of road. Exercise, he believed, after the 
 wearisome train journey, was all that he needed to 
 get the blood out of his brain and put his mind into a 
 healthy condition. And for a few miles his belief was 
 justified. Nothing could be troubling Diana espe- 
 cially, therefore nothing was troubling her. She was 
 merely in tune with the season; the keen, brisk New 
 York winter was over. If there was still a great 
 spread of gaiety it had begun to taste stale to the ban- 
 queters. Spring, real spring, was still a long way off. 
 All that Diana needed was golf, tennis and riding. 
 Subconsciously she was waiting until the frost should 
 be out of the ground, the footing sound, and the trees 
 misted with green. With the first spring flowers Diana 
 herself would bloom again. 
 
 His next home-coming would be very different. The 
 Hempstead plains would be flooded with violets. The 
 spring would be in Diana's thoughts and in her blood 
 perhaps. 
 
 The next time he would telegraph that he was 
 coming. It had been a mistake this time to spare her 
 anxiety for his safety. It is good for wives to be a 
 little anxious now and then not too anxious, but a 
 little. He didn't propose to have a perfect stranger 
 present to spoil that next meeting with Diana. The
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 51 
 
 next time his quick eyes proposed to themselves to 
 recognize her pansy-like face from afar, as he came 
 hurrying up the platform to the iron gate outside 
 which she would be waiting. 
 
 He would have finished his commission, the final 
 payment would be on deposit. This time they could 
 pay all their debts, every single last one of them, and 
 if Diana wished they could afford Newport for six 
 weeks or two months. It would be strange if he did 
 not pick up a handful of orders to paint portraits. 
 Seeing how happy it made him to be out of debt, Diana 
 would see to it that they never fell into debt again. 
 He would take his work more seriously; he wouldn't 
 play quite as hard. He would play a certain amount 
 of golf, of course, but he would never again lie awake 
 at night thinking how to get a ball into a hole in the 
 fewest number of shots. If he must sleep badly he 
 would at least turn the discomfort of it into profit. 
 He would think about his work. Lack of thought was 
 all that was really wrong with his work. It had charm, 
 so all men said, at least, and a preposterous facility; 
 but it lacked guts. 
 
 He drew to one side to give free passage to an over- 
 taking car, and heard himself loudly and joyously 
 hailed by name. The two men who occupied the ton- 
 neau had turned and were waving to him. The car 
 had begun to slow down and presently stopped. Harry 
 Crowninshield, followed more slowly by the other 
 man, jumped out and came running back to meet 
 him. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he roared. "Diana 
 told me only the other day you were glued to 'Frisco !
 
 52 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 You know Tevis ?" His surmise was correct, for Man- 
 ners and Tevis had once been famous rivals, and time 
 was when each of them fancied that he knew the other 
 only too well. Crowninshield, remembering this sud- 
 denly, felt that he had been a little stupid, and at- 
 tempted to pass it off by roaring, "And how is Diana ?" 
 
 The younger men both laughed, for they had long 
 since compounded their difficulties, and Manners an- 
 swered that Diana was fine. 
 
 "Glad to see you back ? I'll bet she wasn't !" 
 
 "How much?" asked Manners, the laugh still on 
 his mouth. 
 
 "I won't name any sum ; but don't ever forget what 
 the mice do when the cat's away. And if they seem to 
 look glad when the cat comes back, why, believe me, 
 it's all crocodile stuff." 
 
 It is probable that Crowninshield only meant to be 
 amusing. But somehow Manners's heart seemed to 
 contract, and he was glad when the two men had 
 climbed back into their car and left him to his 
 thoughts, though from these the rosiness was already 
 departing. It really had been awkward and disagree- 
 able when Diana had come into the apartment with 
 that man Fenn in tow. 
 
 Manners had a pair of eyes which lost very few 
 tricks of appearance; but of Fenn's appearance they 
 had made hardly any records whatever. "If we met 
 face to face," thought Manners, "I should not know 
 who he was ; very likely I'd think that I had never even 
 seen him before." 
 
 He had turned and was walking back toward that 
 rented house, which for want of a more accurate term
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 53 
 
 he called Home, but the jubilance had gone out of his 
 feet. Was Diana's true character ever going to come 
 out after all? Was he not probably wrong about her 
 having a hidden character? Was it not more likely 
 that to the very end she would remain impulsively 
 helpful and impulsively troublesome? 
 
 The darker passages in their married life crowded 
 into his memory. It was in his power almost to re-live 
 those awful moments in which he had learned from 
 her own lips that she no longer loved him; and those 
 moments still more awful when weeks later she had 
 told him that she loved another man. 
 
 The spring warmth had gone out of the day and a 
 gusty wind had risen and was beginning to blow from 
 the northwest. It was five o'clock when he reached 
 his house and learned that Diana had telephoned, and 
 wanted him to call her up at the apartment. 
 
 Manners was bitterly disappointed. He had ex- 
 pected to find Diana waiting for him at the house. 
 She had hinted that she would probably come out by 
 an early train. And now it was five o'clock, and she 
 had not even started. "Oh," he thought, seating him- 
 self at the telephone in the coat-room, "she ought not 
 to treat me like this." 
 
 But for a moment he was mollified by the mere 
 sound of her voice. It was so calm and natural. She 
 asked if he was all right, and if Tarn was all right. 
 
 "Fine," he said. "When are you coming out?" 
 
 "That's what I wanted to speak to you about. I 
 seem to be dog-tired, and I wondered if you'd mind 
 awfully if I spent the night in town?" 
 
 He did not answer at once; but drew a long sharp
 
 54 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 breath. It was as if he had suddenly been immersed 
 in cold water. Then he said, with irritation: 
 
 "Go ahead. Suit yourself. I suppose you realize 
 that I came home principally to see you, and that I'm 
 only on for a few days." Diana's voice remained per- 
 fectly calm. 
 
 "You'd rather I came out?" 
 
 "Rather? Of course I'd rather. But of course if 
 you are really too tired ..." 
 
 "All right. I can catch the five-forty." 
 
 It had been an easy victory. And he thought no 
 longer of his own disappointment, but of Diana's. 
 
 "Don't do that!" he urged affectionately. "I was 
 disappointed awfully at the thought of not seeing 
 you till to-morrow ; but that was pure selfishness. By 
 all means stay in town and rest up." 
 
 But Diana refused. She hadn't supposed that it 
 mattered one way or the other. She would come out 
 by the five-forty. She was perfectly definite. 
 
 "Well," said Manners, "if you're not really too 
 tired, I think that's best." 
 
 Until the time of Diana's arrival he played with 
 Tarn; but only half-heartedly. He felt that he had 
 been unjust to Diana, and he hated injustice. He had 
 only to look at her to know that she was tired, and 
 yet, because she proposed to rest, he had been angry, 
 and was dragging her out to the country in the train 
 that was always crowded and stuffy. And of course, 
 she couldn't help feeling that he had been unjust to 
 her and resenting it. The prospects of some affection- 
 ate hours together were not good. 
 
 And indeed when she arrived Diana's face showed
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 55 
 
 that she was not pleased with what she had been made 
 (oh, yes, he had made her) to do. And Manners heart- 
 ily wished that he had not shown irritation at her sug- 
 gestion of spending the night in town; for if she was 
 too tired to talk, and if she was going to have her 
 dinner in bed, and try to get to sleep right afterward, 
 his irritation had gained him nothing. On the con- 
 trary it had caused him a temporary fall of some dis- 
 tance in Diana's good graces ; and his only satisfaction 
 would be in knowing that she was somewhere tinder 
 the same roof with him.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 DIANA sat in the hall for a few minutes before going 
 upstairs. Perhaps she wished to show him that she 
 was too tired to go a step farther. But it is more 
 likely that the nearest chair with a cushion influenced 
 her and nothing else. Tarn wished to climb upon her, 
 and Diana would not have it; but she put an arm 
 around the child and squeezed her affectionately to 
 her side. 
 
 "You're really all in, aren't you?" said Manners. 
 "It was so thoughtless of me to urge you to come out. 
 I can't tell you how sorry I am." 
 
 "I don't believe it matters much one way or the 
 other," said Diana, but a certain curt quality in her 
 voice indicated that it had mattered a good deal. 
 
 "What have you and Tarn been doing with your- 
 selves?" she asked. But the question and the sudden 
 charming smile that went with it were Tarn alone. 
 
 "Well, we went all over the improvements with 
 Grandma," said Manners, "and we played some very 
 violent games ; and after lunch father went for a long 
 walk, and when he came back we played more games, 
 oaly very quiet ones. And then you came. And you ? 
 See any body interesting in town ?" 
 
 "A good many people I know; but I don't think 
 that you would describe any of them as particularly 
 interesting." 
 
 She rose with a distinct effort. 
 
 56
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 57 
 
 "My legs feel like lead," she said. But in climbing 
 the short flight of stairs to the upper hall she did not 
 lean against the arm which Manners had put around 
 her waist. It was almost, he felt keenly, as if she 
 didn't want him to touch her. At the door of her room 
 she turned. 
 
 "You don't really mind about dinner, do you?" she 
 asked. "I'm dead to the world." 
 
 "I don't see why you should be so tired, Diana." 
 
 The pain that he felt showed in his eyes, and Diana 
 relented toward him. 
 
 "Come and talk to me after dinner," she said. "I 
 won't be half so tired then." 
 
 It was a placid talk, during which Diana, who had 
 been reading a book when he joined her, was at no 
 pains to disguise the fact that she was very sleepy. 
 She yawned a number of times, laughed, and said that 
 she was sorry but that she really couldn't help herself. 
 He tried to interest her in the idea of a Newport sum- 
 mer and suggested that she take up the question of 
 renting a cottage; but for once in her life Diana 
 seemed to be rather down on Newport. It was a life 
 that led nowhere; it was frightfully expensive; she 
 had lost her enthusiasm for late hours and dancing. 
 
 Secretly, Manners was very much pleased. He had 
 always hoped that she would one day tire of gaiety and 
 extravagance, and of all other false values. He said 
 that he was pleased, and even grateful. 
 
 "But you've no reason to be grateful," said Diana. 
 "I've changed a lot since you went away ; that's all. I 
 didn't try to change. It just happened; so there's no 
 occasion for gratitude. I can no more help being
 
 58 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 tired of parties than I could help being crazy about 
 them." 
 
 "Well, then," he smiled, "I'll try very hard not to 
 feel grateful. But you don't mind if I feel glad, do 
 you? It looks to me as if you were coming across, as 
 if you'd made up your mind to live our life instead of 
 just yours. Even if you don't love me, we've got an 
 awful lot to fall back on, to look back on, haven't we ?" 
 
 She nodded, but did not answer. 
 
 "You don't really believe that I fell in love with 
 you when you were only a little shaver, do you ?" 
 
 "Yes, I do, Frank," she said, quickly. "I know 
 how long you've loved me and how much." 
 
 "It ought to count. It ought to make life together 
 easier for you." 
 
 "It's the only thing that makes life together pos- 
 sible. You think that I always do just as I please; 
 and that I have no consideration for your wishes ; but 
 you don't know how often and often I've given up 
 things to please you; and how if it weren't for you I 
 might not be any good at all if I am any good." 
 
 He knelt by the bed, and took her in his arms and 
 laid his cheek against hers. And it seemed for once 
 as if she was glad to have his arms about her; but 
 though he held his breath and listened he could detect 
 no quickening in the action of her heart. Her gladness 
 was that of a child who, after much traipsing and dis- 
 illusionment, has found a safe refuge. 
 
 "From now on," he said, "things will be better with 
 us. You are going to be patient and kind, not by fits 
 and starts, but all the time." 
 
 He felt her shoulders quiver. He drew back his
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 59 
 
 head to look at her, and very swiftly she turned her 
 face away. She had begun to cry. He clasped her 
 very tightly. 
 
 "Oh, Diana, darling, what does ail you ? Tell your 
 best friend. Tell poor old Frank who's loved you so 
 long and so faithfully. I know there's something. 
 Please tell me." 
 
 But she only cried the harder, and he drew back 
 and rose to his feet, his heart numb with a sense of 
 catastrophe. 
 
 "Diana," he said, "for heaven's sake tell me what 
 is wrong! I know you too well to believe you when 
 you say there is nothing. This isn't the first time 
 you've acted like this. . . . For God's sake, dear, tell 
 me what is wrong!" 
 
 "Won't you please leave me alone?" she said. 
 "There's nothing wrong nothing. I'm just tired to 
 death, and the least thing makes me cry. . . ." 
 
 "There is nothing specifically wrong?" A note of 
 sternness had come into his voice. 
 
 "There's nothing. And, Frank, I'll be different to- 
 morrow. I'll I'll do anything you want to-morrow 
 anything. I'm just so tired." Once more his voice 
 was all gentleness. 
 
 "Then get to sleep as quick as ever you can, dear." 
 He leaned over swiftly and kissed her. "And sleep 
 late." 
 
 He put out the lights in her room and closed the 
 door after him. 
 
 He found his mother-in-law reading the evening 
 papers in the library. She was in a cool and restful 
 mood, and merely the casual, natural and good-natured
 
 6o THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 tones of her voice soothed him, so that it was easily 
 and with a smile that he said: 
 
 "I'm really worried about Diana. She cries at the 
 least thing. First she says that she's a reformed char- 
 acter, that she's going to be at home more, that she's 
 going to be economical, that she's sick of gaiety ; and 
 then, instead of acting the happiness that reformed 
 characters are supposed to feel, she cries." 
 
 "It's nothing but nerves," said Mrs. Langham. 
 "Men never seem to understand that crying is not 
 painful to a woman, but one of her greatest luxuries. 
 When a man's nerves get on edge, there's really noth- 
 ing he can do. But a woman can always cry. We 
 like to cry. Diana has probably made up her mind to 
 turn over a new leaf ; she knows that it is going to be 
 very hard for her to do that, and so she cries." 
 
 "But she says it isn't a decision. She says she has 
 simply changed and that she deserves no credit." 
 
 "It doesn't matter a bit," said Mrs. Langham, "how 
 the change came about, if only she sticks to it. Life 
 will be very much more peaceful for all of us. . . ." 
 
 "Excuse me !" said Manners, suddenly. "I thought 
 I heard her voice." 
 
 He stepped quickly into the hall, and listened. He 
 could hear her voice distinctly now, and it sounded 
 cheerful. She was talking with someone on the tele- 
 phone that stood at the head of her bed. 
 
 He ran quickly up the stair ; but by the time he had 
 knocked on the door she had finished telephoning and 
 hung up the receiver. In her face there was no trace 
 of recent tears. There was color in her cheeks, and 
 her eyes looked very bright and shining.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 61 
 
 "I heard your voice," said Manners, "and came up 
 to see if there was anything the matter." 
 
 "It was Ogden Fenn," she said, "to ask how I 
 felt. I saw him in town, and he said I looked so tired 
 it worried him." 
 
 "His inquiries seem to have had a good effect," said 
 Manners, a little dryly, "for you look quite like your- 
 self again. Now do leave that receiver off, so nobody 
 else can disturb you, and go to sleep." 
 
 The alacrity with which she obeyed pleased him. 
 And he went downstairs with good hopes for the mor- 
 row. But it annoyed him to think that another man's 
 solicitude should afford her the pleasure which his own 
 had been unable to supply. 
 
 Her thought that on the morrow she would be dif- 
 ferent, that she would refuse him nothing, was the 
 happy thought upon which Manners fell asleep that 
 night. And all the next morning it was never far from 
 his mind. It was a rejuvenating thought ; and brought 
 him with a high spirit into whatever plans Tarn had 
 conceived for her own amusement. 
 
 Diana's long-hoped for reform was by way of being 
 accomplished. The resolution seemed to have cost her 
 clear; but she had made it, and it was actually to go 
 into effect. With Tarn in tow, he was in and out of 
 her room a dozen times during the morning, interrupt- 
 ing; but always upon some pleasant and laughing ex- 
 cuse, her housekeeping, her sewing, her note-writing, 
 and her telephoning. 
 
 After luncheon, for the day had turned exceedingly 
 pleasant, they went for a long walk, and for the first 
 time since his return Diana showed a desire to hear
 
 62 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 about his work and his California experiences. Since 
 these latter had contained much that was odd and de- 
 lightful, he did his best to be entertaining ; to interest 
 Diana and to make her laugh. "It's the best walk 
 and talk," he told himself, "that we've had together 
 in ever so long. Even if she doesn't love me, she is 
 fond of me, and I don't bore her." 
 
 It was not until they were half-way home that the 
 conversation took a more serious turn. Manners told 
 her that, through his association with Californians, so 
 many of whom were Roman Catholics, he had come 
 to be a firm believer in confession. 
 
 "I've often thought that I'd like to confess," said 
 Diana, "but only to a professional confessor; some- 
 body who'd forget all about me as he turned away to 
 take on the next sinner. But it must take a lot of 
 practice before you can confess properly. I'm sure 
 that I'd be always trying to put my case in the best 
 possible light." 
 
 "If you were going to confess," Manners laughed, 
 "I'd like to substitute for the priest. I'd give anything 
 I own, short of you and Tarn, to know how your mind 
 works, and what you really think is wrong and what 
 you really think is right." 
 
 They were nearing home and a silence had fallen 
 between them. Manners had determined even before 
 the walk started to touch on certain matters germane 
 to the new leaf which Diana seemed to be turning, 
 but the lack of any opening which should cause his 
 doing so to seem unforced had kept him hesitating, 
 and it seemed that he must either let the occasion pass
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 63 
 
 or make an abrupt plunge. He chose the latter al- 
 ternative. 
 
 "Diana," he said, with an unsuccessful effort to 
 make his voice sound casual, "I hope you are really 
 going to come all the way this time." 
 
 Diana said that she didn't know just what he meant. 
 
 "Well," he explained, "you've hinted that things 
 are going to be different. You've said definitely that 
 you are going to take better care of Tarn, and that 
 you are going to be economical. And of course that's 
 all very much to the good; but there are other things 
 which you haven't touched on at all. I'd love to hear 
 you say that you are going to be a real wife to me 
 again, and that you are going to live our life Tarn's 
 and yours and mine instead of just yours." 
 
 "What do you mean by being a real wife?" 
 
 "You know as well as I do." 
 
 This was an uncomfortable topic for them both. 
 
 "You know," said Diana, in a small, set voice, 
 "that I don't feel about you the way you feel about 
 me, and so I shouldn't think you'd want me to have 
 children. It's bad enough when both people love each 
 other." * 
 
 "I don't see why you should be so much more fas- 
 tidious than hundreds of women who've had the 
 same sort of education and bringing up. And I don't 
 believe it's because you are hyperfastidious or because 
 you don't love me. I believe it's because you hate to 
 be bothered for a long time about any one particular 
 thing. If it didn't take more than twenty- four hours, 
 and if it didn't hurt, you wouldn't object to having 
 more children. Some day you'll realize that there's
 
 64 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 just one highroad to happiness, and that's doing 
 right." 
 
 They walked on in silence, and turned in at their 
 gate. 
 
 "You said yesterday," Manners broke in abruptly, 
 "that to-day things would be different; that you'd do 
 anything I asked you. You didn't mean that?" 
 
 "I meant," said Diana, in the same set voice, "that 
 I'd made up my mind to do what seems an awful lot 
 to me." 
 
 He looked sideways at her and perceived that her 
 expression was quite stony. And he realized that as 
 usual, when their minds were in actual contact, she 
 had succeeded in making him feel that she, and not 
 he, was the aggrieved one. 
 
 "Well, dear," he said with resignation, "do the 
 best you can." 
 
 He had intended to bring up also the matter of 
 Diana's friendships with people who were not his 
 friends. But he postponed that. The moment did 
 not seem propitious. 
 
 Diana retlined luxuriously. She had bathed, and 
 she was resting until 'it should be time to dress for 
 dinner. A chair stood beside her lounge, and a book 
 lay face down on it. She looked serene and com- 
 fortable. 
 
 Nou Nou, the old nurse, whose real name was Mrs. 
 Lawson, could be heard shrilly hunting for Tarn. It 
 was time for a dirty little face and two dirty little 
 hands to be made clean and shining for supper. Tam 
 who, like her mother, objected to being on time for 
 anything, was hiding. Diana listened to the hunt and
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 65 
 
 smiled. She had made certain resolutions which 
 seemed to her beautiful and self-sacrificing. She was 
 going to be a better wife to Frank no children, of 
 course; though he should almost have his will with 
 her now and then. She would take far, far better 
 care of Tam; she would be truly economical. She 
 would never be out of sorts or sulky any more in 
 this difficult and sometimes repulsive course, she 
 would be sustained by that exalted, beautiful and 
 spiritual thing which had come into her life. Of 
 course she could never be really happy ; but she would 
 be sustained in all the sacrifices that she was going 
 to make. 
 
 She smiled almost happily at her husband when he 
 pushed open the door which separated her room from 
 his. He had come, he said, to apologize for having 
 been cross ; but somehow the fact of her having friends 
 who were not his friends always rankled. And it 
 troubled him and frightened him too; because it was 
 just that which had led them into their first great 
 difficulties. 
 
 He spoke very gently, as if he was reasoning with 
 a child. She moved a little so that he could sit on the 
 edge of the lounge. 
 
 "You're so young and charming," he said, "that you 
 can't help inviting trouble. That's what frightens me 
 so. I couldn't go through another time like the other. 
 I just couldn't couldn't. Couldn't you promise me 
 not to play round with people I disapprove of espe- 
 cially men? It doesn't make me exactly jealous, but I 
 have the feeling all the time that you are playing with 
 fire, and that you are going to get burnt."
 
 66 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 The soft smiling light that had been in Diana's eyes 
 was dying. 
 
 "You ought not to have any men come to the apart- 
 ment when I'm not there ; but most especially men that 
 aren't friends of mine, too, and whom I don't like or 
 trust. You can't imagine your own mother doing that 
 sort of thing when she was your age." 
 
 "The times are so different, Frank. But you stay 
 old-fashioned. Why, every married woman I know 
 has her own particular friends, and feels perfectly free 
 to see them when she likes. Please don't let's get into 
 an argument about that. What would my friends 
 think if I suddenly dropped them?" 
 
 "They wouldn't feel half as badly as I did, dear " 
 said Manners, "when you suddenly dropped me." 
 
 "Oh, Frank ! Can't you ever forget that ? I wasn't 
 really grown up. And it was just a brainstorm, any- 
 way." 
 
 "You remove a man from Paradise, put him in Pur- 
 gatory, keep him there and think he ought to forget 
 all about it! ... You've never even said that you 
 were sorry, or that you regretted the lost Paradise 
 that we used to live in. You've never even asked me 
 to forgive you for hurting me so. You never offered 
 any reparation. All you did was to forget What's-his- 
 name very promptly, and to discover that you had a 
 life of your own to lead, a dangerous, unsettled life, 
 and to proceed to lead it. Naturally I'm afraid of 
 repetition." 
 
 "O Lord," said Diana, "I thought we had every- 
 thing satisfactorily settled, but it seems not." 
 
 "There was a man," said Manners, "whom you
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 67 
 
 have forgotten, but I shall always hate him. And now 
 because I am afraid that there will be another man 
 whom you will forget, but whom I shall always have 
 to hate, you consider me unreasonable and old- 
 fashioned. A cat that has once sat on a hot stove sits 
 on no more stoves, whether they're hot or cold. Per- 
 haps you have a right to live your own life, Diana. 
 God only knows. But surely you have no right to 
 make your own husband, who has loved you since you 
 were a little child, and been faithful to you in word 
 and deed surely you haven't the right to make him 
 live in fear." 
 
 "You are always talking about your wonderful love 
 for me, Frank; but sometimes it seems as if you did 
 nothing but scold me and reproach me. . . . Just 
 now I thought you were coming to make love to me ; 
 but instead you just say things to me that make me 
 feel cold and resentful." 
 
 It is true that he had come with love-making in his 
 heart; and passion. But though desire still coursed 
 hotly in his veins, he knew very well that the moment 
 in which he might have hoped to wake a reciprocal 
 desire had passed. And somehow Diana knew that 
 he knew this. 
 
 "Diana," he said presently, "it's been a devilish hard 
 resolution to make; but I've succeeded after many 
 attempts. For Tarn's sake, and of course for my own, 
 I want people to think that you are my faithful and 
 affectionate wife; but inside this house you shall be 
 free as air. I shall ask nothing of you but common 
 politeness, you may lock the door between our rooms, 
 and you need never turn the key again as long as you
 
 68 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 live. You've taken your love away from me; you've 
 taken the home I wanted away from me ; you've taken 
 the son I wanted away from me. And I surrender. 
 On every point but one I throw up my hands. You are 
 not to have friends that aren't my friends. You are 
 not to behave as if you were not married. I'm giving 
 up practically everything; and it's only fair that you 
 should give up a little something too." 
 
 "I should think you could trust me," she said hotly, 
 "not to do anything that your wife shouldn't do." 
 
 "I did. And you got yourself thoroughly talked 
 about, and you crucified me. Long before you got 
 infatuated with What's-his-name, I begged you to stop 
 seeing so much of him. But you would go your own 
 way. You knew best. You still know best; experi- 
 ence teaches you nothing. And you still insist on go- 
 ing your own way, which leads to inevitable hell for 
 you, and to a deepening of the purgatory in which, 
 for no fault of my own so help me God, for no fault 
 of my own ! you force me to live." 
 
 He rose abruptly, and hurried to the door, almost 
 as if he was escaping from something. Then he 
 turned : 
 
 "This nonsense about other men has got to stop!" 
 he said loudly. A moment later he had closed the 
 door behind him, not any too gently, and could be 
 heard shouting for Tam. 
 
 A closely hugged little daughter acted upon Man- 
 ners like a hot poultice and drew the rancor from his 
 heart. And when Diana came down for dinner she 
 found them playing at an extremely simple game of 
 cards. Mrs. Langham was watching them over the
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 69 
 
 top of the evening paper. She always had some better 
 use for the evening paper than reading it. She used 
 it as a curb upon conversation, as a lookout from be- 
 hind which she might watch faces without appearing 
 to, to keep off the glow of the fire, to kill flies. 
 
 Her hand resting lightly on her husband's shoulder, 
 Diana stood for a while and watched the progress of 
 the card game. 
 
 "Tarn begins to show symptoms of card sense," said 
 Manners. "She gets it from you and your mother. 
 Also she is lucky, and she's giving Father a good 
 trimming." 
 
 "Also," said Diana, "it is long past bedtime as 
 much as ten minutes." 
 
 Tarn said that she thought all the clocks in the house 
 were wrong. And Manners said that that was another 
 notion which she had inherited directly from her 
 mother. 
 
 "The only thing Muzzer never misses," he said, "is 
 the train for town." 
 
 And he wished at once that he had said no such 
 thing. Diana hated sarcasms and what she called 
 "references." But she accepted this one with a toler- 
 ant smile, and said sweetly: 
 
 "I may make an exception to-morrow," she said, 
 "because I'm proposing to catch a very early one." 
 
 Manners dropped the five cards which after a heroic 
 struggle Tarn had succeeded in dealing him, and 
 looked up into his wife's face. 
 
 "I've come home to see you," he said, "and you 
 spend all your time in town. Now please do tell me 
 what has happened to take you in again to-morrow?"
 
 70 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "Oh," she said, "things that have to be done, and 
 that I haven't been able to do. We can discuss it later 
 if you like." 
 
 He did not enjoy the tone of her voice. It hinted 
 at a great repression. Mrs. Langham had not missed 
 this hint either. Her eyes could no longer be seen 
 over the top of the evening paper.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 VERY soon after dinner she wished them good-night 
 and withdrew. She had divined that Manners was 
 most impatient for his wife's explanation of her an- 
 nounced trip to town ; and knowing what she knew, or 
 rather fearing what she feared, she preferred to be 
 out of sight and out of sound. Her progress up the 
 stairs to her room was slow and halting. Her knees 
 felt unaccountably loose and weak. Manners had 
 talked very little during dinner. And she knew that 
 he was smarting with the sense of Diana's injustice to 
 him and that his temper was rising. Diana knew this 
 also. 
 
 He began abruptly: "How about this early train 
 business?" 
 
 "Do you think," she said quietly, "that you make 
 the house so pleasant for me that I want to stay in it 
 more than I have to? I've told you that I was going 
 to try to do better; but you do nothing but scold me 
 and find fault with me, and rake up things that are 
 past and dead, and that ought to be done with. I'm 
 going to town because I can't stand it here. I can't 
 stand it!" 
 
 He had not anticipated any such outbreak. The 
 feeling which it aroused in him was not resentment, 
 but a sickening fear. 
 
 "I shall see friends," she flung out, "who are fond 
 
 .71
 
 72 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 of me and true to me; and who give me the strength 
 and courage to face what I have to face." 
 
 "Yes," he said, "the kind of friends who have made 
 all the trouble between us ! Is it friends you are going 
 to see to-morrow, or a friend? A friend who has 
 brought something so noble and spiritual into your life 
 that you can no longer bear to face any of your duties 
 as a wife or as a mother?" 
 
 She had risen and walked the length of the room 
 and back, her brow drawn with pain and her hands 
 so tightly interlocked that the knuckles were smooth 
 and white, like bones. Manners was growing reckless. 
 
 "Do you hate me, Diana? You act sometimes as if 
 you hated me." 
 
 "Do you think I'd be here if I hated you?" she an- 
 swered ; but in her eyes there was nothing but a kind 
 of hunted antagonism. "You'd have seen the last of 
 me long ago if I hated you." 
 
 "Then for God's sake what is the matter ?" 
 
 "There is nothing the matter," she said. But he 
 knew that she was lying. And she knew that he knew. 
 She had the expression of a bound and helpless animal 
 that expects to be struck. Manners rose to his feet. 
 He was trembling all over with fear. 
 
 "You must tell me," he said. "You've got to tell 
 me." 
 
 The anger had oozed out of him; he fairly clamored 
 for her confidence. 
 
 "Nothing can be worse than not knowing. I am 
 your friend, your oldest friend. I think I'm your best 
 friend. Nothing's so bad that it can't be put right. 
 For heaven's sake put us on a square and honest basis.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 73 
 
 Don't be afraid of me. I love you. If you're in 
 trouble I'll do anything, anything in my power, to 
 help you anything that love and tenderness can sug- 
 gest!" 
 
 She had begun to cry, her face all puckered like a 
 child's, and she wailed: 
 
 "It wouldn't do any good to tell you! It wouldn't 
 do any good !" 
 
 "You must tell me ! You must tell me !" 
 
 And suddenly she told him ; but she took three paces 
 first, three involuntary paces, perhaps, which made the 
 distance between them greater. It was as if she 
 dreaded some awful outburst which must follow hard 
 upon her confession. She sobbed loudly as she spoke: 
 
 "I am in love with another man!" 
 
 The face which he loved so, the woe-begone little 
 face at once terrified and brave, moved Manners as 
 he had been moved but once before in all his life. All 
 side-issues were erased from his mind as if by a light- 
 ning stroke. Tarn, himself. Only one thing was 
 clear: that his Diana was in frightful grief and 
 trouble, and that he must comfort her. It was one of 
 his great moments when, an impulse wholly noble and 
 unselfish driving him, he acted upon it. Diana, whose 
 streaming eyes had never left his face, saw the grim 
 drawn lines of it break and soften into a smile of such 
 tenderness and sweetness and compassion that at once 
 the weight upon her heart seemed lightened. 
 
 "Come right to me!" He opened his arms to her, 
 his voice broken with tenderness. "Come right to me ! 
 Why, you poor child, it's all right. I'm so glad you've 
 told me. Why, come here! It's just as if you were
 
 74 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 another daughter. Oh, you poor child! You poor 
 child!" 
 
 Very slowly at first but with increasing momentum 
 she had been drawn toward him. It was as if the 
 tenderness which emanated from him had arms and 
 hands with which to draw her until, with a sudden last 
 quickening, she was in his arms. So a little ship, 
 almost foundered in a storm, slips into the keeping 
 of some safe bay. 
 
 There was silence now. He patted her shoulders; 
 he stroked her hair. She smiled through her tears. 
 Oh, how good was confession! How very good! It 
 hurt her so to lie, and now there would be no more 
 lying. It hurt her so to be false; but now the truth 
 was out and she could be true. 
 
 But for Manners the great moment had passed. 
 Action had been followed by reaction. His mind, 
 cleansed of all but the once chivalrous purpose, began 
 now to crowd with complexities. 
 
 "Is he rich, darling?" he asked. 
 
 Between asking this somewhat abrupt and surpris- 
 ing question and receiving Diana's answer, Manners's 
 mind worked very quickly. It was a sudden over- 
 mastering desire to be once and forever free from all 
 pain and care that had impelled him to ask the ques- 
 tion, and while the answer was pending he was able, 
 though that answer actually came very quickly, to im- 
 agine every detail of what he would do if that answer 
 was in the affirmative. He saw himself giving Diana a 
 parting squeeze, a parting pat, leaving her without 
 excuse, running lightly up the stair to his room, taking 
 the the .45 automatic from his bureau drawer, putting
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 75 
 
 the muzzle quickly in his mouth and quickly pulling 
 the trigger. She would have the man she wanted. He 
 would have peace. The thought of being so soon dead 
 seemed perfectly beautiful to him. Diana's answer 
 brought him back to his senses. 
 
 "He hasn't any money at all," she said. 
 
 "Then," said Manners instantly, "I'll have to keep 
 on working very hard so there'll be plenty of alimony." 
 
 He had accepted the idea of divorce without ques- 
 tion. 
 
 "Who is he?" he asked. 
 
 "Ogden Fenn," she said, "and oh, Frank, dear, his 
 love is so wonderful. It's not what you think. We 
 weren't going to tell you ; and I was going to be better 
 about Tarn and you; and you weren't ever to know; 
 and we were only going to see each other once in a 
 while." 
 
 Manners laughed indulgently. 
 
 "The idea of an honest little person like you carry- 
 ing around a load of deceit like that all the rest of 
 your born days makes me laugh," he said. "I knew 
 there was something wrong almost as soon as I clapped 
 eyes on you. So Mr. Fenn is the lucky dog. I don't 
 mind telling you that I envy him. Come and sit down 
 on the sofa and we'll talk things over." 
 
 They might easily have been mistaken for a pair of 
 lovers. His arm was around her, and she leaned con- 
 fidently against him. 
 
 "I'm so relieved you've taken it like this, Frank," 
 she said. "I'm so glad I've told you. I'm so glad !" 
 
 "It's too late to get hold of Fenn to-night," said her 
 husband. "But I suppose you could get him to come
 
 76 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 to the apartment some time to-morrow morning. I'll 
 go to town with you. But is the very early train essen- 
 tial? I'll have a little talk with him first, and then 
 we'll all three have a talk together." 
 
 And all the time he talked he kept wishing that 
 Fenn was rich, so that he, Manners, could be comfort- 
 ably dead. He had been through one period of great 
 agony with Diana ; and he did not yet feel man enough 
 to face another. 
 
 It was curious that the question of just what Tarn's 
 rights and interests were in the matter had not yet 
 presented itself to him. His first thoughts had been 
 entirely concerned with Diana. His second thoughts 
 were almost entirely concerned with himself. 
 
 The comforting tones of his voice and the comfort- 
 ing touch of his hand had ceased to be inspired. They 
 had become mechanical. 
 
 It was wonderful how she clung to him when they 
 were saying good-night. It was not at all as if she 
 were planning to leave him in the lurch, and to chuck 
 aside, like an outworn garment, the devotion and 
 faithfulness of all his grown years. It was more as 
 if she feared that she were losing him, as if she were 
 trying to turn once more toward her a love that had 
 turned away. But Manners knew very well that it 
 was not the woman in her that clung to him, but the 
 child. And knowing this the tightening pressure with 
 which he in turn held her asked nothing but the right 
 to shield and protect. His heart registered fewer beats 
 than usual instead of more. He did not so much as 
 kiss her cheek, but only pressed against it with his own. 
 
 His thoughts traveled in great circles. His very
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 77 
 
 soul yearned over her and forgave her. His intellect 
 judged her and found her wanting. And the faith 
 that he had in her shook in its boots. 
 
 "She can't do it!" he thought. . . . "She will do 
 it! She will see things clearly, and then she will do 
 right. . . . She will have her own way as usual, and 
 everybody will have to suffer. She will have to suffer 
 too. . . . She can't do it. ... She will do it. The 
 grounds will be desertion. Think of me deserting 
 Diana!" 
 
 He bit back an hysterical impulse to laugh out loud. 
 It would be foolish to suppose that Diana did not in 
 anyway realize the enormity of the crime she had com- 
 mitted against her husband. But in the forgiving 
 pressure of that husband's arms even her pricking con- 
 science was drugged into a temporary peace. 
 
 And indeed it was a little as if her whole being had 
 been drugged into quiescence, and all her emotions. 
 For in five minutes after she had turned out her lights 
 she was sound asleep. Many times during the night 
 Manners stealthily opened the door that was between 
 their rooms and listened. He could hear no sound. So 
 quietly she slept you might have thought her dead. 
 
 "She isn't even dreaming now," he thought. "If 
 she isn't faithful to me now, at least she isn't faithless. 
 If she doesn't love me now, neither does she love him. 
 If she is never to be happy, may Almighty God at least 
 reserve for her many thousands of nights like this 
 long periods of oblivion and peace." 
 
 But Manners was already very sorry that he had 
 spoken of giving Diana the divorce which she imag- 
 ined would make her happy.
 
 78 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "She will get over Perm," he thought, "as she got 
 over What's-his-name, as she got over me. There'll 
 be a hard time; she'll hate me for a while. But she 
 sha'n't ruin herself and me for a crazy, self-indulgent 
 impulse." 
 
 The thought gave him confidence and courage. But 
 these were not unmixed with pessimism and fore- 
 boding. 
 
 "Suppose," he thought, "that it should turn out to 
 be the real thing the "real thing with both of them ?" 
 
 He found that he was trembling from head to foot. 
 The night was cold. The fire in his room had gone 
 out. And those inner fires which might have sus- 
 tained him through a colder night than this had noth- 
 ing to feed on nothing. 
 
 "And my wife," he thought, "is there in the next 
 room. My wife ! And the door is unlocked. But just 
 because this world contains a shy, featureless, colorless 
 individual named Fenn, she is tabu she is sacred! 
 Even if I were freezing to death I must not turn back 
 the warm sheets and blankets that cover her and lie 
 down by her side. 
 
 He stood trembling, at times violently. And then 
 suddenly, as at the touch of a conjurer's wand, his 
 mind revolted, anger swept him, and he exclaimed in 
 a voice harsh and ugly: 
 
 "Almighty ! Is there no justice in this world !" 
 
 The next morning, when Diana asked him what 
 sort of a night he had had, he said carelessly, "Oh, 
 pretty good, thanks." But Diana, when he returned 
 the question, answered in the patient voice of one who 
 suffers cheerfully, "Just so-so."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 79 
 
 And soon after breakfast they went to town to talk 
 with Ogden Fenn. 
 
 Diana was under the impression that she had not 
 had a good night ; but as a matter of fact she had slept 
 very well. The chivalrous burst of generosity and ten- 
 derness with which Manners had received her confes- 
 sion had affected her nerves like a narcotic. 
 
 She had been living in a dream that was half rap- 
 ture and half nightmare. And the most nightmarish 
 episodes were those in which, having discovered the 
 true state of affairs, her husband figured. It was not 
 as if she was asking him to go through hell for the first 
 time. She had put him through once already, and he 
 knew perfectly well what hell was like. It seemed in- 
 credible that he could be facing a second experience 
 with such cheerful fortitude. Did he realize, she won- 
 dered, that this time there was no upward path leading 
 out of the hell into which she had plunged him? Did 
 he realize that his love was not as that other love had 
 been? Did he realize that her love for Fenn was no 
 mere sentimentalized gust of passion, but an eternal 
 edifice founded upon every strength in her being? 
 This time her love was spiritual altogether. It could 
 never grow stale, wither nor change. 
 
 This time Manners was not merely to be knocked 
 over from an ambush and somewhat frolicsomely tor- 
 tured by the wayside. But upon a cross, firmly 
 planted like a telegraph pole, he was to be nailed for 
 the rest of his time on earth. It would not be possible 
 to separate her from Fenn. They had plumbed every 
 contingency. They would fight to lie upon the right 
 side of the blanket, and be respectable in the eyes of
 
 80 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 the world; but if the worst came to the worst they 
 would make the wrong side of the blanket do, for love 
 like theirs was stronger than life, stronger than death, 
 and far, far stronger than justice. 
 
 At the station, going to town by the same train, 
 were many people whom they knew more or less well. 
 And Manners marveled at the smiling naturalness with 
 which Diana greeted them. He would have marveled 
 at his own smiling naturalness if he could have known 
 how smiling and natural it really seemed. He gave 
 the impression of a man upon whom was no shadow 
 whatever. And when Harry Crowninshield suddenly 
 announced in his boisterous way "All bets are off! 
 Frank's still in love with his wife," he had been able 
 to answer with an equal zeal and boisterousness: 
 "Why shouldn't I be? We've only been married ten 
 years." 
 
 It was astonishing how few people knew that there 
 had ever been any real trouble between them. They 
 were often referred to even by their closest friends, as 
 models of all the domestic virtues. It was well known 
 that Diana indulged herself with occasional flirta- 
 tions, but Manners was supposed to be genuinely 
 amused by these, and Diana was supposed to engi- 
 neer them from beginning to end with her tongue in 
 her cheek. 
 
 Manners was by no means unhappy. He had not 
 stormed or raved when Diana had confessed to him. 
 On the contrary he had been very generous and in this 
 knowledge found a certain complacency. He could 
 have been proud of himself with better reason if his 
 generosity had been coldly calculated, instead of being
 
 8i 
 
 forced from him by an irresistible impulse. For the 
 rest his mind and his feelings were in a state of be- 
 wilderment, of chaos, in which the elements had not 
 yet crystallized into passions or judgments. He looked 
 forward with perfect calmness to his interview with 
 Fenn. He even thought that it would be a good idea 
 to make friends with Fenn. And in the uncrystallized 
 state of his feelings he imagined himself perfectly 
 capable of doing so. 
 
 "He must be a gentleman," Manners thought, "or 
 else Diana couldn't possibly have fallen in love with 
 him. And he must be a decent sort or else I'd be 
 hunting him with a gun. At the same time he doesn't 
 belong to the same world that we do, and it ought 
 not to be hard to get around him and manage 
 him." 
 
 If Manners had any definite plan it was this: To 
 show Fenn the impracticability of the affair going on 
 indefinitely, and to induce him, wholly for Diana's 
 sake, to break with her; not suddenly and drastically, 
 of course, but by degrees. He would by no means 
 forbid them to see each other. But with Fenn's con- 
 nivance they should see each other less and less, until 
 the time should be ripe for a definite and complete 
 break. 
 
 "That," thought Manners, "is what I'd do if I'd 
 got myself into the mess that Fenn's in, and I'd do it 
 without any urging from the husband." 
 
 They reached their apartment a few minutes before 
 the time at which Fenn had promised to meet them 
 there, and because the place was small and the parti- 
 tions thin, Hilda, Diana's maid, was at once de-
 
 82 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 spatched upon an interminable round of errands. 
 Diana had made out the list in the train. 
 
 "How are we going to stage-manage this affair?" 
 Manners asked. "Do we both see Fenn at once, or 
 do you see him first, or do I?" He spoke laughingly, 
 and Diana, keen and full of life at the immediate 
 prospect of seeing her lover, and hearing the sound of 
 the voice that had grown so dear, laughingly an- 
 swered: 
 
 "Oh," she said, "I'll let him in and turn him over 
 to you, and then I'll go in the front room and twiddle 
 my thumbs till I'm sent for. And then I suppose he'll 
 want to see me alone. ..." 
 
 At this moment the doorbell rang, and Diana 
 darted into the hall with an eagerness that stabbed 
 her husband like a knife. He heard the sound of the 
 door opening and of their mingled voices. And then 
 there was a silence. And Manners knew as surely as 
 if God had told him that during the silence his wife 
 was giving her lips to another man. 
 
 He had anticipated no such outrageous breach of 
 good manners and of common decency. And the im- 
 perturbable calm of which he imagined himself to be 
 possessed was darkly and almost violently ruffled. 
 
 During the next half hour Manners found himself 
 looking oftener at Fenn's mouth than at any other part 
 of him. But he made no other outward manifestation 
 of his real feelings. ' He seemed more like a good 
 friend of Diana's than her outraged husband. 
 
 Manners began the interview with a smile and an 
 offer of cigaYets. At the same time he said: 
 
 "I hope you are not as embarrassed as I am."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 83 
 
 Fenn gave no evidence of embarrassment, though 
 he felt himself to be in an exceedingly trying situation. 
 He accepted a cigaret, gave thanks for it, and lighted 
 it. He was a taller, better-proportioned and alto- 
 gether a more significant man than Manners had 
 thought. He had a good nose and very fine teeth. 
 Like most men who have been brought up in the West 
 he was a shade too well-dressed. The shyness and 
 lack of ease which he had showed at their first meeting 
 seemed to have been of the moment. His voice and 
 his whole manner were very easy now and very quiet. 
 
 "I'm distressed by what has happened," said Man- 
 ners. "But I should not be honest if I said that I was 
 surprised. You are not my wife's first affair." 
 
 "She has told me," said Fenn. 
 
 "And that being the case, I am not as badly fright- 
 ened as I might be. My wife will get over this." 
 Fenn said nothing. 
 
 "Before," said Manners, "having no precedent to 
 go on, I insisted on a sudden and drastic separation. I 
 said that they mustn't see each other any more or 
 communicate. Diana demanded one final interview 
 (women always do, I imagine) and of course I had to 
 give in to that. I imagine, but I am not sure, that 
 Diana asked the man to run away with her, and that 
 he, having some faint residue of common sense, and 
 some faint regard for the integrity of his skin, refused. 
 Anyway they said good-by. And three months later 
 the love that Diana had had for that man was as dead 
 as a doornail. But she had tasted liberty, and since 
 that time she has not been a very satisfactory wife. 
 But she has been a good mother. She hasn't been
 
 84 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 consistent in her loves or in her friendships. Those 
 come and go. But she has been a mighty good mother, 
 and a wise mother. That is the one trait in Diana 
 which we have any reason to believe permanent. She 
 will get over caring for you, just as she got over caring 
 for me, and just as she got over caring for the other 
 fellow. This is not open to argument. If she stops 
 seeing you, she will forget all about you. I have been 
 in love with her for twenty years, ever since she was a 
 little girl. I have lived with her for ten years, and I 
 know what I am talking about." 
 
 "I hope," said Fenn very quietly, "that you are not 
 going to tell me that I mustn't see her any more. She 
 is very unhappy and her nerves are in very bad shape. 
 It isn't easy for her to hurt you." 
 
 "I am not going to tell anybody to do anything. 
 I want this affair to die, of course, and the sooner the 
 better. But I am not going to kill it. I made that 
 mistake the other time. There is no need of repeating 
 that mistake. Diana's feeling for you is too violent. 
 It will die of exhaustion." 
 
 Fenn made no comment, but he looked a little 
 sceptical. 
 
 "If it doesn't," said Manners, "if it doesn't die of 
 its own accord, why you, of course, are the person 
 who must kill it. I take it for granted that you are 
 not thinking of yourself, any more than I am thinking 
 of myself, and that what we both want is Diana's 
 happiness." 
 
 "I have said right along that I thought Diana's best 
 chance of happiness was to stick by you and Tarn." 
 
 The man was so obviously sincere that a real weight
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 85 
 
 was lifted from Manners's spirits, but he couldn't help 
 saying: "It's a great pity that you allowed a situation- 
 to develop in which so obvious a thing as that ever 
 had to be discussed at all. But I don't blame you too 
 much. You don't look to me in the least like a man 
 who deliberately wrecks another man's happiness. 
 And I am convinced that you would not have made 
 love to my wife if she hadn't wanted you to." 
 
 "I hope you believe that I do love Diana." 
 
 "That is why I count on you to do what is best for 
 her, without considering yourself." 
 
 "I am very grateful to you for taking all this so sen- 
 sibly and calmly. Your position isn't at all pleasant." 
 
 "The first time I was in this position, I thought 
 almost entirely in terms of pistols. But the other 
 fellow, you see, had taken Diana's love from me. You 
 haven't done that. I had already lost it when you 
 came along. Still, you have taken a good deal. I 
 think she never stopped being fond of me. . . ." 
 
 "She is fond of you, and she admires you more 
 than anyone." 
 
 "That ought to be enough, after ten years, for a 
 wife whose husband is still in love with her, and who 
 has always been faithful to her in word and deed. But 
 it doesn't seem to be. I may count on you, then ?" 
 
 "I will do anything in my power to make Diana 
 happy." 
 
 "So will I. But at the moment I'm not in the run- 
 ning. There is nothing that I can do. I have to go 
 back to California to finish some work. I shall have 
 to be off-stage for some time; but I shall try to be 
 tolerant and kind. You will have to be the real god
 
 86 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 out of the machine. I sha'n't make any rules about 
 your seeing each other. I couldn't if I wanted to. 
 You must use your own judgment about that. But 
 since you agree that Diana's best chance of ultimate 
 happiness is with Tarn and me, you'll arrange to see 
 less and less of her, and even if you don't cool toward 
 her, you'll pretend to. Is that right?" 
 
 Fenn drew and expelled a long breath. 
 
 "I'm sorry for you," said Manners quickly. "I'm 
 mighty sorry. You do love her, I know that, and it's 
 going to be very hard for you. But your feelings sim- 
 ply can't be considered, can they?" 
 
 "Of course not," said Fenn. 
 
 "You see, I've done no real wrong. I've been faith- 
 ful, I've furnished support, I haven't been cruel. 
 Diana couldn't get a divorce in any State of the Union 
 if I defended. In any case she couldn't have Tam. It 
 isn't as if anything good could ever come of your love 
 for each other. Nothing good ever does come of 
 selfishness and injustice. There is no use saying that 
 to Diana in her present state of mind. But you aren't 
 temporarily insane, and you know it's true." 
 
 He smiled suddenly. 
 
 "If Diana finds out that she is not to have a divorce, 
 and that she is not to have Tam, she is quite capable 
 of running away with you." 
 
 "You needn't be afraid of me," said Fenn simply. 
 With a sudden impulse of kindness Manners held out 
 his hand. 
 
 "Keeping up the thing wouldn't be fair to you 
 either," he said. "Your storm will blow over, too, 
 Fenn. You'll fall in love again, and it will be with
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 87 
 
 someone a little more eligible than Diana. And I'm 
 sure I wish you luck; you've a rotten time just ahead 
 of you, and I'm obliged to you for being so straight- 
 forward and square." 
 
 Manners opened the door and called to Diana. 
 
 He felt a great pity for her. She must fight her 
 battle all alone. Even Fenn had lined up against her. 
 Fenn was a sensible fellow, nothing villainous about 
 him. It was true that he had erred and strayed from 
 the straight path, but what of that if he was deter- 
 mined to get back to it and keep to it? 
 
 He left the lovers in the back room and closed the 
 door on them. He felt generous and magnanimous. 
 He would be immeasurably kind to Diana. He could 
 afford to be. How wise he had been to see Fenn and 
 have that talk with him! He and Fenn might even 
 become friends. Stranger things have happened. 
 
 He went into the front room and shut the door so 
 that he could not even hear the murmur of their voices. 
 And he had no sooner done this than he began to 
 wonder what they were saying and what they were 
 doing. Why, they were kissing, of course, and they 
 were telling each other how glad they were that their 
 affair was no longer a guilty secret. From the man 
 whom they had so greatly wronged' they had had noth- 
 ing but toleration and kindness. He had sanctioned 
 this meeting and all future meetings. He had for- 
 bidden nothing; he had made no threats. They could 
 not but be grateful; that Fenn would not from now 
 on play fair was unthinkable. 
 
 Toward the end of the half hour which he had to 
 himself in the front room, Manners thought less about
 
 88 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 his own magnanimity and more about the injustice 
 that had been done him. "If Fenn," he thought, "is 
 \villing to break it off now, why wasn't he willing to 
 break it off as soon as it started? Why didn't he? 
 It isn't in the least as if Diana had been maltreated. 
 She is too honest to have told him any definite hard- 
 luck story. At the worst she can only have looked 
 things." 
 
 He tried to keep his mind off the idea of Diana 
 kissing another man and being kissed by him. And 
 of course he couldn't. And for the first time since 
 Diana's confession, jealousy, cold and ugly, stirred in 
 his breast. 
 
 A tolerant and placid attitude toward their meet- 
 ings was not going to be easy. It might be impossible. 
 What reason had he for trusting Fenn ? He had none. 
 To have made love to Diana in the first place was a 
 blackguardly trick. "How do I know," thought Man- 
 ners, "that he hasn't repeated to her every word I 
 said to him? How do I know they aren't laughing 
 at me? . . . When he leaves I could go to the 
 top of the stair with him and send him down head- 
 first. ..." 
 
 The steep, deep, narrow stair-well with the marble 
 wall at the bottom came vividly into his mind. 
 Almost he could hear the rush and the clatter of 
 Fenn's descent, and the crash of Fenn's head against 
 the marble. At the thought of killing Fenn, Manners 
 felt no compunction whatever. It would serve the 
 interfering fool right. And Diana would never know. 
 She would always think that her lover had slipped and 
 fallen.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 89 
 
 The wave of jealous insanity swept Manners from 
 head to foot and passed. Reason told him that the 
 fall in all probability would not kill Fenn, and that 
 thereafter there could never be any hope of coming to 
 terms with Diana. The present must be suffered so 
 that the future might have in it sweet and honest 
 things. 
 
 But somehow or other he must put a stop to the 
 kissing. He would simply tell Diana that even if she 
 couldn't feel as his wife should, she had the power to 
 behave as his wife should while she remained his 
 wife (he would throw in that sop of comfort) and 
 he expected it of her. 
 
 Presently Diana called him into the back room, and 
 very soon after that Ogden Fenn made his departure. 
 
 They discussed Fenn for a time as if he had been 
 a new acquaintance in whom they both took an equal 
 interest. But it was not so much what they said of 
 him which gave this impression as the tones of their 
 voices. 
 
 "I liked all that I saw of him," said Manners. "He 
 struck me as being sincere and manly. I am glad you 
 didn't pick a bounder." 
 
 "He has the sweetest disposition," said Diana, who 
 had a very radiant look. "He thinks of nothing but 
 my happiness." 
 
 "I am sure he thinks of your happiness. ... I 
 told him that I had no objection to your seeing each 
 other every once in a while." 
 
 "He told me." 
 
 "And I hope, dear, that you won't abuse the privi- 
 lege. I'm trying to smile and look cheerful ; but you
 
 9 o THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 know all this is pretty rough on me. It's a hard smash 
 to take standing." 
 
 "I know," said Diana. 
 
 "Of course the right thing for you to do would be 
 to give him up never see him again. But I don't ask 
 that" 
 
 "If you made me give him up, I'd just die." 
 
 Manners put his hands on his wife's shoulders and 
 smiled very sweetly at her. 
 
 "Honey bug," he said, "you said exactly the same 
 thing about giving up What's-his-name ; but here you 
 are alive and well, and desperately in love with some 
 one else. I have every reason to think that you would 
 forget all about Fenn if you gave him up. You haven't 
 a good record for fidelity. In eleven years you have 
 been in love three times, and each love was to last 
 forever." 
 
 "I can't ever make you understand or believe," cried 
 Diana passionately. "I know that; but this is differ- 
 ent different." 
 
 For the needs of the moment, anyway, her voice 
 carried conviction, and dread like an impending nausea 
 filled her husband. Words that he attempted to utter 
 tripped and stumbled in his mouth, and he turned from 
 her with a choking sound. But instantly Diana flung 
 her arms around him, and clung to him tightly. 
 
 "Do you think it's easy for me to hurt you, Frank ? 
 Do you? If you and I aren't to stay friends, then I 
 am done for." 
 
 "Oh, Diana," he cried, "if it hurts you so to hurt 
 me, why do you do it, why do you do it? Why didn't 
 you keep your eyes in the boat ; why did you ask your-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 91 
 
 self into this thing? Why didn't I ask Fenn what he 
 meant by making love to my wife? m Because I know 
 that he never would have dared if you hadn't invited 
 him; no man would. You looked sad, and unhappy, 
 and misunderstood, and he fell for it. And now hav- 
 ing done this wicked thing you try to shield yourself 
 by saying how much it hurts you to hurt me!" 
 
 All the while that he was so crying out in his pain 
 and indignation a small inner voice kept whispering 
 to him, and saying: "Idiot, you are only doing harm! 
 Where is that steady kindness, that steady tolerance, 
 that wonderful patience which you promised yourself 
 to exercise?" 
 
 She answered him swiftly: "Do you suppose I don't 
 know what I'm giving up. Everybody will blame me. 
 Everybody will be on your side. Even my family will 
 be against me. Do you think I haven't counted the 
 cost? You have lots and lots of compensation, your 
 talent, and your reputation, the place you've made for 
 yourself in the world, all sorts of wonderful things. 
 I had a share in all that ; do you think I like to give it 
 up ? . . . Frank, dear, this is life or death to me. I 
 must have him ! I must have him ! He is so noble, so 
 unselfish. He loves me so !" 
 
 The inner voice cried out to Manners: "For heav- 
 en's sake keep quiet ! Don't say a word !" Neverthe- 
 less he said things, and as each word passed his lips 
 he regretted having spoken it. 
 
 "Noble and unselfish men don't make love to other 
 men's wives. I know you're badly mashed on Fenn, 
 but the less you talk about his nobleness, the less likely 
 you are to get yourself laughed at. The whole busi-
 
 92 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 ness is rotten, and you know it. The only thing to be 
 said in its favor is that it isn't rottener !" 
 
 Diana's nerves gave way with a crash. 
 
 "If you say one more word against him," she cried, 
 her face white and contumelious, "it will be rotten. 
 I'll walk right out of this place and go away with 
 him." 
 
 Manners mastered himself with a great effort. He 
 was trembling all over, and she had frightened him 
 badly. 
 
 "It's just nerves, dear," he said weakly. "They 
 went back on me. I couldn't control 'em. It's all 
 right now. It sha'n't happen again."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 OGDEN FENN had hardly any money at all; but then 
 he had never worked very hard. He believed implicitly 
 in his ability to support Diana, and in time to give her 
 at least such luxury as she had been accustomed to; 
 for beneath his shy and quiet exterior there was a good 
 deal of self-reliance and considerable strength. There 
 is no doubt that he put Diana's happiness ahead of his 
 own, and that if he had really believed that it would 
 be best for her in the long run, he would have been 
 ready and willing to give her up. He had even prom- 
 ised Manners to do so gradually. But he had made 
 that promise with mental reservations. 
 
 For what seemed so beautiful to himself and Diana 
 the law has an ugly term. It calls it "guilty affection." 
 And doll the thing as they would in crowns of glory 
 and bright robes of present renunciation, that was all 
 it amounted to. But to them, simply because they 
 had resisted technical sin, it seemed almost as if their 
 passion ought to be applauded and admired. They had 
 not chosen to be in love with each other ; it was a state 
 in which they had suddenly found themselves. There- 
 fore they were indeed guiltless of any wrongdoing 
 whatsoever. And if others must be hurt, who could 
 blame them? 
 
 It would have pained Fenn immeasurably could he 
 have heard the terse comment to which Diana's broth- 
 ers would later treat the affair when it came to their 
 
 93
 
 94 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 knowledge. These would say: "Diana's makin' a fool 
 of herself, and of course the man's a cur." 
 
 But Diana, blind with love-sickness, either thought 
 the opposite or was not able to think at all ; and Fenn, 
 sensible though he was and practical, did not for a 
 moment realize the empire of comfort, habit and posi- 
 tion which Diana stood to give up for him. He had 
 in exchange only his love to offer her, and his under- 
 standing of her. At the moment Diana believed that 
 this understanding was very perfect. She had once 
 thought the same thing about Manners's understand- 
 ing of her, only to find that at their first difference of 
 opinion it was very much less perfect than she had 
 thought. She would have differences of opinion with 
 Fenn, and judging by all the precedents which she had 
 set in the course of her life, married or unmarried, she 
 would not be guided by his judgment, but would fol- 
 low her own sweet will; and be sorry that she had, 
 very likely, and quite unwilling or it may be really un- 
 able to express that sorrow. 
 
 They had already had one difference of opinion: an 
 elemental difference. Fenn, believing that she was best 
 off where she was, had actually suggested that they 
 stop seeing each other ; but Diana had so overwhelmed 
 that suggestion with tears and clingings that Fenn had 
 sworn upon his honor as a man and lover that he would 
 stand by her through thick and thin, and that her wish 
 should be his law till death parted them. He made 
 her indeed the same sort of thrilling and even blood- 
 curdling promises which Diana, some ten years ago, 
 had made to Manners in the presence of their fami- 
 lies, their friends, and the Bishop of New York.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 95 
 
 Fenn reached his modest rooms and threw himself 
 into the one comfortable chair. He was glad to be 
 alone. He had hated the talk with Manners. But 
 Manners had acted like a brick. Would he consent to 
 a divorce? Diana was sure that he would, but Man- 
 ners had not said so in Perm's hearing. He had on the 
 contrary implied that Fenn must gradually cool toward 
 her and let her come to her senses. Cool toward 
 Diana ? Never. 
 
 And in his heart and soul he believed that he never 
 would. His good sense seemed to have abandoned 
 him. When a woman isn't happy with one man she 
 ought to live with another. He had lived most of 
 his own life in the West, in some of whose States the 
 divorce laws amount to no more than a bad smell. He 
 believed in such laws, and in the present circumstances 
 relied upon them. He believed also that his affair 
 with Diana was not the usual thing at all ; but inspired 
 and God-given. What if Diana had come a little more 
 than half way to meet him? The beautiful thing must 
 have happened in any case. It was predestined. 
 
 Fenn had been desperately in love three times. He 
 had thought each of these passions beautiful, predes- 
 tined and everlasting. But now he told himself : "They 
 weren't at all like this. This is different. This is the 
 real thing." 
 
 And he truly believed that it was the real thing and 
 that it would last until he died. He might force him- 
 self to give up Diana, for his own good ; but the deed 
 would kill him. Turn and twist as he would he could 
 see nothing but her dear face, sad and adoring. 
 
 God, how gladly he would die for her !
 
 96 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 All the way out in the train, Diana sat with her 
 hand linked in her husband's arm. He had made his 
 peace with her. He had taken back all his harsh, bitter 
 words. He had chewed them fine and swallowed them. 
 And he had told her again and again that his only 
 thought was for her happiness. And since Diana's 
 idea of happiness was to have both Fenn and Tarn, she 
 felt toward her husband an immense tenderness and 
 gratitude. She believed that he would at once begin 
 to make arrangements for being quietly and respecta- 
 bly divorced; and that in the meantime he would be 
 sweetness itself about her meetings with Fenn. She 
 believed that if she could only tell him about Fenn, 
 explain Fenn, make him see how wonderful Fenn was, 
 the thought of how much happiness she must inevita- 
 bly find with such a paragon would be real comfort 
 to him and make his own personal sacrifices seem 
 easy. 
 
 They elected to walk from the station to their house 
 and she did indeed talk to him about Fenn ; but not at 
 great length. For she made the discovery that the 
 wonderfulness of Fenn was more easily felt by in- 
 stinct than explained in words. She could not begin 
 by saying how strong and handsome he was; for he 
 was neither. She could not tell of showy sacrifices 
 which he had made, for he had made none. She could 
 not, in short, with nothing but the letters of the alpha- 
 bet to work with, make a mountain out of a molehill. 
 
 Manners listened with gentleness and gravity. Her 
 words went in at one of his ears and out at the other. 
 He answered her almost mechanically: "He seemed 
 to be a genuinely nice fellow. I really liked him. He
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 97 
 
 talked very sensibly. I am sure he puts your happi- 
 ness ahead of his own." 
 
 Diana agreed emphatically. And by the terms of 
 her agreement she showed with a naivete, uncon- 
 sciously humorous, the road by which she imagined 
 that her happiness could best be reached. 
 
 "Yes," she said devotedly, "he will do anything I 
 want." 
 
 At her side walked a husband who from the day of 
 their marriage had for some years freely given her 
 her own way in everything. It was not until she had 
 stopped loving him that he had ever offered any seri- 
 ous opposition to her inclinations. "I ought," he now 
 thought, "to have opposed some of them very firmly 
 while she still loved me. If I had done that she might 
 love me still. I ought never to have given in about 
 going to Newport that first summer. I ought never 
 to have given in about this and that." 
 
 He could not be sure whether his failure to oppose 
 Diana in decisions which in the end hurt them both 
 had been due to weakness or to his love for her. He 
 wished to put the whole blame on love; for no man 
 likes to confess even to himself that his will is really 
 weak. 
 
 As a matter of fact, his will had strengths and 
 weaknesses. His will to work was extraordinarily 
 strong. But when it came to opposing Diana his will 
 was so weak that he had to call to its aid logic and 
 argument. Then into a defeat rapidly turning into a 
 rout he would throw his last reserves, sarcasm and 
 anger, and see them completely annihilated. He had 
 never been able to give Diana a No that meant No.
 
 98 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 And that undoubtedly was the real reason why their 
 married life had for some time been shaping itself 
 toward disaster and tragedy. 
 
 Manners was to blame. Diana had splendid quali- 
 ties in her, and her husband had failed to bring them 
 out. He had spoiled her. 
 
 Diana spent the next day and night in town, and 
 the day and night following. Manners had stipulated 
 that he be told when she was going to see Fenn and 
 where, and she told him. She was to see Fenn on the 
 afternoon of the first day and she was to dine with 
 him, and afterward he was to come to the apartment 
 "because there's so much to talk over." The next 
 night she was to have him to dinner at the apartment 
 and afterward they would go to a show or just sit 
 and talk. Manners had received this announcement 
 with an outward show of tranquillity. But he hadn't 
 refrained from saying: "All right, dear; but that's not 
 my idea of seeing each other once in a while." 
 
 "It's because just at first," she said, "there's so much 
 we have to talk over." 
 
 She was standing in a bright light with her hands 
 raised to her hat. 
 
 In common with most of the young women of her 
 generation Diana carried about with her in what is 
 called a vanity bag a stick of red grease with which 
 she now and then intensified the color of her lips. In 
 common with the other young women she did this not 
 for the effect, but to keep her lips from becoming too 
 dry. And in common \vith the other young women
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 99 
 
 she could never satisfactorily explain why a stick of 
 colorless grease would not have served as well. 
 
 It was a habit to which Manners had strongly ob- 
 jected again and again. Diana's lips needed no em- 
 bellishment. They were sweet lips and they were not 
 pale. 
 
 She finished putting on her hat, and then she put 
 on her veil. And Manners noted that the finishing 
 touch of the red grease-stick which usually intervened 
 between the two maneuvers had been omitted. She 
 was going to town, then, with her lips as God made 
 them. 
 
 Manners could not trust himself to speak. And he 
 turned away so that she should not see the reflection 
 of his face in the mirror. 
 
 "For years," he thought, "I have had to kiss grease ; 
 but Fenn gets the real thing." 
 
 And he began to tremble from head to foot with a 
 diabolic and homicidal anguish. He got through the 
 ensuing two days and nights as best he could. It is 
 a horrible thing to be stabbed in the back by the person 
 you love most, and to be tortured without rhyme or 
 reason. The hellish injustice of it so rankled in him 
 that he could not eat. Neither could he sleep. For 
 short stretches of time, and entirely for Tarn's benefit, 
 he managed to force a certain cheerful gaiety. And 
 that was all the poor fellow could do. 
 
 And though it went deeply against his principles of 
 conduct he could not help showing his depression to 
 Mrs. Langham. His smile trembled at the corners; 
 his laugh was mechanical; and the reasons which he 
 gave for his loss of appetite were not well invented.
 
 ioo THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Mrs. Langham herself might have passed for a singu- 
 larly unobservant woman. She did not appear to 
 think that anything was wrong with anybody. She 
 was serene, cheerful and ready to talk on any subject 
 at any time. The repression of any outward mani- 
 festations of what she really felt was natural to her, 
 and she had cultivated her gift until it was notorious. 
 
 But inwardly she was half-dead with anxiety, for 
 the treatment which Diana had accorded to Manners 
 since his return from California seemed almost mali- 
 ciously calculated to hurt and estrange. Diana's 
 flirtation with Fenn had been a source of irritation and 
 worry, and she had at one time considered telegraphing 
 her son-in-law to come home; but that the flirtation 
 had in it monstrous possibilities for harm was only 
 just beginning to occur to her and to recur. She, too, 
 had always had faith in Diana's ultimate good sense.. 
 And this faith was not easily shaken. Diana indeed 
 was so like her mother that it was almost impossible 
 to believe that there could be anywhere in her a loose 
 screw. She had the same poise and dignity ; the same 
 proud and charming way of carrying her head; the 
 same power to make shy people comfortable and at 
 home. She, too, had immense power to repress her 
 deeper emotions and to be calm in the midst of all but 
 the most dire catastrophies. 
 
 Mrs. Langham longed with a poignant longing to 
 know what was passing in her son-in-law's mind. 
 And it would have lightened the load which he was 
 carrying if he had had any inkling of the intensity of 
 the sympathy which she felt for him. He did not 
 even know that in the circumstances which had arisen
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 101 
 
 she would sit in judgment on her own daughter, con- 
 demn her, and take his side. She ought, of course, 
 because she was just; but the relationship between 
 mother and daughter is not often to be shattered by a 
 mere sense of justice. 
 
 Diana did not return to the country till the after- 
 noon of the third day. She knew that she had been 
 self-indulgent to the point of cruelty; and the drawn 
 appearance of Manners's face and the unkind expres- 
 sion in his eyes told her that there would be a storm 
 presently, but her own face showed neither regret nor 
 concern. She felt so bolstered by the strength of 
 Fenn's lovingness and consideration that she feared 
 nothing. 
 
 The storm broke almost at once. Manners fol- 
 lowed her into her room, and closed the door after him. 
 
 "Diana," he said tensely, "I told you that you could 
 see each other once in a while. That didn't mean six 
 times in two days, and I don't know how many times 
 to-day." 
 
 "I haven't seen him at all to-day," she said coldly, 
 and began to take off her hat. 
 
 "It isn't altogether what you make me suffer, Diana. 
 It's the looks of the thing. You'll get yourself talked 
 about." 
 
 "Don't be afraid of that. Ogden is just as thought- 
 ful of my reputation as you are." 
 
 "People know that I'm only on for a few days, and 
 they see you spending all your time in town, and they'll 
 talk." 
 
 "Let them! What do they know?"
 
 102 THE WILD GOOSE N 
 
 "It isn't what people know that matters; it's what 
 people think." 
 
 Now, though Diana habitually repressed her deeper 
 emotions, she could display them on occasion. Some- 
 times she ruled her husband by charm; sometimes by 
 wistfulness; sometimes by coldness and scorn; some- 
 times by sobs. In her differences with him it never 
 occurred to her to fight fair, and to let a decision rest 
 with logic and good sense. 
 
 "First," she said in a voice almost frozen with in- 
 jury, "you say that you think of nothing but my 
 happiness, 3nd then you complain because I go where 
 that happiness is. That is logical! Oh! I was so 
 happy and relieved when I had told you and you were 
 so sweet and forgiving and friendly. But I might 
 have known that it was only a pose and that you 
 couldn't keep it up. I wish to heaven I hadn't told 
 you!" 
 
 "I'd have found out, Diana. The thought of your 
 keeping the thing from me indefinitely is ridiculous. 
 I did mean to be steadily kind and forbearing. Also 
 when I said that you were to see each other once in a 
 while I meant once in a while. I tried to be fair and 
 just. I don't see why you can't try." 
 
 "Oh! You're always so fair and just!" she flung 
 these words at him like buckshot from a gun. He had 
 roused the tigress in her ; she was fighting for her right 
 to do as she pleased, when she pleased and where she 
 pleased ; for her right to love and to be loved ; for her 
 right to break a solemn contract the moment her part 
 of it became irksome. She was fighting, you may say, 
 for her favorite cubs.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 103 
 
 "Don't you ever want to get over caring for this 
 fellow and do right?" he cried. 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by doing right. To 
 live with a man I don't love, to be his chattel, his cow 
 that's not my idea of doing right. You seem to think 
 that you own me body and soul." 
 
 "I think that when you promised to be my partner 
 till death you meant it." 
 
 "Oh, that!" she exclaimed. "I also promised to 
 love you for the same length of time. Is it my fault 
 if I've stopped?" 
 
 "If I'd ever stopped loving you, Diana, you'd never 
 have known it. I'd never have done to you what 
 you've done to me. Not once, but twice." 
 
 "You say you wouldn't, but you don't knozv. And 
 I don't know, and I don't believe it anyway." 
 
 "Your first blow-up stopped hurting you three 
 months after you stopped seeing What's-his-name. 
 Stop seeing this man and it will be the same." 
 
 "You don't understand," she said in a more 
 restrained voice. "I'm older and I know my own 
 mind." 
 
 "It's your heart you don't know, Diana. I can't 
 help going on precedent. Your love, even your friend- 
 ship, is not to be relied on. But if you are so sure this 
 time, why not test the matter out? That's only fair 
 to me. I love you, and I want to keep you, and I think 
 that in the long run your best chance of happiness is 
 with Tarn and me. Test your love for Fenn. Prom- 
 ise not to see him or communicate with him for a year, 
 and then if you feel as you do now, why I'll furnii/.i
 
 104 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 grounds and you can divorce me and marry him in no 
 time at all." 
 
 The idea of separating her from Fenn for a year 
 obsessed him. He spoke eloquently of its advantages; 
 of its fairness to all concerned. Speaking for himself, 
 the year should be free from recriminations. He 
 would make it pass as quickly and pleasantly as pos- 
 sible. It should be passed in the gayest and pleasantest 
 places. If he could not earn enough money he would 
 borrow it. 
 
 "This way," he pleaded, "Fenn has his chance ; you 
 have yours, and I have mine. If at the end of the year 
 you still loved Fenn, why I could better bear my hurt 
 for the cleanness of the wound. I shouldn't feel the 
 way I do now: that for no good reason I'd been 
 stabbed in the back, and must take my medicine 
 whether I like it or not. It's the rank injustice of 
 what you propose to do to me that makes my position 
 impossible. You propose to rearrange the whole rest 
 of my life without first finding out if your love for 
 Fenn has the quality of permanency. If it hasn't, and 
 you don't find out till you've divorced me, why God 
 help us all. . . . We've had lots and lots of good times 
 together even after you stopped loving me. If you 
 take the big step and find you've made a mistake, why 
 there's no getting back even to them. Just a year, 
 Diana! Just a year in which to make sure whether 
 all that's left of our lives really must be rearranged or 
 not? Somehow I don't picture Tarn getting along 
 without both of us. And your mother's happy with 
 us. ..." 
 
 "You could see Tarn whenever you liked," Diana
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 105 
 
 interrupted; "you could have her for part of the 
 time." 
 
 "You won't even consider what I propose?" 
 
 "Look here," she said, "I might promise not to see 
 him. I couldn't keep it. I'd just die. And there's 
 no sense in it. Do you think it gives me pleasure to 
 hurt you? Do you think it gives me pleasure to give 
 up all the things I'll have to give up? Why make me 
 any more wretched than I am? You say you want 
 your chance. Frank, you haven't got a chance. 
 Even if Ogden didn't exist, I don't want to go back. 
 We've been miserable together for years. And you 
 know it." 
 
 "We haven't!" exclaimed Manners. "And you 
 know it. I ask for justice and a fair chance. My 
 heaven, that's not asking for much. You don't even 
 think of Tarn!" 
 
 "Why drag in Tarn? You don't think of her either. 
 You want to keep me and that's all you think about." 
 
 "I ought to know better than to try to argue with 
 you when you are sick. I'm sorry." 
 
 The coldness in their voices was awful. It was 
 impossible to believe that the woman was very fond 
 of the man, and that the man was passionately in love 
 with the woman. Almost it seemed as if they hated 
 each other. 
 
 "Sneering isn't the way to get anything out of me," 
 said Diana. 
 
 "No. Nor loving you, nor being faithful to you, 
 nor going in debt for you. Nor can anything be gotten 
 out of you by reason or by logic. I wish to God I 
 could stop loving you."
 
 io6 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "If I'm such an utter rotter, why in heaven's name 
 do you want to keep me ?" 
 
 "Because I do love you," he cried, and all the cold- 
 ness in his voice melted as before a sudden hot fire. 
 "I love you kind or cruel. I love every inch of you. 
 Every good thing in you, every bad thing. I've loved 
 you since you were a little girl. When I say that I'll 
 always love you it means something. If you'd died 
 when you were a little girl I'd never have married. 
 I'd have mourned for you all the rest of my born days. 
 And I come back after long months to what I've come 
 back, and I tell you I can't stand it. I'm your husband. 
 You belong to me. And I'm not going to be chucked 
 for a whim ! or a little pin-headed sneak who's made 
 love to you behind my back. ..." 
 
 With the speed of lightning, Diana sprang to the 
 bureau and snatched up her hat. 
 
 "That's the end!" she cried savagely. "I can't 
 stand any more. I'm going away with him." 
 
 "If you do I'll kill him like a dog." 
 
 "Then I'll kill myself." 
 
 There was a sudden rapping on the door, and in the 
 silence that fell between them Tarn's shrill voice could 
 be heard gaily demanding admission. It was as if 
 Manners and Diana, red-hot with anger, had been sud- 
 denly dipped in ice-water. The hat fell from Diana's 
 shaking hands. 
 
 "Just a minute, darling !" she called. And her voice 
 sounded almost natural, even to Manners. He came 
 close to her and spoke in a whisper. . 
 
 "Don't do what you threatened. Anything but that. 
 Forgive a man who's half mad with love and disap-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 107 
 
 pointment. I can't feel about him the way you do. 
 But I certainly didn't mean what I said." 
 
 Diana's face and voice were relentlessly cold. 
 
 "If you ever say one more word against him I'll 
 walk right out of the house and I'll go straight 'to his 
 rooms. So you'd better be careful. Now pull your- 
 self together and let Tarn in."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 DIANA had gone to bed. She had talked very little 
 at dinner. After dinner she had read at a book. It 
 might have been any book. It made no impression on 
 her. She had already forgiven her. husband for what 
 he had said about Fenn. It was wrong to have seen 
 Fenn six times in two days. It wasn't playing the 
 game. She knew that. She knew her own faults 
 and failings very well indeed. But she hated to 
 admit them, and she had neither thp will nor the 
 strength to correct them. When she rose to say 
 good-night, her face had an expression of great sweet- 
 ness. She turned a cool cheek for her husband to kiss 
 and gave his shoulder an affectionate pat. Then she 
 went upstairs. Mrs. Langham and Manners heard 
 the sound of her door closing. Manners looked for a 
 while at the advertisement sheet of the evening paper 
 which concealed his mother-in-law's face. He made 
 up his mind to speak to her about Diana and Fenn. He 
 wondered if he should tell her now and give her a bad 
 night. Or if he should wait till morning. And all of 
 a sudden it seemed to him impossible to put off the 
 telling. The need of counsel and sympathy was im- 
 perative. His own mind had become impossible com- 
 pany. 
 
 "Mrs. Langham," he said abruptly, "I've had some 
 bad news. I think you'll hate it too. Diana is very 
 
 108
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 109 
 
 much in love with this man Fenn; she wants to 
 divorce me and marry him." 
 
 Mrs. Langham put down her newspaper very quietly 
 and said: "She hasn't the shadow of an excuse!" 
 
 It was wonderful how that one phrase comforted 
 him. It was as if to a man on a desert rock a com- 
 panion had descended from heaven. The gates of talk 
 were open. He could tell somebody everything. He 
 could abuse Diana if he wanted to ; for without an in- 
 stant's hesitation Diana's own mother had declared 
 herself on his side. 
 
 "No. She hasn't," he said, "but I can't tell her that, 
 or argue with her. She's in such a state that she can't 
 put two and two together." 
 
 "I've been very much worried all winter. At one 
 time I thought of telegraphing you. It was a great 
 relief to me when you did come." 
 
 "It's very curious. I don't know why I came, except 
 that I had a sort of intuition. I got thinking that I 
 ought to come. Mrs. Appleyard was furious." 
 
 "If Fenn had been a public fascinator," said Mrs. 
 Langham, "I should have telegraphed; but he seemed 
 such a mild, retiring person ! I can't believe even now 
 that Diana is in earnest." 
 
 "She is just as much in earnest now," said Manners, 
 "as she was the other time. That is, she thinks as she 
 thought then, that this is a Faust and Marguerite 
 affair; Helo'ise and Abelard. Experience has taught 
 her nothing. Her sense of humor has abandoned her." 
 
 He smiled hopefully. Mrs. Langham was so calm 
 and her voice was so matter-of-fact and sensible, that 
 the probable seemed the sure. Of course Diana would
 
 no THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 tire of Fenn. It was a million-to-one shot. It was a 
 sure thing. 
 
 "It will be very horrid while it lasts," he said. 
 "What do you think I ought to do?" 
 
 "Have you done anything?" 
 
 "I've had several rows with Diana," he said, "but 
 rows only sink me deeper into disfavor; and I shall 
 try not to have any more. Then I've had a talk with 
 Fenn." And he told her about that. 
 
 "Do you think you can count on him ?" she asked. 
 
 "Of course Diana has made him believe she has been 
 unhappy with me. He may feel that he is a knight- 
 errant called to the rescue of a damsel in distress. He 
 may feel that he is in honor bound to go on with the 
 rescue. If he is as weak with Diana as I am, he will 
 have a hard time breaking with her. If he is really in 
 love with her it will be very hard for him to taper off 
 and pretend that he isn't. In her present state of mind 
 Diana is preternaturally sharp and suspicious. But 
 wouldn't you think that after the lesson she's had ! . . . 
 
 "Married women," said Mrs. Langham, "are subject 
 to these attacks. But when there are children and the 
 husband is a decent sort they rarely lead to divorce. 
 Of course, Diana seems utterly unbalanced and irre- 
 sponsible at the moment ; but you may be sure that she 
 is doing a great deal of thinking. She has good blood 
 in her." 
 
 "She talks of running away with him; of killing 
 herself." 
 
 "That is to frighten you. No matter what happens 
 Diana will not kill herself. She's too much afraid of 
 pain. Women who deliberately stop having children
 
 THE WILD GOOSE in 
 
 while they are still in love with their husbands very 
 seldom commit suicide. As for running away!" she 
 laughed. "Diana may run away; but Fenn won't. I 
 believe that I know Ogden Fenn pretty well. Diana 
 has had him here a good deal. I think he has very con- 
 ventional ideas." 
 
 "If he does run away with her," said Manners, "I'll 
 kill him." 
 
 "A woman," Mrs. Langham explained, "is all sex. 
 She is sex to her finger-tips. And in her madnesses 
 she loses all sense of proportion and obligation. But a 
 man is only part sex. He is part sex and part man. 
 The man part of him is very cautious; you have only 
 to imagine yourself playing the game that Fenn is play- 
 ing if you want to know the exact state of his mind. 
 Probably Diana does not talk so wildly to him as she 
 does to you. But if she does, then you may be sure 
 that he is one of the most perplexed and frightened 
 men in New York." 
 
 Manners liked to think of Fenn as frightened. The 
 more his mother-in-law talked, the more comforted he 
 felt and the more confident for the future. The taut 
 muscles in his face had relaxed. He looked younger. 
 And Mrs. Langham, perceiving the effect that she was 
 having on him, kept on talking. 
 
 "Diana's case," she said, "is not without precedent in 
 her family." 
 
 "She has established one pretty good precedent her- 
 self," commented Manners. 
 
 The color deepened in Mrs. Langham's cheeks, and 
 her eyes brightened. There was a twinkle of mischief 
 in them.
 
 112 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "I was thinking of myself," she said. 
 
 "You !" he exclaimed. There was surprise, amuse- 
 ment, almost horror in his voice. And he repeated his 
 exclamation. 
 
 "It is very flattering that you should think it so ridic- 
 ulous," she said, "but it happened, and it was very 
 horrid. I thought all the things that Diana threatens." 
 
 "Oh, but there's the great difference!" he cried. 
 "You controlled yourself. You just set your teeth and 
 swallowed hard." She laughed as if some recollection 
 gave her genuine amusement. 
 
 "I belong to a more controlled generation than 
 Diana," she explained, "but one Sunday I said that 
 I was too ill to go to church, and as soon as I had the 
 house to myself I lay on the floor and screamed !" 
 
 "But I want to know what happened. Did you tell 
 Mr. Langham?" 
 
 "He knew that there was something wrong, but he 
 asked no questions. He was very sweet to me while 
 I was pulling myself together. That didn't take very 
 long. And I'm inclined to think that I made my hus- 
 band a good wife." 
 
 "That is too well known even to be considered !" 
 
 "Diana," she said, "was ten years old at the time. 
 Think of me, the mother of four children, behaving 
 like that. And I was devoted to my husband. But I 
 felt that at heart I had been a traitor to him, and my 
 conscience had no peace until John was born. John 
 made me feel honest again in my own eyes." 
 
 "John's a great boy," said Manners. "I love him. 
 But what did the man do when you broke with 
 him?"
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 113 
 
 "But I never broke with him. He never knew that 
 I cared about him in that way. It would have been 
 easier for me if there could have been a break ; love has 
 to be fed like any other hungry thing. But without 
 telling Mr. Langham or the man himself I couldn't 
 arrange a break. He was a lot younger than Mr. Lang- 
 ham ; but they were great friends ; and he was always 
 at the house. I simply had to suppress my emotions 
 until suppression became a habit." 
 
 "But of course the man cared for you. He must 
 have known." 
 
 "If he had cared of course he must have known. But 
 I think nothing was ever further from his heart and 
 mind than caring for me in that way. He was simply 
 great friends with us all." 
 
 "Then," said Manners, "I deny that you have set a 
 precedent for Diana. The cases are utterly different. 
 All you did was to set a wonderful and courageous pre- 
 cedent, which she hasn't had the courage or the good 
 sense to follow. If you and Diana were alike you 
 would have made love to the man until he was carried 
 off his feet, and then you would have told your hus- 
 band, glorying in your crime and defying the heavens 
 to make you just, or kind, or unselfish. ... I wish 
 you'd tell this story to Diana." 
 
 "Some day perhaps." 
 
 "Sha'n't you speak to her about this awful mix-up 
 at all?" 
 
 "Not unless she speaks to me ; or only as a last resort. 
 No one has any influence with her now, except Fenn 
 perhaps. You mustn't think of her as rational. These 
 outbreaks are a form of temporary insanity."
 
 U4 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "But you haven't advised me what to do ?" 
 
 "I should be very kind. I should ask no questions. 
 I should have a smile for her when she comes and a 
 smile when she goes. Don't let her see that you are 
 suffering. Let her see Fenn whenever she wants to. 
 Go away. Go back to California and finish your w r ork. 
 Opposition is very inflaming ; remove it and most likely 
 the fire will go out." 
 
 "But she expects me to decide about giving her a 
 divorce. In the first shock I'm afraid I did half prom- 
 ise to let her go." 
 
 "It was the best thing you could have done. It binds 
 you no more than telling a fib to a sick person. She 
 has no excuse for divorcing you. And you mustn't let 
 her. But I should put off telling her that just as long 
 as possible. Tell her that until your work in California 
 is finished and you have some money, you can't pos- 
 sibly arrange about anything. Perhaps she will have 
 tired of Fenn by the time you come back. Don't hurry 
 back." 
 
 Manners thought for a while before answering. 
 Then, his brows contracting: 
 
 "I've simply got to trust Fenn," he said, "haven't 
 I ? That's the only possible way." 
 
 Mrs. Langham nodded. 
 
 "He seems a decent sort of fellow," said Manners, 
 doubtfully. He filled his lungs with air, and let it out 
 slowly. 
 
 "I suppose," he said, "that most of the time I'll just 
 naturally trust him. And that there'll be other times 
 when I'll be half mad with doubt and fear." 
 
 "Frank," said Mrs. Langham, "I'm as fond of you
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 115 
 
 as I am of my own sons. I would give anything to 
 spare you this." 
 
 "You've helped me so much," he said; "so wonder- 
 fully !" He rose and held out his hand. 
 
 "I'm going to bed," he said, "and thank you a thou- 
 sand times. ... If Diana should bolt with this fel- 
 low, you'll stay with Tarn and me?" 
 
 "If you want me," she said. At the door he turned: 
 
 "I talk," he said, "as if I wasn't to blame for any- 
 thing. But I am. I've been awfully hard on Diana 
 sometimes." 
 
 "She has nobody to thank for that but herself." 
 
 "Sometimes I think that, too. But not always. I'm 
 not sure. I'm kind to Tarn. I'm kind to the servants. 
 I don't get mad at you do I? but I'm often unkind 
 to Diana. Sometimes I get furious with her. If she'll 
 come back to me I'll be different. I promise. You see, 
 I've expected too much of her. And when she hasn't 
 come across, I've been so disappointed that I've sulked 
 and scolded. But if we can get her through this busi- 
 ness, why I sha'n't expect so much of her. I sha'n't 
 expect anything of her. Then if she gives me a little 
 something I'll be surprised and happy about it. And 
 that way there'll never be any excuse to be unkind. 
 Good-night again." 
 
 About midnight Mrs. Langham knocked on her son- 
 in-law's door, and then pushed it discreetly open. He 
 was propped up in bed. A book lay face down in his 
 lap. 
 
 "I saw the light," Mrs. Langham explained. "Can't 
 you get to sleep?" He shook his head. 
 
 "It's freezing cold in here," she said. "I've brought
 
 n6 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 you a hot- water bottle and a glass of hot milk. You 
 smoke too many cigarets after you go to bed." 
 
 He protested against so much attention. But he pro- 
 tested as a little child protests. 
 
 "You mustn't mind me," said Mrs. Langham firmly. 
 "I am an old woman." 
 
 She gave him the glass of milk, and while he was 
 drinking it she pulled out his bedclothes near the foot 
 of the bed, and placed the hot- water bottle against his 
 feet. 
 
 "They are like ice," she said. 
 
 She tucked the bedclothes back into place with swift, 
 workmanlike address. Then she took his book and his 
 cigarets away from him, and put out his light. 
 
 "Now try to go to sleep," she said. "Good-night." 
 
 When she had closed the door a curious thing hap- 
 pened to Manners. He began to cry; quietly as men 
 cry, but with the heartbreaking intensity of a little 
 child. He cried because in his bitter loneliness some- 
 one had thought of him and been kind. 
 
 The warmth of the hot-water bottle stole deliciously 
 into his feet. The whole bed glowed with it. He 
 turned upon his side and snuggled himself into a com- 
 fortable position. Then he cried himself to sleep. 
 
 Manners had imagined that his short homecoming 
 would be very gay, and that his energies would be ex- 
 hausted by dinner-parties and theater-parties. He had 
 thought to see almost all the people he cared about at 
 least once. But so far, owing to Diana's affair, the 
 meetings which he had had with his friends had been 
 sheer accidents. Mary Hastings, however, had tele- 
 phoned asking him to see her, and a few days later
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 117 
 
 she had sent him a note by special delivery saying that 
 she really wanted to see him and would not be denied. 
 
 So he wanted to see her, wondering if she had just 
 gone out of her way to be friendly, or if she, too, like 
 Mrs. Langham, had been worried by Diana's flirtation 
 with Fenn, and wanted to know the whole truth. If 
 she suspected things, he would tell her. His confi- 
 dences would go no further; her sympathy would do 
 him good, and her advice might be very helpful. Even 
 if her suspicions had not been tampered with, he might 
 tell her. 
 
 To the average passer-by, the huge Hastings house, 
 marching for half a block with Central Park, suggests 
 a mausoleum. But to Manners, who even liked Mary 
 Hastings's unpopular husband, it suggested many good 
 times and much friendliness. The house had figured 
 prominently during the year of his engagement to 
 Diana. A dance had been given there for them, and 
 many dinners and luncheons without end. Diana had 
 even stayed in the house by the week at a time. It had 
 been her town headquarters. The convenient fortress 
 from which as an engaged girl, whose family lived in 
 the country, she had made tremendous sallies upon her 
 trousseau. And with Mary Hastings they had both 
 struck up a wonderful friendship. 
 
 Downstairs the house was more suggestive of Hast- 
 ings than of his wife. It was dark and austere. It 
 contained a certain amount of very expensive and very 
 ugly mid-Victorian furniture with which nothing 
 would induce him to part. It had belonged to his 
 mother, with whom he had always quarreled, and he 
 had perhaps a remorseful sentiment about it. A full-
 
 u8 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 length portrait of himself lent no cheer to the entrance- 
 hall. He was an angular man, with a bony face and 
 one shoulder hitched a little higher than the other ; his 
 expression was at once mean and lordly, jealous and 
 generous, shrewd to the point of genius and childishly 
 vacant. John Sargent had painted the portrait and had 
 told no lies. It was as if an alienist had said: "He is 
 sane at the moment; but he will bear watching." 
 
 Manners could never pass that wonderful portrait 
 without stopping to look at it. It made his ow r n talent 
 seem purposeless and blundering. He could never go 
 from that portrait to confront his own "Apple-Tree" 
 that hung over the fireplace in Mary Hastings's little 
 upstairs sitting-room without a feeling of failure and 
 self-contempt. And yet the apple-tree was a joyous 
 thing. John Sargent himself had whistled when he 
 saw it, and had asked if Manners was a child of mortal 
 parents or if some god and goddess had not really been 
 responsible for him? 
 
 Mary Hastings's little sitting-room was her favorite 
 place in all the world. There she received her inti- 
 mates, and there, often with her frank, kind eyes upon 
 the young greens and the delicious pinks of Frank 
 Manners's apple-tree, she faced and thought out her 
 problems. There she came to fight her battles with 
 herself, and thence she emerged serene, friendly, self- 
 sacrificed, victorious. 
 
 People said that she had married Hastings for his 
 money and his position. And so she had. But the 
 whole truth was not to be told in one cold-blooded sen- 
 tence. She had married him to save her father from 
 bankruptcy and to escape the serpents of her mother's
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 119 
 
 tongue. Hastings had bought her; but she was too 
 honest not to perceive that in allowing herself to be 
 bought she had shared in his crime. She had borne 
 him two children, a boy and a girl. They were bony 
 children with very high foreheads. They had shoul- 
 ders of unequal height. They had in them no trace of 
 their mother's beauty, either of body or of spirit. 
 
 So greatly had Mary Hastings triumphed in her 
 fight with unhappiness and despair that even her inti- 
 mates did not really know whether she was happy or 
 unhappy. Poise and self-control had become natural 
 to her. Directness, sweetness and simplicity had always 
 been natural. 
 
 Manners's "Apple-Tree" and Mary Hastings herself 
 made the room; to the greens and pinks of the tree 
 she offered the strong and rich contrast of black velvet. 
 Her tall, slender, and commanding figure had tempted 
 her dressmaker to the utmost severity in cutting the 
 dress. A large table diamond on her left hand and 
 a short string of splendid, glowing pearls were her only 
 ornaments. Her black hair, which grew low on her 
 forehead in a widow's peak, was brushed straight back. 
 But the hair itself was not straight; neither was it 
 curly. It was strong, bright and waving. Manners 
 liked to compare her face with that Greek face (which 
 of course he had never seen) which launched a thou- 
 sand ships against Troy. "But Trojan Helen's face," 
 he usually added, "couldn't have been as sweet as 
 Mary's." Men often forgot the sheer classic beauty 
 of her face in the sweetness of its expression. 
 
 She did not rise when Manners entered, but held out 
 both hands to him across the steaming tea-table.
 
 120 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "I am not at home to anybody but you," she said. "I 
 had to see you. I must know about Diana." 
 
 "I am glad you must, Mary," said Manners, "be- 
 cause I can't think about anything else." 
 
 He remembered the difficulties of his nights, and re- 
 fused tea or anything stronger. And then for a long 
 time, with great gentleness and consideration, he talked 
 about Diana ; what she had done, what she was doing, 
 and what she wanted to do. He told his story dispas- 
 sionately and without comment. 
 
 "And your intention, of course," said Mrs. Hastings, 
 when he had finished, "is to let her have her way. 
 But you mustn't." 
 
 "She is still fond of me," said Manners hopelessly, 
 "but if I block the road of honor and glory that leads 
 to Fenn she will hate me." 
 
 Mrs. Hastings nodded, but said: "She will only hate 
 you as long as she loves him ; but even if her love for 
 him is one of the eternities, even if she hates you and 
 makes your life miserable till her dying day, you 
 mustn't let her divorce you." 
 
 "Oh," he said wearily, "if I could be sure that her 
 love would last I'd let her go. I'd have to. It would 
 be too cruel to keep her. I love her too much, Mary. 
 I've loved her ever since she was a little girl, and no 
 matter what she does to me I keep right on loving her. 
 I'm a regular old wild goose, I expect." 
 
 He sat leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, 
 and his fine workman-like hands dejectedly hang- 
 ing. 
 
 "Diana," said Mrs. Hastings gently, "is thinking 
 only of herself. Fenn is thinking only of himself.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 121 
 
 Now I'd give a penny, Frank, to know whom you are 
 thinking of ?" 
 
 He looked up smiling. 
 
 "Perfectly right, Mary. I am thinking only of my- 
 self." The certainty seemed rather wonderful to him, 
 and he reflected upon it for some moments. Then he 
 said: 
 
 "Absolutely right. If I let Diana go, I think only 
 about how much I must suffer. If I keep her and she 
 hates me I think only about how much I must suffer. 
 I think that I'm thinking about Diana ; but I'm not. I 
 haven't really thought about her end of it, except just 
 at first just when she told me, and for a little while 
 after. I'm just an ordinary, selfish, self-centered 
 dog." 
 
 "You're nothing of the kind, Frank. You've had 
 a dreadful shock, and you're bewildered. Your mind 
 is working in a selfish channel, but that's mere acci- 
 dent and incidental to the shock. I've suspected for 
 some time that things were very wrong with Diana and 
 you, so in my case shock has been discounted, and I'm 
 not worrying too much about either of you. Don't 
 you see that it doesn't really matter how much Diana 
 is hurt? She has had her chance and she has abused 
 it. And it doesn't really matter how much you are 
 hurt. You are a man. As for Fenn, the more he is 
 hurt the better. He will have only himself to thank. 
 You three have been of age for a long time. You have 
 been free agents. If you have made messes of your 
 lives, you have only yourselves to blame. Diana has 
 been too selfish. You have been too indulgent. And 
 let's not consider Fenn. Don't punish Diana, don't
 
 122 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 make her suffer, but if she will suffer, why let her. And 
 if you must suffer, why suffer and get the most out 
 of life that you can. But for heaven's sake, don't take 
 the life of an innocent, helpless person, who has no say 
 in the matter whatever, and rearrange that person's 
 life for the worse. Both you and Diana are as neces- 
 sary to Tarn as the food she eats. No matter how 
 much Diana suffers she will always be good to Tarn, 
 and good for Tarn. It will always be the same with 
 you. Don't argue this with Diana; she wouldn't sea 
 it now. But don't ever let it out of your mind. Stick 
 to it. Even if Diana went completely wrong it would 
 be better to keep her for Tarn's sake." 
 
 "Every time I try to argue with her," said Manners 
 dismally, "she threatens to run away with him. She 
 says that if she is separated from him she will die or 
 kill herself." 
 
 "Only the running away with him," said Mary 
 Hastings comfortably, "need be considered seriously. 
 And that mustn't be considered too seriously. Men 
 will only consent to that way out when there is no other 
 way out. Even bad men don't like the idea of running 
 away with married women. They do it, of course; it 
 does happen. But they don't like it. It amounts to 
 being found out. They would much rather cheat and 
 hope not to be found out." 
 
 "Fenn isn't a bad man," said Manners. "I've talked 
 with him and I think he's a pretty decent sort. He 
 told me I needn't be afraid of him. I try very hard 
 not to be. I know they haven't cheated. I don't think 
 they will. Has there been much talk?" 
 
 "More laughter than talk. Nobody knows Fenn, of
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 123 
 
 course, and the affair hasn't been taken very seriously. 
 People are not laughing at Diana yet ; or at you, you 
 poor soul. They think they are laughing with her. 
 Only a very few people real friends have been wor- 
 ried ; your cousin Peter, Mrs. Langham, of course . . ." 
 
 "Have you talked with her?" he interrupted. Mrs. 
 Hastings nodded. 
 
 "She's a wonder!" he exclaimed. "She never men- 
 tioned it to me." 
 
 "She never does mention things that are mentioned 
 to her. You've talked with her, of course?" 
 
 "And mighty glad I have. If you'll believe it, she's 
 on my side. Who else knows?" 
 
 "My husband. He's a very good friend of yours." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 "He didn't say much. He did things. He had Fenn 
 looked up. He had him looked up here and all through 
 the West in the different places where he has lived. But 
 the man's record is negatively good. He's well thought 
 of by the people who have known him and done busi- 
 ness with him." 
 
 "You'll thank Alec for me, won't you ? It was very 
 white of him." 
 
 "It was no trouble. He has a mania for having 
 people looked up. One night not long ago we had a 
 small dinner-dance. And when everybody had gone 
 he came up to me chuckling ; and he told me that dur- 
 ing the evening I had danced with seven men whom 
 he could put in State's prison if he wanted to. He 
 wouldn't tell me their names. Look here, Frank, I 
 haven't talked with Diana. Shall I?" 
 
 "She's not to be talked to now, Mary. She isn't
 
 124 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 sane. But you have my permission, if that's any use 
 to anyone." 
 
 "Shall I talk to Fenn ? I don't know him. But shall 
 I meet him and talk to him?" 
 
 "That's a brave and bold and a new notion. What 
 would you say?" 
 
 "That I had talked with you; that you refused to 
 be divorced under any circumstances; that you re- 
 fused to give up Tam. I'd try to show him that noth- 
 ing honorable could ever come of the affair. I'd try 
 to persuade him to duck out gradually, and not alto- 
 gether gracefully." 
 
 "If we could be sure that he wouldn't run to Diana 
 and repeat what you had said?" 
 
 "I should make reasonably sure about that before 
 I gave anything away." 
 
 "If Diana finds out that I won't give her a divorce 
 at any price . . ." He did not finish the sentence. 
 
 "She mustn't." 
 
 "Well," said Manners, "I wish you would see him. 
 I've such tremendous faith in you. And talking with 
 you has done me a world of good." 
 
 "I think," she said, "that Diana's fire is too intense 
 to last. It will burn itself out. Don't take her too 
 seriously. And don't take this wretched business too 
 much to heart. Keep your mind on Tam. Think of 
 her future. And don't be diverted from that by 
 quixotic impulses." 
 
 "Of course," he said simply, and as if she had not 
 'been listening, "if they run away together I shall kill 
 him." 
 
 "By all means," exclaimed Mrs. Hastings, and she
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 125 
 
 smiled into his face with such persistent sweetness that 
 he had to smile back. "By all means kill him," she 
 repeated, "and as he falls dead, and as Diana throws 
 herself under the nearest trolley-car, and as the officer 
 of the law lays his hands on your shoulder, and leads 
 you away from your paints and your canvases and all 
 your possible sources of revenue think of Tam !" 
 
 He couldn't help laughing. Then he said : "Always 
 right, Mary. I mustn't kill him, of course. But life 
 hasn't been very gay with me lately, and you have no 
 idea what fun it would be !" 
 
 She sighed when he had gone, and looked deep into 
 the wonderful apple-tree that he had painted for her, 
 and sat for a long time thinking. 
 
 "Frank and Diana," she thought, "have had five 
 years of perfect happiness. No two people were ever 
 so much in love with each other. Now they are both 
 unhappier than I am, and I haven't even one minute's 
 happiness to look back on." 
 
 Even this tragic thought did not disturb her look 
 of brooding serenity, nor the sweetness of the smile 
 which she had given Manners at parting and which 
 still lingered about her mouth. 
 
 "Oh, my dear Apple-tree," she thought, "if only I 
 had had Diana's chance!"
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 SHE did not know whether she should bring the 
 matter up with Diana. But she was determined to 
 mett Fenn, and if he seemed an honorable man, who 
 would not repeat what was said to Diana, to talk with 
 him and try to influence him. It was not usually very 
 difficult for her to influence men. And she knew it. 
 
 It w r ould not be easy to meet Fenn, because they 
 did not belong to the same station in life, but luck 
 favored her. The night after Manners's departure for 
 California she saw them at the play, and managed, 
 when the performance was over, to so time her exit 
 from the theater that it coincided with theirs. 
 
 Diana would have avoided the encounter if possible. 
 She no longer felt comfortable when she was with 
 Mary Hastings, and since the beginning of the affair 
 with Fenn had deliberately kept away from her. Bet- 
 ter than anyone else Diana knew the gallant fight that 
 Mary Hastings had kept up to make a success out of a 
 ghastly marriage. She admired no other woman so 
 much. And there was no other person in the world 
 whom she so hated to disappoint. But their greeting, 
 unaffected and affectionate, left nothing to be desired. 
 They met as intimate friends meet who have been see- 
 ing each other often. 
 
 Fenn was introduced. He was a little flustered. He 
 had looked at her more than once during the progress 
 
 126
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 127 
 
 of the play and Diana had told him who she was. 
 Fenn had as little of the snob in him as the next man, 
 but the extraordinary beauty of the woman, and the 
 hundred or two hundred millions of dollars which was 
 said to be behind that beauty, had their effect. If only 
 for Diana's sake he wished himself tall and of com- 
 manding presence. He wished that he had the gift 
 of saying witty things in rather a loud and showy way. 
 If only for Diana's sake he wished to make good with 
 Diana's powerful friends. If only he could get them 
 to like him for himself it would be so much better for 
 Diana in the long run. 
 
 He knew that the heads of half the people in the 
 lobby were turned toward Mrs. Hastings ; that she was 
 being pointed out and excitedly commented on. And 
 he knew that because he was talking with such a 
 famous person he was having a share in her conspicu- 
 ousness. This knowledge inflamed his cheeks and 
 tripped his tongue. He felt like an awkward fool. 
 Diana herself could not have put him at his ease. And 
 she had abandoned him. She was talking with Hast- 
 ings. And Hastings was laughing his loud, harsh 
 laugh. Only Mrs. Hastings herself could have put 
 Fenn at his ease. And it was not so much she herself 
 who managed it as the sheer loveliness that radiated 
 from her eyes; and the sweetness and the serenity of 
 her voice. 
 
 He forgot that rude, whispering people were staring 
 at him ; he forgot that he was humble and shy and self- 
 conscious and unsuccessful. Almost he might have 
 been alone in a forest contemplating some miraculous 
 flower.
 
 128 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 He heard Diana's voice: "Mr. Hastings wants us 
 to go somewhere to supper with them," she said. 
 
 "I'd love to," said he. 
 
 And then almost without remembering how he got 
 there he found himself surrounded by a most luxuri- 
 ous and delicate smell of leather. He was sitting next 
 to the famous Alexander Hastings one of the most 
 envied and discussed men in America. They were 
 riding backward. Opposite him was the woma-n who 
 was all the world to him, next to her was the most 
 beautiful woman in all the world. If only he could 
 think of something to say! 
 
 "There's room on this seat, Mr. Fenn," said Mrs. 
 Hastings, "if you hate riding backward." 
 
 His opportunity had come. He knew his Mark 
 Twain inside out, and with a hint of a stammer in his 
 speech he used that knowledge. 
 
 "I only hate it on the water," he said, "when it's my 
 turn to row." 
 
 Hastings vented an appreciative roar of harsh 
 laughter. The lovely women laughed, and Fenn, car- 
 ried away with pleasure at having made a hit, laughed 
 too. Diana's eyes fairly blazed with pride. How 
 could anybody help liking a rnan who could say won- 
 derful things like that? 
 
 It was less pleasant for her when Fenn, feeling that 
 he had stolen another man's thunder, insisted on dis- 
 avowing any credit for what he had said, and at some 
 length and not very brilliantly retailed the witticism in 
 its original form. The laughter which greeted this 
 explanation and repetition was neither unrestrained 
 nor spontaneous. And for the lack of humor thus dis-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 129 
 
 played by her lover's insistence Diana was obliged to 
 seek consolation in the beautiful intellectual honesty 
 which had compelled it. No one was so modest. No 
 one was so adamantine on questions of undeserved 
 credit ! 
 
 As for Mary Hastings, smiling very sweetly upon 
 the unfortunate bungler, she thought to herself: "I 
 wonder if he isn't ever a little mite tedious?" 
 
 And she was sorry for him. For when he looked 
 at Diana his eyes had in them the adoration of a dog's, 
 and she knew that neither to themselves nor to any- 
 body else could any real good come of their love for 
 each other. 
 
 "Did Fenn know that?" she wondered. "Did he 
 even suspect it?" 
 
 During supper she made the discovery that Fenn 
 was a great admirer of Chinese porcelains. The finer 
 examples were of course beyond his means, but, other 
 things being equal, he went where porcelains were. 
 He had books on the subject. He was a genuine ama- 
 teur. Nothing could have been more fortunate. The 
 Hastings collection was so important that it had a 
 whole room to itself. Fenn must have an afternoon 
 with the collection, and the sooner the better. It would 
 be easy to leave Diana out; she would indeed prefer 
 to be left out, for collections of all kinds bored her. 
 
 The salaried expert who dusted the porcelains when 
 he wasn't worshiping them should show them to Fenn. 
 And then Fenn should have a cup of tea in her little 
 sitting-room, and be talked to. The engagement was 
 made. Fenn was flattered and delighted. Diana was 
 also delighted. She suspected Mary Hastings of no
 
 130 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 hidden motive. And when the afternoon for seeing 
 the porcelains came she abandoned her lover to the 
 more beautiful woman without a twinge of doubt. 
 
 When Mrs. Hastings joined Fenn in the room de- 
 voted to the porcelains, his interest in them waned, and 
 he was glad to be led away to tea. It seemed wonder- 
 ful to him to have been singled out for so much atten- 
 tion by so beautiful and famous a woman. He imag- 
 ined that not everybody was privileged to see her alone 
 in that charming little sitting-room. Diana must have 
 such a room some day. The shyness natural to him 
 was not in evidence. His face and eyes glowed with 
 genuine pleasure. But only for a few moments; for 
 Mrs. Hastings made a direct characteristic attack on 
 the subject which was uppermost in her mind. 
 
 "Mr. Fenn," she said, "if you have no secrets from 
 Diana I am going to give you a cup of tea and let you 
 go. Otherwise I should like very much to have a frank 
 talk with you." 
 
 "If you ask me not to say anything," said Fenn 
 promptly, "of course I won't." His sense of ease and 
 well-being had deserted him, and he felt a certain 
 alarm. 
 
 "I've noticed for a long time," said Mrs. Hastings, 
 "that Diana wasn't happy ; so when her husband came 
 on from California I inveigled him here just as I 
 have inveigled you, Mr. Fenn, and because we are very 
 old friends, and because he trusts me, he told me the 
 whole story. So far he does not attribute this calami- 
 tous situation to you. He has known Diana all his life, 
 and if he puts the blame on her, most of their friends 
 will believe that he is right."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 131 
 
 "Does it matter how it happened, Mrs. Hastings?" 
 
 "No. But if it is allowed to go on, the blame of 
 course will be shifted to you." 
 
 "Manners and I had a talk. Did he tell you? I 
 must say it seemed to me that he didn't care a great 
 deal what happened. He was extremely courteous, and 
 well, not a bit like what I had pictured." 
 
 "You having gathered from Diana," smiled Mrs. 
 Hastings, "that his temper is violent, and his speech 
 bitter and sarcastic. Probably you picture Diana as 
 a wronged, ill-treated, misunderstood and desperately 
 unhappy woman with her husband as the cause of it all. 
 She has probably not told you so in words. She is too 
 honest to tell absolute lies. But she has let you think 
 so, and hence all the trouble." 
 
 "I don't know that I can agree to that." 
 
 "As a chivalrous man of course you can't. The 
 point is that Diana hasn't the slightest excuse for doing 
 what she is doing. No woman ever had a better hus- 
 band. No girl ever had a better chance to be happy." 
 
 "Mrs. Hastings," said Fenn, with feeling, "I im- 
 agine that I must know Diana pretty well. For years 
 her life has been miserable. Manners finds fault with 
 her continuously ; he is terribly sarcastic and bitter. I 
 don't say that he is downright cruel, but with her ten- 
 der and delicate sensibilities " 
 
 "I daresay he is all those things," Mrs. Hastings in- 
 terrupted. "And why? Because Diana will go her 
 own selfish way, no matter who is hurt. Very natu- 
 rally he objects, and there are scenes. That isn't cru- 
 elty. That is the direct result of a wife behaving as no 
 wife should. There is no use denying this and trying
 
 132 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 to stick up for Diana. You yourself can at least testify 
 on one flagrant example of her unwifeliness. Yet if 
 he speaks one word against her affair with you she sobs 
 and cries, and runs to you to tell you how her husband 
 maltreats her. My dear Mr. Fenn, you proved to us 
 the other night that you have a sense of humor ; fall 
 back on it. It is a sword and buckler. Most of us 
 think that Frank Manners is about the best husband we 
 know, and that he has had a terrible lot of extrava- 
 gance, both financial and moral, to put up with. No 
 one who knows them, for instance, will take sides 
 with her, and defend her, if this flirtation with you 
 ever becomes common knowledge. Their intimates, 
 including Diana's mother, will feel nothing but pity 
 and sympathy for him, and nothing but contempt for 
 her." 
 
 "Why does he want to keep her," Fenn asked, not 
 without point, "if she is such an unsatisfactory wife?" 
 
 "For one reason," said Mrs. Hastings, "he has loved 
 her ever since she was a little girl. He still loves her. 
 I shouldn't wonder if his love for her was a finer 
 thing even than yours, Mr. Fenn." 
 
 "To me," said Fenn, "there is a certain grossness in 
 clinging to a woman who no longer loves one." 
 
 "There are other reasons," said Mrs. Hastings, but 
 her voice momentarily had lost something of its habit- 
 ual sweetness. "Diana with all her faults is a good 
 mother. It would be criminal to separate Tarn from 
 her." 
 
 "I imagine," said Fenn, "that the courts would give 
 the custody of the child to the mother. That is very 
 usual."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 133 
 
 "It would be equally criminal to separate Tarn from 
 her father." 
 
 "There could be an arrangement by which each could 
 have her part of the time say fifty-fifty." 
 
 In justice such an arrangement really seemed emi- 
 nently fair and proper to Fenn. He was not pretend- 
 ing anything to serve his needs. Having no children, 
 he knew nothing about them. 
 
 "Between Tarn and her father," said Mrs. Hastings, 
 "there is a peculiarly beautiful relationship. It 
 wouldn't' do to separate them. But we needn't go into 
 that. Diana has an idea that her husband will give 
 her a divorce. He actually made some such proposi- 
 tion. It was conditional on her not seeing you or com- 
 municating with you for a year. He wished to test the 
 strength and lasting qualities of her affection for you. 
 But this proposition fair and just to all concerned 
 and calling upon Diana merely for a little self-denial 
 was rejected with stormy sobs and threats of suicide. 
 Mr. Fenn, I speak for the husband when I tell you that 
 all tentative propositions of divorce have been with- 
 drawn. Just before he started back for California, 
 Manners consulted his lawyers and telephoned me the 
 result. There are no legal difficulties. Diana cannot 
 divorce Manners to save her soul if he opposes the suit. 
 He has been faithful to her, he has supported her, 
 he has been far more tolerant and far more kind to 
 her than her deserts have always warranted. On the 
 advice of Diana's own mother he has decided that he 
 will not give Diana a divorce thathe will not divorce 
 her under any circumstances. In the face of that, Mr. 
 
 iurr AiiYIMAPV
 
 134 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Fenn, I should like to know just what it is that you 
 have to offer her ?" 
 
 "But I understood that he would do anything for 
 her happiness, that he would let her divorce him?" 
 
 "He will consider Tarn's welfare and happiness first. 
 So what can you offer Diana?" 
 
 "There is such a thing," said Fenn slowly, "as people 
 when they love each other and are driven to despera- 
 tion . . ." 
 
 "You are thinking of Diana's happiness? You can 
 only offer her scandal and dishonor. And of course 
 Manners would shoot you. If he failed, she has two 
 brothers, who also believe in old-fashioned things like 
 virtue and honor. That will make Diana happy." 
 
 She said this so gently and good-humoredly that 
 Fenn was not very much impressed. He smiled. 
 
 "I don't take much stock in shooting talk," he said. 
 "Somehow people don't shoot in in our station in 
 life." 
 
 "Our station !" she exclaimed. "My dear Mr. Fenn ! 
 We have no station assigned to us. If our actions are 
 low, our stations are low. If our actions are high- 
 minded, just, temperate, and unselfish, we occupy high 
 stations. But nobody will believe that you love Diana 
 or care about her happiness if you do anything dishon- 
 orable. I wish I could see into your mind. I wish I 
 knew just how much you really want to go on with 
 this, and just how much you feel that you must, how 
 much you feel that you are bound in honor to go on 
 until Diana herself says stop." 
 
 "I am bound in all honor to go on until Diana her- 
 self says stop." In saying this Fenn actually glowed
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 135 
 
 with a sense of virtue and chivalry. He really felt that 
 to stick to the woman who loved him, trusted him, and 
 needed him was the highest duty in his life. 
 
 "You don't know how her character has changed in 
 these last months," he said earnestly. 
 
 The corner of Mrs. Hastings's mouth puckered, as 
 also certain fine lines that met at the outer corners of 
 her eyes. Her eyes sparkled. 
 
 "I'm sure her character Itas changed," she said, and 
 Fenn knew that she was laughing at him. "Formerly," 
 she exclaimed, "Diana was a model wife, and a model 
 mother and a faithful friend. She thought only of the 
 happiness of those around her. When you say that 
 her character has changed you are perfectly right. And 
 that change is of course owing to your splendid influ- 
 ence, Mr. Ogden Fenn. Since knowing you Diana 
 has stabbed her faithful husband in the' back, she has 
 been false to solemn vows. Self-indulgence and in- 
 justice to others now distinguish her from her former 
 self." 
 
 All the quizzicalness and smilingness went out of 
 her face. 
 
 "I meant that theoretically a wife's place is with her 
 husband and her children. But I reserved the right to 
 believe that there are exceptions to the rule. And I 
 believe that Diana she is so high-strung, Mrs. Hast- 
 ings, so fragile, so sensitive is one of those exceptions. 
 The soil in which she grows must be congenial to her. 
 She cannot live and bloom with a man she does not 
 love." 
 
 "Have you thought how. swiftly and desperately she 
 will fade when the realization of all that she has lost
 
 136 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 comes home to her, and at the same time she has fallen 
 out of love with you?" 
 
 "I am as sure of her love for me as I am sure of my 
 love for her. I can't make you understand, of course, 
 but somehow it isn't the usual thing; it's different." 
 
 Mrs. Hastings laughed, but there was no mirth in 
 her heart. 
 
 "I have run my silly head into a stone wall," she 
 said. "I hoped to make you see things as I see them. 
 I hoped, since nothing but dishonor can come by pro- 
 longing the affair, that you would see the beauty of 
 putting an end to it." 
 
 She rose with a certain droop in her shoulders that 
 suggested weariness, and although she did not hold 
 out her hand, Fenn felt that he was being dismissed. 
 He felt that in their conversation he had not come off 
 second best. He had stuck tight to Diana; he always 
 would. Just as she would always stick tight to him. 
 
 "Diana;" said Mrs. Hastings, "is to blame for start- 
 ing this. You are to blame for keeping it up. People 
 are beginning to talk to couple your names. Her rep- 
 utation is hurt. You may succeed in ruining it. Ac- 
 cording to law, Manners has ample grounds upon 
 which to divorce Diana. She has no ground on which 
 to divorce him. Her conduct is outrageous, without 
 pity or justice. It may be that her husband's love for 
 her will change into contempt. In that event, he will 
 think only of justice, and I shouldn't care to be in your 
 shoes, Mr. Fenn." 
 
 "I am not easily frightened, Mrs. Hastings." 
 
 And he was not in the least frightened ; that Man- 
 ners, who had been so gentle and courteous, should
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 137 
 
 ever be possessed by a homicidal mania was inconceiv- 
 able to him; as inconceivable as that he himself, on 
 crossing the avenue, after leaving Mrs. Hastings, 
 should be run over and killed. And to the statement 
 that he was not easily frightened he added : "I am only 
 afraid of my own failings and shortcomings. Of 
 nothing else, certainly not of the sort of jealous hus- 
 band who occurs only in romantic novels and on the 
 lower East Side." 
 
 When Fenn had gone, after reassuring her that he 
 would not mention the subject of their conversation 
 to Diana, Mary Hastings sat down at her writing- 
 table and began a letter to Manners.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 FROM talking with his mother-in-law, and with Mary 
 Hastings, Manners had derived a certain comfort. And 
 .his belief that Diana, while she still imagined that a 
 divorce could be arranged, would not cast away the 
 last shreds of honor, was firm. Still he had believed 
 that going back to California at such a crisis in his life 
 would be the very last turn of the screw. But in this 
 he was mistaken. Every mile that further separated 
 him from New York and Old Westbury seemed to add 
 something to his power of mental detachment. And 
 for the first time the thought that life without Diana 
 might be possible presented itself. He encouraged this 
 thought, and played with it by the hour. 
 
 But in the various lives which he pictured himself 
 as leading after Diana should leave him, one premise 
 remained constant. The separation must be absolute. 
 There' must be no meetings deliberate or accidental to 
 disquiet him and make his heart beat. All communi- 
 cations between them must be through their lawyers. 
 Nor would he consent to paying her a penny of ali- 
 mony. She liked everything about Fenn, therefore she 
 liked Fenn's poverty. Let her have her selfish way, 
 and make the best of it. 
 
 If it had not been for Diana's extravagance Manners 
 would have been well-off. If Diana, for instance, had 
 been content to live for a few years in the little house 
 
 138
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 139 
 
 which he had built for her, if she had been willing to 
 have more than one child, and for the sake of those 
 children to sacrifice her own restless desires! Refus- 
 ing to bear children had been her great failure. There 
 could be no doubt of that. Here his plans for the 
 future slipped off into recollections of the past. 
 
 At one period during the thirty years of her life 
 Diana had almost touched perfection. To think of the 
 happy, peaceful months preceding Tarn's birth was to 
 think of Madonnas and Annunciations. Diana had 
 been serene, blissful and exalted. She had neared per- 
 fection. And in the months following Tarn's birth it 
 seemed to Manners that Diana had actually reached 
 perfection. She had watched over the child as a lover 
 watches over his beloved. She had dropped completely 
 out of the world that knew her, and she had wept bit- 
 terly when at the end of six months it had been decided 
 that she ought not to nurse her baby any more. 
 
 Diana had fallen out of love with her husband for 
 the simple reason that she refused to have children by 
 him. It was as if Nature had said: "Here is this man 
 Manners, who might do a great deal for us, but who 
 doesn't. We live with him ; we even sleep with him ; 
 but he will not give us even that tiny, and to him value- 
 less and superfluous, microorganism which we ask of 
 him. Therefore we repudiate him." 
 
 So Nature, not Diana, turned from Manners, and 
 fastened on What's-his-name. What's-his-name hav- 
 ing been sent about his business, Nature, and not 
 Diana, had turned to Fenn. 
 
 Manners was beginning to see these things clearly. 
 Nature, he decided, has no use for a man when he
 
 140 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 ceases to be a potential father. But if Diana married 
 Fenn would she have children? She had told him 
 once, but in a storm of anger and despair, that she 
 would have as many as Fenn wanted; but Manners, 
 knowing her acute hatred and fear of pain, had not 
 believed her. "She will put the first one off," he had 
 thought at the time, "until they are well settled, until 
 Fenn is more prosperous, and then, being no longer in 
 the first glad raptures over Fenn, she will renig." He 
 felt very sure of this. 
 
 Like Diana he had always been careless about 
 money, and extravagant by fits and starts. But it was 
 not his fault that the income which he earned had 
 never been quite enough to live on. Diana was to 
 blame for that. Manners now began to contemplate, 
 not without a certain pleasurable sense of righteous- 
 ness, a life in which, freed from the economic pressure 
 which Diana exerted, there should be more work, less 
 play, and far, far less expenditure. He and Tarn, or 
 Tarn when he had her, should live in a small house in 
 a very simple way. He would accept more commis- 
 sions than ever before ; he would paint more hours than 
 ever before. Friends, men like Hastings, would tell 
 him what to do with his spare cash. They had always 
 been willing to do this he knew ; but the spare cash had 
 always been lacking. When it came time to present 
 Tarn to society there was no reason why he should not 
 be really well-off. He would take a big house then, 
 with big rooms in which he could entertain for her. 
 Tarn must have beautiful clothes, and lots of them. 
 Tarn must have lots of pocket-money; horses to ride 
 and motors to drive. All this achievement lay within
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 141 
 
 reach of his talent and productive power. He had only 
 to be industrious and unselfish. 
 
 "If Diana," he thought, "puts herself ahead of her 
 duty to Tarn ; if she does this cruel, unjust* and un- 
 called-for thing to me all right. But she would be 
 ashamed to accept anything from me afterward. I 
 know that. I'll give her that credit." 
 
 But there was one thing which kept removing that 
 new simple life with Tarn, or a good deal with Tarn, 
 from the realms of the possible. How could he live 
 through the period of transition? How could he live 
 through the day when he learned, from a newspaper, 
 perhaps, that Diana had been married to Fenn ? How 
 could he live through the night? How could he live 
 when all that sweetness that had been his Eden was 
 being explored for the delectation of another man? 
 a man who alienated affections, who broke up families, 
 who stabbed in the back! Such thoughts were like 
 descents into hell. Sometimes he asked himself this 
 question : 
 
 "I love her more than anything in this world: Do 
 I hope that she will be happy with Fenn ?" 
 
 To this question his mind returned a conventional 
 answer. Of course he wanted her to be happy, what- 
 ever she did. But he didn't. He was a human being, 
 and of course he didn't. 
 
 The promise of an early spring in California was 
 very definite ; and the gradual descent from the snows 
 of the Sierras to the emphatic greens of the Sacra- 
 mento Valley ravished Manners's senses in spite of the 
 canker that ate at his heart. If a man's record in a 
 place has been marked by honesty and friendliness his
 
 142 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 return to that place must always be a pleasant event in 
 his life. So it proved with Manners. Men whom he 
 had thought of during his absence as mere acquain- 
 tances seemed by some mysterious alchemy to have 
 been transformed into friends. He had hated the San 
 Francisco wind. He no longer hated it. It was a 
 young, adventurous wind. It blew the streets full of 
 Romance. It stimulated him like wine. On every 
 hand he was greeted with affection. Even Mrs. Ap- 
 pleyard had forgiven him for abandoning her dining- 
 room. She showed a disposition to flirt with him. 
 
 Then in addition, as if by a miraculous and perhaps 
 pitying dispensation of Providence, a charming and 
 ingenious scheme for decorating the end of the dining- 
 room that had the two doors presented itself and in a 
 day or two he was up to his ears in work. Work acted 
 upon him like a strong tonic. He began to eat well, 
 and to sleep well, and to enjoy the society of agreeable 
 men and pretty women. Mrs. Appleyard's forgive- 
 ness was complete ; for she saw that her famous dining- 
 room was actually going to benefit from that inconsid- 
 erate trip of Manners to New York. She said that he 
 was unlike other artists. She said that he had a con- 
 science. She sung his praises far and wide and loud 
 and high. 
 
 Health returned to him, and with it the power to 
 admire, to enjoy, and to see clearly. "I am not the 
 only husband," he thought, "who has been stabbed in 
 the back." It fortified him to think that he had a 
 whole legion of unknown comrades in misfortune. 
 With equal clearness he now saw that which had been 
 self-evident to Mary Hastings: that in the settlement
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 143 
 
 of their family affairs neither he nor Diana must be 
 allowed to count too much. Little Tarn was the great 
 personage. She, whose only argument was the mere 
 fact of her existence, must be given the first place. 
 And obviously it was better for Tarn to grow up with 
 a father and mother who loved her, and whom she 
 loved, than with that mother and a stepfather, or with 
 that father and a governess. 
 
 Mary Hastings's letter in which she described her 
 interview with Fenn and her impressions of Fenn dis- 
 quieted him; but not too much. He believed that he 
 could scare off Fenn; he believed that, if he went very 
 calmly and kindly about it, he could make Diana see 
 reason. It was easy to make Diana see reason when 
 she wasn't present, when she was three thousand miles 
 away. 
 
 So he stopped torturing himself with the thought 
 that he might have to go through life without her, and 
 some weeks before he actually returned to New York 
 had decided in every detail what he should do and say 
 when he got there. Almost he may be said to have 
 rehearsed his second home-coming. He would tell 
 Diana, very patiently and gently (and nothing that she 
 said or threatened should divert him from this same 
 gentleness and patience) that he would not allow her 
 to divorce him and that under no circumstances would 
 he divorce her. He would sympathize with her hurt. 
 He would by no means (heaven forbid) tell her that 
 she had only herself to blame. And he would tell her 
 that she must sacrifice her personal feelings for the 
 good of others and not see Fenn any more. He would 
 point out to her that keeping on with Fenn could end
 
 144 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 only in scandal and disaster. And he would be so kind 
 and gentle that she could not but see the thing as he 
 saw it. And every day he wrote her an affectionate 
 letter in which he touched on none of those disagree- 
 able issues which had risen between them. 
 
 He left California with genuine regret. He would 
 always be grateful to California and the Californians. 
 They had drawn the soreness out of him, and taught 
 him to think in a new way. He had learned to look 
 at himself and Diana as from a great distance. He 
 thus saw two diminutive creatures whose feelings and 
 passions were of no more importance to the world at 
 large than the peregrinations of two ants in the grass. 
 Only Tarn mattered. She must grow up with a strong 
 belief in the unity of families and the obligations of 
 marriage. In order that later on her own choices of 
 conduct might be wise and honorable she must have 
 in her forming years a mother to turn to as well as a 
 father. She must grow up, if not in a real home, at 
 least in the best imitation of one which could be 
 achieved by good breeding and good manners. Her 
 forming mind must not be puzzled and then distressed 
 by domestic problems. 
 
 He journeyed, then, eastward in good health and 
 spirits, with money in the bank, and the knowledge that 
 if he ever returned to California he could have as many 
 commissions for decorations and portraits as he cared 
 to accept. 
 
 The idea of returning to California almost at once 
 with Tam and Diana appealed to him. He had even 
 looked through a few houses that were for rent. A 
 new background to set off new faces would be very
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 145 
 
 good for Diana. Those occasional disquieting ear- 
 aches which afflicted Tarn would disappear entirely in 
 the dry, bright California climate. He imagined him- 
 self saying "So that's all settled, dear. You are doing 
 the right thing. Now how about Burlingame for 
 the summer and fall? All the people out there will 
 simply love you, and you'll have the time of your life." 
 He pictured the zest for novelty overcoming in Diana's 
 expression, the mournful, persecuted look incident 
 to having seen Mr. Ogden Fenn for the last 
 time. "Why," thought. Manners, "give her three 
 months of Burlingame, with something doing all round 
 the clock, and she'll have forgotten what he looked 
 like. I know it." 
 
 Unfortunately for these comforting dreams the 
 Diana who met him in the Grand Central Station (he 
 had telegraphed this time) was not an insignificant ant 
 whose peregrinations were of no importance. Instead 
 of that she was his wife, beautiful, beloved, self-willed, 
 and still determined to wreck his home and to hurt 
 their little daughter's chances. She was in good fight- 
 ing trim. She had never looked younger, or more 
 wistfully beautiful, or more exquisitely untouched by 
 time. She looked nearer twenty than thirty. She no 
 longer controlled her nerves by an effort of will. They 
 controlled themselves, and Manners soon was to learn 
 that she had built up their renewal of nervous and 
 physical force upon a false hypothesis. She had clung 
 all along, it seemed, to those vague promises of di- 
 vorce which had been torn from him in a moment of 
 pitying and almost hysterical chivalry ; to his statement 
 that he would think of nothing but her happiness; to
 
 146 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 her belief that men like her husband always kept their 
 word. 
 
 Now in justice to Manners it must be remembered 
 that he had not promised her a divorce. He had 
 merely accepted the idea of one. And he had ac- 
 cepted that idea without consulting Tarn. Further- 
 more, to work solely for Diana's happiness was not 
 necessarily to let her have her own way. But she 
 'took it for granted (or appeared to) that there was 
 to be a divorce, and that she was to have her own 
 way about everything. They drove at once to the 
 Pennsylvania Station, and she told him without wast- 
 ing any time that Fenn had consulted a lawyer, and 
 that, take them for all in all, the laws of Maine offered 
 the best and least conspicuous untangling of their 
 marriage knot. A residence could be established in 
 a year. She had written- to Bar Harbor about cot- 
 tages. A year was a long time to wait. But she 
 would be very brave about that. And besides, she 
 would be able to see Fenn now and then not often, 
 but now and then. Laws were funny things. If you 
 were going to marry a man were, in fact, getting 
 your divorce for no other reason than to marry him 
 it seemed ridiculous not to see him every day if you 
 wanted to. The laws were silly and old-maidish ; but 
 she supposed they had to be obeyed. And she added 
 with the most disarming naivete, "Apparently the real 
 reason why I want a divorce doesn't count at all." 
 
 Manners listened to her in amazement. His inten- 
 tion to tell her calmly and kindly that there was to be 
 no divorce became less resolute. It would lead him
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 147 
 
 instantaneously into a most unpleasant scene. He 
 would be accused of saying things that weren't true, 
 and of making promises that he had not intended to 
 keep. So he compromised and procrastinated. 
 
 "Let's not thrash it all out now," he said. "I've had 
 four days and nights in the train ; and I'm not up on 
 the Maine laws, though I did think that desertion took 
 more than a year." 
 
 "Desertion does," she said glibly; "ever so much 
 longer, several years. So of course that's out of the 
 question." 
 
 "You told me once that you wouldn't think of di- 
 vorcing me on any other ground." 
 
 "Did I? I suppose I did, if you say so. But I 
 didn't know anything about the law then. And be- 
 sides, what difference does it make if I've got to sue on 
 grounds that don't exist anyway?" 
 
 "What grounds has Fenn's lawyer advised?" 
 
 Diana answered without hesitation, but with a note 
 of embarrassment, if not of actual shame, in her voice: 
 
 "Why, cruelty and that sort of thing," she said 
 hurriedly. 
 
 "Cruelty and that sort of thing," repeated Manners. 
 And except to ask if he must buy two tickets or only 
 one he did not speak to her again until they were in 
 the train. He felt that his heart was hardening against 
 her. It would not be possible to state whether his 
 strongest feeling toward her now was love or con- 
 tempt. She was willing,' so great was her selfishness, 
 and so cruel her callousness, to go before a judge and 
 swear that he he, Francis Manners had been cruel 
 to her, and that sort of thing!
 
 148 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Oh, Diana! 
 
 The next day Diana went to town by an early train. 
 She seemed to take it for granted that her goings and 
 comings were no longer to be questioned. She did not 
 say why she was going, or what she was going to do, 
 or by what train she would return to the country. 
 
 "I have stopped asking questions," said Mrs. Lang- 
 ham. "She knows that I know what is in the air ; but 
 she hasn't said a word to me about it, and I haven't 
 said a word to her. Indeed, we don't see much of her 
 out here." 
 
 "I suppose not," said Manners, and he added 
 grimly: "They have arranged everything. Maine is 
 the chosen State. I am to be divorced for cruelty and 
 that sort of thing." Then he laughed and added: 
 "I haven't told her," he said, "that I am not to be 
 divorced at all. I shall tell her to-night or to-morrow. 
 My nerves are in good shape, and I shall manage to 
 keep my temper. If I had only myself to consider I'd 
 let her go. But every day I have felt more and more 
 strongly that the only person to consider is Tarn." 
 
 Late that afternoon Diana telephoned that she was 
 dining at the apartment, and she added with unneces- 
 sary bravado, Manners thought, that Fenn was to dine 
 with her. "But we are having an early dinner," she 
 added, "and I'll be home before ten." 
 
 Except to himself Manners made no comment. Di- 
 ana's voice over the telephone had the joyousness of 
 one whose day has been well-spent. He made this 
 comment to himself, and more in amazement than in 
 bitterness: "She's crazy! I wonder why she still 
 speaks of this place as home?"
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 149 
 
 After dinner Manners and his mother-in-law sat in 
 the library before a bright fire and pretended to read. 
 Several times Manners ran lightly up the stairs to look 
 into the room where his little daughter slept. So a 
 general about to commit his army to battle looks over 
 the reserves upon which he may count in case of an 
 initial disaster. In dealing with Diana he would need 
 strength and stamina, and the continuous reassurance 
 that his cause was just. He was going to hurt Diana 
 horribly. From time to time he looked at his watch. 
 If the train was not late Diana should reach the house 
 at about a quarter before ten. 
 
 Mrs. Langham always seemed to have an instinc- 
 tive knowledge of time. At half-past nine she closed 
 her book, and veiled an incipient yawn. Then she 
 rose, and stood for a few moments with her back to 
 the fire. "I sha'n't sit up for Diana," she said. 
 "Shall you tell her to-night?" 
 
 Manners walked to the foot of the stair with Mrs. 
 Langham. 
 
 "I'd better tell her to-night," he said. "I don't think 
 that I could possibly sleep on the 'cruelty and that sort 
 of thing.' " 
 
 "Frank," said Mrs. Langham, "there's a hard time 
 ahead for you for all of us. Don't let anything that 
 Diana says or does hurt your love for her. Your 
 whole future, yours and hers, is founded on that. She 
 has treated you so outrageously that sometimes I am 
 afraid that your love may change suddenly into some- 
 thing else." 
 
 "I couldn't ever stop loving Diana," said Manners 
 simply, "but my love has been so snubbed, abused and
 
 150 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 brow-beaten that it has become almost inarticulate. 
 Sometimes it seems to me that it is buried under con- 
 tempt. But it's always there; always ready to jump 
 to its feet, and to forgive. Don't be afraid." 
 
 She turned and went slowly up the stairs. From the 
 landing she smiled to him and waved her hand. 
 
 He opened the front door and stood in the cold night 
 air listening for the sounds of wheels on the gravel. 
 He looked at his watch. A quarter before ten. If 
 she had found a motor at the station she should be 
 here now ; but if there was nothing to lift her home but 
 a broken-down hack drawn by a broken-down horse 
 he must have patience. And then of course that par- 
 ticular train stopped at every station and was almost 
 always late. 
 
 Manners was not the only listener in the house. 
 Upstairs at a window which she had opened Mrs. 
 Langham was also listening. She had developed with 
 relation to her son-in-law a peculiar intuitive sym- 
 pathy, by which she was sometimes enabled to pene- 
 trate his varying moods, and even to follow for a time 
 his trains of thought. And she knew that to-night 
 his mood was dangerous. He did not know this him- 
 self. He imagined that his nerves and mind were 
 under perfect control. 
 
 Mrs. Langham heard the sound of the front door 
 closing. Usually Manners, who was considerate of 
 other people, and very strong in the hands, dealt gently 
 with doors, and though the sound which Mrs. Lang- 
 ham had heard was not exactly a slam, it was deliber- 
 ately emphatic ; and she knew as well as if he had told 
 her that the melancholy patience which her son-in-law
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 151 
 
 had exhibited during the evening was changing into 
 something else. She closed her window quietly, and 
 stepping into the upper hall, leaned over the guard-rail, 
 and called to him : 
 
 "This train is nearly always late," she said. 
 
 "I know it is." 
 
 He said no more. Nor did she. But she stood 
 listening. He was pacing the hall and the library 
 with long, nervous strides. Suddenly he went to the 
 telephone, asked Central for the correct time, and set 
 his watch by it. Then he resumed his caged walk. 
 Then he once more opened the front door and listened. 
 The cold night air rushed into the house and up the 
 stair. Mrs. Langham could feel it on her ankles. He 
 closed the door presently, and once more attempted 
 to derive an explanation of Diana's lateness from the 
 telephone. He tried to get into connection with the 
 station-master at Westbury, but without success. 
 
 He was no longer impatient with Diana for being 
 late; he was growing anxious for her safety. He 
 thought of trains which roll over embankments; of 
 head-on collisions, of passenger coaches that crumple 
 up like accordions, of railroad fires in which women 
 and children are burned to death. 
 
 He gave the number of the apartment to the tele- 
 phone operator; but she told him after a long delay, 
 during which he lost his temper and asked to be con- 
 nected with the manager, that the number did not 
 answer. 
 
 Mrs. Langham had withdrawn into her room; but 
 she had not closed the door. She heard the sound of 
 Manners's feet on the stair. When he was half-way
 
 152 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 up he perceived that her door was open, and, raising 
 his voice a trifle: 
 
 "Do you think anything can have happened?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Mrs. Langham came out of her room and resting 
 one hand on the guard-rail smiled down at him. 
 
 "No," she said with a cheerful crispness that 
 brought an answering smile to his face, "I don't think 
 anything can have happened." 
 
 "If she'd missed the train," he said, "she would have 
 telephoned. I'm afraid something may have hap- 
 pened to the train." Mrs. Langham shook her head. 
 
 "Nothing ever does happen to that particular train," 
 she said. "Lots of people wish that something would 
 happen to it. It's a disreputable sluggard, and it has 
 trouble with its wheels." 
 
 "How do you mean ?" 
 
 "Why sometimes," she said, "usually even they 
 don't go round fast enough !" 
 
 She had succeeded in making him laugh. He 
 wished her good-night again and, turning, descended 
 the stair. "What a brick she is," he thought. "She's 
 just as much worried as I am ; but she's too well-bred 
 to show it." 
 
 And in fact Mrs. Langham's worry was as great as 
 his own. But she was not in the least worried about 
 the train, or the safety of Diana's person. She was 
 worried about Manners. It does not do for a wife to 
 be too cavalier with her wronged husband. And most 
 surely Diana had spent an exceedingly cavalier day. 
 That she was late was not her fault ; but it was a fact 
 of which she would probably make light. When Man-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 153 
 
 ners told her that he had been worried to death about 
 her she would very likely tell him that he ought not to 
 be so childish. Neither of them would be in a mood 
 to discuss the ultimatum which she knew that Manners 
 had determined to deliver that night. 
 
 Once more she opened her window and listened in- 
 tently. This time she heard the rattling and gasping 
 of a motor-car that might well have been one of the 
 station cars, but it did not turn in at their gate. Man- 
 ners had also opened the front door to listen to the 
 passing of the noisy bolt-worn machine. He had 
 stepped off the door-step and stood in the middle of 
 the drive. Impatience had changed in his heart to 
 anxiety. And anxiety, with a sudden shiver that shook 
 him from head to foot, had changed to fear. And his 
 heart like a telegraphic transmitter was beating this 
 message into his brain: 
 
 "She isn't late! She's not coming! She's not com- 
 ing by this train or any other ! The fool ! The idiot ! 
 She couldn't wait! She's bolted with him!" 
 
 He rushed into the house, leaving the front door 
 wide open, and up the stair to his room. 
 
 Mrs. Langham stood just without his door. It 
 took courage to knock. She knocked. He did not 
 answer, and with a sudden agony of foreboding she 
 pushed the door open. 
 
 Manners had kicked off his pumps, and was lacing 
 on a pair of shoes. He looked up when the door 
 opened. His face was ghastly white. 
 
 "I don't believe she is coming," he said. "I am 
 going to look for them. There is a train at eleven. 
 I can catch it if I run all the way."
 
 154 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 He bent once more over the knotting of his shoe- 
 laces, and when this was finished leapt to his feet. 
 The heavy automatic pistol on the table at the head of 
 his bed caught his eye, and he reached out his hand 
 for it. 
 
 Mrs. Langham's heart was beating so fast that it 
 caused her real distress. Nevertheless she managed 
 to emit speech that was matter-of-fact and sensible. 
 
 "I'll find a bite of something for you to eat on the 
 way," she said ; "you'll need it." 
 
 And she turned quickly and with the real intention 
 of darting off upon this practical and anti-climactical 
 errand ; but mingled with the night air that came rush- 
 ing into the house through the door-way that Manners 
 had left open were the sounds of gravel being crunched 
 under wheels and of a horse's hoofs. 
 
 "There's Diana now!" said Mrs. Langham. 
 
 Manners's fingers, which had closed on the stock of 
 the automatic, loosened. And a moment later he was 
 darting down the stair, his face all brightened with 
 relief and with lovingness. 
 
 The lateness of her train had vexed Diana as much 
 as anyone else. The relief and lovingness in her hus- 
 band's face were lost upon her. 
 
 "Who left the door open?" she asked, with irrita- 
 tion. "The house is like a barn." 
 
 "Keep your coat on," said Manners, "and come into 
 the library. There's a fine fire." 
 
 "Has mamma gone to bed?" 
 
 "She's retired," said Manners, which was true. 
 
 He followed her into the library. She turned her 
 back to the fire, and stood finely poised. Presently
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 155 
 
 her husband's feet caught her eye, and she broke into 
 a laugh. 
 
 "Look at you!" she exclaimed. "Brown boots 
 with dinner clothes!" 
 
 "I was starting for town to look for you," he said 
 gravely. "I thought you weren't coming." 
 
 "What nonsense !" 
 
 "It may have been nonsense to think," said Manners, 
 "but it wasn't nonsense to feel. It was horrible." 
 
 "Well," she smiled, but not in real sympathy with 
 the horribleness he had experienced, "here I am, safe 
 and sound. And in about two minutes I'm going to 
 bed." 
 
 "I've something important to say to you first." 
 
 Diana sighed. Except for the infernal pokiness of 
 the train it had been a day of glory. And she wished 
 to go to bed with her memories of that gloriousness 
 undimmed. 
 
 "I'd rather hear it to-morrow morning," she said. 
 "I'm a little tired." 
 
 "What have you been doing to make yourself tired?" 
 
 "I motored most of the time. I've been all the way 
 up to Combers." 
 
 "Combers?" 
 
 "It's in the Catskills. It's a wonderful little moun- 
 tain village. So wild and picturesque, and miles and 
 miles from any railway. Ogden has a tiny little house 
 up there. He used often to take a friend up for over 
 Sunday, and they'd climb mountains and have wonder- 
 ful talks. Such hills! You never saw such hills. 
 We had a dandy little car that Ogden borrowed from 
 Alfred Hicks I don't think you know him; but two
 
 156 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 hills were so steep that I didn't think we'd ever make 
 them. I had to drive because Ogden has never had 
 motors and things." 
 
 Manners assumed a cheerful interest which he did 
 not feel; though he was indeed partially disarmed by 
 her frankness and naturalness and by the happy look 
 in her eyes. 
 
 "House nice?" he asked. 
 
 "It's the dearest house!" she exclaimed, "all on a 
 tiny scale, of course; two bedrooms, and the rest to 
 match. And nobody within miles and miles to bother 
 you. Ogden has the dearest old caretaker with the 
 youngest, bluest eyes ! We had delicious fried chicken 
 and popovers for lunch. And the house was as spick 
 and span as a new coin. Ogden thought I'd find lots 
 and lots of things that would have to be changed 
 that was why we went ; but I didn't. We could move 
 in to-morrow." 
 
 All unconscious of the pain that she was causing 
 him she talked on and on. She described the house, 
 room by room ; its wonderful location among hills and 
 forests. Of course the spring was very late 'way up 
 there ; but there was a distinct shimmer of green over 
 the trees. And then suddenly she realized how all that 
 she was saying must hurt her husband. She had the 
 impulse to reproach herself, to beg for forgiveness, 
 and in kneeling in the spirit, as it were, to crave his 
 mercy and his permission to keep on in the pursuit of 
 that course which she told herself she could by no means 
 help pursuing. But the impulse came to nothing. 
 She simply could not say such things. She could only 
 feel them. So she stopped talking; and drumming
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 157 
 
 with one hand on the mantelpiece looked shyly into 
 her husband's face and waited for him to speak. 
 
 "It seems to have been a wonderful day," he said 
 presently, "blue and without clouds. Perhaps that's 
 a good thing. Perhaps it will be a help to have such 
 a day to look back on. God knows I don't begrudge it 
 to you. Will you come and sit down by me? It's 
 hard for me to say to you what I have to." 
 
 She sat down beside him on the sofa which in winter 
 was placed quite close to the fireplace. But she did 
 not lean back against the cushions. All her defensive 
 instincts had taken alarm. Manners spoke slowly, and 
 with the most painstaking gentleness. 
 
 "Our problem," he said, "has never been out of my 
 mind, even when I was working hardest. At first I 
 jumped about from one solution to another. Some- 
 times I'd rest on the true solution for a while only to 
 abandon it. But at last, quite a long time ago now, I 
 came to rest on the true solution and stayed there." 
 
 Diana was frightened. But from the tone of her 
 voice he judged that she was merely impatient. 
 
 "Well," she said, "what is the true solution?" 
 
 "First," he said, "you must believe that I have no 
 selfish motives in the decision I have come to. You 
 mustn't think of me as a man who because of his love 
 for her intends to keep prisoner a woman who wishes 
 to be free. And the proof is this, Diana : Even in my 
 own heart I no longer think of you as my wife. If the 
 problem concerned only you and me, you should go 
 free as soon as freedom could be arranged for you. 
 But the problem concerns you and me so little that we 
 mustn't consider ourselves, any more than outsiders,
 
 158 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 impartial judges, would consider us. The problem con- 
 cerns Tarn so much that it hardly concerns anyone else 
 at all. You have forced me to give you up, and that 
 is a profound grief to me, but for Tarn's sake I have 
 found strength to take the gaff. For Tarn's sake, my 
 dear, for she needs us both, you must find the strength 
 to do what you have forced me to do. You must make 
 your big sacrifice, and give up Fenn." 
 
 She made no answer. She was leaning forward 
 now, her chin in her hands, staring into the dying fire. 
 She seemed to have listened. She appeared to be re- 
 flecting. He thought that he had made an impression 
 on her. 
 
 "In time, my dear," he said, "all this great storm of 
 feeling will blow away. That is what I think. But I 
 am not sure. Maybe you will never stop caring. But 
 a time will surely come when you will be glad that you 
 made this great renunciation for the sake of a helpless 
 little child, of a little child who depends on you, who 
 is destined to be made or unmade by the quality of 
 our love for her." She said nothing. 
 
 "Diana, darling," he said, "I have only love and for- 
 giveness for you." Now she spoke in a low tense 
 voice : 
 
 "I don't see how you can bear the thought of keep- 
 ing me if I don't want to stay." 
 
 "I don't want to keep you against your will. But 
 for Tarn's sake I must keep you." 
 
 "You put it all on Tam. And that is just a pre- 
 tense." 
 
 "It is not, Diana." 
 
 "Oh, it enters in! I know that. But you want to
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 159 
 
 keep me because you want to keep me, and that is all 
 there is to it." 
 
 Neither of them spoke for a full minute. The un- 
 reasonableness and injustice against which she forced 
 him to contend, the frantic state of anxiety and then 
 of homicidal rage into which her innocent lateness had 
 thrown him, the unintentionally cruel account of the 
 blissful day which she had spent with Fenn, were 
 rapidly breaking down the bulwark of toleration and 
 gentleness which he had erected against just such 
 assailants. 
 
 "Make what you like of my motive," he said, "call 
 it unadulterated selfishness if that gives you satisfac- 
 tion. You have piled so much injustice on me that I 
 can stand up under a little more. Whatever my motive 
 is, my decision is fixed and irrevocable. I will neither 
 give you a divorce nor divorce you. My lawyer tells 
 me that any judge to whom you carried no worse com- 
 plaints than you have to make of me would give you 
 such a dressing-down as you would never forget. In 
 the eyes of the law you are a spoiled, wilful, pampered 
 woman suffering from an acute attack of guilty affec- 
 tion. There are only two courses open to you. One 
 is to do right and to throw off this man's evil and per- 
 nicious influence. The other is to add to the wrong 
 done a wrong still greater, and to precipitate scandal 
 and disaster." His eyes had an angry glare in them. 
 
 "If you and Fenn cheat me," he said, his voice 
 vibrant and ugly, "I w r ill kill him. If you run away 
 with him I will track you down and kill him." She 
 rose abruptly and her eyes, too, glared angrily. "Do 
 you imagine that Ogden Fenn is afraid of you?" she
 
 160 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 said. And the question was at once an insult and 
 a sneer. 
 
 Rage possessed Manners. If the primitive man had 
 been stronger in him, and the accumulated civilization 
 weaker, he would have struck her, and kept on striking 
 her until she was insensible. It is possible that if he 
 had done this the stream of their lives might have been 
 turned aside from the tragic channel into which it was 
 ever plunging more swiftly and more deeply. But it 
 was only in his imagination that he struck her, and it 
 was only in hers that she felt the blow. Manners set 
 his teeth tight together. 
 
 "If he isn't afraid of me," he said, "he's a fool !" 
 
 Her beautiful little head went up proudly ; and her 
 eyes were bright and glorious with love for the man 
 whom she defended. 
 
 "Kill us both!" she said. "What do we care? . . . 
 We shall have lived !" 
 
 She was gorgeous in her challenge and in her de- 
 fiance. 
 
 Late that night she knocked on the door between 
 their rooms. He was not asleep. 
 
 "Frank," she said, her voice practical and business- 
 like, but neither cold nor unkind, "is your decision 
 really fixed and irrevocable?" 
 
 "Yes, Diana. Why?" 
 
 "Because I have to know. Good-night." 
 
 Toward morning when he had exhausted every 
 mental emotion of which he was capable he fell into 
 a heavy sleep. He did not wake till ten o'clock. Mrs. 
 Langham had told the servants not to call him. 
 
 "He'd simply learn a little sooner," she thought,
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 161 
 
 "that Diana has gone to town by the early train. 
 That sort of knowledge keeps splendidly. He's best 
 asleep." 
 
 But if she had known that before she went to ner 
 train Diana had tiptoed into his room and stood for 
 a long time looking at him; if she had known that a 
 lump had risen in Diana's throat when she saw how 
 gray he was getting, and if she had known that Diana 
 had left a note on the table at the head of his bed, 
 and that in that note she had said that since his de- 
 cision was fixed and irrevocable she was going away 
 with Fenn, and praying him not to hurt the man she 
 loved, but to let them find such happiness as might be 
 possible for them why, then, of course, Mrs. Lang- 
 ham would have had him called.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 To her mother, Diana had shown at parting a 
 placid and matter-of-fact mood. She had even found 
 time to romp a little with Tarn. There was nothing 
 to distinguish this particular departure of hers from 
 any other. She left the house as if her return to it 
 was a mere matter of course. 
 
 Manners was more affected by the sight of the 
 envelope containing Diana's note than by his perusal 
 of the note itself. The envelope, addressed in his 
 wife's bold, swift writing, and propped against the 
 stem of his reading-lamp, had an ominous and fatal 
 look. It suggested things which have to be written 
 because people cannot find the courage to say them. 
 "Look within," it seemed to say, "if you dare; for I 
 have that within me which is worse than anything 
 you have yet known." His soul leapt to the conclu- 
 sion that the worst had happened. So that it was 
 with a feeling of relief that he read the note and 
 learned, not that the worst had happened, but and 
 herein lay a crumb of hope that the worst had been 
 determined on and was going to happen. 
 
 Somewhat to his own surprise he did not begin to 
 rave and foam at the mouth. He felt no new sense 
 of outrage and injustice. Instead it seemed to him 
 as if some horribly involved knot which he had long 
 struggled to untie had been cut, and that he was at 
 
 162
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 163 
 
 last free to act. He need no longer play the brood- 
 ing, introspective, irresolute role of a modern Hamlet. 
 Now at last he was free to play the man ; to stamp the 
 foot and draw the sword ! 
 
 It was no longer a turgid and muddied current that 
 fed his brain; but a stream clear, lucid and bright. 
 His fighting-blood was rising. And he saw at once 
 that the fight before him was not to destroy or to 
 avenge, but to save. He knew at last how dear 
 Diana's good name was to him, and how invaluable 
 to her. He would save that for her in the teeth of a 
 whole regiment of Fenns. 
 
 He had intended to say nothing to Mrs. Langham. 
 Unfortunately, just before he left the house, he was 
 called to the telephone, and Mrs. Langham, who hap- 
 pened to be in the hall, overheard some sentences of a 
 short conversation which he had with Mary Hastings. 
 She had asked him to dine with them that night and 
 to go to the play. And he had forgotten to answer 
 the invitation. She now wanted to know if he would 
 come or if he would not. He apologized emphatically 
 for his rudeness in not answering. And then, as an 
 excuse for not accepting, he heard himself saying (to 
 his own amazement, for the thought had been born 
 suddenly at the telephone together with a whole train 
 of action that went with it), "Ogden Fenn is very 
 anxious to show Diana his little house near Combers 
 in the Catskills. She can't very well go alone, and 
 so we are all three going up for the night What do 
 you think of that?" His voice was gay and cheerful. 
 The good red fighting-blood was not only in his brain 
 but it was in his larynx.
 
 164 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 These were the sentences which Mrs. Langham had 
 accidentally overheard. Ordinarily she would have 
 suppressed every sign that would show her knowl- 
 edge of them. But for once that curiosity which agi- 
 tates even the wisest of women overcame her. 
 
 "Frank!" she exclaimed, "what do you mean?" 
 
 "Perhaps it's best for you to know," he said. He 
 took from his pocket the note which Diana had left 
 for him, and handed it to her without comment. 
 When she had read it she said: 
 
 "You think they will go to this place in the Cats- 
 kills?" 
 
 "I feel as sure of it as if they had told me. Don't 
 worry too much. I sha'n't kill Fenn if it can be 
 helped. I believe that I shall save Diana, and that 
 fright will do the rest. I have the feeling that after 
 to-day Mr. Ogden Fenn will not trouble her or me any 
 more. Suppose you go into town later. Go to the 
 Colony Club. You'll see lots of people you know. 
 They'll ask after Diana and me. Say that we've 
 gone to Combers with Ogden Fenn to dine and spend 
 the night. Say that he's a great friend of ours." 
 
 "Shall you go to the Club?" 
 
 "To borrow a motor. No train goes within miles 
 of Combers." 
 
 "You'll have to say where you are going. You 
 ought to have some luggage." 
 
 "True!" exclaimed Manners, tind he darted up- 
 stairs, for there was still time to pack a bag. It was 
 a badly-packed bag when he had finished, and the 
 heterogeneous contents caught up at random from 
 chairs and from the library table were held in place
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 165 
 
 by a tan pillow from his sofa. He transferred to the 
 bag the heavy automatic which he had at first placed 
 in his hip pocket, and where its size and weight were 
 already turning it into a nuisance. 
 
 A few minutes later he had kissed Tarn good-by 
 and was on his way to the station. 
 
 The day had turned warm. Many of the bulbs 
 which Tarn and Mrs. Langham had planted were in 
 bloom. The trees and bushes were all dressed in 
 green now, and the summery whirring of a lawn- 
 mower broke the stillness. 
 
 Tam stood on the doorstep until the motor con- 
 taining her father had disappeared behind a promon- 
 tory of lilacs. She adored him, and his departure 
 even for short absences had the power to cast a mo- 
 mentary gloom over her bright and tender spirit. 
 The new puppy, a creature all wags and paws, came 
 woggling and galumphing around the corner of the 
 house. And from Tarn's spirit the gloom was swept 
 away by her own piercing cry of joy. 
 
 On entering his club Manners learned, with some- 
 thing of the elation experienced by a poker player 
 when at last a good hand has been dealt him, that his 
 cousin, Peter Manners, was in the reading-room. He 
 knew no man more able and willing to help him, no 
 man so discreet, and no man of whom he was so 
 fond. 
 
 Peter Manners had inherited a small fortune, and 
 without, so his admirers insisted, ever going south of 
 Twenty-third Street, had turned it into a big one. 
 Nature had showered him with the most pleasing and 
 comfortable gifts; and his world was ready to give
 
 i66 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 him whatever he asked for. He was supposed to lack 
 the marrying instinct; but Frank Manners knew that 
 this was not so, and that his cousin had been in love 
 for many years with a woman whom he could not pos- 
 sibly marry. He could not even tell her that he loved 
 her. It is probable that she knew of his love, but did 
 not realize its depth or its beauty; she thought of it 
 perhaps as that pretty sentiment of regret and agita- 
 tion without which no bachelor, who is all things to a 
 good many people, is complete. Upon her birthday 
 flowers always came from him. But then there were 
 other women, like Mary Hastings, who invariably re- 
 ceived flowers from him upon their birthdays. Often 
 when the woman he loved and her husband were hard- 
 up, he found ways to make life easier and more agree- 
 able for them. He would complain that his runabout 
 did not drive as he wished, and he would beg them, as 
 a favor, to take it off his hands, if they happened to 
 need a car, and break it in for him.. He was ready to 
 lend the husband any amount of money at any time, 
 and in subtle and hidden ways he helped the husband 
 in his career. If they had both died he would have 
 adopted their child and made a fairy princess of her. 
 The husband, who knew of their love, would have 
 trusted his wife with Peter Manners upon a desert 
 island. In addition, the men loved each other like 
 brothers, and it had been like that with them ever since 
 they were children. 
 
 Peter Manners was the sole occupant of the reading- 
 room, and this made it possible for the two cousins to 
 disregard the notice which urged upon members of the 
 club the beauty of refraining from conversation. When
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 167 
 
 they had shaken hands, Frank Manners at once asked 
 his cousin if he could lend him a car. He explained 
 why: 
 
 "Diana and I," he said, "are going up to Combers, 
 to dine and spend the night with Ogden Fenn. There's 
 only one good train and I've missed it. They've caught 
 it, and it will look queer to the natives if they get off 
 at the station, bag and baggage, and me not with them. 
 If you'll lend me a car I believe I can get to the station 
 before them. I might. It's worth trying and, anyway, 
 there isn't another train till late afternoon, and Fenn 
 has no telephone. I've got to get there somehow." 
 
 "Why, of course you have," said Peter Manners. 
 He rose with a certain languor and, his eyes smiling 
 in the most kindly way, clapped an arm about his 
 cousin's shoulder and gave him an affectionate 
 squeeze. 
 
 "You shall have a car," he said, "and you shall have 
 company." 
 
 Their eyes met, and the eyes of the man who had 
 been lying to his best friend soon shifted into dis- 
 comfort. 
 
 "Cassius," said Peter Manners, "hath a lean and 
 hungry look. Also no railroad runs within fifteen 
 miles of Combers. Have you a gun?" 
 
 Francis Manners was glad that his attempts to de- 
 ceive had failed. He could meet his friend's eye now. 
 His friend would go with him. Everything seemed 
 easier. 
 
 "It's in my bag," he said. 
 
 "You've had the sense to bring a display of luggage. 
 Good."
 
 168 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "Mrs. Langham suggested it." 
 
 "She would. You will turn the gun over to me. 
 Now I'll telephone to my garage, and you'll order a 
 very large package of sandwiches ham and chicken 
 fifty-fifty. Just because Rome is burning, Troy 
 falling, and Helen skipping off with Paris, is no reason 
 why the Manners cousins should deny themselves food. 
 Are you sure they are going to Combers?" 
 
 "Combers is the one best bet," said Francis Manners. 
 
 For many reasons which seemed good to him, Peter 
 Manners made light of the expedition. 
 
 "We mustn't forget," he said, "that it is a beautiful 
 day, that we are fond of motoring, and that we are 
 going to see some beautiful country." 
 
 But he listened with the most considerate sympathy 
 and attention to all that Francis Manners had to tell 
 him about Diana. And although he did not take 
 Diana's side, for it was obvious to him that she had 
 none, he stood up for her, and recalled times when the 
 fine traits in her character had shone like pure gold. 
 But the advice which he gave to his cousin had a 
 chivalrous rather than a worldly base. And he in- 
 sisted that Diana's happiness and her good name were 
 the most important issues involved in the problem. 
 
 "It is possible," he said, "for any man to live with- 
 out any woman ; to be cheerful in his renunciation and 
 to make a good many things pleasanter for other 
 people." 
 
 "You yourself are the best possible example of 
 that," said Francis Manners, "and I take off my hat to 
 you. I've loved as faithfully as you have and for more 
 years. I've had the luck to be loved back. I married
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 169 
 
 the girl I wanted. And if we weren't perfectly happy 
 together, we came as close to perfect happiness as any 
 two human beings ever did. But now that I've lost 
 out ; now that I'm in the same boat that you've had to 
 row so long, instead of behaving like a cheerful gentle- 
 man and thinking like one, I think and behave like a 
 half -crazy egomaniac." 
 
 "I used to say to myself," said Peter Manners, "she 
 loves another man ; they are as happy together as two 
 human beings ever have been ; but even at that she can't 
 be perfectly happy; now what can I do to make her the 
 least little bit happier than she is? Of course there 
 never was much of anything that I could do ; but think- 
 ing along these lines was mighty good for me per- 
 sonally." 
 
 "I can't think along those lines." 
 
 "You mean you won't. I don't know of anything 
 worth doing that you can't do. You must think more 
 of just what you can do to make Diana happy." 
 
 "But she'll fall out of love with this fellow just as 
 she's fallen out of love with me." 
 
 "We don't know that. And we do know that she's 
 game to run away with him. We are going to save her 
 reputation this time, I hope and believe. The next time 
 it won't be so easy to guess where they have gone." 
 
 "Do you think I ought to furnish grounds?" 
 
 "I think that you ought to make her the most gen- 
 erous proposition that can be made." 
 
 "I listen," said Francis Manners, "but I don't prom- 
 ise to obey." 
 
 For a few moments the congestion of a short village
 
 170 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 street required careful driving, and Peter Manners 
 didn't answer. Then he said: 
 
 "Tell her," he said, "that you will furnish grounds 
 New York grounds so that she can get her divorce 
 quickly and easily. Tell her that you will let her have 
 Tarn, and that you will give her all the alimony you 
 can possibly earn." 
 
 Neither of them spoke for a long time. Then Fran- 
 cis Manners said : 
 
 "You think that perhaps she wouldn't have the heart 
 to accept those terms ?" 
 
 "I think it's an even bet with the odds in your favor. 
 But I shouldn't burst in on them and make that propo- 
 sition right off the bat. And whatever you do, don't 
 scold and rant. And don't let her see that you hate 
 Fenn." 
 
 And for minutes Peter Manners outlined at great 
 length a plan of procedure which he thought ought to 
 be adopted. Francis Manners didn't at once fall in 
 with this plan, but in the end he agreed to adopt it, 
 and to play his part in it to the best of his ability. 
 
 Soon they left the main arteries of travel, and had 
 to proceed more slowly. Peter Manners had passed 
 more than once through the village of Combers, but 
 he was somewhat vague as to its exact location; and 
 he had no memory whatever of the roads by which it 
 was to be reached. Stopping to make inquiries and a 
 puncture delayed them. In both men the excitement 
 of the chase was rising. Neither would admit for one 
 moment that the elopers might have fled to any other 
 place than Fenn's house near Combers. 
 
 It was possible, however, that they had not eloped
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 171 
 
 at all. It was possible that Fenn had refused to com- 
 mit Diana to an irretrievable error. It was possible 
 that Diana was spending the day in her apartment 
 sulking. 
 
 In any event Fenn would not have taken her to his 
 own rooms, for even the most ardent lover does not 
 relish the idea of being shot ; and that lover's room was 
 the first likelihood that would enter an angry hus- 
 band's mind. No. Combers was the place. 
 
 At Combers they learned from an elderly man who 
 loafed on the steps of the grocery store, and occasion- 
 ally spat, that Mr. Ogden Fenn had passed through 
 the town not ten minutes before. He had passed 
 through in a dark red car driven by a lady. Peter 
 Manners expressed surprise and regret. 
 
 "Did they ask if we had passed through?" he asked. 
 They had not. 
 
 "We made a bet on who'd get here first," Peter 
 Manners explained. "We gave them a good head 
 start, and came by a different road; a better road we 
 thought and a shorter." He turned to his cousin, and 
 said ruefully, "I'll have to write Mr. Ogden Fenn a 
 cheque, and you'll have to buy your wife a new hat." 
 
 The loafer told them how to reach Mr. Fenn's house, 
 and he chuckled and winked as if the idea that they 
 had lost their bet was pleasant to him. 
 
 Francis Manners was profoundly thankful that he 
 had not come alone. He had the greatest reliance on 
 his cousin's tact and resourcefulness. And in that calm 
 and cheering companionship he could keep his own 
 nerves and temper in hand. Nevertheless his heart 
 began to beat furiously at the sight of Ogden Fenn's
 
 172 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 little house, and it seemed cruel to him that he must 
 not burst down the front door and do murder with his 
 bare hands. 
 
 They left the car at the side of the road, and, Fran- 
 cis Manners carrying his traveling bag, finished the 
 tag end of their journey on foot. 
 
 The arrangements of the little house were extremely 
 simple. The main block contained a hall and living- 
 room in one and a small dining-room. Above these 
 were two bed-rooms separated by a bath-room, and a 
 large closet. A small block contained the butler's pan- 
 try, the kitchen and the caretaker's room. The front 
 door was ajar, and the Manners cousins pushed it 
 open and entered the house without knocking. 
 
 Diana had not yet removed her hat or coat. It was 
 cold in the house, and Ogden Fenn, on his knees, was 
 coaxing a fire into life. Diana stood at a little distance 
 watching him. The backs of the lovers were turned 
 so that the expression of their faces could not be seen. 
 It was not so much the sound of the cousins' entrance 
 as some abrupt intuition that caused Diana to turn and 
 look over her shoulder. Fenn, intent on the fire, and 
 making considerable noise with his logs and kindlings, 
 did not hear the exclamation of dismay and fear that 
 was torn from her. 
 
 But when she made two sudden steps to place her- 
 self between him and her husband, he looked up and 
 around. The heavy log that he had been about to place 
 scientifically fell from his hands with a thud. He 
 scrambled to his feet, white and trembling. He ex- 
 pected to be killed. 
 
 "Mr. Fenn," said Francis Manners, "it is perfectly
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 173 
 
 safe for you to come out from behind my wife. I am 
 not in a shooting mood." 
 
 "We're in a sort of week-end mood," said Peter 
 Manners. He advanced with a very pleasant cheerful- 
 ness and laid his hat and gloves on the table that was 
 in the center of the hall, and then, very carefully and 
 methodically, he began to unbutton his greatcoat. 
 
 "The whole world," he explained, "knows that Mr. 
 Fenn has asked all us Mannerses to dine and spend the 
 night." 
 
 "Oh," said Diana drearily and in the voice of one 
 who is suffering physical pain. "I'll go back with 
 you." 
 
 "That wouldn't be polite to Fenn," said Peter Man- 
 ners. "People would say that having tested his hos- 
 pitality we had found it wanting. We have even 
 brought our luggage. We have brought everything we 
 need except things for the night and toothbrushes and 
 hairbrushes and things like that." 
 
 "Diana," said her husband, who had been standing 
 aloof, his face drawn and ghost white, "we have come 
 because when a woman's good name goes, her last 
 chance of happiness goes too. Fenn knows that. And 
 if he really represents your chance of happiness, I 
 couldn't hurt him. I love you too much. I've come 
 to talk things over, and I've brought Peter. Fenn was 
 very foolish to bring you here; but there's no great 
 harm done." 
 
 "It's all my fault," said Diana, "he didn't want to 
 run away with me." 
 
 "Mighty hard not to run away with you, Diana, 
 when you are really insistent," said Peter Manners.
 
 174 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "It seems," said Francis Manners, "that Fenn and I 
 both love you very much. Can't you leave your hap- 
 piness in our hands and do what we think is best for 
 you ?" Tears rose in Diana's eyes. 
 
 "With two men loving me so much," she said, "I 
 ought not to complain about anything." 
 
 Peter Manners, having divested himself of the great- 
 coat, came close to her, and took one of her hands in 
 both his. It was cold, and he began to pat and 
 stroke it." 
 
 "Diana, dear," he said, "there are not two men who 
 love you, but three. Did you never guess that the man 
 who was best man at your wedding would have given 
 his soul, everything but his honor, to be the groom? 
 Have you never guessed why I haven't married? I 
 love you with my whole heart and soul. But you were 
 engaged to Frank, or almost engaged to him, when I 
 found this out. And I am not the kind of man to 
 break down another man's fences and trample on his 
 flowers." 
 
 "I give you my word of honor," exclaimed Fenn 
 suddenly, "that I am not as black as you paint me !" 
 
 "Ah," said Peter Manners, "you mistook what was 
 left of the garden for a piece of pasture land. You 
 didn't know that to Francis Manners it was still a 
 garden. And that in a heart sorely tried, and hurt, he 
 still hoped to build up the fences and coax the flowers 
 back." 
 
 "Peter," said Diana simply, "and Frank: I made 
 Ogden think that I had been terribly abused and mis- 
 understood. I didn't tell him so; I just made him 
 think so. I was a great deal happier with you, Frank,
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 175 
 
 than I deserved to be. I've given you a rotten, selfish 
 deal. When you went to California I was terribly 
 lonely. I think I was lonely for you, and I was hard- 
 up and bored, and mamma and the country and every- 
 thing got on my nerves. And because everybody has 
 always spoiled me, I well, I met Ogden and I liked 
 him, and he was thoughtful and soothing. And oh, 
 he was just floating round bored and lonely and a long 
 way from shore, and I leaned so far out of the boat 
 that I fell in. He didn't make love to me. He is a gen- 
 tleman and an honorable gentleman, whatever you 
 think. One day I told him that I loved him and that 
 I couldn't live without him. And I thought that with 
 his love to back me up I could be strong and fine, and 
 do right by you . . . and I can't ... I can't!" 
 
 "I love you because of all the pure gold that is in 
 you," said Peter Manners. 
 
 "And that is why I love you," said her husband. 
 
 The knowledge that Peter Manners, whom she ad- 
 mired immensely, had really been in love with her for 
 many years had a softening effect on Diana's heart and 
 a clarifying effect on her mind. Her vanity too must 
 have been flattered, for it is certain that her eyes had 
 become brighter and less tragic and her coloring more 
 vivid. She had never looked more desirable. 
 
 And Francis Manners somehow felt that the dis- 
 closure, although the fact was old history to him, had 
 relieved the tension under which he was laboring. 
 Peter's love seemed to him more beautiful and less 
 selfish than his own. Ogden Fenn was also affected. 
 He had but to look at the sweet-tempered, lucid and 
 determined face of the man who had loved and re-
 
 176 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 nounced to see that an honest renunciation may well 
 be counted on to bring contented coordination to a 
 spirit in chaos. 
 
 "Have you brought enough dinner for four?" asked 
 Peter Manners. Diana smiled brightly in his face. 
 
 "How good you are," she said, "and how kind !" 
 
 "I'll go to the village," said Fenn, "and pick up 
 what I can." 
 
 "Good," said Peter Manners. "We others might 
 walk to the top of the hill I noticed an excellent little 
 hill back of the house, Diana, and I shall show you 
 all the kingdom of the Catskills. It's to be a house- 
 party till after dinner. Didn't you bring any food 
 at all?" 
 
 "I had what the darkies call 'a little lunch' put up at 
 the Colony Club," said Diana. Peter Manners burst 
 out laughing. 
 
 "So they put up a special elopement lunch?" he 
 asked. "Come, I mean to climb the hill and see the 
 sunset." 
 
 The two cousins and Diana found near the top of the 
 little hill a corner in which the descending sun made a 
 certain warmth. Here they seated themselves, their 
 backs against a smooth rock, Diana in the middle. 
 
 Into the next half hour, Peter Manners put all that 
 he had of tact and delicacy, all the fruits of his univer- 
 sal experience as a popular and much-trusted man. He 
 behaved, in short, just as if nothing had happened. He 
 was indolent, amused and amusing. It was not the 
 first time that the three had made an excursion to- 
 gether. They had always been great friends. They 
 had always enjoyed being together and talking to-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 177 
 
 gether. In their talks, often of a teasing and pleas- 
 antly malicious nature, half-phrases had the value of 
 paragraphs. Anecdotes and set stories were tabu 
 among them ; and each had a way of laughing that was 
 contagious to the other two. 
 
 But the effort to behave as if nothing had happened 
 was a very great effort, which opened Peter Manners's 
 pores and caused the sweat to run out of him. And at 
 first its effect upon the others was negligible. But after 
 a while, for habit is very strong, they began to respond. 
 And he observed, glancing sideways, that the muscles 
 of his cousin's face were relaxing, and that Diana's 
 wistful eyes had come back from the rim of the world. 
 Then Francis Manners snapped forth a cynicism that 
 conjured up before them all the oddities which made 
 a certain friend of theirs at once ridiculous and lov- 
 able, and Diana shot in a word that filled their risibles 
 with old time laughter. And after that there was never 
 a serious word spoken ; until suddenly and it was like 
 a change of scene at the play they looked and saw 
 that the western sky was all laced with gold and 
 crimson. 
 
 It was mere habit that caused Diana to slip a hand 
 beneath her husband's arm. The touch upon him was 
 so light so light that it was wonderful that, through 
 all his sleeves, thick and thin, he should feel it at all. 
 But he could not have been surer that she was touch- 
 ing him if her hand had been of iron and red hot. 
 Would she withdraw the hand swiftly when she real- 
 ized what she had done with it? He kept as still as a 
 man should who attempts to tame some little wild 
 thing. He held his breath.
 
 1 78 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Then Diana realized what she had done, and some- 
 what obviously she slipped her other hand under Peter 
 Manners's arm, and she said : 
 
 "Help me up, you two." 
 
 They helped her to her feet. 
 
 "Fenn," said Francis Manners very gently, "will be 
 wondering what has become of us." 
 
 It had not occurred to Diana that Fenn might not 
 return to his house at all ; that the dread of what these 
 two tall and strong cousins might intend toward him 
 might cause him to throw up his hands, and abandon 
 a course which in his heart of hearts he knew to be 
 mistaken. 
 
 But Fenn, after some vacillating, had resolved to 
 see the situation through. He didn't believe that the 
 two cousins intended him any bodily harm, but he 
 dreaded being alone with them, and his resolution had 
 called on him for real courage. It is true that the bach- 
 elor cousin had been casual and flippant, but in the hus- 
 band's face there had been a fatal look ; and he feared 
 that when they got him alone they would put such pres- 
 sure upon him as might squeeze out all his power of 
 resistance. It is not easy to stand up for the motives 
 which are inciting one man to ruin another man's life, 
 and to compromise the whole future of a little child. 
 To have run away with Diana, even at her insistence, 
 put him in a bad light. "If her husband kills me," he 
 thought, "even in cold blood, the jury will let him off, 
 and people will merely say that I got what I deserved." 
 
 Revolving such thoughts, he had returned to his 
 house with his arms filled with packages of provisions. 
 
 "I can never go back now," Diana had said ; "every-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 179 
 
 thing is all over forever between Frank and me. If 
 you don't take me away, I'll kill myself." 
 
 And she had wept then, and Fenn had hurried off 
 to his office to arrange for an absence, and to borrow 
 a motor. But he knew as well as the next man the 
 value to her of a woman's good name ; and the knowl- 
 edge that he was forever compromising and blackening 
 the good name of the woman he sincerely loved had 
 kept him very silent during the long drive from New 
 York to Combers. Several times he had attempted 
 to make her change her mind. 
 
 At the very time when he had been kindling and 
 making up the fire, and just before the entry upon the 
 scene of the Manners cousins, he had said to her: 
 
 "Diana, darling, it isn't too late even now! Are 
 you sure that you want to give up everything for me ? 
 I don't think you know what you are doing." 
 
 She had not answered. For it was just then that 
 some intuition had made her look over her shoulder 
 and she had seen her husband's face.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THANKS largely to Peter Manners's efforts, and not 
 a little to Diana's sense of poise, dinner was not 
 marked by awful pauses. Francis Manners told them 
 a good deal of California and the Californians. Fenn 
 explained how he had come to build or rather to do 
 over a house in such an inaccessible place. They com- 
 plimented him upon his achievement. The house was 
 charming. They complimented him on his improvised 
 dinner. His old caretaker was certainly a treasure. 
 Fenn admitted that she was, if you kept her to sim- 
 ple things. She couldn't cook anything very fancy. 
 There was an upright piano in the hall, and after din- 
 ner Diana played for them, and sang cheerful little 
 songs in her sweet throaty voice. 
 
 It was no longer necessary for the men to make an 
 effort ; they sat relaxed in deep chairs, and made much 
 smoke, and looked upward, or at Diana, and each 
 thought the thoughts which the playing and the singing 
 inspired. 
 
 After a time Diana's hands dropped from the key- 
 board to her sides. 
 
 "I am going to bed," she said simply. "Good- 
 night!" 
 
 The three men rose and accompanied her to the foot 
 of the stairs; no one of them strove for any precedence 
 over the other. She gave her hand first to Fenn and 
 last to her husband. He raised it to his lips. 
 
 180
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 181 
 
 The three men resumed their seats and smoked in 
 silence. Half an hour passed. Then Francis Man- 
 ners rose, crossed to the fireplace and threw into it the 
 stump of his cigar. 
 
 "I'm going up, too," he said. "Good-night !" Fenn 
 and Peter Manners watched him in silence until he 
 had disappeared from view. 
 
 "Will you drink something?" Fenn asked. 
 
 "Yes, thank you," said Peter Manners. "Scotch." 
 
 And when Fenn had visited the pantry and returned, 
 with the whiskey, glasses, and some bottles of soda, 
 Peter Manners made himself a stiff drink, and said: 
 "They will have a good deal to say to each other, and 
 I imagine that for to-night the room next to theirs 
 I have noticed that your partitions are very thin had 
 better remain vacant. You and I have a good deal to 
 say, too. I daresay the night won't seem long." 
 
 He pulled from his inside pocket, where its weight 
 and bulk had caused him considerable annoyance, his 
 cousin's automatic pistol, and laid it convenient to his 
 hand on the broad, flat arm of his chair. 
 
 "Threatening me won't do any good," said Fenn 
 quickly, though the sudden sight of the cold, blue, 
 shapely implement had almost made his heart stand 
 still. "You will have to give me some better reason 
 than death for giving up Diana," he went on. And 
 his words gave him courage. 
 
 "At the moment," said Peter Manners, "we needn't 
 talk melodramatically. The pistol was pulling my 
 pocket all out of shape. And then I don't yet know 
 you well enough to kill you. Everything hinges on 
 what is best for Diana. It may be best for you to be
 
 1 82 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 killed and for me to die in the electric chair at Sing- 
 Sing. I don't know. But so much depends on the 
 kind of man you are. Are you willing to give me an 
 idea?" 
 
 "Yes," said Fenn. "But not because of your pistol. 
 It will be because you love Diana too. I will answer 
 any question that you care to ask me." 
 
 "Thank you," said Peter Manners. "You have 
 been in love before?" 
 
 "Several times. But not like this." 
 
 "Have you had mistresses?" 
 
 "No, but I've sported about a certain amount." 
 
 "Have you been faithful to Diana ever since you 
 fell in love with her?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 Peter Manners merely nodded and, for quite a long 
 time, he asked no more questions, but sat smoking in a 
 brooding silence. 
 
 "Fenn," he said at last, "none of us loves her any 
 more than I do. But it's easier for me to put myself 
 in your place than it is for my cousin to. You see, 
 she has never belonged to us, but she has belonged to 
 him for ten years. And I suppose you realize that she 
 will always belong to him. You may be the most 
 charming fellow in the world, the most chivalrous, the 
 most generous, but she can never give you anything 
 but shadows. The substance and the brightness are 
 locked in her husband's heart. You can never get 
 them out. She cannot steal them from him and give 
 them to you. And she will tire of you, just as she has 
 tired of him, and just as she has tired of another man. 
 She has one chance to be happy. And that is to do
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 183 
 
 right. To do right now. Not later. The chance 
 will never come to her again after she is married to 
 you. It will not come then, because once she is mar- 
 ried to you she can't do right. There will be no right 
 left for her in this world to do." 
 
 After a long pause Fenn shrugged his shoulders and 
 asked : 
 
 "What can I do?" 
 
 "Tell her," said Peter Manners slowly, "that you 
 have been unfaithful to her, that there are reasons why 
 you ought not to marry." 
 
 "But I have told her the opposite and that I was free 
 as air. I have told her that there wasn't a reason in 
 God's world why I shouldn't marry. I'm afraid I've 
 boasted about it. I've made her think I am rather bet- 
 ter than most men of my age. No. I can't. I'm 
 hanged if I will." 
 
 Peter Manners settled more deeply into his chair, 
 knitted his brow in thought and spoke no more for a 
 long time. And indeed, during the rest of the night, 
 very few words were exchanged between them. 
 
 Francis Manners sat on the edge of Diana's bed. 
 The moon had risen. They had no other light. 
 
 She had been very sure that he would wish to speak 
 to her before she went to sleep, so she had hurried with 
 her undressing and had left her door unlocked. She 
 had not, however, omitted her nightly prayers; or, at 
 least, she had not failed to assume for a few minutes 
 the attitude in which she said them. Barefooted, her 
 hair rippling about her shoulders, with only a thin 
 batiste nightgown to shield her body from the keen 
 mountain air, she had knelt for some minutes by the
 
 184 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 bed, her face buried in her hands. What she said to 
 her Maker, if anything, is unknown. It is only known 
 that when she heard her husband's step at the head of 
 the stair, she rose lightly from her praying and with a 
 kind of huddling shiver, hurried into bed and drew 
 the coverings to her chin. 
 
 "Diana, dear," said her husband, "can you forgive 
 me all my faults against you, as I forgive you all your 
 faults against me ?" 
 
 "I have nothing to forgive, Frank," she said quietly. 
 "Nothing. And you have lots." 
 
 "Everything is forgiven, then, on both sides. Di- 
 ana, I love you too much to hold you against your will. 
 My first thought when I knew that you had run away 
 with Fenn was how to save you from scandal. How 
 to save you from yourself has been my thought all day, 
 and not how to keep you for myself. Peter loves you, 
 too. It is a good thing that I have had him with me, 
 a good thing for us all. I am going to let you go free, 
 dear. I think you've proved pretty well now that you 
 really want to be free. . . . Do you mind if I pull down 
 the window? It's awfully cold in here, and I've lots 
 to say." 
 
 Across the foot of the bed, neatly folded, was a thin 
 silk quilt. She advised him to put this around his 
 shoulders. He did so, with a queer little laugh at the 
 thought of the grotesque figure he must cut. 
 
 "First, dear," he said, " I can't let you go into court 
 and swear that I have deserted you or that I have been 
 cruel to you. That would be perjury." 
 
 "Then I don't see ... " Diana interrupted. 
 
 "You shall have real grounds," her husband con-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 185 
 
 tinued placidly. "I shall be unfaithful to you. I'll 
 arrange so that there will be no difficulty about getting 
 testimony. In as short a time as possible you will be 
 free." 
 
 "Everybody will know it's a fake," said Diana. 
 
 "It will not be a fake," said her husband ; "it is awful 
 to me to think of being unfaithful to you, after twenty 
 years of love and faithfulness. But they do say that 
 once in a million years a wild goose is unfaithful to 
 his first love ; so I'll be the one." 
 
 "Frank," said Diana, "I can't bear it!" 
 
 "I am going to give up Tarn to you, too," said her 
 husband, "and when it's all over, and you are free, 
 and I've settled a little to all the changes and all the 
 heartaches and new points of view, why I'll work till 
 I break to make you and yours just as affluent and 
 comfortable as I can." She lay staring past him, into 
 the shadows. 
 
 "So that's all settled," he said, with attempted 
 cheerfulness. She did not speak. 
 
 "Don't think that I don't see your point of view, 
 darling," he said; "to know that you are to start life 
 all over again, loved and loving, must be very wonder- 
 ful and beautiful. I know how I felt when we started. 
 I'd loved you ever since you were a little girl. I'd 
 always been great friends with your father, and I came 
 to the house a lot on his account. One day I stopped 
 coming on his account and kept coming on yours. 
 You ran an ugly splinter into your thumb, and you 
 came to me with the thumb held straight out, and your 
 big blue eyes so hurt and brave, and a tear stopped half- 
 way down each cheek. And while I was getting the
 
 1 86 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 splinter out you trembled, but you didn't cry. And 
 I loved you, and I knew that when you grew up I was 
 going to marry you if only I could get you to love me. 
 Somehow I knew that I could. But it was hard sled- 
 ding all those years watching you grow up, waiting for 
 you to be old enough to be made love to. I couldn't 
 even play with you as often as I wanted to for fear 
 your father and mother wouldn't like it. I've been 
 terribly jealous of little boys your own age who came 
 to see you, and brought you boxes of candy. And you 
 had awful mashes on half-a-dozen of them. One day, 
 when you were about fifteen, you had a new pony and 
 runabout given you and you took me for a drive. Mud 
 splashed on your cheek and I wiped it off with my 
 handkerchief. That handkerchief is in my safety- 
 deposit box with a little letter for Tarn to read when 
 she grows up and I am dead and gone. One day, for 
 you were still half a boy, you came sliding out of an 
 apple-tree. Your dear face was bright red, and your 
 hair was mussed and full of broken twigs. You'd 
 torn a couple of buttons off your shirtwaist and I could 
 just see your breast, firm and young and brown and 
 and gentle. I had one of those hunting-crop safety- 
 pin things in my necktie and I pinned you up with it. 
 Those were the moments in my life when I felt the 
 most tender and compassionate and protecting. And 
 when you came out and were old enough to be made 
 love to, I kept away; because it seemed only fair to 
 give you a chance to look all the men over before I 
 tried to make you settle to me. And because you loved 
 to flirt and be made love to, I had some hard times. 
 When you'd been out nearly a year I began to make
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 187 
 
 love to you; but there was nothing novel or exciting 
 about me. You were so used to me. I'd always been 
 around. Sometimes it seemed as if I didn't stand a 
 ghost of a show. And maybe I'd had you on a pedes- 
 tal so long and worshiped you so that you seemed 
 too much of a bright spirit to me, and not enough of 
 a flesh-and-blood girl with desires and passions. 
 Sometimes my pride told me to end it; to go away; 
 and to forget. To forget you! Think of that ! But 
 one night you were lying on a long veranda chair, 
 propped up against a pile of striped cushions. There 
 was a full moon, and your blue eyes were as black as 
 ink. It was August, and you had low neck and short 
 sleeves, and no scarf, and a man never looked on any- 
 thing so desirable since the first moon rose and love 
 was born in the world. ... I got out of my chair and 
 knelt and laid my cheek against yours, and you never 
 moved. The moon was in your heart and hair, too. 
 And then I began to kiss you, and I kissed all of you 
 that there was to be kissed, until our hearts were beat- 
 ing like drums in a battle, and almost it seemed as if 
 you loved me as much as I loved you. ..." 
 
 His voice thrilled with those memories. And she 
 lay still as death, her eyes, black as pools of ink staring 
 past him into the shadows. And at that moment 
 there existed for her nothing but the vibrations of 
 that impassioned and impassioning voice. He leaned 
 toward her, and she turned her face toward him, and 
 looked into his eyes. And at that moment she was not 
 a high-born and fastidious gentlewoman, involved in 
 the complexities of love entanglements; she was sex, 
 thrilling to be kissed and conquered.
 
 1 88 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 He caught her firm shoulders in his strong hands 
 and leaned closer. 
 
 And then it was as if something cracked in his brain ; 
 he seemed to see, instead of Diana's red and parted 
 lips, that stick of red grease whose use she had dis- 
 continued for the benefit of other lips than his. A 
 revulsion of intention shook him from head to foot, 
 and passion died in him, and his hands withdrew from 
 her shoulders. He leaned away from her. He turned 
 his face away from her. He replaced the quilted silk 
 thing that had fallen from his shoulders. He drew 
 it tightly across his breast. Bitterness, despair, lone- 
 liness possessed him. He was alone, flying a mile 
 high in the bitter air, destined to sorrow for all the 
 remaining years of his life for the mate he had loved 
 and lost. 
 
 "Good-night, my darling," said the Wild Goose. 
 "God bless and keep you always and make you happy." 
 
 He kissed her as he might have kissed a child. She 
 did not turn her lips away, for they were still eager for 
 kisses. And when he kissed her she kissed him back. 
 But the quality of his kiss was like cold water thrown 
 upon her passion. 
 
 "Good-night, dear, dear Frank," she said unstead- 
 ily, "and God bless and keep you." 
 
 When he had gone she turned her face to the wall 
 and cried herself to sleep. 
 
 Francis Manners paced the hall outside her door. 
 All the rest of the night he paced slowly up and down, 
 his quiet footfalls lost in the thick carpet, his head 
 erect, like a knight on guard before a shrine.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 189 
 
 Neither at breakfast nor after breakfast was there 
 any further discussion of the situation. Diana had 
 waked with all her love and longing for Fenn renewed. 
 She was going to accept the terms of divorce that her 
 husband had offered. But with mental reservations 
 she softened the clauses. They must always be 
 friendly; Frank should see Tarn whenever he wished. 
 She herself could accept no alimony ; just a small allow- 
 ance to cover Tarn's expenses. Already she felt like 
 a free woman. She made no objection to driving her 
 husband back to town. Now that Fenn was an assured 
 possession it was no longer a crying necessity to be 
 with him every moment of the time. 
 
 Manners's face bore few traces of the night's vigil 
 and suffering. He had made up his mind to renuncia- 
 tion. He was quiet and reserved, but easy and 
 cheerful. Fenn, who had learned from Diana of the 
 impending divorce, felt an immense gratitude toward 
 her husband, gratitude and admiration. Only a real 
 thoroughbred, he thought, could be so self-sacrificing 
 and generous. 
 
 Upon Peter Manners the night seemed to have 
 weighed most heavily. Perhaps it was because he 
 had smoked and drunk too much, perhaps it was be- 
 cause of the desperate plan which had taken possession 
 of him. As a last resource he would execute that plan, 
 but as a drowning man wishes for a helping hand so he 
 wished that some other way could be found. 
 
 Diana herself had told him of the terms upon which 
 she was to have her divorce. 
 
 "And you are going to accept, Diana?"
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "Sooner or later we'd run away again, Peter," she 
 said ; "it's got to be." 
 
 "Diana," he said, "you have one chance of happi- 
 ness, and only one. Do right !" She made no answer. 
 
 "If you would do right," he said, "I'd gladly die." 
 
 "Peter, dear," she entreated, "it's best the way it 
 is. Please don't scold me." 
 
 They had no more words on the subject, and soon 
 after she and her husband had departed in the dark- 
 red car, Peter Manners cranked his powerful runabout 
 and followed with Ogden Fenn in the seat beside 
 him. 
 
 They came in time, driving slowly, to a long and 
 straight descent of dirt road. It was this descent 
 which Peter Manners had remembered in the night, 
 and which had offered him one last desperate solution 
 of the whole problem. 
 
 "Fenn," he said, "if I shoot you, you become a 
 martyr. Diana would make a saint of you in her 
 memory, and she could never make up things with 
 her husband; because it would be almost as if he him- 
 self had done the shooting. But if we die together like 
 a couple of bums who have stopped at too many 
 roadhouses she will soon forget you, and the chances 
 are that she will be shocked into behaving herself." 
 The car was moving with greatly accelerated speed. 
 
 "I am sorry," said Peter Manners. "You seem to 
 be a goodish sort of a little man in your way, but 
 you've raised hell with the two people I love most." 
 
 Fenn glanced at the grim and determined profile 
 of the man who drove. His heart turned cold. The 
 car was going at a terrible rate.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 191 
 
 "Say," he said, "there's a hairpin turn at the bottom 
 of this hill!" 
 
 "And a high cliff. I remember." 
 
 Ogden Fenn struck the rug from about his legs and 
 half rose to his feet. The car gave a sudden leap, and 
 he sat down hard. Peter Manners loosed one hand 
 from the steering-wheel and seized the back of Fenn's 
 neck in a vise-like grip. The bottom of the hill with 
 the hairpin turn and the fragile railing that alone 
 guarded it from the brink of the cliff were rushing 
 toward them. 
 
 "I do this," cried Peter Manners suddenly, "so that 
 a little child may grow up with a father and a mother 
 in a home. And may God have mercy on my soul !" 
 
 "Oh, for God's sake !" screamed Fenn. 
 
 His hat blew off, and he clawed at his head in a fran- 
 tic and ridiculous effort to save it. 
 
 We learn from soldiers and sailors, and we might 
 better perhaps learn from those crazed savages who 
 run amuck, or "from the rat who turns at last and dies 
 valiantly in his corner, that if only the occasion be 
 sufficiently desperate to call it forth, courage is an ar- 
 ticle of no great rarity. It was not because of fear 
 that Ogden Fenn had screamed "Oh, for God's 
 sake !" and when he clawed frantically and ridiculously 
 at his hat he was neither ridiculous nor frantic. He 
 simply looked so. For if during the course of the 
 next few seconds he was to lose his life, it could not 
 have been a matter of moment to him, or even of un- 
 easiness, what in the meantime became of his hat. 
 
 Seeing the imminence of death, and feeling that the 
 impetus of the heavy car must carry it inevitably
 
 192 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 through the flimsy railing and over the cliff, he felt 
 rather than thought that no power of brakes could in 
 so short a distance stop the terrible rush and save him 
 from destruction. He accepted the fact of death, the 
 inevitability, the impossibility of escape, and he rose 
 to it with a kind of wild exultation; with no thought 
 of saving himself and with no thought except to make 
 his murderer's suicide seem vain, he shouted: "She'll 
 know!" 
 
 Peter Manners caught the words, and by the grace 
 of one of those moments when the mind is quicker 
 than electricity, understood the wild folly of his at- 
 tempt, and with all the power and suddenness of which 
 he was capable put on the brakes. Fenn was smashed 
 against the windshield and Manners was hurt against 
 the steering wheel. There was a sound of rending and 
 grinding, then the headlights and the radiator passed 
 with a slow crashing sound through the railing that 
 guarded the road from the cliff, arid the car stopped. 
 A plumb-line grazing the extreme advance of the front 
 wheels would have hung clear of the cliff. 
 
 "Get out !" said Manners. Fenn got out awkwardly, 
 for he was badly shaken and Manners followed suit. 
 With rocks Manners wedged the rear wheels so that 
 they could not turn forward another inch. Then, 
 when he had rested, and recovered control of his 
 nerves, he climbed painfully into his seat, and backed 
 his machine out of danger. "Will you ride the rest 
 of the way with me?" he asked, "or would you rather 
 walk?" 
 
 "I'll just get my hat," said Fenn, "if you don't 
 mind waiting."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 193 
 
 Peter Manners waited, his arms, which trembled 
 slightly, folded across the steering-wheel. He could 
 not have said whether he had waited a minute or an 
 hour, when Fenn, brushing the dust from his hat, 
 rejoined him. Manners did not at once start the car. 
 "You are right," he said, "of course she'd know. It's 
 exactly the same whether I shoot you or drive you over 
 a cliff." He let in the clutch and the car moved slowly 
 forward, and having achieved the hairpin turn pro- 
 ceeded at once with greatly accelerated speed. From 
 time to time out of the corner of his eye Fenn stole a 
 look at Manners. It would be easy, he thought, to 
 follow such a man into battle. He wondered why 
 Diana had fallen in love with the other Manners in- 
 stead of this one. "She would have been far happier," 
 he thought ; "she would never have any use for me." 
 
 "I wish," said Manners suddenly, "that I could see 
 inside your brain. I wonder just what it feels like 
 to have taken a wife away from a husband, and to have 
 spoiled a little child's best chances." He did not speak 
 with contempt, but speculatively. 
 
 "With some men," said Fenn, choosing his words 
 carefully, "I suppose that the thing happens without 
 any intention, and such men probably cannot help feel- 
 ing very proud at having won the woman's love, and 
 very sorry that they cannot have it without hurting 
 others. Such a man would realize his responsibilities 
 toward the woman more than if she were a girl. He 
 would perhaps go more intelligently and systemati- 
 cally about the business of making their marriage a 
 success." 
 
 "He would need to," said Peter Manners, "for I
 
 194 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 think that when the husband still loves his wife, and 
 has done her no wrong, sueh 'a marriage can never be 
 a success. Diana is not entirely abandoned to her 
 selfish impulses. It is only that for the time being 
 these have the upper hand. How will she feel when in 
 their turn the instincts to be just and self-sacrificing 
 have the upper hand, and remorse sets in? And I 
 feel sure, for I know her very well, that this will hap- 
 pen. And I think that it will happen the moment it 
 is no longer possible for her to ask her husband to 
 forgive her and to take her back. It will happen very 
 likely in the moment when you and she turn your backs 
 on the altar as man and wife." 
 
 "If," said Fenn, after a pause, "we are ever to be 
 married, do you think it is quite fair to wish us so 
 much unhappiness and disappointment? I should think 
 her friends, no matter how much they hated me, would 
 want our marriage to be happy and successful." 
 
 "Those who were really her friends," said Manners, 
 "would of course try to make it so."
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 FRANCIS MANNERS felt that he had played his last 
 card and shot his last bolt, and that Diana definitely 
 wished to be rid of him. He was like a man who, hav- 
 ing exhausted himself with frenzied effort to save 
 his house from burning to the ground, perceives that 
 the building is doomed beyond peradventure, resigns 
 himself to its loss, and upon the instant turns Stoic. 
 He had a certain sense of release. He had fought 
 for the right. He had been beaten. He was sorry 
 that wrong had prevailed, but he was glad that the 
 war was over, and that the demobilization would soon 
 be effected. He had taken arms against a sea of 
 troubles; since he could not end them, let them end 
 him. 
 
 It was not without a cynical amusement that he 
 remembered the business he had undertaken. He had 
 promised Diana to furnish her with the only grounds 
 upon which in the State of New York a woman may 
 divorce her husband. And for some days following 
 her arrested elopement he occupied himself with this 
 quixotic and depraved project. Sometimes he talked 
 it over with Diana. He hoped perhaps that the ghast- 
 liness of the business, the cold-blooded wickedness of 
 it, might even at the eleventh hour turn her from her 
 intentions. But if he entertained such a hope he did 
 not express it. 
 
 Now that she was sure of having her own way Diana 
 
 195
 
 196 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 had more time for Tam and for her household duties. 
 Fenn must keep. It was obvious that until some 
 months after the divorce her name and his must be as 
 little connected as possible. In consequence, Francis 
 Manners saw a great deal of his own wife. 
 
 One day, when his plans for her benefit were more 
 or less in shape, he laid them before her. "Diana," he 
 said, "you can't have the great climax in the third 
 act until you have had the first act and the second act. 
 It won't do for me and the beautiful blonde to be 
 trapped out of a clear sky. From now on I am going 
 to neglect you and spend most of my time in town. 
 I am going to neglect you so that people will notice it. 
 I'll live at the apartment and I'll let people believe 
 that after ten years' hard work and domestic worries 
 I've declared a holiday. I'll preach the equality of 
 the sexes. I'll maintain that a man has a right to live 
 his own life and to fulfil his own destiny." 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't be so sarcastic and bitter," 
 said Diana. 
 
 "I am not," he said. "I have managed to hide my 
 bitter feelings and I take a certain mechanical amuse- 
 ment in those which remain in plain sight. That's all. 
 I am trying to be practical. The most important 
 thing is to see that your reputation comes through the 
 divorce-court immaculate. To achieve that you must 
 be the one who stays at home and I must be the one 
 who goes traipsing. In short, I must seem to give you 
 and Tam the same sort of deal that you have really 
 given Tam and me. The thing can't be done off-hand. 
 I've got to play around until I find a woman whom I 
 might reasonably be conceived to think attractive,
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 197 
 
 and who wouldn't in the least mind being mixed up 
 in a scandal." 
 
 "But if the whole thing is a fake?" objected Diana. 
 
 "It isn't a fake. Faking is too dangerous. If we 
 plot against the law and are found out you will never 
 get your divorce in this State, and I might conceivably 
 go to jail. I'm not going to cheat, Diana." 
 
 She made no remarks. 
 
 "Does the pity of it strike you? That the only 
 pleasure I can give you is to be unfaithful to you?" 
 
 He clenched his hands till the knuckles were white, 
 for the pity of it and the bitterness were very plain 
 to him. Then he continued in an even, matter-of- 
 fact voice: 
 
 "I'll let you know, of course, when it's time for you 
 to hire a detective. And I shall give you some valu- 
 able hints as to my new habits." 
 
 "People fake these things all the time," said Diana. 
 She would not have confessed it, but the thought that 
 Manners intended to be technically unfaithful to her 
 had the power to hurt. Manners shook his head. 
 
 "You had no hand in making the law," he said ; "no 
 woman did; so it's easy to understand why women 
 don't see the beauty of it. I lay claim to no special 
 civic virtue. I'd rather flout the law than not, but it 
 isn't safe. It's safer to break a commandment." 
 
 Diana deeply resented the idea that Manners was 
 going to be unfaithful to her ; but she could not have 
 analyzed her justification. She would have sworn that 
 she hadn't a tinge of jealousy; but it is probable that 
 she had. She was more married than she knew. She 
 had a higher conception of marriage as an institution
 
 198 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 than she would have confessed. Not even Fenn knew 
 that the break with Manners was almost as tragic to 
 her as it was to him. It is probable that intellectually 
 she could not have offered one single solitary excuse 
 for what she had done. And it is probable that in her 
 heart her love for Fenn was neither an excuse nor a 
 justification. She may be likened to an average decent- 
 minded human being who at last, under stress of tor- 
 ture, consents to commit crime. Some characters, as 
 the history of religion proves, are stronger than the 
 strongest pain; but the average church pillar would 
 abjure his God at the second turn of the thumbscrew. 
 Diana's character was in the making. It had its 
 strength; but as a whole it was not yet so strong as 
 love. It was as if love said to her: "Don't try to jus- 
 tify yourself, my dear, trust me. I will give you not 
 only the happiness to which every woman has a right ; 
 but I will give you justification also. When all those 
 who love you see how happy your choice has made 
 you, they will be happy too." 
 
 Immediately after the return from Combers, Man- 
 ners had said to Mrs. Langham: "We were in plenty 
 of time. But there is no use butting into a stone wall. 
 I have surrendered. I have thrown up my hands. I 
 have promised to furnish grounds." 
 
 "In New York State?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Langham." His words were a cry of 
 bitterness. 
 
 Aside from Mrs. Langham he did not even tell Mary 
 Hastings what he proposed to do. He would have 
 given everything he possessed if he had not made that 
 promise to Diana. And he even felt a certain resent-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 199 
 
 ment toward his Cousin Peter for suggesting that he 
 make it. For once Peter, from the highest motives, 
 had given him bad advice. But though his soul writhed 
 in revolt he meant to keep his promise ; and he was too 
 proud to ask Diana to release him from it. Sometimes 
 there was a look in her face which made him hope 
 that she would release him of her own accord. 
 
 That he might after a time find real diversion and 
 inspiration to better work in sowing the wild oats that 
 he had never sown sometimes occurred to him. But 
 such thoughts had no power to convince. 
 
 It was hard for him during these days to be natural 
 with Tarn. He had committed himself to doing the 
 child a great wrong; and it was not easy for him to 
 look into the adoring and steadfast eyes. She seemed 
 by some divine intuition of childhood to realize that 
 his mood could have no gaiety in it, and she reflected 
 his mood. He wanted her to be with him, close to 
 him ; but he wanted them both to be quiet. She seemed 
 to understand that. The sorrow that he tried so hard 
 to keep from her had overflowed in spite of him. He 
 was a different Daddy, and yet the same. She loved 
 him all the more. One day she said to her mother : 
 
 "You used to like the city better than the country, 
 and now it's Daddy that does." 
 
 Francis Manners had not yet begun to sow his wild 
 oats, but he was plowing the field. The conventional 
 times found him at the bar of his club with one foot 
 on the rail. He was always ready to accept stag invi- 
 tations, theater parties and late suppers. He began to 
 know the more notable ladies of the half -world by 
 sight and reputation. He frequented the theaters and
 
 200 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 the roof-gardens. He gave a poker party at the apart- 
 ment. The players stayed to breakfast. People began 
 to talk about him. They said that sooner or later all 
 artists yielded to temperament, and that he was treat- 
 ing Diana shamefully. 
 
 "By gad," said one well-known rounder, "if I'd had 
 a dear HI' wife like that I wouldn't be the man I 
 am." 
 
 Francis Manners's whole life gradually became a lie. 
 People speak lightly of men lying to save a woman. 
 But it is one thing to tell a good, helpful lie with a 
 straight face now and then; and it is quite another 
 to fabricate a really colossal and telling lie out of 
 everything that a man believes in and holds dear. In 
 order to shield his wife's good name beyond peradven- 
 ture, Manners had to neglect her when he wanted to be 
 w r ith her ; to affect a love for the city which he did not 
 feel ; to keep late hours when he preferred early ones, 
 and in appearance at least to go back on all his most 
 cherished principles. And he had to seem gay and 
 amused when he was eating his heart out. 
 
 Of course it wasn't all make-believe. He actually 
 enjoyed the food which he appeared to enjoy. He 
 really liked brut champagnes; and when people said 
 things that seemed to him really funny his troubles 
 were drowned in the laughter that came so easily to 
 him. Nobody whom he associated with saw in him a 
 tragic figure. He was a well-dressed, big-hearted, 
 open-handed gentleman about town with a perfect 
 right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and a 
 perfect eye for good looks. 
 
 Drinking too much, smoking too much, and sitting
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 201 
 
 up too late agreed with him for a while. He gained 
 weight and went through a kind of rejuvenescence. If 
 he had not been in love with Diana he might in time 
 become the wholly selfish and self-centered person that 
 he appeared to be. Even at forty it is not difficult to 
 form new habits when the heartstrings have been 
 loosed. And he was very attractive to women, and 
 on general principles they were attractive to him. He 
 might in time overcome his shyness and his fastidious- 
 ness. "After all," he would encourage himself, "I'm 
 a male." 
 
 One morning before he was up his brother-in-law, 
 Kingland Langham, telephoned and made an appoint- 
 ment to see him later in the day. The matter, King- 
 land said, was urgent. 
 
 "Shall I come down-town?" Manners had asked. 
 
 "I think I'd better come to your flat," Kingland had 
 answered. "It's a family matter ; we can be more pri- 
 vate there." 
 
 "Shall we say five o'clock?" 
 
 "Five it is." 
 
 "Nothing serious?" 
 
 "I wouldn't quite say that; it remains to be seen." 
 
 Kingland Langham was punctual to the moment. 
 He was that kind of a man. 
 
 "Look here, Frank," said Kingland, bending his 
 heavy brows slightly, and looking suddenly upward 
 from the toes of his spatted shoes to his brother-in- 
 law's face, "what's all this I hear about you and 
 Diana?" 
 
 "What have you heard, King?"
 
 202 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "I hear that you are playing round with Moffit and 
 Carlton and Digbee and all that crowd and all the gay 
 ladies in town. I don't say I believe all that I hear. 
 I've come to you to hear what I've heard denied. I've 
 known you all my life ; and what I've heard about you 
 is so utterly unlike you that I'll only believe it from 
 your own lips." 
 
 "I must try not to be so conspicuous," said Manners. 
 
 "Then it's true?" 
 
 "King, men change as they get older. I've been 
 pretty domestic for a good many years. I was getting 
 stale. I need change. I've been doing bad work." 
 
 "That's not a good reason for making Diana un- 
 happy. You're not tired of her, are you?" 
 
 Manners did not answer this question. He simply 
 said: "Diana's not as unhappy as you think she is." 
 
 "I'll ask her. I don't believe in beating about the 
 bush. I'll go straight to her." 
 
 "You'll find that she isn't worrying her head off 
 about me," said Manners. 
 
 He couldn't help laughing when his brother-in-law 
 had gone. "The first thing I know," he thought, 
 "Diana will be running in to tell me I'm behaving 
 badly and making her unhappy. Good Lord!" 
 
 He got her on the telephone and warned her of the 
 visit that she was to receive from her brother King- 
 land. Diana said that Kingland was a meddling fool, 
 but a dear. This conversation came to an awkward 
 pause. Then Diana said : 
 
 "How are you getting on?" 
 
 "Are you impatient?" 
 
 "No, Frank, only "
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 203 
 
 "Only what?" 
 
 "Isn't there some other way?" 
 
 "There is no other quick way." 
 
 His heart was beating fast. Almost he believed that 
 she was going to say that she would not see him de- 
 graded, and that she would take the long way. Her 
 next words were: "Are you all right?" 
 
 He sighed. She was not going to choose the long 
 way. 
 
 "Frank," she said, "people are beginning to treat me 
 as if I were a martyr. It makes me sick. It's so unjust 
 to you. I'm the one who has done wrong. Don't you 
 suppose I know that ?" 
 
 Again his heart began to beat, and again she dashed 
 his hopes. 
 
 "I'm so sorry," she said, "but I just can't help my- 
 self. It's life or death to me." 
 
 "That's all right, Diana." He managed to speak in 
 a natural voice though he was half -crazed with sudden 
 jealousy. He added: "Listen, Diana; it's time to keep 
 an eye on me. I'm having supper at the Knickerbocker 
 after the play. I may or may not come back here after- 
 ward. I don't know. I want to get this business 
 settled." 
 
 Diana's first interview with the chief of the detec- 
 tive bureau to which she had been recommended by 
 Ogden Fenn had tried her cruelly. 
 
 Mr. Raghorn, the chief of the bureau, did not look 
 like a detective. He was diminutive, plump, and child- 
 like. 
 
 "Mr. Raghorn," she had said, "I have been told that 
 I may rely absolutely on your discretion." His voice
 
 204 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 was pitched too high and he had a quick, sharp way of 
 speaking. "You must," he said. 
 
 "I want very much," she said, "to have someone 
 watched." 
 
 At this point Mr. Raghorn's eyes began to fascinate 
 her. They were bland, childlike, and rather too full. 
 They were pale blue, and they never blinked. 
 
 "It's my husband," she said, and she added, "it 
 oughtn't to be very hard. He is quite open about what 
 he does." 
 
 "You imagine that he may be neglecting you for 
 someone else?" 
 
 Diana bowed her head slowly, and did not look up 
 for a moment. 
 
 "No need to tell me why you want him watched. If 
 he is making you unhappy I am very sorry. If it's the 
 other way round, I don't want to know." Diana 
 blushed painfully. "One of my chief sources of rev- 
 enue," said Mr. Raghorn, "is watching husbands 
 whose wives have fallen in love with somebody else. 
 But my work is bona fide. I have nothing to do with 
 motives. I do not compromise the husbands. I merely 
 certify that they are compromised and send in my bill." 
 
 Diana timidly inquired the price per diem of having 
 her husband watched. Since Manners would have to 
 pay for the privilege of being shadowed the fee seemed 
 exorbitant and she said so. He had enough heavy 
 obligations as it was. But Mr. Raghorn was perfectly 
 firm about the figures. 
 
 "But," Diana objected, "it might be weeks and 
 weeks before before anything happened, and I simply 
 couldn't pay so much."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 205 
 
 "Perhaps," said Mr. Raghorn, "your intuition may 
 help us out. One of these days you might have what 
 they call a hunch, and tip us off to it. Is that possi- 
 ble?" Again Diana blushed painfully. 
 
 "The whole thing is a sort of hunch," she said. "I'm 
 not sure of anything. Perhaps we had better wait a 
 little." 
 
 "Meanwhile," said Mr. Raghorn, "I'll have one of 
 my men familiarize himself with your husband's ap- 
 pearance. Then we'll be all ready to pitch in when you 
 give the signal." 
 
 "It may be just my foolish imagination," said Diana, 
 rising slowly. 
 
 "More likely," thought Raghorn, when she had 
 gone, "it is the husband's foolish chivalry." 
 
 If the nasty business could have been got over with 
 at once, it might not have preyed so on Diana's mind. 
 It is possible that, during the long weeks of waiting for 
 Manners's new way of life to develop the one concrete 
 episode which the law required, some of the links in 
 the chain of passion by which she was bound to Fenn 
 began to wear thin. A chain, as all men know, is only 
 as strong as its weakest link. But perhaps it was not 
 her passion which weakened anywhere or in any way, 
 and she had begun to examine more often, and with 
 greater dismay, the impractical meshes of her entangle- 
 ment. 
 
 She was highly determined not to take any money 
 from her husband; Tarn's expenses he was of course 
 welcome to pay, but not hers. She and Fenn then 
 would have very little money; that is at first they 
 would have verv little. Fenn was confident that with
 
 206 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Diana's love to inspire him he would become a big 
 earner. Well, that love had already been inspiring 
 him for a good many months without producing any 
 startling change for the better in his affairs. To be 
 absolutely historic it had not so far produced any 
 change at all. 
 
 When Manners said over the telephone that he 
 would bear watching, that after the play he was to have 
 supper at the Knickerbocker, she was in one of her 
 most skeptical and discouraged moods, and her heart 
 almost stood still. And it was with no sense of excite- 
 ment or elation, but heartsickly and with bitterness, 
 that she telephoned to Mr. Raghorn and gave him the 
 hint for which he had been waiting. 
 
 She herself was dining that night at the Piping Rock 
 Club. She had no sooner reached the club than upon 
 a sudden resolution she went to the telephone and tried 
 to get in connection with her husband. She tried the 
 apartment. He had dressed and gone out to dinner. 
 She tried Delmonico's, Sherry's, the Ritz, his club, 
 all in vain. "But never mind," she thought, "he'll be 
 at the Knickerbocker after the play. That won't be 
 too late." 
 
 But he was not at the Knickerbocker. She tele- 
 phoned once from the Piping Rock Club, and again 
 when she got home to make sure. She learned that 
 Mr. Manners had come to the supper-room, with a 
 party of ladies and gentlemen, but as there had been 
 some mistake about the table reserved for them they 
 had gone elsewhere. The Knickerbocker was very 
 sorry, but it could not say where. Diana began to feel 
 like those persons who in their efforts to do right are
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 207 
 
 continuously thwarted and brought to grief. Exactly 
 what she had to say to her husband she did not know ; 
 his voice over the wire would be her inspiration. 
 
 But it is certain that Diana had the wish to save him 
 from a cynical and irrevocable act. She had more 
 than the wish. She no longer loved him, but mem- 
 ories of the years when he had been all the world to 
 her now filled her mind and heart. His long faithful- 
 ness in loving and his purity now smote her with their 
 full value. She didn't want that splendid record 
 smirched and spoiled. She wanted her freedom, but 
 she did not want to pay the price. That even now her 
 husband, her faithful lover for so many years but the 
 thought was intolerable. What did the partner of his 
 crime look like ? 
 
 She telephoned to every place in the city at which 
 he might be having supper with his gay friends, or 
 alone perhaps with the woman he had chosen. But all 
 in vain. Mrs. Langham was aware of the telephoning 
 that was going on. The doors and the partitions of 
 the house were thin, and she had become a light and 
 fitful sleeper. She heard Diana's feet on the stair. 
 
 "Diana," Mrs. Langham ventured, "is anything the 
 matter?" 
 
 Without moving Diana answered: 
 
 "I think I am the most unhappy woman in the 
 world !" 
 
 Such an admission, so utterly unlike Diana, was 
 very startling and alarming to Diana's mother. But 
 at first her alarm was mixed with a wild hope. Had 
 Fenn begun to cool off? If only that were the case, all 
 might yet be well. But Diana dashed that hope.
 
 208 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "Do you think it's any fun to have ruined the best 
 man in the world?" 
 
 "Then why not stop ruining him?" said Mrs. Lang- 
 ham with good-natured coolness, "before the ruin is 
 complete?" 
 
 "Oh," said Diana, "you've known what's in the 
 wind, though you never speak about it. It's for to- 
 night. I've tried since before dinner to get hold of him 
 and stop him. I haven't been able to find him. It's 
 too late." 
 
 "I want to be sure that I understand." 
 
 "Oh, he's somewhere in New York furnishing me 
 with grounds for a divorce. And I have hired detec- 
 tives to trap him, and I wish I were dead !" 
 
 "Even if he does furnish you with grounds," said 
 Mrs. Langham, a little sharply, "you don't have to use 
 them. If you do use them you will always be a very 
 unhappy woman." 
 
 "Even if I wanted to, I couldn't take him back now." 
 
 "Diana," said her mother, "I take it for granted that 
 you are technically a good woman ; but you've let men, 
 not your husband, kiss the bloom off you. If Frank 
 said that he couldn't take you back I'd understand and 
 sympathize. But for you to say that you couldn't take 
 him back after doing what you have insisted on his 
 doing, is an insult to my sense of humor." 
 
 "You've always been on his side !" 
 
 "Because he has been right and you have been 
 wrong." 
 
 Diana went slowly downstairs again to the library. 
 Mrs. Langham, remembering Diana's telephoning, 
 went back to her room a moment to slip into a gown
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 209 
 
 and then followed her down. As she came in Diana 
 turned to her again: "You can't always be an infallible 
 judge of everything." 
 
 "Perhaps not," said Mrs. L-angham dryly, "but I can 
 tell you how to straighten out your life and clean up 
 the awful mess you have made. I have an infallible 
 method." 
 
 "Yes?" said Diana. 
 
 "Do right," said Mrs. Langham. "Do the one thing 
 you have never done. Do right!" 
 
 Before Mrs. Langham had reached the asylum of 
 her own room, Diana had let go of herself and begun 
 to sob.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE reason Diana had not been able to get her hus- 
 band on the telephone was simple. Finding that there 
 had been a mistake about their table at the Knicker- 
 bocker, his party had broken up. And a certain Mrs. 
 Herriot had driven off triumphantly with him. 
 
 Gradually they had been thrown more and more into 
 each other's company. Mrs. Herriot was the only lady 
 in the half-world who so far had attracted Manners in 
 the least. She was straightforward and sincere, gen- 
 erous to a fault (her faults were mostly owing to her 
 generosity) and extremely pretty. Perceiving that no 
 other woman of her acquaintance had any attraction 
 for Manners she was undeniably flattered. Already 
 she was beginning to think that she was fond of him. 
 He had proposed merely to see her home, but it was in 
 her mind that the affair might be induced to progress 
 a little further. She would confide to him that she had 
 a cold roast chicken in the ice-box and a bottle of very 
 brut champagne, and she would invite him to share 
 these things with her. It would not be her fault if he 
 went supperless to bed. 
 
 Mrs. Herriot was not a siren. She liked men; be- 
 cause she was generous, she was extravagant, and 
 because she was extravagant she was usually stone- 
 broke. In addition she was not good company for 
 herself. 
 
 When Manners proposed a turn in the Park she was 
 
 210
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 211 
 
 delighted. It was obvious that he was in no hurry to 
 leave her. He put his head out of the window and 
 gave an order to the driver of their taxi. He did not 
 at once withdraw his head but turned and looked be- 
 hind them down the avenue. A few moments later 
 they had entered the Park at Fifty-ninth Street. 
 
 "Most any park's a lovely thing at night!" said 
 Mrs. Herriot, "and most especially this old park. I 
 used to roller-skate all over it when I was a little girl. 
 I was in love with a policeman." 
 
 "It isn't so hard to be lovely at night," said Man- 
 ners. He turned and smiled quietly at her. "Now you 
 manage to be lovely even in the daytime. That's the 
 great test." 
 
 Mrs. Herriot laughed with pleasure. 
 
 "Do please say that again!" she cried. "I didn't 
 know you ever said pretty things to ladies." 
 
 "But I do sometimes," he said, "and you are a 
 witness." 
 
 Now, Manners had been preparing himself during 
 the evening to play in some such scene as this. Other~ 
 wise, so heavy was his heart, he could not have spoken 
 his lines with conviction. Diana would have known 
 instantly that he had had a good deal to drink, but no- 
 body else would have known. 
 
 The Park was almost deserted. Manners boldly 
 slipped an arm round Mrs. Herriot and drew her close 
 to his side. 
 
 "I think you're a very sweet little person," he said. 
 She said nothing, merely turned her face a little, and 
 looked earnestly into his eyes. Then her lips trembled 
 and parted, and he kissed them.
 
 212 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Mrs. Harriot's is a practical world. The lovemak- 
 ing in it is swift and to the point. The women have 
 no illusions about themselves. The men have no illu- 
 sions about the women. But Manners did not belong 
 to Mrs. Herriot's world. And he told her that he was 
 fond of her, and wanted her, so shyly and boyishly and 
 tenderly that she was deeply touched. She fancied her- 
 self as playing a useful and comforting role in the life 
 of a sufficiently celebrated man. He could soon per- 
 ceive that at heart she was ever so decent and domestic ; 
 that she only appeared to love gaiety and late hours. 
 Perhaps he would not just pay her visits when he felt 
 so inclined. She pictured an end of her disordered 
 and disorderly life and the beginnings of new and bet- 
 ter things. Mixed with these thoughts, and gradually 
 displacing them, the desire bred of his kisses and 
 caresses at length mastered her. And when she saw 
 that the taxi had nearly completed the tour of the Park, 
 her eyes narrowed and she rejoiced exceedingly. She 
 had never taken any stern measures to discipline her 
 temperament. And she believed that Manners wanted 
 her just as much as she wanted him. He had made 
 her believe that. But his soul was in a turmoil. 
 
 Mrs. Herriot's kisses were horribly like Diana's at 
 their best. In several ways she was not unlike Diana. 
 She had the same loving note in her voice that Diana 
 had had when she was in love with him. She had the 
 same trustful way of melting into an embrace. Since 
 he must sin he was glad that he had chosen to sin with 
 Mrs. Herriot. But as the liquor died in him the 
 thought, mixed, for he was human, with genuine de- 
 sire, of being unfaithful to Diana seemed horrible to
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 213 
 
 him. And for the first time he thought seriously of 
 cheating the law. "Let them find us together," he 
 thought, "and let the world think what it must, only 
 let me know that I have been faithful, only let me go 
 on being faithful till death." 
 
 To the Wild Goose death, even torture, appeared 
 infinitely preferable to unfaithfulness. 
 
 The taxi had turned the corner of the street in which 
 Mrs. Herriot lived. A moment later Manners thrust 
 his head out of the window and looked behind them. 
 Then he turned to Mrs. Herriot and said: 
 
 "How much does your reputation mean to you ?" 
 
 "I'd hate people to say I wasn't a good sport. 
 Otherwise I have no reputation. Why?" 
 
 "I'm being followed. There's a taxi just behind 
 with two men in it. They got in just as we were leav- 
 ing the Knickerbocker. They followed us up the Ave- 
 nue and around the Park." 
 
 "Have you got enemies?" 
 
 His words had excited without alarming her. 
 
 "No," he said, "but suppose some one was interested 
 in knowing that I had gone to your apartment for 
 supper, that I had stayed late, and that we were 
 alone?" 
 
 Mrs. Herriot cooled a little. 
 
 "Am I part of a put-up job?" 
 
 He lied at once, beautifully, without the quiver of 
 an eyelash. 
 
 "No," he said. 
 
 "What is it you want of me?" 
 
 "Nothing. It's like this. I haven't behaved very 
 well, and I don't intend to. But it would be hard to
 
 214 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 prove anything against me. And it isn't worth dis- 
 cussing, is it? Only I warn you to send me home if 
 you aren't afraid of seeing your name in the papers." 
 
 She quoted from a play she had once seen and 
 admired. 
 
 "There's only one thing worse than being talked 
 about," she said, "and that's not being talked about." 
 
 Manners laughed aloud. The taxi drew up in front 
 of the nickel-and-glass door of a handsome apartment- 
 house. The second taxi did not at once stop, but kept 
 on west for a dozen numbers or so. Meanwhile Man- 
 ners and Mrs. Herriot had entered the building, and 
 were waiting for the elevator to take them to Mrs. 
 Herriot's apartment. 
 
 When the door of that apartment had closed behind 
 them, Manners said: "How about that cold bottle, 
 Elaine? I'm dry as dust." 
 
 "Frank," it was the faintest whisper. 
 
 "Yes, Elaine." 
 
 "You can't sleep?" 
 
 "No, dear." 
 
 The effects of the liquor that Manners had drunk 
 to dull his moral senses had died. 
 
 He ached to the marrow with feelings of shame, 
 remorse and degradation. Mixed with these feelings 
 was a great tenderness and pity for the little person at 
 his side, who was at once so naive and sophistocatcd. 
 so gentle and so ardent. 
 
 "I'm sorry. It's horrid to lie awake." 
 
 "Don't you worry about me." 
 
 "But I do."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 215 
 
 Her tone of solicitude was grateful. He forced a 
 laugh. 
 
 "You attend to your sleeping, and I'll attend to mine. 
 I oughtn't to drink champagne. It keeps me awake." 
 
 "It isn't that. You've got something on your mind. 
 I've known that all along. You haven't lived a very 
 gay life, have you? I've known that all along. Do 
 you wish you hadn't stayed?" 
 
 "You've been very sweet to me." 
 
 Little Mrs. Herriot sighed. 
 
 "Was it the truth when you said that I wasn't part 
 of a put-up job?" 
 
 Now that the liquor was dead in Manners the 
 thought of lying seemed much too dull and wearisome. 
 
 "Would you be angry? You'd have a right to be." 
 
 "Not angry. Hurt !" 
 
 "But I am fond of you. I think you're sweet. I 
 think you're a wonderful little person. I want to paint 
 something with you in it. I could change your face 
 the least bit so that you wouldn't be recognized. I'd 
 like to paint you against the light, so that your outline 
 would be a kind of golden haze." 
 
 "When will you do it?" 
 
 "When I get my affairs all in order. August maybe. 
 It'll be out of doors, so we'll need warm weather. I 
 could take a little bungalow studio on the coast some- 
 where. Would you like that?" 
 
 "Then I'm not altogether part of a put-up job?" 
 
 "Not now." 
 
 "You're not going to chuck me right off?" 
 
 She hoped he would say that he was never going 
 to chuck her. But all he said was: "No, dear."
 
 216 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Mrs. Herriot was very wise as to men's moods. She 
 knew that her companion was suffering deeply and her 
 instincts guessed the cause. 
 
 "You don't want to be divorced, do you ?" she asked. 
 
 "I'd rather die." There was a pang of sudden hope- 
 less grief in his voice. 
 
 "When a man loves his wife," said Mrs. Herriot, 
 "he is all kinds of a fool to let her divorce him. He 
 ought not to for her sake." 
 
 "But suppose the man's wife is desperately in love 
 with some one else?" 
 
 "Oh, that !" said Mrs. Herriot skeptically. 
 
 In theory Manners would have stood torture sooner 
 than discuss intimate family affairs with a light 
 woman, and already he felt that he had said too much, 
 and at the same time he was curious to know just what 
 the point of view of a woman like Mrs. Herriot would 
 be. With a sudden burst of confidence she enlightened 
 him. 
 
 "Men," she said, "always want to know how the 
 woman they're with first happened to go wrong. 
 Women are always prepared to answer that question. 
 Sometimes they say one thing, sometimes another. 
 That's because it's always easy to make up something 
 grander than the truth. The most notorious woman 
 likes to believe that she would have been okeh if she 
 hadn't had such bad luck that nobody could possibly 
 make head against it. Would you like it if I told you 
 about me? You've never asked or even hinted. I 
 think I'd like to tell you." 
 
 "What one thing or the other ?" 
 
 "You know better. The truth. Knowing the truth
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 217 
 
 from the woman's point of view might help you more 
 than any amount of good advice." 
 
 "I'd love to know all about you," said Manners. 
 
 "I was crazy about the man I married," began Mrs. 
 Herriot abruptly, "and he was crazy about me. He 
 was a one-woman man. He'd never really liked any- 
 body but me. And I guess for a while we were just 
 about as happy as two people can be. We'd be happy 
 right now if I'd had any sense. One trouble was I had 
 nothing to do but keep house. We had a tiny house, 
 and it was easy to keep. But I guess even big houses 
 aren't as hard to keep as women like to make out. It 
 used to take me about an hour and a half or two hours 
 a day at the very most. I never liked sewing or sitting 
 around gossiping or reading, and so the rest of the day 
 when my husband was down-town I had nothing much 
 to do except kill time the best way I could. I tried to 
 learn golf and tennis, but I was rotten at them. My 
 husband bought me a pony and I took some riding les- 
 sons, but I had a fall and lost my sand. I don't quite 
 know how it began, but I got playing with a little 
 crowd at the country club that were pretty gay. The 
 men didn't have to work and the women didn't want 
 to stay put. They laughed at everything that was seri- 
 ous, and pretended that they didn't care what hap- 
 pened. Most of that was bluff; but it took me in. I 
 got silly ideas about men and women and children. 
 When I found that I was going to have a baby I was 
 ashamed to go around with the crowd any more. And 
 I stayed home eating my heart out thinking of the good 
 times they were having and what bad luck I'd had. 
 But one of the men used to drop in to see me real often.
 
 218 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 I didn't mind him. He never seemed to notice that I 
 wasn't looking my best. He was full of fun and would 
 always make me laugh. First thing I knew I was 
 thinking about that man oftener than about my own 
 husband. And I read some books we had in the house 
 about the great loves of history. It seemed to me 
 beautiful for a married woman to have a lover who 
 wasn't a lover, but just a spiritual affinity." 
 
 "I guess a good many women have that idea," Man- 
 ners interrupted. 
 
 "All women at some time or other. I know a girl 
 whose ideal of happiness was to get married first and 
 find a real mate afterward. Silly fools! After my 
 baby was born my husband got into some things that 
 kept him from home more than ever. He not only 
 had to go to town every day and stay late, but he had 
 to make long trips to other cities. We had more and 
 more money to spend, but I had more and more time 
 to kill. And the man hung around more and more. He 
 made me think I was neglected and unhappy before I'd 
 ever thought of such a thing. Then he said he was 
 making me conspicuous by our all the time being seen 
 together. And after that I used to meet him in town 
 and we'd have lunch at quiet places where we weren't 
 likely to see people we knew. And sometimes, just to 
 prove to myself that I didn't give a darn what other 
 people thought, I'd go to his rooms for tea. I was 
 just an imprudent little fool, nothing worse. Well, 
 my husband found out and cut up something awful. 
 He told me to drop the man at once, and for good, or 
 he'd kill him. I told him I loved the man with all my 
 heart and soul, that he was good and strong, and
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 219 
 
 wouldn't ever neglect me, and I wanted to be free to 
 marry him. My husband asked me once and for all 
 would I give up the man or wouldn't I. And I said 
 I'd die first. My husband said then give him a few 
 days to think things over and in the meanwhile for 
 God's sake not to do anything I'd always regret. But 
 he didn't take any time to think things over. He got 
 a piece of lead pipe out of the cellar and he went 
 straight to the man's rooms and waited till the man 
 came in. I didn't know at the time. And I kept writ- 
 ing and telephoning ; but the man kept out of the way. 
 One day I met him face to face in the street, but he 
 just hurried by and pretended not to see me. There 
 was some mystery about it. My husband did some- 
 thing awful to him. And he nearly died of it. And 
 he couldn't bring an action against my husband, be- 
 cause it would involve my name and because he was 
 ashamed to. 
 
 "But my husband and I never really got back to first 
 principles; we'd each hurt the other too much. And 
 I fell in love again, and my husband was bored and 
 tired by that time, and he let me go. He furnished 
 grounds and let me have our little boy for my reputa- 
 tion's sake and paid big alimony. But he warned me 
 what would happen. He said that big stiff you're 
 crazy about is notorious. He doesn't want to marry 
 you. See? He was right. First, he couldn't be mar- 
 ried till he'd rounded up some business in the West; 
 then it was because his aunt who was dying didn't be- 
 lieve in divorces and he was afraid she'd change her 
 will. But he fooled me. I trusted him absolutely. 
 When I found out that I'd been fooled, it wasn't the
 
 220 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 being fooled that hurt most; but thinking about my 
 husband, and how I'd hurt him and ruined him, just 
 because I was vain and ruthless and couldn't stay put. 
 I'd have given anything in God's world to go back 
 to him; but I'd been fooled to the limit and couldn't 
 even ask. Then he died. And that was the end of 
 the alimony and everything. His brother offered me 
 a little allowance on condition that I'd give up my little 
 boy to him, change my name, and lie dead so far as the 
 family was concerned. I'm just a typical case." 
 
 Having told her career Mrs. Herriot became infatu- 
 ated with the subject, and embellished it with many de- 
 tails and comments. And she tried of course, naming 
 no names, to draw a parallel between herself and 
 Diana Manners. 
 
 "We women," she concluded, "always end by learn- 
 ing our lesson; but most always it's too late to be any 
 practical good. Do you think if I had my chance over 
 again that I wouldn't stick? Nine times out of ten 
 it's the women like me, women that men don't marry 
 (unless they are drunk), who would make the most 
 faithful wives. We've learned the beauty and the 
 value of faithfulness." 
 
 Manners looked at his watch. It was already six 
 o'clock. 
 
 "The gentlemen in the other taxi," he thought, 
 "have had a long wait."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 FRANK MANNERS did not see Diana for a number of 
 days. Nor did he see Mrs. Herriot nor any one whom 
 he could avoid seeing. He was in a state of moral and 
 mental anguish. It would have been better to have 
 cheated the law. Anything would have been better 
 than to have so smirched and lowered himself in his 
 own eyes. Diana was his wife. Whether she aban- 
 doned him or not, that was a fact which could not be 
 altered. He had taken her for better or for worse. He 
 had gone back on his oath. He was a perjurer. More 
 and more clearly he realized that his whole course had 
 been wrong. "From the moment I learned about 
 Fenn," he thought, "I have done the wrong thing 
 every time there was a chance to do anything." And 
 he saw very clearly what he should have done. "I 
 ought not to have said that they could see each other 
 once in a while," he thought; "I ought to have told 
 them that they must go for a year without seeing each 
 other or hearing of each other, and that if at the end 
 of the year Diana still felt that she wanted to marry 
 him, I'd arrange matters so that she could. But Diana 
 would have refused with horrible threats just as in 
 fact she did refuse any such suggestion. Still, I ought 
 to have said my little say and stood pat. I ought to 
 have been perfectly easy-tempered about the whole 
 thing. I ought not to have allowed myself to be so 
 upset. I should have made Diana understand that 
 
 221
 
 222 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 every time she saw Fenn she simply put off the end 
 of her probationary year, and I should have gone my 
 way peacefully and confidently. I ought to have 
 trusted her. If we hadn't had horrible scenes she 
 wouldn't have run off with him. If I'd kept my temper 
 and heartaches to myself and gone on quietly about my 
 business everything would have come out all right." 
 
 Manners really believed this, and not without good 
 grounds. It is true that at first Diana would have re- 
 fused any such bargain. But the chances were that in 
 the long run she would have accepted his end of it. 
 That she could keep in love with a man like Fenn for 
 a whole year without ever seeing him was a ridiculous 
 idea. She wasn't that kind of a woman. Manners 
 felt very sure of this. "I had a perfectly good chance," 
 he thought, "and I didn't see it. I didn't think I had 
 any. And now, God help me, everything is all over. 
 And Diana's done for, and I'm done for, and Tam 
 hasn't half the chance she ought to have." 
 
 During these days he received several notes from 
 Mrs. Herriot and answered them ; but he did not go to 
 see her. Later on he would begin to see her again. 
 He could sink no deeper into degradation, and in time 
 she might become of definite comfort to him. At least 
 he would not see her until he had seen Diana. But he 
 kept putting off that interview, and in the end it was 
 Diana who came to see him. 
 
 Diana had no manner of pushing a bell-button that 
 was in any way individual with herself. All depended 
 on her mood. So that when the bell of the apartment 
 sounded it was only Manners's intuition which could 
 have told him that it was his wife who had rung it.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 223 
 
 The poor, driven man had committed no great 
 crime, and yet he started as might a criminal at the 
 step of those who have come to take him. A sudden 
 fear of the woman whom he had in no way wronged 
 possessed him ; and he did not at once go to open the 
 door. Yet if it was to be opened at all he must do it 
 himself, for the man who valeted had been sent upon 
 an errand, and the woman who came in by the day had 
 finished her work and gone home. He had the im- 
 pulse to let the bell go unanswered, and that impulse 
 lasted a long moment. He rose, then, slowly, went to 
 the door and opened it. 
 
 "I knew it was you," he said. "Come in." 
 
 "You were a long time answering the bell." 
 
 "I know it. Sit down !" 
 
 He himself withdrew to a distance of some yards. 
 
 "I didn't want to see you, Diana. I am very sor- 
 rowful and ashamed. You have had a report from 
 Mr. Raghorn?" 
 
 "Yes, Frank." 
 
 Her voice was icy cool. Her eyes at the same time 
 were rather warm with interest and curiosity and there 
 was in their expression also a trace of horror and 
 jealousy. There was in her, though she did not recog- 
 nize it as such, the fear that her husband was not now, 
 after his experience with Mrs. Herriot, so sorry that 
 he was to be divorced. If anyone had said: "But don't 
 you want your poor husband to be happy, too?" she 
 would have answered valiantly, "Of course." And 
 that would not have been the whole truth. It would 
 have been a sort of magnanimous intellectual gesture, 
 contradicted by all the self-centerment of her sex.
 
 224 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "I could not now, Diana," said her husband, "ask 
 you to come back to me." He smiled with a certain 
 wistfulness and shook his head. "Yet it only needed 
 what has happened to prove to me that I have not been 
 altogether selfish in trying to keep you. My dear, for 
 every woman in this world there is one man and not 
 two. For every man there is one woman. You were 
 that woman to me and I was that man to you. Between 
 us we have made a mess of things, and the hour has 
 struck. It is a great pity. Some benefits you may 
 think at first that you have found with the new love, 
 but in the end you will only feel that you have been 
 wanton, and that you have been smirched. You must 
 divorce me now, of course. I see that. I should never 
 have consented to do what I have done. It is just as 
 wicked as if it had been by my own beastly and inconti- 
 nent wish. I used to think that purity was of the heart 
 and soul; and that the woman, for instance, who had 
 been taken against her will was as pure as the woman 
 who had never been taken at all. But I was wrong. 
 Facts are facts and they are terrible things. . . . But 
 I don't know why I should deliver you an oration. 
 Won't you have a cup of tea or something?" 
 
 "You feel pretty rotten, don't you?" said Diana, 
 shaking her head. 
 
 "I do. I should like to die now, except that as I see 
 it, and as all the rest of us see it, except you, and you 
 will the moment the pinch comes, you will need all the 
 money I can give you, so I must stay alive and earn it." 
 
 "You know it's perfectly understood that you are 
 not to give me a penny, except maybe just a tiny allow- 
 ance for Tarn."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 225 
 
 "That's my entering wedge, dear. The people Tarn 
 is to live with must live comfortably. If Tarn is to 
 have things as she has always had them, it isn't only 
 clothes, and doctors, and food that count; it's sur- 
 roundings, a general source of ease and well-being. 
 That she's always had. That she always must have. 
 You will see that I am right when the time comes. 
 You may think that you will enjoy picknicking until 
 a ripe old age. But you won't. You may think that 
 you will enjoy being a real wife and helpmate ; I know 
 that is your plan, but you won't. You will never really 
 enjoy being anything but Diana." 
 
 The young woman's eyes filled with tears. The bit- 
 terness of her husband's words coupled with the gentle- 
 ness of his voice moved her more than he could have 
 moved her in any other way. 
 
 "I thought I'd been a pretty good wife to you. 
 Frank, for a time, anyway." 
 
 "My darling," he said, moved in his turn at remem- 
 bering the wonder of all that young passionate girl- 
 hood she had given him, that almost dog-like trust and 
 adoration, the overwhelming generosities, "you were 
 everything in the world to me, love and the heart and 
 soul of love ; life and the breath of life. You were like 
 some delicious armful of roses without thorns; and 
 surely some day oh" he paraphrased: 
 
 " 'My dust would hear you and beat, 
 Had I lain for a century dead; 
 Would start and tremble under your feet, 
 And blossom in purple and red.' " 
 
 He paused and stood for quite a long time looking 
 at her, chin on hand. She did not return his look. She
 
 226 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 felt that she might lose control of herself if she did. 
 She tried to fix her mind on something quite unrelated 
 to the matter in hand. What she managed to think of 
 was not altogether unrelated a purple-and-red dress 
 but it steadied her, and she returned his look. 
 
 "But a good wife to me, Diana? That you were 
 never. You've helped me wonderfully in lots of ways ; 
 but that's not being a good wife. You helped me be- 
 cause you wanted to. And the help grew less precisely 
 as your wish to help grew, less, until your wish to help 
 me either ceased entirely or became the empassioned 
 wish to help somebody else. ... I tell you, upon my 
 soul, Diana, I want you to be happy in your new life. 
 If I didn't, I should let you off by telling you that you 
 were exquisite and charming and adorable ; but if you 
 are going to make good with your new husband you'll 
 have to be a lot more things than that. 
 
 "I made a little house for you. It was remote and 
 all that ; but we loved each other, we had our way to 
 make in the world, and it was a dear and complete little 
 house in a very lovely country, and it was a place 
 where I could work. Will you exonerate me in ad- 
 vance from giving the impression that my work is of 
 any artistic value, or that I so consider it ? Compared 
 to the real thing it isn't worth a hang, never was, and 
 never will be, and there is only one chance in a million 
 that it ever might have been. Exonerate me at least 
 from that form of egotism. But to us it was the most 
 valuable thing in the world. It was our bread and 
 butter. It was all we had to go on, our insurance 
 against old age, the guarantee that our children should 
 have a home and education, and a little something to
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 227 
 
 start life with. But in your realm of life the work 
 counted for nothing. 'Oh, Frank/ you used to tell 
 people, 'is so lucky. He doesn't have to go to a poky 
 office. Wherever he is there his work is.' But a 
 painter, my dear, must have his office just as much as 
 a lawyer must have his. He must work as patiently 
 and methodically and uninterruptedly. Wherever we 
 have been, wherever we did cast our lines I managed 
 to do some sort of work, and it was like pulling teeth, 
 I can tell you. Newport, with dinners and dances. 
 And me up at seven to get some work done, and you 
 sleeping till the roses of which you are made were all 
 pink and fresh again. ..." 
 
 "But you loved that sort of life?" 
 
 "Yes. Who wouldn't? Gaiety and attractive 
 people ; and money and champagne passing round, and 
 bully times and swimming! I did love that life. I 
 have no call to be a painter. God never put his finger 
 on my shoulder and said 'I choose you/ I had to do 
 something, and painting was my best bet. Do you 
 think for a moment I wouldn't rather have spent all of 
 my life having a good time, frolicking and laughing? 
 Of course I would. I loved Newport and Palm Beach 
 and all the hard riding between places; but most of all 
 I loved to see you having a good time. But I knew 
 it was wrong for us to live like that oh, sometimes it 
 was all right ! But it was not all right when we didn't 
 have the money and had to go in hock for our fun. 
 And when I objected you turned cool at once. You 
 said I was making more money every year, why 
 worry? I was making more money every year, but 
 how? By doing work oh, it was as good as I could
 
 228 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 do, I guess, but it wasn't the kind of work that paved 
 the way for better work later on. I was in the forma- 
 tive period. I should have been experimenting and 
 studying, instead of swelling around pretending that I 
 had arrived. And you, Diana, shouldn't have made 
 the mistake of giving the best that was in you to other 
 things. You should have given it to the work, not to 
 me, to the work. People have to live for something. 
 We should have lived for the thing that enabled us to 
 live at all. But you didn't. Oh, I am to blame, too," 
 he interrupted a protest that Diana was about to make. 
 "We didn't. We went where we wanted to go, lived 
 as we wanted to live. We didn't go where the w r ork 
 wanted to go, or live as the work demanded that we 
 should live. That is our failure ; that and not listening 
 to the voices of the little children who wanted to be 
 born, the little children that the work had a right to 
 want. That is where we have failed and why. Of 
 course, you have fallen in love with another man. We 
 hadn't the sweetness of sacrifices offered in common to 
 fall back on." 
 
 With the point of view that was characteristic of 
 her, Diana said: "Then I don't see any use in rubbing 
 it in. It can't be helped now." 
 
 "Of course it can't now," said Manners with a 
 slight show of impatience. "And I am not talking for 
 our benefit, but for yours. You see your welfare, even 
 far off, and utterly beyond my control, touches very 
 closely. You have not been a good wife to me, Di, 
 dear, you know that, don't you?" 
 
 "Oh, I suppose I do. But I didn't come to be
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 229 
 
 scolded. I came because I knew you'd feel terribly, 
 and to say that I am sorry, and to thank you." 
 
 But he would not be diverted from his intention to 
 say what was on his mind. 
 
 "If I let myself think about Fenn," he said, "I see 
 red and I want to see him punished. He has no excuse. 
 But I say to myself: If Diana wasn't mixed up with 
 him, he is a man you couldn't possibly either like or 
 dislike. If you happened to know him, you certainly 
 wouldn't take the trouble to cross the street to speak 
 with him, so I try to leave Fenn out of my thoughts 
 and calculations. To punish him would punish you. 
 I don't want you punished. I want you to get the most 
 that is possible out of your life. There is only one way, 
 Diana. Do right. Give this fellow a square deal. 
 Don't think that loving 1iim a whole lot for a while is 
 the best you can do. Steel yourself against the night 
 when his passion is still aflame and yours has flickered 
 out. That is one of the great test-moments which de- 
 cides whether a wife is going to be a success or not. 
 There are other test-moments; when he lays before her 
 some matter in which his whole interest is involved. 
 Try to be interested. When you know that you are 
 spending too much be the first one to say so, and be 
 the one to suggest the ways and means of retrench- 
 ment. Don't leave that hellish duty to him. . . ." 
 
 "Frank," said Diana a little coldly, for she hated 
 any mention of money matters, "don't you imagine 
 that we'll be able to work these things out for our- 
 selves ?" 
 
 "Not unless you go to him in the sackcloth and 
 ashes of true penitence. Not unless you see in what
 
 2 3 o THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 way you have been a waster and profligate both of lives 
 and material. Not unless, when you speak the mar- 
 riage lines in that beautiful -and moving voice of yours, 
 you have some idea what they mean and intend to keep 
 their promises. When you married me you didn't 
 know what you were saying. So I exonerate you, or 
 rather, I forgive you. But if you had known you 
 would simply have been perjuring yourself. This time 
 you will have some idea what you are saying. Don't 
 let it be a perjury. If you promise to love, honor and 
 obey Fenn till death part you, for God's sake do so! 
 You have said to me time and again, *lBut how can I 
 love you if I don't love you?' Quibbles like that don't 
 free a woman from responsibility. If I had fallen out 
 of love with you, Diana, you would never have known 
 it from me. So help me God ! And if you had sus- 
 pected, I would have lied and denied until hell froze 
 over. You will do well if you take to your new mar- 
 riage the code of honor which I brought you in ours." 
 
 He was silent. And neither of them spoke for a 
 long time. Then Manners drew close to his wife, and 
 though his fingers hovered near her shoulder, he did 
 not actually touch her. 
 
 "I hope, dear," he said, "that I shall never speak 
 another unkind w r ord to you, or think any more unkind 
 thoughts. I have done what you wished me to do, or 
 what it seemed exigent for me to do. You will soon 
 be free. We must not meet often, or the law might 
 suspect us of connivance. If it is better that we should 
 not meet any more at all, you will have your divorce 
 upon unimpeachable grounds. I have not merely fur- 
 nished evidence, I have broken my marriage vows;
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 231 
 
 smashed down all the ideals that I had of life and con- 
 duct. If I have ever wronged you and sinned against 
 you in other ways I am paying for it now." 
 
 She went to the door of the well-remembered room, 
 not with the proud look of a free woman, but with the 
 expression of a child that has been whipped. At the 
 door she turned. He had followed her closely. 
 
 "Frank," she said in a queer little voice, "would you 
 like to kiss me good-by?" 
 
 She lifted her face, her lips slightly parted. 
 
 "That's all right, Di," he said, "that's all right." 
 
 He did not kiss her ; though it looked for a moment 
 as if he was going to. 
 
 "Have you a cab waiting?" he asked. "I'll go down 
 and put you in it." 
 
 "No," she said, "don't come down." 
 
 He lifted his eyebrows in a kind of mocking inter- 
 rogation. 
 
 "Waiting for you, is he? Waiting for the post- 
 mortem?" 
 
 She turned again impulsively. 
 
 "Don't don't be so bitter!" she exclaimed, "please 
 don't. I am going through hell." 
 
 "I'm sure you are," he said, "sure of it. I'm sorry 
 for you." 
 
 So they parted. 
 
 When Diana reached the street she crossed at once 
 to the cab from which Ogden Fenn had been watching 
 for her, and from which he had already thrust a foot 
 and leg with the gallant intention of descending to 
 help her in. 
 
 "Don't get out," she said impulsively, "please."
 
 232 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 He withdrew the tentative foot. She spoke to him 
 in a low voice so that the driver could not hear. 
 
 "If you ever want to see me again, for God's sake 
 don't try to say anything to me now. Just go away, 
 go away, go away!" 
 
 "But when I Diana " 
 
 "Oh, I'll write, telephone, anything. I don't want 
 to talk to you now." 
 
 Her face was white and menacing. It was Fenn's 
 first experience of a Diana in any way different from 
 the tender and .confiding Diana whom he loved with all 
 his heart and soul. He gave the driver an address, 
 and drove off badly frightened. 
 
 Her husband's words had gone very deep. But she 
 knew without being told that she had not been a good 
 wife to him. And if she was to succeed with her sec- 
 ond husband where she had failed with the first, she 
 wished it to be the result of her own initiative, and not 
 of following someone else's advice. Diana, indeed, 
 had the intention of surprising the world by showing 
 the world what a model wife she could be once she 
 made up her mind to it. She had learned a lesson. 
 Given a fresh start, she felt competent to profit by it. 
 She would master her new husband's life in every de- 
 tail and make it hers. Nor would she, even in the 
 almost inconceivable event of her love toward him 
 cooling, ever, ever, fail him. Now, ordinarily, if 
 Diana had married Fenn, and then cooled toward him 
 she wolild undoubtedly have failed him as outrageously 
 and with as little show of justice as she had failed 
 Manners. But the circumstances were not ordinary. 
 She was going to marry Fenn in the teeth of general
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 233 
 
 disapproval and particular opposition. And her de- 
 termination to stick to him now and hereafter at all 
 costs was no half-baked impulse; but a strongly and 
 bravely calculated scheme of life. It is probable that 
 Diana felt that she could never be happy until she had 
 redeemed herself in her own eyes. Furthermore, it 
 was as if she was fighting with her back to the wall. 
 She would never put anybody in the position of saying, 
 "I told you so." Far rather she would die an assort- 
 ment of hideous deaths. 
 
 She wished that Frank hadn't touched on her wifely 
 conduct toward Fenn. Nobody ought to touch on 
 anything so private. Why not wish her good luck, 
 merely, and be done with it? It is always easier to 
 do right when you make the decision for yourself than 
 when you are goaded into it by advice and entreaty. 
 For one thing it doesn't happen so often. 
 
 But it was not resentment that had given Diana the 
 irresistible wish to be alone. The ways and times that 
 had once been so dear had suddenly flooded her mem- 
 ory with grief and tenderness. Fenn had nothing to 
 do with all that. It would hurt him to learn what 
 grieved her so. He must not. She must get the 
 better of those memories, of this sorrow, of this re- 
 morse, before she talked with him. She had dismissed 
 him as well as she could, irritably and hysterically; 
 but anything was better than a breakdown. She could 
 explain. She would say that it hadn't been easy to 
 thank her husband or say good-by to him and that she 
 had felt that she simply must be alone for a while. 
 Ogden would surely understand. 
 
 Diana turned into the Avenue and walked up, briskly
 
 234 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 and with determination, her head high. Nobody 
 would have picked her for a woman who within five 
 minutes had suffered the tortures of the damned. 
 Color came into her cheeks, and the tragic mood 
 passed. She felt a little "let-down," but not much. 
 The high contention and the combat of wills were all 
 over. Nobody would oppose her any more. She had 
 won her fight. There was nothing to do but wait. 
 In order to become Mrs. Ogden Fenn she had only to 
 wait. .Her cake had been promised to her and by-and- 
 by she would be at liberty to eat it. 
 
 Of course, as in all such passions, it was chiefly the 
 physical Diana that was so attracted to Fenn. She 
 herself was ignorant of this basic fact. There had 
 been moments during this affair when she had longed 
 to give and to be taken; but those moments had been 
 rarer than might be supposed. As she walked briskly 
 up the Avenue, trying to wipe all disagreeable and 
 poignant thoughts from her brain, it occurred to her 
 that perhaps she was never going to be happy. She 
 had a prophetic moment. She visualized herself as 
 already married to Fenn and settled down somewhere. 
 And the woman that she visualized kept saying: 
 "Well, is this all? Why don't you do something to 
 make me blissfully happy? We had that same chintz 
 once in our dining-room at Newport." 
 
 "I wonder," she thought dismally, "if it's only op- 
 position and knowing that I mustn't have them that 
 makes me want things?" 
 
 At that moment she did not love Fenn, or rather her 
 love for him was in a state of coma. The least trifle 
 of course would have waked it, but it is necessary to
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 235 
 
 record that during the time which it took her to walk 
 the length of a city block her love for him to all intents 
 and purposes did not exist. And of that fact she was 
 distinctly conscious. 
 
 Life-long opposition might have made Diana capa- 
 ble of a life-long love. She was one of those people 
 who are their very best in the defense of others. But 
 where others praised, too, she soon tired of praising, 
 and with those ways along which she met no opposition 
 she was soon bored.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 A FEW days passed and among the Manners's friends 
 and acquaintances it began to be rumored that a di- 
 vorce was impending. A number of women who 
 should have known better spoke to Diana about it. 
 They* had heard rumors. Of ^course it wasn't true. 
 Nothing quite so horrid ever was true? but they thought 
 it their duty to tell her what was said. And 
 Diana's punishment began. She had not supposed 
 that getting a divorce would make her feel so conspicu- 
 ous and self-conscious. She had never had those 
 feelings before and they were not pleasant. The ex- 
 perience made her feel far more guilty of wrong doing 
 than anything her husband had ever said to her. It 
 was a nasty experience. She couldn't see much of 
 Fenn for fear of talk ; and more than once she wished 
 that her elopement with him had not proved abortive. 
 Diana's mother made no comments, but she was im- 
 mensely hostile. Diana felt this and it hurt her. 
 "Right or wrong," she thought, "Mamma ought to be 
 on my side." One day she received a note from Mary 
 Hastings, 
 
 "DEAR Di: 
 
 I heard that you were getting a divorce, and Frank 
 tells me it's true. This is bad news; but I suppose 
 your mind has been long made up and that you are not 
 
 236
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 237 
 
 to be dissuaded. I never asked a favor of you. I do 
 now. I want you to tell me where and when I can see 
 you and to promise that you will listen to what I have 
 to tell you. It is something that you ought to know. 
 Could you lunch with me to-morro<w? I am very un- 
 happy about this. I love you both so much. 
 
 MARY." 
 
 Interfering with other people's affairs, even with 
 those of her most intimate friends, was so unlike Mary 
 Hastings that Diana actually went to lunch with her 
 on the following day. Afterward they had coffee 
 under the lovely apple-tree that Frank Manners had 
 painted and had their talk. 
 
 "Diana," said Mrs. Hastings, smiling in a dis- 
 arming way, "I am not going to argue with you. I 
 couldn't if I tried. I know Mr. Fenn. He came here 
 and we talked about you. I believe I tried argument, 
 it was a failure." 
 
 "He never told me." 
 
 "That's in his favor, he promised that he wouldn't." 
 
 "He came to see the porcelains." 
 
 "So he thought, and so you thought. He came as 
 a matter of fact to be talked to and scolded. But that's 
 ancient history. He is not your husband yet, and 
 Frank still is. I have wanted to tell you something 
 about Frank and me. He is still your husband and so 
 you ought to know. I have always been very much in 
 love with him." 
 
 Diana looked both surprised and. entertained. 
 "You, Mary? Why I never dreamed of such a thing. 
 And is that why you've always been so nice to me?"
 
 238 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "If I've been nice to you, it's been for your own 
 sake. Are we going to be frank with each other, 
 Diana? What do people say about my marriage with 
 Hastings?" 
 
 "That your family bullied you into it.'* 
 
 "Is that what you think?" 
 
 Diana nodded briskly. 
 
 "And Frank?" 
 
 Again Diana nodded. 
 
 "They influenced me as much as they could," said 
 Mrs. Hastings, "and I married him. But that is not 
 the point. The point is that I have been a good wife 
 to him. I had no heart to give him, but whatever it 
 was possible to give I have given always. And if I 
 have succeeded in what I set out to do it has been for 
 this reason: I have been able to give in such a way that 
 he has not been ashamed to take. Oh, I know," she 
 excused herself, "I am a very humble person, not at 
 all romantic. I should like to be a free-thinker, and 
 talk about the inalienable right of my soul to make 
 everybody about me miserable. But as a matter of 
 fact, far from being a free-thinker, it is with the great- 
 est difficulty that I manage to think about abstract 
 things at all. And I think," she concluded, "that I 
 have been happier than if I had made Hastings misera- 
 ble and had a love affair and run off with an affinity." 
 
 "But what about Frank?" Diana's interest in Mary 
 Hastings's totally unexpected revelation would not be 
 denied. "Does he ... ?" 
 
 "I think he has always known in his heart. But I 
 never told him, and naturally he never asked. Even," 
 she said, her eyes steadily on Diana's, "even if he had
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 239 
 
 felt the same about me, he never would have said any- 
 thing. He couldn't very well. ... I mean you and I 
 just know that he could never do a thing like that. It 
 would have hurt you so, and Hastings. And it would 
 have been entirely against his code of honor. That's 
 one of the things that hurts him so about you. He 
 feels that a man who could do what poor Mr. Fenn has 
 done is not the kind of man that a good woman ought 
 to marry." 
 
 Diana put her coffee cup on the table and started to 
 rise. 
 
 "Please please don't be offended," said Mrs. Hast- 
 ings. "I didn't mean to break the rules. I only 
 wanted to tell you that it is possible to love a man, and 
 do without him, and belong to a man you don't love, 
 and at the same time get enough out of life to make 
 life a thousand times worth living. Oh, it hasn't been 
 a bit easy ; and the first of it was terribly, terribly hard. 
 If anybody had asked me in those first years I'd have 
 answered that I was the most wretched, soiled, de- 
 graded creature on God's earth. But I wasn't, Diana, 
 not a bit of it." 
 
 "You forget, Mary, that you are one woman in ten 
 million, and everybody says so." 
 
 Mary Hastings smiled. It pleased her immensely 
 to be told things like that, though she was in truth very 
 humble and did not believe them. She excused her- 
 self. 
 
 "There was nothing else that I could try. I have no 
 mind, no resources. So I just tried to make things 
 as pleasant as I could for the man I had to live with. 
 I could always tell when he was pleased ; and somehow
 
 240 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 in time the knowledge that I had given pleasure gave 
 me pleasure. Nothing can stop me now," she cried 
 triumphantly. "I'm headed straight for a happy old 
 age. I'm even very sure that I shall wrinkle pleas- 
 antly. Always, my dear, I go to sleep smiling. I've 
 made a point of that for years." 
 
 "But," Diana objected, "I don't see where Frank 
 comes in ?" 
 
 "Only that I fell in love with him soon after I was 
 married. And loving him made the things I had to do 
 seem beyond anybody's nerve or strength. That's 
 how it made them seem, Diana. But really it was the 
 love that I had for Frank that made them worth do- 
 ing. ... So many women we know have done what 
 you are doing, Diana. Some of them must have had 
 even better reasons than you have. Are any of them 
 
 " She hesitated, and Diana supplied the rest of 
 
 the question: 
 
 "Going to wrinkle pleasantly ?" 
 
 "That's fust what I mean, Diana. Are they? What 
 is the difference between marrying a man you don't 
 love, and finding that you no longer love the man you 
 are married to? Diana, dear, nobody in this world 
 has such a good chance as you have to wrinkle pleas- 
 antly. Oh, I wouldn't stop loving Mr. Fenn. I 
 wouldn't dream of doing that. But I'd tell him that 
 I'd stopped, and I'd tell Frank, and everybody that 
 cares about you the way we all do ; and I'd be all the 
 things to Frank that you used to be when you wanted 
 to be them. It was no credit when you wanted to be 
 them ; but there would come to you now after a while 
 an inner glow of righteousness, of glorified self-satis-
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 241 
 
 faction, of duty done, that would soon turn all your 
 mountains into molehills. If only I were a bishop, 
 full of eloquence! If only I could make you see 
 the problems of life as I see them. They are so 
 childishly simple and easy; the way out of every diffi- 
 culty is so straight and practical. The rewards are 
 so sure. ..." 
 
 Mary Hastings had much more to say now that she 
 had Diana listening to her, though ever so unwillingly. 
 She leaned forward impulsively, her beautiful, tranquil 
 face all aglow with beatitude and resting her ringers 
 lightly on Diana's knee, she said: "Diana, darling 
 do right." 
 
 But Diana's face hardened. 
 
 "Mary," she said, "I have never been a good wife 
 to Frank; he says so himself. He told me so the last 
 time I saw him. If I wasn't able to be a good wife to 
 him when I loved him, there's no use trying to be now ; 
 the time is past, and there has been too much bitter- 
 ness. He has said things that I can't forget. That 
 they happened to be true doesn't make it any better. 
 . . . You tell me that all the while you were in love 
 with Frank you were able to give yourself to your 
 husband and to give yourself cheerfully, and my an- 
 swer to that is simply that you never were in love with 
 Frank, or anybody else. You don't know what love 
 is." 
 
 Mary Hastings recognized defeat and accepted it. 
 But Diana, usually so reticent, continued her self-justi- 
 fication. 
 
 "I have taken my failures to heart," she exclaimed, 
 "all of them. Don't think that I haven't. And when
 
 242 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 I marry the man I love it will be with my eyes open. 
 I shall never make those mistakes again." 
 
 "Oh, Diana, if we could only be sure that once you 
 are married to Mr. Fenn you won't fall in love with 
 somebody else." 
 
 "No fear," said Diana, "or if I do he will never 
 know it. You may despise me, Mary; I think you 
 do. I don't blame you a bit. Frank does. But I 
 have changed. I am different. I am going to have 
 another chance, and this time I am going to make good. 
 If I don't," there was a kind of defiant fierceness in 
 her voice, "I'll kill myself." 
 
 But Diana's sudden excitement kindled none in 
 the beautiful and tranquil Mrs. Hastings. 
 
 "You lucky person," she said, "to have two 
 chances!" There was no malice in what Mrs. Has- 
 tings said; no thought back of the thought. She 
 actually did think a person was wonderfully lucky to 
 be given two chances, more especially as she herself had 
 never had any. Many people thought that Mrs. Has- 
 tings was of a cold and unemotional temperament. 
 As a matter of fact she was not; but she was well-bred 
 and she was good. Even Diana, who knew her 
 intimately, felt that Mrs. Hastings could never have 
 more than a sentimental fancy for a man, and that Mrs. 
 Hastings longed to belong to Frank just as ardently as 
 she longed to belong to Fenn was a proposition which 
 Diana could never have been made to accept. 
 
 "When a woman," she said, "feels the way i do 
 about a man, she does things. She has to. That's 
 the way women are made. And if you never felt the 
 same way, it isn't fair to judge harshly."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 243 
 
 "But my dear," said Mrs. Hastings, "I know ex- 
 actly how you feel." 
 
 "You can't. Because the other person Frank 
 didn't feel the same way, or if he did, and I don't sup- 
 pose he did, because I think he always truly cared for 
 me, he never told you so what you had to do was 
 only horrible to you. It wasn't horrible to some one 
 you loved with all your heart and soul. If Frank had 
 loved you the way you loved him you couldn't have 
 gone on ... you couldn't !" 
 
 "This world is full of women who can't and don't, 
 Diana. But I think we'd both be enormously sur- 
 prised to find how many women there are who can 
 and do. ... I've tried to show you the beauties of 
 renunciation. And of course I have failed. I wish 
 I hadn't. I wish you didn't have to hurt Frank so." 
 
 "If you love him, Mary," said Diana, "how can 
 you want me or any woman to be his wife? I can't 
 understand that. If I couldn't have the man I wanted 
 I'd hate to see anybody else have him." 
 
 "It's just as I supposed," said Mrs. Hastings, with 
 mischief in her smile, "when you told me that I didn't 
 know what love was. You meant that you didn't 
 know." 
 
 Diana rose to her feet, and stood for a few moments 
 looking into the apple-tree which her husband had 
 painted. 
 
 "Mary," she said, "people say that Frank might have 
 been a really great painter if it hadn't been for me. I 
 know they say that. I've always thought it. Perhaps 
 that's why I stopped loving him. We always stop lov- 
 ing the things we injure most. Isn't that true? . . .
 
 244 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Perhaps when he's rid of me he'll be great. And that 
 will be a good thing. . . . Oh, I know you are all 
 against me. You all hope it will turn out badly, and 
 that I'll be unhappy. And I know you don't any of 
 you see the things in Ogden that I see. You don't 
 even think he's attractive. And that only makes me 
 love him the more. Oh, I should think now that you 
 all know that I must go on with this that you'd want 
 to help me and make it a success. I think even Frank 
 hopes that I'll be unhappy . . ." She broke off 
 abruptly, and held out her hand. 
 
 "Nobody hopes you'll be unhappy, Diana," said 
 Mrs. Hastings. "We're afraid. That's all. You see 
 a woman can only give all that she has to give once. 
 It's the same with a man. That is what makes the 
 step you are taking seem so desperate. Of course 
 you're happy now. ..." 
 
 "Happy !" exclaimed Diana. "How can I be happy 
 when I am making everybody wretched, and being 
 disapproved of and read lectures? But I am going to 
 be happy. I will be." 
 
 When Diana had gone, Mary Hastings telephoned 
 at once to Mrs. Langham. It was apparent that Mrs. 
 Langham had been expecting the call. 
 
 "Could you do anything with her?" she asked. 
 
 "I made a complete failure, Mrs. Langham. I'm 
 awfully sorry. I did really think I could do some 
 good; but I only succeeded in making her feel that 
 everybody is against her and hopes she'll be unhappy. 
 Have you said nothing to her ?" 
 
 "Not a word," said Mrs. Langham. "She knows
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 245 
 
 that I disapprove; and we have tacitly agreed not to 
 discuss the matter." 
 
 "But you won't let her go through with this with- 
 out making one effort to save her ? Please don't. She 
 might listen to you. She admires you more than she 
 admires anyone; and the fact that you haven't said 
 anything ought to count. It will seem so much more 
 momentous when you do. Frank thinks that you 
 ought to talk to her. But he won't ask you to himself. 
 He has an idea that Diana isn't as happy and care- 
 free as she expected to be, that she's in a fine state of 
 balance and that just the right word from the right 
 person might make her tip the right way. You will 
 try, won't you ?" 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Langham, "I'll try." 
 
 "May I tell Frank that you are going to talk to her? 
 He was so despondent when I saw him. Even if you 
 can't change her, it would always be easier for Frank 
 if he knew that you had tried." 
 
 Mary Hastings never knew how much her words 
 had affected Diana. Diana had been outwardly de- 
 fiant and illogical. But deep in her mind grave doubts 
 had begun to express themselves humbly and with 
 logic. Could she give up Fenn? Could she not give 
 him up? Those who had a right to talk to her were 
 all against her. Even the great love that she had for 
 Fenn made her no friends at court. The more she 
 loved him, the more beautiful the renunciation would 
 be. The voice that was speaking deep in her mind 
 kept saying: "This love will pass, as your other loves 
 have passed. When that happens you would give the 
 world to undo what by that time you will have done.
 
 246 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 You will tire of Fenn. He will bore you one of these 
 days. And the more you dwell on the things that you 
 have given up for his sake the less you will like him. 
 Would a real man have made love to you behind a kind 
 and loving husband's back? The kind of man you 
 really like is the kind of man that men like. That 
 kind of man doesn't do the kind of thing that Fenn 
 has done. He is a woman's man." 
 
 And the old nursery rime began to run in her head, 
 and she couldn't mistake the boy who plays the chief 
 part for anyone but Ogden Fenn; and that angered 
 her, because she loved Fenn, and was loyal to him, and 
 he was a hero to her. 
 
 "Georgia Porgie, pudding and pie, 
 Kissed the girls and made them cry, 
 When the boys came out to play, 
 Georgie Porgie ran away." 
 
 Georgie Porgie did look like Fenn. There was 
 no question about that, or else it was Fenn who looked 
 like Georgie Porgie. The chief resemblance was be- 
 tween the mouths. Both had fine teeth, and rather 
 full, flexible, shining lips. 
 
 She picked up a roving taxi at Fifty-ninth Street 
 and drove to the Pennsylvania Station. She just made 
 her train. She had to scamper to make it, and the 
 current of her thoughts changed. She began very 
 seriously to consider the possibility of dropping the 
 divorce proceedings, confessing her faults and asking 
 her husband to forgive her and take her back. A 
 thousand things that had seemed difficult, viewed 
 from this new angle, became easy. She had only to 
 surrender and all the bridges would be crossed for
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 247 
 
 her. Frank would work with renewed enthusiasm; 
 they could take up together the somewhat neglected 
 matter of Tarn's education. Mrs. Langham, Mary 
 Hastings, Peter, all their friends would be so glad. 
 She could think of having good times again, instead of 
 preparing to give them all up. There would be no 
 break-up of their household, no horrible sorting out 
 of possessions. Oh, she wanted to marry Fenn, and 
 for his sake she was ready to call the world well lost ; 
 but did the man for one moment realize what a horri- 
 ble nuisance it all was? 
 
 She reached home in a state of indecision. On the 
 hall table was a note from Fenn. She carried it up to 
 her room and laid it unopened on her dressing-table. 
 She did not wish to listen to him now. She was going 
 to decide something. She felt sure of that. When 
 she had decided she would read what her lover had 
 to say. Suppose she decided against him? She 
 ought to. She knew that. She was fond of her hus- 
 band, and he had never wronged her. To throw him 
 over merely because she was in love was criminal. 
 She knew that. To throw Fenn over would not be 
 criminal; and it would hurt her as much as it could 
 hurt him. It was the kind of hurting which they both 
 deserved. 
 
 While she dressed for dinner she had Tarn to visit 
 with her. The day had been hot, and Tarn's mind had 
 been running on sea-bathing. She had her parent's 
 love for salt water. 
 
 "Mumsey," she asked, "are we going to Newport; 
 because it's getting to be so hot? Even Grandma 
 says so."
 
 248 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "It isn't summer yet," said Diana, "and honestly 
 we haven't decided. We don't know just what we 
 are going to do." 
 
 She had a wild impulse to speak her mind out to 
 her child; and of course resisted it. She might have 
 said: 
 
 "Tarn, I'm tired of father, and I am going to live 
 with Mr. Fenn. Mr. Fenn isn't rich and I'll have to 
 live in the city most of the time where his business is. 
 Of course, you'ft live with us ; because a little daughter 
 needs her mumsey and all that, and then in a year or 
 two you'll be old enough to go to school. But nothing 
 will be quite the same. You see, wherever father 
 goes his work is with him; but Mr. Fenn isn't so 
 lucky. If he didn't stay in the city most of the time 
 he wouldn't have any money at all. Of course, I'm 
 not going to be married to him till next winter, and 
 perhaps I shall take you to Newport for a while ; some 
 where, anyway, where there's bathing. . ." and she 
 might have said a good deal more. 
 
 "Am I ever going to be able to justify myself in the 
 eyes of this child?" thought Diana. "Yes, when she 
 knows what love is. Then she will understand and 
 sympathize. But in the meanwhile I can't even try 
 to explain or justify myself. Oh, the questions she 
 will ask at first ! And perhaps it won't only be at first. 
 She is very tenacious. And if Ogden and I don't make 
 her happy all the time, she will remember how happy 
 her father could always make her. And then Ogden 
 and I will have our punishment living in the same 
 house with us." 
 
 "Tarn," said Diana, "come here."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 249 
 
 They made a charming picture in the mirror over 
 the dressing-table; but neither of them saw it. Diana 
 looked Tarn very earnestly in the eyes and Tam re- 
 turned the look. 
 
 "Which do you love better, Father or Mother?" 
 
 Tam would not answer. She flung her arms around 
 Diana and buried her face against her. 
 
 "She loves her father more," thought Diana, "and 
 she won't hurt my feelings by saying so, the darling. 
 And it does hurt my feelings." 
 
 "But you love your Mumsey a whole lot, don't 
 you?" 
 
 The pressure of the little arms increased and the 
 face made a bowing motion. Diana could feel the 
 little button of a nose pressing into her breast. . . 
 How, when he was tired and discouraged, the child's 
 father had loved to lay his head just there ! How he 
 would love to now, poor fellow ! To have and to hold 
 ... to love and obey. . . till death . . . 
 
 "You're hurting Mums." 
 
 "I 'spec I was just loving you too much." 
 
 "Now this is good-night, and then run tell Grand- 
 ma good-night and tell her I'll be down in a few 
 minutes." 
 
 "Is Fahzer coming?" 
 
 "Not to-night." 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "He'll be coming out to see you soon, I expect. 
 Now scamper." 
 
 Diana and her mother dined briefly, and talked on 
 a variety of topics, in which neither of them was very
 
 250 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 much interested at the moment. Shortly after dinner 
 Diana began to think about Fenn's note and wonder 
 what was in it. Just love and admiration of course, 
 and longing ; but she thought that he had a very felici- 
 tous and varied gift for saying such things. She was 
 sure that he thought more about her soul than her 
 body. And for some unknown reason, since both were 
 part of her and she was responsible for neither, this 
 thought had an immense power of flattery. 
 
 She sat in a corner of the big sofa with her little feet 
 tucked under her. She was just being polite. She 
 had nothing to say to her mother. Her mother was 
 against her. Mrs. Langham busied herself with a 
 piece of knitting ; and watched Diana covertly. Diana 
 suppressed a yawn, and Mrs. Langham put her knit- 
 ting down. 
 
 "My dear child," she said, "I suppose you are sick 
 to death of being talked to, and advised ; but after all 
 I'm your mother." 
 
 "And I've counted on you," said Diana, "to go 
 through to the bitter end without saying a word. 
 Must you? I know you hate it. I know you think 
 it's wicked and I know I'm not going to change. So 
 what is the use ?" 
 
 "It's because you have a daughter of your own," 
 said Mrs. Langham. "Very likely she will turn on 
 you one of these days, and say what is the use? And 
 if you haven't listened to me, you'll have no right to 
 make her listen to you, and you'll be sorry." 
 
 "It seems that I am going to be sorry for every- 
 thing," said Diana wearily. "Everybody says so, ex- 
 cept Ogden and me. We think there is such a thing
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 251 
 
 as a love that can make up to a woman for all the 
 things she is bound to lose. You're not going to argue 
 and plead, are you?" 
 
 "I won't promise not to argue. That is an old 
 woman's prerogative. I never have pleaded with you 
 or with anyone else. I sha'n't begin now. You feel 
 somewhat isolated, don't you, Diana? You feel as 
 if you were going through unprecedented experience. 
 You might even feel as if Fate had been unjust in 
 singling you out as the one woman who through a 
 great passion is doomed to make her family and 
 friends wretched. . . . When, as a matter of fact, 
 what you are suffering is just as common as is the way 
 in which you are seeking relief. You are not unique. 
 Most married women betray their husbands either in 
 word or in deed or in thought. And each married 
 woman thinks that her particular excuse for doing so 
 is the only really sacred and transcendental passion 
 since Antony and Cleopatra. The whole world is 
 seething with loves like yours and Fenn's. Yours is 
 just a drop in the great bucket, neither more worthy, 
 nor less. Less, because it was more of your seeking 
 than the man's." 
 
 "It's all very well to theorize," said Diana iron- 
 ically, "but how can you know? You of all people? 
 You, the shyest and most conventional person in the 
 world. You talk as if you'd been a famous flirt." 
 
 "I was in my heart," said Mrs. Langham; "all 
 women are. But I was not theorizing. I have had 
 my little tragedy, too." 
 
 "You!" exclaimed Diana. She was shocked, hor- 
 rified, skeptical, hopeful, almost delighted. She had
 
 252 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 never felt so close to her mother. Mrs. Langham 
 laughed, blushed a little and bit her lip. 
 
 "Yes," she said simply, "I had my eternal passion, 
 just as you are having yours. Perhaps it was even 
 more of an eternal passion than yours; for yours is 
 comparatively young still, and mine, oh, mine lasted 
 for a great many years." 
 
 "Did you want to divorce my father?" 
 
 "Of course I wanted to. I wanted to abandon all 
 you children. I wanted to fly to the ends of the world, 
 to forget the world, to be forgotten by it. I yearned 
 if anything to make the affair as scandalous as pos- 
 sible. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, Mamma," said Diana, and she was as inter- 
 ested as a child might be in a thrilling ghost-story, 
 "What did you do?" 
 
 "The affair," said Mrs. Langham, "came to a head 
 one Sunday, when everybody had gone to church ex- 
 cept me your father, the servants, the children 
 everybody. I lay on the floor in my room and 
 screamed and kicked and bit ... I was entirely out 
 of my head. Quite crazy. It's often like that. Have 
 you had any fits with yours?" 
 
 "But, Mamma!" Diana waived the question im- 
 patiently . . . 
 
 "Mine," said Mrs. Langham imperturbably, "was 
 mixed with jealousy. You may thank your stars and 
 garters that yours isn't. And I had no excuse. The 
 man wasn't really in love with the person I was jeal- 
 ous of. He was wonderfully fond of her, and eventu- 
 ally his fondness did become love real love not
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 253 
 
 fits and he married her; but at the time, why she 
 wasn't even grown up. She was only a little child." 
 
 "But how could he care for her and for you too?" 
 
 "I never said that he cared for me. It was I who 
 cared for him." Again she laughed and blushed. "I 
 used to listen and watch, and long and hope. And 
 when he came it was a bright-blue warm day and when 
 he didn't come it was cold and dark. My dear, this 
 man was ten years younger than I ! Can you think of 
 anything more degrading, more ridiculous ! I was 
 thirty, a matron with children; but my mind worked 
 like that of a silly sentimental school-girl. . . . Oh, 
 but it hurt ! I can tell you it hurt. ..." 
 
 "Mary told me an experience she'd had," said Diana, 
 "I know you won't repeat it to anyone so it's all 
 right for me to tell you. And the man didn't love 
 her, either. So don't you see my case is different. 
 If Ogden didn't care for me, or didn't even know that 
 I cared for him, why I dare say I'd have to struggle 
 along somehow and make the best of things. But 
 he does know, and he does care. That's the point." 
 
 "He didn't always know," said Mrs. Langham. 
 "He needn't have known. He needn't have dared to 
 care." 
 
 Diana's eyes fell presently before the challenging 
 and somewhat contemptuous look in her mother's. 
 
 "You were restless," said Mrs. 'Langham, "and 
 you sought trouble and you found it. ... Well, I 
 didn't expect you to profit by my experience. But I 
 thought it right for you to know that your mother had 
 suffered as you are suffering." 
 
 Diana rose.
 
 254 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "Thank you for telling me, Mamma. I don't sup- 
 pose any two cases are exactly alike, are they ? Would 
 you like me to say that I think I'm pretty rotten; 
 because I do . . ." 
 
 "You have only to do as a well-bred woman should," 
 said Mrs. Langham, "and though your love for Ogden 
 Fenn may never die, the knowledge that you have 
 been just and high-minded as a gentlewoman should 
 be will kill all the suffering. I know it." 
 
 Mrs. Langham had also risen. 
 
 "You were just ten when I fell in love," she said. 
 "That was a long time ago." 
 
 "Twenty years," acknowledged Diana. "That's just 
 how old I was when Frank says he fell in love 
 with me, and made up his mind that he was going to 
 marry me when I grew up." 
 
 "It's curious, isn't it," said Mrs. Langham, "to think 
 that I was ever jealous of you. But I was. I didn't 
 get over it till you were nearly grown. Did I ever 
 show it?" 
 
 "Jealous of me, Mamma? I don't know what you 
 mean." 
 
 "Your father," said Mrs. Langham, "loved youth. 
 He loved to have the younger men about him; they 
 loved to come to our house. Frank was one of your 
 father's friends. He came to us a great deal. It 
 seemed it was on your account. But I thought . . . 
 Oh, what a fool I was, that it was on my account . . . '* 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me that Frank was the man 
 . . . my husband? Diana felt chilled and shocked. 
 
 "It seems horrible to you, Diana. You think of me 
 as I am now, an old grandmother. But I was only
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 255 
 
 thirty then. Just your age. Think what a silly child 
 you have been, dear, and make allowances ... I have 
 never gotten over loving your husband. That is why 
 I can't talk to you without prejudice. ... I have 
 never let it hurt anyone but me. . . . Frank hasn't 
 been hurt; your father was not hurt; you have not 
 been hurt. That is my reward; to feel that I have 
 been man enough to see that my own failure hurt 
 nobody but me." 
 
 "But, Mamma dear, our cases are not at all the same. 
 What else could you do if the man didn't know or 
 care." 
 
 'I could have given him a chance to care," said Mrs. 
 Langham. "Perhaps I could have made him care. 
 Plainer women than I was have done more extraordi- 
 nary things. . . . Diana, my dear daughter, what you 
 are determined on is as foolish as it is undignified and 
 common. It will bring you rto happiness. Perhaps 
 Mr. Fenn will be happy, who knows? Perhaps poor 
 Frank will find some sort of happiness. Perhaps 
 Tarn will not be as much hurt as I think she will be. 
 I'm too old to matter. But I tell you very solemnly, 
 Diana, there is no possible happiness for you unless 
 you do right." 
 
 "How could Frank and I ever live together again," 
 said Diana, "after this dreadful Mrs. Herriot . . . ?" 
 
 "I think Frank would have to sink very low into 
 the very deepest slime before you would have the right 
 to reproach him." 
 
 "Of course I have no right. I have pushed him 
 under. I know that. But these things don't go by
 
 256 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 right or by wrong. They go by some fastidious in- 
 stinct . ." 
 
 "It would be really funny," said Mrs. Langham, "if 
 you were to find out some day that Mrs. Herriot 
 had once been one of Mr. Fenn's women ..." 
 
 "Mamma ! How can you !" 
 
 "You had the luck to marry one Galahad," said 
 Mrs. Langham curtly. "You needn't expect to find 
 another in every little bounder you happen to fall in 
 love with." 
 
 Savage words leapt to Diana's lips ; but she bit them 
 back, and after staring at her mother for a moment, 
 as if at some stranger who had been rude to her, she 
 turned and left the room. 
 
 She thought over Fenn's little note. All he said was 
 that he had neither friends nor family, only Diana; 
 and yet the world seemed full of wonderful and 
 friendly people. She clasped it to her heart, no not 
 to hers. It was not hers, nor Tarn's, nor Frank's. 
 It had never been Frank's. Never! Perish the 
 thought. It was Fenn's. All of her was Fenn's. 
 There had been no other man. That was all a bad 
 dream. Love had made her all over from top to toe. 
 She was brand-new. 
 
 And she lay in the dark with the note clasped tight. 
 And she said: "And I haven't any friends either or 
 any family or anything; but because I have your love 
 the world seems all full of friendly people." 
 
 And presently the poor little love-sick fool fell 
 asleep and the precious note slipped from her breast 
 to the bed and from the bed to the floor. 
 
 Sic transit gloria mundi.
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 OVER-STIMULATION both by alcohol and tobacco, in- 
 somnia and the increasing certainty of his belief that 
 if he had done differently matters would never have 
 come into this terrible pass, literally stripped the flesh 
 from Frank Manners's bones. He should have gone 
 into the country somewhere with a trainer. He should 
 have given up all forms of stimulation and exercised 
 his body at the expense of his imagination. A wise 
 doctor would have prescribed just this for him; but 
 he did not consult a doctor, and merely followed along 
 the lines of the least resistance. 
 
 This, however, kept him in the open air a good deal. 
 He fell heir to the racing car in which his cousin had 
 so nearly driven Ogden Fenn to his death, and forth- 
 with developed a mania for distances and speed. He 
 had felt some compunction at accepting so valuable 
 a present even from Peter Manners, but his objections 
 had been over-ridden. And when he found that at first 
 anyway, driving the car fast gave him periods of 
 mental relaxation akin to sleep he was delighted with 
 its acquisition. 
 
 You may not care whether you live or die, but you 
 cannot drive fast over the average American roads 
 without giving considerable attention to their blind 
 corners, to the grafters who build them, to the lovely 
 landscapes which continually stream past, and of 
 course to "the fool in the other car." 
 
 257
 
 258 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Frank Manners knew a vast number of people well, 
 and he formed a habit of inviting himself to lunch at 
 their houses. And hostesses, even if the luncheon hap- 
 pened to be a carefully balanced and formal affair, an 
 even number of men and women seated just so, were 
 always delighted to have an extra place squeezed in 
 for a man who, if not actually famous, was widely 
 known and distinguished, and who, especially of late, 
 brought an immense energy into the conversation, and 
 greatly helped others to appear at their best. 
 
 He had friends all over Long Island and West- 
 chester County, at Bernardsville, Tuxedo and Morris- 
 town. He liked to arrive just when the cocktails were 
 brought in. After a long, fast drive there's only one 
 thing better than a cocktail for setting a heart-broken 
 man's tongue merrily wagging and that's two cock- 
 tails. Sometimes he had the second one first. He 
 might have it at some country club of which he was a 
 member, or at some private house where he had in- 
 tended to lunch, only to find that the owners were 
 lunching somewhere else, and that the butler was an 
 old friend, or he might stop at some roadhouse. Then 
 when he arrived for lunch the cocktail that should have 
 been the first found a jolly companion waiting for it 
 and people who had known him for years declared 
 that it dum founded them to find that he had so much 
 wit and mischief in him. He developed a delightful 
 faculty of making the wicked and irrational thing ap- 
 pear to be the logical thing, the Christian thing, and 
 the wise. 
 
 The pleasant, insidious, deadly cocktail habit grew 
 upon him. Upon starting back to town he began soon
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 259 
 
 to find that he had not had quite enough to drink 
 with his lunch, and to stop here and there to remedy 
 the deficiency. So it came about that across a little 
 glass or so of white wine, or claret, or a whiskey and 
 soda, the jolly opportunist cocktails that were in him 
 often found themselves shaking hands with those 
 scheming and virulent malefactors, white mint and 
 brandy. 
 
 Now and again the cocktails that he had drunk 
 before lunch had enough life left to utter dying mes- 
 sages to the cocktails which he drank before dinner, 
 and these in their turn, and doubtless upon the advice 
 received in the dying messages, formed wild and in- 
 considered friendships with divers pints of brut cham- 
 pagne. 
 
 Some nights he returned to his apartment with the 
 idea that he could paint again, and that he would be- 
 gin in the morning. Often he returned with the feeling 
 that he had not had quite enough to drink. The 
 whisky that he learned to drink by himself sometimes 
 affected him like opium. Sometimes it divorced his 
 thoughts entirely from the things that troubled him. 
 Here lay the danger. In those hours of chance quit- 
 tance he would have risked hell, and indeed he did. 
 During those periods of genuine hallucination he 
 seemed to find in his own thoughts and character 
 beauties which he had never even suspected in other 
 people's thoughts and characters ; beauties and abilities 
 and short-cuts. He dreamed wonderful dreams. And 
 after the dreams he would tumble into bed and actually 
 lose consciousness. If the whiskey could have done 
 just those things for him, and nothing else, he might
 
 26o THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 have had some slight justification in drinking so much 
 and so often. It has perhaps in its day actually helped 
 a man here and there over some very hard place, re- 
 laxed his mind in time to keep it from snapping. 
 But it did not help Frank Manners. For the one time 
 that it soothed him and sent him peacefully to sleep, 
 it excited him two times and kept him awake, smarting 
 with injustice and jealousy, dark and vengeful. 
 
 But I have no wish to exaggerate his lapse of habit 
 and character. It was only now and then that he got 
 going too hard, and ended his day, quiet enough and 
 even dignified to the eye, but potentially very much 
 upset in the stomach, and very drunk in the mind. No 
 one saw him drunk not till several months after the 
 divorce, and it was not for a long time that the notion 
 got about that he was drinking hard. 
 
 Life, he believed, would be more tolerable if only he 
 could be more of an average man and rid himself of 
 those wild-goose instincts which had been born in him. 
 "Some night surely," he thought, "I shall think how 
 pretty she is, how desirable, how affectionate, and my 
 thoughts will stop there. I shall not feel like a hound 
 and a traitor." 
 
 But things did not fall out as he hoped, and when he 
 realized that they were never going to be he wanted to 
 break with Mrs. Herriot. But he was too kind-hearted, 
 and, while she remained in love with him, he could 
 not expect to find any ready-made excuse. He began 
 to fear that after the divorce Mrs. Herriot might want 
 him to marry her. But he need not have worried. 
 Mrs. Herriot's varied experience had taught her a 
 good deal of horse-sense. Good women, she knew,
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 261 
 
 sometimes acquire position and standing by marrying 
 the male Herriots of the world; but the man, good or 
 bad, who marries the female Herriot is lost. If Mrs. 
 Herriot ever married again she would marry some 
 man who had money and no position. That was her 
 only chance. Meanwhile, because he seemed to love her 
 and didn't, Mrs. Herriot was quite madly in love with 
 Frank Manners, so much so, indeed, that it seemed 
 impossible that she should take money from him. 
 But she took the money and solaced herself with the 
 thought that if she hadn't taken it she couldn't have 
 afforded to be faithful to him. 
 
 Often when he knew that Diana was elsewhere 
 (Mrs. Langham kept him posted) Manners drove out 
 to Westbury and spent patient hours with Tam. 
 These were priceless hours for Tam, but for her 
 father there was hell mixed with the heaven of them. 
 It was impossible that the child should not come to 
 harm and through his own fault. 
 
 "There are things that simply cannot be got around," 
 he said once to Mrs. Langham. "I was older than 
 Diana, she loved me with all her might. I didn't keep 
 her love, and I didn't make her happy." 
 
 "You couldn't keep her love, you mean," Mrs. 
 Langham had retorted quite sharply, "and you 
 couldn't make her happy." 
 
 "No," said Manners, "that isn't what I mean; I 
 didn't. Once I was served with a glass of tokay worth 
 a dollar a drop, I hit the top of the long-stemmed 
 glass with my sleeve and spilled the stuff all over the 
 table. Now, I didn't have to do that. But I did it. 
 You see you're down on Diana. I'm not. You think
 
 262 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 she was just naturally doomed to be unhappy through 
 her folly. But there were splendid qualities in Diana. 
 No, you don't know. And she trusted the shaping of 
 them to me, and glory ; what a botch I've made of it." 
 
 "She gave you her character to shape, and trusted 
 you completely until the moment when you suggested 
 something sensible and possibly self-sacrificing; no 
 surely self-sacrificing as all sensible things are; and 
 then she very promptly took back her trust and her 
 character and proceeded to shape the latter for herself. 
 It's too bad it's not a shape that can be seen with the 
 eye. She would have too much sense of humor to let 
 it stay on exhibition." 
 
 "You don't know Mrs. Langham. More and more 
 I recall things that I have done to hurt her. They 
 seemed very little at the time; but mountainous now 
 and far-reaching." 
 
 On another occasion Mrs. Langham said to him: 
 
 "Everybody of course knows now that Diana is 
 getting a divorce. People who knew you both are 
 serenely sure that it is a put-up job. What do you 
 wish said?" 
 
 "I don't want the matter minced in any way," said 
 Manners. "I wish the people who are so cocksure to 
 be jolted into uncertainty. It is infinitely better for 
 Diana and Tarn that people should believe that I have 
 treated Diana very badly for a long time. ... As 
 indeed I have, since I had her love and her happiness 
 in my keeping and kept neither. But don't say that. 
 Say this: 'Diana is too proud to stand being treated 
 badly, she stood it as long as she could.' ' 
 
 "But that is flagrant, downright lying."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 263 
 
 "The cause is good. I may never find peace and 
 entertainment in this world. But it must be a living 
 hell for me unless Diana is given every chance to find 
 the happiness that I could not give her. . . . I'm so 
 worried about what she may do or say to hurt her 
 chance. Somehow I can't imagine her letting people 
 abuse me. . . . Does she see much of Fenn?" 
 
 "Very little. She realizes that she has dealt herself 
 a very difficult hand and she is trying to make every 
 card count." 
 
 "She talks about that?" 
 
 "Yes, she actually came to me for advice and took 
 some of it. She said: 'Mamma, the premises may not 
 be pretty, but accept them, since they are the prem- 
 ises, and tell me just what you would do if you were 
 in my place? I told her that she should drop Mr. 
 Fenn entirely so far as seeing him goes, and that six 
 months or so after the divorce she could meet him, say 
 at Mary Hastings's house in the country at a week-end 
 party. That she shouldn't seem very much taken with 
 him at first, etc. But she objected to that. Too many 
 people have seen them together. She agreed, though, 
 that Mary shall, if agreeable, seem to take a fancy to 
 him and have him about a good deal.' ' 
 
 "Will she marry him inside of a year?" 
 
 "Yes, I think she will." 
 
 "Suppose oh, suppose that after the divorce and 
 before the year is up, suppose she falls out of love with 
 him, what would she do?" 
 
 Somehow he built up the vague hope that Mrs. 
 Langham's answer would be comforting; but it was 
 not.
 
 264 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "It's my opinion," she said, "that already Diana is 
 not so frantically in love with him as she was. The 
 vase was very pretty in the shop window, but now that 
 the parcel has come home and been opened, and the 
 vase tried here and there in familiar surroundings it 
 doesn't look quite right. But it is my conviction, 
 Frank, that Diana will go on with this no matter 
 what happens. I think that she is going to be a brave 
 victim on the altar of false pride. She is determined 
 that no one shall ever say to her, 'we told you so, 
 Diana your love wasn't eternal after all. It was 
 just fits. We knew that all along.' ' 
 
 "If she marries a man that she doesn't love," said 
 Manners gravely, "and makes good, so that he doesn't 
 find out, and nobody finds out there is hope for her." 
 
 "She is very determined to make a success of this 
 marriage. She talks very sensibly and cold-bloodedly 
 about money. Into the contempt that I feel for her, 
 I must admit that there is sneaking a certain admira- 
 tion." 
 
 The full import of what Mrs. Langham had said 
 weighed very heavily on Manners, and he could not 
 hold back the bitterness which he felt. 
 
 "She is going to be for him all the things that she 
 couldn't be for me !" he said. 
 
 Mrs. Langham touched his coat-sleeve with the tips 
 of her fingers. 
 
 "My dear boy," she said, "that is what we must 
 both hope, isn't it?" 
 
 "Of course," he said, "of course we do hope it. 
 And so you see I was right after all. She has splendid 
 qualities!" He tried to look triumphant and failed.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 265 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs. Langham, but once more in the dry 
 and precise voice which was natural to her, "and so 
 has the murderer if he goes bravely to the gallows." 
 
 Neither the wine nor Mrs. Herriot had the power 
 to comfort Frank Manners, and no more had the 
 thought that he had been right about Diana's splendid 
 qualities, and that she would be to Fenn, whether 
 she loved him or not, all things that she should 
 have been to him. This thought indeed hurt him as 
 hardly another thought had the power to hurt. Once 
 indeed he started to find her to tell her how that 
 thought hurt him and how unjust it was for her to 
 have learned how to be brave and fine and self-sacri- 
 ficing entirely at his expense. But he only started. 
 He only rose from his chair, and the wet crash of a tall 
 glass that had been standing on the arm of it reminded 
 him that it was three o'clock in the morning. 
 
 It had been one of those nights when his thoughts 
 had done nothing but hound along on the trail of the 
 injustice that had been done him. It was now the 
 morning of the day on which Diana was to receive an 
 interlocutory decree of divorce, to become final in all 
 probability at the end of six weeks. But Manners did 
 not know this. He knew only in a general way that 
 something definite was to be decided soon. Still, he 
 had the feeling that if Diana was to be moved from her 
 purpose by any eleventh-hour appeal he had no time 
 to lose. 
 
 She was at home he knew, and he remembered the 
 telephone on the table by the head of her bed, and he 
 wondered if by any chance she had forgotten to dis- 
 connect it for the night. She often did, and com-
 
 266 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 plained bitterly, if the thing rang and waked her. 
 Should he telephone or not? He would think it 
 over. 
 
 He mixed himself a fresh drink and placed it on the 
 arm of his chair, first moving the chair to avoid the 
 wet and jagged mess which the overturned and broken 
 glass had made on the floor. When he waked his legs 
 and body felt very cold, and the drink on the arm of 
 his chair no longer bubbled. But he had not really 
 slept; he had only nodded. It was not yet four. He 
 remembered that he had been about to speak to his 
 wife over the telephone. Had he spoken to her? He 
 knit his brows hard and tried to remember. No, he 
 had not spoken to her, not for ages. They were no 
 longer on speaking terms. He had wronged her, in- 
 sulted the very kernel of her womanhood. He had 
 preferred another woman to her. He had been un- 
 faithful. He walked to the telephone, very steadily, 
 and gave the number of his house at Westbury. 
 
 It seemed only a crumb of time before the voice he 
 loved so well was sounding in his ear. "It's I 
 Frank," he said. 
 
 She had no hint of his state from the quality of his 
 voice. She only knew that something was wrong with 
 him. Her instant surmise was that he had done some- 
 thing terrible to himself, and that he had waked her 
 at that unearthly hour to say good-by. She quaked 
 with fear and horror, but her voice was cool and 
 practical. 
 
 "What is the matter, Frank?" 
 
 His first words were ominous. 
 
 "Please forgive me," he began . . .
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 267 
 
 Diana kicked off the bedclothes, and swung her legs 
 over the side of the bed. 
 
 "What have you done?" 
 
 "Done why, I've waked you, and I had no busi- 
 ness to, only I couldn't help it. ... " 
 
 Diana's heart rose high and sank low. A profound 
 sigh of relief whispered in her nostrils. 
 
 "I can't sleep," he went on, "I can't ever sleep. 
 . . . Oh, Di, darling, do for pity's sake not go on with 
 this thing. Nobody will ever love you the way I love 
 you. If I've done you wrong and wrong and wrong, 
 haven't I been punished enough? How can you hurt 
 me so much, when I was once so dear to you?" 
 
 The distress, the childlike distress, in his voice 
 moved her very much, and though she was not in the 
 least inclined to give in to his wishes, she found it very 
 difficult to say so. 
 
 One of the shoulder-straps of her night-gown had 
 slipped so that Diana's left breast was almost wholly 
 bare. At her husband's next words she hastily pulled 
 the nightgown back into place, as she might have done 
 if he had stepped suddenly into view. 
 
 "I could crawl to you on my hands and knees," he 
 said, "if I could lay my head on your breast just one 
 little moment." 
 
 "Frank," she exclaimed, "I am so sorry! But 
 please, please this is no time to discuss what's been 
 and gone and happened. Do go back to bed. . . . 
 Count the sheep going over the hurdle. . . . Don't 
 you know I'd do anything anything anything 
 except the things I can't do ? . . . "
 
 268 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 There was a long silence. Then the man spoke 
 again. 
 
 "Do have pity," he said, "for Christ's sake !" 
 
 "Frank," she said, with a sudden note of authority, 
 "I can't bear this. I'll say anything you wish me to. 
 I'll make any promise you like. It will be because I 
 am frightened. It will be under compulsion. Even 
 if I held myself bound, even if I tried to keep the 
 promise, I shouldn't be able to. ... Please don't 
 interrupt. I want to tell you something. I couldn't 
 say it to you or write it. I think I have given you 
 about the rawest and rottenest deal a woman ever 
 gave a good husband. I went after Ogden for all I 
 was worth. I was going to upset him just a little if 
 I could, and then I was going to have fun with some- 
 body else. He is not a bit to blame. No more than 
 you are. I got caught in my own snare, and I went 
 crazy mad. I'd give anything in the world if I had 
 behaved myself always and not made misery for 
 everybody including myself. I am at your feet, Frank, 
 in sackcloth and ashes, asking you for God's sake to 
 forgive me, and to lay your kind strong hands on my 
 head and give me your blessing and tell me to go my 
 way." 
 
 The voice that came back to her was manly and 
 vibrant. It was the voice of some strong person pre- 
 pared to defend the weak. 
 
 "Don't say such things, Diana. I won't have it. 
 I won't let anyone abuse you. I won't even let you 
 abuse yourself. I'm so ashamed of myself for waking 
 you and making fresh trouble for you that I don't 
 know what to do. You've just got to forgive me and
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 269 
 
 forget all about it. It isn't like me. It isn't charac- 
 teristic. Mostly I'm all right, and you needn't worry 
 about me. But sometimes at night, or in the morning, 
 like this I seem to develop a yellow streak. . . . Now 
 are you all right ? You'll go right to sleep again ? I'm 
 no Indian giver, Di. Never fear it. I have given you 
 your freedom, and I pray God you find happiness.'* 
 
 Diana lay for a long time staring at the ceiling. 
 
 "What a fool I am," she thought; "why couldn't I 
 admit in the first place that I'd been wicked? Frank 
 would have done nothing, but forgive me and urge me 
 to divorce him as fast as he could talk. It's pretending 
 that you are right when you know perfectly well you 
 are wrong that infuriates people more than anything 
 else. . . ." 
 
 Diana had done more than disarm her husband. 
 She had given him the feeling that he had been mag- 
 nanimous. The more he thought of how she had 
 blamed herself the less he found himself blaming her. 
 Between the gravity of the interlocutory and the final 
 decrees, he found not only the wish but the courage to 
 paint a picture.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 IT has been remarked that little Mrs. Herriot was 
 too wise to marry a man like Frank Manners; but 
 when the divorce had been made final she had the curi- 
 osity to hint at making their relations permanent in 
 order to see what he would say. 
 
 The hot summer was over and he had taken her for 
 a long run up the Hudson to see the first flashes of 
 autumn color. He was a free man now, free to marry 
 whom he chose, free to make a new life for himself. 
 But he was not really free. The law could not make 
 him stop loving, and though Diana had said that she 
 could not take a penny of his money and that Tam was 
 to be shared equally between them, still the fact re- 
 mained that her lawyers had so confused her intentions 
 and understanding that the Court ended by awarding 
 her a heavy alimony and the absolute custody of the 
 child. 
 
 As to the causes which had led to the rupture be- 
 tween Manners and his wife, Mrs. Herriot could never 
 satisfy herself. She knew very well that the gentle, 
 affectionate man whose mistress she was loved some 
 other woman. She believed that he still loved the 
 woman who had been his wife. And once, because she 
 was naturally good-hearted and generous, she had 
 said: "Look here, Frank, are you sure there's no way 
 you can make it up with her?" 
 
 He had answered, "I am living entirely in the pres- 
 
 270
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 271 
 
 ent, and the future. That this is so is entirely my 
 fault. That's enough for even a very sweet and trust- 
 worthy little person to know." 
 
 "But you'd give your soul to be back where you 
 were?" 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 "Tell me one thing, Frank. Did she fall in love 
 with another man?" 
 
 Precisely as the gay old gentleman in the play chucks 
 the pretty parlor-maid under the chin so Frank Man- 
 ners chucked pretty Mrs. Herriot, and in addition 
 laughed at her. 
 
 "Suppose you stop trying all these short-cuts to 
 knowledge," he said, "and go by the regular twisty- 
 wisty road ? In short, read the newspapers. They will 
 tell you that Mr. Manners has wronged Mrs. Manners, 
 that there is a woman in the case, but that it has not 
 been necessary to name her. If you think there is more 
 to the case than that, suppose you go direct to the 
 referee and ask him." 
 
 One night when he had had a good deal to drink and 
 was sleeping very heavily, she had the temerity and 
 the curiosity to go through his clothes. Two letters in 
 his inside pocket told her nothing. In his change- 
 pocket she found one of those twenty-dollar gold 
 pieces which have been transformed into lockets. She 
 got it open, and found a little picture of Diana and 
 Tarn. And they told her nothing that she didn't pretty 
 well know. And she crept back into bed thinking what 
 a fool she was. "He had only to wake," she thought, 
 "and see me with my hand in his pocket to pass me 
 up."
 
 272 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 The Catskills showed more gold and red than were 
 to be expected so early in the fall. The day was serene 
 and perfumed in the early morning; but toward noon 
 it became hazy and sultry, and when they came out 
 of the little road-house in which they had eaten lunch 
 there was a fine sky-line of thunder-heads above the 
 western horizon. 
 
 But Mrs. Herriot was for going on. 
 
 "It will be a hard shower maybe," she said, "we'll 
 find shelter somewhere and afterward the air will be 
 simply too delicious." 
 
 She proved a prophet. There was a hard shower, 
 and the nearest shelter when it broke was Ogden 
 Fenn's little house near Combers. 
 
 The house had the deaf-and-blind look of uninhab- 
 ited houses in general; but smoke rose from the care- 
 taker's. 
 
 And Manners, being remembered, and being sup- 
 posed to be a friend of Mr. Fenn's, was at once ad- 
 mitted. Shutters were opened for him and a fire built 
 in the big room. The rain roared on the roof. The 
 caretaker withdrew, and Mrs. Herriot said that it was 
 a gorgeous adventure and that the house was a perfect 
 duck. 
 
 "Is Mr. Fenn a great friend of yours?" she asked. 
 
 "I think a good deal of him," said Manners. 
 
 She accepted his words at their face value. 
 
 "Is he married?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "He must be nice to have such a nice house. But 
 if you aren't married, I don't see any point in having 
 a house. I believe in flats and suites for the unmated.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 273 
 
 "It's tough luck," she went on, "when a woman 
 knows that she's behaved so she can't be anybody's 
 wife, and knows at the same time that she could be all 
 kinds of a good wife if she could only have another 
 chance." 
 
 "It is tough luck," said Manners simply. "It's the 
 toughest kind of luck." 
 
 "If it weren't for people," Mrs. Herriot said, "if a 
 man's always had people, why sooner or later those 
 people are necessary to him again. I think," she said 
 demurely, "that if it weren't for that I'd propose to 
 you, Frank." 
 
 She looked the room up and down. "If you cut a 
 big window through that north wall, wouldn't this 
 make an Al studio?" 
 
 "It would." 
 
 "Well, couldn't you work in a place like this, and 
 forget all about people?" 
 
 "I might work, and very likely I should soon forget 
 about some people." 
 
 "Oh, I'm not really proposing," she said, "but I be- 
 lieve I would if you loved me." 
 
 She sighed and looked very pretty and innocent. His 
 eyes had a pleasant smile for her. 
 
 "Oh, I know what you are thinking," she said. "But 
 it is possible. I am what I am. I've been what I've 
 been. There's no getting around it. But I don't look 
 it, do I? It doesn't show. I'm not a fool. I see 
 straight. Sometimes when I look at myself in the 
 glass I say: 'Young woman, you look as if you had 
 everything to learn.' ... I wish I had, Frank. I wish 
 I had." '
 
 274 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "I wish so, too, my dear," he said gravely. 
 
 She walked to a window and looked out. The steep 
 road that passed near the house was a torrent. The 
 rain showed no sign of letting up. She returned to 
 the fire. 
 
 "Will you do me a favor, Frank?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Will you pretend that we've just moved in? I've 
 rice in my hat, and you've built the house as a surprise 
 for me." 
 
 "That's right," he said. 
 
 "I think," she speculated, "that the first thing you'd 
 do when we got inside the door would be to take me 
 in your arms and kiss me." 
 
 He did this at once, and with much gallantry. 
 
 "And then," she said, "I'd take off my hat, and 
 you'd show me all over the house." 
 
 She took off her hat, patted her hair which was 
 always tidy, and looked expectant. 
 
 Frank Manners then began to enter into the game. 
 He showed her over the house. They went into the 
 cellar and the attic. But it was with great reluctance 
 that he pushed open the door of the room that had 
 been Diana's on the night of the abortive elopement, 
 and in which he had pleaded with her, and almost won 
 her back into his keeping. On the bureau lay a pair 
 of wash-leather gloves. He remembered now that she 
 had left her gloves, but had refused to turn back for 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. Herriot tried on the gloves; almost they had 
 still the shape of Diana's hands. 
 
 "Well, of course!" she exclaimed, "Mr. Fenn is a
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 275 
 
 bachelor, but " she tossed the gloves disdainfully 
 back on the bureau "some young chicken's, I sup- 
 pose," was her comment. 
 
 Manners's face became very grave. But she did not 
 see this, for her back was turned to him. 
 
 "There's one more room," he said. 
 
 "It's not as nice as the other," observed Mrs. Her- 
 riot, once more pretending that she was a bride, "but 
 those gloves spoil the other for me. Say that they 
 spoil it for you, too." 
 
 "They do'." 
 
 "Good. Then this room will be ours. And the 
 other can be yours in case I'm sick or anything, or for 
 a guest, and the little one down in the end gable oh, 
 that shall be for the inevitable consequences." 
 
 It was excellent arrangement, Frank Manners said. 
 And he imagined that if ever Fenn and Diana and Tarn 
 came to live in this house they would make precisely 
 the same disposition of the available space. The gable 
 room where Tarn would sleep was at the end of quite 
 a long corridor for so small a house. He entered it 
 again, full of the thought that it would be his little 
 daughter's. He walked to one of the windows and 
 looked out. A ladder leaning against an outbuilding 
 caught his eye, the eyes that could measure so accu- 
 rately. 
 
 Then and there he had his first inkling of the plan 
 that was later to be his obsession. 
 
 "If I learned that she wasn't happy with them," he 
 thought, "I could come in the night and climb in at the 
 window, and wrap her in a blanket and take her away." 
 
 "What are you looking at, Frank ?"
 
 276 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "An old ladder. I was counting the rungs." 
 
 They went down-stairs again; but for Mrs. Herriot 
 the game was not yet played out. 
 
 "Frank," she said, "it's still raining cats and dogs. 
 It looks as if it might go on all afternoon and all night. 
 Couldn't you bribe the caretaker to get supplies up 
 from the village? ... I'd so like to go on pretending 
 till to-morrow." 
 
 But Frank Manners had no mind to spend another 
 night in that house. The sight of Diana's gloves and 
 the thought that Fenn might be unkind to Tam had 
 disturbed his equilibrium. 
 
 "I have to be in town to-night," he said. "I am 
 sorry." 
 
 But seeing how disappointed she looked he hastened 
 to make amends. 
 
 "Look here. You nice little person," he said, "I 
 have heavy alimony to pay and if I don't get busy I'll 
 not be able to pay it. I know a house that I can get for 
 a few months; the barn is a studio. It's in lovely 
 autumn country. There are no neighbors. . . . How 
 would you like that?" 
 
 "Oh but, Frank," she said, "I'd love it." 
 
 "You'll pose for me, so I won't have to bother about 
 models. I have the refusal of the grill in the new Cas- 
 capedia. I'll sign on for it. It's a whole big lot of 
 money nymphs and autumn foliage. Nymphs run- 
 ning and laughing and screaming and taking cover 
 and Pan hunting with a pack of fawns hunting 
 methodically and cruelly like bloodhounds. In the 
 preliminary sketches you'll be all the nymphs. . . . 
 Now that's a bargain, is it ?"
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 277 
 
 "Of course it's a bargain." 
 
 "Well, then, smile and forgive me about not staying 
 here to-night, and give me a kiss." 
 
 As they neared the city, she said something to him 
 that was not easy for her to say. 
 
 "If you are going to put this big job over, Frank," 
 she said, "hadn't you better climb on the wagon?" 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I must." 
 
 She slid her arm under his and pressed it gently. 
 
 "It'll be lots nicer, too," she said, "for me." 
 
 "Of course it will," he laughed. "Whiskey is noth- 
 ing but egotism in a liquid form. I'll be good." 
 
 And a few days later, a thirsty but temporarily re- 
 formed Manners, having completed his arrangements, 
 drove away with her in the racing car, and they settled 
 down to an autumn of simple living, hard work and 
 somewhat complicated love-making. As Mrs. Herriot 
 wrote to her most intimate woman friend, Miss Violet 
 LeNeuf , "Making love with a man who loves his work 
 better than you and another lady better than his work 
 is very complicated. . . ." 
 
 She corresponded most methodically with Miss 
 LeNeuf, at this time, and certain passages from her 
 letters are not without value in elaborating the char- 
 acter of the man with whom she was living. 
 
 ' . . . Yes, my dear, stark! And on one foot till 
 the s-w-e-a-t ran off me. Frank only casts a cold and 
 calculating glance my way once in a while, but I come 
 out fine in some of the sketches. He pulls me out long 
 and scrunches me up till I look thicker. And he makes 
 any number of pretty faces out of the simple little mug 
 that God gave me. That's so when dozens of me go
 
 278 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 gallivanting round the new grill that he's fixing, the 
 beaux monde won't recognize little Herriot. I'm a 
 herd of nymphs being chased by a pack of fawns and 
 satyrs. Frank said that at first when I ran, I woggled 
 and didn't look as if I was really trying to get away. 
 So one day he catches up a garter-snake, and you 
 should have seen little Herriot beat it, and you should 
 have heard her yell. Frank laughed till I thought he'd 
 die. You should see the sketch in which I take cover. 
 It's the best yet. Frank made me run around the tennis 
 court until I was ready to burst, and then he made me 
 hide in a bunch of Virginia creeper. When the thing's 
 done, you'll look and look and see nothing but the 
 leaves at first; then you'll pipe a bright and terrified 
 pair of lamps and then you'll see all me scrunched 
 down flat and blowing like a porpoise. . . ." 
 
 "Thanks for the compliment. I would make a good 
 wife, but I never will, not for this dear boy. I couldn't 
 bore him into looking bored, or tease him into saying 
 anything rude or cutting if I gave my life to it. I'd 
 like him to beat me almost, and then make up for it. 
 But he's the other way. He's so steadily kind and 
 thoughtful and unselfish that it just can't be any 
 trouble to him. So there's no virtue in it. The things 
 that trouble him are so big that little things like burnt 
 potatoes don't matter a bit. ... Of course it's the 
 trouble he had with his wife, and not having his little 
 girl. I stopped long ago trying to worm the story 
 out of him. But you don't live with a man as his wife 
 without learning some of his thoughts. ... If the 
 way was paved with women like me he'd run over them
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 279 
 
 with spiked shoes to get to her. He wouldn't be cruel. 
 He simply wouldn't know they were there. ..." 
 
 "We had an awful fright, the pair of us (the usual 
 thing), but nothing came of it, thank God, and we're 
 working overtime while the weather lasts. I'm tough 
 all over now, the way your face and hands just natur- 
 ally are. Frank says I'm like some of the trees he's 
 reading about in a book there is here. 'Hardy as far 
 north as Mass., in sheltered positions/ It's a love of a 
 country, and if I wasn't so damned unhappy that I 
 could scream sometimes I'd be happy as a clam. . . . 
 He subscribed to all the society papers. There was a 
 picture of her with the little girl in the last 'Town and 
 Country/ and some text to go with it. Lovely faces, 
 just like pansies. I dare anybody to say that my Frank 
 ever wronged anybody in his life; but no woman with 
 a face like hers ever can have wronged anybody either. 
 He wasn't looking for the picture, and I happened to 
 be watching him when he came across it. He just 
 opened the magazine quickly, came right on the picture, 
 and froze, the way you've seen setters do in pictures 
 when there's a bunch of quail on one side of a bush 
 and they're on the other. I knew darn well what was 
 the matter, but I said: 'Picture of someone you know?' 
 and I went and looked over his shoulder. 'It's a picture 
 of my wife and our little girl/ he said, 'and a very 
 good picture/ After a while I said: 'Frank, why do 
 you always say my wife instead of my former wife?' 
 
 " 'Why do I ?' says he, 'why, because she is my 
 wife/ . . . 
 
 "He's drinking again ; but not hard. I don't worry. 
 He's been good for a long while. He says he's gone
 
 280 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 stale on his work. We're resting, that means I wear 
 clothes and we take long walks. I think he wants to 
 break with me, and don't know how. The minute I'm 
 sure of it I'll make it easy for him. Love him? Of 
 course I do. But I've had every chance to make him 
 love me, and he he doesn't even get used to me. I 
 don't make his life one mite easier, and maybe some 
 one else would. I don't believe he'd have touched me 
 or any other woman with a ten-foot pole except to fur- 
 nish grounds' for that wife of his. Will you send 
 me one half-dozen black silks, and charge same? 
 Same old size, my feet haven't spread in spite of going 
 barefoot. ..." 
 
 One day, and most of the leaves had fallen by now, 
 Frank Manners announced that he could do no more 
 good in that place, and suggested that they return to 
 the city. 
 
 "We've played at love in a cottage," he said, "and 
 we know all about it. Would you like to keep it up 
 forever?" 
 
 "No, dear," she said. "And why? Because I can't 
 make you happy. Gawd knows I've tried, every way 
 I could think of. It's easy to make most men happy 
 for a time, but I've never made you happy for one 
 single minute." 
 
 He slipped his arm around her shoulders and 
 pressed her close to his side. 
 
 "If it's our last day," he said, "let's spend it on 
 the lake. We'll paddle out to the middle, and just sit 
 and let the wind take us; where we touch shore we'll 
 eat lunch, and then I'll lie on my back and smoke, and 
 you can tell me things."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 281 
 
 They adhered to that plan, and a little sadly, since 
 it was for the last time. When they had been wafted 
 ashore and had had lunch, Frank Manners lay on his 
 back and smoked with his head in Mrs. Herriot's lap. 
 Presently he saw a V-shaped wedge of wild geese fly- 
 ing South, and he pointed them out to his mistress. 
 When the geese were no longer visible he shivered a 
 little as if he were cold, and got up. 
 
 "My dear child," he said, "you were complaining 
 that you had not made me happy. You saw those 
 geese?" 
 
 And forthwith, talking very quietly, he told her 
 something of their habits; how they love but once. 
 How sometimes the survivor of a mating mourns his 
 mate for nearly a century. He told her how certain 
 ganders have kept flying into the guns until they were 
 at last killed, and how certain observers believe that 
 such birds actually committed suicide. 
 
 "Once in a while," he said, "you find men who are 
 geese enough to behave like geese. If you haven't 
 made me happy it's because I am one of those 
 men. . . . The wild goose has lost his mate, my 
 dear, and his life is all mourning." 
 
 She was profoundly touched. And they walked in 
 silence to where they had left the canoe. 
 
 "You tried the impossible," he said, after he had 
 paddled a little way. "With the utmost good nature, 
 tact and charm, if I had been a stick or a stone you 
 would have succeeded. But you were up against a 
 wild goose." 
 
 Mail was waiting for them at the house, and among 
 Mrs. Herriot's letters was one from Miss LeXeuf teH-
 
 282 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 ing of a mutual friend's suicide. The man with whom 
 the mutual friend had lived for some years had gone 
 suddenly mad over a perfectly respectable girl of good 
 family and married her at the end of a short engage- 
 ment. Miss LeNeuf wrote: "Martha seemed to take 
 the thing quietly enough. She said Vic had settled a 
 lot of money on her and done the square thing all 
 round. . . . The next day, my dear, they found her 
 dead in her bathtub with her wrists almost severed. 
 Lois, her colored maid, was the one to find her, and 
 she ran right down to my flat and banged on the door 
 till I got up and opened it. I got Headquarters on the 
 'phone and then I ran up-stairs. Only Martha's face 
 showed and of course the water looked like pure blood. 
 She looked like a white mask that someone had laid 
 on a red sofa. . . . Where, I ask you, does anyone 
 find the courage to use a razor ?" 
 
 They were both very much shocked by the letter. 
 Martha, it seemed, had posed more than once for Man- 
 ners years ago. She had been an independent sort, 
 with a good deal of natural dignity. 
 
 "I could no more cut myself," exclaimed Mrs. Her- 
 riot. "I'd rather sit till doomsday and listen to my 
 heart breaking like ice in spring. How would you 
 kill yourself if you got the bee in your bonnet?" 
 
 "Oh," said Manners, "I have it all nicely and com- 
 fortably arranged. I'd go to my house in the country 
 when the weather is around zero. I'd put on the suit 
 I was married in. When it gets to be almost bedtime, 
 I swallow enough morphine to make me comatose. I 
 open all the windows in the room where I used to sleep, 
 I lie down on the bed without any covering on me, I
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 283 
 
 cross my right ankle over my left, I fold my hands on 
 my breast, and nobody ever knows whether the mor- 
 phine killed me or whether I froze to death." 
 
 "Where would you get the morphine ?" she asked. 
 
 "I've got it," said he. "I've had it for years. Our 
 cook had a toothache and our doctor came and gave 
 her a hypodermic. Seems he left his main supply in 
 her room. She brought me the bottle to return to him. 
 I forgot all about it, and nobody reminded me. I 
 came across it in the spring, quarter-grain tablets, full 
 strength, plenty of J em." 
 
 "You've never touched them, Frank?" 
 
 "Never," he said, "and I don't intend to. But mor- 
 phine is like a revolver. If you ever do need it, you 
 need it badly." 
 
 "What's a dose?" she asked. 
 
 "One quarter-grain is a good dose," he said. "A 
 couple of grains might be dangerous." 
 
 She had asked the question idly, but the figures 
 stuck in her mind.
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 WHEN Diana found that being free no more meant 
 being free than married had meant being bound, she 
 began to see the world as it is more clearly than she 
 had ever seen it before, and the spoiled child in her 
 after a few violent protests and struggles curled up its 
 wretched toes and died. 
 
 She had learned at last that freedom is not for those 
 who do wrong, for she was no longer free to do right. 
 Even if she wished she could never recover the 
 precious things which she had thrown away. And in 
 spite of her decree of absolute divorce, her life seemed 
 still inextricably tangled up with her husband's. She 
 was living on his money for one thing. When she had 
 said that she would not take a cent from him she had 
 meant that she would not. But she could not the mo- 
 ment the decree was granted stop living the way she 
 had always lived, and start living : ~i another way upon 
 an income of absolutely nothing a year. She had sup- 
 posed that her family would come to the rescue of her 
 pride; but even Mrs. Langham took the attitude that 
 a woman who had made such a perfect idiot of herself 
 had no business to have any pride. 
 
 "The law has awarded you with alimony," said 
 Mrs. Langham, "and you'll have to live on that. You 
 could starve if you thought best, but Tam is used to 
 omparative luxury. The law has given you custody 
 
 284
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 285 
 
 over Tarn, after going deeply into the merits of your 
 case, and you can't very well begin your custodian- 
 ship by taking her to live in the park and feeding her 
 on purloined berries and raw squirrels. You have this 
 house for another year, I think, and money enough to 
 run it. I don't see that you can do anything else for 
 the present." 
 
 "Of course you'll stay with me." 
 
 "I shall do no such thing," said her mother tartly. 
 "Do you think I would live on Frank's money after the 
 way a member of my family has treated him?" 
 
 "You could pay your share, couldn't you?" Diana 
 was almost pleading. Her mother was a great con- 
 venience. When you have a child, and at the same 
 time like to be on the go a great deal, a mother who 
 lives with you is tremendously useful. Diana had un- 
 pleasant visions of being more closely tied to domestic 
 matters than she had ever been tied before. 
 
 "I sha'n't enjoy living here after what has hap- 
 pened," said Mrs. Langham. "I have a few thousands 
 a year, and I think I shall go abroad." 
 
 "Surely, Mamma, you'll stay for my wedding! 
 People would think " 
 
 "I shall be on my way to the wedding," said Mrs. 
 Langham, "but I am afraid that I shall be taken sick 
 in Paris. And isn't it rather late to worry about what 
 people will think? If I tell even my intimate friends 
 that it's all Frank's fault, isn't that enough?" 
 
 So Diana and Tam were left to keep house in West- 
 bury all by themselves, and the person they needed 
 most was the person whom Diana had insisted on driv- 
 ing from the house. Diana was beginning to realize
 
 286 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 what a weight of responsibility the average decent 
 American husband staggers under. All that responsi- 
 bility had been shifted to her own shoulders and she 
 found it most trying to carry. 
 
 Still, if she was to be a very poor man's wife the 
 training was excellent. She got out of the habit of 
 rushing off to town at the slightest excuse. You sim- 
 ply couldn't leave a little child with no one more reli- 
 able than the average servant to look after it, and get 
 the right doctor if it ate poison-ivy, or the best bone- 
 setter if it fell down and broke its neck. 
 
 Free ? She was tied hand and foot ! At least when 
 she was Frank's wife she had come and gone as she 
 pleased. She had been able to see her lover day after 
 day. Her respectability was above suspicion. But now 
 that Frank no longer sheltered her, and her mother 
 had packed up her things and gone abroad it was as 
 difficult for her to see him as if she had been a nun in a 
 convent. 
 
 But of course she could write to him and receive his 
 letters. And she did write to him often, and he came 
 'back at her with from one to three letters a day; but 
 for them both it was growing more and more difficult 
 to throw any new and original illuminations upon the 
 wonderful and eternal love which they had for each 
 other. 
 
 From Frank Manners she received no letters. And 
 her curiosity as to what had become of him, and her 
 anxiety for him became acute. It is true that Tarn 
 often had letters from her father. But they revealed 
 nothing whatever of the man save his love for his 
 child. They were beautifully printed, as a rule, so that
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 287 
 
 Tarn could read them for herself, and, as a rule, they 
 were extra illustrated, in pen and ink, in wash, or 
 sometimes in color. Love they revealed, and imagina- 
 tion. But even Diana, who knew him best, could not 
 say if the man who made those letters was gay or sad, 
 working or idling, sick or well. The postmarks told 
 her that after leaving New York he had gone to a place 
 with an Indian name somewhere in Massachusetts, but 
 not even Peter Manners, of whom she made inquiries, 
 could or would tell her anything about it. 
 
 Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly low 
 and blue she wondered if he ever saw anything of that 
 awful Mrs. Herriot. 
 
 Harassed and miserable in the present, and dread- 
 fully troubled about the future, Diana showed a game- 
 ness which would have impressed all who knew her if 
 they had known that it was gameness. But her friends 
 thought that she was living quietly in the country with 
 Tarn because she wanted to. Restless almost to mad- 
 ness at times she showed an outward patience and 
 cheerfulness that must have caused the Recording 
 Angel to look up the record that he had kept of her 
 since the day she was born and wonder if he ought not 
 to erase the N. G. which he had pencilled in the margin 
 on hearing of her divorce and substitute a question 
 mark. 
 
 If she had not found outlets for her energy, Diana 
 might well have perished. Fortunately there were 
 many things in which she had never taken, and did 
 not yet take, the slightest interest that simply had to 
 be done. There were such things that Frank, or in his 
 absence Mrs. Langham, had always attended to. In
 
 288 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 the old days Diana, if she happened to ba the one to 
 discover that "that place in the roof" was leaky again, 
 had felt a glow of cleverness and efficiency. Now, 
 however, she not only had to learn of the leak but 
 to interview the carpenter, an interminable person. 
 Grounds have to be kept in order; hedges trimmed, 
 lawns cut. The gardener, no longer directed or 
 praised, took less trouble with the garden. It was no 
 longer full of flowers. Now gardens have to be full 
 of flowers, and so Diana's garden, that had been 
 Frank's, had to be filled. 
 
 A governess, any stranger in the house, would have 
 been intolerable at this time, and one morning Diana 
 decided very positively, but with painful misgivings, 
 that Tarn must have lessons, and that she herself must 
 administer them to her. 
 
 Very gradually Diana began to take an interest and 
 a pride in the hundred and one domestic items that 
 had come down upon her. And toward the end of the 
 season the grounds and the garden had made a real 
 place for themselves in her life. She often thought 
 about them when she didn't have to. If this was a 
 blessing there was a curse mixed up with it. For when- 
 ever her natural good taste began involuntarily to con- 
 sider certain radical changes that ought to be made if 
 the place was to fulfill its possibilities, she ran against 
 the solid rock that to effect these changes would 
 either take more money than she could afford, or sev- 
 eral seasons of vegetable growth. She could not give 
 them even one more season. By the time the lilacs 
 bloomed again she would be Mrs. Ogden Fenn, and 
 she would not be the mistress of these grounds or that
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 289 
 
 garden any more. It would be years and years before 
 they could even have a little place of their own any- 
 where and that, as Diana sometimes reflected, was 
 tough luck just when she was getting to like the coun- 
 try and to learn something about it. 
 
 That Ogden Fenn would ever consent to be benefited 
 in the slightest degree by the alimony which Diana re- 
 ceived from her husband was unthinkable. And there- 
 fore unless his affairs prospered very much more than 
 they were at the moment prospering they would be 
 poor people. Only Tam should benefit by the ali- 
 mony, after the wedding, and what sums remained 
 over after paying for her needs should be put in the 
 savings bank for her. Ogden himself had suggested 
 that arrangement. 
 
 Late in February Diana moved to town. In one of 
 his letters to Tam, Manners had written, "Tell Mum- 
 sey that I sha'n't want the apartment any more, and 
 that in case she does, the rent has been paid till the 
 first of June." And upon reading that, Tam had asked 
 a child's question : 
 
 "And when you move into the apartment will Fahzer 
 move out here?" 
 
 Why two such charming gods as her father and 
 mother did not live together any longer was a great 
 puzzle to Tam. She had been told that she should see 
 her father very often, but she had seen him very sel- 
 dom and she loved him very much. 
 
 That beloved father was working very hard on the 
 murals for the big grill room. He had taken a studio 
 apartment in a free and easy part of the city and his 
 former haunts knew him no more. He had broken
 
 290 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 with Mrs. Herriot, and she had made the break easy 
 for him. "I tried my best to make him happy," she 
 confided to Miss LeNeuf, "and somehow I feel as if 
 I had only succeeded in degrading him. It's best as it 
 is. I'd do anything in the world for him, and he'd do 
 a whole lot for me." 
 
 "Exit Frank Manners," said Miss LeNeuf; "en- 
 ter ?" 
 
 "Delancey Stairs," said Mrs. Herriot in a business- 
 like voice; "once he's lord and master he'll be a jealous 
 proposition, but I like lots of things about him. He's 
 open-handed for one thing and simply rolling. You 
 may not believe it, my dear, but I am not as young as I 
 used to be, and I have sworn a solemn oath that the 
 nest in which I finally wrinkle and shrink to death shall 
 be well feathered." 
 
 As they drove away to the station, Diana, who was 
 very thickly veiled, did not look back at the house. 
 She held one of Tarn's hands very lightly in both hers. 
 This did not prevent Tarn from looking back. 
 
 "When Fahzer moves out," she said, "he will look 
 after my chickens." 
 
 Diana made no comment. Her beautiful brows 
 tightly knitted behind the thick veil, she was exercis- 
 ing every ounce of control which she possessed. She 
 felt like a criminal going to execution. In the train 
 this thought occurred to her: 
 
 "Why must I marry him? Why couldn't I make a 
 good life just for Tarn and me? We could look for- 
 ward to Westbury in the Spring. I could tinker with 
 the place. I'm getting to like tinkering. . . . Oh, I 
 must marry him. I love him, and I have promised,
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 291 
 
 and so help me God I will not spare myself in any way 
 to make him happy. The poor lad, he has only me !" 
 
 And she did love him, but already she knew that she 
 could not always love him, that that beautiful and eter- 
 nal love upon the certainty of which she had dared to 
 make so much unhappiness for others, was a will-o'- 
 the-wisp. 
 
 The love that she had for him had developed certain 
 practical and matter-of-fact sides. She remembered 
 that she had had the same symptoms in that much 
 longer period during which she had slowly fallen out 
 of love with her husband. 
 
 Fenn had sent many roses to her apartment; far 
 more than he could afford. There was a love-letter 
 with them. She was very much touched. His appeal 
 was not so much to the spoiled and passionate school- 
 girl now, as to the indulgent mother. 
 
 When Tarn had had supper and been put to bed 
 early, Diana locked herself in her room and broke 
 down.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 A BRISK and smart maid, almost white, brought Mrs. 
 Harriot the morning papers, and withdrew discreetly. 
 
 Mrs. Herriot's bedroom was really very charming, 
 though a trifle overdressed. There was too much 
 muslin, and the muslin was too much flounced. But 
 the blues of the room were delicious blues, the gilt 
 toilette articles by Keller had a strength of design and 
 delicacy of execution that were almost Greek, and the 
 May sunlight poured in through a whole broadside of 
 windows. 
 
 There were too many mirrors in the room, but Mrs. 
 Herriot, who could see herself at the moment in most 
 of them, would have looked charming in them all. She 
 had been out of bed to do her hair, and she was back 
 in bed, sitting up against the most snowy and delectable 
 pillows. She had on a blue silk dressing jacket, and a 
 lace cap. The mere fact that a man could be heard 
 singing loudly under a shower-bath not two rooms 
 away, did not detract from the essential modesty and 
 discretion of her appearance. 
 
 Her face had a happy look. She had done well to 
 advance Delancey Stairs to the position of favorite. 
 He had spent buckets of money on her, and she had 
 so impressed him with her essential sweetness and hon- 
 esty, that he had spoken more than once of "salting 
 away" enough money in trust for her to keep her from 
 
 292
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 293 
 
 future financial worries. He had not only spoken of 
 this, but had said definitely that he was going to do it 
 when he "got around to it." 
 
 She skimmed through the paper, without being ar- 
 rested by any particular item, until she came to the 
 paragraph in which it was briefly announced that at 
 noon that day Mrs. Diana Langham Manners would 
 become Mrs. Ogden Fenn. 
 
 It was not at first any thought of Frank Manners's 
 tragic feelings which caused Mrs. Herriot's eyebrows 
 to shoot upward, and her lower lip to disappear be- 
 neath her upper teeth. It was the name Ogden Fenn. 
 
 But her second thought was for Manners, all for 
 Manners. A phrase jumped into her brain and re- 
 peated itself. 
 
 "This will hit my wild goose where he lives. . . . 
 This will hit my wild goose where he lives." 
 
 She beat with her little fist upon her knee. Then 
 she glanced toward the door of the bathroom. Stairs 
 had not taken the trouble to push it all the way to. 
 That was why the singing, which had ceased now, had 
 sounded so loud. 
 
 She reached for the telephone which stood near the 
 head of her bed, and her eye on the bathroom door 
 began to speak into the mouthpiece. But she did not 
 take the receiver from the hook. 
 
 "Ludlow 2507 ... Is this Mrs. Boster's house? . . . 
 What? . . . And she's all alone? . . . Her brother 
 couldn't come? . . . Why, Bridget, how terrible! . . . 
 This is Mrs. Herriot speaking. ... I will come just 
 as soon as I am dressed . . . very low? Anha . . . 
 Who's her doctor? . . Anha . . O course! . . You
 
 294 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 say she's been asking for me? ... You tell her that I'll 
 come, and that I'll stay as long as she needs me." 
 
 Her eyes, very bright with invention, Mrs. Herriot 
 put back the telephone. Then she called to Stairs. 
 
 "Oh, Delancey . . . Can you speak with me a mo- 
 ment?" 
 
 Mr. Stairs had nearly completed his toilette. He 
 was eminently presentable; a tall, thick man, with a 
 handsome and clever face above a somewhat heavy and 
 sullen jaw. He was younger than Mrs. Herriot, but 
 he had the look of a much older man. 
 
 "To hear," he said slowly, "is to obey." 
 
 "My great friend, Mrs. Boster," she began glibly, 
 "has been taken suddenly ill . . ." 
 
 "Did you think," he interrupted firmly but with his 
 usual placid deliberation, "that you would run less risk 
 of catching her disease if you left the receiver on the 
 hook?" 
 
 "You looked through the door." 
 
 "Through the aperture between the door and the 
 door frame. I saw the whole performance. It was Al. 
 If I had not looked I should have been most grossly 
 deceived. . . . Why did you do it?" 
 
 "Oh, it seemed the easiest way, I suppose. Shall I 
 tell you the truth?" 
 
 "You shall." 
 
 This was ominous, but she managed to look uncon- 
 cerned. 
 
 "I want to get out of dining, and a roof to-night. I 
 want to be free to-night." 
 
 "Why, Elaine?" 
 
 "Because a friend that I love is in terrible trouble."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 295 
 
 "A woman." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Whatman?" 
 
 "Delancey, dear, if I tell you the whole truth, you'll 
 not . . ." 
 
 "Gossip? It would be so like me." 
 
 "The man is Frank Manners. His wife that was 
 is going to be married to-day, and Frank loves her so 
 I'm afraid he may kill himself. I want to be with him. 
 I know I can help him, and make him feel not so badly 
 about it." 
 
 "You will do exactly as you please." 
 
 "Delancey, we are nothing to each other." 
 
 "You lived together. You were the unnamed co- 
 respondent." 
 
 "He liated it. Every bit of it." 
 
 "Look at yourself in these various mirrors, my dear 
 Elaine, and tell me that again." 
 
 "Delancey, please be generous. I swear to you 
 there's nothing more possible between him and me." 
 
 "You love him?" 
 
 She thought for a moment. Then she said: 
 
 "I don't know. I wanted to live with him always. 
 But living with me made him feel mean and degraded, 
 so I engineered a break that was easy for him. So ... 
 I guess I do love him." 
 
 "You love him. How do you propose to comfort 
 him?" 
 
 "I don't know that I can. But I know something 
 that might comfort him oh, a mouse of a thing, but 
 it might be a lion. If I can't help him through this, 
 nobody can."
 
 296 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Delancey Stairs came and sat on the edge of the 
 bed. 
 
 "Elaine," he said. "You will do as you please, of 
 course. What you please, however, seems to settle 
 down to a choice between two men. I intended to do 
 something rather handsome for you. Don't forget 
 that in your calculations." 
 
 "There are no calculations in this, Delancey. The 
 man I love is facing hell, and I've got to see him 
 through." 
 
 "Even if it costs you ten thousand a year." 
 
 She looked at him steadily. 
 
 "Yes, Delancey. Even if it costs me ten million a 
 year. I think I can help him and I've got to try." 
 
 After that neither of them spoke for some time. 
 Mrs. Herriot broke the silence. 
 
 "You've no cause to feel jealous." 
 
 "But I do," he said. "And it's hell. I'm crazy mad 
 about you. Don't you know that ? You could do any- 
 thing with me. But you can't do things to me. Not 
 you nor any other woman." 
 
 He walked slowly back into the bathroom, and 
 emerged in a moment, slowly removing his coat from 
 a stretcher, put on the coat, surveyed himself for a 
 moment in a mirror, and then turned to Mrs. Herriot. 
 
 "Are you dining with me to-night or not?" 
 
 The tears began to run down her cheeks. 
 
 "Please be generous," she said. "I'll come if I can. 
 But if I find him, and he needs me don't you see I 
 just couldn't come?" 
 
 "If you are not there at eight sharp," he said, "I'm 
 through with you."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 297 
 
 He turned and without another word walked solidly 
 and definitely out of the room. 
 
 It is perhaps curious to think that during the night 
 he had said the silliest things to her in a sort of baby 
 talk. 
 
 Mrs. Herriot dressed and drove at once to Frank 
 Manners's studio. Failing to find the right silver in 
 her purse she stuffed a five dollar bill into the driver's 
 hand, and when she saw the look of astonishment that 
 came into his face at her refusal to wait for the change, 
 she smiled and thought : "It's all relative. Five dollars 
 seems big to him for a short ride. What would he 
 think if he knew that it was costing me ten thousand 
 a year ?" 
 
 She entered the studio building carrying her brave 
 little head high. And she almost collided with Peter 
 Manners. 
 
 "Why, hello! " he exclaimed. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Manners, you've been with Frank. How 
 is he?" 
 
 "He didn't want me," said Mr. Manners. "Poor 
 fellow. He kicked me out." 
 
 Mr. Manners was wearing a high hat and a frock 
 coat. 
 
 "Are you going to the wedding?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, and if I don't hurry . . ." 
 
 She rang Frank Manners's door bell, and waited 
 five minutes. Then she rang it again. She kept 
 ringing it at intervals for nearly three hours. She 
 knew that he wasn't dead ; because from time to time 
 she could hear the sound of his well-known footsteps. 
 Every now and then she rested a little while, sitting
 
 298 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 on the top step of the flights which wound around 
 the elevator shaft. 
 
 All of a sudden and just as she was going to push 
 the bell again the door was violently opened. But 
 the anger in Frank Manners's pale face swiftly faded. 
 
 She looked tired out. And the tears were streaming 
 down her cheeks. 
 
 "Why, you poor little thing," he said. "You poor 
 little thing." 
 
 She snuffled once or twice, and wiped the tears from 
 her face. 
 
 "I I came to tell you something f-funny," she 
 said. "I know you'd be feeling terrible and I 
 thought if I could make you laugh ..." 
 
 He made her sit down and he brought her a glass 
 of water. 
 
 "Drink that," he said. 7 'And then for God's sake 
 make me laugh." 
 
 "You see," she said presently, "I know you feel too 
 terrible, and I thought that maybe you could stand it 
 better if you knew that Og Ogden Fenn is aw fully 
 knock-kneed just like a woman, and and snores." 
 
 He did laugh; but a harsh ugly laugh in the top 
 of his head. It was own cousin to hysterics. She 
 watched him in an agony of pity and fear. But her 
 mind worked and she considered what she should do 
 next to relieve the tension which threatened to snap 
 his nervous system to pieces. She was a wise little 
 person in her way and she made no effort to place his 
 tragedy in a more favorable light. She did not for 
 instance tell him that she knew just how he felt, or 
 that he wouldn't mind so much later on. On the
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 299 
 
 contrary she told him that no fluffy frivolous little 
 person like herself could possibly know how terribly 
 he felt. And when he said: "Oh, he guessed he'd 
 live through it," she said very simply, "I hope to God 
 you do, Frank, but you don't look as if you stood a 
 ghost of a chance." 
 
 She had managed to pull her own nerves together 
 and she tried to make her voice sound very matter of 
 fact and practical. His rooms were in disorder, and 
 when she had taken off her hat and gloves she started 
 to put them to rights. 
 
 "Have you been drinking a lot, Frank?" she asked. 
 
 "The last few days. I don't suppose it's done any 
 good ; but I don't dare stop." 
 
 He flopped down in a deep chair and buried his face 
 in his hands. But he apologized as best he could. 
 
 "I'm all right," he said, "only I can't control my 
 nerves." 
 
 She paused a moment from her work of restoring 
 order, and stood looking at him. He spoke again, and 
 there was a distinct wailing note in his voice. 
 
 "I don't see how I am to get through tonight," he 
 said. "I don't see that." 
 
 The hands dropped from his face. He turned and 
 looked at her, his eyes full of horror. 
 
 "Do you know what it is to have an imagination?" 
 he asked. He leaped then suddenly to his feet, and 
 pounding his left fist with his right. "It will be as if 
 I was in the same room with them," he cried, "tied 
 hand and foot. And all the lights lighted . . . Oh, 
 I wish I had gone to the church and shot him as they 
 came out, and shot him and shot him and shot him ..."
 
 300 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 She glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece. 
 
 "You couldn't get there in time now, Frank," she 
 said. "But don't think about that part. He'll get 
 what's coming to him. He can no more hold a wom- 
 an's love than he can keep his mouth shut when he's 
 asleep. Adenoids, likely." 
 
 "How do you know so much about him, Elaine?" 
 he asked with a lugubrious show of interest. 
 
 "Don't ask fool questions, Frank," she answered. 
 "Remember the life I've lived, and then have the 
 politeness to forget it. Will you do me a heap big 
 favor?" 
 
 "I'll try, my dear." 
 
 "Will you lie on that big leather sofa, and shut your 
 eyes and not move or talk till I get the rest of the 
 place tidied up?" 
 
 He considered this proposal for a moment. Then 
 he said "Ye-es, but I want a drink first." 
 
 "I'll bring you the drink myself," she said, "if you'll 
 do me my favor first." 
 
 He began to frown a little at being crossed, then 
 laughed mirthlessly and went and lay down on the 
 sofa. 
 
 "Stretch your arms and legs," she said, "just as 
 hard as you can stretch them ; and hold them stretched 
 till they ache. Then let go. If you really want to 
 relax that's the way to do it ... And shut your eyes." 
 
 Mrs. Herriot did not confine herself entirely to put- 
 ting the rest of the apartment to rights. As a matter 
 of fact she went straight to the little table at the head 
 of Frank Manners's bed and pulled open the drawer 
 at the top. This contained three one cent pieces, an
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 301 
 
 automatic pistol, a broken rubber band, and the little 
 bottle of quarter grain morphine tablets of which he 
 had once told her 1 . She drew a long shuddering 
 breath of relief. The morphine was snugly sand- 
 wiched between two layers of absorbent cotton. She 
 pulled the cork from the bottle, picked out the upper 
 layer of cotton with a hairpin, and shook a dozen of 
 the tablets into the palm of her hand. 
 
 All but one of these she hid in an accessible place 
 and then she went to the dining-room to mix the drink 
 that she had promised to bring him. 
 
 That first drink of Mrs. Herriot's mixing did not 
 affect him much; but the second did. He became 
 much calmer. He noticed this himself. He imagined, 
 he said, that pain could only reach a certain point of 
 intensity, that when that point was reached the nerves 
 that received the impression of pain simply struck. 
 . . . "And," he added with sleepy gallantry, "you've 
 had a lot to do with making things easier to bear. 
 Come and sit down on the edge of this sofa, and tell 
 me what I can do to show that I am grateful." 
 
 "If you'd go to sleep, and stay asleep, God knows 
 I'd feel fully thanked, Frank, dear. Couldn't you?" 
 
 He shook his head, or rather he rolled it slowly 
 from side to side. 
 
 "Elaine," he said, "I don't seem to care much at all 
 now. . . . And so that dashing lover, the home 
 wrecker has badly knocked knees?" 
 
 Mrs. Herriot nodded. And smoothed back the 
 stray hair from his forehead. It was more than half 
 gray now.
 
 302 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "Frank," she said, "she had no real good reason to 
 do what she did, had she?" 
 
 "No basic reason, Elaine. I had a chance to keep 
 her love and make her happy and somehow I couldn't 
 use it." 
 
 "You don't feel a bit bitter against her any more, 
 do you?" 
 
 "Not any more. Just loving and sorry." 
 
 "Well, I feel bitter against her, I can tell you." 
 
 "YOU? Why?" 
 
 His drowsy eyes became quite round with wonder. 
 
 "Oh," she snapped. "For being such a damned 
 fool. She ought to be punished." 
 
 And then and there Mrs. Herriot made up her 
 mind to punish the woman who had so wounded her 
 poor Wild Goose. 
 
 "Frank," she said, "I'm the last person in the world 
 to recommend strong drink. But that last one seems to 
 have done you a world of good. How about one 
 little touch more?" 
 
 She did not wait for his answer but drifted off 
 smiling with a long empty glass in her hand. Soon 
 after that third drink he fell calmly asleep. It was 
 dark when he partially waked. He said he was very 
 thirsty, "water thirsty," his mouth was dry as plaster. 
 If it wasn't for that he thought he could go to sleep 
 again. 
 
 Mrs. Herriot smiled triumphantly in the dark. 
 
 "Suppose you go and get into bed," she said, "that's 
 the place to sleep, and I'll bring you a long glass of 
 good Croton with lots of ice in it." 
 
 She turned on the lights, and watched him shamble
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 303 
 
 sleepily off to his bedroom. When she thought that 
 he had had sufficient time to undress she carried the 
 tall glass of ice water to his door and knocked. 
 
 He was lying on his bed fully dressed. He could 
 hardly lift his eyelids. After a few swallows of 
 water he fell sound asleep. 
 
 The drug seemed to have erased many of the lines 
 from his face which suffering had put there. His 
 breathing was easy and natural ; he had the expression 
 of one who has been pleasantly and innocently 
 amused. 
 
 The hands of a traveling clock on the dressing- 
 table pointed to eight. 
 
 "There goes my ten thousand a year for keeps," 
 said Mrs. Herriot. She drew one long sighing breath, 
 and forthwith dismissed all her own private trouble 
 from her head, and with the most gratified and tender 
 solicitude took Frank Manners's feet in her lap and 
 began to unlace his shoes. Somehow or other, for he 
 was a big man and she was little and not very strong, 
 she got him into a fresh suit of pajamas and into his 
 bed. Then she opened as many windows as there were, 
 and put out the lights. But she left the door ajar 
 so that she could go in and out without disturbing 
 him. 
 
 She found some note paper in a drawer of the 
 writing-table, and she sat for a long time with an oc- 
 casionally reinked pen poised over it and ready to 
 write. Finally she made a beginning and pausing only 
 when more ink was needed she wrote the following 
 note, sealed it in an envelope and addressed it to Mrs.
 
 3 04 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 Ogden Fenn, Westbury, with the remark, "A note 
 like that is sure to find her." 
 
 MY DEAR MRS. OGDEN FENN: 
 
 I am the woman who helped to furnish you with the 
 grounds upon which you indignantly and righteously 
 divorced your husband. I am writing to you for 
 several reasons: (1) To ask if you know the differ- 
 ence between a salmon and a carp? Between an eagle 
 and a puddle-duck? and to tell you that if you 
 don't know the difference, I do. (2) To say that you 
 needn't have taken the trouble to find out for yourself 
 as I could have told you if you had asked me, that the 
 puddle-duck has knock knees and adenoids. When 
 he is sleeping, and you are trying to, the latter are 
 distinctly audible. (3) To inform you that hell is 
 full of women like you, and that I hope from the 
 bottom of my heart that you suffer all the unhappiness 
 you deserve in this world and the next. 
 
 ELAINE HERRIOT. 
 
 When the bell rang and Mrs. Herriot opened the 
 door she expected to see Peter Manners. It was 
 not Mr. Manners, however, whom, to her fear and 
 astonishment, she found herself facing, but Delancey 
 Stairs. She had for a moment the ridiculous belief 
 that he had turned Sicilian and had come to murder 
 her. Her heart beat like that of a wild bird that has 
 been caught in the hand. But his slow deliberate 
 utterance and the fact that his expression though 
 grave and troubled was not stern, brought the color 
 back to her face.
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 305 
 
 "I couldn't rest," he said, "until I had seen you 
 again. Could you come on the landing a minute 
 and talk with me?" 
 
 "You'd better come in. And I'm glad that you 
 have come. It's lonely work now. Frank has gone 
 to bed and to sleep, thank God." 
 
 He followed her into the big studio. 
 
 "If I have done you an injustice," he said, "I want 
 to know it." 
 
 "You have," she said, "but it's all right. I don't 
 blame you. I'm so glad you came." 
 
 "I had to fight myself hard. I am jealous as hell 
 by nature, and I jump at conclusions." 
 
 "Take your coat off, and sit in that brown chair. 
 It's ugly, but very comfy." 
 
 "To hear is to obey," he said, and when he had sat 
 down, she told him something of her experiences in 
 giving first aid to Frank Manners. 
 
 "Three Iwurs!" she repeated, "I kept ringing that 
 darned bell for three hours. And when he did open 
 the door he looked murder. But when he saw it was 
 only me, he seemed sort of dazed and somehow or 
 other let me in. I could see at once that he'd been 
 drinking hard not drunk, the next stage saturated 
 preserved. And God, what a face the color of 
 oak before it's oiled, a whity gray, and his eyelids 
 twitching and jumping. . . Just the same I made him 
 laugh, almost turned into hysterics though. . . . Well 
 it was evident that he'd locked himself up here, ind 
 that nobody had been allowed in to tidy up. His 
 bed hadn't been made, his clothes hadn't been hung up, 
 his shaving brush was still full of lather, the bath
 
 3o6 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 towels hadn't been picked up. He'd cooked himself 
 some bacon and eggs, early this morning probably, 
 and he'd dropped one raw egg in front of the stove. 
 I promised him a drink if he'd lie down till I'd finished 
 tidying up. He consented to that, and then of course 
 I beat it for the morphine." 
 
 "The what?" 
 
 "He never touched morphine in his life, but I knew 
 he had some, and it's the kind of thing you'd keep 
 near you if you happened to have it, and were in 
 trouble. Well, I thought I might have to hunt high 
 and low, but I took a chance on the drawer of the 
 table by his bed, and there it was luck!" 
 
 "How much did you give him?" 
 
 "A quarter of a grain at first. Three quarters al- 
 together. And now he doesn't know that there's any 
 trouble in the world." 
 
 "He'll know to-morrow ... I think I'd better look 
 at him. Three-quarters of a grain might hurt some 
 men." 
 
 When they returned from Manners's bedroom 
 Stairs had the bottle of morphine in his hand. 
 
 "I shall take the liberty," he said, "of having some- 
 thing harmless substituted for these things. A man 
 in his state ought not to have morphine lying around 
 loose. If he ever finds out what made him feel sleepy 
 and serene, he'll want more. And if he finds out 
 to-morrow when he wakes up and feels the way he is 
 going to feel, he'll want a lot more." 
 
 "Will he be very sick?" 
 
 "A big dose of morphine on top of two or three 
 days' hard drinking ought to make him so sick that
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 307 
 
 he won't care how many wives divorce him. ... I 
 sha'n't be long. And by the way, are you going to 
 spend the night here?" 
 
 "I intended to; but it doesn't seem as if there was 
 anything more that I could do." 
 
 "Feel like a little spree !" 
 
 "If you say so." 
 
 He leaned suddenly toward her, and patted her 
 shoulder. 
 
 "You'll be happier staying right here," he said. 
 "Won't you?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, and with a magnanimous impulse. 
 "I never liked you as much as I do this very minute. 
 You are big and generous." 
 
 "If that's so," said he, "I am very thankful that I 
 did some hard thinking after I left you this morning. 
 I'll get this stuff changed and come back and sit with 
 you a while. You're a good girl, and I'm crazy about 
 you."
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 DIANA'S determination to suffer all things in her 
 new life without flinching was tested before she had 
 been Mrs. Ogden Fenn an hour. Matrimony worked 
 immediate wonders in the shy and self-effacing Mr. 
 Fenn. The poor fellow felt doubtless that being now 
 the head of a family he must show himself self-re- 
 liant and develop initiative. Or it may be that he 
 was not without that palaeolithic instinct of the con- 
 quering male to show off. To be brief Diana found 
 that the hero, the divine lover, to whom she was now 
 irrevocably married, was a little mite pompous. He 
 made it a little too obvious to persons who could not 
 have been in the least concerned that he was her 
 husband. 
 
 In due time Diana received the letter which Elaine 
 Herriot had written her. And it had upon her the 
 effect which Mrs. Herriot had intended that it should 
 have. For though Diana destroyed the substance of 
 the letter by fire its spirit she could not destroy. She 
 never mentioned either the letter or Mrs. Herriot to 
 her husband. But they both gnawed at her pride and 
 her heart. 
 
 It has been said that Diana had a good eye for fit- 
 ness and for proportion and that she was, when in 
 her right mind, exceedingly fastidious. The fact 
 therefore that her new husband's legs were very badly 
 
 308
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 309 
 
 knock-kneed actually helped to undermine the love 
 and admiration that she had for him; that and the 
 pompousness which he had developed a trick of 
 clearing the throat before saying important things 
 a condescension in his manner toward servants, in- 
 stead of that perfect simplicity and naturalness which 
 marks those who are really well-bred. 
 
 It developed also that he was very jealous of her 
 old friends, especially the men. It gave him no pleas- 
 ure to learn that she had had lunch with Peter Man- 
 ners, or had met Montgomery Stairs just outside of 
 Altman's and walked a few blocks with him. And of 
 course, all that was very natural. When a man wins 
 another man's wife he wins a woman, who, no matter 
 whose wife she is, can be won. Diana having been 
 false to one set of marriage vows was not to be trusted 
 quite so implicitly in a new set as a woman of similar 
 beauty, breeding and temperament who was trying 
 them for the first time. By telling her a little too 
 often how completely he trusted her, Mr. Fenn proved 
 to his sensitive bride that his trust in her was as much 
 policy as instinct. 
 
 The poor fellow was desperately in love, desperately 
 anxious to please, and desperately anxious to increase 
 his income so that there should be no great descent for 
 her in the scale of living. From the beginning things 
 went badly for him. He did not please her as a hus- 
 band nearly as much as he had pleased her as a lover. 
 And he suspected this to be the case without being 
 sure of it. He could not but feel that at times she was 
 making unfavorable comparisons in the back of her 
 head. That he should only have suspected these
 
 3io THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 things is to praise Diana's nerve and power to keep 
 good resolutions to the sky. For almost she would 
 have killed herself sooner than let the world or Fenn 
 perceive that the mad, foolish, selfish thing she had 
 done was a failure from the start. Fenn might well 
 have trusted her utterly. She had learned her lesson. 
 She would never again indulge in one of those harm- 
 less flirtations, or any other kind of a flirtation. She 
 was a married woman in all the best meanings of that 
 expression. But in her heart she soon wished that 
 she had not been so long in mastering her lesson. 
 It would have been so much easier, and so much more 
 distinguished to have been a good wife to Frank 
 Manners. 
 
 The first thing to make itself felt as a definite is- 
 sue between Diana and Fenn was money ; and the next 
 thing was Tarn. It was during the first winter of their 
 marriage that Fenn, who was quite desperately hard 
 up, hinted that some of the handsome alimony which 
 Diana received from Frank Manners should be used 
 for the common good. But Diana proved deaf to 
 the suggestion. 
 
 "I insisted," she said, "that I wouldn't use one 
 penny of his money for anyone's benefit but Tarn's. 
 And I won't. I'll starve first. As it is I sometimes 
 think that her savings bank account is smaller than it 
 ought to be and her contribution to our joint expenses 
 larger. You were sure that there would be no diffi- 
 culty about money. There mustn't be. I'll take some 
 more thin parings off the cost of living, but that is all 
 that I can do. We are nearly at the core as it is. 
 Don't think that I mind. I don't. We always said
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 311 
 
 that love was the only thing that mattered. I'm game 
 to make that good if you are." 
 
 Of course he was. And the conversation dissolved 
 into warm embraces and protestations of eternal love. 
 
 Somewhere deep down in Ogden Fenn there was 
 engendered, however, a feeling of resentment against 
 Tarn. She paid her way and she had money in the 
 bank. He had nothing that he could call his own in the 
 bank and was running a little into debt. Furthermore 
 although the child seemed to like him well enough he 
 could not win her confidence. She had inherited re- 
 serve from her mother and the power not to speak 
 what was in her mind. She wasn't happy. Very 
 pleasant ways of life had been changed for ways that 
 were not nearly so pleasant. It would not be fair to 
 say that she was unhappy. As she grew older, he 
 thought, she would make an idol of her father and 
 judge the man who had separated her from him very 
 sharply. Already she knew that in some vague way 
 he had been grossly outraged and wronged. 
 
 The little apartment which they inhabited was 
 smart and attractive, as was everything that Diana 
 touched. It was as much like a home as an arrange- 
 ment of hat boxes can be. And it was never just the 
 right temperature. 
 
 Soon after Christmas the Fenn's began to worry 
 about the summer. Diana would have preferred to 
 remain in the city; but for Tam that was out of the 
 question. It was decided finally that Diana and Tam 
 should inhabit the little house at Combers and that 
 Fenn should come to them for the week ends and for 
 two solid weeks in August. To facilitate the some-
 
 312 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 what difficult commuting and marketing he decided to 
 buy a second hand jitney. He felt that he had a bent 
 for mechanics and that he was just the kind of man 
 who by a little weekly tinkering could keep a motor 
 in good running order. 
 
 It was already hot when Diana and her little 
 daughter left the city for good. They had made sev- 
 eral previous trips to Combers in the jitney, fatiguing 
 all day affairs, to put the house to rights and to get 
 their luggage moved without troubling the railroads 
 about anything but the big trunks, and during these 
 trips had become closer and dearer to each other than 
 they had ever been before. 
 
 In almost every way Combers was a change for the 
 better; the surrounding mountain scapes seized, filled 
 and satisfied the eye. Unless the atmosphere itself 
 chose to be articulate the nights were as still as they 
 were cool and fresh. 
 
 Of course there wasn't much to do, and there were 
 no neighbors of the kind to which Diana had been ac- 
 customed; but since she was gregarious she soon be- 
 gan to make acquaintances among the villagers, and 
 in some instances to lay the foundations of real 
 friendships. Some of the older women who had 
 known great troubles and weathered them were es- 
 pecially delightful, and wise. And it occurred to 
 Diana for the first time in her life that the higher 
 virtues, loyalty, steadfastness, willingness to bear 
 children, and cheerfulness are not only their own re- 
 ward, but the greatest reward to be had in the world. 
 
 The more familiar she became with the history of 
 this woman or that, the less pleasant she found it to
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 313 
 
 appear before the tribunal of her own conscience. 
 There were women in Combers who through thick 
 and thin had stuck to the worst kind of husbands, and 
 had done right so thoroughly, patiently and unflinch- 
 ingly as in the end to shame their worse halves into 
 decent human conduct. 
 
 Diana's history became more or less known, and the 
 women of Combers took it for granted that since she 
 had divorced her husband the wretchedness and cruelty 
 that she had had to put up with must have been far 
 worse than anything ever openly known in that neigh- 
 borhood, and among themselves surrounded her beau- 
 tiful head with a halo of martyrdom. 
 
 "When I think what that poor woman must have 
 gone through!" sighed Mrs. Van Buren, who be it 
 said had borne her husband nine children, and more 
 than once during her pregnancies had been knocked 
 down and beaten. 
 
 Beatings and knockings down she took for granted 
 in Diana's case, and her imagination strove to con- 
 ceive of these infinitely worse things which had driven 
 the lovely matron into the divorce court. Horrible, 
 unspeakable things, they must have been. The kind 
 of things that most people don't even know anything 
 about. 
 
 Diana felt the sympathy, for it was hinted rather 
 than spoken, and at times she longed to make a clean 
 breast of her real claims to sympathy and stop sailing 
 under false colors. 
 
 "What would they think of me," she wondered, 
 "if I told them that I divorced my husband for no 
 better reason than that I thought I wanted a different
 
 314 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 one, and that, God help me, I didn't really want the 
 different one nearly as much as I thought I did, and 
 had every reason to be contented and happy with the 
 other." 
 
 For Tarn and Diana the jitney worked overtime. 
 The little girl's legs were not yet long enough to 
 reach the foot pedals, but she learned to steer the car 
 and to work the throttle. They explored the surround- 
 ing country most thoroughly, and as friendships de- 
 veloped often carried two or three village children and 
 a picnic lunch in the back seat. 
 
 The house being badly in need of a garden, Diana 
 hired a man to clear a favorable patch of ground of 
 rocks and brush so that it could be spaded, levelled, 
 and put into flowers and vegetables another year. She 
 would have liked to do all this work herself, a little at 
 a time, and ordinarily she would have had the neces- 
 sary strength and energy. But at this time Diana who 
 was beginning to look thin in the face, and thick 
 through the waist, spent most of her spare time in 
 sewing.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 FRANK MANNER'S grief, passion, jealousy, despair 
 and dissipation soon wore themselves out. And for 
 a long while he was not nearly as unhappy as he had 
 expected to be. That was because through too much 
 suffering he had temporarily lost his capacity to feel 
 pain. It was as if his more delicate sensibilities had 
 been treated with an ether spray and frozen. It 
 seemed to him that he was no longer in love with 
 his wife, that Tam was not indispensable to him, and 
 that he had made a terrific fool of himself for nothing. 
 
 Gradually he got the idea that everybody thought 
 that he had made a fool of himself and therefore de- 
 spised him, and it became natural to him to avoid 
 most of his old friends and to make no new ones. 
 
 During all the periods of despair and general 
 wretchedness his art curiously enough had made 
 great strides. An extraordinary successful portrait 
 of Mrs. Hastings electrified the critics, who had 
 thought of him as a landscape man, and decorator, 
 and the public as well. It brought him a deluge of 
 orders from rich women who wished to be painted 
 by the same man who had painted the famous Mrs. 
 Hastings. Since his own definite ambition was to 
 provide well for his little daughter's present and fu- 
 ture he accepted all the orders which he thought he 
 could fill, and throughout the winter worked with 
 
 315
 
 3 i6 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 great patience, energy and success. And he earned 
 twice the money that he had ever earned before in the 
 same length of time. His portraits became the rage. 
 
 At times he almost thought that he was contented. 
 As a matter of fact he was only numb. When the 
 numbness had worn off he would find that the crack 
 in his heart was not healed, but wider and deeper, 
 and that his life was emptier than a glass from which 
 the rich wine had been poured. 
 
 He had never done much theorizing; either about 
 art, literature, politics or the sexes. But he began 
 at this time to perplex himself very much about the 
 relationships of the sexes, and to simplify for his own 
 enlightenment the very complex laws upon which 
 these relationships are based. From this thinking 
 always of his own troubles with Diana and of other 
 cases with which he had, or was becoming familiar, 
 he began to generalize. Soon Diana was no longer 
 in his eyes a beloved individual who had done so and 
 so, but the "kind of woman" who does so and so. 
 Fenn was no longer an individual who had broken 
 up his home, but the "kind of man" who breaks up 
 other men's homes. 
 
 From his sitters, women for the most part with 
 plenty of leisure for the introspection that leads to 
 rash experimentation he acquired much food for 
 thought. 
 
 Most of these women married or otherwise wanted 
 their relations with him to be different from the usual 
 relations between customer and producer. One of 
 the most prevalent (and one of the highest) ideals 
 entertained by attractive young women is the ideal
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 317 
 
 of platonic friendship. Few of them he discovered 
 had so high an ideal of the marital relation. One 
 way in which women waken their passions is in the 
 pursuit of a relationship from which the passions are 
 excluded. 
 
 There was a Mrs. Tennant who talked so much of 
 platonic friendships, and insisted so hard that he was 
 different from other men, that she was different from 
 other women, etc., that Manners actually accepted her 
 advances, and for some time actually believed that the 
 ideal relationship she so admired was possible of 
 achievement. He was of course led into this friend- 
 ship, not by any aptitude that Mrs. Tennant had for 
 friendship but by her extreme charm and prettiness, 
 and her superficial friendliness. He felt very natural 
 and at ease whenever she was in the studio; it was a 
 pleasure to paint her. She asked his advice about 
 many things, and took it. 
 
 One night about eleven o'clock she came to the 
 studio, and told him that platonic friendships were 
 against reason and nature, that she loved him, and 
 that like it or not she had left her husband forever. 
 
 There was never in this world a more horrified or 
 disillusionized man than Frank Manners. And he 
 told her so. 
 
 "Oh, my dear child," he said. "Almost you might 
 be my daughter, and you have three children of your 
 own, and by your own account a perfectly satisfactory 
 husband who loves and provides. It wasn't your 
 beauty or your charm or your wit that has so at- 
 tracted me to you, my mind to yours it was your 
 good old-fashioned common sense."
 
 3i8 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "But I knew that the other things wouldn't attract 
 you," she wailed, "so I tried the common sense. And 
 there is no such thing as platonic friendship. I felt 
 sorry for you, because I knew you were unhappy. 
 And I thought it would be good for you to be at- 
 tracted to me, even very much. And you wouldn't 
 be and I was to you more and more, and I hate my 
 husband, and if you don't stand by me, I'll kill my- 
 self. I'll throw myself out of that window." 
 
 Manners smiled very cheerfully, walked quickly to 
 the window and opened it. 
 
 "If you really hate your husband, and really want 
 to leave him and your children, and come to live with 
 me instead," he said, "it's the very best thing you 
 could do. As for standing by you in any campaign 
 to break up a good home which an excellent man has 
 provided for you I'll do no such thing." 
 
 She made two or three desperate steps toward the 
 window. If she had made two more Manners must 
 have sprung forward to save her. But she couldn't 
 help taking a hurried look at him, and she found that 
 he had turned his back and was reaching his hand for 
 a box of cigarettes. 
 
 She sat down then in a chair and cried very bitterly. 
 
 "I hate you," she said. 
 
 "You hate the discovery that what you thought to 
 be one of the great eternal passions of history is 
 nothing of the sort." 
 
 "Men are brutes." 
 
 "For millions of years men have made the mistake 
 of sympathizing with women when they are in the 
 wrong. You love your children. Nothing that they
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 319 
 
 can ever say or do can alter that. It's the one thing 
 you can be sure of. Once you thought you were 
 going to love your husband forever. A moment ago 
 you thought you were going to love me forever. 
 Already you hate me ..." 
 
 She rose and moved toward the door. 
 
 "Most men," she said, "would have at least had 
 the courtesy " 
 
 But he interrupted her. 
 
 "Many men," he said, "would have done for 
 beauty and charm the compliment of letting you ruin 
 yourself. I believe that timidity, embarrassment, 
 and lack of savoir-faire are largely responsible for 
 the evil reputation that gets attached to some men. 
 I believe the story of the apple and Eve and the ser- 
 pent, and of Poor Adam, who got so sheepish and 
 embarrassed that he didn't really know what end he 
 was standing on ... Please don't go away angry 
 ... I think women were put into the world to 
 tempt men. 
 
 "I think they were probably meant to tempt more 
 than one man, whichever man happened to turn up 
 at the right moment ... I think civilization has 
 found it more practical and efficacious to insist on 
 monogamy. I think the old world-peopling instinct 
 survives in most women. In some so strongly that 
 they have nothing with which to combat it. You told 
 me once that you and your husband had agreed that 
 you could not afford to have more than four chil- 
 dren, and leave a pleasant little fortune of thirty or 
 forty thousand a year to each. You and he agreed. 
 But nature didn't. That's why nature not you
 
 320 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 came here tonight. I don't blame you a bit. I'm 
 sorry and unhappy. When you started to throw 
 yourself out of the window, nature said, 'Hold on. 
 He's not the only man in the world.' ' 
 
 "Then according to you," she broke in, "I should 
 go and fling myself at the feet of some other gentle- 
 man who knows a g-g-good thing when he sees it, and 
 tempt him." 
 
 "That's the nature of it," admitted Manners. "But 
 because of our laws and institutions and religion, if 
 you like, neither Tom, nor Dick, nor Harry will do. 
 There's only one man for you to tempt and that man 
 is your husband. . . . Your children will have 
 forty thousand a year apiece. Don't you think that 
 any one of them would rather be left with a beggarly 
 twenty thousand than never to have been born at 
 all?" 
 
 "I think you are a disgusting cad!" she exclaimed. 
 "I don't wonder your wife divorced you." 
 
 Manners flinched. He had already learned that 
 Diana was going to have a child, and the numbness 
 which had held his sensibilities in subjection was be- 
 ginning to wear off. He bowed his head a little and 
 said nothing. 
 
 "Tell me," she said, really quite a horrid sneering 
 look on her pretty face, "that some day I'll be glad 
 that you insulted me and sent me home like a naughty 
 whipped child." 
 
 "Some day," he said very gently, "I hope you will 
 be glad that a very unhappy man was still in love 
 with his wife, who had left him, and that you had had 
 no hand in making some other man who loves you
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 321 
 
 legitimately and in perhaps the same way, as unhappy 
 as that." 
 
 From that moment his mind ran more and more 
 on the fact that Diana was going to have a child and 
 the longing for his own child grew upon him. 
 
 In May he wrote to Diana asking her to let him 
 have Tarn at least for the summer months. Diana re- 
 fused, almost curtly. She did not go into her reasons 
 for refusing. 
 
 She had the impulse to tell him the truth. "I won't 
 let you have her," she might have written, "because 
 the happiness that I looked forward to is ashes. I 
 don't love my husband. I am bowed to the ground 
 with shame and humiliation. But I am not going to 
 play this husband false. There is good in me, and I 
 shall try to redeem my sins against you, by doing 
 right by him. I have only Tarn to keep me going. 
 Without her I should falter and fail. Somehow I 
 have got to keep my head up. God means me to. I 
 am going to have a baby. If my husband wants others 
 I shall give them to him if I can. God cares more 
 about the children than about the complex motives 
 that bring them into the world and keep them out . . " 
 
 But Manners could know nothing of this. 
 
 "She is going to give him the children that she 
 denied me," he thought. "And she has taken away 
 from me the one child that she gave." 
 
 Once more those intolerable wounds made in his 
 nature by injustice opened wide and the bile and gall 
 gushed out of them. He wrote Diana one terrible 
 letter. Then he left the city, and went for some 
 weeks into the Canadian forests with a half-breed
 
 322 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 to guide him. He fished very little, ate very little, 
 smoked a great deal, and asked a great many questions 
 which the half-breed answered according to his ex- 
 perience of life in the back woods, and their settle- 
 ments. 
 
 "If your wife, Wambolt," he asked, "fell in love 
 with another man and wanted to leave you, what would 
 you do?" 
 
 "Kill that man for sure, and beat her up good." 
 
 "If you wanted more children and she wouldn't 
 have any more?" 
 
 "I give her good beating, then." 
 
 "But suppose you fell in love with another woman 
 and wanted to leave your wife? That would make a 
 difference, wouldn't it?" 
 
 "She beat me up then," said the half-breed. "May- 
 be she scratch her own face, and shoot me down." 
 
 In any case you wouldn't mess and fuss and wrangle 
 and dispute and get bad and good advice from the 
 neighbors." 
 
 "Got no time," said Wambolt. "Too much trouble 
 to buy food and shoes and keep warm." 
 
 Manners spent a week in Quebec. 
 
 He had begun now to think very seriously of 
 spiriting Tam away to Canada. He felt that he could 
 not do without her and ought not. "Diana," he 
 thought, "has everything she wants. I have nothing. 
 It isn't fair." 
 
 He inspected several houses that were for rent, and 
 visited some elementary schools. 
 
 "Diana could come to see Tam when she liked," he 
 thought. "But soon she will be so busy with her new
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 323 
 
 family that she won't be able to come very often. Tarn 
 and I wouldn't have to stick in Canada. There's all 
 Europe, and the wonderful Rivieras." 
 
 And he determined finally that he must have Tarn 
 and that if necessary he would steal her. 
 
 Diana had no more been fair about Tam than about 
 anything else. He could never love any woman but 
 Diana. That was proved. Nevertheless the love that 
 he had for her drew back as it were and hid all its 
 brightness in some dark cavern of his heart. 
 
 How badly Diana might feel at losing Tam was no 
 longer any concern of his. She had made her bed. 
 Let her lie in it. Losing Tam would merely be one of 
 the rough spots. Let Fenn comfort her. 
 
 He could be happy if he had Tam. He could do 
 fine work and leave her well-off. Without her he felt 
 that he had shot his bolt, and could not bend his cross- 
 bow again. He had suffered too much, and his crea- 
 tive impulse needed someone to love all the time and 
 someone to love him back. 
 
 "I will give Tam little responsibilities," he said. 
 "And make her feel from the first that she is of definite 
 practical use and importance to me. That will help 
 to make her happy." 
 
 But Mary Hastings had heard with mingled sorrow 
 and alarm of Frank Manners's determination to steal 
 his little daughter, and take her out of the country. 
 
 "You haven't treated me fairly, Frank," she said. 
 "You tell me that you have an important secret to con- 
 fide in me, you make me promise that it shall go no 
 further, and then you announce that you are going to 
 commit a crime."
 
 324 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "Yes," he said, "I've been unfair; but this is life or 
 death to me, Mary, and so I can't release you from 
 your promise." 
 
 "And before I knew that there was anything in the 
 wind," she said, "you made me tell you all about my 
 visit with the Fenn's at Combers, and which was Tarn's 
 room, and about the ladder leaning against the wood- 
 shed . . . You have made me a party to the crime. 
 I think I must tell you some more about that visit. 
 Nothing that will help you. Things that might hin- 
 der you. Do you want to make Diana wretchedly un- 
 happy? Somehow I think that she would be if she 
 lost Tam. Somehow I think that Diana feels that she 
 has lost everything that made life worth loving except 
 Tam ..." 
 
 "She said things to you like that? . . . Diana 
 did?" 
 
 "She is too proud to confess that she has made a 
 mistake. She will never confess it. She will never 
 repeat it or any of her old mistakes. She is greatly 
 changed. All these things are in her face." 
 
 "Tired of him?" 
 
 "Not that. She never loved him, and now she 
 knows it. She never loved anyone but you. She 
 knows that now. She wishes that when that feeling 
 for you died that she had been willing to make the 
 most of her memories. She is trying very hard to be 
 upright, considerate, unselfish and fine about every- 
 thing." 
 
 She waited for her words to sink in and then went 
 on. 
 
 "She feels that she has failed Tam terribly and
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 325 
 
 that she must never fail her again. Oh Frank, if you 
 had wanted to punish her, you could not have so 
 punished her as she has punished herself. If you take 
 Tam away I think you will kill a soul which having 
 passed through great wickedness and besmirchment 
 is on its way to redemption." 
 
 But Manners did not melt into sympathetic ad- 
 miration at this guess-work estimate of the new forces 
 at work in the woman who had spoiled his life. 
 
 "What is the man like?" he asked. 
 
 "I think that he guesses what I guess, and that no 
 man ever admired a woman more than he admires 
 Diana. I think that he is a little trying about his 
 money affairs, which do not march forward. And 
 I think that deep down he has the horrible fear that 
 some day Diana will get tired of being good and will 
 serve him as she served you." 
 
 "Mary," he said. "Perhaps this will surprise you. 
 I would not take Diana back if I could get her and she 
 wanted to come. There is no getting over the injustice 
 she did me. There is no cure for it. There is no for- 
 giveness for anyone who committed the crime of sep- 
 arating Tam from me. Besides that I do not believe in 
 divorce. It is not in my prayer book. I believe that 
 my wife is living in sin, that her child in the sight of 
 God will be illegitimate. I do not choose to have my 
 own child brought up in such an atmosphere." 
 
 "If you fell in love again, Frank, wouldn't you 
 marry again?" 
 
 "I?" 
 
 She had no need to probe the question any deeper.
 
 326 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 "If Diana died, I might," he said. "But she is my 
 wife and only death can end our marriage." 
 
 "Then why do you say that you would not take 
 her back?" 
 
 "I am wrong to say that. I would. I'd have to. 
 I meant that in my eyes she is utterly contaminated 
 and soiled." 
 
 "But please about Tarn you must change your 
 mind. No man not even you is quite fit to bring up 
 a little girl." 
 
 "As soon as there is another child in the house 
 Tarn will not receive impartial treatment from the 
 man. It is better that Diana should die of grief than 
 that Tarn should grow up in an atmosphere of 
 injustice." 
 
 "Oh, but Fenn is such a kind, really nice person. 
 He wouldn't be unjust." 
 
 "Is he human?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Will he love his child more than he loves mine?" 
 
 "Of course, but " 
 
 "Then in an excess of justice he will very likely 
 favor my child at the expense of his own. That 
 would be as bad for Tarn as the other thing. My mind 
 is all made up, Mary. And all the details are worked 
 out. The elopement is for Saturday. I want Fenn to 
 be on hand when Diana finds out that Tam is gone. 
 She might do something foolish. . . . Tarn's got 
 good nerves. There won't be any disturbance. She 
 sleeps with her window open of course. There won't 
 be any noise." 
 
 At length Mary Hastings gave up trying to shake
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 327 
 
 him from his purpose. She wanted him to have what- 
 ever it was that he wanted. The tragedy of his heart- 
 break was all in his face now. She had never felt so 
 sorry for any one. He only thought that he would be 
 happy with Tarn. So a man dying of thirst believes 
 that water will make him happy. It will not. It will 
 perhaps give him some ecstatic moments, but in the 
 ultimate it will only renew his short lease of opportu- 
 nity in which to continue the pursuit of happiness. 
 
 "He'll run off with Tarn," thought Mrs. Hastings. 
 "And no sooner safe in Canada than the injustice 
 which he has done to Diana will begin to prey on his 
 mind. In a little while he will return the child to her 
 mother." 
 
 "Frank," she said aloud. "Diana has made no mis- 
 take which you have not advised her against long be- 
 fore she made it. A dozen times she has hurt herself 
 badly and you have been in a position to say 'I told you 
 so.' Any person of average common sense could have 
 foretold that her reckless indulgence in excitements of 
 all kind would get her into trouble. She would not 
 listen to you. She seems almost to have touched the 
 limits of perverse, blind unreasonableness and folly." 
 
 "She does," said Manners a little grimly. 
 
 "But you, Frank, you who were so wise for her, 
 are you equally wise for yourself? Oh, I am not try- 
 ing to make you leave matters as they are. By all 
 means steal Tam if you must. But I tell you, that 
 you are doing as headstrong, as unreasonable, as 
 blind, perverse, and foolish a thing as ever Diana did. 
 And here am I, your good friend 
 
 "My best!"
 
 328 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 " Seeing clearly into the obvious future, know- 
 ing what is best for you, and powerless to hold you 
 back from folly or to influence you in any way." 
 
 "What would be best for me, Mary? How can I 
 find any peace, or comfort or contentment in this 
 world?" 
 
 "You cannot give Tarn all that she needs. You can 
 give Diana nothing that she needs. Find somebody 
 who needs all that you have to give, and give it to her. 
 You think that you were only meant to love once. 
 Because you have ceased to be any of the things she 
 needs to the woman you love, you refuse to be those 
 things to any woman. . . . That lovely Mary 
 Marsh you painted last winter, Frank . . . Oh, she 
 holds her pretty head very high, and she would die 
 before she confessed anything, and she would make 
 you a good wife. She is the kind of woman you ad- 
 mire most. I know it. She is the kind of woman you 
 thought Diana was. She is the kind of woman that 
 Diana is now, now that she has made her final irre- 
 trievable mistake and has determined to make the best 
 of it. ... Marry her, Frank. The moment you 
 find, which will be the moment you ask her, that you 
 are giving her everything that she needs, asks or de- 
 sires, all your poor rumpled spirit will smooth out, 
 and you will love her." 
 
 "But I am married," said Manners. 
 
 "Nobody thinks that but you. And I am inclined to 
 think that with you it is a pose. Look me in the eyes 
 and tell me that it's not a pose " 
 
 He met her eyes, and smiled a little wistfully. 
 
 "It isn't a pose, Mary."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 329 
 
 It is a fact though that when a little later he quitted 
 the Hastings House, he stood hesitating and looking 
 up the avenue. That way lay the house in which the 
 lovely Miss Marsh lived with her father the gay old 
 admiral. She was hesitatingly pretty. The sittings 
 that she had given him had meant a period that bor- 
 dered on contentment. He had grown truly fond of 
 her. It made him perfectly sick to think that she 
 loved him. He hesitated I say and looked up the 
 avenue. That way also, in a general direction lay 
 Combers and the little house in which Tarn and his 
 wife lived with Ogden Fenn. 
 
 Presently he turned down the avenue and walked 
 with quick long steps to the hotel at which he was 
 stopping. A deep gloom had settled upon him, and a 
 feeling of desperate uneasiness and presentment. He 
 did not sleep at all that night. He made many at- 
 tempts. Between times he read at a thick volume that 
 he had found on the bureau. 
 
 A phrase that he came across stuck in his brain. He 
 found himself repeating it many times the next day, 
 with a kind of desperate hopefulness. 
 
 "This life is nothing." "This life is nothing."
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 FRANK MANNERS could, not ask any one to help him. 
 To steal Tarn was to break the law of the land. For 
 himself the penalty mattered little. The day, Satur- 
 day, was very young when he started for Combers. 
 He wished to spy out the land a little by daylight. He 
 had bought a car of good make, and filled two valises 
 with such things as he thought would be essential to 
 his little daughter during their journey together. He 
 had guessed at the sizes. Poor fellow, he had not 
 seen her for a long time, and she had begun to shoot 
 upward. From her letter he knew that one thing 
 about her had not changed, and that was her love for 
 him. She had signed her last misspelled sprawl "Your 
 loving friend and daughter." 
 
 He passed a florist when a thought struck him. He 
 stopped the car, and walking back to the shop, entered, 
 and after a little talk with the clerk caused to be made 
 up an old-fashioned bouquet. He had it sent to Miss 
 Marsh, and with it the following note. 
 
 MY DEAR Miss MARSH: 
 
 I am passing through this city, and because I wanted 
 very much to come to see you, and couldn't, I am 
 sending you some flowers to prove that I had the 
 thought. If I have ever done anything good it is the 
 portrait that I painted of you. That is because you 
 
 330
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 331 
 
 are good. And that is why I have sent you old-fash- 
 ioned flowers. Goodness in women is getting to be a 
 little old-fashioned. There's Heliotrope in this b:m- 
 quet, for its sweetness, and honesty, for every reason, 
 and Heartsease, for that is what I wish for you, and 
 there's Rosemary which as all men know is for Re- 
 membrance. 
 
 I am starting on a long journey. Since I may not 
 see you, how happy I am to have been born with a 
 splendid memory for faces, and for the things that are 
 splendid in character. 
 
 Faithfully your friend, 
 
 FRANK MANNERS. 
 
 "Miss Marsh," mused the clerk, when the haggard 
 customer had gone his way. "She won't stay Miss 
 Marsh long, if that gentleman has anything to say 
 about it. Eh, Miss Chiro? He sent her Rosemary 
 and Heartsease, which is the Latin for pansies and 
 while he was writing the note to go with them the sw 
 perspiration ran off him." 
 
 "It's a warm morning," sniffed Miss Chiro, and she 
 finished entering the transaction in the ledger. 
 
 The clerk was wrong. Mary Marsh never changed 
 her name. The author holds no brief for his sex. As 
 often as not it's the woman who's the wild goose. 
 Most often it is neither. And when you deal in 
 Faithfulness it is safest to mark the package "fragile 
 and perishable." 
 
 Frank Manners felt better somehow for having sent 
 the flowers and written the note. The gloom left him, 
 and during the long drive his senses were often pleas-
 
 332 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 antly filled and even thrilled with the beauty of the 
 landscape and the color and odor of flowers. 
 
 He reviewed many passages in his life with a lively 
 if wistful pleasure. 
 
 "After all," he thought, "I have loved and I have 
 been loved. Surely all this wretchedness of heart 
 must soon pass away. I have blamed other people for 
 their failures far more than I have ever blamed my- 
 self for mine. With Tarn I shall find peace and 
 contentment." 
 
 As he drew near Combers he became exhilarated and 
 excited. He had not before entering realized how 
 his soul panted for the sight and the sounds of his 
 little daughter. Oh, to have her on the seat beside him, 
 pressed hard against him, the car tearing forward, and 
 all about them the night! 
 
 Having looked over the lay of the land and dis- 
 covered a little wood road, near Fenn's house, in 
 which he might leave the car, Manners drove farther 
 into the mountains and returned to Combers after 
 dark. He backed the car into the mouth of the wood 
 road and doused the lights. 
 
 Then occasionally flashing a torch he followed a 
 path which he had explored earlier in the day and 
 which led to the edge of the little clearing in which 
 Fenn's house stood. At that point he sat down to 
 wait until one hour and a half after all the lights in 
 Fenn's house had been extinguished. But, since he 
 nad eaten nothing from early morning, hunger (he 
 did not know that it was hunger) disturbed him and 
 made him restless. 
 
 Gradually the forest became alive with the noises
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 333 
 
 of the little things that walk stealthily at night. A 
 little screech owl obtruded, but flew away after a 
 little. The air had turned very brisk and exhilarating. 
 
 About eight o'clock a light shone in the window of 
 Tarn's room. Now and then a shadow, as of some- 
 thing vast and spectral came between the light and the 
 window. Manners shook and trembled jerkily like 
 a man with a chill. He strained every faculty to try 
 and catch a sound of her voice. But could not. 
 
 "How often," he thought, "when she was a baby 
 I have taken her in my arms and walked about the 
 garden paths at dusk. She could see things in the 
 bushes and behind them that I could not see. Pygmies, 
 gnomes, Rewards, and Fairies most like. How she 
 would gurgle at them ! How her great eyes would 
 shine !" 
 
 The light in her window went out. 
 
 "What does God think of all this?" he wondered. 
 "Here sit I alone in the cold. Yonder in the warm 
 house my wife sits with another man. Her body has 
 no secrets from him. For whole days I have passed 
 up and down before the vigilant tribunal of my own 
 conscience, turning as I passed that nothing of me 
 might be hid. I have done wrong. I have been a fool. 
 But I have done right, and I have been wise. I have 
 done nothing ^vhich in any way justifies the torture to 
 which I have been subjected " 
 
 His meditation melted into argument and interroga- 
 tion half-earnest, half-whimsical. 
 
 "Almighty God," he thought. "If you are almighty, 
 why are you also called all-merciful? Is it all-mer- 
 ciful to treat a poor little shrimp like me quite so
 
 334 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 rough? I don't say that it isn't. I ask for informa- 
 tion. This world is full of sick. The sickest of all 
 these are those who are sick at heart. Was it all- 
 merciful when you decreed that disease should be 
 contagious instead of health, and that wretchedness 
 and unhappiness should be the common lot, and dirt 
 and poverty and envy and lust? You are called also 
 the All-Wise. Are you then still in an experimental 
 mood, oh, God?" 
 
 His thoughts were without irreverence. Puzzle- 
 ment over all such things had been habitual with him 
 since boyhood. In the telling American phrase: he 
 came from "Missouri," and wanted to be "shown." 
 
 "Now upon my soul and honor," he thought, "I 
 do not know if what I intend to do this night is right 
 or wrong. Give me a sign." 
 
 The author is not so presumptuous as to say that a 
 sign was not immediately given. He is not so pre- 
 sumptuous as to say that one was. He records only 
 that in the very next crumb of time, a star, dizzy per- 
 haps with its own problems, lost its balance, and fell 
 from the heavens. For a moment a long train of 
 fiery sparks marked the splendor of the path along 
 which it had whirled to extinction. 
 
 I do not know if Manners's resolution was actually 
 shaken or not. I think that the coincidence must have 
 disturbed him a little, for he said to himself, as if to 
 justify himself. 
 
 "That sort of sign was all right in the first century, 
 but it is too old-fashioned for the twentieth. Give me 
 a sign that I can understand something simple and 
 direct like like striking me dead."
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 335 
 
 Somehow he wished he hadn't said that, even to 
 himself. It had a flippant if not blasphemous effect 
 upon his sense of fitness. 
 
 "It would have been in better taste," he thought, 
 "to have asked Him to endow some little woodland 
 creature with the power of human speech, to have sent 
 it to perch upon my shoulder and to whisper the answer 
 in my ear." 
 
 There stole suddenly and quietly and sweetly out of 
 the house, as familiar to him as any of his most happy 
 and impassioned and heart-breaking memories, the 
 prelude to a little song. Diana's voice followed. And 
 a wild thrill went through his blood. 
 
 He had no need to hear the articulate words. They 
 were burned in his heart: 
 
 "What shall I say of her? 
 
 All that I may of her 
 
 All that is sad in her 
 
 Sweet in her, glad in her 
 
 Comes to my heart as her name to the lips of me 
 Wakens and pulses and thrills every thought of me 
 
 Choose what I could of her, 
 
 Think what I would of her 
 
 All that is worst of her 
 
 All that is good of her 
 
 Sways me and draws me 
 
 To love every mood of her 
 
 Changefully changeful, 
 
 My Lady of Moods." 
 
 Then there came out to him the chorus, wonder- 
 fully strengthened and impassioned by the addition 
 of a man's voice, an astounding voice, a glorious voice. 
 
 Why it should have surprised Manners to learn that 
 Ogden Fenn had a beautiful voice is unknown. Yet
 
 336 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 it is doubtful if anything in this world could have 
 surprised him much more. 
 
 " 'Heart of my Heart ! 
 
 She has broken the heart of me, 
 
 Soul of my soul ! 
 
 Who will never be part of me, 
 She whom I love, but will never be love of me 
 Song of my sorrows My Lady of Moods.' " 
 
 The singing ended, and there was a time of silence. 
 But the night creatures of the wood had been awed 
 into a silence that lasted until the beginning of the next 
 song. 
 
 "That's not the way a happy man sings," thought 
 Manners. "He, too, has sensed the sweet liquor in the 
 cup turned bitter at the touch of his lips. His heart is 
 hurt, but he worships her. Oh, what do I care what 
 she gives him if she doesn't want to give! Let him 
 'paddle in her neck' as the wicked king paddled in 
 the neck of Hamlet's mother." And his thoughts 
 floated back to college and to a jingle, old even then, 
 but sometimes sung: 
 
 "Oh a hero's song I sing 
 His story shall my pen mark 
 And he was not a king 
 But Hamlet, prince of Denmark 
 With a woken noken nure 
 And a woken noken noko, 
 With a woken noken nure 
 Higho ! Highoddy.' " 
 
 It is said that in the moment of a man's death 
 before the last glimmering of his consciousness there 
 rushes in review the whole of his past life. There 
 was nothing moribund about Frank Manners. He
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 337 
 
 had never been more tensely alive than during the 
 whole of that day. Yet it is true that during the long 
 drive and during the long vigil below his little 
 daughter's window, he had had a bewildering number 
 of glimpses at the whole of the life that he had lived. 
 
 There was no prelude this time. Very simple and 
 direct, and very wistful too and unhappy and question- 
 ing and appealing came Diana's voice, sustained by a 
 questioning and accompaniment. 
 
 " 'I know not when the day shall be, 
 I know not when our eyes may meet, 
 What welcome you may give to me 
 Or will your words be sad or sweet. 
 It may not be till years have passed 
 Till eyes are dim and tresses gray, 
 The world is wide, but, love, at last, 
 Our hands, our hearts, must meet some day. 
 
 I know not are you far or near. 
 Or are you dead, or that you live, 
 I know not who the blame should bear, 
 Or who should plead or who forgive ; 
 But when we meet some day, some day, 
 Eyes clearer grown the truth may see, 
 And every cloud shall roll away, 
 That darkens love, twixt you and me.' " 
 
 One by one the lights in Ogden Fenn's house went 
 out, until there was no light left. Frank Manners sat 
 on in the darkness. And for a long time he cried like 
 a little child. . . . 
 
 When a flash of his torch upon the face of his 
 \vatch showed that after the extinction of the last 
 light a full hour and a half had passed, he rose to his 
 feet, and for a few moments stood and looked upward 
 at the amazing scarf of stars that is flung across the 
 Nubian shoulders of the night.
 
 338 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 He spoke aloud in his quiet, well-bred voice : 
 
 "Am I about to do right or wrong?" 
 
 As is customary when men turn their faces upward 
 and ask questions, there was no answer. 
 
 "Very well," then said he. "Here goes!" 
 
 Tam waked. She could see that a head and 
 shoulders were framed in her window. They were 
 black and flat as if cut out of cardboard. There was 
 just enough starlight to outline them. 
 
 She came of gallant stock. And she was the proud 
 possessor of an electric torch. She pointed this at the 
 black cardboard head, and touched the button. In the 
 scientific miracle of the flash the flat cardboard 
 changed into reliefs, and modelings and chiselings. 
 It changed into the face that she loved best in all the 
 world. 
 
 There was a wonderful story smiling in her father's 
 eyes and about his mouth. The smiling seemed to 
 say to her "silence courage." 
 
 For the protection of his isolated house Ogden Fenn 
 kept in one corner of his room a double barreled 
 twelve-gauge shotgun loaded with number eight shot. 
 
 In raising the ladder to the window, it had made one 
 sharp rasping sound against the shingled side of th2 
 house. This sound had waked Fenn and brought him, 
 gun and all, on barefoot tiptoe into Tarn's room. He 
 had looked out of the window and down. He had 
 discovered the ladder and the bulk of a man in the 
 act of ascending it. Then he had backed away and 
 crouched low, and there he was all this time, his gun 
 levelled. He had no intention of shooting. It was in 
 his mind to get the drop on the housebreaker, arrest
 
 THE WILD GOOSE 339 
 
 him and turn him over to justice. He was not in the 
 least frightened, but he was nervous and trembling, 
 which was only natural. 
 
 The flash of light which had revealed the father to 
 the daughter, revealed to Ogden Fenn the man he had 
 - wronged and outraged. And he did that thing 
 which of all things in this world he would have wished 
 the least to have done. He pulled both triggers of his 
 gun. 
 
 The effect of no weapon is more frightful than that 
 of a shotgun at three or four feet. Of Frank Man- 
 ners's face when they came to him lying on his back at 
 the foot of the ladder there was nothing left that was 
 recognizable. But Diana recognized him instantly. 
 
 There they stood, those two, in their nightgowns 
 and bare feet, looking at the dead man where he lay 
 between them. 
 
 Had you stood behind Fenn so that he was between 
 you and the lantern which he had stood on the ground, 
 you might have noticed how badly knocked the man's 
 knees were, and how they kept on knocking. It needed 
 no effect of any transparency to show that the woman 
 with the beautiful dishevelled hair was far gone with 
 child. 
 
 Indeed it was to be born to her as the crowning 
 horror of that night a child without life. 
 
 The man kept trying to say something. He got it 
 out finally: 
 
 "Don't look like that! I had a right to shoot. 
 Every man's home is his castle. ..." 
 
 "This man's home was his castle," said Diana. 
 "But v:e stormed it, and on its ruins we founded the
 
 340 THE WILD GOOSE 
 
 ruins of our own. You and I don't matter. We've 
 got to think of Tarn and no one else. She must not 
 know." 
 
 But Tarn knew very well. She knew very well too 
 what that wonderful smiling upon her father's face 
 had meant. 
 
 "Silence Courage." 
 
 She never cried. She never let them see that she 
 didn't believe the carefully graduated lies which they 
 felt in all honor bound to tell her. But the shock 
 spoiled her sweet and good little life for her. It made 
 her a little queer morbid, her teachers said. 
 
 In Frank Manners's pocket, stained with blood that 
 had leaked in from the cataclysm that had been his 
 face, they found the last letter that Tam had written 
 to him the one that she had signed "Your loving 
 friend and daughter." On the face of the letter he 
 had scribbled some verses. It was a habit he had. 
 
 The letter disappeared. 
 
 One day, the following winter, it was recitation day 
 for the little girls in Tarn's class, and when it was 
 Tarn's turn to recite she stood up before them all, and 
 with a queer little break in her voice she recited the 
 queerest little set of verses that ever came out of a 
 queer little child's mouth: 
 
 "Don't sing any hymns, don't pray any prayers, 
 Don't lick the boots of any God for me, 
 I'm too tired to climb even golden stairs, 
 When I die, just let me be. 
 
 On the deep-sea floor I'd as lief be laid, 
 
 As lief in the sour ground: 
 
 I don't give a damn where the bed is made, 
 
 If the sleep I sleep be long enough and sound."
 
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