WILL! 
 

 
 JACK LANKERSHfM
 
 .
 
 THE MOTH
 
 U i 
 
 [See page. 197 
 
 OVE IS BUT A PART OF LIFE, ONLY 
 A PART, AND I WANT IT ALL! 
 SEE I LOVE YOU EVERY ONE!"
 
 The Moth 
 
 The Story of a Beautiful High-Spirited Girl 
 By WILLIAM DANA ORCUTT 
 
 Author of ;< The Lever," "The Spell," "The 
 Flower of Destiny," etc. 
 
 WITH FRONTISPIECE BY 
 L. W. HITCHCOCK 
 
 A L. BURT COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS NEW YORK. 
 
 Published by Arrangement with Harper & Brothers
 
 COPYRIGHT, igia 
 BY HARPER ft BROTHERS 
 
 MINTED IB THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 
 PUBLISHED AUGUST, I 9! 3 
 
 L-M
 
 TO MT 81STKB8 
 
 M. F. G., L. A. O AV. AHD H. W. O. 
 
 IH AFECTIO
 
 THE MOTH
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 MRS. SPENCER is in the library," the butler told 
 Cunningham, as he was relieved of his hat and 
 cane; and with a familiarity which bespoke 
 intimacy with the house and its inmates the caller im- 
 mediately turned to the stairway leading to the second 
 floor. He was late in dropping in at the Spencers' for 
 tea, but as this was the direct result of the suggestion 
 made by his hostess over the telephone, it had not occurred 
 to him that he would find her still entertaining friends. 
 The sound of voices interspersed with laughter told him 
 of his mistake even before he stood at the door, looking 
 in on the animated scene. 
 
 "Miller, Hayden, Reed, Langdon, Clapp five men 
 and not a woman in sight except our charming hostess," 
 Cunningham counted with finger upraised. "Dare I 
 enter and still further overbalance the situation?" 
 
 "Come on in," Langdon insisted, before Mrs. Spencer 
 could greet him; "six to one is only a fair division with 
 Lucy on the other side. She is running us for fair today." 
 
 "You know that they're maligning me, don't you, 
 Ned?" she protested to the newcomer as he approached 
 
 [3]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 the tea-table behind which she was ensconced. "I've 
 simply tried to defend myself. " 
 
 "But where are the women?" Cunningham inquired 
 laughingly, accepting the cup she offered him. "If the 
 men are taking to tea-tasting, what is left for our poor 
 wives and sisters to consider as their prerogative?" 
 
 "The place has been simply cluttered up with women," 
 Hayden explained, "and we've had to sit them out in 
 order to have this cosy time with Lucy." 
 
 "Don't think for a minute that we've had her to 
 ourselves all the afternoon," corroborated Miller; "that 
 would be too much luck." 
 
 Mrs. Spencer laughed happily. "You see you're all 
 wrong again, Ned. This is my last day at home before 
 going to the shore, and we have had a beautiful party. 
 Haven't we, Bertie?" 
 
 Clapp was delighted to find himself appealed to: "Too 
 many women, as a matter of fact," he replied gravely. 
 "It's much nicer now." 
 
 "But it is because you all are so good to me that the 
 women do come," Lucy explained. "After being bored 
 to death at other teas where they can visit only with 
 one another, they flock here to have a really good time 
 with you." 
 
 "We have to be civil to them," Archie Reed ventured, 
 apologetically. 
 
 "Of course," Lucy laughed again; "but you didn't find 
 it very difficult to be civil to Miss Stanhope, now did you? " 
 
 "Well" Archie hesitated "not too difficult. She 
 is a pleasing little party, isn't she? I'm glad you've added 
 her to your collection." 
 
 "Boys," Langdon exclaimed suddenly, "this endurance 
 test ought to be brought to a close by mutual consent. 
 
 [4]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Evidently no one of us is magnanimous enough to leave 
 the field to the others, so I move that we all go together." 
 
 "But I've only just come," Cunningham protested. 
 
 "That is what has spoiled the combination," Miller 
 explained. "We all had an equal start, so no one could 
 complain; but now what Langdon calls an endurance 
 test has become a relay. We won't be grabby-minded, 
 Ned; but we do hate to leave you here." 
 
 " I appreciate your generosity, especially as it is 
 getting so near dinner time that I shall have to follow 
 close in your footsteps." 
 
 Lucy rose as the men started to go. "I shall count on 
 seeing you often this summer," she said to Langdon. 
 "You won't desert me just because I'm at the shore, 
 will you?" 
 
 "By no means, but I can't ask you to motor with 
 me because I'm going to give up my car." 
 
 "Give up your car?" she echoed, surprised. 
 
 "Yes; I'm going to economize this summer." 
 
 "Don't do it," Lucy advised seriously; "there's 
 nothing in it. You'll simply be going without something 
 you really want for fear that some time in the future you 
 may want something which when the time comes you 
 probably won't want." 
 
 "That is a perfect definition," laughed Hayden. " I 
 become a spendthrift from this moment, and shall turn to 
 you for justification." 
 
 "You'll come down to see me too, won't you?" Lucy 
 continued, turning to Miller. 
 
 "I'm sure to," he replied. "It's such a relief to get 
 away from the queer nice people." 
 
 "That isn't a kind remark at all," she chided him. 
 "If I were old Dame Boston I would box your ears! 
 
 [5]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 When Vallie decided to come here from New York I" 
 shivered all over, and it is just these silly jokes cracked 
 by its own people at its expense which give the city 
 its icy reputation. Now, I love it, and so do you. You 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 "I am," Miller admitted with proper humility. "It's 
 a habit we fall into." 
 
 "It's worse than a habit," Lucy corrected, "it's an 
 affectation. I notice you don't let any one from outside 
 knock the little old town." 
 
 "I've just got a car," Archie Reed interrupted, as he 
 brought up in the rear, looking triumphantly at Langdon, 
 "and it didn't cost me a cent." 
 
 "Did you steal it?" asked Miller. 
 
 "No," was the resentful response. "I put a $2,500 
 mortgage on the house, and then mortgaged the machine 
 for the balance. Pretty clever, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Archie, you're a born financier!" Lucy complimented 
 him. "Now, remember, I count on every one of you 
 to keep my summer from being stupid." 
 
 "That could never be," Clapp insisted as he moved 
 toward the stairs with the others. "You'd make a desert 
 look like the Arnold Arboretum." 
 
 "I'm counting on all of you," she repeated gaily, bid- 
 ding the last goodbye; "see that you fail me not!" 
 
 As the men disappeared Lucy and Cunningham turned 
 back to the library. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint 
 me," she said; "you never do." 
 
 "When a lady says she must see me, there is no 
 alternative, is there? " 
 
 "Then you came today as a matter of duty?" 
 
 "Rather let us say gallantry," he corrected lightly, 
 "to which was added a desire to see you again before you 
 
 [6]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 leave town, and to express those commonplace platitudes 
 for the summer which in this case happen to be genuinely 
 sincere. When do you leave? " 
 
 "Thursday," she replied quietly, settling into a 
 contemplative silence. 
 
 "So soon?" he queried. "Then I am just in time. 
 Where's Vallie?" 
 
 "Vallie?" she echoed, recovering from her momentary 
 introspection, and with returning vivacity; "you surely 
 didn't expect to find him here, let me pour you some 
 more tea. Vallie, I have no doubt, is playing auction at 
 the Badminton Club, where he'll stay until his luck is bad, 
 which will remind him of home. But I don't want to 
 talk about Vallie now, so here's wishing him nothing 
 but no-trump hands." 
 
 Cunningham smiled. "Still the spoiled child," he said. 
 "If I were Vallie I should be in a quandary to know 
 whether to starve you into behaving like a rational wife 
 and mother, or to try beating." 
 
 It was Lucy Spencer's turn to laugh. "You as a wife- 
 beater!" she exclaimed. "Why, Ned, one of your chief 
 recommendations is the sweet way you let Margaret wind 
 you about her little finger. Surely you know that." 
 
 "Indeed!" Cunningham arched his eyebrows. "If I 
 have convinced Margaret and her friends of this, then 
 I have proved myself a diplomat." 
 
 "You hypocrite!" she cried gaily, "even to try to 
 explain away what everybody knows!" 
 
 "Oh, well." Cunningham appeared resigned. "A man 
 with a good disposition is always doomed to misinterpre- 
 tation. I admit that I always yield on immaterials 
 
 "And on the material things, too," she laughed. "But 
 don't think I'm objecting; it's splendid." 
 
 [71
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "You forget that Peggy is an ideal wife," he protested," 
 teasingly. 
 
 Lucy pouted. "In which respect you congratulate 
 yourself that you have the advantage over Vallie?" 
 
 "Now we're even," Cunningham declared trium- 
 phantly. "But you surely didn't telephone me so peremp- 
 torily to come here this afternoon merely to discuss the 
 comparative merits of wives? What was the 'serious 
 matter' you wanted to talk over with me?" 
 
 "Did I say it was serious?" 
 
 Cunningham looked up quickly. "If you've forgotten 
 already it couldn't have been of much consequence." 
 
 "Yes it was," she hastened to insist. "First of all, I 
 wanted to have a last little visit with you, and then I 
 wanted to tell you when we were going down to Beverly 
 Farms." 
 
 "What is so serious in all that?" 
 
 "I'm going to miss you horribly," she said frankly. 
 
 Cunningham put his cup down abruptly on the table 
 beside him. 
 
 "Of course, I mean you and Margaret," she added 
 quickly. "Why can't you take a house down there 
 near us?" 
 
 "First of all because Peggy doesn't care for the North 
 Shore, secondly because houses can't be picked up at 
 a moment's notice, and thirdly because we expect to 
 stay in town most of the summer." 
 
 "I wish you could," Lucy continued. "I can't bear to 
 think of three months with only an occasional glimpse 
 of you." 
 
 "We might motor down even two or three times," 
 Cunningham answered lightly, unwilling to encourage 
 her mood by taking it seriously. 
 
 [8]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 There was a momentary silence as each sedately 
 munched a marguerite and sipped the tea. Lucy made 
 an attractive picture as she leaned back in her chair and 
 rested her head against the cushion. She was tall and 
 slight, the figure which fashionable dressmakers love 
 to drape and which men call "youthful" from lack of 
 descriptive power to express their admiration. Woman- 
 like, not satisfied with the favors given by the gods, she 
 bemoaned the fact that her eyes were brown instead of 
 blue, and that the wonderfully luxurious hair, her crown- 
 ing glory, was not blond instead of brown. But she found 
 no sympathizers. To men, she was one in whom they could 
 wish no change; the women characterized her self-criticism 
 as a pose to call attention to her physical superiority. 
 
 It was seldom that her face was in repose, and Cunning- 
 ham thought the calm became her mightily, as he w r atched 
 her with an amused expression. He had never noticed 
 before that her lashes were so exceedingly long, or that 
 her profile was so nearly perfect. He decided, in that 
 brief interval, that this attitude showed his hostess 
 to even better advantage than the light-hearted, irre- 
 sponsible yet irresistible vivacity which always asso- 
 ciated itself with his thought of her; that this calm was 
 even more convincing proof of her beauty than the tan- 
 talizing smile which came as much from her dancing, 
 mischievous eyes as from her lips, and which made every 
 man she met her ardent admirer and defender against 
 all-comers, mainly of her own sex, who ventured to suggest 
 that Lucy Spencer's daring camaraderie was hardly what 
 might be expected of a married woman with two children. 
 Even the ideal Margaret had once quietly remarked this 
 to her husband, but Cunningham, as she had foreseen, 
 quickly rallied to the cause. 
 
 [9J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Nonsense, Peggy," he had said, "Lucy is a good pal, 
 that's all. She is unconventional; but at times a man 
 finds it a positive relief to meet a woman who is able to 
 forget her sex. She's as harmless as she is beautiful." 
 
 "I wouldn't dare argue against so prominent a member 
 of the Boston bar," Margaret had said with a smile which 
 Cunningham recognized as significant, "with the definite 
 certainty that as the case would be tried before a jury 
 composed of men, the plaintiff could expect no mercy. 
 I'll wait until we get women on the jury." 
 
 Cunningham's mind reverted to this conversation as he 
 sat watching his companion. How severe the judgment 
 which woman passes upon woman, how much more 
 exacting than the standard which man sets for his fellow- 
 man! Lucy's eye met his squarely as she looked up. 
 
 "But you probably won't do it," she said. "You don't 
 care for Vallie, and Margaret doesn't approve of me, so 
 as soon as we are separated you'll yield the point to her 
 as another one of those ' immaterials,' and I don't believe 
 I shall see you once." 
 
 It required a moment for Cunningham to recall the 
 conversation which had been apparently concluded by 
 the intervening silence. 
 
 "Perhaps I can make a real issue of it," he replied with 
 mock gravity. "I must do something to assert my in- 
 dependence. But Vallie and I are good enough friends, 
 and so are you and Margaret. Our hobbies aren't all 
 the same, but that's what gives life its interest." 
 
 "You agree with Margaret that I am hopelessly silly 
 and indiscreet, now don't you?" 
 
 "That you urged me to come here this afternoon with 
 so little reason would seem to substantiate such an opinion, 
 whether Margaret held it or not.' 
 
 [10]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "But you're not angry with me, are you, Ned?" 
 
 "It would be difficult to remain so long; but frankly, 
 you do frighten me sometimes. A pretty woman can 
 never afford to be the slightest bit indiscreet 
 
 "I don't see what difference it makes whether she is 
 pretty or not. A woman's a woman." 
 
 "Yes, I know; but with some women their faces are 
 their chaperones. I've seen lots of women who couldn't 
 be indiscreet if they broke every convention in the 
 decalogue of society." 
 
 Lucy laughed and then became demure. "I didn't know 
 that indiscretion in some one else's wife ever frightened 
 a man," she said. 
 
 "When 'some one else's wife' is a friend, whom the 
 man admires except for those indiscretions, he considers 
 it genuine cause for alarm." 
 
 "Then you do admire me except for that?" she asked 
 quickly. A moment later as if to herself: "I wonder if by 
 any chance we should have cared for each other if we 
 had met earlier." 
 
 "That is a fairly good-sized question," he replied, in- 
 dulging her. "We don't have to decide it now, do we?" 
 
 "No," she answered seriously; "but sometimes I 
 wonder if I could have cared for any one except myself 
 if conditions had been different." 
 
 "What an absurd remark," Cunningham asserted. 
 "You happen to be out of sorts with Vallie, and 
 
 "Out of sorts with Vallie?" she echoed. "Nothing of 
 the kind. Vallie's all right as husbands go. I think we'd 
 be good friends if we weren't married; but the more I see 
 of husbands the better I like dogs. Of course, you're 
 an exception, Ned, and perhaps that's why I like you. It 
 isn't a case of the burnt ashes of love at all. Vallie evi- 
 
 [11]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 dently thought I would make an attractive house orna- 
 ment, and there wasn't any one I liked better, so before 
 either one of us knew it we were walking together up the 
 broad aisle, and listening to the congratulations of our 
 friends. It's the same old story, but I'm not finding any 
 fault with it." 
 
 Cunningham was amused in spite of himself. "You 
 are certainly incorrigible, Lucy; but I beg of you don't 
 let any one else hear you talk like that." 
 
 "Vallie wouldn't mind," she continued. "As a matter 
 of fact, I think he's as grateful to me for amusing myself 
 without boring him as I am to him for letting me do so. 
 The dear boy is proud to have other men admire his wife, 
 and proud that I still manage to keep some of the good 
 looks I had when he married me. Never mind how I 
 keep them, Ned; if you're curious, ask Margaret. He's 
 proud of his children, but a little of them goes a long ways 
 with him. If Larry had a hare-lip, or Babs had squinty 
 eyes, he never would look at them again. Vallie's all 
 right. You needn't worry about him a bit." 
 
 "Then how about me?" Cunningham demanded. 
 "I'm somewhat married myself " 
 
 "That's just the point," Lucy again interrupted. 
 " Being married makes you safer than these other men, 
 immune as it were. You and Margaret adore each other, 
 and no one on earth could hope to raise the slightest 
 ripple on the placid surface of your matrimonial tran- 
 quillity even if she wanted to, which I certainly do not. 
 Don't you see, Ned, that's where you do me an injustice 
 when you call me indiscreet. If you weren't married, it 
 wouldn't be safe for me to tell you how much I think of 
 you, but as you are there isn't the slightest chance of a 
 misunderstanding. Vallie and Margaret are disgustingly 
 
 (121
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 healthy, and even disregarding all laws of chance, if you 
 and I were both free I probably shouldn't care for 
 you at all. Today I'm particularly doubtful, since you 
 spoke of starving and beating me. Vallie wouldn't think 
 of such a thing." 
 
 "But are your indiscretions, as I call them, really con- 
 fined to those ' immune,' Lucy even granting that 
 immunity is a positive factor. Where, for instance, did 
 you meet Captain Auchester?" 
 
 She looked at him curiously. "At The Country Club 
 races. Why do you ask?" 
 
 "You invited him to call on you?" 
 
 "Why not? Vallie introduced him." 
 
 "Do you know anything about him?" 
 
 "Not a thing, except that he's agreeable. That's 
 Vallie's business. He's mighty entertaining." She 
 leaned forward with ill-concealed curiosity. "Do you 
 know anything bad about him?" 
 
 "Nothing, except that he has offered no credentials; 
 and until I knew something more I should not think of 
 presenting him to Margaret." 
 
 " Well, don't blame Vallie. The poor boy was perishing 
 for a drink, and he couldn't leave me standing on the lawn 
 alone, could he? He had to introduce some one, and 
 Captain Auchester at least is amusing. I was grateful 
 that he was the first man Vallie's eye happened to find 
 after he felt his thirst coming on." 
 
 "And he's unmarried," Cunningham added signifi- 
 cantly. "Suppose, for instance, that you find that he 
 gives you something to think of besides yourself, and you 
 begin to get dependent on him, or on any one of these men 
 who have just left, to relieve your ennui, as you say you 
 have on me, what then?" 
 
 [13]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "But I wouldn't, Ned," she insisted. "I tell you it is 
 because I feel so safe with you. I know that you wouldn't 
 take advantage." 
 
 She stopped suddenly as an idea possessed her, then she 
 placed a hand quietly over Cunningham's. "You dear 
 old Ned," she said softly, but with supreme satisfaction 
 in her voice; "I really believe that you are jealous of 
 Captain Auchester." 
 
 "Stuff and nonsense!" he cried, rising abruptly. 
 "There are limits which even you must observe. I re- 
 fuse to stay and give you the opportunity to make 
 yourself ridiculous." 
 
 "You are, you are!" she repeated exultantly, rising with 
 him and preventing him from withdrawing his hand. 
 "Dear, dear old Ned! Please keep on watching over 
 me just as you are now. But Ned, you needn't be a bit 
 jealous of Captain Auchester." 
 
 She drew closer to him and suddenly clasped her arms 
 about his neck. "I wouldn't do this to him, would I, 
 Ned?" 
 
 "I should hope not!" He firmly held her from him, 
 angry at her audacity, half-intoxicated by the soft pres- 
 sure of her face against his own. "I should hope 
 that you would know better than so to forget yourself 
 at all." 
 
 "Oh, Ned, don't be cross!" The smiling face again 
 came nearer to his, and the dancing eyes mocked his 
 self-restraint. "Neddie," she repeated softly, "you may 
 kiss me if you like just once, to show how much I 
 trust you." 
 
 Cunningham held her in his arms as in a vise for so 
 long a moment that it frightened her. 
 
 " You're not really going to do it ! " she cried aghast. 
 [14]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "It would serve you right if I did, just to punish you, 
 you little vixen; and the fact that I don't isn't due to 
 you or to me. I might even forget Vallie in wishing for 
 this little minute that I wasn't married myself, but I'm 
 only human, child, and I wouldn't take that chance again 
 if I were you." 
 
 "I knew you wouldn't, Ned," she replied with a weak, 
 conscious laugh of relief as she sank into a chair when 
 Cunningham released her. 
 
 "Let this be a lesson," he continued sternly. "You 
 have no right to love any one except 
 
 "Love!" she echoed, sitting upright. "Who said any- 
 thing about that? I don't love any one except myself. 
 Now who's silly? My! but your arms are strong! I 
 promise I will never try again to force even a mother's 
 kiss upon you. You need not run when you see me 
 you may consider yourself quite safe. Now will you 
 forgive me? yes? " she ran on, giving him no opportunity 
 to take part in the conversation "yes? Then goodbye. 
 And remember, you've promised to assert your independ- 
 ence, so I shall expect you and Margaret to motor down 
 to the shore how soon shall we say? within two 
 weeks ? Goodbye ! " 
 
 1151
 
 II 
 
 THE telephone was a welcome diversion to Lucy 
 Spencer after Cunningham departed. In spite of 
 her self-control the episode which had just taken 
 place left her feeling more uncomfortable than anything 
 which had occurred within her recent memory, and that 
 was as far as her memory went back. She knew that she 
 was impulsive, and prided herself upon it, but she had 
 been sincere in saying to Cunningham that she believed 
 him unjust in calling her indiscreet. Now, she admitted 
 to herself, she had given him every reason to consider his 
 judgment correct. All of this introspection was gradually 
 leading her on toward self-reproach, and nothing annoyed 
 her so much as to discover one of those rare intervals 
 near at hand. So, just as her slippered foot was beginning 
 to tap the rug with a certain regularity of motion which 
 could lead only to personal humiliation, a call to the 
 telephone relieved the situation. 
 
 It was Valentine Spencer whose voice responded to her 
 prompt "hullo." His bridge hands had evidently run well, 
 judging from those variations in tone by which a wife 
 discovers many things which a husband does not realize 
 he is disclosing. He was just ready for dinner, the voice 
 said, and Captain Auchester was with him. Yes, they 
 had been playing auction together at the Badminton Club, 
 
 [16]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 and the Captain was a wonderful player, had real card 
 sense, which so many of the men lacked. If convenient 
 to her, he would be glad to bring him home to dinner; 
 if not, they both would dine at the club. 
 
 The cordiality of Lucy's reply left nothing to be desired, 
 so matters easily arranged themselves to the satisfaction of 
 all. Nothing could have fitted in better with her mood. 
 After Cunningham's criticism, she felt it to be an act of 
 expiation to show at least a temporary interest in her 
 husband, and the presence of so agreeable a dinner guest as 
 Captain Auchester made it possible for her to do this with 
 no personal sacrifice. And the Captain was so entertain- 
 ing that his presence, she was sure, would enable her to 
 banish the uncomfortable thoughts of the past half-hour. 
 A few hasty orders relative to the dinner, a change of 
 gown, a careful inspection of herself to make certain 
 that her face bore no telltale evidence of even tempor- 
 ary discomfort, and she was ready to welcome the two 
 men a few moments before the usual hour for dining. 
 
 Lucy's dinners, however small or informal, possessed 
 an air of individuality which always gave them distinction. 
 Many women display their originality in the variety of 
 their salads, but Lucy constitutionally avoided the con- 
 ventional road to fame, enjoying no less the exclamations 
 of surprise which came from her guests when they met with 
 some unfamiliar dish. This was the extent of her market- 
 ing. She was quite content that her efficient housekeeper 
 should provide the substantial, but found a hectic pleas- 
 ure in ransacking the markets and the stores of fancy 
 grocers in her quest for the unusual. Russia contributed 
 its fresh caviar, China its choicest tea and even a bird's- 
 nrst soup when Lucy's knowledge of her guests permitted 
 the experiment, Japan gave of its sweetmeats and India 
 2 [17]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 a special curry which she had prepared from a famous 
 old receipt; but to remove this particular dinner from the 
 commonplace she selected a small jar of rose-leaf preserve, 
 imported directly from Persia. 
 
 Auchester lived up to his reputation, and Spencer no 
 less than Lucy fell beneath the spell of his charm. No 
 two men could have formed a greater contrast: Spencer 
 was slight and of medium height, with light hair, so light 
 that his eyebrows and the slight growth upon his upper 
 lip scarcely showed; the Captain stood six feet two in 
 his stockings, straight and erect, with full cheeks bronzed 
 by exposure, and his hair and mustache dark and luxu- 
 riant; Spencer was nervous in his temperament and 
 quick of speech, while the other man gave evidence in 
 his bearing of a training which had produced a calm 
 exterior which nothing could disturb. The one was the 
 carefully finished product of the city; the other the prod- 
 uct of the world. 
 
 All that the guest had said was spoken simply, yet 
 during the dinner his hosts learned much of the wide 
 extent of his experiences. He referred incidentally to his 
 service hi South Africa under Little Bobs, in Egypt under 
 Kitchener, and, more recently, in Mexico under Diaz. 
 
 "What were you doing in Mexico?" Lucy demanded. 
 "The English took no part in the revolution. " 
 
 Auchester laughed consciously. "That is a fair question, 
 Mrs. Spencer," he replied, " but in answering it I fear I shall 
 lose caste in your eyes. The truth is that I can't keep away 
 from a scrap. It's in the blood, I fear, for I can't remember 
 the time, even as a little chap, when I was not mixed up in 
 some one else's difficulties. I always happen to be where 
 trouble breaks out, become inoculated with the excite- 
 ment, and before I've really considered the matter, I'm 
 
 [18]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 in the thick of the fuss. Curious, isn't it? I left my 
 regiment two years ago, determined to keep away from 
 the smell of powder and all that sort of thing, but the 
 only difference seems to have been that since then I've 
 been fighting under different flags." 
 
 Lucy listened with rapt attention. "It sounds like a 
 chapter out of ' The Prisoner of Zenda,' doesn't it, 
 Vallie?" she asked. 
 
 "I beg of you!" the Captain raised a hand protestingly. 
 "I'll grant that I've laid myself liable to be regarded as 
 a soldier of fortune by what I've said as well as by what 
 I've done, but the fact is that I'm a bit sensitive on that 
 score. In army circles we look upon a man who earns 
 his living serving different sovereigns as more or less of a 
 bounder, so I've tried to salve my self-respect by remaining 
 my own master whenever I've fought away from my regi- 
 ment and the English flag. Perhaps it's a small difference, 
 but it is my only defense. If war broke out here today 
 against any country but England I would simply have to 
 join in; and if it was against England I'd swim to Lands 
 End to get into it from the other side." 
 
 "Can't we stir up a little unpleasantness, Vallie, and 
 give our guest a chance for a demonstration?" Lucy 
 asked, mischievously. 
 
 "You're making game of me," the Captain again pro- 
 tested; "I'd much rather talk of something else than my- 
 self. Tell me where you found this wonderful rose-leaf 
 conserve, this breath of Omar Khayyam, stolen from 
 the flesh-pots of Persia." 
 
 Lucy's heightened color reflected her pleasure that the 
 sudden inspiration which came after Vallie's telephone 
 had brought such immediate reward. "How did you 
 know that it came from Persia? " she asked. 
 
 [19]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "The only time I ever tasted it before was in Imam 
 Zade Jaffur, nearly two years ago, and I've carried the 
 perfume and the flavor with me ever since." 
 
 "He isn't a soldier, Lucy," Vallie broke in; "he's a 
 poet. What he says doesn't rhyme, but that's the highest 
 form of poetry." 
 
 "Say rather an epicure, my dear Spencer," the Cap- 
 tain laughed; "for poets often go hungry, and I never 
 do." 
 
 "Then Persia is another country you've been in,'* 
 Lucy commented. "Did they get up a war for you 
 there?" 
 
 The Captain leaned back in his chair and laughed 
 heartily. "I am certainly giving you a jolly good chance 
 at me this evening, even when I try to escape, for as a 
 matter of fact they did get up a war for me, and I passed 
 through some of the most curious events I have ever 
 experienced." 
 
 "You aren't going to stop there, are you?" Spencer 
 demanded as the speaker paused. 
 
 Auchester's face grew serious. "No," he said as if 
 deliberating, "though frankly I am ashamed so to have 
 monopolized the conversation. I am absurdly sensitive 
 to odors, and these rose-leaves here bring back two days 
 and a night I spent in Persia of which I can't help telling 
 you, if you don't mind listening." 
 
 "Please go on," Lucy insisted, leaning forward eagerly 
 with her chin resting upon her hands. "Is it the story of 
 another Desdemona who 'loved you for the dangers you 
 had passed,' or is it of 'moving accidents by flood and 
 field'?" 
 
 "There is no Desdemona in my story," he replied 
 quietly, "but rather 
 
 [20]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 ' Tis a Chequer-Board of Nights and Days 
 Where Destiny with Men for Pieces plays: 
 Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays, 
 And one by one back in the Closet lays! 
 
 Don't call me a poet again, Spencer, but I do happen 
 to know my Omar." 
 
 " Please go on ! " Lucy still insisted. " This is splendid ! " 
 
 "It was almost two years ago," the Captain began. "I 
 was in Persia simply as a traveler, when, as Mrs. Spencer 
 says, they arranged this little war for me. Since then, 
 of course, Persia has attracted the sympathy of the world 
 because of Russia's duplicity and my own country's 
 failure to do her duty, but at that time the only war-cloud 
 on the horizon was raised by the attempt of the ex-Shah, 
 Mohammed Ali Mirza, to regain his lost sovereignty. 
 There is nothing of interest in the part I took in the 
 defense. What I want to tell you about is the capture 
 of Arshad-ed-Dowleh, the leader of Mohammed Ali's 
 broken army. 
 
 "The company of which I was a temporary member was 
 stationed at Teheran. We received news of fighting, and 
 were ordered out as reinforcements, leaving the city by 
 the Shah Abdul Azim gate about six o'clock on a hot Sep- 
 tember morning, with forty miles of dusty road between 
 us and our destination. Just before sunset we reached 
 Imam Zade Jaffur, and found the fighting over, with 
 troops of singing, happy Bakhtiari tumbling over each 
 other as they swarmed into camp. The news of the day 
 was that Arshad-ed-Dowleh, the commander-in-chief, had 
 been captured, and I hastened to the tent where he was 
 said to be. 
 
 "The fallen leader was sitting on a rug, drinking tea, 
 [21]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 smoking cigarettes with his captors, and tasting that rose 
 conserve from a small jar before him. I had seen a photo- 
 graph of him at Teheran, in which he wore a gorgeous 
 uniform, with his breast covered with medals. Now I 
 saw him clad in a red-striped Turcoman shirt and a pair 
 of European dress trousers, relics, perhaps, of his life 
 in Vienna. One foot was bare, and the bandage showed 
 that he had been wounded. 
 
 "He greeted me in French, as if I had been an old friend. 
 Outwardly there were no evidences that he felt concern 
 over his capture, yet the piercing glance he gave me showed 
 that he was striving to read in each new face the fate that 
 was in store for him. Poor chap! I couldn't help feeling 
 sympathy, for I knew that the decree had already gone 
 forth that he was to be executed the next morning. It 
 really couldn't be otherwise, for only the day before he 
 himself had ordered the execution in cold blood of a 
 Bakhtiari Khan who had fallen into his hands, and he 
 was a dangerous rebel fighting against the government 
 of his country. 
 
 "Then began the most remarkable game between him 
 and his captors that I have ever seen. He was treated 
 as an honored guest, no suggestion being given him that 
 his fate had been decided, and he too proud to question. 
 There he lay, resting on his elbow, apparently quite at 
 his ease in the flickering light of the candles, conversing 
 with his captors in that complimentary language which 
 in Persia only the most intimate friends employ, one with 
 the other, talking against time, in an effort to win 
 their sympathy. He was the most eloquent of all, speaking 
 freely of the fight of the day before, of his life and that of 
 his master Mohammed AH since they had been in exile, 
 of the diploma he had won as a result of his military studies 
 
 [22]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 in Vienna, and of the future of Persia, and all the while 
 behind him, in the shadow, stood the silent Bakhtiari, 
 leaning on their rifles, laughing with him when he joked, 
 listening attentively when he was serious. There was no 
 man present who did not feel the drama of the night. 
 
 " ' Istiklal-i-Iran na miravad,' said Arshad-ed-Dowleh. 
 'The independence of Persia will never march. The 
 Russians are too strong for you and the people are too 
 foolish. Progress does not lie that way. You call me a 
 mujtabed, a friend of despotism. You call yourselves 
 liberals, democrats, socialists. But progress is something 
 apart from all these labels, and I, too, want progress for 
 my country.' 
 
 "When it became late, a suggestion was made to put 
 out the lights, but he intuitively did not wish the sitting 
 to be ended. 
 
 "'This talk is better than old wine,' he said. 'Why 
 should we sleep? I have loved you from afar, and now 
 that we have met it is good to be with you.' 
 
 "They told him that the hour was late and that the 
 morning start would be early. 
 
 "Do not leave me alone,' he entreated, 'for your men 
 used ill words when they captured me today.' 
 
 "They shall do so no more,' said Colonel Yeprem; 
 'you shall sleep here, close beside me, and no one shall 
 come near you in the night.' 
 
 "In the morning I found him seated in a chair on the 
 same spot where we had conversed the night before. 
 Colonel Yeprem told him, very gently, that he must die, 
 for the State dared not let him live. He received the news 
 without the slightest evidence of emotion, simply asking 
 for paper that he might write a letter to his wife, who was 
 a royal princess. He wrote with a steady hand, gave the 
 
 [23]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 letter to the Colonel, then rose deliberately and with great' 
 dignity. The speech that he made, standing there in the 
 close shadow of death, was the most superb exhibition of 
 courage and patriotism which I have ever witnessed. 
 Caution was now thrown to the winds as he delivered a 
 masterly indictment of the constitutional government. 
 Using the French Revolution and the history of England 
 as illustrations, he scathingly arraigned the poor achieve- 
 ments which followed fine promises. He pictured the 
 condition of the Persian peasant, touching his hearers 
 deeply. He indicted as enemies of Persia and hired ser- 
 vants of Russia the entire Kajar family, excepting only 
 his master Mohammed Ali, who, he said, lost his power 
 because he refused foreign dictation. He took up the 
 departments of State and pointed out that in none had 
 reform been established. 'And why?' he demanded. 
 ' Because w r e are still fighting for our lives against intrigue 
 on every hand. And you who say that you are lovers of 
 your country is it patriotic to promote revolution at 
 the moment when we are straining for reform and the 
 independence of Iran?' 
 
 "In closing his speech he thanked God that he had 
 always been vatanparast, a man who worshiped his coun- 
 try. He commended his soul to Heaven, asked that his 
 body be delivered to his wife, and that the gold chain 
 which he wore around his neck should be buried with 
 him. Then the firing party appeared and halted before 
 him. He ceased speaking and turned to them without a 
 moment's hesitation. Between the files, he marched with 
 them for perhaps forty yards. They placed him ten 
 yards in front, where he stood erect, unbound and with- 
 iout a sign of fear. When the command 'Ready' was 
 given, he stood even a little straighter, and shouted, 
 
 [24]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 'Zindabad Vatan, long live my country! Fire!' The 
 volley rang out. He fell, then rose to one knee. The 
 second section fired, and all was over." 
 
 There was a dead silence at the table when Auchester 
 finished his narration. Tense emotion had rarely been 
 felt by Spencer or by Lucy, and both were deeply affected. 
 Then Auchester rose deliberately, standing erect and 
 seeming of even greater stature than his height war- 
 ranted. He lifted his champagne glass: 
 
 "Here in this far-away country, my friends, with the 
 odor of that rose-leaf conserve in the air and its delicious 
 flavor upon your lips, drink with me to Arshad-ed-Dowleh, 
 the bravest soldier I have ever known." 
 
 [25]
 
 Ill 
 
 CUNNINGHAM was more meditative than usual 
 as he dined with his wife after his return home 
 from the Spencers'. It was customary for coffee to 
 be served in the library, whither they always adjourned 
 after dinner: he frequently to work out some problem 
 connected with his law cases, Margaret reading beside him, 
 the evening's silence being occasionally broken by a dis- 
 cussion of some topic of mutual interest, of which they 
 had many. They never felt that continued conversation 
 was essential to their happiness, and to that extent had 
 learned what life imparts to few. For what are words ex- 
 cept the medium ordinarily required to convey what is 
 imperfectly expressed without their aid? But if two 
 hearts, understanding, require such medium to commune 
 each with the other, then it is certain that the imperfec- 
 tion extends beyond its natural bounds. 
 
 As Cunningham took his customary seat at his writing- 
 table and drew a cigar from the jar near at hand, Margaret 
 watched him attentively. He lit the match mechanically 
 and leaned back in his chair, not heeding the maid who 
 stood beside him. 
 
 "Don't you care for your coffee?" Margaret asked. 
 
 "Of course!" he replied, turning quickly. "I didn't 
 notice that it was here." 
 
 [26]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Margaret took a step forward as the maid left the room, 
 and leaned against the arm of the great chair. 
 
 "Tired tonight?" she asked. "That Montgomery case 
 is pulling on you more and more." 
 
 "No, dear," he answered; "it isn't that just now. 
 It's another case, which, in a way, is just as serious. 
 There's a woman in it." 
 
 "A woman!" she echoed lightly; "that should make it 
 interesting." 
 
 "I'm not joking, Peggy," he replied seriously. "The 
 woman is Lucy Spencer, and it isn't a case for a lawyer. 
 She needs a mother and a good sound spanking." 
 
 Margaret laughed. "What madcap prank has Lucy 
 been up to now?" 
 
 "It isn't what she has done so much as what I fear she 
 may do," Cunningham answered. Margaret waited for 
 him to continue. "I wish you liked her better," he 
 exclaimed suddenly. "She needs some one who can talk 
 to her more plainly than a man can; and you are just 
 the one to do it if you will." 
 
 "How long do you think Lucy Spencer would take any 
 one's advice if it didn't fit in with her own fancy?" 
 Margaret asked. 
 
 "It would have to be done diplomatically, of course," 
 Cunningham admitted; "but Heaven knows she needs 
 it." 
 
 "Don't you think you're treading on dangerous 
 ground?" she asked pointedly. 
 
 "Not a bit," he protested; "what could be dangerous 
 about it?" 
 
 "She's flirting with you desperately, Ned, and she's 
 a married woman." 
 
 "She flirts with every one she happens to like, if that 
 [27]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 is what you call it; but she hasn't the slightest idea in 
 the world of the risk she runs. She's nothing but a child, 
 and ought to have a guardian." 
 
 "In place of which she has a husband." 
 
 " Vallie is a fool. It amuses him to have Lucy turn the 
 head of every man she meets. He jokes about it." 
 
 "And you want me to become her cicerone? " 
 
 "No; but I wish you could give her a chance to see 
 how rational women really act." 
 
 "She doesn't care for other women; I've heard her 
 say so." 
 
 "Because other women look askance at her," Cunning- 
 ham replied. "She enjoys shocking them, and they 
 encourage her in it by being shocked." 
 
 "When is she going to the shore?" 
 
 "Thursday." 
 
 "I'll run in tomorrow afternoon to say goodbye. It is 
 a fairly delicate mission which you name me for," she 
 smiled, "but I'm sure I ought to help you in any effort 
 for reform." 
 
 "Don't make sport of me, Peggy," Cunningham pro- 
 tested earnestly. "I couldn't talk like this to any one 
 except you; but I really do feel that child on my con- 
 science. Lucy has a lot of good stuff in her, and she's 
 more of a woman than she would be willing to admit. 
 You understand. This is a chance to do some real mis- 
 sionary work, and it's worth the effort." 
 
 He was right when he said that his wife understood 
 him, and happy is the man of whom this may be said! 
 Born and brought up in Boston under rigid influences 
 inherited straight from the Puritans, Cunningham re- 
 flected their principles in thought and deed. His father 
 would have died a martyr rather than yield to the perni- 
 
 [281
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 cious compromise with Satan, which was all he saw in 
 any progress of the times; his mother, while less assertive 
 echoed her husband's ideas like a mirror, which reflects 
 only what is placed before it. Perhaps Margaret under- 
 stood her husband better because she came into the family 
 before the old people passed away, ,. ad compared to 
 them, Ned was a radical. 
 
 Being of a later generation, it was natur il that his ideas 
 should be somewhat tempered by the more modern envi- 
 ronment, but it was really Margaret who had effected the 
 change which made him human. She loved him for his 
 strict adherence to principle, but without his realization she 
 taught him that a principle may be elastic without losing 
 its integrity. She was proud of his prominence in all 
 movements for civic uplift, and brought him to a point 
 where hecould accomplish results impossible had he rigidly 
 adhered to the creed he had assimilated from his father. 
 
 But Margaret, with all her quiet, helpful influence, 
 could not change in him that didactic characteristic 
 which had made ten generations of Cunninghams 
 leaders in their respective spheres. He was a man who 
 apperceived rather than perceived, and because he 
 knew that he knew he assumed certain prerogatives 
 which the man who only knows would scarcely dare. 
 Some women would have been surprised to have a hus- 
 band manifest so tense an interest in another man's 
 wife; Margaret understood. He could no more see 
 weaknesses in his friends without assuming the respon- 
 sibility of rectification than he could allow misrepre- 
 sentation in his profession to go unchallenged. Those 
 who knew Edward Cunningham learned to understand 
 and appreciate him; others were bound to give him 
 their respect. 
 
 [29]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 The following Sunday found the Cunninghams with 
 the problem of selecting a destination for their afternoon's 
 motor ride. 
 
 "Why not run down to the Spencers'?" Margaret 
 suggested. "They must be settled enough to see us by 
 this time, and I promised Lucy we would motor down as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 Cunningham looked at his wife gratefully. "You're 
 a sweet girl, Peggy," he said. "There aren't many wives 
 who would take up a case like this. That's what I call 
 being a good sport." 
 
 "If it has to be done I'm sure that it is wiser for me to 
 undertake it than for you," she said smiling; "but 
 truly, it isn't such a hardship as you try to make it out. 
 Lucy always amuses me. Until now, I haven't felt any 
 responsibility, but I'm not sure that I shan't enjoy the 
 experience. It's certain to be interesting." 
 
 "Oh, what a ride!" Margaret exclaimed after the car 
 left Lynn and its cobblestone streets behind them and 
 swept on into the Shore Drive. "Who ever saw such 
 variety? I never tire of it!" 
 
 It was always an aggravation to turn away from Marble- 
 head town, for they both loved its quaint streets and 
 picturesque buildings, but even had their destination 
 not been settled, Salem, suggestive of witches and times 
 long since gone by, would have lured them on. Then the 
 panorama became modernized again as the old with its 
 Spartan simplicity gave way to the new with its princely 
 expression of present luxury. No wonder that Margaret 
 reveled in its variety! From the moment the grim little 
 church at Beverly is passed, each estate seems vying with 
 the others for beauty of location and stateliness of archi- 
 tecture. Through Beverly Cove and Pride's Crossing 
 
 [30]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 to the Farms are mingled counterparts of the villas of 
 Italy and the chateaux of France, the country estates of 
 Old England and the colonial Georgian style of the New; 
 yet in spite of the magnificence, each house is made 
 to fit into the shore foliage as if a part of the picturesque 
 coast line itself. Here, with a sprinkling of Western 
 families, and of the diplomatic corps, Boston luxuriates 
 during the summer months. 
 
 All too soon the motor drew up at the Spencers'. Vallie 
 was sitting disconsolate by himself on the piazza, smoking 
 a cigarette, and he welcomed the callers as an answer to 
 his unexpressed prayer to be relieved of his ennui. 
 
 "Every one is off doing something with somebody 
 else," he lamented as he helped Margaret from the 
 tonneau. "We are down too late again this year. Lucy 
 is unpacking; I'll call her." 
 
 "Let me run in and surprise her," Margaret cried, 
 "while you and Ned visit here on the piazza." 
 
 Lucy was indeed unpacking. Margaret found her in 
 the large living-room leading from the hallway seated 
 on the floor, an open trunk before her and with gowns, 
 stockings, and every variety of feminine attire thrown 
 about in reckless profusion. 
 
 "You dear thing!" she cried as Margaret discovered 
 her. 
 
 " Why in the world are you unpacking down stairs?" 
 was the surprised query. 
 
 " Look at the size of the trunk," she said. " They 
 don't make men on the North Shore strong enough to 
 carry one like that. I had no idea you would come 
 down so soon. Did Ned make you?" 
 
 "He threatened to beat me if I didn't," laughed 
 Margaret. 
 
 [311
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Lucy was serious at once. "Tell me," she asked, "is 
 Ned really disagreeable like that at times?" 
 
 "Of course," Margaret replied. "Don't I show signs 
 of it?" 
 
 "No," Lucy continued in the same subdued tone; "but 
 he told me once that that was what I needed, and ' 
 
 Margaret laughed outright. "You had better look 
 out; he never warns but once!" 
 
 "You're joking, I know you are." Lucy's spirits re- 
 vived at once. "But anyhow, it is sweet of you to come 
 down so soon. Who's that?" 
 
 There were unmistakable sounds of voices on the 
 piazza. "I'm afraid Mrs. Spencer can't see you," Vallie 
 was saying; "she's in the midst of her trunks. I'll ask 
 her." 
 
 "Isn't Vallie the cutest little liar?" Lucy said to 
 Margaret in a low whisper. "He knows perfectly well 
 that this is the only trunk I ever unpack myself. " 
 
 "It's Mrs. Channing, Lucy," Spencer announced as he 
 entered the room. " Can you see her? " 
 
 Lucy's lips settled firmly together as she turned to Mar- 
 garet. "The old cat!" she whispered. "This is a visit 
 of inspection, and she couldn't even wait a decent length 
 of time after we came down. Her daughters were running 
 in here a lot at the end of last season, and she wishes to 
 see whether I am so impossible as to imperil their delicate 
 young lives. Sweet of her, isn't it? Yes, Vallie, show 
 Medusa in; she can't turn me into stone." 
 
 With a sudden slide Lucy resumed her position on the 
 floor amidst the gowns and the lingerie. 
 
 "What in the world are you going to do?" Margaret 
 demanded, astonished by her sudden action. "She'll be 
 in here before you can get up." 
 
 [32]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Never you mind," was the determined answer. 
 "Just keep your eyes on Lucy." 
 
 A moment later Vallie reappeared, escorting a woman of 
 perhaps sixty years. In figure she was comfortably stout; 
 her face was plain but intellectually strong and full of 
 individuality; her bearing seemed to indicate a mild 
 degree of uncertainty regarding the propriety of her 
 call, an attitude perhaps justified by the chaotic con- 
 dition of the room into which she was conducted. Her 
 black silk dress was elegant in its simplicity; she wore 
 her hair in that fashion which for nearly half a century 
 has prevailed in Boston amongst those elderly persons 
 whose social position makes it possible for them to take 
 revenge on their past. The bonnet was of a much more 
 recent vintage; in fact, it was the latest style, for a 
 bonnet. As the full scene spread itself before Mrs. 
 Channing she drew back for an instant, amazement 
 showing on her face and indecision in her footsteps. 
 
 "How good of you to call, dear Mrs. Channing," Lucy 
 exclaimed with a world of welcome, struggling to rise, but 
 succeeding only in reaching a kneeling position. "You 
 must forgive me for letting you come in among all this 
 clutter, but I did want so much to see you. Of course 
 you know Mrs. Cunningham. Margaret dear, please 
 make room for Mrs. Channing beside you. You will 
 forgive me for being so unceremonious?" 
 
 "It is my own fault for coming so soon," the visitor 
 said magnanimously. " My daughters speak of you often, 
 and I intended to call all last summer." 
 
 "I'm sure you did," Lucy beamed, "but the summers 
 get shorter and shorter, don't they?" 
 
 "They do," Mrs. Channing assented, relieved by the 
 quick understanding. "I often make that same remark 
 3 [33]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 to my husband. This year I was determined that nothing 
 should interfere; but had I known ' 
 
 "I beg of you!" protested Lucy. "It is I who should 
 apologize for my poor housekeeping in that we are not 
 settled. We've been here three whole days and I've only 
 just reached this pet trunk of mine." 
 
 While her hostess' conversation ran on inconsequently, 
 Mrs. Channing's eye wandered over the various articles 
 which were exposed to view, and finally settled again upon 
 the vivacious speaker. The round trip was completed just 
 in time, for Lucy looked up as she asked a question. 
 
 "What kind of a season do you think we shall have 
 this year?" 
 
 "Oh, about as usual, I dare say," was the quick 
 response. "Of course your idea of the season is quite 
 different from what mine is, but I dare say it will be about 
 as usual." 
 
 "Dear me!" Lucy showed much concern. "You speak 
 as if our seasons were terribly stupid affairs. I've found 
 them most enjoyable." 
 
 "I don't say that I haven't found them enjoyable," Mrs. 
 Channing corrected; "but naturally my idea of pleasure 
 is quite different from that of a young woman like you." 
 ""Of course," Lucy admitted promptly; "but you are 
 with your daughters so much, and their ideas are not so 
 far from mine, are they?" 
 
 "I should hope ! Mrs. Channing caught herself 
 before the sentence was complete. "My daughters are 
 naturally very quiet in their tastes except when they are 
 influenced by others." 
 
 Lucy smiled cheerfully, but her amusement came from 
 her own thoughts rather than from the remark she had 
 just heard. She saw before her at that moment two active 
 
 [34]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 girls, eager for the opportunity to express themselves nor- 
 mally, yet partially suppressed by the puritanic atmos- 
 phere in which they lived. She recalled some of their 
 conversations, and wondered how long the atmosphere 
 would succeed in predominating over nature itself. There 
 was too much sympathy in Lucy's heart to permit her to 
 speak her thoughts aloud. What she said was: "Yes, I 
 know what dear, good girls they are; but surely you don't 
 object to their love of horses and golf and tennis, and 
 things like that. They must have some excitement." 
 
 "Young girls need no excitement," was the flat con- 
 tradiction. "I suppose it is too late to stop this athletic 
 notion which they all have, but it is simply aping the men 
 and I don't like it. No one thought of such a thing when 
 I first came down here, and why should it be any more 
 necessary now?" 
 
 "Aren't the estates much more beautiful now than they 
 were then?" Lucy inquired. "Hasn't much been done 
 to make them more attractive?" 
 
 "Why, yes!" replied Mrs. Channing, not catching the 
 drift of the questions. 
 
 "Then why isn't it natural that the people and the life 
 they lead should have become more attractive?" 
 
 The caller was vexed to find her hostess combating her 
 opinions. Most of Mrs. Channing's acquaintances either 
 acquiesced or held their peace. Her annoyance took the 
 form of making her comments more personal in their 
 application and less veiled. 
 
 "Excitement is not necessary to beautify estates or 
 to make people more attractive," she insisted. "The 
 nervous unrest which some of the cottagers have intro- 
 duced during the past few years is certainly prejudicial 
 to the place and to all who live here." 
 
 [35]
 
 "You don't suppose she includes us among the nervously 
 restless, do you, Margaret?" Lucy asked, with so fasci- 
 nating a smile that no one could think her serious. 
 
 "I have no intention of making any personal appli- 
 cation," was the disclaimer, so expressed that it served 
 to emphasize the previous suggestion into a fact. "Of 
 course we realize that there is a certain element here who 
 think that the summer gives them a license to lead a life 
 more unrestrained than even they would dare to live in 
 the city. Naturally we who knew the place before they 
 changed it look upon this as an unfortunate innovation; 
 but I have no intention of mentioning any names." 
 
 "I'm sure I'm quiet enough," Lucy said demurely, as 
 if thinking. "See how domestic I am! I'll wager that 
 there isn't another woman on the North Shore who 
 unpacks even one of her own trunks. Of course I never 
 pack anything but my cigarette case and the cocktail 
 shaker, but it's something to do the unpacking, isn't it?" 
 
 She looked slyly over at Margaret as Mrs. Channing 
 straightened up and audibly sniffed, but the w r ords were 
 spoken so innocently that it was difficult for her caller 
 even to manifest disapproval. Dignity, moreover, forbade, 
 and discretion suggested another topic of conversation. 
 
 "I really feel very much concerned over the trend of 
 modern times," Mrs. Channing said; "everything moves 
 with such terrific pace. The younger generation look 
 upon it as the natural thing, and we who can draw com- 
 parisons must save them from the awful rush. Driving 
 is ruined by the automobiles, and still more so by the 
 motor-cycles road-lice I call them. We are shot 
 through the ground in tunnels, men fly in the air, we re- 
 ceive messages out of nothing, and they say that soon we 
 can communicate with each other without speaking." 
 
 [30]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "But all this is progress, isn't it?" Margaret asked 
 suggestively. 
 
 "I suppose it is. We can't object to that even if we 
 don't like it; but the influence on the people themselves 
 is the worst of all : even the women now smoke and drink, 
 and every one breaks the Sabbath." 
 
 "Why did you speak of smoking?" Lucy demanded. 
 "I've been perishing for a cigarette, and I didn't like to 
 suggest it. I haven't had one all day. You see I found 
 that the smoke irritated my throat, so now I never indulge 
 until afternoon." 
 
 "Don't let me keep you from enjoying yourself," Mrs. 
 Channing said stiffly. 
 
 Lucy almost disappeared in the trunk as her caller 
 spoke, and triumphantly produced the silver case. "That 
 is so sweet of you," she smiled gratefully, holding it out 
 to Mrs. Channing. "I don't suppose there is any use in 
 asking you to take one? They're very good." 
 
 "I thank you, no." 
 
 "Mrs. Cunningham is old-fashioned too, so I must 
 smoke alone," she continued, lighting the cigarette and 
 leaning comfortably against the trunk. "After all, you 
 don't need it as much as those of us who have excitement. 
 Although I am so quiet myself, I do have a certain amount 
 of that from being thrown more or less with the people you 
 describe, and I find that smoking is very soothing to the 
 nerves. You must admit that, with the best intentions, it 
 is almost impossible to prevent excitement from entering 
 into even a commonplace existence." 
 
 "If the present generation finds it so indispensable," 
 snapped Mrs. Channing, "what in the world is going to 
 happen to the next? Even the children today are blase 
 and sophisticated; by another generation nothing less 
 
 137]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 than murder will give them the thrill of excitement which 
 they used to receive from their nursery games. I don't 
 know where it is going to end." 
 
 Lucy laughed. " You make me shudder for my innocent 
 bairns," she said. Then her eye rested on something 
 inside the trunk, and again she reached within its capa- 
 cious depths, this time producing a silver cocktail shaker. 
 "There it is!" she exclaimed. "I really thought I had 
 forgotten where I packed it. Isn't it unique ? " holding 
 it up as she spoke. "Do you take cocktails?" 
 
 Mrs. Channing's face became still more firmly set. "I 
 do not smoke," she said pointedly; "neither do I drink." 
 
 "What a pity!" Lucy's laugh rippled merrily. "For- 
 give me for laughing, but for a moment I thought you were 
 quoting from the Bible: 'it toils not neither does it spin.' 
 Silly of me, isn't it? But seriously, it is too bad that you 
 don't take cocktails, for Vallie Mr. Spencer can mix 
 them in three different languages. Margaret dear, why 
 do we keep on talking about things which don't interest 
 Mrs. Channing? She'll gain a wretched impression of 
 you if you don't suggest some sensible topic of conversa- 
 tion. Suppose I show her some of my new gowns. Would 
 you like to see them?" 
 
 "I must be going " the caller began. 
 
 "Not when Mrs. Spencer is about to show us some of 
 these wonderful creations, I am sure," Margaret urged, too 
 much amused to be willing to have the entertainment 
 come so soon to an end. 
 
 Lucy did not wait for Mrs. Channing's acquiescence, 
 but drew from the trunk gown after gown until she found 
 the one she wished to show. 
 
 "Isn't it a dream!" she demanded, standing erect and 
 holding it against her body. "Vallie thinks it's too de- 
 
 [38]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 collete for the city, but I thought I might get a chance 
 to wear it down here." 
 
 "I don't see why you should make that distinction," 
 Mrs. Channing said testily. "It seems well suited for 
 any one with your figure." 
 
 "Of course," Lucy admitted. "A woman has to think 
 of that, always, doesn't she? Most of the women one 
 sees in decollete gowns are like my Kodak films, over- 
 exposed and under-developed. But isn't it a dream!" 
 
 "I really must be going," Mrs. Channing insisted, rising 
 with determination. 
 
 "Please don't," Lucy urged. "It doesn't take long to 
 wait a minute, and I really want to show you some of my 
 new lingerie. Vallie says 
 
 "Good afternoon," Mrs. Channing shouted rather than 
 spoke. "I am very glad to have found you at home." 
 
 "Well, if you must go, of course I can't detain you," 
 Lucy said resignedly; "but it has been such a joy to see 
 you that I can't bear to let you go." 
 
 "Good afternoon," Mrs. Channing again remarked, 
 passing through the door. 
 
 "Goodbye," Lucy called sweetly after her. "Do 
 remember me to your daughters. Vallie, dear, be 
 careful Mrs. Channing doesn't fall going down those 
 steps. " 
 
 She turned to Margaret. "There," she said, "perhaps 
 that will give her something to think over. We've -been 
 coming down here for five years, and until she found her 
 ewe lambs in danger of being eaten up by the she-wolf, she 
 never gave a sign that she knew I existed. The girls are 
 really very nice and I like them, but deliver me from 
 Mamma! I wish I could have thought of some more 
 ways to shock her." 
 
 [39]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Don't reproach yourself," Margaret reassured her, 
 wiping from her eyes the tears which the laughter had 
 brought. "You thought of enough. Oh, Lucy, Lucy!" 
 and Margaret buried her face in the folds of the gown 
 thrown carelessly on the couch beside her, convulsed with 
 a paroxysm of laughter which she no longer sought to 
 control. 
 
 40]
 
 IV 
 
 IN the practice of his profession, Edward Cunningham 
 held an enviable reputation for his legal knowledge 
 and skill and for his eloquence in presenting cases to 
 the Court ; and here again might be found the expression 
 of his high professional ideals. His sizing up of the situa- 
 tion was always masterly, the logic of his argument con- 
 vincing, and his own confidence in the righteousness of his 
 cause became contagious because of the sincerity with 
 which he pleaded. This, in part, was naturally the ex- 
 pression of his art, for no man could actually so assimilate 
 the responsibilities of his clients without breaking down in 
 the process; but it was an accepted fact among his fellow- 
 lawyers that Cunningham always avoided, if possible, 
 taking causes in which he could not at least sympathize 
 with the attitude which circumstances forced him to as- 
 sume. It was for this reason that the "Montgomery 
 case," to which Margaret had alluded, was, as she said, 
 "pulling on" him more and more; and the occasion of 
 his anxiety was the apparently unsolvable mystery in 
 which the case was shrouded. 
 
 The problem as it stood was briefly this: Late one 
 evening a buggy turned into the main street of one of 
 Boston's suburbs, and continued on its course in the direc- 
 tion of the city. There was nothing about the vehicle 
 
 141]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 to attract unusual attention until suddenly an expressman 
 on the sidewalk heard two shots ring out in fairly close 
 succession, saw two distinct flashes of light proceed from 
 the buggy, and heard a voice cry out, "I am shot." The 
 reports startled the horse into a gallop, and the carriage 
 passed beyond the view of the man. A mile further on, 
 in crossing a bridge over a railroad track, the buggy locked 
 wheels with a heavy farm team coming in the opposite 
 direction, and the horse was stopped. Inside the vehicle 
 two men were found, one dead, the other badly 
 wounded, the extraordinary feature of the shooting being 
 that each bullet had passed through its victim's body 
 in the same direction; namely, from right to left. 
 
 Montgomery, the wounded man, had recovered, and 
 was held charged with the murder of Brewster, his com- 
 panion in the buggy. In its early development the case 
 contained so many contradictory features, and its im- 
 portance in the public mind assumed such proportions, 
 that the Attorney-General felt warranted in securing the 
 consent of the Governor and Council to call Cunningham 
 to assist the State in the prosecution. Montgomery pro- 
 tested his innocence and denied all knowledge of the 
 shooting. He claimed that the first shot was the one 
 which wounded him, and that while dimly conscious of 
 hearing a second shot, his own condition was such as to 
 make him unaware of all that happened later. The 
 theory that the shooting had been done by some one un- 
 known upon the street had been abandoned, as the ex- 
 pressman who heard the shots came forward at the inquest 
 with his statement that the flashes had proceeded from 
 the buggy, and he proved a reliable witness. Montgomery 
 was sitting on the right hand and Brewster on the left 
 when the bodies were found. From this position, Mont- 
 
 [42]
 
 gomery could have fired a shot taking the direction shown 
 by the wound in Brewster's body; but nothing as yet in 
 the hands of the prosecution showed how a shot could 
 have been fired to pass through Montgomery from right 
 to left. 
 
 Spencer had brought the case into the conversation 
 while the two men sat on the piazza. Cunningham usually 
 avoided any discussion of professional questions outside 
 his office, but as a matter of fact there were not many 
 subjects he could discuss with Vallie. Realizing the 
 limitation, he offered no objections now that a common 
 ground was found. 
 
 "Why couldn't Brewster have put his arm around 
 Montgomery, behind his back? That seems perfectly 
 possible to me," Spencer remarked at length. 
 
 "He could have, provided Montgomery would let him; 
 but he couldn't have held the revolver against his own 
 side in such a way as to have had the bullet take the 
 upward course it did unless he had been a contortionist." 
 
 "Oh," Spencer replied dubiously. "That rather knocks 
 out my theory, doesn't it? " 
 
 "I believe it does. If Brewster had shot Montgomery 
 and wished to commit suicide there are several places 
 he would have selected rather than underneath his right 
 arm. It's a complicated mess." 
 
 "I was telling Captain Auchester about it last week. 
 He was much interested and asked a lot of questions. I 
 thought I had a pretty good theory, but you've knocked 
 it out." 
 
 "Who is this Captain Auchester?" Cunningham asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 "Why, you've met him," Spencer replied, surprised. 
 
 "Yes, barely, but who is he?" 
 [43]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I don't know, except what I've picked up about him. 
 Duncan met him on board steamer. Played bridge with 
 him, and all that sort of thing. Then he got him cards 
 to his clubs." 
 
 "Does Duncan know anything about him?" 
 
 "I suppose he does. He wouldn't have put him up at 
 the clubs if he hadn't, would he?" 
 
 "Who put him up at the Badminton Club?" Cunning- 
 ham persisted. 
 
 Spencer moved uneasily and nervously reached for a 
 fresh cigarette. "Why, I did." 
 
 "Yet you say you know nothing about him." 
 
 "Oh, he's all right, Ned. What's the use of all this 
 catechizing? I put him up at the Badminton because he's 
 a corking fine fellow, and I knew Duncan wouldn't have 
 stood for him if he hadn't been all he seemed." 
 
 "That man Lewis wasn't 'all he seemed,' " Cunningham 
 continued, suggestively. 
 
 "I know he wasn't, and he got into Peters, who put 
 him up, just as much as he did into the others," Vallie 
 chuckled to himself. "That was really a rare one on 
 poor old Peters. He hasn't got over it yet." 
 
 "There are others, who contributed liberally, who even 
 yet don't fully appreciate the joke," Cunningham replied 
 dryly. 
 
 "But what has all this to do with Auchester?" Spencer 
 demanded. "Do you know anything about him that I 
 don't?" 
 
 "No," Cunningham admitted frankly. "I know ex- 
 actly what you all know, which is nothing. I am simply 
 protesting in my feeble way against the careless habit 
 we have of throwing open the doors of our clubs to casual 
 acquaintances, just because they happen to be agreeable 
 
 [44]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 fellows and good bridge players; or of using them as 
 places where we may dump visitors whom we don't care 
 to have in our homes. It's a wonder that we aren't 
 victimized more often than we are." 
 
 "I think the English custom is devilish inhospitable," 
 Vallie replied, "and our 'strangers' room' at the Bad- 
 minton is about as snippy." 
 
 " I had an amusing experience at the Griffin Club in 
 London." Cunningham laughed at the recollection which 
 Spencer's reference to English clubs brought back to him. 
 "I had been an 'over-seas' member for a year or more 
 before I had the opportunity to exercise my prerogative, 
 and the first time I used the club-house happened to be 
 on a Saturday just before luncheon. I went up stairs into 
 the 'morning room,' and finding myself out of cigarettes, 
 I rang the bell for the page, giving him the order. 
 Presently he returned, empty-handed: 
 
 4 Very sorry, sir,' he said, most respectfully; ' you 
 can't have the cigarettes.' 
 
 'Why not?' I demanded, determined not to be the 
 victim of discrimination. 
 
 ' The Honorable Secretary is out of town, sir.' 
 ''Oh!' I said, not fully comprehending. 'When 
 will the Honorable Secretary return? ' 
 
 ' ' On the Monday, sir,' he replied cheerfully; ' he's 
 only away for the week-end, sir.' 
 
 ' Don't the members smoke when the Honorable 
 Secretary is out of town? ' I inquired. 
 
 Oh, yes, sir; but the cigarettes are in his desk, sir, 
 and he has taken the key.' 
 
 " Seeing my distress, the boy became inspired with an 
 idea. 'I could get you an individual cigarette, sir.' 
 " ' Prithee do,' quoth I. 
 
 [45]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 " Again he returned, this time with a small glass con- 
 taining perhaps a dozen cigarettes. I took one and 
 placed it between my lips, paying him his penny. 
 
 " ' Where are the matches ? ' I asked as he retreated 
 toward the door. 
 
 " ' Beg pardon, sir,' he replied, still most respectfully, 
 * but you can't smoke in this room until after eight 
 o'clock in the evening, sir.' ' 
 
 Spencer laughed boisterously. " And yet you advo- 
 cate English customs for American clubs." 
 
 " I wouldn't go as far as they do in keeping strangers 
 out," he explained, "but I'm strong for the happy 
 medium." 
 
 As Cunningham spoke he looked up and saw that Lucy 
 and Margaret were standing together in the doorway. 
 
 "Hullo, Ned," Lucy exclaimed, as he rose and extended 
 his hand. "I missed your story, but your last sentiment 
 is fine and I quite agree with you. Still, I'm glad you 
 didn't start your reform any earlier, for it never would 
 have done to have shut out Captain Auchester. He dined 
 with us just before we left town, and you have no idea 
 what a wonderful man he is." 
 
 "You ought to hear some of his experiences," Spencer 
 interrupted. "He's a wonder." 
 
 "I haven't anything against the man," protested 
 Cunningham. "From what little I've seen of him I can 
 easily believe all you say; but men like that usually bring 
 with them some sort of credentials." 
 
 "You're naturally suspicious because you're a lawyer," 
 Lucy continued. " That comes from associating so much 
 with the criminal class. Don't you think that explains 
 it, Margaret?" 
 
 "Don't appeal to me," was the smiling reply, as she 
 [46]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 advanced with Lucy to the long willow divan. "I never 
 argue with Ned; he's sure to be too much for me." 
 
 "There you are again," cried Spencer, seized with a 
 sudden inspiration. "It all comes right back to the fact 
 that he's a lawyer, as Lucy says. He has trained himself 
 to be suspicious and to argue cleverly. Then he takes it 
 out of those of us whose training has all been different. 
 Come, Ned, admit that it isn't fair play." 
 
 "I didn't realize that I was in an argumentative frame 
 of mind," Cunningham laughed. "I accept my rebuke, 
 and retire discomforted. Tell us what happened to Mrs. 
 Channing, Lucy. You seemed to be having a love feast 
 in there." 
 
 "I wish you both had been behind the door," Margaret 
 said, again giving free rein to her laughter. 
 
 "I should have waited until some time when I had her 
 all to myself," Lucy observed contritely. "I really 
 intend to behave very discreetly when you are around, 
 Margaret, but now you'll disapprove of me more than 
 ever." 
 
 "My dear, you were simply delicious," cried Margaret. 
 "I have never laughed so much at one time in all my life." 
 
 "Don't keep us guessing here," protested Vallie. "Let 
 us in on the joke, won't you? " 
 
 "Well, the old Medusa came here just to look me over, " 
 Lucy began. "She has heard her daughters talk about 
 meeting me, and she wanted to see what sort of creature 
 I am. I shouldn't have done it, of course, but when I 
 saw her sitting there with her Mayflower expression, in 
 her shiny, black silk dress with little white frills in the 
 neck and about her wrists, and her inverted conscience 
 tied up w r ith purity ribbons, I simply couldn't resist 
 the temptation." 
 
 [47]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "But what did you do?" Cunningham asked. 
 
 "Yes, what did you do?" Margaret repeated, going off 
 into another gale of laughter. "Tell the gentlemen 
 what you did, Lucy." 
 
 "I tried to shock her, and I think I succeeded," she 
 said demurely. 
 
 "I'm sure you did!" Margaret corroborated. 
 
 " But how " Vallie began. 
 
 "I offered her a cigarette, and asked her if she liked 
 cocktails, and showed her my most decollete gown, and 
 told her how fond you were of lingerie 
 
 "Lucy!" exclaimed Cunningham, aghast. 
 
 "Ha! ha! " laughed Valentine. "No wonder she went 
 out of here like a catapult! Why, Mrs. Channing is the 
 president of the Society for the Draping of the Naked 
 Truth. She'll have you arrested in the morning." 
 
 "You'll never forgive me," Lucy said sorrowfully to 
 Margaret. 
 
 "Nonsense!" Margaret replied. "There's nothing to 
 forgive, but we shall have some explaining to do when 
 we get home if we don't start right away. Tom 
 Langdon and Billy Hayden are coming in for supper 
 tonight. " 
 
 " You don't think much of the success of my missionary 
 work thus far, do you, Ned?" Margaret inquired of her 
 husband as the car ran swiftly on towards home. 
 
 "On the contrary," he replied. "The fact that Lucy 
 felt it necessary to explain is the most encouraging sign 
 I have yet seen. Keep up the good work." 
 
 [48
 
 IT was no unusual thing for Langdon or Hayden or 
 any one of a dozen other younger lawyers to drop 
 in at the Cunninghams' for Sunday night supper. 
 Cunningham took his profession so seriously that they 
 always gained inspiration from even casual contact with 
 him, and the high position he had attained made his in- 
 fluence far reaching in offsetting the early disappoint- 
 ments and discouragements which inevitably follow in 
 the wake of fallen idols and broken ideals. Cunningham 
 was temperamentally optimistic, and to practise law 
 represented to him a privilege rather than a profession. 
 When justice miscarried, he always claimed it was not 
 the fault of the law, but rather because of its improper 
 application on the part of the individual. These cases 
 must always exist, he contended, as long as imperfections 
 remain in the human character; but the law should not 
 be blamed for them. 
 
 Langdon had asked particularly that he and Hayden 
 might come in, on this Sunday night, as he hoped for an 
 opportunity to say a word to Cunningham regarding his 
 own connection with the Montgomery case. It was 
 merely a coincidence that the Court had appointed him 
 as counsel to defend Montgomery. As a matter of fact, 
 Langdon's appointment was made before the older lawyer 
 4 [49]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 was called into the case by the Attorney- General, and the 
 only reason Cunningham felt for hesitation in accepting 
 the call was that he would be opposed to this younger, 
 less experienced man, his friend, and perhaps stand in 
 the way of the glory and reputation which so often follow 
 in the wake of a cause celebre. 
 
 "The Court has appointed you to defend this case," 
 the judge had told Langdon, "feeling certain that the 
 defendant's interests will be protected as fully and as 
 carefully as though he were able to retain his own counsel." 
 
 Perhaps there was as much in the way the judge 
 had said it as in the words themselves. At all events, 
 Langdon accepted the case in the spirit of the appoint- 
 ment, and found that it served to elevate in his own 
 mind the dignity of his profession. He always acknowl- 
 edged frankly that he was a pessimist on the standpoint 
 of high morality in every-day life, and he made no excep- 
 tion of the practice of law. To him it was no different 
 from any other occupation, and he had entered it not as 
 a "calling, " but as a business proposition. The academic 
 side appealed to him, and he had succeeded to an extent 
 which warranted his appointment by the Court; but it 
 was so at variance with his previous attitude to find 
 himself regarding his present case in the light of a 
 sacred trust, that he felt impelled to discuss matters 
 with Cunningham. This was the particular occasion of 
 his asking to come in for Sunday night supper, and he 
 brought Hay den with him. 
 
 "Curious that we should be together in that Montgom- 
 ery case, isn't it?" he remarked, while Margaret prepared 
 the salad. 
 
 "Your appointment is a compliment which I hope you 
 appreciate," Cunningham replied. "It's a sobering re- 
 
 [50]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 sponsibility to have the defense of a man's life put on your 
 shoulders, and the selection of counsel is not made lightly, 
 I assure you. Judge Amory believes that you can de- 
 velop the defense if there is any, and you're sure to come 
 through with added laurels, though frankly I don't expect 
 to see you win your case." 
 
 "Of course you don't," Langdon laughed. "It is your 
 job to see that I don't." 
 
 "Not necessarily," Cunningham corrected. 
 
 Langdon looked puzzled. "That's a curious remark," 
 he said. 
 
 The older lawyer understood what was working in his 
 friend's mind. "Then it is your idea that the duty of the 
 defending counsel is to free and of the prosecuting attorney 
 to convict the prisoner?" he asked. 
 
 "Of course," was the frank response. 
 
 "Regardless of the testimony?" 
 
 "Let us say in spite of the testimony." 
 
 "Surely you don't carry your ideals so far as to dispute 
 Tom's position on that," Hayden broke in. 
 
 "If that isn't the case, why did they call you in?" 
 Langdon demanded. "If it had been left in the hands of 
 the District- Attorney, or even of the Attorney-General, 
 I'm certain that I could at least get a disagreement. 
 Why they should take such extreme measures I don't 
 understand. I can't remember a similar instance since 
 Webster was called into the Knapp- White case. You're 
 the modern Webster, Ned!" 
 
 "I don't wonder that you are surprised that the 
 Attorney-General asked me to assist him," Cunningham 
 explained; "it was a complete surprise to me. I am 
 no criminal lawyer and have no interest in such cases 
 except from a psychological standpoint. That is un- 
 
 151]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 doubtedly the explanation, for this problem is an interest- 
 ing one." 
 
 "I have never associated psychology with law," 
 Langdon replied. 
 
 "It is a phase which has been late in reaching 
 America. I commend it to you. Now tell me, in 
 your opinion is there reasonable doubt as to the man's 
 guilt?" 
 
 "The evidence is admittedly all circumstantial, and 
 is only as strong as it's weakest part. In a case like this 
 there is always a chance to find a break in the chain; 
 but with your uncanny power to make other people see 
 things the way you do, I admit that the defense is up 
 against a real proposition." 
 
 "What would you do, Tom, if you became convinced 
 that your client was guilty?" 
 
 "I think I should feel greatly relieved; then if he is 
 convicted he would only be getting what belongs to him. 
 If I believe him innocent and lose the case I'll always have 
 it on my conscience that perhaps there was something I 
 might have done which I didn't." 
 
 "Would you drop a case if you became convinced of 
 a client's guilt?" Hayden asked Cunningham pointedly. 
 
 "No," was the reply. "A lawyer often discovers this 
 at a time when his withdrawal would injure his client's 
 cause; but in such an event I should certainly urge an 
 admission of guilt and work for the lightest possible 
 penalty consistent with justice. Having once undertaken 
 the defense, a lawyer is bound by every fair and honorable 
 means which the law of the land permits to prevent his 
 client from being deprived of life or liberty except by due 
 process of the law. Beyond all this, a case before the 
 Court is not unlike a play upon the stage, everything 
 
 [52]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 is exaggerated. If one side presented its evidence in 
 merely its normal values the other would gain a distinct 
 advantage through the loss of proportion." 
 
 "Then you don't consider that it is my duty necessarily 
 to win this case?" Langdon demanded. 
 
 "Not unless you remain convinced of your client's 
 innocence or that a reasonable doubt exists as to his guilt." 
 
 "Suppose we reverse the case. What will you do if 
 you become convinced of the same thing?" 
 
 "All which lies in my power to secure justice." 
 
 "But that would be to work with the defense?" 
 
 "Practically," admitted Cunningham. "The State is 
 thirsting for no man's blood, and while your approach to 
 the case is necessarily different from mine, in a way they 
 are identical. Go ahead with your defense, Tom, and if 
 you can convince me that the man Brewster could have 
 been killed by any one except Montgomery, the prosecu- 
 tion must necessarily drop its case." 
 
 Langdon was silent for some moments and the others 
 at the table refrained from breaking in upon his thoughts. 
 "I wish I believed that the law could be administered on 
 that basis," he said at length. "The longer I practise the 
 more pessimistic I become. The idea seems to be to get 
 your facts together and then make the law correspond, 
 and the cleverest lawyer is he who can best show his 
 client how to bend the line of the law without breaking it. 
 YS hy, only yesterday I heard a lawyer say of another, who 
 ranks high as a publicist right here in Boston, 'I believe 
 he is honest, but he doesn't know the meaning of the 
 words "fair play." ' " 
 
 Cunningham smiled. "That ought not to make you 
 pessimistic; it should rather encourage you to greater 
 effort in upholding the honor of your profession." 
 
 [53]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "But, Ned," Langdon burst out, keyed up by his intense 
 earnestness, "you know as well as I do that reputable 
 lawyers go into the courtroom every day with papers in 
 their pockets which would absolutely ruin their cases if 
 given to the other side, and keep them in their 
 pockets." 
 
 "Yes, I do know it," Cunningham admitted, "and of 
 course that is all wrong; yet how is it any different from 
 what we meet in business or every-day social intercourse? 
 How many friends would you have if you always spoke the 
 whole truth? how many business houses would remain 
 solvent if in their relations with customers and banks 
 they insisted on telling all they know? I don't defend 
 any of it, and the saddest part of all is that if everything 
 was administered in the strict letter of honor and in- 
 tegrity the honest man is the one who would suffer. 
 We must accept conditions as they are, unfortunately, 
 and do our part to raise them to a higher standard." 
 
 "Now that you have settled all that, suppose you let 
 Mr. Hayden and me join in the conversation," Margaret 
 remarked. 
 
 "There is just one thing more I want to say before I 
 drop this argument with Tom," Cunningham continued. 
 "You spoke a moment ago of my having the power to 
 make other people see things the way I see them, and 
 if that is true I want you to appreciate the fact that it is 
 only because I succeed in persuading them of my own 
 conviction. Any one ought to be able to do that; but 
 if you yourself don't believe what you are advocating 
 it is naturally a difficult matter to persuade others. If, 
 through this power, as you call it and such as it is, I ever 
 accomplished an injustice to a prisoner, I should never 
 forgive myself." 
 
 [54]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I believe you, Ned," Langdon acknowledged with 
 sincerity. "What you have said has helped me a lot. 
 I'm proud to be against you in this case." 
 
 "Have you heard from the Spencers since they went 
 to the shore?" Hayden asked, following Margaret's 
 suggestion. 
 
 "We have just returned from there," she replied. 
 " They aren't settled yet, but they're on their way. " 
 
 "I suppose Vallie was throwing trunks around and 
 cutting the grass, and making himself generally useful, 
 as usual?" Langdon inquired. 
 
 "As usual, yes," Margaret laughed. 
 
 "And Lucy was mending the children's socks? " Hayden 
 continued. 
 
 "Exactly, you describe the domestic scene to a 
 nicety." 
 
 The momentary silence which followed these sallies 
 was broken by a general laugh. 
 
 "When do you suppose that girl will grow up?" 
 Langdon asked. 
 
 "When experience clutches hold of her and makes her 
 suffer," Cunningham answered seriously. "It is too late 
 for her to learn the lesson from any less exacting 
 master." 
 
 "I hate to think of Lucy suffering," Hayden remarked. 
 "She has always lived on the foam of life, and I can't 
 imagine her dipping into it any deeper, much less going 
 to the depths." 
 
 "Too bad she couldn't have married a man with at 
 least a suggestion of solidity some one who could have 
 brought out her character a bit," observed Langdon. 
 
 "A man like Thomas Langdon, Esquire?" Margaret 
 suggested, mischievously. 
 
 155)
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Not a bad idea at all," Langdon retorted. "Her 
 money would have cured even my pessimism; and I 
 know I could have done a better job at making her happy 
 than Vallie has. Lucy is a woman all right, underneath 
 the froth." 
 
 "It's a pity that her children don't mean more to her," 
 Margaret said reflectively. "She can't get much response 
 from her husband, but Larry and Babs are dears, thanks 
 to that splendid governess they have." 
 
 "She doesn't neglect them, Peggy," Cunningham pro- 
 tested. "The care she has taken in selecting their 
 governess is evidence of that." 
 
 "When Babs was ill last winter, Dr. Bryant told me, 
 she was up with her every night," added Hay den, join- 
 ing Cunningham in Lucy's defense. 
 
 " Only to turn her over bodily to Susette as soon as 
 the danger was passed," Margaret completed the story. 
 "It isn't motherly, that's all." 
 
 "Another note to be struck by that stern master Ex- 
 perience Ned speaks of," Langdon said; "but I do hope 
 you're wrong about the suffering. I couldn't bear to 
 have Lucy suffer." 
 
 "You men are not sincere," Margaret declared sud- 
 denly. "You all dance attendance on her, laugh at her 
 unconventional speeches and acts, encourage her in the 
 foolish idea that she can safely disregard established 
 proprieties, and then bemoan the fact that she must 
 suffer in order to learn her duty toward life. That is an 
 inconsistency which I have noted exists in men in general." 
 
 "Don't be unfair," Hayden protested. 
 
 "Heaven knows that I have advised her until she 
 looks upon me as a grizzled grandfather," Cunningham 
 added grimly. 
 
 [561
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I'm glad you have, Ned," Margaret continued; 
 "for that is what she needs. If every one laughs at her 
 smart sayings and risque doings, how is she ever to know? " 
 
 "Who laughed at her this afternoon?" Cunningham 
 demanded maliciously. 
 
 "I did, and I'm ashamed of it." Margaret could 
 not restrain her mirth as she recalled the expression on 
 Mrs. Channing's face. "I was wrong, and I intend to- 
 atone." 
 
 "That is exactly the situation we are up against most 
 of the time," explained Hayden. "I don't know what 
 happened this afternoon, but what Lucy does is so scream- 
 ingly funny when it occurs that we can't help being 
 amused. The only difference is that we don't atone as 
 you say you're going to. I don't quite see how we could 
 do that." 
 
 "Try to be serious with her, and give her something 
 to think of besides herself and other trivialities," Margaret 
 suggested. 
 
 " I'll go right down and tell her that I'll be a grandfather 
 to her, like Ned," Langdon replied. 
 
 "It would destroy one of Boston's most attractive 
 features to bring Lucy down to conventions," Hayden 
 said meditatively. 
 
 "And incidentally make a woman in the process," 
 added Margaret. "It's worth thinking over." 
 
 [57]
 
 VI 
 
 IT was three weeks later that Auchester accepted 
 Spencer's urgent invitation to be his guest for the 
 week-end. Vallie had seen much of him at the Bad- 
 minton Club during this time, and his admiration for the 
 Captain's skill at auction was second only to his enjoy- 
 ment of the genial companionship. Auchester took him 
 seriously, which few of his friends did. In fact Spencer had 
 so long been the butt of most of the good-natured raillery 
 at his clubs that he had come to accept it as a matter of 
 course; yet he was keenly conscious of the difference in 
 Auchester's attitude, and it gratified an unspoken desire. 
 Nor was Spencer the Captain's only friend. The stories 
 which Auchester told, drawn largely from his unusually 
 interesting experiences, made him always the center of an 
 attentive group of club members during the coffee, cigar, 
 and liqueur period. At cards he proved to be as good a 
 loser as he was winner, and he was always ready to join in 
 any proposition, indoors or out, which might be suggested. 
 He played golf as well as he did auction; he rode a horse with 
 the masterly skill of an English officer, seeming a part of the 
 animal itself. All in all, he had become immensely popular, 
 and Spencer took to himself much credit that he had stood 
 his sponsor, being hugely delighted by the preference which 
 Auchester seemed to show for his companionship. 
 
 [58]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 It was only because the settling of the shore house had 
 taken longer than usual that the invitation to the Captain 
 had been delayed at all. Spencer would have had him 
 down the week following the visit from the Cunninghams, 
 but Lucy declined to consider it at that time, and on the 
 following week had insisted that it be postponed once 
 more. She had not analyzed the reason, but she knew 
 that this was what she wished; and Vallie simply fussed 
 and fumed for a few minutes, and then acquiesced. As 
 a matter of fact, Lucy felt the need of a little time to 
 recover her entire composure. Her experience with Cun- 
 ningham had shaken her so deeply that she was not yet 
 herself. What if he had taken advantage of her foolish- 
 ness ! She had never gone so far as this before, and when 
 she felt Ned Cunningham's arms close about her she 
 believed for a moment that he was going to take her at 
 her word. Then he had scolded her, and she really ex- 
 pected that he would cherish her folly against her, as 
 she knew she richly deserved. It had been friendly of him 
 to run down with Margaret so soon. This was like him. 
 He wished her to know that he not only forgave her, but 
 that he understood. And Margaret had come too, more 
 intimate and friendly than ever. Lucy was determined 
 to make amends, and as Ned had cautioned her particu- 
 larly against Captain Auchester, she postponed his coming 
 until she had taken ample time to settle back into her 
 normal state. 
 
 The house which the Spencers leased was located on 
 one of the most superb sites along the North Shore, built 
 on a cliff overhanging the sea. The broad piazza, shielded 
 at one end against the east wind, was of course its chief 
 attraction, and the location gave the house as much 
 seclusion from the Shore Drive as if built upon a larger 
 
 159]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 estate. The stone wall in front was flanked by high- 
 growing shrubs, and on either side of the entrance gate 
 masses of rhododendrons grew in luxuriant profusion. The 
 inclined driveway wandered as it led up to the house, 
 past a well-kept lawn. The Italian garden was at the 
 right, on a level with the house, lending its brilliant color- 
 ing to the vista seen from the piazza, and behind this was 
 a vine-grown pergola built on the edge of the cliff, 
 forming the most enticing of the many retreats which the 
 grounds afforded. The children took particular delight 
 in the summer home, which offered so great a contrast 
 to the restrictions of the city, and the piazza gave them 
 ample opportunity to play "ship" and all kinds of marine 
 games with a sense of reality which could scarcely be 
 equaled. When Lucy came down stairs the latter part 
 of the morning, the governess took the children to the 
 small beach below, so that their activity need not dis- 
 turb the reading of the latest novel or the perusal of 
 the magazines. 
 
 This was the usual routine of Lucy's brief morning. 
 She lunched with the children except when they proved 
 too trying, on which occasions she would send them to 
 finish their meal with the governess. Lucy's discipline 
 stopped here. If they were reasonably quiet and good- 
 natured she enjoyed their childish pranks and prattle, 
 but at the first signs of those storms which make up 
 the normal child life, she promptly relegated them to 
 the charge of the efficient Susette, who, as Lucy often 
 remarked, was expressly employed for just that purpose. 
 Later in the afternoon, after a leisurely change of rai- 
 ment, the motor was called into requisition, and Lucy 
 rode with friends or alone until train time, when she picked 
 Vallie up at the station. 
 
 [60]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Auchester went down with Spencer on Friday afternoon, 
 and the two men joined Lucy in a drive which extended 
 nearly to dinner time. It was the Captain's first view of 
 the glorious North Shore, and his enthusiasm was bound- 
 less. The run took them beside the water as far as Glouces- 
 ter, and then back past the sumptuous summer estates at 
 Magnolia and Manchester. 
 
 "I'll show you another variation after dinner," 
 Vallie assured his guest, in response to one of his many 
 exclamations of delight. 
 
 "What is the plan for the evening?" Lucy asked. 
 
 "I'm going to take the Captain over to The Yacht 
 Club at Marblehead for bridge, and we'll irotor back by 
 moonlight. " 
 
 "What are the other plans?" she continued. 
 
 "Tomorrow we are to play golf all day at Myopia, and 
 we'll stay there for dinner. Eustis and Miller are going 
 to join us in a foursome, and we have a table made up 
 there for auction in the evening. Sunday we'll motor a 
 bit, and Eustis has asked us on his yacht at Marblehead 
 after dinner at the club. Not a bad program, eh,, 
 Auchester?" 
 
 "It sounds like a busy one," the Captain assented. 
 
 Lucy's disappointment may have conveyed itself to her 
 husband, but she had not intended to have him see it. 
 
 "Why don't you run over to Myopia on Saturday and 
 lunch with us, Lucy?" he asked suddenly. "I can send 
 the car back for you." 
 
 "And break into your beautifully arranged plans?" 
 she replied with a smile which so concealed her real feel- 
 ings that even the Captain was deceived. "Not for 
 worlds." 
 
 "Perhaps you're right," Spencer quickly acquiesced, 
 [61]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 with evident relief; "but I didn't want you to think we 
 were running away from you." 
 
 "Vallie is always so thoughtful of me," Lucy said, 
 turning to Auchester. 
 
 "Who wouldn't be?" the Captain replied quickly, 
 with an expression in his voice which told her that he 
 too resented her exclusion. For some unexplained reason 
 it cheered Lucy, but Spencer really believed he had been 
 magnanimous. 
 
 During the next three days the men slept at the house, 
 had their breakfasts before Lucy came down, and returned 
 at night long after she had retired; and during the same 
 period Lucy cherished in her heart a constantly increasing 
 resentment at Vallie 's indifference and lack of under- 
 standing. This was not a new phase, she admitted, and 
 she should have become accustomed to it; yet there 
 was a difference. The house guests they had previously 
 entertained were usually couples, which made it more 
 inevitable that the forms of entertainment, whatever 
 they were, should be enjoyed together. Vallie had never 
 before had a friend who had allowed himself to be so 
 monopolized. It was not a change in any way, she re- 
 peated to herself again and again: it was simply that 
 Vallie was selfish and thoughtless now as always. She 
 noticed it more, that was all, and resented it for the 
 first time. 
 
 So the routine, as far as Lucy was concerned, was little 
 affected by the Captain's visit. They had a single motor 
 ride together Sunday afternoon, by which time she had 
 reached a point where it was difficult for her to enjoy it. 
 The men were left at The Yacht Club, and she drove home 
 alone. After her solitary dinner she wandered out on the 
 piazza, attracted particularly by the bright, golden edge 
 
 [62]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 of the moon, just rising out of the water. She drew a 
 large wicker chair close to the railing, and threw herself 
 into it, facing the water, to watch the changing lights, 
 and to think, think, think. Oh, the agony of those 
 thoughts which come in troops, unbidden and undesired, 
 when the mind has once centered itself upon a diseased 
 spot in the structure of life! How merciful if some power 
 were given us to slough it off and force cessation ! 
 
 The sound of tires crunching against the gravel road at 
 length aroused Lucy from unpleasant reveries, and she 
 went quickly to the steps to greet her visitors. No one 
 ever received a welcome more full of genuine cordiality 
 than Ned and Margaret Cunningham, as they stepped 
 out of their car and were eagerly seized by Lucy, one 
 with each hand. 
 
 "I never was so glad to see any one!" she cried 
 impulsively. 
 
 "All alone?" Margaret asked, peering around the 
 moonlit piazza. 
 
 "Alone and disconsolate," was the reply. "Captain 
 Auchester is supposed to be here for the week-end, but 
 this afternoon is the only time I've seen him since he 
 arrived on Friday. He and Vallie dined at The Yacht 
 Club tonight, and are spending the evening on Mr. 
 Eustis' yacht." 
 
 Cunningham listened with interest, and gave Spencer 
 credit for having conducted himself with more than his 
 usual sagacity. Aloud he said : " Margaret and I couldn't 
 resist this wonderful evening, and what more entrancing 
 destination could we have chosen than this piazza!" 
 
 "You never came to see any one who needed you more,'* 
 Lucy insisted. "I have been feeling perfectly wretched 
 lately, and tonight it is worse than ever. And I really 
 
 [03]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 believe, Ned, that it's all your fault. No, not ill," she 
 hastened to explain; "but do you know, Margaret, Ned 
 read me an awful lecture just before we came down 
 here, and it has made me think and think and keep on 
 thinking, and Heaven knows that over-exercise is an 
 imposition upon my mind." 
 
 "Ned has a way of doing that," Margaret admitted; 
 44 but what he says is usually pretty good sense, though 
 I dislike to admit it before him." 
 
 "You mustn't take anything I said so much to heart," 
 Cunningham protested. 
 
 "Did Ned tell you what I did? " Lucy turned suddenly 
 to Margaret. "No? then he's a dear boy. But I'm going 
 to tell you, so that you may know what a husband you 
 have." 
 
 "I wouldn't," Cunningham expostulated quickly. 
 " There is no occasion to think of it again." 
 
 "I'm going to," she said with decision; "but please 
 give me a cigarette first, Ned. I must be feeling better, 
 for I haven't cared to smoke for two days. Promise me 
 you won't hate me when I tell you, Margaret." 
 
 "Was it as terrible as that?" 
 
 "Wait till you hear. I put my arms around Ned's 
 neck and told him he might kiss me. There!" she con- 
 tinued with a sigh of relief; "I'm glad that is out of my 
 system. What do you think of me now?" 
 
 "I think you were taking chances which no woman 
 ought to take," Margaret admitted, frankly shocked 
 by the confession. "What possessed you to be so 
 foolish?" 
 
 "I haven't an idea. Of course, I'm very fond of Ned, 
 but that wasn't why I did it. I suppose I was piqued 
 because he always treats me so like a child."
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Perhaps that was fortunate in this case. I'm glad 
 that it happened to be Ned instead of to some other man." 
 
 "You're glad?" echoed Lucy; "you're glad? Aren't 
 you even going to ask what Ned did?" 
 
 " I don't care what Ned did, Lucy. If I were a man and 
 a woman as attractive as you are gave me that oppor- 
 tunity, I wouldn't care to have my wife ask what I did. 
 If any one was to be blamed, it was you. If I thought 
 Ned loved you, that would be another matter." 
 
 "Of course I am the one to be blamed; but I want to 
 tell you that Ned " 
 
 "I didn't say I blamed you," interrupted Margaret 
 deliberately. "One doesn't blame children for doing 
 foolish things; one tries to help them to realize that they 
 are foolish. The fact that you have spoken of the matter 
 just as you have shows that you have come to that 
 realization; so no more needs to be said." 
 
 "But Ned didn't kiss me," Lucy completed her sentence 
 at last. 
 
 "I'm glad he didn't; but far more glad for your sake 
 than for his or mine." 
 
 Lucy looked into her face for a long moment, failing 
 utterly to comprehend. 
 
 Margaret was sincere when she told the self-accused 
 culprit that she held her no more accountable than she 
 would have held any other naughty child. Never had 
 Lucy appeared to her so attractively girlish, and to be 
 offended would have seemed absurd. Margaret felt the 
 same irresistible spell of that beautiful calm which had 
 earlier impressed Ned, to which a quaint pathos was now 
 added by the tears which welled up in her eyes and 
 hung, demanding sympathy, upon the long lashes. 
 
 "Come, dear," she said with a smile full of under- 
 [65]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 standing as she drew Lucy toward her and kissed her 
 tenderly. "This has been on your mind a long time, 
 and you will feel better now that you have freed your- 
 self from it. Let's forget it. You and I understand 
 each other better than we have before, and I want you 
 to let me come closer into your life. Will you, Lucy?" 
 "Isn't it silly to cry?" she answered, throwing her arms 
 about Margaret and pressing her face passionately against 
 her own. "I haven't cried before since I was a child, 
 and this is another evidence that I am one still, just as 
 you and Ned say. Yes, Peggy, do come closer into my 
 life. I want you, dear, and oh, how I need you!" 
 
 [66]
 
 VII 
 
 A FTER the Cunninghams left, Lucy resumed her seat, 
 A% again to think but with her thoughts controlled 
 -L ^- by far different emotions. What had prompted 
 her to tell Margaret of her humiliating freedom with 
 Ned? Impulse! that same impulse which w r as responsible 
 for the act itself. In this instance it had turned out for the 
 best, but she realized that again she had taken the same 
 awful chance. What wife except Margaret would have sat 
 quietly by and heard another woman confess that she 
 had thrown herself into her husband's arms, and have 
 made that confession serve as a means to bring the two 
 more closely together? Impulse was the enemy against 
 which she must struggle; but with Margaret's help and 
 with Ned's it would be easier. 
 
 How long she sat there Lucy had no idea; but she was 
 frankly surprised again to hear an automobile turning 
 up the road. She rose with less enthusiasm this time, as 
 her resentment had been controlled rather than lessened 
 by her visit with the Cunninghams. Refusing the help 
 of the chauffeur, the Captain was lifting Spencer bodily 
 from the tonneau, and one glance at the expression on the 
 face told Lucy all that she needed to know. Auchester 
 saw her mortification and disgust. 
 
 "I hoped you would be asleep, Mrs. Spencer. Your 
 husband is ill " 
 
 [67]
 
 "I see he is," she replied, with lips scarcely parted. 
 "I am sorry that our guest is obliged to be his nurse." 
 
 "Shall I take him to his room?" 
 
 "Let Leon take him up." 
 
 "Please I beg of you," he protested. "I can carry 
 him easily. These things will happen." 
 
 "I know," she replied, "but usually he has the sense 
 to sleep it off before he comes home." 
 
 "It was my fault, Mrs. Spencer. They wanted to keep 
 him on the yacht, but I feared you would be anxious. 
 Please wait here a moment." 
 
 For the first time the situation assumed in Lucy's mind 
 a humorous aspect, and this relieved the tension. To be 
 carrying on this conversation with the Captain while he 
 stood with her husband huddled in his great arms like a 
 baby seemed to her incongruous enough to bring a smile. 
 
 "Forgive me for keeping you," she hastened to say. 
 "Put him on the bed or anywhere. He'll be all right 
 until his man gets there." 
 
 "And you'll wait here?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Auchester found her sitting in her chair again, with her 
 head leaning against the red cushion. The moon shone 
 brightly on her face and hair and neck, and the Captain 
 stopped short in his approach as he regarded her. "By 
 Jove! but you are beautiful!" he exclaimed involuntarily. 
 
 Lucy sat up straight, surprised by the fervor of the 
 exclamation. He took her action to mean disapproval. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said quickly; "I couldn't help it. 
 We soldiers have the dangerous habit of saying just what 
 we think. Don't be angry." 
 
 "Angry?" she repeated, settling back into her former 
 position. " I'm not angry. Why should I be? No woman 
 
 [68]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 ever objects to being called beautiful. In this instance 
 I don't take much credit to myself, as anything would 
 seem 'beautiful' after what you've been looking at." 
 
 Auchester laughed in spite of himself. "I suppose it 
 is natural that we men should take these things less 
 seriously than women. Candor forces me to say that I 
 am in no way shocked, so please do not give yourself 
 uneasiness on that score. From my own observation 
 of American hospitality the wonder is that any of us 
 keep sober." 
 
 "I'm not worrying over Vallie's condition," Lucy 
 hastened to correct; "it's the mortification of seeing him 
 forget his duties as a host." 
 
 "You do him an injustice, I assure you. It is because 
 he has been overzealous in his entertainment that he has 
 succumbed. " 
 
 "How is it that you have escaped?" 
 
 Again Auchester laughed. "Thanks to a stronger 
 constitution, perhaps." 
 
 "Perhaps," she echoed; "but as a matter of fact, did 
 you ever 'succumb/ as you politely term it?" 
 
 "No; I can't say I ever did. I'm so jolly strong, you 
 know. " 
 
 "And you wouldn't have much respect for yourself 
 if you did 'succumb,' would you?" 
 
 "I really can't say, Mrs. Spencer. I'm certain I'd be 
 as lenient in criticizing myself as I am in criticizing 
 others." 
 
 "Again perhaps." Lucy was determined to carry her 
 argument through to the finish. "But I know you 
 wouldn't, any more than I should. I should hate myself." 
 
 "Don't let us talk of anything unpleasant," the Captain 
 protested, "in such a night as this." 
 
 [69]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 She looked at him with a smile. "Quoting again?" 
 she asked. Then, before he could reply, she continued: 
 
 "In stick a night as this 
 Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls 
 And sighed his soid toward the Grecian tents 
 Where Cressid lay that night." 
 
 Auchester responded quickly to the new turn her mood 
 had taken. Sitting on the railing, facing her, he smiled 
 back, picking up the quotation where she left it: 
 
 "In such a night 
 
 Stood Dido with a willow in her hand 
 Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love 
 To come again to Carthage." 
 
 "And in such a night" 
 Lucy continued audaciously, 
 
 " Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well, 
 Stealing her soul with many vows of faith " 
 
 She stopped suddenly, as she saw the smile in Auches- 
 ter's eyes change into an expression so filled with admira- 
 tion that it frightened her. "What am I saying?" she 
 exclaimed. "I forgot how it ran until I was too far in 
 to stop. That comes from daring to compete with your 
 familiarity with poetry." 
 
 "This moonlight is intoxicating," was his answer, as 
 he moved from his seat on the railing to a chair which he 
 brought up beside her, placing it so that they faced each 
 other. "Moonlight, poetry, and an uncommonly pretty 
 woman," he continued; "Gad! what a combination!" 
 
 "Are you then so fond of all three?" 
 170]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "What soldier is not! Moonlight? think what that 
 means out on the desert, or in the mountain recesses, 
 after nights of darkness or perhaps of storm ! Poetry? is 
 not life the greatest poem which was ever conceived? That 
 which we call poetry is but the mechanical contrivance 
 for setting the Great Poem in motion within our souls. 
 This may be verses written by some one nearer to the 
 center of things than we are, it may be the sight of our 
 country's flag, it may be the odor of a rose-leaf conserve, 
 as it was one night at your home. Woman? what shall 
 I say? She is the soldier's aggravation. He can hope 
 for no home life, and home is woman's throne. He knows 
 that woman is not for him, yet he permits her to creep 
 into his heart, even with the certain knowledge that it 
 means pain for both. He may admire, he may worship, 
 he may even marry, but woman does not belong to the 
 soldier. Separation which must come, the necessity of 
 facing death with no thought beyond its immediate effect 
 upon himself, all this precludes woman from the sol- 
 dier's life; yet were the obstacles multiplied a thousand- 
 fold, they could not keep him from her." 
 
 "That is why you have never married?" Lucy asked. 
 
 "The only reason," he replied with decision. "While 
 I was in the army, marriage could have meant nothing to 
 any woman or to me. When my brother died, two years 
 ago, it left me free to do as I chose, and I really expected 
 that I should marry. But now I find that I have the 
 fighting fever in my blood, and I doubt if I could be 
 content to settle down to domesticity. Then, too, I have 
 become more demanding as I have grown older. The 
 woman to attract me now must have more to give than 
 the girl to win whom I might have faced dragons, say 
 ten years ago. So you see I am quite hopeless. But when 
 
 [71]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 I meet a woman like you, with beauty, wit, spirit and 
 independence, I sigh even more at my hopeless state 
 because they exist only in America, and such as they are 
 so promptly claimed." 
 
 "It is very agreeable to have you say such pleasant 
 things, but I fear flattery is only another attribute of 
 the soldier." 
 
 "Even were that so, you could easily distinguish between 
 what is flattery and what is truth. There are some women 
 I might flatter; in speaking of you, even to yourself, I 
 can but understate what I really think." 
 
 "I fear it is getting very late," she suggested, realizing 
 for the first time how long they had been talking. 
 
 "Let us not count tonight by hours or by minutes, my 
 dear Mrs. Spencer," Auchester said, assisting her to rise 
 from the chair. "I venture to hope that our friendship 
 may grow faster than could be marked by ordinary time." 
 
 "I hope it may," Lucy replied simply. 
 
 "Then, good-night," he said, raising to his lips the hand 
 which he had not yet released. "Please leave me to lock 
 up; I have learned how from Mr. Spencer." 
 
 172]
 
 VIII 
 
 THE following day was filled with unusual occur- 
 rences. In the first place, Lucy came down to 
 breakfast at eight o'clock, an event which had 
 not taken place within the memory of any of the servants. 
 Auchester was equally surprised, as she had made no 
 suggestion the night before, when he explained the neces- 
 sity of taking an early train, other than her fear that Vallie 
 would hardly be in condition to motor with him to the 
 city in time for him to keep his appointment. In fact, 
 Lucy had not been certain that when morning came she 
 would be equal to the emergency of coming down stairs 
 to prevent him from having a solitary breakfast, but she 
 had slept little during the night, and it proved a relief 
 to get away from herself and to have some one with whom 
 to talk. 
 
 "This is too good of you," Auchester exclaimed as he 
 saw her entering the breakfast-room, and rose to meet her. 
 "You should not have done it." 
 
 "I couldn't bear to have you leave us with only the 
 memory of last evening," she replied, seating herself 
 opposite him. 
 
 "I could ask for no sweeter memory." 
 Her eyes fell. "You know what I mean." 
 "That was forgotten before I went to sleep last night," 
 [73]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 he assured her; "but the picture you presented as I came 
 out on the piazza with the moonlight coquetting with 
 your hair, and casting shadows for the deliberate purpose 
 of throwing your profile into beautiful relief I shall 
 never forget. You won't mind if I take that away with 
 me, will you?" 
 
 " It would be ungracious to deny you so slight a request 
 when you have been so generous." 
 
 " What can I do to make you believe me? " he demanded. 
 
 "I do believe you; it is you who don't believe me." 
 
 "I don't understand " 
 
 "I'm not worrying about Vallie," she explained; "I'm 
 just upset because he mortifies me before my friends. 
 It's really self-pity, you see." 
 
 Auchester looked at her seriously for a moment. "Then 
 last night's expression was not merely momentary?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "Oh dear, no!" Lucy replied cheerfully. "Vallie is a 
 little beast most of the time, but it's only when something 
 happens like last night to call my attention to it, or when 
 I stop to think about it, that I am annoyed." 
 
 Auchester found himself face to face with a new ex- 
 perience, and to him this was a decided and an agreeable 
 novelty. He had thought that he knew women, but Lucy 
 completely mystified him. The light-hearted manner 
 in which she spoke of what would naturally be considered 
 a domestic tragedy showed either an astounding strength 
 of will or an astonishing apathy; he could not decide 
 which it was, particularly as neither one appeared to fit 
 in with her other characteristics. He was almost a stranger 
 to her, yet she spoke of these intimate relations with a 
 freedom usually accompanied by abandon, yet the art- 
 lessness of her frankness denied any such accompaniment. 
 
 [74]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 While he was working on his problem the maid announced 
 that the motor was at the door. 
 
 "I am truly sorry to say goodbye." Auchester rose and 
 held out his hand. "Except for your husband's indis- 
 cretion last evening I should not have had the delightful 
 visit with you by moonlight, nor this charming tete-a-tete 
 this morning. Personally I am grateful to him, and 
 consider his act the height of hospitality." 
 
 "What time do you have to be in town?" Lucy asked 
 suddenly, while he still held her hand. 
 
 "At ten o'clock." 
 
 "Then I'll motor up with you; it will do me good to 
 get some air." 
 
 "Splendid!" he cried, as she turned to direct the 
 waiting maid; "this is the jolliest surprise yet!" 
 
 "You are sure you wouldn't prefer to go by train?" 
 she demanded, as the maid returned with a flower- 
 bedecked creation, looking up at him archly as she tied 
 the long veil about her head. 
 
 "Well, rather!" he laughed. "This beats the train ride 
 hands down." 
 
 "Then off we go," she cried gaily, leading the way to 
 the motor, closely followed by her guest. "I'll leave you 
 wherever you wish, do an errand or two, and be back here 
 for luncheon." 
 
 The car glided smoothly out onto the main road, quickly 
 leaving the house behind them. Auchester welcomed the 
 continuation of their conversation, for he was determined 
 to solve this fascinating problem. Was she as indifferent 
 to conventions as her actions proclaimed, or was it a pose 
 assumed for the purpose of concealing the void left by 
 her husband's failure to measure up to the standard of 
 other men? This latter hypothesis seemed the likely 
 
 [75]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 one, for Auchester had come to know Spencer more 
 intimately during the few days covering the week-end 
 than during the entire period of their earlier acquaintance, 
 and the greater intimacy had produced the usual result. 
 Up to this time he had considered Vallie and Lucy collec- 
 tively. He had met them separately it is true, but the 
 same day; he had dined with them together; and without 
 seriously analyzing the situation, he had associated them 
 both with some of the pleasantest experiences he had 
 enjoyed in America. 
 
 The three days just ended showed Spencer in his indi- 
 vidual light, and the result was illuminating. Auchester 
 possessed an inherent gallantry toward women, and it 
 angered him inwardly to see his host so indifferent to the 
 ordinary amenities of every-day courtesy toward his wife, 
 whose personal attractions should demand such con- 
 sideration, even though discounted by the fact of actual 
 possession. The Captain had counted upon seeing much 
 of Lucy during his visit, and to be so summarily dis- 
 posed of in forms of recreation which appealed to him 
 infinitely less, created an element of personal resentment. 
 Spencer in his home, basking in the reflected light of his 
 wife's brilliancy; Spencer in his club, surrounded by 
 fellow-members whose presence helped to conceal his 
 own inferiority; and Spencer dependent upon his indi- 
 vidual resources, represented three distinct personalities; 
 and it was the individual whom Auchester had now 
 come to know and was growing to dislike. 
 
 It was natural that he should have heard some of the 
 gossip about Lucy, but on the whole it had been good- 
 natured and served only to stimulate his interest. The 
 fact that she and Cunningham were so frequently seen 
 together had piqued him somewhat until he learned that 
 
 [76]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 she made herself equally agreeable to every man she liked. 
 She was unconventional, she was full of life, and evidently 
 did her best to extract from each day's experiences all 
 that they could contribute to her happiness, but in this 
 Auchester found an expression of girlish irresponsibility 
 rather than the deliberation of a clever woman of the 
 world. And when her pride had been touched, as it was 
 when he brought Spencer home from the yacht, she laid 
 bare a woman's heart with which he could but sympathize. 
 
 Still the problem remained unsolved. Her attitude this 
 morning was quite different from the mood of the night 
 before. If it was assumed, as his second hypothesis seemed 
 to indicate, then she was the most extraordinary woman 
 he had ever met; if it was but another expression of a 
 temperament which existed only on the surface of life, 
 and was too shallow to feel beyond the moment, then she 
 was merely the flitting moth, made to be admired 
 and pursued by all whom she attracted, whether her 
 pursuers possessed themselves of the regulation net, or 
 simply such crude implements as worldly experience 
 and appealing personality. If this were the case, then he 
 had the right to join in the pursuit, both because of her 
 husband's indifference and because it was the inalienable 
 privilege of a British subject to do as he chose. 
 
 So the conversation on the way to town was deliber- 
 ately experimental in its nature, and he found that his 
 companion responded to his sallies, which became more 
 and more daring as his experiment progressed, with a 
 light-heartedness which seemed the part of a happy 
 schoolgirl just released from the burden of restraint. 
 She made no effort to conceal the fact that she thor- 
 oughly enjoyed being with him, or her admiration of 
 certain qualities which he possessed. Yet with all that 
 
 [77]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Auchester said, as he admitted to himself afterwards, 
 there was a certain limit imposed by he knew not what. 
 She met him on his own ground and played with him as 
 cleverly as he fenced with her. The expression of her face, 
 the tilt of her head, the sparkle of her eyes as she laughed 
 merrily back at him would have tantalized a man less 
 experienced in the ways of the world. To Auchester she 
 had become a fascinating enigma. He told her other 
 stories of his life in interesting and almost unknown 
 portions of the world, and watched the laughing face 
 subside; he touched every note upon which his skill had 
 learned to play, and found the response so quick and yet 
 so varied that it urged him on to exert his utmost powers. 
 Yet at the end, as the car ran onto the Harvard Bridge, 
 he, astute student of the world, found himself no nearer 
 to his answer. 
 
 "It is a pity that you never married," she told him with 
 an air of genuine sincerity. "It is selfish in a man of 
 such experiences and with a personality such as yours not 
 to share himself with some one less fortunate. Think 
 how little inspiration most of us ever receive from our 
 husbands ! " 
 
 "It is the blow which strikes the anvil which pro- 
 duces the spark," Auchester replied gallantly. "If you 
 have found any inspiration, as you call it, from what 
 I have said, it is because you have brought it into 
 being." 
 
 "I'd like to think so, really I would," she laughed; 
 "but the same hammer which produces the spark from 
 the anvil annihilates when the substance it strikes is of 
 softer metal." 
 
 "Then let us say that it requires two conductors at 
 different potentials to bring forth the electric scintillation." 
 
 [78]
 
 " Your metaphors are not convincing," she laughed, "for 
 electricity produces a shock; and that is what we women 
 usually get from our husbands when we try to scintillate. 
 Try again!" 
 
 "I give it up," Auchester admitted, joining in her 
 merriment; "you are too much for me." 
 
 "How absurd!" Lucy insisted. "I shan't let you 
 belittle yourself. Of course, you know how agreeable 
 and fascinating you make yourself! I don't believe 
 you can possibly escape some one of our progressive 
 American girls if you make yourself as irresistible as 
 you have to me this morning; and if a widow once sets 
 a cap for you well, perhaps you know how energetic 
 American widows are ! " 
 
 Auchester laughed heartily. "You seem bound to get 
 rid of me," he suggested. 
 
 "On the contrary, you don't suppose I would urge you 
 to marry if I thought it would deprive me of your inspiring 
 society, do you? I'm far too selfish for that. In fact, 
 the only advantage I have ever seen in being married is 
 that it gives one a license to enjoy other women's husbands 
 and other men's wives." 
 
 Auchester smiled, yet her reply again started his train 
 of thought. Was her attitude mere bravado, or was it 
 he refused to answer even to himself. Whatever it was 
 had increased his interest in her a thousandfold, and he 
 wished that he dared to tell her so then and there. 
 
 A moment later the car slowed down in front of the 
 Badminton Club. "Well," he said, "here we are all too 
 soon. Why don't you stay in town a little longer and take 
 luncheon with me?" 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't," Lucy replied quickly. "I'm going 
 to lunch with Ned Cunningham." 
 
 [79]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 The Captain looked surprised. "But I thought you 
 planned to return home?" he asked involuntarily. "Is 
 Mr. Cunningham expecting you?" 
 
 "Oh, no," she explained. "He doesn't know I'm to be 
 in town today; but as long as I am here I'm sure he will 
 be glad to have me take luncheon with him." 
 
 Auchester responded with his phlegmatic "Oh," but 
 he recovered himself quickly. "Then we must say 
 goodbye," he said. 
 
 "Not goodbye," she corrected. "I'm not enthusiastic 
 about another week-end, but I'll telephone you some day 
 soon to come down and motor with me. May I count on 
 you?" 
 
 "Absolutely," replied Auchester. 
 
 He stood on the sidewalk for a moment or two, hat 
 in hand, watching the car disappear in the distance. 
 Then he smiled grimly and shook his head as if in response 
 to some thought which came to him as he turned and 
 entered the club. 
 
 [80]
 
 IX 
 
 THE idea of lunching with Cunningham had not 
 occurred to Lucy until Auchester extended his 
 invitation, yet it appealed more and more as the 
 car ran down Boylston Street into the city. She could 
 easily spend a couple of hours shopping, and then she 
 would drop in at Ned's office, surprise him, and relieve 
 him of the necessity of having a stupid luncheon all by 
 himself. The plan worked out perfectly in her mind, and 
 she rather prided herself on having thought of it so quickly 
 when the Captain made his proposition. Of course, she 
 might have lunched with him. He was most agreeable, and 
 it would have been delightful to continue the companion- 
 ship of the morning; but she had promised Ned to be more 
 discreet, and he would be pleased w r hen she told him just 
 what had happened. Dear, good old Ned ! He was indeed 
 her friend, and now that Margaret knew all about the 
 one silly thing she had done, she could rely on him more 
 than ever without the slightest possible chance of any 
 misunderstanding. Yes, it was a happy thought, and Lucy 
 radiated satisfaction as she went from one store to another, 
 purchasing from sheer love of buying rather than because 
 she really wished anything, and because she was now as 
 supremely happy as she had been utterly miserable the 
 night before. 
 
 6 [81]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 It was the first time she had ever been to Cunningham's 
 office, but she was a frequent visitor at her own lawyer's 
 when it was necessary to sign papers or to go through the> 
 formality of discussing the investments of her consider- 
 able property, so she knew that it was a perfectly proper 
 thing to do. The motor stopped in front of the entrance 
 to the great stone building on State Street, and Lucy 
 tripped lightly up the steps, found the numbers of Cun- 
 ningham's offices from the directory, and stepped con- 
 fidently into the elevator. A moment later she handed 
 her card to the boy who came to the rail in the outer office 
 to meet her, and was presently ushered into the larger 
 room, where Cunningham advanced to give her a surprised 
 welcome. 
 
 "Hullo, Ned," she exclaimed before he had a chance 
 to speak. "I've come in to have luncheon with you." 
 
 "Well, well," he laughed, "this is an unexpected 
 pleasure. I had pictured you still sitting on that beauti- 
 ful moonlit piazza where we left you last evening; but 
 as I come to think it over it wouldn't be moonlit at this 
 time of the day, would it?" 
 
 "Hardly," Lucy granted, " and I never sit out there 
 all night. After midnight the sea air is very injurious to 
 the complexion, and we women have to be so careful of 
 our complexions, Ned." 
 
 "I see. Then perhaps that explains your visit to the 
 city this morning." 
 
 "You wretch, to suggest such a thing! You don't 
 deserve it, but I'll tell you just why I did come: Captain 
 Auchester brought Vallie home last night suffering from 
 one of his very worst attacks. I rode up in the motor 
 with the Captain to avoid seeing the little beast this 
 morning, and came here to have luncheon with you be- 
 
 [82]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 cause the Captain invited me to lunch with him, and I 
 was afraid you wouldn't approve. That is what I call 
 heaping coals of fire. It was the only way I could get 
 out of it, and besides I wanted to lunch with you. Aren't 
 you properly ashamed of yourself and proud of me?" 
 
 "Of course I'm proud of you," Cunningham admitted, 
 quickly sensing that she really felt herself to be acting 
 with praiseworthy discretion; "and I'm always ashamed 
 of myself." 
 
 "I don't quite see how it's all going to end," she con- 
 tinued seriously a moment later. "Valliegets more and 
 more stupid, and the other men I meet seem more and more 
 agreeable. I'm trying hard to do what you and Margaret 
 want me to do, Ned, but that leaves you the only man I 
 can play with in perfect safety, and you are inconsiderate 
 enough to be in business and not even down at the shore 
 at other times. Margaret and I might divide you up, 
 but this long-distance companionship isn't exactly the 
 thing for an active disposition. What do you suggest?" 
 
 "I suggest that we run out and have lunch," Cunning- 
 ham replied, looking at his watch. "Is your car outside?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then suppose we go to the Touraine; it will be as 
 comfortable there as anywhere." 
 
 Cunningham had not counted upon this as one of the 
 results of his self-appointed guardianship, yet with Lucy 
 in so tractable a frame of mind he felt his responsibility 
 more than ever. Had the question been fairly put to him, 
 he would have been obliged to admit that he himself was 
 not wise enough to foresee any satisfactory outcome to the 
 unfortunate domestic conditions existing in the Spencer 
 household; and if he could not prophesy, how could he 
 expect Lucy, whose only responsibility in life had been 
 
 [83]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 a more or less successful quest for personal happiness, to 
 succeed where he had failed? The advice which he and 
 Margaret had given her had not been constructive: it 
 prevented her from finding her enjoyment in the only 
 way she knew, and gave her nothing to take its place. 
 Here was where his responsibility began, and until he or 
 Margaret or both of them succeeded in creating some 
 new interest for her they must be prepared to give of 
 themselves to fill the void. 
 
 All this was passing through his mind while Lucy chat- 
 ted on in a happy, self-satisfied monologue. She was so 
 glad that he approved of what she had done. Of course 
 she knew he must approve, for this was exactly what he 
 and Margaret had urged upon her. They were right, 
 she could see it now, and they were dear, sweet friends to 
 take enough interest in her to speak so frankly. From 
 now on she would keep her impulses under control. She 
 would enjoy her friends, but in a different way. He and 
 Margaret must help her still and be patient with her, 
 for it was a new experience to hold herself account- 
 able to any one, and leopards were slow to change their 
 spots. 
 
 Cunningham heard little or nothing of what she was 
 saying, being only conscious that at last there was a 
 pause. Then he excused himself and disappeared within 
 the telephone booth, from which he emerged a moment 
 later, picking up his hat and cane as he came towards her. 
 
 "She isn't there," he announced. 
 
 Lucy laughed merrily. "Whom do you usually keep 
 in that little box, and why isn't she there?" 
 
 "Margaret, I mean. I thought we might get her to 
 lunch with us, but I remember now she said this morning 
 that she was going out somewhere." 
 
 [84]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I'm so glad, Ned," Lucy replied frankly. "Is that 
 horrid of me? Of course I'd love to see Margaret, but 
 today I want to have a real intimate talk with you. Do 
 you mind taking luncheon alone with me?" 
 
 "Of course not," he answered quickly. "I thought it 
 would be pleasanter for you, that's all." 
 
 "Then come. We'll go to the Touraine, have a quiet, 
 cozy little visit, and then I'll motor back to Beverly and 
 the Beast." 
 
 "You must not speak of Vallie like that," Cunningham 
 expostulated. "You'll say it some time when some one 
 will hear it who ought not to. You didn't make any 
 break like that before Auchester, I hope?" 
 
 Lucy laughed. "You forget that the Captain brought 
 him home. I don't believe I could tell him anything 
 about Yallie that he doesn't know." 
 
 They found a quiet corner in the restaurant at the hotel, 
 and Cunningham ordered a luncheon of fussed-up noth- 
 ings, salad, and ices, in which all women delight, and Lucy 
 in particular. He had taken little part in the conversation 
 since they had left the office, his mind being actively 
 engaged in planning out what he felt he ought to say. 
 Finding him preoccupied, and having exhausted her 
 present line of thought, Lucy glanced about the room. 
 
 "Ned," she said suddenly, "who is that elderly party 
 leveling her lorgnette at us, is she looking at you or 
 at me?" 
 
 Cunningham turned in the direction Lucy indicated. 
 "It looks like that caller who left your house in such high 
 spirits the first Sunday Margaret and I were down there." 
 
 "It is, as sure as I live," she exclaimed, "Mrs. Chan- 
 ning, the two girls, and yes, that's Mr. Channing. 
 What a cunning little family party! See how longingly 
 
 [85]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 the girls look over at us! I'll just give her one more shock, 
 for luck," and Lucy, holding up her cocktail glass as if 
 drinking her health, bowed profoundly. 
 
 The lorgnette was lowered instantly, and from the 
 attempts made by the three other persons at the table 
 to explain the situation to Mr. Channing, it was quite 
 evident that Lucy had succeeded in her purpose. 
 
 "What is the use of antagonizing?" Cunningham 
 asked. 
 
 Lucy's smile vanished. "I'm sorry," she said simply. 
 "There's something about that woman that makes me 
 forget all my good resolutions. You don't know how she 
 irritates me. I could almost be nasty to her if I had the 
 chance. That man is her second husband, isn't he?" 
 
 "Third, I believe," Cunningham corrected. 
 
 "Good gracious!" Lucy exclaimed; "then he isn't a 
 husband, he's a habit." 
 
 "Most husbands are that, whether they're firsts or 
 thirds." 
 
 "And mine is a bad habit, and there you are!" 
 Lucy concluded triumphantly. 
 
 , "I want to talk to you a bit about Vallie," Cunningham 
 said, taking prompt advantage of his opening. "You 
 asked me a while ago what I thought would be the 
 end of this situation, and I'm going to tell you, just as I 
 would tell a client who asked me the same question." 
 
 "Well?" she queried as he paused. 
 
 "It's going to be a divorce or a scandal." 
 
 The color left Lucy's face. "It couldn't be a divorce," 
 she said at length. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "What would Vallie have to live on without the allow- 
 ance from my property?" 
 
 [86]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Cunningham started, as this was a revelation to him; 
 but he was relieved to see that his companion had not 
 noticed his surprise. "Don't think that I am recom- 
 mending anything, Lucy, I'm simply answering your 
 query. But if the question of separation ever did come 
 up, I presume Vallie could still be provided for." 
 
 "Why do you think the only other alternative is scan- 
 dal?" she asked. "I have turned over a new leaf, and 
 no harm has ever come from anything I've already done." 
 
 Cunningham smiled back at her kindly. "It need 
 not necessarily come from you, Vallie is just as apt 
 to be responsible for it; but, my dear girl, I beg of you 
 not to feel that you are in absolute safety just because 
 you've made some good resolutions. I know and all 
 your real friends know that you are as true a little 
 woman as ever lived, but we also know that you have 
 indulged your impulses ever since you were old enough 
 to have them ; and it will take more time than has elapsed 
 since your resolutions took tangible form to make sure 
 that you are strong enough to live up to them day by day. 
 You said the same thing a moment ago yourself." 
 
 Lucy was silent for several moments after Cunningham 
 ceased speaking, and he was glad to see that what he said 
 had made its impression upon her. In his eagerness to 
 make clear to her the seriousness of the situation he had 
 entirely lost sight of the personal perspective, which had 
 earlier concerned him enough to telephone Margaret, 
 hoping to get her to lunch with them. He had lost sight 
 of the fact that the very nature of their conversation, and 
 the low tone in which it was conducted, necessitated a 
 closeness of attention, each upon the other, which might 
 easily appear significant to any one who was only too 
 eager to find some meaning in their presence together. He 
 
 [87]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 had forgotten the Channings. Never had he tried harder 
 to present a convincing case to a jury, but in the court- 
 room he stood as the accepted champion of his client; 
 never had he been more disinterested from a personal 
 standpoint, but in the courtroom his words were heard 
 and his motives understood; never had he been more 
 anxious to serve a client's interests, but in the court- 
 room there could be no possibility of misinterpreting his 
 relations to his client. 
 
 Lucy was as oblivious to all about her as he. Cunning- 
 ham's words had pierced through her armor of pride and 
 self-contentment, and had made their impress upon her 
 heart. All the ugly stories she had heard or read of 
 divorce courts and scandals rose before her, and she 
 almost felt the grip of the hideous specters which Cun- 
 ningham had conjured up. She looked suddenly full into 
 his face, and he could read there the fright and abhorrence 
 which was chilling her blood. 
 
 "Come," she said suddenly; "let's get out into the 
 sunlight. I shall scream if I stay here longer." 
 
 "Not quite yet," Cunningham urged, encouraged by 
 her evident distress. "As we have been sitting here I 
 have thought of a solution, and I'm ashamed of myself 
 not to have had it occur to me before." 
 
 "And that is?" Lucy demanded. 
 
 "Your children." 
 
 "My children?" she repeated interrogatively, not 
 sensing his meaning. "Larry and Babs?" 
 
 "Yes; how much do they mean to you?" 
 
 "Why what a curious question! I'm their mother." 
 
 "I know, but how much do they contribute to your 
 Kfe, and how much do you give to them?" 
 
 "Why, practically nothing yet; but they're only 
 [88]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 little children. I expect a great deal of comfort from 
 them when they are old enough to be companionable." 
 
 "Do you love them, Lucy?" he persisted. 
 
 "Why, Ned, what wretched questions you are asking! 
 Of course I love them. They're my children." 
 
 "You told me once that you never loved any one ex- 
 cept yourself. Is that true?" 
 
 " I didn't intend to put it quite as flatly as that. I know 
 I'm selfish in a way; but the children have never 
 lacked care or attention, and they have been gratified 
 in their desires far more than is good for them." 
 
 "Well, we've had enough enigmas, and there's no use 
 of mincing matters. What I mean is this: I don't be- 
 lieve you can ever get much comfort or companionship 
 out of Vallie. Enjoyment may properly come to you from 
 the legitimate companionship of your friends, but the 
 only safe or possible outlet for your affection and I 
 know you must express that in one way or another is 
 in the direction of your children. I'm not criticizing your 
 present relations with them: I have no doubt that they 
 are receiving better care than you could possibly give 
 them yourself, but it is hired care. I'm really not thinking 
 of them in this matter at all. For your own sake let them 
 be the great object of life for you, and make all else become 
 subordinate. Be with them when they're disagreeable 
 as well as when they're angelic; see how patient you can 
 be, and test yourself at every point. Make them love 
 you more than Susette or any one else in the world, and 
 see how jealous you will become of having already lost 
 so much in their childish development. And then, best 
 of all, see how quickly your life will respond to that love 
 which they will give back to you, see how the little fingers 
 will twine themselves around your heart-strings, and see 
 
 189]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 how much strength those tiny hands possess to help you 
 bear the disappointments which are bound to come. 
 This is the solution, Lucy, this is your salvation. Will 
 you work it out?" 
 
 "Let me go now, Ned," she answered, furtively wiping 
 her eyes. "If you don't, we shall have a scene here which 
 we never can explain to Margaret or to any one else." 
 
 With an effort she regained her composure, and with a 
 smile, different from any that Cunningham had ever 
 seen upon her face, she looked full into his eyes. 
 
 "Ned," she said firmly, "you are the finest man I 
 know, and I wish Margaret could hear me say that I love 
 you as I never loved any one; yet it is an affection which 
 she would be proud to have another woman acknowledge 
 for her husband. I love you for your strength, your 
 courage, your judgment, your friendship. I can't tell 
 you what I will do I don't know myself, but I'll 
 try to be the woman I ought to be to deserve a friend like 
 you. I won't take you back to the office. I want to go 
 home now and fix every word you've said so firmly in my 
 heart that I never can forget a single one. Goodbye." 
 
 There was no word spoken as they passed quietly out 
 of the dining-room to the side door on Tremont Street, 
 where the motor awaited them. Cunningham helped Lucy 
 into the tonneau and waved a pleased farewell as the car 
 turned up Boylston Street in response to her instructions. 
 
 [90]
 
 WHEN Lucy had replied to Auchester's question 
 that her feeling of mortification at her hus- 
 band's manner of living came only when the 
 fact was laid bare with particular emphasis, she really 
 believed that no important change in the situation had 
 taken place. As a matter of fact, it was not until this 
 summer that Spencer had felt himself to be coming into 
 his own. Up to this time he had hung onto the fringe of 
 several little cliques in the clubs to which he belonged, 
 without being an integral part of any one of them, but 
 with the advent of Auchester, and through his popularity, 
 he found himself firmly intrenched among a select number 
 of congenial spirits who believed that real life consisted 
 in touching only the high places. It was curious that the 
 Captain should have been the unconscious means to this 
 end, for he found these particular friends of Vallie too 
 rapid for a man of even his experience, and he associated 
 with them only when to avoid them would have appeared 
 an affront. A remark which he had overheard in the 
 club that "Eustis was too much of a speed-boy to be 
 possible as a constant companion" exactly described his 
 feelings toward them; but Spencer in their company was 
 enjoying life to the utmost. 
 
 The change which all this occasioned in him was only 
 [91]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 beginning to make itself apparent. Until now, while 
 living his own life, such as it was, he had been essentially 
 a negative factor in his own household. Lucy long since 
 had ceased to depend on him for anything beyond that 
 respectability which a husband is supposed to confer 
 upon a woman by giving her the right to bear his name. 
 It was seldom that she consulted him or interfered with 
 his plans except when they conflicted with some social 
 engagement which she thought wise to accept together. 
 At such times Vallie was likely to fume a little, or more if 
 the disappointment was greater; but there never was a 
 doubt in Lucy's mind that he would be ready to accom- 
 pany her at the appointed hour. 
 
 On the other hand, Spencer made no criticism of his 
 wife's friends or of her manner of living. While others 
 were free to take exceptions, he was gratified rather than 
 annoyed by the rumors of other men's reported infatua- 
 tion for her, considering it an indirect compliment to 
 himself. There was no question in his mind that Lucy 
 was quite capable of taking care of herself, having wit- 
 nessed the ease with which she managed him. He had 
 found her a comfortable wife to live with, as she asked 
 few questions, and made no objections to the constantly 
 increasing overdrafts upon her income beyond the 
 liberal allowance which her father, before his death, had 
 stipulated should be his maximum. All in all, until now, 
 it had been a "comfortable" arrangement, and he him- 
 self was as surprised as any one to discover, after a few 
 weeks' life with the "speed-boys," that he was becoming 
 discontented. 
 
 It was nearly noon when he came down stairs on the 
 morning Auchester departed after the enlightening week- 
 end. He felt disagreeable and generally out of sorts, and 
 
 [92]
 
 his first annoyance was to discover that Lucy had gone to 
 town. Not that he was particularly anxious to see her, 
 but as even the children had been taken to the beach by 
 the ever-watchful Susette, there was no one left in the 
 house upon whom to vent his ill-humor except the serv- 
 ants, and he could find no vast amount of amusement in 
 that. His second annoyance came while he was sitting 
 disconsolate in a shady corner of the piazza, trying to 
 focus his attention upon the morning paper. Why the 
 fool maid should not have known better than to bring 
 him a tray bearing a carefully prepared breakfast, when 
 he had been debating with himself for an hour whether 
 or not a bottle of French vichy would be too hearty, was 
 more than he could understand. And to cap the climax 
 the morning mail, which he had only now found strength 
 and energy enough to open, contained a notice that his 
 bank account was overdrawn, and under ordinary circum- 
 stances he would not dare to draw again on Lucy's account 
 for ten days or so, lest she should begin to take notice. 
 
 "They're a bunch of welchers," he exclaimed aloud, 
 as his mind with some difficulty ran back over the checks 
 he had drawn during the past few days. "They must 
 have run right up to the bank Saturday morning and 
 deposited. Afraid of 'em, eh? That's what they are, 
 a bunch of welchers ! " 
 
 This completed the consignment of all whom he could 
 call to mind at that time except the Captain, and he was 
 not to escape. Spencer was conscious from a number of 
 unimportant happenings during Auchester's visit that 
 the friendship of which he had been so proud was waning; 
 and of course it was the Captain's fault. It was plain 
 to him, as he thought matters over carefully in the clear 
 light of the morning, that Auchester had used him as a 
 
 [93]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 stepping-stone to his own advancement. Now that he 
 had made his own friends, and was accepted because of 
 his own personality, he was ready to kick the ladder from 
 beneath his feet. This was the basest treachery of all, 
 and it became blacker as Spencer dwelt upon it. He 
 would assert himself. He would be the head of his house- 
 hold, he would tell other people what to do, instead of 
 allowing himself to be pulled hither and thither and finally 
 treated as a discard by a man who owed his position in 
 America to what he, his friend, had been willing to do for 
 him. As for the money, it belonged to him as much 
 as it did to Lucy, and there was enough of it to put him 
 beyond the need of any such humiliating worry. Lucy 
 had made no objection as yet, but of course that would 
 be the next step, and he was prepared to meet it. 
 
 The automobile and Lucy returned between three and 
 four in the afternoon. Vallie had been expecting her for 
 hours, and his vigil had not improved his temper, but it 
 had added to his determination. At first he had decided 
 to meet the car at the steps and to issue an ultimatum 
 on the spot. From this point he veered to that of the 
 injured husband, and by the time he heard the machine 
 running up the driveway he had selected the role of the 
 neglected invalid, sorely in need of sympathy and care, 
 as the most effective expedient. 
 
 Lucy came into the hallway, pulled aside the hangings 
 at the door of the living-room in which Vallie was lying, 
 stretched out miserably upon the couch, turned aside 
 without remark, and started up the stairs. 
 
 "Lucy," Spencer called, when it became apparent that 
 she was passing out of hearing. 
 
 She paused, half-way up the stairs. "Well," she called 
 back, "what is it?" 
 
 [94]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I want to see you," the voice continued. 
 
 "I can't stop now; I'm looking for the children." 
 
 "Lucy," the voice demanded, more peremptorily. 
 
 Surprised by the tone she retraced her steps and again 
 stood in the doorway. "Is anything the matter?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 "I'm sick," he said, his head falling back on the com- 
 fortable pillow he had placed beneath it. 
 
 "That doesn't surprise me any," she remarked. "What 
 do you suggest, a doctor or a stomach pump? Why don't 
 you have Victor telephone for you? Do you know 
 where the children are?" 
 
 "No," he replied, assuming a sitting position, "I don't 
 know where anybody or anything is. WTiy did you go 
 away this morning?" 
 
 "Why?" Lucy echoed, surprised. "There isn't any 
 why. I just did it." 
 
 "I needed the car to get to my office." 
 
 Lucy smiled. "Weren't the trains running, Vallie?" 
 
 "You're trying to be disagreeable," he retorted; "I 
 won't stand for it." 
 
 "You'd better go back up stairs and sleep it off," 
 she replied indulgently. "I'm in an angelic humor, but 
 I want to see Larry and Babs." 
 
 Spencer made two or three further efforts to bring about 
 a discussion, but Lucy refused to take his remarks with 
 sufficient seriousness to become annoyed, so his abuse of 
 her gave him no greater satisfaction than his browbeating 
 of the servants. Finally she made her escape to the 
 floor above, while he retired to the piazza to complete 
 his sulk. 
 
 "Where are my children?" Lucy demanded, entering 
 the governess' room and startling all three by her un- 
 
 [95]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 expected question. Seeing herself at the end of her quest, 
 she seated herself in a great chair and held out her arms. 
 "Come to mother," she said. 
 
 "I haven't done anything," Larry protested, hanging 
 back, while Babs promptly burst into tears and flew for 
 protection to Susette. 
 
 Lucy's color heightened at the repulse, but Ned had 
 cautioned her to be patient. "Of course you haven't 
 done anything, my darlings," she said propitiatingly. 
 "Come to mother and tell her what game you are 
 playing." 
 
 Larry looked questioningly at Susette, and then slowly 
 obeyed. Lucy was indignant that he seemed to require 
 the governess' permission and encouragement. "When 
 I tell you to come to me, Larry, you don't need to look 
 at Susette. Come at once." 
 
 The hesitation in Larry's steps increased and Babs' 
 sobs became louder. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake stop that child's crying!" Lucy 
 exclaimed. 
 
 "But you frighten them, madame," the governess 
 explained. 
 
 "Frighten them? their own mother frighten them? 
 It's perfectly ridiculous!" 
 
 "But they have seen you so little, madame. One must 
 be gentle " 
 
 " I never heard anything so absurd," Lucy cried, rising 
 and thoroughly at her wits' end. "They have never 
 been afraid of me." 
 
 "No, madame; but you have never come to them like 
 this before. They have only seen you for a moment at a 
 time or at the table, and now they think you are angry 
 with them." 
 
 (96]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Then I suppose I must take lessons in the proper 
 way to approach my own children," she replied. She 
 turned suddenly to Larry. "Are you afraid of me?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "Yes, mamma." 
 
 "And you?" turning to Babs; but the only response 
 was a dismal wail as the little girl buried her head in 
 Susette's arms. 
 
 Lucy left the room without further remark and took 
 refuge in her own. "And these are to be my salvation!" 
 she exclaimed bitterly. "This is the solution to my 
 problem!" 
 
 She threw herself at full length upon the divan at the 
 foot of her bed and thought for a long time. Suddenly 
 an idea came to her which caused her to spring to her feet 
 and brought back the smile to her face. "Dear old Ned," 
 she said half -aloud. "He meant it for the best, and I 
 have no doubt he believed it; but he hasn't any children, 
 so of course he couldn't know. That was his legal advice! 
 It's a good joke on Ned, I must tell him about it.' 
 
 197]
 
 XI 
 
 VALLIE'S recovery from his "attack" dated from 
 the moment when his intellect, as he was pleased 
 to call it, came to a full realization that for the 
 present it was a physical impossibility to stir things up 
 with Lucy to the point of creating the "scene" which his 
 sense of injured importance really craved. He was per- 
 fectly familiar with her varying humors, and the special 
 one which had happened to possess her when he tried 
 to make her angry was, he knew, invulnerable, and 
 likely to lead on to ridicule and personal humiliation. 
 Spencer's most promising faculty was a fairly accurate 
 knowledge of his own limitations, and in his present con- 
 dition he was well aware that Lucy would be more than 
 his match in any sort of an encounter. Having arrived 
 at this conclusion his mind then turned to Auchester. He 
 would like to have matters out with him, but the chances 
 of finding this opportunity for several days to come were 
 too remote to afford even momentary relief. This process 
 of elimination left the habitues of Eustis' yacht the sole 
 remaining objects of his resentment, and his thought of 
 them suggested immediate action. 
 
 With an agility remarkable for an invalid, Spencer 
 ordered the car and went up stairs to attire himself for 
 his sally forth against the windmills. Lucy heard him 
 
 [981
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 rushing around and came to the door of her room just 
 as he reached the head of the stairs on his way out. 
 
 "Feeling better, darling?" she queried, with a mischiev- 
 ous smile which made her words particularly offensive. 
 
 "I can take care of myself, since I have to," he replied 
 in an injured tone, continuing down the stairs. 
 
 "All right," she called out after the retreating figure. 
 "But, Vallie dear, if you feel another of those attacks 
 coming on, get somewhere out of sight, for you're not 
 a sweet thing to look at." But the slamming door 
 was the only evidence Lucy had that her words reached 
 him. 
 
 He found Eustis and Clapp sitting on the broad piazza 
 of The Yacht Club, half-reclining in great easy-chairs 
 and lazily watching the kaleidoscopic activity among 
 the great fleet of pleasure boats, big and little, as they 
 came to their moorings and dropped sail, or cleared away 
 in the twilight. 
 
 "Hullo, Vallie," Eustis greeted him; "we weren't 
 looking for you tonight and thought we'd have to scurry 
 around to get a fourth man." 
 
 "Why didn't you expect me?" he demanded, drawing 
 up a chair. 
 
 Eustis looked at Clapp and both men laughed. "You 
 came near getting drowned last night," Eustis replied. 
 "I didn't suppose you could take so much on board and 
 revive under forty-eight hours." 
 
 "Perhaps the Captain had a restorative in his jeans," 
 Clapp suggested. 
 
 "Cut it out," Spencer said shortly. "I'm sick of all 
 this jollying. Do you fellows mind dining early?" 
 
 His companions again looked at each other and smiled 
 significantly. 
 
 [99]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "We must wait for Miller," Eustis said, glancing at 
 his watch. "He'll be down on the 5.15 train. Can you 
 hold out for an hour?" 
 
 "I suppose I can, if I have to." 
 
 "Have a highball while you're waiting," Clapp added. 
 
 Spencer made a wry face. "Not for a thousand dollars. 
 I haven't eaten a thing since last night. I'm in a beastly 
 humor." 
 
 "We noticed that," Eustis admitted. "Did your 
 beautiful lady make rings around you when you came to?" 
 
 "No; I didn't see her until this afternoon." 
 
 "Then the Captain must have made you get up to see 
 him off." 
 
 "Wrong again," Vallie replied wearily. "Lucy took 
 him to town in the motor." 
 
 "Hum!" Eustis raised his eyebrows. "That must 
 have reconciled the Captain to a fairly tedious week-end." 
 
 Spencer's weariness vanished. "I don't get you," he 
 said. "Why don't you think Auchester enjoyed himself? " 
 
 Eustis laughed as he lit a fresh cigarette. "Don't be 
 a chump, Vallie," he replied. "You don't think Auchester 
 tags you around like this because he likes the color of 
 your eyes, do you?" 
 
 The conclusions which Spencer had drawn during the 
 morning regarding Auchester's ingratitude came back to 
 him with redoubled force. So others had noticed it! 
 This was a source of satisfaction, for it confirmed the logic 
 of his own thoughts, and Eustis was admitted to be a 
 clever man. 
 
 "No," he replied with decision. "Auchester hasn't 
 put anything over on me. He's got all he can out of me, 
 and now he thinks his own legs will carry him." 
 
 "You mean at the clubs?" Eustis asked. 
 [100]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Yes. I introduced him all around, and now he's 
 ready to shake me." 
 
 "Oh, I don't think that of the Captain," Clapp pro- 
 tested. "What has he done to make you think so?" 
 
 "He hasn't done anything, but Eustis agrees with me, 
 so that proves it." 
 
 "But I don't agree with you," Eustis remarked calmly. 
 "Auchester is a devilish fine fellow, and he'd make his 
 way anywhere, introductions or not, on his own shape. 
 I don't mean that at all; but if I'm any judge he was 
 bored stiff and was tugging at the leash all the time he 
 was over here to get with some one who could talk his 
 language, and at the end of his visit you gave him his 
 chance, for which he should be duly grateful, as I have no 
 doubt he is." 
 
 "Then you think he cultivates me on Lucy's account?'* 
 
 "Why not? A wife like that is the surest guarantee of 
 any man's popularity." 
 
 "That's why we all love you, Vallie," added Clapp. 
 "Even I would accept an invitation for a week-end; but 
 I should make certain stipulations in advance which the 
 Captain evidently overlooked." 
 
 "Do you suggest " 
 
 "Nothing, my dear boy," Clapp interposed, "nothing 
 in the world except that Lucy is all to the merry, and 
 entirely competent to take care of herself. It does you 
 great credit that with all the attention she gets from the 
 rest of us she still stands for you. Take it from me, it's 
 most complimentary to the attractiveness which you must 
 display in your own home. There's Miller; now you 
 can fill up that aching void." 
 
 Vallie remembered, as he saw Miller, that he had as 
 yet made no reference to the one cause of resentment 
 
 [1011
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 which he entertained against these particular friends. 
 Eustis and Clapp, he now recalled, had not been to the 
 city since the evening when the bridge had been all his 
 party, so Miller must have been the one to deposit the 
 checks which had caused the overdraft. He was some- 
 what distant, therefore, in greeting the late arrival, so 
 much so, in fact, that his attitude was noticed by all. 
 
 "What's wrong, old chap?" Miller demanded. 
 
 "You were in a devilish hurry to deposit those checks 
 of mine," he said bluntly. 
 
 "Hurry to do what?" Miller failed to understand. 
 
 "I gave you fellows some good fat checks Friday night, 
 and now the bank notifies me that my account is over- 
 drawn. I don't suppose you cared to take a chance on 
 them?" 
 
 The three men glanced at each other significantly, while 
 Eustis passed his hand over Spencer's forehead. 
 
 "I told you that you were nearly drowned last night, 
 Vallie," he insisted. "Better wear overshoes tonight." 
 
 "I've asked you a civil question and I'm entitled to an 
 answer," Vallie replied with great dignity. 
 
 "Did the bank send you down the checks?" Miller 
 asked. 
 
 "No; of course not. The notice was enough." 
 
 Miller drew out his pocket-book and Eustis and Clapp 
 did the same. Each held up a small piece of paper. 
 
 "Here are the 'checks,'" Clapp remarked. "I never 
 tried to cash an I. O. U. at the bank, but perhaps it 
 would go through all right." 
 
 Spencer regarded the three slips of paper dubiously. 
 "Then I didn't give you fellows checks?" he asked. 
 
 "Not so that you'd notice it," Eustis rejoined. "Looks 
 to me as if the orders were on you, mine's a lone tree." 
 
 [102J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Then how the devil is the account overdrawn?" he 
 puzzled. "I must have drawn some other checks." 
 
 "There you have it!" exclaimed Miller. "There goes 
 that Websterian brain working overtime! Vallie, you're 
 a wonder!" 
 
 The dinner passed off without incident. Spencer's 
 spirits revived as it progressed, and he congratulated 
 himself that he had said nothing nasty regarding the checks 
 before the real facts had been disclosed. The dining-room, 
 looking out onto the commodious piazza, was gay with 
 the sprinkling of yachting suits worn by the men and the 
 radiant summer costumes displayed by the women, who 
 came with their escorts from the many cottages surround- 
 ing the harbor. Outside, the whistles of the steam yachts 
 and the creaking of the sails from those smaller boats 
 which found anchorage near the club landing suggested 
 the occupation of the evening, and through the long open 
 windows an occasional whiff of the east breeze brought 
 the bracing salt air which served to flavor the food and 
 to give invigoration to the conversation. 
 
 Later, the little tender took the men on board the 
 "Sylph," where the card-table was already set up on the 
 after-deck, and few preparations were necessary to begin 
 the evening's play. Vallie's luck had consistently run 
 against him for some time, and tonight he determined 
 to make a killing. 
 
 "Let's double the stakes," he suggested as they sat down. 
 
 "Not for me," Miller protested; "ten a point is my 
 limit." 
 
 "Give me a chance to get back those I. O. U's," Vallie 
 pleaded. 
 
 "But one of us has to cut you for a partner," Clapp 
 explained. 
 
 1103J
 
 Even Spencer could see the strength of this reasoning, 
 so the cards were cut, and Miller drew to play with him. 
 "I'll take an extra with you, Eustis," Vallie continued, 
 seeing another chance to recoup. 
 
 "All right," assented the willing Eustis. "If your 
 account is overdrawn I might as well let you win back 
 this I. O. U. as have it go to seed. Your deal, Vallie." 
 
 "No trump," Spencer bid, as soon as the hands were 
 sorted. 
 
 "Two clubs," came from Eustis. 
 
 "Content," from Miller. 
 
 "Content," Clapp echoed. 
 
 "Two no trumps," Spencer raised his bid after a 
 moment's hesitation. 
 
 "Double," Eustis exclaimed promptly. 
 
 Vallie looked up sharply into an aggravatingly smiling 
 face. 
 
 "Want to take it back?" Eustis asked tauntingly. 
 "We'll let you, it's like taking candy from children." 
 
 "Go ahead and lead," Spencer retorted ill-humoredly, 
 when the bidding ceased. 
 
 "No; I don't think I will." Eustis laid his hand 
 down on the table. "Let's have a new deal." 
 
 "What is this, bumblepuppy?" Miller inquired. 
 
 "I have a good reason," insisted Eustis. 
 
 "Go ahead and play," Vallie urged. "I know what 
 I'm doing." 
 
 "All right," was the yielding answer. "But if we win, 
 the score on this hand doesn't count." 
 
 "Where do I come in?" Clapp remarked significantly. 
 "Aren't you making rather free with my money?" 
 
 "You wouldn't mind contributing something toward 
 teaching Vallie how to play auction, would you?" Eustis 
 
 [104]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 responded confidently, leading a heart, which developed 
 a fatal weakness on the part of his opponents in that 
 particular suit. 
 
 "Of all the rotten luck!" Spencer cried disgustedly as 
 the last card fell and he found himself set two tricks. 
 "That was fool luck, Eustis, and you must admit it. I 
 had your clubs stopped, and there was no reason in the 
 world to think you would lead hearts." 
 
 "It wasn't all luck," Eustis protested quietly, as he 
 nonchalantly shuffled the cards and waited. 
 
 "Doesn't the score stand?" inquired Clapp. 
 
 "I'll bet you fifty dollars you can't give any sane 
 reason for that lead," Spencer interrupted, unconvinced. 
 
 "Make it a hundred and I'll go you." 
 
 "All right," Vallie exclaimed, reaching for his 
 pocket-book. 
 
 "Your pocket-book won't help you any," Eustis still 
 taunted him. "Get out your pencil and a piece of paper. 
 Are you sure your I. O. U. is any good?" 
 
 "Do you mean that?" Spencer exclaimed hotly. 
 
 "No," was the laughing answer; "go ahead. Who is 
 to settle the bet?" 
 
 "I'll leave it to Miller and Clapp." 
 
 "Ah 1 right. I doubled and led hearts because you 
 exposed your hand when you lit your cigarette, I 
 couldn't help seeing it. How'll that do for a sane 
 reason?" 
 
 "Damn!" Spencer muttered, as the shouts of the two 
 other men announced their award. 
 
 "Now you savvy why the score doesn't stand, and all 
 bets are off, too. But I say, Vallie, for Heaven's sake get 
 some one to teach you the game. No wonder you lose 
 all the time." 
 
 1105]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Spencer made no reply, but sullenly sorted the hand 
 Eustis dealt him, and the game continued with results 
 which varied for three of the players, but his ill-luck 
 followed him steadily. When the scores were finally 
 added, he was the only loser. 
 
 "It's all your party again, Vallie," Miller announced, 
 "and Eustis is high man." 
 
 "I seem to be paying the expenses of the yacht," was 
 the discouraged answer. "I haven't won a rubber that 
 was worth anything since we started in Friday night." 
 
 "Take a few less'ons and see if that won't help some." 
 Eustis again volunteered advice, but Spencer was in no 
 mood to receive it. 
 
 "I wouldn't need them if I had your hands," he re- 
 torted. "The winner isn't necessarily the best player by 
 any means." 
 
 "Take that home and play it over on your piano," 
 laughed Clapp. 
 
 "Don't knock, come right in," Eustis replied good- 
 naturedly. 
 
 "Auction is a rotten game," Spencer said, rising from 
 his seat. "I don't see why any one ever plays it." 
 
 [106]
 
 XII 
 
 MARGARET had seen Lucy a number of times 
 during the summer, and the result of their pact 
 had been to draw them much closer together; 
 still Margaret felt that little progress had actually been 
 made in bringing her to a point where her impulses were 
 really under control. The earlier prejudice the older 
 woman had formed disappeared with closer acquaintance. 
 Lucy annoyed her frequently by word or deed which 
 seemed foolish or ill-advised, at times she exasperated her 
 with some unexpected folly completely at variance with 
 well-meant resolutions; but in spite of all, Margaret could 
 not help loving her, and had really come to regard her, 
 as Cunningham did, in the light of a high-strung, head- 
 strong child. Yet, strange to say, Lucy seemed able to 
 walk the narrow edge of the danger line with such abso- 
 lute confidence and security that Margaret's admonitions 
 lost much of the force they would have possessed had she 
 been able to point her finger at a single disastrous slip. 
 Lucy's claim, that what Margaret and Ned called "in- 
 discretions" were of such a nature that they could harm 
 no one except herself, appeared to be substantiated by the 
 facts, and as her episode with Cunningham, which she 
 considered the nearest she had ever come to a real mis- 
 take, had actually resulted in a friendship which she would 
 
 [107]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 not otherwise have had, it was difficult for her to draw 
 real lessons from her experiences. 
 
 Cunningham had derived the inspiration of his sugges- 
 tion to Lucy, that her children must form the solution of 
 her problem, from the conversation over the Sunday night 
 supper when Langdon and Hayden were at his house. He 
 had not thought to make the specific application until 
 Lucy's unexpected luncheon with him had forced him to 
 crystallize into actual words the subconscious impres- 
 sion this conversation had left upon his mind. When he 
 returned home that evening he recounted to Margaret 
 the day's adventure, and urged upon her to follow up 
 the seed which he knew, from Lucy's attitude as they 
 separated, had been planted in fertile ground. This ex- 
 plained the particular occasion of Margaret's visit to 
 Beverly Farms a few days after Lucy's first attempt to 
 take the children into her life. 
 
 The rebuff the children had given their mother had 
 resulted only ; n temporary mortification and an injured 
 pride. The main point which stood out above all others 
 was that Ned, the famous legal authority, Ned the in- 
 fallible, Ned the dear, well-meaning friend, had shown 
 himself to be mortal like the rest. He could guide a client 
 through the intricate mazes of the law's confusion, he 
 could sway the masses with his eloquence in furthering 
 some civic cause, he could command the mighty to 
 stand still and listen to his words, but when it came 
 to the solution of a wretched little woman's perplex- 
 ities he was just an ordinary man, whose judgment 
 in all to do with women is always wrong! Not that she 
 blamed him; on the contrary she felt drawn even closer 
 by this evidence that he had not acquired the preroga- 
 tives of the superman. 
 
 [108]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Lucy had not given up the experiment after the first 
 trial, but its continuance was not due to the same motive 
 which had prompted its beginning. That incident she 
 considered closed, but she was determined that Susette 
 should not be left in the undisputed position of being the 
 only one to whom the children turned. Unfortunately, 
 her efforts had been along the line of least resistance, and 
 already results were apparent which bade fair to undo the 
 training which the careful governess had effected. Larry 
 no longer hung back when his mother called him, Babs 
 felt no desire to weep in Susette' s arms; both came 
 eagerly to her with outstretched hands and expectant 
 hearts for the presents and indulgences with which she 
 now surfeited them. Lucy discovered that they were 
 "little angels" so long as their childish whims were not 
 obstructed, and she made it a point to leave all the 
 obstructing to Susette. 
 
 It had proved an agreeable diversion, and Lucy was 
 quite ready to discuss the subject with Margaret when 
 it was adroitly introduced into the conversation. 
 
 "Don't tell Ned," Lucy insisted, "for I'm saving it 
 to tell him myself, but it is really the greatest joke in 
 the world on him. He hasn't much faith in poor little 
 me, so he was trying to think out some 'salvation,' as he 
 called it, and it suddenly occurred to him that the children 
 would be just the thing. Then he talked and talked to me 
 about it while we were having luncheon together I do 
 wish you might have been there too, Margaret, and you 
 know the way it is when Ned gets interested! If you will 
 believe me, he almost had me crying, and I couldn't wait 
 to get back here to do just what he said. But " 
 
 Lucy laughed at the recollection. 
 
 "But what, Lucy?" Margaret urged. 
 [109J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Well, Ned hadn't talked to the children as he had to 
 me, so they didn't fully appreciate the 'salvation' busi- 
 ness. Larry balked and Babs howled, and altogether we 
 had a very messy time. At first I was provoked enough, 
 but when I came to think it over I realized how absurd 
 the whole thing was. How could Ned, of all people, dear 
 boy that he is, possibly know anything about children 
 when he never has had any of his own? It's the old maid 
 in the 'mothers' meetings,' you know, who always has 
 the latest theories as to raising children. Don't think 
 I'm making light of what Ned said, Margaret, for I do 
 appreciate his interest, but it's so seldom any one of us 
 gets a joke on him, he's usually such a very wise person." 
 
 "But I don't agree with you that the 'joke' is on Ned," 
 Margaret replied seriously; "and what is more, I don't 
 think there is any joke about it at all." 
 
 "You don't!" Lucy exclaimed with genuine surprise; 
 "you still think, after all I've told you, that I can get any 
 kind of life by associating just with Larry and Babs? 
 Why, Margaret dear, remember, they're only little 
 children. " 
 
 "I know," Margaret replied quietly, frankly disap- 
 pointed, taking Lucy's hand in both of hers, "and you 
 are only a child yourself. Have you never, during 
 these years of motherhood, felt that there could be no 
 companionship equal to that given by these little crea- 
 tures, companionship in their early helplessness, in 
 their later development day by day into distinct person- 
 alities, in combating the growth of our own faults, which 
 we see duplicated in their tiny compositions, in encour- 
 aging those better traits which we also recognize belong to 
 them by right of inheritance. Have you never felt this, 
 dear, during the years since Larry was born?" 
 
 [1101
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Not just that," Lucy admitted thoughtfully. "Of 
 course I have been terribly worried about them when they 
 have been ill, and I have always insisted on being with them 
 at such times; but they are quiet then, and I can love them 
 and take care of them. When they are well they don't 
 really need me, and I can't endure them when they fuss." 
 
 "They need you even more when they are well," 
 Margaret insisted with a patient smile. "In their ill- 
 nesses they have the best of professional care, and your 
 presence is due, as you say, more to your anxiety than to 
 their requirements. Can't you see that while their little 
 bodies may be perfectly well, their minds may need a 
 mother's care just as desperately? Character is forming 
 every day in those tiny brains, and who is shaping it? 
 Susette? Very well, are you satisfied to have the char- 
 acter building restricted to the limitations of a governess, 
 no matter how good a one she may be?" 
 
 "You and Ned are both inconsistent," Lucy replied 
 uncomfortably. "You think I am lacking in character, 
 yet you urge me to expose my children to that very in- 
 fluence which you are trying to correct." 
 
 "Didn't Ned tell you that in his advice he had you in 
 mind more than the children?" 
 
 "Yes; but that means to sacrifice them for my good." 
 
 " Not at all, my dear. Neither Ned nor I think that you 
 lack character, but we do think that you sometimes fail 
 to express it in the wisest way. What he meant, and I 
 agree with him, is that you couldn't give of yourself to 
 those darling children without expressing that which at 
 the present time nothing calls forth." 
 
 "You are just as bad as Ned." Lucy forced a laugh to 
 relieve the tension. " How can you know so much about 
 these things without being a mother yourself?" 
 
 [Ill]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Margaret winced, and Lucy sprang forward as she 
 saw the pain in her face. "Forgive me, dear," she said 
 softly. "I didn't mean to hurt you." 
 
 There was a moment's silence, during which Margaret 
 forced back the tears which came to her eyes. "You 
 didn't know," she replied, "but we had a baby once, and 
 perhaps the only reason Ned and I have never spoken of 
 it is because its loss was so great a sorrow to us both. We 
 do know what it means, Lucy, and when we see the 
 opportunity so close at hand for you to find the happi- 
 ness which is denied to us, do you wonder that we urge 
 it on you?" 
 
 "I didn't know, forgive me, dear," Lucy said, 
 sobered by what Margaret had just told her. "There 
 must be something lacking in me," she continued at 
 length, speaking more to herself than to her companion. 
 "I love them and I'm proud of them, but I have never 
 in all my life had any desire to be with them when they 
 were not in good humor. It's another evidence of selfish- 
 ness, I'm afraid; but I don't know how to act toward 
 them in any different way." 
 
 For a long moment Margaret sat looking at her, dis- 
 couraged by her inability to touch the spring which should 
 bring the latent mother-love to the surface, for she knew 
 it must be there. She believed that Lucy honestly yearned 
 to discover it in herself, not even yet realizing the price- 
 less value of the treasure she sought. Margaret's heart 
 bled for her, and she felt the pity of it all far more than 
 Lucy herself. She leaned over and kissed her tenderly 
 upon the forehead. 
 
 "Some day," she told her, "some day you will look 
 back and wonder that it was ever possible for you to say 
 that. Some day you will hear within you a voice from 
 
 [112]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Heaven which will make it clear. Until then all your 
 friends can do is to hope." 
 
 "I know it," she answered frankly; yet by the tone of 
 her voice Margaret knew that she utterly failed to com- 
 prehend. "And the fact that the friends do hope helps 
 me to believe that it will be as you say. But the friends 
 must be patient, Peggy dear. After twenty-eight years 
 of doing exactly what I've wished, you and Ned can't 
 expect to reform me right away, can you? Why you've 
 only been working on me for six weeks!" 
 
 [1131
 
 XIII 
 
 THE Montgomery case was but one of several 
 unusually important matters which had caused 
 Cunningham to decide that it was necessary for 
 him to remain close to his office until after the first of 
 September. Margaret preferred the more simple social 
 life of the South Shore to the more elaborate forms of 
 summer entertainment prevalent among the fashionable 
 colonies extending from Beverly to Gloucester, and this 
 was the first year they had not closed their town house 
 and occupied their "cottage" at Marion. Cunningham 
 had urged her not to allow his necessities to occasion 
 any change in her usual plans, but Margaret, with a 
 devotion so characteristic that her husband accepted it as 
 a matter of course, refused to consider any summer plans 
 which did not include him. He promised her the week- 
 ends, but felt that the daily trip back and forth on the 
 train would take from him more time and strength than 
 at present he could afford to give. 
 
 Yet the experiment had not required so much of a 
 sacrifice in comfort as Margaret had expected. Much to 
 her surprise the city, which she as well as others deserted 
 year after year as a matter of course, was not without its 
 attractions as a summer resort. The days were hot, but 
 by evening it was the exception when the east breeze did 
 
 [114]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 not relieve all torrid suggestion; and what watering-place 
 can guarantee more ! The motor made it possible for them 
 to enjoy new experiences together, for they rarely dined 
 twice at the same place; and their week-end excursions 
 acquainted them with other delightful spots which until 
 now they had known only by name. Freedom from social 
 requirements gave her a thoroughly enjoyed opportunity 
 for quiet reading far beyond any she had ever found, and 
 best of all, Cunningham had promised that the month of 
 September should be all hers to plan out as she thought 
 best, with his business responsibilities thrown one side. 
 It had been long since she had enjoyed with him so ex- 
 tended a holiday, and the anticipation of this made the 
 summer plans even more attractive than ever. 
 
 To Langdon the summer meant the Montgomery case 
 and nothing else. He realized fully that this was his 
 opportunity, and his office associates relieved him of 
 less important matters so that he might work uninter- 
 ruptedly upon this. And the results of his investigations 
 gave him great encouragement. As the case presented 
 itself to him, his client must be guilty unless a third party 
 could be introduced into the tragedy, so he began his work 
 with the fictitious hypothesis that this third party really 
 existed. With this as a basis he carefully went over the 
 ground from the point where the witness testified to the 
 shots hi the buggy and the spot where the horse was finally 
 stopped by the interlocking wheels. This represented a 
 distance of over a mile, and Langdon hit upon a theory 
 that the vehicle might have held three persons at the time 
 the shots were fired, and that the real assassin would have 
 had ample opportunity to leave the buggy at some point 
 before the bridge was reached, starting the horse again 
 upon its way after making good his escape. 
 
 [115J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 With this in mind Langdon sharply cross-examined 
 Montgomery, and to his surprise and gratification the 
 man, with seeming reluctance, finally admitted that the 
 hypothesis was correct. There was a third person in 
 the buggy, he said, at the time the shots were fired, but 
 he had made no reference to it as it really did not bear 
 upon the case. The third person, Montgomery insisted, 
 was hi no way involved, as it was Brewster who fired the 
 shots. Nothing could move him from his position, so 
 Langdon was forced to accept the situation, bringing to 
 bear all his force of argument to convince his client of 
 the value which the testimony of this third person would 
 be in establishing his own innocence. But Montgomery 
 was surly: 
 
 "I don't want to bring her into it," he said shortly. 
 
 "Then it was a woman!" Langdon exclaimed, de- 
 lighted by the unexpected information. 
 
 "What if it was?" the man retorted, angry with himself 
 for having let the words slip. 
 
 This was the extent of the information Langdon was 
 able to drag from him, in spite of several interviews. 
 Montgomery at last refused even to reply to his interro- 
 gations, evidently not trusting himself since his unfortu- 
 nate admission. But his champion determined to save 
 him in spite of himself, and proud to have uncovered 
 something which the office of the Attorney-General had 
 failed to find, devoted his entire time and energy to the 
 discovery of the mysterious woman, who, he felt certain, 
 held in her possession the solution to the crime. 
 
 The three motives for which the police search in the 
 unraveling of any mystery are woman, money, and re- 
 venge. Thus far in the Montgomery case all three were 
 lacking, but Langdon's discovery that a woman was in 
 
 [116J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 the buggy with these men offered the possibility of finding 
 at least two of the motives actually in existence. Whether 
 or not success in locating the woman would result in 
 clearing his client or in making his plight more desperate, 
 Langdon could not foresee; in the latter event, being fore- 
 warned would enable him to defend Montgomery with 
 greater effect, even though the evidence against him was 
 actually strengthened. 
 
 Langdon still found it difficult to accept Cunningham's 
 high moral attitude as necessarily the proper basis for 
 his own practice of law. He admitted it theoretically 
 and respected Cunningham more than ever as he came 
 into actual knowledge of the consistency with which he 
 lived up to his ideals. Of course it was all right for him 
 to do it, for he had attained a position where such a repu- 
 tation formed a real business asset. Clients knew that to 
 have Cunningham accept retainers and plead their cases 
 was an assurance to the Court and to the jury that he, 
 at least, had already sat as master and had decided in their 
 favor. Cunningham could pick and choose his cases, and 
 the moral effect of his appearance for his client was such 
 as to warrant the size of the fees which he charged for 
 his professional services. Langdon was sufficiently familiar 
 with these facts to be aware that idealism, in this case at 
 least, could be made eminently practical, and he wondered 
 to himself if Cunningham was not also aware of it. Not 
 that he doubted his sincerity: no man could know Cun- 
 ningham and doubt that; but had he not argued so long 
 for other people that unconsciously he had persuaded 
 himself? Such things had happened, and history is never 
 averse to repeating itself. 
 
 In the present instance, with its later developments, 
 Langdon felt it to be a decided advantage to himself to 
 
 [117]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 have Cunningham opposed to him in the Montgomery 
 case. From the conversation they had already had, it 
 was evident that his single purpose was to secure justice, 
 and it was certain that he would aid the defense if Langdon 
 could introduce evidence sufficient to show even reason- 
 able doubt as to the prisoner's guilt. This Landgon be- 
 lieved he was now able to do, especially as he felt 
 confident that he would succeed hi locating the unknown 
 woman. 
 
 It was with a sense of personal elation, together with a 
 desire to have Cunningham realize that he had accom- 
 plished something, that he asked his friend for an appoint- 
 ment to discuss the situation in its newest aspect. The 
 request came opportunely, as the older man had been on the 
 point of sending for Langdon for the same purpose, but had 
 been prevented by other unexpected claims upon his time. 
 Now other appointments shaped themselves around this 
 one definitely made, and Cunningham gave his caller a 
 cordial welcome. 
 
 "Well, Tom," he said lightly, "the State has been view- 
 ing your activity in this case with apprehension, and 
 begins to fear that you will rob its insatiate thirst for 
 blood of a most promising victim. You wouldn't do that, 
 would you?" 
 
 Langdon laughed. "Not without supplying it with 
 another," he said. "The State isn't going to be fussy 
 about that, I hope." 
 
 "Oh, no!" Cunningham assented. "So long as there 
 is no danger of having to give up our little party we shall 
 find no fault. How much do you want to tell me of the 
 situation as it stands today?" 
 
 "Everything," was the frank response. "Until our 
 talk at your house I should have held back what I knew 
 
 11181
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 until the trial, and then have thrown it into the pros- 
 ecution to weaken their case; but from what you said 
 then I have concluded that our interests are really 
 identical." 
 
 "I believe they are," Cunningham said seriously. 
 
 "What the State wishes, as I understand it," Langdon 
 continued, "is the conviction of the person or persons 
 who killed Brewster, not necessarily the conviction 
 of Montgomery?" 
 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "Then I believe that I can show that it was not neces- 
 sarily Montgomery, but possibly a third person, as yet 
 unknown, who fired those shots." 
 
 Cunningham manifested unmistakable interest. "That 
 is a big step forward in the defense," he said. 
 
 "I know it is," Langdon replied, "and I knew you 
 would be pleased. You said, you remember, that if I 
 was able to show you that Brewster could have been shot 
 by any one other than my client you would help clear 
 Montgomery. " 
 
 "Did I say just that?" Cunningham questioned. "I 
 thought I said that in the event you speak of the prose- 
 cution would assist the defense." 
 
 "Well, that's the same thing, isn't it?" 
 
 "Not quite. Granting that you can show the possi- 
 bility of some one else being the assassin, it still remains 
 to show that reasonable doubt exists that the defendant 
 committed the crime." 
 
 "There were three persons in that buggy, Ned, at the 
 time of the murder." Langdon was purposely abrupt 
 in his announcement, as he had promised himself the 
 satisfaction of witnessing his friend's surprise. 
 
 "Indeed!" Cunningham was genuinely pleased with 
 [ 119 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 the progress of Langdon's work, and he did not hesitate 
 to show it. "You are convinced of this?" he demanded. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you know who the third man was?" 
 
 "It was a woman." 
 
 " Good ! " Cunningham's face beamed and he held out 
 his hand impulsively. "Tom, this case is going to make 
 you, whichever way it turns out. Now tell me what your 
 theory is." 
 
 "Of course it's all theory yet, until I can find the 
 woman," Langdon began, frankly gratified by Cunning- 
 ham's evident approval; "but at all events it introduces 
 the possibility that some one other than Montgomery 
 did the shooting, and the curious direction taken by the 
 bullets makes my theory stronger. I am working on the 
 basis that the woman sat on the outside right-hand side, 
 with Montgomery in the middle holding the reins. From 
 that position she could have shot both men, and the 
 similarity in the direction of the two shots explains what 
 has been a mystery regarding Montgomery's wound. With 
 one man dead and the other unconscious, she could easily 
 have stopped the buggy long enough to get out and 
 then start the horse again. Isn't that theory perfectly 
 plausible?" 
 
 "Perfectly," Cunningham agreed. "But have you 
 found any motive?" 
 
 "Not yet; but two men and a woman offer the eternal 
 triangle." 
 
 "True; but the woman might have been merely the 
 cause of the tragedy. Have you positive evidence that 
 it was a woman?" 
 
 "Montgomery admitted it, under protest. I think he 
 wants to shield her." 
 
 [120]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "He actually admitted it?" 
 
 "Yes; under protest. " 
 
 "He makes no accusations?" 
 
 "None. He won't give her name, and refuses to have 
 her brought into the case." 
 
 Cunningham reflected for a moment. "What do you 
 make out of that?" he asked. 
 
 "Either a fear that she will hurt his case or some 
 consideration for her." 
 
 "If she had been the other man's accessory, he probably 
 wouldn't hesitate to incriminate her, would he?" 
 
 "No; but he may be interested in her in spite of that. 
 We've seen similar cases. " 
 
 "If she had deliberately shot him he would hardly try 
 to shield her? " Cunningham pursued, meditatively. 
 
 "I haven't carried it as far as that," Langdon admitted. 
 "At present my job is to locate that woman. I think we 
 shall know a whole lot more after I find her." 
 
 Again Cunningham became reflective, and Langdon 
 thought his manner curious. Still it was evident that it 
 showed approval. 
 
 "You're doing good work, Tom," Cunningham said 
 at length. "This interview today demonstrates my claim 
 that frankness between counsel is for mutual advantage 
 when both are playing the game straight. What you tell 
 me of Montgomery's admission that there was a woman 
 in the buggy clears up several points. I tried to get the 
 facts out of him and failed. Now I think perhaps I can 
 reciprocate." 
 
 "There isn't much more to be done until I find the 
 woman, is there?" Langdon inquired. 
 
 "That is where I can help you." 
 
 "How " Langdon began, as Cunningham stepped! 
 1 121 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 to his desk and drew a sheet of paper from a large bundle, 
 which he handed to his friend. 
 
 "What we've found out regarding this woman here 
 seemed to indicate her connection with Montgomery, 
 and what he admitted to you apparently corroborates 
 it." It could hardly be a coincidence. Here is her 
 name and address," he continued. " She is being 
 shadowed, so she can't possibly get away. Later we will 
 have her at the District-Attorney's office and talk things 
 over together. I hope she will help prove your theory, 
 but frankly I'm convinced that she will be the best 
 witness the prosecution could possibly have." 
 
 Langdon's pride suffered from the discovery that the 
 prosecution was ahead of him in locating the woman, but 
 he was no less keenly alert to the favorable turn it gave 
 to the position of the defense. "It's a lucky thing for that 
 poor devil in Charles Street jail that he has a man like 
 you on the other side," he said appreciatively. 
 
 Cunningham laughed. "It wasn't so long ago that 
 you suggested it might be a handicap," he reminded him. 
 "You said something about my 'uncanny power.' Go 
 to, you rascal! Now I know it was nothing but blarney!" 
 
 "I did mean it," Langdon protested seriously; "I 
 meant every word of it; but I didn't realize then that a 
 case could he handled like this." He looked steadfastly 
 at his companion for a moment, and his face gradually 
 broke into a broad smile. 
 
 "Say, Ned," he suddenly exclaimed, holding out his 
 hand, "the law is all right after all, isn't it?" 
 
 [122]
 
 XIV 
 
 A CHESTER had not seen Lucy since he said good- 
 bye standing in front of the Badminton Club, 
 after their morning run up from Beverly Farms 
 together; but there had not been a day when she was not 
 present in his thoughts. He hardly expected that she 
 would remember her promise to telephone him, and until 
 she did so he felt that he had no right to do anything which 
 should remind her of it. Moreover, he was eager to see 
 whether she would feel impelled to suggest another meet- 
 ing, or, as other men who had performed their part in 
 the day's entertainment, was he to be laid aside and 
 forgotten unless accident again brought them together? 
 As the days passed and no word came he remembered the 
 casual way in which she turned from him to Cunningham 
 on that same eventful morning. This thought caused him 
 to tug once or twice at his heavy mustache, but he smiled 
 in that fatalistic way common to soldiers and determined 
 to consider her as an agreeable passing fancy, as she 
 evidently considered him. 
 
 The Captain was in the habit of indulging in introspec- 
 tion, the result perhaps of his long army service. He was 
 a man of action, yet every act was the result of prede- 
 termination. He was a devotee of the beautiful, whether 
 he found it in art, literature, or nature; and his brother's 
 
 [123]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 death, which placed him at the head of his ancestral 
 house in England, also placed him unexpectedly in a 
 position where he could gratify his tastes. His first 
 interest in Lucy Spencer came from the fact that he con- 
 sidered her more beautiful than any woman he had ever 
 seen, and he appreciated the privilege of admiring her 
 exactly as if she had been a masterpiece of sculpture or 
 of art. His second interest had been that of being amused, 
 as he found her companionship highly entertaining; and 
 finally he had reached the conclusion that in her he had 
 discovered a woman whose code of life differed materially 
 from that generally accepted by the world, but which 
 exactly coincided with his own. 
 
 The one thing which the Captain was not, was a senti- 
 mentalist, and no one knew this better than himself. 
 Thus it was that in his retrospection he had received 
 something of a shock to discover that to the three dis- 
 tinct interests he had felt in Lucy there must now be 
 added a fourth. Not that the new interest was as yet 
 developed to appreciable proportions, but to discover the 
 presence of a feeling toward her akin to affection was an 
 event of sufficient importance to warrant more than pass- 
 ing attention. Under his code he did not consider the 
 fact that she happened to be a married woman an in- 
 surmountable barrier, for in his mind the gentle art of 
 divorce was instituted primarily for the purpose of per- 
 mitting spirits which failed to discover congeniality in 
 their first attempt to rectify early mistakes. The first 
 point of vital significance was to determine absolutely 
 his own attitude in the matter, and with this settled in 
 the affirmative it only remained for him to ascertain 
 whether or not Lucy's expressions were more than 
 passing compliments. This conception of love seemed to 
 
 [124]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 him the highest form and the most certain to be 
 enduring because based upon the intellect rather than 
 upon propinquity or impulse. 
 
 After his discovery and a careful examination into its 
 significance the Captain placed it one side for later refer- 
 ence if opportunity offered and judgment sanctioned. 
 Knowing that it was there was a distinct safeguard against 
 surprise. Yet when the message came inviting him to 
 Beverly Farms he was interested and pleased to find 
 that it was this fourth interest in his hostess which first 
 expressed its satisfaction. 
 
 The invitation itself was the result of a sudden recol- 
 lection on Lucy's part of a promise which as yet remained 
 unfulfilled. The fortnight which had elapsed since Mar- 
 garet's call, it must be confessed, had been most unin- 
 spiring. She was honestly affected by what Cunningham 
 and Margaret had said to her, and she had tried faith- 
 fully to make a new life for herself along the lines they had 
 suggested. She had the children with her every day, 
 played with them, took them riding with her, and had 
 them at table, and there was no doubt that through this 
 greater familiarity she came to know them better and to 
 enjoy them more. But the fact remained that it was a 
 strain upon her which she found difficult to endure. No 
 day passed without a "scene" of some kind with one or 
 both of them, whenever it became necessary to have the 
 routine depart from what they washed. The control 
 which Susette had previously possessed was noticeably 
 waning, and it was no longer certain that when Lucy 
 turned them over to the governess, after her limitations 
 had been reached, the tempest would come to a sum- 
 mary conclusion. By the time afternoon came Lucy re- 
 tired to her room completely exhausted, unable even with 
 
 [1251
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 closed doors to shut out the memory of the wails which 
 had filled the house w T ith the tragedies of childhood. 
 
 Her moments of relief during this same period were few. 
 Spencer had been very little at the house, remaining 
 away for days together, which was a new thing for him. 
 Her lawyer had written twice, asking if she would make 
 an appointment to talk over the question of her husband's 
 drafts, but the letters remained upon her writing-desk 
 unanswered. Archie Reed stopped at the house one after- 
 noon to take her out in his new machine, but it happened 
 to be at a time when she had thrown herself down with 
 a splitting headache after an unusually violent experience 
 with Larry, and she excused herself, only to regret it a 
 moment after the car passed out of hearing. 
 
 It was impossible for her to continue without some sort 
 of relaxation, and when her mind searched for the specific 
 form she thought of Auchester and her promise. Surely 
 there could be no "indiscretion" in a quiet afternoon's 
 ride with the Captain, and she had made a promise, any 
 way, which she was bound to keep. Neither Ned nor 
 Margaret had suggested that she give up the world 
 altogether. Ned, in fact, had spoken of the legitimate 
 enjoyment of her friends, and this certainly came under 
 that head. 
 
 As arranged over the telephone, Lucy met her guest at 
 Pride's Crossing and then took the familiar shore road 
 through Manchester and Magnolia to Gloucester. The 
 afternoon was warm, but the breeze was off the water, 
 which tempered the air delightfully. Lucy welcomed the 
 Captain with a cordiality which, while restrained for her, 
 yet evidenced a pleasure born of two weeks' seclusion; 
 Auchester was experiencing the enjoyment of a moment 
 which he had been anticipating for over a month. 
 
 [126]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "You are looking tired," he said frankly after the 
 formalities had been exchanged and the car was well 
 under way. 
 
 "I am," she admitted. "This is almost the first relaxa- 
 tion I have had since I saw you last." 
 
 "That won't do," he continued, looking at her quickly. 
 "I have no right to ask, but ' 
 
 "No; it hasn't been Vallie," she smiled, understanding 
 his unspoken question. "As a matter of fact, I presume 
 you have seen more of him lately than I have." 
 
 "I haven't seen him at all. I don't believe he has been 
 in town, I heard he was taking a vacation. " 
 
 "Well, perhaps he is; but he hasn't been home a 
 dozen times since you were down here, so you mustn't 
 blame him for my jaded appearance. To tell you the 
 truth, I'm trying an experiment." 
 
 Auchester made no comment, but was obviously await- 
 ing her further explanation. 
 
 "Yes," she continued; "I am trying to turn over a 
 new leaf. I have been too unconventional and impul- 
 sive; now I shall be so matronly and sedate that you won't 
 recognize me." 
 
 "Your freedom from the slavery of convention has been 
 what I admired the most." 
 
 "I presume that is the very reason Ned thinks it dan- 
 gerous," Lucy replied frankly. 
 
 "Ned? Mr. Cunningham?" Auchester queried. "I 
 don't understand. What has he to do with it? " 
 
 "Everything," she said naively. "Ned and Margaret, 
 you know, are my most intimate friends. I thought I 
 could make my own conventions so long as they affected 
 no one except myself, but I have been persuaded that I 
 am wrong." 
 
 [127]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "What are your own conventions?" 
 
 "Oh, I never tried to put them into words, and perhaps 
 it has been the disregard of what already exist rather than 
 the making of really new ones, and my own." 
 
 "You believed that a woman ought to be allowed to 
 express her personality as naturally as a man expresses 
 his, that was the main point, wasn't it?" 
 
 "Yes; it seems all wrong to me to say one thing and 
 mean another. When I like a woman I don't hesitate to 
 shoV it; why should I act differently with a man?" 
 
 "You can't get up any argument with me on that 
 subject," Auchester assured her, "for I sympathize with 
 you entirely. I see no reason why every one, regardless 
 of sex, should not act himself. That was what I meant 
 when I said that it was this which I so much admire in 
 you. Don't let any one persuade you to give it up, I 
 entreat." 
 
 "But I must," Lucy said with regret in her voice; 
 "Ned is right in saying that this freedom leads on to mis- 
 interpretation, which a woman can't afford. Ned and I 
 don't always agree, but he is never wrong." 
 
 "I envy Mr. Cunningham the closeness of his friend- 
 ship," Auchester said. 
 
 "You needn't; I make him a lot of trouble." 
 
 "I do, even after what you say. I differ from him, but 
 he is probably a safer guide than I, for I refuse to allow 
 even the conventions of men to stand between me and 
 what I believe to be right." 
 
 "How interesting!" Lucy exclaimed; "but I didn't 
 know there were any conventions which men were ex- 
 pected to regard. " 
 
 "Take that of marriage, for instance," Auchester con- 
 tinued. "To me the only sacred part of the sacrament is 
 
 [128]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 that which is not performed by man. The ceremony 
 which is regarded binding is made necessary only to pro- 
 tect civil institutions. A man and a woman who love each 
 other are married before God whether or not the actual 
 ritual has been pronounced." 
 
 "What about a man and a woman who are married 
 without loving each other? " Lucy asked quietly. 
 
 "All that exists in that case is a legal tie which is a 
 mockery to have exist at all." 
 
 Neither one spoke for several moments. Auchester 
 watched his companion carefully as she sat with her 
 face averted, buried deep in thought. No one had ever 
 put the matter before Lucy in just this light, and it was 
 impossible for it to do other than strike home. Auchester 
 intended it to do so, for with his renewed acquaintance 
 his fourth interest had asserted itself. He knew that this 
 woman sitting silently beside him, heedless of the passing 
 panorama, represented to him the ideal of what he wished 
 his wife to be. He held himself a man of honor, and life 
 .itself would never for a moment stand between that honor 
 and its defense; but the simple fact that in the eyes of the 
 law and of society this woman was bound to a man who 
 himself disregarded the tie, in no way seemed to him an 
 obligation which honor should respect. He was not a man 
 to take an underhand advantage. He would fight in the 
 open, just as he had always fought. When his country 
 deemed it necessary to right a wrong by force of arms, alf 
 previously existing laws were cast aside except the one 
 which the force of arms itself represented. It was a similar 
 case now. Lucy Spencer was preordained for him and 
 for no one else. Because a mistake had been made was 
 no reason why it should stand forever. It all rested with 
 her. If she loved him, then he would carry all else before 
 9 [ 129 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 him, take her back with him to England, and surround 
 her with the life to which he believed she naturally 
 belonged. 
 
 Lucy turned to him at length. "I suppose that does 
 describe the relations between Vallie and me," she said, 
 reverting to his last remark. 
 
 "It describes the relations of more married people than 
 you or I have any idea of," Auchester replied; "and oh! 
 the pity of it!" 
 
 She was silent again but for a shorter period. "I don't 
 see any way to remedy it in my case without making 
 things a great deal worse." 
 
 "Unless you met some one for whom you really cared," 
 he said quickly; "then it would be comparatively simple." 
 
 She listened to his answer without remark, for her own 
 words were but an echo from the flood of thought which 
 their conversation had loosened. What had her married 
 life ever meant to her? She had not considered it seriously 
 from the first, rather accepting it as the conventional 
 step to be taken at a certain point in the evolution of the 
 girl into the woman. Yet she had taken the step before 
 that point was reached, for she realized without crystal- 
 lizing the thought that for her womanhood was only just 
 being attained. Had she waited but it was too late to 
 consider that now. 
 
 So deeply was she absorbed that for the moment she 
 forgot her companion. Mechanically, in order to recall 
 herself to the present, she pressed her hand to her fore- 
 head, and then let it fall beside her. She was conscious 
 that it rested upon Auchester's, yet she made no effort 
 to remove it. Only when he gently pressed it did she come 
 fully to herself. 
 
 "Unless you met some one for whom you really cared," 
 [130]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 he repeated meaningly, bending his head a little closer 
 to her face. 
 
 Lucy laughed consciously as she quickly withdrew her 
 hand. "Do you think so?" she asked simply. "It isn't 
 quite so clear to me. But after all," she added, with a 
 return of her earlier smile, "it would be foolish to give 
 our ride up to the consideration of any possibility as 
 remote as that, wouldn't it?" 
 
 1131]
 
 XV 
 
 LAWYERS reserve to themselves the prerogative 
 of postponing to suit their own convenience those 
 questions which they prefer not to face at the 
 moment, but clients have no such privilege. Lucy's 
 attorney, an old-time friend of her father's, was not sur- 
 prised that both his letters requesting an interview re- 
 mained unanswered, for he had known her from childhood 
 and had become familiar with certain of her peculiarities, 
 but he had reached a point where a decision was impera- 
 tive; so, wise man that he was, he trusted no longer to 
 the mails or to the greater uncertainty of a woman's 
 whims. As a still further evidence of his wisdom, he 
 selected as the moment for his call at Beverly Farms the 
 latter part of the morning that time in a woman's 
 day when she is rested from the fatigue of preparation 
 and not as yet overcome by the necessity of exertion. 
 
 Lucy could have given no rational excuse for her failure 
 to reply to his one-sided correspondence, but intuitively 
 she associated the request for an interview with some- 
 thing unexpressed and unexplained which would prove 
 disagreeable; and as a matter of principle she always fled 
 from the unpleasant. There is a bird w r ell-known to 
 natural history which buries its head in the sand when- 
 ever it wishes to escape observation. Metaphorically 
 Lucy resorted to the same expedient when she found her- 
 
 [132]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 self oppressed by a sense of impending discomfort. As 
 long as she could avoid meeting trouble in any form she 
 need not concern herself with its nature. 
 
 The first letter had incidentally referred to the drafts 
 which Spencer had recently made against her estate, of 
 which Mr. Amsden acted as trustee and adviser. The 
 income had always sufficed to gratify every desire Lucy 
 possessed, so she concerned herself little with the adminis- 
 tration, looking upon the necessity of signing papers 
 and agreeing to transfers as among those annoyances 
 incidental to life, which her lawyer made as little irksome 
 as possible. The property was divided into two parts, 
 one being a trust fund, the income from which went 
 directly to her husband, the principal reverting at his 
 death to her or to the children; the balance stood in her 
 name without restriction. 
 
 One of the trials experienced by the trustee was 
 Lucy's unwillingness to keep the two accounts separate. 
 For a number of years, Spencer had drawn for his personal 
 expenditures considerably more than the income from 
 the trust fund, but whenever the subject was brought to 
 her attention she insisted that matters be allowed to run 
 on as they were. Lucy abhorred disagreeing with any one, 
 and she was disappointed that Mr. Amsden had not dis- 
 covered how hard it really was for her to refuse his request 
 to place everything upon a business basis. He had 
 pointed out that this would not necessarily require the 
 curtailing of her husband's expenditures, as she would 
 still be quite free to turn over to him as large a share of 
 her own income as she saw fit; but the present arrange- 
 ment placed the executor in the predicament of assenting 
 to something which was at variance with her father's 
 desires as expressed in the will. 
 
 [133]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 This was undoubtedly the subject which Mr. Amsden 
 had come to discuss, and Lucy was distinctly bored by 
 the prospect ahead of her. The lawyer was an elderly 
 gentleman of the old school, who took the responsibility 
 which her father had placed upon him with the utmost 
 seriousness. His former relations with the family, while 
 Lucy was a child, were those of friend, but from the 
 moment when he entered upon his duties as trustee 
 these relations were completely changed. He now stood 
 in the capacity of a paid retainer, and took every precau- 
 tion necessary to prevent the appearance of combining 
 business and friendship. He guarded Lucy's interests 
 with a protective care which could not have been exceeded 
 were the property his own; secretly he passed hours of 
 anxiety over the extravagances he could but see: yet with 
 studied care he kept his relations with his client well within 
 strictly business limits. 
 
 Lucy was sitting on the piazza, deep in a story of modern 
 society life which was deliciously risque, and she would 
 far rather continue the thrilling tale than be called 
 back to realities by a discussion of anything so hopelessly 
 prosaic as Vallie and money. But Mr. Amsden was a 
 friend albeit an old fogy, and the least she could do was 
 to be civil in exchange for the trouble he had taken. 
 As long as she could, she kept him talking about any- 
 thing and everything rather than the subject which she 
 knew was upon his mind. Mr. Amsden was interested 
 in musical matters, so she asked him innumerable ques- 
 tions regarding the guarantee fund being raised for the 
 Opera, and the prospects for the coming season. The 
 change in the Symphony conductors offered another 
 fruitful subject, and although she knew that his prefer- 
 ences exactly coincided with her own in the discussion 
 
 [134]
 
 then prevalent of the relative merits of the two con- 
 ductors, she deliberately took the opposite side in order 
 to prolong the conversation. But she found herself com- 
 pletely submerged when Mr. Amsden's enthusiasm carried 
 him into a lengthy presentation of what he believed to 
 be mistaken zeal on the part of the smaller men in the 
 modern school of composers, in giving up the expression 
 of their own individuality in their struggle against the 
 obvious. She brought down upon herself the wall of the 
 house, when she had sought only to interpose a screen; 
 and in self-defense she reminded her caller of his probable 
 errand, which was the last thing in the world she had 
 intended to do. 
 
 "I suppose you have some more of those horrid papers 
 for me to sign," she said at length, seeing that Mr. Amsden 
 was about to advance his carefully thought out criticism 
 of modern literature. "Why do I have to do it anyway? 
 I know only what you tell me about things, and you can 
 do it much better yourself." 
 
 "It was not in regard to transfers that I wrote you, 
 Mrs. Spencer," Mr. Amsden said, pausing a moment be- 
 fore his reply in order to grasp firmly the thread of 
 the new line of discourse. "It is the fact that your 
 husband's drafts are now so heavily in excess of his in- 
 come, that I venture to bring the matter to your 
 attention." 
 
 "But we have talked that over several times," Lucy 
 protested. "I have no desire to quarrel with Vallie over 
 a few pennies." 
 
 " But it amounts to very much more than a few pennies, 
 Mrs. Spencer." 
 
 "I know, but just see how the cost of living has gone 
 up since papa arranged what he should spend." 
 
 [135]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Then your instructions are to honor your husband's 
 drafts, no matter how much they exceed the limit your 
 father placed upon him?" 
 
 "I am sure papa would increase his allowance if he were 
 alive," Lucy insisted. "He would understand even better 
 than I do that everything costs more now. I don't want 
 Vallie to think that I begrudge him what he spends." 
 
 "All 1 wish is to learn your exact desires in the matter," 
 Mr. Amsden replied. "I have no right even to suggest 
 what is contrary to your own best judgment, but I feel 
 it my duty to acquaint you with the facts." 
 
 "Duty!" cried Lucy impulsively. "How I am getting 
 to hate that word! Every one is telling me something 
 about 'duty,' and I'm beginning to think it the most 
 hideous word in the language!" 
 
 Mr. Amsden was surprised at Lucy's outbreak, but it 
 did not deter him from delivering his message. "I must 
 tell you, none-the-less, that if you insist upon disregarding 
 the sums your husband draws it will be necessary for you 
 to curtail your own expenses." 
 
 Lucy sat upright, now fully aroused from her indif- 
 ference. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "Has 
 anything happened to niy property?" 
 
 "Nothing," the lawyer replied calmly. "It is yielding 
 more today than it ever has; but there is a limit even 
 to the estate which your father left you." 
 
 "But there never has been before," she protested. 
 "Why should there be now?" 
 
 "Because Mr. Spencer is drawing very much more 
 heavily upon it than ever before." 
 
 Lucy waited for him to continue, but he apparently 
 had no intention of saying more. "How much is Vallie 
 exceeding his allowance?" she asked reluctantly. 
 
 [136]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "During the past three months he has drawn more 
 than twice as much as your father stipulated should be 
 paid him for the entire year." 
 
 This second bit of information staggered Lucy even 
 more than the first. She seldom tried to think in figures, 
 but without much thought she was fully aware that this 
 represented a vast sum of money. 
 
 "What has he done with it?" she asked at length. 
 
 Mr. Amsden shrugged his shoulders. "It would be 
 an impertinence for me even to surmise," he replied. 
 
 "Of course something must be done about it," she 
 admitted. 
 
 " I see no alternative. I am sure he will appreciate the 
 situation when you bring it to his attention." 
 
 "Oh, no!" Lucy cried; "you must do that." 
 
 "I am perfectly willing to see him or to write him; but 
 of course I can act only as your agent." 
 
 "But that wquld be better than for me to say anything 
 to him. Vallie has a brute of a temper, and he has been 
 in a horrible humor lately." 
 
 "If it would be more agreeable to you, I shall be very 
 glad to see him," Mr. Amdsen said, rising. 
 
 "It would be very much more agreeable," she assented. 
 "But do it in such a way that he won't know we've talked 
 it over." 
 
 The lawyer smiled for the first time. "I'm afraid I 
 can't do that," he said. "Mr. Spencer knows that I 
 have no power to restrict." 
 
 "Then there's sure to be a scene." 
 
 "I don't believe Mr. Spencer will be unreason- 
 able," Mr. Amsden replied reassuringly. "He must 
 appreciate that you have been and are more than 
 generous." 
 
 [137]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "You don't know him," Lucy said disconsolately. "I 
 wonder how he has spent all that money." 
 
 Mr. Amsden either could not or was unwilling to satisfy 
 her curiosity. He repeated his willingness to acquaint 
 her husband with the decision she had arrived at, ex- 
 pressed his high personal esteem, and took his departure. 
 
 Lucy was thrown into a fit of blues after the lawyer's 
 visit from which she found it difficult to extricate herself. 
 Money had meant nothing to her, for she had not been 
 obliged to regard it as other than a medium of exchange. 
 During her father's life she was gratified in every desire 
 of her heart, great or small, and his careful provision for 
 her comfort after his death had enabled her to continue 
 along the same easy path. The fact that Vallie had in a 
 measure been dependent upon her since their marriage 
 had signified little. There was enough for both, and it 
 seemed perfectly natural that they both should draw 
 upon the same common fund. She could not imagine him 
 earning his own living, so, if she had thought of it at 
 all, her comparison would have been as between the small 
 income he received from his comparatively meager prop- 
 erty and her own substantial one. But the astounding 
 amount he had drawn during the past three months for 
 the first time caused her to focus her mind upon a subject 
 which had never before come up between them. 
 
 It was true that the controlling interest lay in Lucy's 
 curiosity regarding the occasion which had demanded 
 such expenditures. She knew that Vallie gambled freely, 
 and that he usually lost, but this would not explain the 
 size of the drafts. He must have been speculating, which 
 she remembered her father to have called the most vicious 
 form of gambling. This explanation in a measure satisfied 
 her, and her mind next turned to the probable effect 
 
 [138]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Mr. Amsden's interview with Vallie would have upon her. 
 He would be very angry, she was sure. But the lawyer 
 had spoken of the generosity she had always shown him, 
 and he was right. As she thought it over, she had been 
 generous, though this fact had never before impressed 
 itself upon her. And what had Vallie ever done to show 
 his appreciation? Nothing, absolutely nothing. He 
 accepted it all as a commonplace fact, and then neglected 
 her. He wouldn't care if his overdrafts forced her to 
 curtail her own expenses; he would probably expect her 
 to do so. Then she remembered her conversation with 
 Auchester: he thought her a fool to endure Vallie's 
 neglect, she could see that. What would he say if he knew 
 that all she meant to her husband now was a source of 
 supply? Her life with him was a mockery, just as the 
 Captain said. Cunningham would have her endure it 
 all for the sake of the children, her salvation! She 
 wondered just how each of these two men would answer 
 her question if she put it to him squarely. Why should 
 she wonder? She knew! Auchester was a man through 
 and through, with red blood coursing in his veins, with a 
 true appreciation of what life meant, and the right each 
 one had to live his own and in his own way. But that was 
 exactly what Vallie was doing, only there was a difference 
 in that he was living his life on her money. Cunningham 
 had different ideals. He saw everything from a legal 
 standpoint. She had rights, but they could not be ex- 
 ercised separately from Vallie's or the children's. And 
 he believed in "duty"! Oh, what an ugly word! She 
 had lived with it, slept with it, dreamed of it, and almost 
 perished of ennui in the experience. Two men, both in 
 the world and of it, yet taking so different a view- 
 point of all which surrounded them! She had accepted 
 
 [139]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Cunningham as guide and mentor. Why should she 
 choose him rather than Auchester? The Captain was cer- 
 tainly the more agreeable companion. He never scolded 
 her for acts of folly; he admired her freedom from con- 
 ventionality, and told her not to be persuaded to act like 
 other women just because other women acted as they 
 did. Cunningham treated her as a child, and so did 
 Margaret. 
 
 Back and forth like a shuttlecock she tossed the con- 
 flicting thoughts, one moment full of gratitude to Cunning- 
 ham for his friendship, the next, rebelling against his 
 watchfulness over her. One moment happy in the memory 
 of some word of praise from Auchester, the next, fright- 
 ened by the social heresy expressed in his views. But 
 all the time her heart debated, with the fiercest argu- 
 ments pro and con, which man's view of life was right, 
 which one's? 
 
 [1401
 
 XVI 
 
 A UCHESTER, experienced soldier that he was, had 
 /% carefully worked out his plan for an attack upon 
 -*- -^- the citadel of a woman's heart. He was convinced 
 that at present it was unoccupied, and that its only pro- 
 tective ramparts were the original fortifications built of im- 
 perfect materials. Lucy was inured to the habit of being 
 married, and convention had brought her to the point of 
 believing that the citadel could never again be stormed. 
 Her innocence in this respect, so at variance with her dis- 
 regard of other conventions, struck the Captain as a 
 curious paradox; but with him affairs had reached a point 
 where everything she did, and the original way in which 
 she did it, made her that much more appealing. 
 
 The method of his attack was subtle arid to that extent 
 expressive of himself. One less experienced than the 
 Captain would have sent her flowers and candy, but 
 this would have been commonplace. Auchester was far 
 above the commonplace, so instead of these obvious evi- 
 dences of admiration he sent her sometimes a bit of rare 
 china or lace, sometimes fruit which must have come from 
 the uttermost parts of the earth, sometimes merely a 
 verse of poetry; but each token was of such a nature that 
 it could not fail to arouse her curiosity, thus requiring 
 an explanation and serving to keep the donor very much 
 before her mind's eye. The attack was only a sortie at 
 
 [141]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 first, but as the citadel gave no evidences of self-defense 
 he became more bold, and Lucy came to look forward to 
 the arrival of each mysterious package as an oasis in the 
 monotony of her daily routine. 
 
 There was no disguising the fact that the daily routine 
 was monotonous, and that this summer, as far as Lucy's 
 enjoyment was concerned, had been a dismal failure. In 
 other years each week had been filled with excitement 
 of one sort or another, and the days fled past with in- 
 credible speed. Now it was an event even to have the 
 monotony broken at all. She was lonely and unhappy, 
 and during the many hours in which she found too much 
 opportunity to think she tried to explain to herself just 
 what the difference was, and how it had come about. Of 
 course the main cause was the change in herself, under the 
 direct influence of Margaret and Cunningham. She had 
 accepted their viewpoint more by way of atonement than 
 because she believed it to be right. She knew that she 
 had done wrong in giving way to her impulse with Ned, 
 but she wondered if her atonement was not by this time 
 complete. She had never made girl friends, even as a 
 child. As she became older, other women were frightened 
 off by her frank disregard of conventional sobriety, and 
 her preference for men kept them on the footing of ac- 
 quaintances only. There had always been an army of 
 men flocking in Lucy's wake, but now they had fallen off, 
 one by one, until she was left almost to herself; and as a 
 result of her previous indifference she had no one else to 
 rely upon. She could not understand why they had 
 deserted her. Earlier in the summer they had appeared 
 as usual, dropping in for tea or to pick her up for a motor 
 ride, or inviting her to some event at one or another 
 of the clubs; but for the past month Cunningham and 
 
 [142]
 
 Auchester were the only men who had shown the slightest 
 interest in her existence. It must be that the new kind of 
 life she was trying to lead had made her less attractive, 
 and she knew that another month of similar experience 
 would make her so spiritless as to put her out of the run- 
 ning forever. Lucy saw visions rising before her of be- 
 coming an old woman at twenty-eight ! And what really 
 was being gained? 
 
 In the exact fulfillment of her promise to Cunningham 
 she passed a part of each day with the children, but she 
 had not yet succeeded in making it other than a perfunc- 
 tory performance. She tried to play with them, but it 
 was utterly unreasonable that they should expect her 
 actually to sit on the sand and ruin her new morning gown. 
 She was quite ready to help them build forts if they would 
 find some shady place, but she couldn't be of much assist- 
 ance with only one hand, and if she laid down her sunshade 
 her face would become horribly freckled. The one success 
 she felt she had attained was in reading them stories. This 
 came just before bed-time when they were tired enough 
 to keep still, and she did feel a certain degree of pleasure, 
 and a new sensation, in having Babs cuddle contentedly 
 in her lap, while Larry, sitting cross-legged on the floor, 
 listened with wide-open eyes to the wonderful experiences 
 of Aladdin or Perseus or Ulysses. Why could they not 
 always be quiet like this? Yet, had she thought, they could 
 hardly have been her children if they had responded to 
 the wish! Lucy really believed that if they could he 
 subdued she might find in them some real companion- 
 ship just as Ned suggested; but she was still convinced 
 that this time could never come until they were grown up 
 into rational beings. 
 
 Vallie became more and more altered as the summer 
 [143J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 progressed. Whether it was because Lucy had fewer of 
 her own interests to think about, or whether the change 
 was as complete as it now appeared to her, she could not 
 determine; but she found it difficult to explain to herself 
 how she had endured him these years without arriving 
 at her present conclusions earlier. At all events, until 
 this summer he had not disclosed how disagreeable he 
 could be. She was perfectly familiar with his negative 
 qualities, but she had not realized how hopelessly unin- 
 teresting he was. His business was nothing but a pretext 
 for getting away from the house, and his time divided 
 itself between various forms of personal enjoyment in no 
 one of which he excelled. Whatever best there was in 
 him must be given to his friends, for Lucy was certain 
 that they would not endure the surly, uncomfortable dis- 
 position which he exhibited at home. Cunningham was 
 a man of action and a man of character, making each day 
 count for something, and making Margaret's life worth 
 living. He too had changed since Lucy's foolish esca- 
 pade with him, and she missed the previous relations; still 
 she could but respect him for it after all. With the re- 
 sentment which she experienced at times toward the 
 restraint which he had actually imposed upon her, and 
 what she felt to be the unfair outcome of it all, she ad- 
 mired him more than any man she had ever met; and 
 even when she blamed him most she was unconsciously 
 proud that she meant enough to him to warrant the 
 friendship which he extended. 
 
 In comparing Vallie with Cunningham Lucy inevitably 
 included Auchester. He too was a man of action, and 
 while of a type quite different from Ned, yet he also ex- 
 tracted from each day's experience something to count 
 in the grand total of what he was. To his magnetic pres- 
 
 [144]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 ence and undoubted attainments was also added a certain 
 degree of mystery, which deepened as their acquaintance 
 ripened. He had spoken of coming into his property on 
 the death of his brother, and at the same time of assum- 
 ing the position of head of his ancestral house. Several 
 times Lucy had been on the point of questioning him, 
 but with unusual restraint for her, or because there was 
 something about the Captain which indicated that what 
 he wished to have known was spoken without request, 
 she had always refrained. There was no mystery about 
 Vallie: any one could read his entire character in the 
 brief space of time necessary for an introduction. There 
 was little of the mysterious about Cunningham: her 
 interest in him was because of his strength mellowed 
 by a tenderness which was almost womanly; her interest 
 in Auchester was the expression of a gratified pride height- 
 ened by curiosity. 
 
 Mr. Amsden had been prompt in carrying through his 
 interview with Spencer. Lucy was on the watch for 
 those unmistakable evidences in her husband's disposi- 
 tion which would indicate that the blow had fallen, and 
 she discovered them long before he chose to begin the 
 conversation which she knew was bound to come. In the 
 first place, when she came down stairs at her usual hour, 
 she found him nervously pacing the piazza, having had 
 his breakfast two hours earlier. Then again, he \\;is 
 obviously waiting for a chance to talk with her, when for 
 weeks he had done all in his power to avoid conversation; 
 and last, but not of least importance, Lucy sensed that 
 he had keyed himself up to a high pitch in preparation 
 for a great event. And of course the only "great event" 
 which could possibly be considered as interesting them 
 both was the question of his income. 
 10 [ 145 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 He paused abruptly in his sentry-like pacing when he 
 heard her descending step upon the hallway stairs, and 
 stood looking in at her through the broad open door. She 
 saw it all coming and longed to run away. Conditions 
 have much to do with the making of heroes as well as 
 cowards, and when even the most timid find themselves 
 face to face with that which they have dreaded, with every 
 avenue of escape closed against them, it is seldom that 
 they fail to rise to the emergency. So it was with Lucy: 
 Vallie showed his nervousness plainly; she was outwardly 
 as cool as if this had been an ordinary morning, with 
 nothing more unpleasant ahead of her than the prospect 
 of another day of ennui. 
 
 "Good morning, Vallie," she said cheerfully, rinding 
 that she must speak or else pass by him in silence. " You're 
 up early, aren't you? Didn't you sleep well?" 
 
 "I want to talk with you," he replied abruptly, ignoring 
 her questions. 
 
 "Not until I've had some breakfast," Lucy protested, 
 seeing an opportunity to postpone the interview a few 
 moments longer; "I didn't eat a thing up stairs, and 
 truly I'm famished!" 
 
 "I've been waiting for you all the morning," Vallie 
 urged. "Why can't I talk to you while you're taking 
 your breakfast?" 
 
 "Oh, no, Vallie; you know I'm never in good humor 
 until after I've had my coffee." 
 
 This argument had its appeal. "All right," he yielded; 
 "but don't be long." 
 
 "I won't, dear," she replied, pleased to have gained 
 even a brief respite; then as Vallie resumed his pacings 
 up and down, the incongruity of the epithet she had just 
 used struck her forcefully. How easily, she thought, these 
 
 [146]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 terms of endearment become the expression of the lips 
 and not the heart! 
 
 She could not remember ever having eaten so hearty a 
 breakfast as she did that morning, yet the end was bound 
 to come at last and with it the beginning of the ordeal, 
 for she had no notion that they could conclude matters at a 
 single session. Bracing herself to meet it, she lighted a 
 cigarette and strolled leisurely out upon the piazza, settling 
 herself comfortably in her favorite chair. 
 
 "Now, Vallie," she said, "here I am; fire away." 
 
 Spencer came to a full stop in his walk as she 
 appeared, and remained motionless while she adjusted 
 herself. His hands were dug deep down into the pockets 
 of his flannel trousers, and his white yachting cap, which 
 he had affected since his intimacy with Eustis, was 
 set rakishly on the back of his head. As Lucy spoke he 
 came over to her chair and leaned against the railing of 
 the piazza, facing her. 
 
 "What's this game you and Amsden have cooked up 
 to put me in leading strings?" he demanded abruptly. 
 
 "Didn't Mr. Amsden tell you the whole story, just as 
 he did me?" 
 
 "He told me what he chose to tell, or what you 
 told him." 
 
 "I told him nothing except to explain the situation 
 to you exactly as he had to me." 
 
 "Then I have to account to you for every cent I spend?" 
 Vallie asked in an ugly tone. 
 
 "Is that what Mr. Amsden suggested?" 
 
 "That's what it amounted to. You know I can't live 
 on the niggardly allowance your father stipulated. Why, 
 Eustis' yacht costs him more than that." 
 
 "Mr. Eustis uses his yacht as a home," Lucy suggested, 
 [147]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "and your home costs more than that; but you don't 
 have to pay for it out of your allowance." 
 
 "I never thought things would come to this pass." he 
 muttered, leaving her statement unchallenged. 
 
 " Until Mr. Amsden called my attention to it I supposed 
 there was enough income to satisfy everybody," Lucy 
 continued quietly; "but we can't spend more than we 
 have, can we?" 
 
 "It is only necessary to readjust matters," he urged. 
 "I have never before been so humiliated, and I won't 
 be again. You certainly don't need all you get, and I 
 want you to fix things so that I may receive my share 
 without having to sit up and beg for it." 
 
 "Is what you have drawn during the past three months 
 what you consider your share, Vallie?" 
 
 "Yes," he exclaimed boldly, seeing in Lucy's calmness 
 a chance to carry his point. 
 
 "Do you realize that this would give you for your 
 personal expenses four times as much as would be left 
 for the children and me, not even taking the expenses of 
 the house into consideration? Of course the estate isn't 
 large enough to stand that." 
 
 Spencer, knowing her dislike for mathematics, had not 
 expected to find Lucy so well posted as to figures, and he 
 held this up as another grudge against "Poppy" Amsden, 
 as he called him. 
 
 "As it is now, I get only one- tenth of the income, 
 
 "You mean that you are only entitled to get that 
 amount," Lucy corrected. 
 
 " Well, put it that way if you choose. I can't live on it, 
 and I won't. I only want my share, but I insist on having 
 that. Suppose we divide the income. I could probably 
 get along on that." 
 
 [148]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Lucy's thoughts came faster than her words. Today 
 for the first time this summer her husband had sought 
 her companionship, and even now it was not because he 
 felt that he owed her anything of himself, or because he 
 wanted to be with her. It was purely a business con- 
 ference, into which trade and barter were the only ele- 
 ments to enter. Would Cunningham have done this with 
 Margaret? she asked herself; would Auchester have done 
 it with her, or with any other woman? As she had thought, 
 she stood to her husband only as a source of supply, yet 
 before the world they jointly stood as man and wife, 
 linked by the holiest chain which love can forge. Oh, the 
 pity of it ! her heart moaned, as she looked out from the 
 depths of her great brown eyes and regarded this man, 
 whom she should respect as her life's companion and as 
 the father of her children, first begging and then de- 
 manding as his right that which now alone remained to 
 make her necessary to his existence! 
 
 Spencer thought his wife's silence signified that she 
 was considering his proposition, and the fact that she 
 entertained it at all gave him courage. This confidence 
 left him unprepared for Lucy's question. 
 
 "Have you ever thought," she spoke as if thinking 
 aloud, "that perhaps it would be better for both of us if 
 we called the whole thing off?" 
 
 "Called what off?" he asked in a puzzled tone. 
 
 "This being married, when there really isn't anything 
 to it." 
 
 "You have your marriage certificate, haven't you?" 
 he laughed coarsely. 
 
 "I don't mean the legal side of it," Lucy explained, 
 trying to recall the exact words which Auchester had 
 used. "The only real marriage, you know, is that which 
 isn't performed by man at all." 
 
 [149]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Vallie laughed again. "What have you been doing, 
 reading poetry?" 
 
 "I'm really serious," Lucy insisted. "I've been think- 
 ing a good deal about it lately. I evidently bore you to 
 the extent of driving you away from home most of the 
 time, and I'm frank to say that you don't contribute 
 enough to my life to give me a great amount of 
 inspiration." 
 
 "Has this something to do with the money question we 
 are discussing?" he demanded, suspicious for the first 
 time. 
 
 "No," she answered. "I just wondered whether you 
 felt as I did." 
 
 "Do you mean that you want to be free so that you 
 can marry some one else?" 
 
 " I can't imagine such a thing. You can take a chance 
 on anything once, you know, but it's your own fault if 
 you make the second mistake." 
 
 "Well," he said, calming down, "if you have serious 
 thoughts of suggesting a separation, you had better talk 
 some more with 'Poppy' Amsden. He may tell you a 
 thing or two. First of all, you have to have some grounds 
 for a thing of that sort, and being bored won't go. Now 
 about this other matter, do you agree to an equal division 
 of the income?" 
 
 "I don't believe I do, Vallie. Suppose I instructed Mr. 
 Amsden to let you draw twice the amount papa arranged 
 for you." 
 
 "But I've had more than that these last five years," 
 he protested warmly. 
 
 "Does it run back as far as that?" she asked mildly. 
 "Then, as Mr. Amsden says, I think I have been foolishly 
 generous." 
 
 [1501
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "It isn't a question of generosity," Spencer replied 
 hotly; "it's my right. I'm your husband, and I insist 
 upon being treated as such." 
 
 Lucy sat up in her chair and looked him full in the face. 
 She felt a new strength given to her, though she knew not 
 whence it came. She had not intended to quarrel with 
 him. She had been quite ready to concede much rather 
 than become embroiled, but the thoughts which had 
 come to her during their interview, and the unexpected 
 turn it had taken, led to the least expected thing of all. 
 Vallie's last words touched a spring which released an 
 avalanche of feeling, and her words came fast and self- 
 marshalled as she replied: 
 
 "You my husband, Vallie?" she exclaimed. "What 
 have you ever given me in token of it? We have lived 
 together under the same roof, but that doesn't make you 
 my husband. Our lives have been separate, and you have 
 given me of yourself only when no more attractive alter- 
 native offered. You have left me alone all summer, and 
 today the only reason you have sought me out is to get 
 from me more money money money. After having 
 lived all these years on my generosity, you would take 
 it all if you could get it. You my husband and de- 
 manding rights! I am the one who should demand. I 
 agree to nothing. The only hold I have on you at all is 
 this hateful money, and I'm not such a fool as to give it 
 up. If what papa arranged for you to have is not enough 
 for you to live upon, then get out and earn some more as 
 other men are doing, or stay at home which is still less 
 expensive. I am tired to death of the whole thing. I 
 won't talk about it any more, so that's the end of it." 
 
 Spencer was completely staggered by Lucy's harangue. 
 It was the last thing he had expected, and he had sense 
 
 [151]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 enough to see that he had over-reached himself. If she 
 stood by her ultimatum his position was serious, for in 
 addition to the amounts he had drawn there was still 
 another considerable sum accumulated in unpaid bills, 
 which he could not possibly satisfy with only his regular 
 allowance to depend upon. But he knew Lucy, and this 
 was simply another of her momentary whims. He would 
 make himself agreeable to her for a while and she would 
 then become reasonable. But it was not wise for him 
 to retreat too openly, or his motive would be suspected. 
 Lucy was prepared for an angry outburst, but instead 
 he assumed a dignity of which she had not supposed him 
 capable. "You do me a great injustice," was all he said, 
 as he turned from her and entered the house. 
 
 [152]
 
 XVII 
 
 THERE were reasons beyond that which Lucy gave 
 in answer to her own inquiring mind to explain the 
 difference between this summer and others which 
 had preceded it. First of all, she overlooked the fact 
 that the merry gatherings at the Spencer "cottage" had not 
 merely happened, but were the result of her own planning 
 and invitation. Vallie had made his home his head- 
 quarters for entertaining, and while the groups of friends 
 frequently assembled as the result of separate invitations, 
 and each group found its enjoyment in its own peculiar 
 way, yet there was a mingling which tended to keep the 
 action at fever heat most of the time. Perhaps the fact 
 that Lucy forswore these gay experiences this summer may 
 have had something to do with Vallie's change of base 
 to Eustis' yacht; but whatever the occasion, life at the 
 "cottage" had certainly assumed a deep drab hue. 
 
 It was quite true, as Lucy said, that the men who had 
 flocked about her at other times missed the daring cama- 
 raderie which they had come to associate with her per- 
 sonality. The change which had come over her proved a 
 large topic of conversation among the men, and various 
 reasons were assigned. The fact that Vallie was so much 
 away from home suggested certain unpleasant possibilities; 
 the persistent rumor, starting none knew where, that 
 
 [153]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Cunningham was the occasion of the obvious coolness 
 between husband and wife, made them wonder what fire 
 was smouldering to warrant so much smoke . Even Archie 
 Reed, usually the last in any group to discover the real 
 point, recalled the fact that Lucy had made a pretext not 
 to see him when he called, and he now became convinced 
 that it was because she feared to give Vallie further 
 cause for jealousy. Yet through it all Lucy was not with- 
 out her defenders, but the consensus of opinion among 
 the men was that it might be just as well to go slowly 
 as a safeguard against later complications. The memory 
 had not left them of the hasty trip abroad which Miller 
 took two years before, just because he happened to be 
 with another attractive little woman at the particular 
 moment when her husband's jealousy at last burst forth. 
 Of course the real man in the case was finally brought to 
 light, but it was a bit unpleasant for poor Miller to receive 
 the first force of the storm when the lady in question had 
 used him simply as a buffer to protect the object of her 
 affections. To a certain extent Miller had lost caste with 
 his fellow-bachelors for his lack of judgment, and no one 
 else cared to run the risk of a similar fall from a similar 
 cause. A married man may perhaps be forgiven for over- 
 confidence in his friendship for other men's wives, but 
 the bachelor's most important asset is his ability to 
 discriminate. 
 
 The effect of this discrimination was that the men made 
 no advances in Lucy's direction, and she did not specific- 
 ally invite them. Her neighbors, who had never been 
 too neighborly, joked about Mrs. Chanuing's reception 
 at the Spencers', but the vivid account given by that 
 estimable lady to her friends of the cigarettes, cocktails, 
 decollete gowns, and lingerie which played so important 
 
 [154]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 a part on that memorable occasion, did not result in 
 adding to Lucy's visiting list. The men, it is true, on 
 hearing the same story, pronounced it "a rare one," 
 and would have canonized Lucy on the spot. That was 
 because they had seen Lucy and probably preferred the 
 way she wore her hair to the antique mode affected by Mrs. 
 Channing; but while the men on the North Shore may 
 canonize, they may not make up the visiting lists. 
 
 So, with slight variations, too unimportant to change 
 conditions, Lucy's only visitors were Margaret, Cunning- 
 ham, and Auchester. Margaret stuck bravely to her task, 
 and did her best to bring Lucy and the children together, 
 but as time went on without accomplishing the desired 
 result she wondered at the lack of motherly instinct which 
 was really the only obstructing element. The children 
 sensed this lack though they could not have explained it, 
 and Lucy, comprehending just as little, lost heart and 
 courage in the face of constant rebuffs. At first Margaret 
 thought it due to selfishness, but when she discovered how 
 miserable Lucy was, and how desperately she tried to 
 advance her misconceived and misdirected plans, it be- 
 came only too evident that the mistakes were due to a 
 lack of knowing how. 
 
 Who can tell a mother how to love her child? If the 
 first spark of life that electric message from the Al- 
 mighty Father that he has granted woman a share in His 
 immortal work fails to enkindle in the mother heart the 
 flame which illumines all the world, more could scarcely 
 be expected from human agency. Margaret lost patience 
 often, but as often was filled with pity for the struggling, 
 suffering spirit, beating its bruised wings against imagi- 
 nary bars, its heart aching for something to relieve its pain, 
 when all the time salvation lay near at hand, obscured only 
 
 [ 155 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 by the scales which covered the searching eyes ! Margaret 
 fully shared her husband's belief that the children were 
 Lucy's only avenue of escape, and it seemed to her so 
 obvious that she did not sense the necessity of supplying 
 Lucy with some alternative to serve as anchorage until the 
 missing buoy be found. 
 
 When Cunningham was prevented from going to her, 
 either with Margaret or alone, Lucy, unable to endure 
 her loneliness, did not hesitate to go to him. In fact there 
 was little which happened which she did not confide. 
 He was uncomfortable about her frequent calls at his 
 office, yet he realized that this was an outlet for her 
 pent-up thoughts, and it was safer for her to express these 
 to him than to any one else. Thus he came to know of the 
 situation with Vallie, and the stand which she took regard- 
 ing his drafts upon her estate encouraged him to believe 
 that the womanhood which he was sure existed was really 
 there, and would eventually come to the surface. What 
 Margaret told him of her own experiences was discourag- 
 ing, what he himself saw would have made another man 
 wonder if his advice had not been wrong; but with Cun- 
 ningham a situation which was logically correct could not 
 contain an error. So he comforted and encouraged her 
 as best he could; told her that her suggestion of separation 
 was all right to frighten Vallie into good behavior, but 
 was not to be seriously considered for a moment; urged 
 her to gather around herself certain of the friends whom 
 she had enjoyed, and to lead with them a rational ex- 
 istence; and, particularly, to train herself to a better 
 understanding of her children. 
 
 If Cunningham noticed the curious omission of all 
 reference to Auchester in the confidence Lucy gave him, 
 he did not mention it. He may have thought it unwise to 
 
 [156]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 suggest a name which in his heart he hoped had been 
 forgotten. Lucy was conscious of the fact, and she thought 
 a good deal about it. There was no reason why she 
 should avoid mentioning the Captain, yet she did avoid 
 it. Perhaps she feared Cunningham would insist upon her 
 giving up what had really become her only relief. She 
 had sacrificed already more than Ned had any right to 
 ask, yet she knew in her heart that if he insisted upon it she 
 would also give up Auchester. It was all too paradoxical 
 for her to comprehend. Both men were friends, one of 
 whom held her back from living her own life, the other 
 encouraged her to be herself and contributed to such 
 happiness as now remained to her. Cunningham con- 
 tributed nothing but advice, and hateful advice at that. 
 She was under no obligation to either. Yet and this 
 was the curious part of it she could not get Cunningham 
 out of her mind whenever Auchester was with her. Try 
 as she would to throw herself wholly into the enjoyment 
 of the Captain's companionship, there sat the ghost, 
 Banquo-like, urging her not to be herself. 
 
 Auchester was conscious of the restraint but he was 
 by no means discouraged. The change in Lucy's attitude 
 had come over her during their brief acquaintanceship, 
 and it had answered a question that at first had puzzled 
 him: she was a woman of character, and the unconven- 
 tionality which he had admired and yet questioned was 
 not the result of loose ideas of right and wrong, but rather 
 a confidence in her strength to be her own judge between 
 the two elements. This other influence, which he now 
 knew was Cunningham, was striving, from motives which 
 the Captain could not comprehend, to force Lucy back 
 into the ranks of those not strong enough to think for 
 themselves, for in Auchester's mind it was an admission 
 
 [157]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 of weakness to allow the world to make so vital a decision. 
 The influence was powerful, yet it caused him no anxiety 
 after he discovered what kind of man Cunningham was. 
 Sometime he would also discover what prompted this 
 apparently disinterested friend; but in the meanwhile 
 Auchester contented himself with the opportunities Lucy 
 afforded him to supply the antidote. Whenever he was with 
 her he skilfully led the conversation into channels which 
 bore upon the subject he had most at heart, and he knew 
 that the very influence exercised by Cunningham made 
 Lucy the more susceptible to his views. 
 
 Auchester was not a psychologist, but he found exquisite 
 pleasure in studying the personality of the woman who 
 had come so unexpectedly yet so strongly into his life. 
 He experienced, with her, the pain sensations and the 
 pleasure sensations as they became fused, and gradually 
 shaped themselves into a well-defined personality. It 
 gave him joy to realize that in this way she was already a 
 part of him and he of her, and that he knew her better 
 than any one else, even better than she herself. He made 
 himself a part of each passing mood, crystallized into words 
 half-thoughts which she could not have expressed, antici- 
 pated her intuitions, and explained her dreamy vagaries. 
 The psychologist would have felt it necessary to analyze 
 these expressions of will and emotion, and to decompose 
 them into their separate elements ; Auchester was content 
 to feel them without analysis, to accept them with no 
 other explanation than that they formed a part of the 
 personality which he loved with an intensity character- 
 istic of himself. 
 
 Lucy talked as freely with him about Vallie as she did 
 with Cunningham, except that she made no reference to 
 the money complication. She would have thought this 
 
 [158]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 an evidence of bad taste; but the intimate way in which 
 Auchester had been a part of one side of Vallie's degrada- 
 tion made her feel that it was perfectly natural for her to 
 express her exact feelings toward her husband. It would 
 be absurd to attempt any concealment after what he had 
 seen that night. She even thought that she talked im- 
 personally about it, and the Captain never took advantage 
 of what she said. He kept insisting upon the inalienable 
 right which every person had to live his own life, it is true; 
 he repeated his own convictions that marriage automat- 
 ically ceased to exist as an institution the moment love 
 failed to control ; he insisted that she owed it to herself to 
 rectify any early mistake she might have made in this 
 respect w r hen the right time came : but he made no personal 
 application, so must have been discussing it as an abstruse 
 question. He never made love to her or suggested that 
 their relations were other than those which should exist 
 between the best of friends, and in her heart she 
 thanked God for this friendship. 
 
 Yet against his arguments and ideas were those of 
 Cunningham's, which she could not disassociate. The 
 moments of exhilaration after visits with Auchester were 
 followed by depression which more than offset the relief 
 she believed that she had found. She lost patience with 
 herself. She was weak and unsubstantial. She allowed 
 herself to be influenced beyond reason, and had reached 
 a point where her own personality had become negative. 
 Vallie was the only one she could stand up against now. 
 With Cunningham or with Auchester she simply reflected 
 what they were. She must make a stand against herself. 
 She would take the best which Cunningham had given 
 her and the best which she had assimilated from Auchester, 
 and merging this with what she knew to be the best in 
 
 [159]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 herself she would leave the vacillating nonentity Lucy 
 Spencer behind her. She would live her own life in her 
 own way in spite of all: that much of what the Captain 
 said at all events was wise; she would show Cunningham 
 and Vallie and the world that she was a real person after 
 all. The experiences she had passed through would help 
 her: she had learned to control her impulses, but she would 
 not kill them. They had never injured any one, she 
 repeated over and over again, why should Ned be so 
 severe upon her? 
 
 [160]
 
 XVIII 
 
 VALLIE found her in this unusual state when he 
 unexpectedly returned to the house on this 
 particular evening. He was not certain whether 
 it presaged well or ill to his own affairs, but the time 
 was near at hand when matters must again be discussed. 
 And as he had heard her say that one can always take a 
 chance once, he decided to take that chance. 
 
 He came down to dinner dressed in the pink of perfec- 
 tion. He had been to the city for the first time in a week, 
 and because of this Lucy was prepared for an unusually 
 disagreeable time when she saw him appear. In fact she 
 had hoped that he would dine anywhere except at home, 
 for she was in a mood so different from that which had 
 obsessed her during the past few weeks that she resented 
 any possibility of being forced back into the depths. 
 Valentine was obviously uncomfortable and dusty when 
 he returned, but at dinner time he blossomed forth like 
 the rose. From his immaculate white dinner jacket and 
 soft tucked shirt to the tip of his shiny pump he was a 
 picture of luxurious undress. Lucy regarded him in sur- 
 prise and admiration: surprise, for it had been months 
 since he had so honored her; admiration for the smartness 
 of the man's appearance. As she once said, "Vallie is 
 such a good looking boy if you only see his clothes.'' He 
 11 [ 161 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 was conscious of the impression he made and enjoyed it, 
 but to prevent any suspicion of this from entering Lucy's 
 head he pulled a lavender silk handkerchief from his coat 
 sleeve and nonchalantly flecked at an imaginary speck 
 upon his foot. She watched him as he drew a chair 
 beside hers and seated himself. Then, at length, their 
 eyes met and both smiled. 
 
 "Who's coming?" Lucy asked. 
 
 "No one," he replied, with a fairly successful attempt 
 to look surprised at the question, "why?" 
 
 "You're staying home, and you're doing the double- 
 edge for the family." 
 
 "Oh!" Spencer articulated, rising and standing in 
 front of her. "Do you like it?" 
 
 "Stunning," she replied; "did you just get it?" 
 
 "Yes; the tailor was disagreeable about my overdue 
 account, and I could only pacify him by ordering another 
 suit." 
 
 "Anything that looks as well as that is an absolute 
 necessity. And you're really going to stay home and have 
 dinner just with me? " Lucy was still incredulous. 
 
 "Why not?" he asked magnanimously; "might go 
 further and fare worse." 
 
 Her mood of the moment was such that it did not de- 
 mand explanations. She felt that today she had broken 
 the bonds of servitude, and it seemed natural that all 
 around her, without knowing the mental process which 
 had produced her metamorphosis, should feel the change 
 in temperature. In the past it had not been necessary 
 for her to cry out for companionship; that sad condition 
 had come only since she had tried to live her life some one 
 else's way. Now she was herself again, and the first 
 result was that her husband was at her feet. 
 
 [162]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 She smiled contentedly. "This shows how foolish 
 premonitions are," she said. "Every time, lately, when 
 I have begun to feel happy, something has occurred to 
 give me a worse fit of the blues than the last. I was sure 
 it was going to happen again tonight." 
 
 "I've been in the dumps myself all summer." Vallie 
 consoled her by sharing the common cause. "It hasn't 
 been exactly a screamer, has it?" 
 
 "Beastly!" she said emphatically. "You've been gay 
 enough, but mine has been a lingering death. I don't 
 see w r hy you should have been down." 
 
 "Debts," he answered briefly. 
 
 "But Vallie " 
 
 "Dinner is served," the maid announced. 
 
 They rose mechanically and moved toward the dining- 
 room. Affairs were happening well for Spencer, and he 
 blessed the maid for timing her appearance so opportunely. 
 
 "Let me mix you a new cocktail," he volunteered; 
 "it's a great one for a warm night." 
 
 Lucy had told Mrs. Charming that her husband could 
 mix cocktails in three different languages, but this was a 
 fourth, or more properly speaking a dialect. She watched 
 him deftly turn the demijohn of Jamaica rum into the 
 crotch of his arm, and pour from it into the silver shaker. 
 Then he dropped in a lime, "just to cut it" as he explained, 
 and completed the mixture from the bottle of Italian 
 vermouth. 
 
 "There!" he exclaimed, quite in his element as he paused 
 after a vigorous shaking; "that is straight from the 
 tropics. One of the boys was cruising down there and he 
 brought me this demijohn and the receipt." 
 
 "What do you call it?" Lucy asked, tasting it with a 
 degree of suspicion. "My! but it is good!" 
 
 [163]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Swizzle," Vallie replied; "down there they mix it up 
 with a stick they call swizzle." 
 
 "It's better than its name," she laughed; "but one 
 goes a long ways, doesn't it?" 
 
 The dinner was a joy to Lucy. She could not remember 
 when he had been such good company, or when she had 
 before so enjoyed being alone with him. It brought back 
 earlier days when each had been more dependent upon the 
 other, before their paths had verged so far apart. They 
 talked about it, and as they touched upon the subject mem- 
 ory released the flood-gates of the past, allowing the events, 
 great and small, to marshal themselves before them in 
 happy array. Curiously enough they were all pleasant 
 happenings, such being the natural optimism of the heart, 
 which even after wretched abuse breaks from its leash 
 in quick response to the faintest call to happiness. They 
 talked of the children, a topic rarely referred to be- 
 tween them except by way of criticism, but it was 
 Lucy who suggested the subject. Jealous of each 
 moment and fearful lest the spell be broken, she had 
 the coffee and cigarettes served at the table, and the 
 conversation continued, the calm contentment being 
 punctuated by merry laughter which made her feel and 
 seem like the young, carefree girl Vallie had first met 
 ten years before. 
 
 But all dreams must end, and Lucy sighed as they finally 
 rose from the table. She slipped her arm through his as 
 they passed out upon the broad piazza, strolling leisurely 
 up and down, watching the brilliant stellar display above 
 and listening to the peaceful lapping of the water on the 
 shore below them. Cunningham and his quiet, forceful 
 domination over her was forgotten; Auchester with his 
 fascinating personality was far away from Lucy's thoughts: 
 
 [164J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 now she had no need of Ned's watchful, friendly care, and 
 the Captain's philosophy appealed to her only in times of 
 stress. Up and down the piazza she walked in silence 
 with her husband, he watching for an opportunity to 
 make his final appeal, she quite satisfied to have this 
 quiet communion continue forever. 
 
 "I'm glad you like this suit," Vallie said at length, 
 feeling that the time had come for him to speak, and being 
 able to think of no less commonplace remark with which 
 to accomplish his purpose. 
 
 "I do like it," Lucy replied, pausing in her steps and 
 drawing back to look at it again. "You are very smart 
 in it. White is wonderful for summer." 
 
 "Yes," he admitted, as they resumed their walk and 
 Lucy again lapsed into silence. This subject was evidently 
 not sufficiently prolific to start a general conversation, 
 so Spencer tried again. 
 
 "You were asking me why I had been so blue this 
 summer 
 
 Lucy laughed. "First it's white and then it's blue, 
 let's talk of something red, and be patriotic!" 
 
 "But I'm serious," he protested. "I've been awfully 
 upset all summer. Everybody rooks me." 
 
 "You've stuck to it pretty close for a game you didn't 
 like." 
 
 "Oh, I don't mean the crowd I've been with," Vallie 
 explained. "They're all right; but it's the other people, 
 the ones I owe money to." 
 
 Lucy saw that he was determined to revive the topic 
 which the call to dinner had interrupted, and which she 
 hoped he would forget. It was really too bad to have so 
 great a drop from the heights to which this touch of joy 
 had carried her. 
 
 [165]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Let's not talk about money tonight, Vallie," she urged; 
 "I'm too happy." 
 
 "But I must," he insisted; "that's what I stayed home 
 for." 
 
 She stopped short as the words cut into her heart. 
 This was the explanation of his suave good nature and 
 his indulgent companionship! What she had believed 
 was a breath of life was filled with pestilence, loaded down 
 with the malignant bacilli which destroy the soul. She 
 looked at him again, but it was not the smart white suit 
 which she saw now: it was the final disintegration of 
 those elements which went to make up the man. In that 
 brief moment, intensified by the hopefulness of the hour 
 just passed, she realized how full life is of mockery. He 
 had been biding his time, counting upon her weakness and 
 her generosity, acting a part which she in her simplicity 
 might never have recognized except for the unexpected 
 frankness which truth had forced to his lips! She felt 
 as if the air had suddenly become chilled, and a weakness 
 seized her body. 
 
 "Let us sit down," she said, again resting her hand upon 
 his arm. 
 
 All unconscious of the effect his words had produced, 
 Vallie led her to a chair and drew his own close beside it. 
 "You see," he began confidently, "I'm in a devil of a fix. 
 You've always been a good sport, and I know you'll 
 help me out." 
 
 "Yes," she answered weakly; "I see." 
 
 "There are a whole lot of debts. I can't possibly meet 
 them, and the people are getting nasty about it." 
 
 "Mr. Amsden says you've drawn far greater amounts 
 lately than ever before. How can you be so much in 
 debt?" 
 
 [166]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "You're not going to question me, are you?" he 
 demanded. 
 
 "I'm only trying to understand." 
 
 "But you don't have to understand," Vallie explained. 
 "I really don't understand myself. Isn't it plain enough 
 if I tell you that it's so?" 
 
 "Perhaps it ought to be," Lucy answered; "but it 
 seems to me that at least one of us should understand." 
 
 "That's because you're a woman," he said cheerfully. 
 "I don't want to bore you with the details of this thing 
 that has been making me down sick. There is no use in 
 that." 
 
 "Just what do you want, Vallie?" 
 
 "I want to draw ten thousand dollars tomorrow and 
 square things up, and then say two thousand a month." 
 
 "Ten thousand in debt after all you've had lately!" 
 Lucy exclaimed. "Where has it gone?" 
 
 "Now you're questioning me again," he said stiffly. 
 
 Lucy's eyes looked far away out into the dark expanse 
 of water, lighted only by the flickering of the stars. She 
 had been happy for a little moment, and the return to 
 realities was just that much the more cruel. 
 
 "Will you do it?" Spencer demanded at length. 
 
 "What are you going to give me in exchange?" 
 
 He did not comprehend. "What do you mean? Is 
 there something you want to trade?" 
 
 "In exchange for what you ask is there anything which 
 occurs to you as my right?" she continued, trying to be 
 clear. 
 
 "Your right?" he repeated after her "What in the 
 world do you want that you haven't got?" 
 
 Lucy looked at him sadly. " Can you think of nothing? " 
 
 "Nothing," he answered firmly. 
 [167]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Do you owe me nothing of yourself?" 
 
 " So that's what you mean ! You'd like to have me stick 
 around the house. That would be a note! Tied to your 
 wife's apron strings!" 
 
 "Do you owe me nothing of yourself," she repeated, 
 "even when you are away from home?" 
 
 Vallie looked at her quickly, but was satisfied that she 
 had only accidentally touched so near the mark. "I'm 
 not good at guessing puzzles. Why don't you talk so 
 that I can understand? Aren't you satisfied? You always 
 have been before." 
 
 "Yes, but we're growing older, Vallie; and the children 
 are getting to the point where they will notice how little 
 their parents mean to each other. I'm only trying to find 
 out just where we stand. Tell me, am I anything more 
 to you than a bank account?" 
 
 "A bank account isn't of much value when it's over- 
 drawn," he said feelingly. 
 
 "Then if I fail in my capacity of banker, your last 
 interest in me is destroyed. Is that it?" 
 
 "That's a nasty way to put it." 
 
 "But it's true, isn't it?" 
 
 "I don't say it is; but I simply must have the money. 
 Will you fix Amsden so that I can get it?" 
 
 "No, Vallie, I will not," Lucy replied firmly. 
 
 He rose impatiently with a muttered imprecation and 
 stalked off into the shadow of the piazza, returning in a 
 belligerent mood. He stood before her chair staring at 
 her sternly. Then he said: "Do you mean that?" 
 
 "Absolutely. If you've been such a fool as to get into 
 trouble after having had all that money, you may get 
 out of it as best you can." 
 
 Vallie was angry through and through, but his position 
 [168]
 
 was so precarious that he dared not indulge in the luxury 
 of giving way. Surely he could make her yield. He 
 would shame her into it: "You've never been a tightwad 
 before, Lucy," he pleaded. "I didn't know you had a 
 pocket nerve, and I won't believe it now." 
 
 "You'll have to believe it, call it what you will. 
 An hour ago you could have had anything you wished. 
 I believed there was something left in you after all. 
 Perhaps it was because I wanted to find it that I was so 
 easily deceived. Now I've reached my limit. Keep on 
 going your way and I'll go mine, and it will be mine, 
 too." / 
 
 Lucy rose, even more consumed with anger than Vallie 
 because of her power to feel more deeply. She started 
 for the door, intuitively realizing that if she could 
 reach her own room and indulge herself in a flood of 
 tears it would be a real relief. Vallie understood her 
 action. 
 
 "If you stick to that, Lucy, you will drive me to do 
 something desperate," he said, still holding himself in. 
 
 "You haven't courage enough nor manhood enough to 
 do anything but threaten," she retorted, turning with 
 her hand upon the screen door. "I wish I thought you 
 had." 
 
 "Haven't courage enough!" he demanded sullenly, 
 taking a quick step forward and grasping her wrist. "You 
 had better be careful, you don't know how desperate 
 I am." 
 
 Lucy felt her nature change in an instant as his grip 
 tightened, and she drew herself to her full height with an 
 expression of disgust which she now made no effort to 
 conceal. 
 
 "Trying to break into the bank?" she asked coldly. 
 [169]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Do you think this will persuade me to change my mind? 
 You my husband! God pity me!" 
 
 With a fling of her arm she released herself, and the 
 door slammed as she turned into the house. Then a 
 swish of skirts and the slam of the door upstairs announced 
 that the refugee had found her haven of rest. 
 
 [170]
 
 XIX 
 
 IT did not occur to Spencer, as he stood there angry 
 in his indecision, that he was other than a deeply 
 injured man. There is perhaps no more confusing 
 element which can befog the view of one's own conduct 
 than a belief that existing conditions justify an attitude. 
 In the present instance Lucy was herself partly to blame, 
 for it had only been recently that she had appeared to 
 take notice, much less to take exception to his manner of 
 living; yet had he completed his analysis Spencer would 
 have been forced to admit that this very manner of living 
 was not now the same as that which she had previously 
 accepted. The point was that he did not believe she 
 realized that any change had taken place. Accepting 
 this assumption as fact, he considered her action as selfish 
 beyond belief, and her contempt as unwarranted by any- 
 thing which he had said or done. She had the money and 
 he needed it. "An hour ago you could have had anything 
 you wished," she had told him, and this was conclusive 
 evidence that her later denial was simply the expression 
 of one of her many whims, to which he had been subjected 
 during the whole of his married life. If she chose she could 
 easily relieve the pressure upon him, but now she did not 
 choose. What she said about her "rights" amused him; 
 but that of course was only another of her many vagaries. 
 
 [171]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 When a woman does exactly what she pleases she cer- 
 tainly cannot complain that her "rights" have been 
 invaded ! 
 
 So the idea and the excuse in Spencer's mind grew to 
 unusual proportions, giving him a driving force of action. 
 Just whither this would take him was not clear as yet, 
 but the real goad of his financial necessity lost itself in 
 the idea that he was fighting as a martyr for a principle. 
 Long after Lucy's flight up stairs he tried to crystallize 
 the idea, but he was demanding of himself too much: it 
 was a sufficient mental strain to conceive it. But the 
 crystallization would come, he felt confident. The driv- 
 ing force was too strong within him not to bear fruit 
 so soon as circumstances combined to produce the 
 opportunity. 
 
 He prepared for his departure in better spirits than 
 might have been expected, leaving word that he did not 
 know when he would return. He hardly expected this 
 to cause any particular consternation, as he had been so 
 much away from home this summer, but at least it would 
 indicate his displeasure. He knew that at Marblehead 
 he could find diversion, and it was necessary now to wait 
 in order to give things a chance to happen. Surely it was 
 the act of judgment to pass the waiting time as agreeably 
 as possible. 
 
 As he heard the automobile drive up to the porte- 
 cochere he walked to the steps to meet it, and was 
 surprised to find Margaret Cunningham in the tonneau. 
 She too was surprised, for it was the first time she had 
 seen him for months, and she had expected again to find 
 Lucy by herself. 
 
 "Were you looking for some one else?" Margaret asked, 
 noting his expression as he greeted her. 
 
 [172]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "No," he hastened to explain; "I thought it was my 
 car. I was just going over to the club." 
 
 "Don't you want Eric to drive you over? Lucy is at 
 home, I suppose?" 
 
 "No and yes," he replied to the double question. 
 "There's my car just coming up, and Lucy is at home. 
 She's in a beastly humor." 
 
 Margaret laughed as she stepped on the piazza. "I 
 don't believe she'll bite me. Where is she, up stairs?" 
 
 "Yes, with the door barricaded." 
 
 "This is serious," Margaret laughed again. "I hope I 
 haven't broken into a pleasant little family party. Shall 
 I go home?" 
 
 "She'll be all right with you," Spencer reassured her. 
 "It's the most curious thing how unreasonable women 
 are." 
 
 "Careful!" Margaret cautioned. "You're including me 
 in that category ! Are men the only ones entitled to wear 
 halos?" 
 
 Spencer did not reply to her bantering question because 
 he was at that moment seized with an inspiration. Per- 
 haps this was one of the things he was waiting to give 
 a chance to happen. He looked at her inquiringly: 
 "Would you mind having a little chat with me before 
 you see Lucy?" 
 
 "Why, no," she replied, concealing her surprise at the 
 request and following him to the two chairs where he 
 and his wife had recently been seated. " I don't remember 
 ever having so long a visit with you before." 
 
 Spencer lost no time in getting down to his subject. 
 "You're so intimate with Lucy that we don't need to 
 mince matters," he began, "and she'll take a whole lot 
 more from you than she will from me. I won't say any- 
 
 [173}
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 thing about my side of the case, but some one ought to 
 point out to her that every case has two sides. I'm not 
 a saint, and no doubt I've given her plenty to object to, 
 as is the case with most husbands, but when a fellow comes 
 to a realization of it and tries to turn over a new leaf, it's 
 tough to have his motives all misunderstood and be 
 trampled on as if he was a nobody. Don't you think 
 so?" 
 
 "I have no doubt about it," Margaret replied to his 
 appeal. 
 
 Spencer was wonderfully encouraged. If Lucy would 
 only listen to him like this instead of becoming so excited 
 over the simplest statements ! " I knew you would agree 
 with me," he continued, "any sensible person would, 
 but Lucy isn't like anybody else ' 
 
 "Isn't that why you were first attracted to her?" 
 Margaret interrupted. 
 
 "Perhaps it was," Spencer admitted; "but lately she 
 has carried her individuality so far that she is impos- 
 sible. You know her so well that we can talk perfectly 
 frankly. She can't see anything but just one way, and 
 I thought that perhaps you wouldn't mind for her sake, 
 you understand pointing out to her that every one must 
 yield something in order to be fair to every one else." 
 
 Spencer felt proud of his presentation of the case. It 
 was the longest argumentative conversation he could 
 remember to have held, and what he said sounded 
 good to him. To this extent the new-born driving force 
 was to be credited, but the result of what he heard him- 
 self say was to strengthen the idea which by this time gave 
 him full justification. 
 
 "That is a splendid basis of life in general," Margaret 
 said meditatively, referring to his last words. "Have 
 
 [174]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 you persuaded Lucy that you are prepared to live up 
 to it?" 
 
 "That's just the point." Spencer was wondering how 
 he could continue the conversation upon so high a plane, 
 and Margaret gave him the escape he required. "Lucy 
 won't see it, she is so hopelessly blinded by what she calls 
 her 'rights.'" He laughed lightly. "Can you imagine 
 any one as free as she is talking about 'rights '? It is really 
 too ridiculous ! " 
 
 Margaret was exceedingly interested, not so much in 
 what Spencer said as in the closer knowledge of the man 
 which the conversation gave her. She could easily under- 
 stand how inadequately he measured up to the standard 
 any high-strung woman would set for her husband, but 
 since Lucy had succeeded in living with him as long as this, 
 it might not be a foregone conclusion that the necessity 
 of the end had as yet arrived. Up to this time she had 
 known Spencer only through Ned's description, and she 
 had accepted her husband's estimate that Lucy had but 
 the children to look to as far as her future home life was 
 concerned. Since she had found an opportunity to formu- 
 late her ideas at first hand, she was not sure that the situ- 
 ation was so desperate after all. Spencer spoke fairly 
 enough, and in spite of his obvious limitations his appar- 
 ently sincere desire to have matters smoothed out was 
 decidedly a point in his favor. This might be her mission 
 after all, Margaret reasoned, and the thought encouraged 
 her to hear all which he had to say with patience and 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Don't tell her that you have seen me," he urged as 
 they both rose at length in response to Margaret's sugges- 
 tion that perhaps she had better go to Lucy. "She 
 wouldn't listen to anything if she knew we had talked 
 
 [1751
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 matters over. Now I'll go on to Marblehead and leave 
 her in your hands. You are very good to have listened 
 to me so patiently. Perhaps I shouldn't have talked so 
 freely, but I'm sure you understand." 
 
 "Yes, I understand," Margaret said, holding out her 
 hand. "Now I'll run up stairs." 
 
 There was no response to Margaret's first gentle knock 
 upon the door to the chamber, but her second effort was 
 more successful. Curiosity often proves more potent 
 than force, and Lucy was mystified by the unexpected 
 intrusion. She knew that no one of the maids would come 
 at this hour, and she would have dismissed from her 
 mind any idea that it was her husband as the wildest of 
 hallucinations. In the dim light she did not at first 
 recognize Margaret, but the voice quickly disclosed the 
 identity of the visitor. 
 
 "Do you want to be alone, or shall I come in?" 
 Margaret asked. 
 
 "Oh, come in," Lucy cried, kissing her. "Of course I 
 don't want to be alone; I hate it." 
 
 By the intensity of the first remark Margaret could 
 easily see that the force of the storm was not yet spent, 
 but with a woman's intuition she sensed that the calm 
 would come more naturally through confidences than 
 through isolation. 
 
 "I would go down on the piazza with you, but I'm half- 
 undressed," Lucy apologized. " Shall I slip something on? " 
 
 "Let's have our little visit right here," Margaret urged, 
 seeing that she preferred it. "Ned's in New York," she 
 explained, settling herself comfortably in an easy-chair. 
 "I'm going to pick him up at the station at ten o'clock, 
 so I thought I'd have an early dinner and motor down for 
 a chat with you instead of staying alone at home." 
 
 [176]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I'm afraid you'll find me poor company," Lucy 
 apologized; "but you're just in time to see the grand 
 transformation. ' ' 
 
 There was a light in Lucy's eye which warned Margaret 
 to speak carefully and to move cautiously. The words 
 came fast and there was a hectic excitement which evi- 
 denced the turmoil within. Margaret was not as familiar 
 with her moods as Ned was, but she recognized the con- 
 dition and was glad to have happened in to serve as a 
 buffer for the explosion which force of will alone held back. 
 Lucy waited for no questioning, it was enough to have 
 a sympathetic listener. 
 
 "I am in this high state of elation," she continued, 
 "because I've arrived at a definite conclusion; and that 
 is a real achievement for me." 
 
 "It is for any one," Margaret agreed, feeling the neces- 
 sity of saying something, and wondering whither the 
 conversation was to lead. 
 
 "You're just in time," she repeated, "to see a new 
 woman rising from the ashes of the old, what do they 
 call it? phoenix, that's it. I'm a phoenix." 
 
 The heightened color in Lucy's cheeks, which showed 
 plainly even in the deepening twilight; the carriage of 
 her head, proud and rebellious in its angry pose; the 
 imperious manner which replaced the usual unconvincing 
 but appealing vivacity; the dominant note in the voice, 
 all gave force to the statement she made. She was 
 already a new woman, different from the one Margaret 
 had known, yet even this knowledge was not sufficient 
 to explain the occasion of the change nor the climax to 
 which it might lead. 
 
 Lucy's excitement was too intense to permit her to sit 
 still, and her companion's sympathy too strong and 
 12 [ 177 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 understanding to break in upon her mood until it had spent 
 itself. The tears were close to the surface, and Margaret 
 would have been relieved to have the unnatural strain 
 give way. For a moment Lucy leaned against the French 
 window which swung open from the balcony leading from 
 the room. "Another day of it will kill me ! " she exclaimed, 
 rather to herself than to Margaret. "I've tried to be 
 some one else all summer, and what is the result? I've 
 lost my friends, I've given myself a chance to discover 
 how hopelessly impossible my husband is, and I have no 
 longer any confidence in myself. I can't stand it, Peggy ! " 
 Then she held her arms full length before her. "I can't 
 stand it, and I won't! I'm going to live my life again, in 
 my own way. If this is indiscreet, as Ned says, then I 
 was born for indiscretions, and I must take the conse- 
 quences. No more sackcloth for me, I'm going to live, 
 live, live!" 
 
 The mention of Cunningham's name gave Margaret the 
 key to the situation, and in a moment she was standing 
 beside Lucy at the window, with her arm about her. 
 
 "You're all unstrung, dear," she comforted her as the 
 tears came at last, and the proud head rested upon her 
 shoulder. "You have taken what Ned has said to you 
 far too seriously. No one has a right to go beyond cau- 
 tioning a friend of danger which he may think exists 
 without that friend's knowledge. He may overestimate 
 the danger, or the friend may disregard it; that's all there 
 is to it. If Ned has gone beyond that he has said more 
 than he had a right to say. I am sure he would tell you 
 the same if he were here." 
 
 "Look!" Lucy exclaimed, raising her head and pointing 
 to the shore. "Think how utterly miserable that gull 
 would be if you tried to make it assume the dignity of a 
 
 [178]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 swan. Yet that is just what I've been trying to do, Peggy. 
 Come, let's sit down again. You and Ned are such normal 
 creatures that you can't understand me at all. I must be 
 an exotic of some kind, for I don't look at things the way 
 other women do : I abominate housekeeping, I'm perfectly 
 willing to let some one else take care of my children, and 
 I don't see any harm in enjoying the companionship of 
 other men when my own husband bores me to distraction. 
 But I do know where to draw the line, and the greatest 
 danger I have ever run is the possibility of having the 
 Mrs. Grundys tear me into shreds; but they do that 
 anyway, and the consequences can only fall on me." 
 
 For the first time Margaret fully understood. The 
 unpleasant experience with Vallie was but an episode and 
 not, as she had supposed, the real cause of Lucy's attitude. 
 That fell back on Ned, and the responsibility which came 
 with it made her tremble. All was clear now: Lucy had 
 sought to atone for her single act of folly by following his 
 advice to the letter, and by making himself her mentor 
 he had gone beyond the point of safety. Fortunately, 
 Margaret said to herself, an understanding of the exact 
 situation had come to her in time. 
 
 "I wish you would tell Ned," Lucy said, continuing 
 her conversation. "I don't dare to; he'll be very angry 
 with me." 
 
 "I will tell him," Margaret answered, "and I will also 
 tell him that he has gone too far in his advice." 
 
 " But he isn't to blame Lucy sprang to his defense, 
 noting Margaret's attitude. 
 
 "No one is to blame," she replied. "Ned is very fond 
 of you, as we all are, and after your foolish experience 
 with him he felt it to be friendly to warn you against your 
 impulses. That was all right, but he has no occasion to 
 
 [1791
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 go further. You have taken that advice far too literally. 
 Of course you must live your own life. Whether Ned or 
 I or any others of your friends approve or disapprove 
 cannot count against a natural expression of your real 
 self. Your responsibility is only to your husband and your 
 children and yourself." 
 
 "You're not going to give me up, are you?" Lucy 
 demanded, sitting upright. 
 
 "You silly child!" Margaret laughed in spite of herself. 
 "It is you who are giving us up! But we must be seri- 
 ous. Be yourself, Lucy, live your own life, as you say 
 you are going to, and let us contribute to it all that any 
 friends could; but don't forget that your husband and 
 your children are a part of that life, and must always be. 
 I'm sorry enough that the summer has been so dull for 
 you, but I'm not sure that it has been without its com- 
 pensations. It has given you a chance to think, and I'm 
 sure it would be a grand thing if we all w r ere forced to do 
 that more than we are." 
 
 Lucy raised her hands despairingly. "I never want 
 to think again," she exclaimed. 
 
 "Then, too, you certainly know your children better 
 than you did " 
 
 "Yes," she interrupted, "that is perfectly true. I'm 
 not ready to accept them as playmates and companions 
 to the exclusion of all others, but I have learned something 
 about them." 
 
 "And your next problem, perhaps, will be that greatest 
 one of all we women have to solve, how to understand 
 our husbands." 
 
 Lucy jumped to her feet. "Why do you bring him 
 into the conversation?" she demanded. "I had forgotten 
 him, and I don't want to be reminded. Forgive me, 
 
 [180]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Peggy," she cried quickly and contritely, each new mood 
 succeeding with astonishing rapidity, "I'm just as horrid 
 as I can be; but Vallie does anger me so." 
 
 "Still, my dear " Margaret spoke with great delib- 
 eration, "still, he is your husband after all, while Ned 
 and I are only your friends."
 
 XX 
 
 MARGARET welcomed the opportunity which the 
 intervening time gave her, as the car sped 
 swiftly toward the city, to study the problem 
 before the points which had now become clear were colored 
 by the expression of her husband's opinions. The whole 
 situation left an unpleasant impression upon her, and she 
 felt the necessity of analyzing the causes and effects. 
 
 Arranged in the sequence of their importance, her first 
 thought was why Lucy Spencer had allowed herself to be 
 influenced by Ned's remarks to the extent of completely 
 changing her life and making herself so utterly miserable. 
 Such of his advice as she had heard was wise and friendly, 
 but he must have said much more and have spoken more 
 forcefully than she knew in order to produce such far- 
 reaching results. Margaret could see clearly the remark- 
 able change which had taken place, and she recognized that 
 the Lucy who feared to tell Ned of her recent decision was 
 not the irresponsible child who had earlier thrown her arms 
 about his neck without exciting the slightest misunder- 
 standing in Margaret's mind. The old impulsiveness 
 had manifested itself during their present conversation, 
 but Lucy's statements regarding her conclusions and 
 intentions carried more weight with them than before. 
 Margaret and Ned had done their best to serve her inter- 
 
 [182]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 ests as they had seen them, but after all there was no 
 responsibility on either side beyond what each chose to 
 accept. If Lucy saw fit to do this thing or that she had a 
 perfect right to do it, and her anxiety to square the situa- 
 tion with Xed implied an obligation which Margaret was 
 not ready to recognize. 
 
 From this point she passed to a consideration of 
 the woman herself. In spite of the peculiar nature of 
 their conversation, Lucy had never made upon her so 
 favorable an impression. Contrary to her own fears, the 
 former sprightliness and vivacity were not destroyed, but 
 appeared to far greater advantage because of the new 
 grace added by the quieter demeanor which the weeks of 
 renunciation had wrought. She could never be the same 
 Lucy again, Margaret believed, but she was already a far 
 more fascinating woman than before. Again the disquiet- 
 ing suggestion forced itself into the consideration that 
 if Ned admired her in her irresponsibility, and felt a 
 protecting interest in her, he might become even more 
 impressed when he felt the full charm of her present bear- 
 ing. But Margaret reproached herself for harboring such 
 a thought even for a moment, and put it aside as abso- 
 lutely unworthy. 
 
 All in all she found herself in a curious predicament. 
 She had become interested in Lucy solely at Ned's request 
 and because she knew that it would be wiser for her to do 
 so than for him, but in this more intimate acquaintance 
 she herself had fallen beneath the spell of this contra- 
 dictory yet compelling personality. At this very moment 
 she blamed her for being the cause of the first thought of 
 criticism which had ever come in her relation to her hus- 
 band, yet with the blame came a sympathy and a desire 
 to relieve which was entirely paradoxical. She demanded 
 
 [183]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 of herself why she should care what Lucy Spencer did, 
 and in the same breath she wondered what she could do 
 to make the problem more simple. As always, she found 
 herself relying upon Ned for the final answer to her ques- 
 tion, but in this present instance she determined to warn 
 him that there were lions in the path. 
 
 She was quite herself again when Cunningham joined 
 her at the station, and she lost no time in giving him a 
 full account of her ball and all that had come out of it. 
 As she surmised, he* received the news as a matter of 
 serious moment, and long after they reached home they 
 discussed it in the library. That is, Cunningham dis- 
 cussed it; at first Margaret took little part in the con- 
 versation. At length, however, she saw her opportunity 
 to add a word of caution: 
 
 "Don't you think we have interfered in her affairs as 
 much as we really should?" 
 
 "I don't look upon it as interference," he replied, "and 
 I don't believe Lucy does. We that is I have created a 
 situation for the poor child which is impossible, and having 
 got her into the predicament, surely I must see her through. 
 I had no idea, of course, that she would go to extremes 
 as she has done, but she has made a plucky fight, and it 
 would be wrong to leave her to her own resources just 
 when she needs us most." 
 
 "Does it change your idea now that you know Vallie 
 is not as indifferent as you thought?" 
 
 "Yes; and I shall urge her to meet him half way. I'll 
 write her a letter tonight. But from what you say it is 
 evident that she is on the verge of doing the first foolish 
 thing which pops into her head. Perhaps a word of advice 
 will save her from making that mistake." 
 
 Margaret did not reply, but Cunningham was too much 
 [184]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 occupied by his thoughts to notice it. She watched him 
 across the table, knowing his moods so well that there 
 was no danger in his absorption that he would discover 
 the intensity of her look. She wished for a moment that 
 she might be a problem which would warrant such de- 
 liberation, then she chided herself for wishing it. 
 
 "That's what I must do," he said at length, rising and 
 drawing his chair before the writing^able. "It would 
 be better to talk it over, but there'srno telling when I 
 shall have a chance to see her. If Spencer has shown 
 the slightest sign of trying to be half-decent, Lucy must 
 encourage it." 
 
 "Must?" Margaret echoed. 
 
 "Yes," he said decisively; "she will do what I tell her." 
 
 As usual when his mind was made up, Cunningham lost 
 little time in preliminaries. Margaret's eye still followed 
 him as he drew a sheet of paper from the case and prepared 
 to put his thought into execution. All else was forgotten 
 now that he had focused his attention upon its single 
 object. His wife felt it to be almost an isolation, and she 
 could not pass it by. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't get into it any deeper," she 
 remarked quietly. 
 
 Cunningham, on the point of dipping his pen into the 
 ink, looked up surprised. "You're not really serious?" 
 
 "Yes, I am. I think we both have done all we ought." 
 
 "Peggy, dear," he said with infinite feeling, reaching 
 over and taking her hand in his, "you wouldn't have me 
 leave undone any act which my friendship for that little 
 girl prompts me to do? That isn't like you." 
 
 "I don't think it's safe," she insisted. 
 
 "What possible harm can come of a note urging her to 
 meet her husband half-way? Come, tell me."
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 It was difficult to oppose Cunningham in this mood. 
 There was a persuasiveness in his frankness, an irresisti- 
 ble argument in his own conviction. 
 
 "Perhaps none," Margaret yielded; "but somehow I 
 don't like to have you do it." 
 
 "I'll show you the letter. You shall say whether or 
 not I shall send it. Isn't that fair?" 
 
 "Of course it is^dear." She bent down and kissed his 
 forehead. "Your heart is so big that you take every one's 
 troubles into it. Forgive me." 
 
 For half an hour Cunningham wrote, tore up and wrote 
 again until he had satisfied himself with the letter; then 
 he handed it to Margaret. 
 
 " I don't believe I ought to read it," she said; " it's really 
 between you and Lucy." 
 
 "No," he corrected; "it's between us and Lucy. Please 
 read it." 
 
 She took the letter. My dear Lucy, it began : Margaret 
 has given me your declaration of independence, but I refuse 
 to see in it anything other than a message that your self- 
 examination has shown you a strength which gives you con- 
 fidence in yourself. She was right when she told you that, 
 you had taken my suggestions (for which you asked!) 
 far too literally if you found in them any thought which 
 restrained you from expressing your real self. We all 
 must do that, but sometimes it takes us a little while to dis- 
 cover what that real self is. 
 
 Some one has told me that Vallie has expressed a desire 
 to turn over a new leaf. May it not be that he really means 
 what he says, and that the moment has come when perhaps 
 you may find in him what you think you have forever lost ? 
 We all are prone to think the day of miracles is past, and 
 through force of habit to close our eyes to what is actually 
 
 [186]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 taking place. If he is now sincere, what he was need trouble 
 you no longer. He has been selfish and neglectful, and un- 
 doubtedly has committed many indiscretions, but who has 
 not been a fool sometime in his life Who of us would 'scape 
 the whipping post if all things were summed up? There- 
 fore, not as wife alone, but as a fellow-creature, out of sympa- 
 thy for the weaknesses he has shown, why not take him now 
 at his own estimate and help him live up to it ? Turn a deaf 
 car to what you may hear in his disfavor, and take him 
 for what he may be rather than for what he is. You have 
 been justly angry and disgusted, but it would be more than 
 pity, if he really has gold in him, did you not seize any 
 opportunity to help him to refine it. If we are wrong, we 
 can laugh a little together and say " We meant well, and we 
 made the trial." Am I asking too much? I think I know 
 you well enough to answer my own question. 
 
 "There, dear; is there any harm in that? Is that 
 interfering with her affairs?" Cunningham asked as she 
 looked up. 
 
 Margaret smiled. "It is a sweet letter, Ned; and just 
 like you," she answered, ignoring the second question. 
 
 It was just like him, not the letter alone, but the ques- 
 tion . Keen, clever, astute in all matters which pertained to 
 his profession, he himself was childlike in his disregard of 
 self when it came to his relations with those in whom he 
 felt the deepest interest. To others the manner could 
 not appear other than didactic, but to Margaret who knew 
 the trait so well it was simply his way of putting his whole 
 soul into whatever he undertook. He had come to regard 
 Lucy in the light of a case, and was devoting to it his most 
 careful professional attention with all personality elimi- 
 nated. He could advise a wife as to her proper conduct 
 toward her husband and be perfectly oblivious to any 
 
 U87]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 thought that he was interfering in her affairs! He could 
 not realize that his motives might be misconstrued. 
 With his eyes fixed steadfastly on the goal, he plunged 
 ahead, unmindfuF of the pitfalls because thus far he had 
 escaped them. Margaret recognized the dangers, yet 
 hesitated to interfere with that very characteristic which 
 had brought him his success. 
 
 The letter reached Lucy on the following day and 
 found her in the midst of her emancipation preparations. 
 She had determined to celebrate the momentous event, 
 and as a preliminary step had written notes or tele- 
 phoned to those of her friends who had deserted her, as 
 she expressed it, giving them a final opportunity to re- 
 affirm their allegiance. She read it through with a puzzled 
 expression, then sat down deliberately and reread it. What 
 in the world could have happened! This was the first she 
 had heard of Vallie's regeneration, and Ned must have 
 some information which had been denied to her. After 
 his recent disgraceful conduct, it was too bad of Vallie, she 
 thought, to keep her in ignorance of this interesting state of 
 affairs, but she was too deeply immersed in her present 
 plans to give the matter as serious consideration as she 
 would otherwise have done. She had swept him from her 
 mind, preferring to center her thoughts upon more agree- 
 able objects. Would the men respond to her call as they 
 had at other times, or had she really relegated herself to 
 a position which was beyond repair? She knew Auchester 
 would come: he at least could be relied upon. She wanted 
 to see him now that she was herself again, for she knew 
 that he would compliment her on the change. How well 
 he understood women ! Never once had he failed to speak 
 the words which she expected to hear in response to any 
 expression she might make. His loyalty throughout these 
 
 [188]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 trying weeks encouraged her to believe that the others 
 only awaited her summons, having misunderstood her 
 unnatural attitude. 
 
 It had been so long since Lucy had planned any gaiety 
 that even the thought of it filled her with pleasurable 
 excitement. Goodbye forever to the drab days and the 
 drab life! Her spirit craved companionship and admira- 
 tion and joyous hours. She felt as if she were emerging 
 after a long illness, and she craved a return to color after 
 the plain white walls of the hospital. She walked out in 
 the garden and was surprised that she had not noticed 
 how the flowers were flourishing, impulsively breaking 
 the stem of a gorgeous blossom and inhaling deep the 
 fragrance of its petals. She wandered down to the shore, 
 and the lapping of the waves made music which she had 
 almost forgotten. As she returned she met Babs on her 
 way down to the beach, and surprised the child by lifting 
 her into her arms and covering the little face with kisses. 
 She hummed softly to herself as she moved about the 
 house, and seemed forgetful of all save happy memories. 
 Life was sweet again, and she lived only in its intoxicating 
 present. 
 
 Then the thought of Ned's letter returned, and she read 
 it through once more. Dear, foolish old Ned ! lie had some 
 idea in his mind even if she couldn't fathom it. Of course 
 the letter demanded an answer, but she could not imagine 
 what to say. Again she asked herself what had happened. 
 Perhaps Margaret had met Vallie as she came in, and he 
 had said something which she had misunderstood. That 
 must be it. Gold in Vallie! If it were there, he would 
 have discovered it long ago, had it assayed, and used it to 
 pay some of his debts! But the letter must be answered, 
 for Ned had meant well. Surely they would laugh about 
 
 [189]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 it afterwards, but not the way he meant. She sat down at 
 the little Chippendale desk in her room and wrote: 
 
 thou Conscientious One ! You are a dear boy to write me 
 such a letter when you know that I am rebellious over your 
 tyranny; but you may as well give me up at once, for I can't 
 live up to the picture. Life is too sweet to me and Convention 
 too hideous in her awful righteousness. Let those who will 
 rejoice in their dull, drab past. As for me, I'm practising 
 some new steps for a dance with the Satyrs. 
 
 But Ned, who told you that yarn about Vallie ? 
 
 The only new leaf he has turned over is in his check book. 
 Don't waste any sympathy on him: save that for me after 
 the dance I 
 
 190]
 
 XXI 
 
 LUCY'S stag party was a complete success. What- 
 ever hesitation the cautiously inclined among the 
 men might have had vanished completely when its 
 importance became known. Where one might have felt 
 himself imprudent, many might venture with im- 
 punity. Lucy's affairs had been much talked of by those 
 who still admired her and who really missed her vivacious 
 personality. Her presence at any function changed it at 
 once from still life to the sparkling effervescence of cham- 
 pagne, and the fact that she absented herself from her 
 favorite summer haunts, together with Vallie's noticeable 
 disinclination to be found at home, gave weight to more 
 or less ugly gossip which might otherwise have died at 
 birth. Some had it that a separation had already virtually 
 taken place, and that Vallie only awaited a return to 
 town before starting proceedings. Auchester's name was 
 linked with Lucy's, and the coolness which had replaced 
 the former intimacy between Spencer and the Captain 
 was commented upon as significant. Others insisted that 
 Cunningham was the man in the case, but these rumors 
 appeared to come from feminine sources and were laughed 
 at by the men. Then the principals changed places and 
 Lucy was to be the aggressive one. From the men's 
 standpoint this appeared far more plausible, for they all 
 
 [191]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 knew that Vallie had been going the pace, laying himself 
 open to all sorts of complications if his wife knew of them 
 and felt disposed to take advantage. So, in spite of her 
 belief that she had dropped out of mind as well as out of 
 sight, Lucy was still a factor in the lives of those with 
 whom she had previously trained. 
 
 The unusual invitation was not only an agreeable one 
 to accept, but it whetted the curiosity of all. Miller and 
 Hay den boasted on board the "Sylph," chaffing Spencer 
 because he had heard nothing of it, and commiserating 
 Eustis, whose omission showed that he was held partly 
 responsible for Vallie's backsliding. Langdon, fatigued 
 by his summer's work, welcomed the opportunity of seeing 
 Lucy again with the same avidity that another man would 
 have tossed off three fingers of raw whisky. Archie 
 Reed placed his car at the disposal of his friends for the 
 occasion, evidently feeling safer to appear with a body- 
 guard, to avoid possible complications with a jealous 
 husband. Auchester had his own ideas upon the subject, 
 which he kept carefully to himself; but all approached 
 the event with such anticipation that had the hostess 
 known the exact state of affairs she would willingly have 
 passed through another similar period of retirement in 
 order to produce so dramatic a climax. 
 
 She had made it clear that with the single exception of 
 herself it was distinctly a stag affair. With characteris- 
 tic daring Lucy plunged all on this coup. She would test 
 her friends and herself in such a way that there could be 
 no possible misunderstanding. If her reign over her little 
 court was but ephemeral, she preferred to know it now 
 and adapt herself to established conditions. She was to 
 be the only attraction, and if the magnet had lost its power 
 then she would accept her fate as best she could. 
 
 [192]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 It was a gorgeous August afternoon, and Lucy moved 
 about the house and through the grounds in an ecstasy 
 of joy as she inspected the final details. The pergola was 
 transformed into a miniature buffet, where her guests 
 might choose such liquid refreshments as their thirst 
 would indicate. Three tables were laid on the piazza 
 for auction, for Lucy did not intend to depend wholly 
 upon conversation to make the time go pleasantly, and 
 inside, in the dining-room, preparations were completed 
 for an enticing spread, planned especially to capture the 
 masculine palate. 
 
 Auchester was the first to arrive. Curiously, Lucy had 
 expected this, and again the Captain had done exactly 
 what she knew he would do. He looked into her face a 
 full minute before he spoke, and she did not need to await 
 his words to sense his admiration. 
 
 "By Jove! you are a picture!" he exclaimed. "Say 
 what you will about these tedious weeks, they have given 
 you a chance to rest and have made you more wonder- 
 ful than ever." 
 
 Lucy smiled contentedly. This was more like old 
 times. "You always say something to cheer me up," 
 she replied, "and I owe much to you. Without you I 
 never could have endured it." 
 
 "I wish I dared ask you a question," he suggested. 
 
 "Don't you?" she laughed. 
 
 "By Jove, I will! Why did you let Cunningham per- 
 suade you into anything so stupid, and why have you 
 thrown over his advice?" 
 
 "I can't answer both questions at once." Lucy was 
 
 in the rarest good humor. "He said some things about 
 
 my conduct which I have no doubt were justified. Every 
 
 one, even you, tells me that the results are beneficial, 
 
 13 [ 193 1
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 so I feel myself under obligations to Ned. As to his advice, 
 I don't know that I have 'thrown it over,' as you say. 
 He has told me always to express my real self, and this 
 is my first opportunity to make that expression." 
 
 "Is he to be here this afternoon?" 
 
 "No; this is a bachelors' party, and I'm the most 
 confirmed bachelor of all." 
 
 "But you didn't ask him, did you?" Auchester insisted. 
 
 "No," she admitted. "I couldn't very well without 
 inviting Margaret, and I wanted you men all to myself." 
 
 "Will your husband be here?" he inquired further. 
 
 Lucy's eyes flashed. "No," she said, "I hope not. I 
 hate him! If he comes, it will be only because he knows 
 it will annoy me." 
 
 "You hate him?" Auchester repeated meaningly, draw- 
 ing closer to her. "Do you mean that?" 
 
 "Every word of it. I wish I might never see him again." 
 
 "And you're going to live your own life?" 
 
 "If I don't now it's my own fault," she laughed. 
 
 "How about conventions?" 
 
 "To the winds with them," she cried gaily. "Let the 
 Mrs. Grundys talk! Life is too sweet, companionship too 
 dear to let every one else do your thinking for you. Come 
 and see what I have arranged in the pergola." 
 
 The Captain was on the verge of losing his quiet 
 self-restraint. Lucy had no way of knowing that these 
 weeks had been hard ones for him as well. Before Cun- 
 ningham's influence had gained such complete control 
 over her, Auchester believed that the progress he was 
 making was substantial. He rejoiced that circumstances 
 gave him the opportunity of becoming a necessity to her; 
 but when he found that in spite of everything she failed 
 utterly to read in his words or actions the great fact which 
 
 [194]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 now dominated him, he began to fear that he had mis- 
 understood her after all. The return of the old note in 
 her voice as she talked with him over the telephone, un- 
 folding her plans and seeking his advice, gave him courage 
 to believe that his own moment was nearer at hand than 
 he had feared. Once more in her presence, with a return 
 of the vivacity which had recently been lacking, he began 
 where he had left off, and rejoiced at what her words told 
 him. The time was propitious: he would take advantage 
 of it. 
 
 "Then you have come to my way of thinking?" he 
 said, continuing their conversation after expressing his 
 admiration for Lucy's preparations. 
 
 "About conventions? Yes. A woman is a fool to let 
 them stand in the way of her happiness." 
 
 "At last you have learned the secret of life!" he ex- 
 claimed. "Now that we have solved it, why may we not 
 experience its joys together?" 
 
 "We may," she replied, smiling. "Those who read in 
 life the same messages should surely enjoy them together. 
 Of course we may." 
 
 The Captain took her hand gently and raised it gal- 
 lantly to his lips. "Then let us begin to plan at once," 
 he said. "You have given me a happiness I have never 
 felt before." 
 
 There was an intensity in his words which frightened 
 her. She was not accustomed to intense people and was 
 at a loss to reply. Fortunately for her embarrassment, 
 at this moment Archie Reed's motor stopped at the 
 steps and she left the Captain, to greet the new 
 arrivals. 
 
 "Good boys, all," she cried. "I knew you wouldn't 
 forget me!" 
 
 * [ 195 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "We really thought you wanted to be let alone," Reed 
 explained. 
 
 "Well, it's all over now. Come up and let me look at 
 you." 
 
 Leading one by each hand, and with the others following 
 behind, Lucy pulled them to the pergola, standing them 
 hi a row, with their backs to the table where the cigars 
 and bottles were in evidence. "There!" she said, drawing 
 a step back and surveying them. "This is a new game of 
 Tantalus, and you shan't have anything until I've given 
 my eyes their glad surprise. I've been in a trance all 
 summer, but now I've come to life. Break ranks and 
 enjoy yourselves! Bertie, mix Martinis for us all, 
 and then I ask you to drink to the reborn Lucy. And 
 I'll drink with you, for that's a toast I won't sit down 
 to." 
 
 Her mood was contagious and frivolity ruled. The 
 remaining guests arrived without disturbing the prepara- 
 tions, and quietly joined the crowd of men about her. 
 
 "We can't give you the toast here, Lucy," Hayden 
 cried; "up on the table with her! " 
 
 "Your hand, Captain," Lucy responded, placing her 
 slippered foot in his palm and her hand upon his shoulder. 
 "Now one, two, three!" and she lightly sprang to the 
 center of the table near by. 
 
 "Flowers for our queen!" Archie Reed shouted, strip- 
 ping a vase of its fragrant contents and handing them 
 up to her. 
 
 "The toast the toast!" they cried. 
 
 "To woman!" Miller suggested. 
 
 "To love!" Langdon urged. 
 
 "To life!" Lucy insisted, holding her glass high above 
 her; "for that includes all. To life which was made for 
 
 [196]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 you and for me and for happiness. I pledge you deep, 
 my friends." 
 
 She handed the glass down to Hayden and then turned 
 again to her guests, unwilling yet to relinquish her exalted 
 position. "Love, you say!" she turned to Langdon. 
 " Love is but a part of life, only a part, and I want it all ! 
 See I love you, every one." She separated the flowers, 
 and pressing them separately to her lips, tossed them to 
 the men below her. Then she jumped lightly down from 
 the table. 
 
 With so propitious a start, the afternoon advanced on 
 golden wings. For a time they played at auction, Lucy 
 being progressed from one table to another, to show no 
 partiality. Then, at length, the men attacked the spread 
 in the dining-room. 
 
 "I can't eat eleven ices," she laughed, gazing hope- 
 lessly at the men standing or kneeling in various attitudes 
 before her; "and I can't accept any one, so I'll go and 
 get my own. You mustn't treat me as a woman: I 
 hate women, my old self included. Now I'm a comrade 
 with you all, and we must play together just that way. 
 The new Lucy is just your pal will you accept her?" 
 
 Langdon stepped forward with a fresh bottle of 
 champagne. 
 
 "Get your glasses," he commanded, and with the 
 dignity attendant upon a religious rite he gave each his 
 portion. "Drink to Lucy, our comrade: all for one and 
 one for all. Long life and prosperity!" 
 
 Later, as she waved goodbye to them, she brushed 
 back the strands of hair which had become loosened 
 from the mass and, with tears in her eyes, turned to 
 Auchester, who still remained. "Isn't it dear of them?" 
 
 [197]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 she cried. "Oh, it's worth all to know that they do like 
 me. I feel a thousand years younger already!" 
 
 "I waited so that we might complete our plans," heA 
 suggested. 
 
 "Our plans? Oh, yes; I remember." 
 
 "Where will you meet me?" 
 
 "Anywhere on the face of the globe," she answered, 
 her face radiant. "I never was so happy in all my life." 
 
 "Is there any place we could dine together next week, 
 to talk matters over at length?" 
 
 "Why don't we go to 'Spicer's'?" Lucy asked. "I 
 haven't been there all summer, and I'd love to." 
 
 "'Spicer's,'" the Captain repeated, writing the name 
 on his cuff. "What night shall we say?" 
 
 "Why not Tuesday?" 
 
 "Tuesday it is," he assented. "I'll telephone to arrange 
 about picking you up in a car. Lucy," he continued, 
 calling her by name for the first time, "you're the jolliest 
 little girl the Lord ever made, and I'm the luckiest man." 
 
 [1983
 
 XXII 
 
 SPICER'S roadhouse, situated a few miles inland 
 from the North Shore, was a favorite rendezvous 
 for automobile parties, and Spicer's chicken din- 
 ners were justly famous. Nothing was more natural than 
 that this should have suggested itself to Lucy as an 
 agreeable meeting place with any one, when Auchester 
 so unexpectedly put the question to her. At the mo- 
 ment she was intoxicated by the joy of popularity, and 
 We seemed to contain for her nothing but heavenly 
 possibilities. It would never occur to Vallie to take 
 her there, Cunningham had not invited her, she could 
 not go alone, and she really wanted to go: here again 
 the Captain had not disappointed her. 
 
 The arrangements seemed simple enough as Auchester 
 telephoned them: at the appointed hour Lucy was to 
 walk up the road toward Manchester until he overtook 
 her; then they would motor to "Spicer's," where they 
 would dine and pass the evening together. It seemed 
 curious that he should not call at the house for her, and 
 she could not understand why he declined her suggestion 
 of using her own car; but it was the Captain's party and 
 she had formed the habit of respecting his judgment. 
 Lucy's cheeks glowed with pleasurable excitement as 
 [199]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 she casually left the house as if merely for a stroll soon ' 
 after twilight began to fall. Her anticipation of the 
 joyment ahead of her was in no way tempered by a 
 suspicion of regret. Curiously enough, such twinges of 
 conscience as had come since her declaration of independ- 
 ence acknowledged their obligation to Cunningham rather 
 than to her husband. But even he must realize that it 
 was necessary for her to find some excitement in order 
 to prevent actual stagnation, and she could imagine no 
 logical reason why he should object in the slightest to the 
 plan which she and Auchester had formed for this particu- 
 lar evening. Yet in spite of all she had never done 
 just this thing before, and perhaps it was the novelty of 
 the experience which brought the blood to her cheeks 
 and supplied the slight touch of color which her costume 
 seemed to demand. That it added to the attractiveness 
 of the picture she presented could not be denied, least of 
 all by the Captain, whose whole expression bespoke his 
 approval as he stepped gallantly from the car and assisted 
 her into it. 
 
 "My word!" he exclaimed, without the formality of the 
 usual greetings, "you should always wear white. You 
 are simply marvelous!" 
 
 "I love white," Lucy admitted; "I wish I could wear 
 it always. It is hardly practical for automobiling, but 
 tonight I wish to do you credit; and I do think white 
 becomes me best." 
 
 " Credit? " he asked. " With whom? " 
 "There are sure to be loads of people at 'Spicer's.'" 
 Auchester glanced at her curiously, but all he remarked 
 was his noncommittal "Oh!" "I say," he. exclaimed a 
 moment later as the motor ran along the narrow, closely 
 wooded path after leaving the shore road, "why hasn't 
 
 [200]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 some one taken me in here before? This is simply 
 ripping." 
 
 "It is wonderful," she replied, glad to see an approach 
 to her own enthusiastic mood on the part of the Captain. 
 "Did you ever know of such a combination of shore and 
 country! And can you wonder that after once learning 
 to know it we are never satisfied to spend our summers 
 anywhere else?" 
 
 "Do you know English country life at all?" he asked 
 abruptly. 
 
 "No," she answered; "but it surely can't equal this." 
 
 "It is different," Auchester admitted, "but I think you 
 will enjoy it." 
 
 "Spicer's" was more famed for its dinners than for its 
 architecture, and Auchester was frankly shocked by its 
 low, rambling, unfinished appearance. "Is this the 
 place?" he queried. "Is this a roadhouse? It looks to 
 me more like a stable." 
 
 Lucy laughed. "You can never tell the quality of a 
 hotel by the appearance of the 'bus at the station," she 
 said. "I learned that the first time I went to Europe. 
 It isn't much to look at, I'll admit, but 'Spicer's' is the 
 place on the North Shore." 
 
 "Then it must have been Spicer himself I talked with 
 on the telephone, and he must have discovered the fact 
 you have just stated. He snubbed me with the grace of 
 a grand duke, and I promised myself the pleasure of a 
 word with him on arrival." 
 
 "There's the fighting blood once more," Lucy laughed 
 again; "but please don't do it. He would be sure to send 
 us away without dinner if he didn't like you, and that 
 would be an awful pity." 
 
 "You're not serious, I'm sure?" the Captain queried. 
 [201]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Absolutely. In America, summer hotel-keepers occupy 
 a position just above the aristocracy, and Spicer lives on a 
 pinnacle just above them! You must be civil to him." 
 
 Auchester's inaudible reply was still further lost in the 
 bustle of arrival. As the car stopped, a servant appeared 
 to assist the newcomers to alight, and to lead the way into 
 the spacious hallway. Here they were met by Spicer 
 himself, and Lucy was relieved to observe that the Captain 
 exercised restraint and permitted himself to be amused 
 by the pompous airs of the proprietor. Spicer himself 
 was affected by the Captain's affability, and after direct- 
 ing the boy who had met them to lead the way to the 
 second floor, he graciously followed them to the foot of 
 the stairway. 
 
 "I am confident you will find everything satisfactory, 
 Mr. Arbuckle," he said as he left him. 
 
 Lucy turned quickly. "He called you Mr. Arbuckle," 
 she said. "Why are we going up stairs?" 
 
 "We have a private room," he explained; "it will be 
 much pleasanter." 
 
 She made no further remonstrances, but followed the 
 guide into a small dining-room which opened out onto a 
 balcony in the rear of the house. In the center of the 
 room was a round table, set for two, the china being 
 almost concealed by the enormous bunch of American 
 Beauty roses. Lucy exclaimed as she rushed to the table 
 and buried her face in the fragrant flowers. Then she 
 stepped from the table to the little balcony, exchanging 
 the fragrance of the roses for the balsam of the pines. 
 When she turned again the boy had left the room, closing 
 the door behind him, and she saw Auchester standing 
 there, watching her enjoyment with a smile which reflected 
 his own satisfaction. 
 
 [202]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Odors affect me just as they do you," she said. "I 
 never could explain it exactly, but I find them more 
 intoxicating than wine." 
 
 "Everything that is beautiful is intoxicating." The 
 Captain took a step nearer and relieved her of the slight 
 wrap which hung over her arm. "Wine is the coarsest 
 of intoxicants; a beautiful woman the most delicate." 
 
 The waiter was prompt in his service, so they sat down 
 without ceremony to test the great Spicer's reputation. 
 But the courses had not progressed far when Lucy realized 
 that some one had added to the usual routine of the 
 chicken dinner. One delicacy after another, some quite 
 new to her, found their way to her plate. Auchester 
 watched her growing excitement with interest. 
 
 "Where where did you find all these things?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "After traveling the world over for twenty years one 
 should be able to find some curiosities. Your rose-leaf 
 conserve put me on my mettle." 
 
 "Yes; but how did you get them here?" 
 
 "A friend in New York searched them out for me, and 
 they arrived just in time." 
 
 "No wonder Spicer snubbed you when you suggested 
 improving his dinner! Now I understand. How delicious 
 this wine is!" 
 
 "Just another aroma to transport us to a land of 
 romance, this time to Italy. I dream of the time when 
 we shall see it together." 
 
 Lucy looked up quickly, but the waiter had just entered 
 the room to bring the coffee and cigarettes. 
 
 "Leave us," Auchester said abruptly to the boy, hand- 
 ing him a bill; "we shall require nothing further." Then 
 turning to his companion, he held out the box of cigarettes. 
 
 [2031
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 She took one mechanically, his last remark giving 
 significance to what he had said earlier. "What did you 
 mean about my enjoying English country life and our 
 seeing Italy together?" 
 
 Auchester struck the match against the box and held 
 it before her, the light of the flame throwing the features 
 of her face into beautiful relief. "We live always in the 
 future," he replied. "Anticipation is the food the heart 
 thrives upon." 
 
 Lucy looked full into his eyes for a long moment as the 
 fact came to her at last that Auchester loved her. Until 
 then she had accepted him as a man from whose heart all 
 thought of sentiment and romance had been eliminated 
 by the wonderful experiences which could come only to 
 one unhampered by domestic responsibilities. He had 
 told her so, and she believed him. She could not under- 
 stand how any man, having once learned the advantages 
 of freedom, could voluntarily exchange it for the re- 
 stricted limitations which marriage must impose. Judg- 
 ment was not to be expected of youth, swept off its feet 
 by romantic expectations, seldom realized; for youth 
 could not draw lessons from observation nor temper its 
 sentiment by mature conclusions. From a woman's 
 standpoint all was different, but in her own case the 
 present situation seemed equally impossible. The Cap- 
 tain's conversation on the subject of marriage came back 
 to her now with a definite significance. "If you met some 
 one whom you really loved," he had said. Then he had 
 thought 
 
 She rose abruptly and stepped out onto the balcony. 
 The darkness had come on during the extended time which 
 they had given to the dinner, and nothing outside was 
 discernible except the weird outlines of the pine branches, 
 
 [204]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 through which the wind soughed gently. Lucy stood 
 so long looking out into the darkness, drawing silently 
 at her cigarette from time to time, that Auchester finally 
 crossed the room and stood beside her. 
 
 "You don't regret so soon the step you've taken?" 
 he said, half reproachfully. 
 
 His words recalled her to herself. The first surprise 
 had given way to w r onder, and this in turn was succeeded 
 by that sweet intoxication which comes with the first 
 knowledge of love. It was a new experience to Lucy. 
 When Vallie had asked her to marry him there had been 
 little of the sentimental about it. They had attracted 
 each other and the match seemed an appropriate one, so, 
 as Lucy had told Cunningham, before either of them fully 
 realized it, the die was cast. But here was a man of a 
 different stripe, whose personality could but appeal to any 
 woman, whose judgment was tempered by experience and 
 maturity. Until ihis moment it had not occurred to her 
 to ask herself that question which the head always de- 
 mands of the heart, but it was not strange that when the 
 truth finally dawned her first sensation was that of un- 
 explained happiness. To her who had been self-centered 
 only because she had never learned to love, it was a lifting 
 of the veil, disclosing in life a beauty of which she had 
 never dreamed. 
 
 "Do you mean that you love me?" she whispered, 
 making no answer to his question. 
 
 "Can you doubt it!" he cried, slipping his arm about 
 her waist and gently drawing her to him. 
 
 Like a tired child she suffered him to fold her in his 
 arms. Her eyes closed, and her head rested against his 
 shoulder. "Oh! it is sweet to be loved!" she murmured, 
 "oh! it is sweet!" 
 
 [205]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 It was only a dream to Lucy a rare, delicious dream 
 which took her back to the time when she would creep 
 into her father's arms and find there a surcease of her 
 childish troubles. But man-like, Auchester must seal his 
 triumph, and gently raising her head he pressed his lips 
 against hers. In a moment the dream was ended and 
 Lucy drew back from him, standing unsteadily but with 
 arm upraised, refusing his support. She passed her hand 
 across her forehead as if bewildered. She was not angry, 
 but rather seemed confused and not fully comprehending 
 her surroundings. 
 
 "What am I doing!" she exclaimed weakly. "Why, 
 I'm married, so of course you can't love me." 
 
 "To others that would prove an obstacle; to us who 
 recognize that without love there is no marriage, it is 
 merely an impediment." 
 
 "What does it mean?" she asked, still confused. 
 "I don't understand at all." 
 
 "It means that you and I will leave behind us these 
 scenes which have been painful to you as soon as you say 
 the word. It means that we will go together to Italy, 
 where I will begin to make up to you these loveless years, 
 until you can obtain your divorce; and then I will take 
 you to England to my ancestral home." 
 
 "But I couldn't leave Vallie and the children, even 
 if" 
 
 "Why concern yourself about him when he never thinks 
 of you? As for the children, I should strive to give them 
 what their own father never has." 
 
 "Surely you're not serious?" Lucy said. "It all 
 seems so unreal and so impossible. I'm trying to compre- 
 hend what you are saying." 
 
 Auchester looked at her in amazement. "Did you not 
 [206]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 mean it the other day when you said that you wished 
 never again to see your husband?" 
 
 "Why, yes, I presume I did; but I've often said that." 
 
 "He is nothing to you, and I love you, Lucy, with 
 all the strength of twenty years of waiting! For I have 
 been waiting, dear, waiting for just such a woman as you 
 are; and I thought you understood." 
 
 "But I'm married," she insisted again. "Whatever 
 might have happened otherwise, it's too late now." 
 
 "Not if you love me," he urged. "It was never meant 
 that man and woman should live together as you and 
 Spencer do. Love is the tie that really binds." 
 
 "I know," Lucy admitted; "but I'm not sure that I 
 should love you even if I were free. Perhaps I should, 
 for I do like you, and I enjoy being with you more than 
 any one, but I never thought it possible to have love 
 enter my life. I've never seriously thought of leaving 
 Vallie, for after all I've become used to him. Of course it 
 might be, but that would mean pain for us both, for it's 
 too late." 
 
 Auchester's expression changed and he spoke almost 
 fiercely. "Then when you suggested our coming here you 
 had nothing else in mind than having dinner together? 
 Had you not considered whether or not you loved me when 
 you made this appointment?" 
 
 "Why, no. It was just another of my impulses, I 
 suppose. I always enjoy being with you, and I have 
 been so happy since I became myself again. I thought 
 you understood. What else could I have meant?" 
 
 "What else?" Auchester repeated after her. "Good 
 God! what a mockery ! Listen! I thought you loved me, 
 Lucy, and were through with the life your husband's neglect 
 forces you to lead; I thought you had read in my heart the 
 
 [207]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 passion which expresses the longing of a soldier for 
 the woman whom he believes should be his mate; I 
 thought that your independence lifted you above mere 
 conventions, and that having learned what you had be- 
 come to me, you were ready to cut the knot with a single 
 stroke, leave the old distressing scenes behind you, and 
 blaze a path with me into the unknown which is always 
 kinder than th known. That is what I thought, that is 
 what I believed you meant when you came here with me 
 tonight." 
 
 Lucy's confusion disappeared as Auchester continued 
 to speak. "You thought me that kind of woman," she 
 exclaimed quietly, but with a world of force in her voice. 
 "You have known me these months and could believe 
 that? Please let me go home at once." 
 
 "Not yet." The Captain held out his arm protestingly. 
 "Not until you hear me out. I have told you what I 
 thought; now I tell you what I know, and you must 
 listen. I am a soldier, Lucy, and a soldier's ideas of life 
 are different, for the camp is not the drawing-room. But 
 his ideas of manhood are the same, however much he 
 may have learned to disregard conventions. You shall 
 not go from me tonight until I have made you under- 
 stand that I have offered you no disrespect, nor treated 
 you other than as the one woman I could wish to make 
 my wife. Such apologies as are required belong to your 
 husband, but I have disregarded him because he has dis- 
 regarded himself. Now that I know your feelings in the 
 matter that you do not regard me as I thought you did, 
 and that conventions do mean something to you in spite of 
 your false conviction that you disregard them I ask you 
 to believe me when I say that I respect them all. If you 
 felt as I do, that would be different; as you do not, I can 
 
 [ 208 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 do nothing other than accept your code. Will you believe 
 me, Lucy? " 
 
 "Yes," she replied, holding out her hand; "it has been 
 my fault, and I thank you for understanding me. But 
 now I must go home. I didn't know you were to have a 
 private room, and the name you gave, we've acted 
 like two foolish children!" 
 
 Lucy started ahead of Auchester, but half-way down 
 the stairs she turned. "I've forgotten my wrap," she 
 said. 
 
 As he went back she continued, but when near the 
 foot she found a merry party of young people awaiting 
 their cars. Instinctively she drew back, but she saw that 
 she had been observed, and recognized Mrs. Channing, 
 evidently chaperoning her daughters and their friends. 
 Retreat was impossible, so with her sweetest smile 
 she advanced to greet them, praying inwardly that 
 the Captain might hear her voice and remain in the 
 background. 
 
 "What a jolly party!" she exclaimed, nodding cheerfully 
 to several whom she knew, who came forward to meet her. 
 
 Mrs. Channing's response was less cordial, and Lucy 
 felt the necessity of appeasing the resentment which she 
 knew had reason to exist. 
 
 "What should we do without 'Spicer's'!" she said to 
 her, with a smile which sank no deeper than her lips. 
 " He is an oasis in the desert of domestic ennui. Surely 
 you will grant that this form of excitement is quite harm- 
 less, even to your young charges." 
 
 "Your husband is getting the car?" Mrs. Channing 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes that is, I expect him every moment." 
 
 "I didn't see you in the dining-room." 
 14 [2091
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 " No; Mr. Spicer always lets me dine upstairs when 
 I am alone." 
 
 "I should hardly think one of your temperament 
 would find that particularly enjoyable," Mrs. Channing 
 continued, subjecting her to a careful scrutiny. 
 
 "Oh, dear, yes," Lucy responded with a nervous laugh. 
 "I come here whenever I find it stupid at home. Some- 
 times one's own company is the best company of all." 
 
 "Your husband is not here?" she persisted. 
 
 "Not yet; I expect him every minute," Lucy lied cheer- 
 fully, encouraged by the fact that Auchester had not 
 appeared. 
 
 By this time the party had reduced itself to Mrs. Chan* 
 ning and her daughters, and their car was at the door. 
 "We ought not to leave you alone here at this time of 
 night," she said doubtfully, evidently debating between 
 inclination and propriety. 
 
 "Oh! I'm all right," Lucy hastened to assure her, eager 
 to be relieved of her embarrassment. "Mr. Spencer is 
 sure to be here in a moment." 
 
 The words were hardly spoken when Cunningham came 
 in through the open door. He gazed on the scene before 
 him for a moment, showing unmistakable signs of relief. 
 
 "The car is waiting for you, Lucy," he said. 
 
 Mrs. Channing gave her a look full of significance. "If 
 I meet Mr. Spencer on the way home I'll tell him that 
 you are already provided for," she said triumphantly, 
 majestically sailing out of the room, driving her daughters 
 ahead of her with the same protective air which Niobe 
 is said to have exhibited upon a similar occasion. 
 
 [210]
 
 XXIII 
 
 CUNNINGHAM failed to grasp the situation. As 
 the Channings left the hallway Lucy sank onto the 
 nearest chair in a state of nervous collapse. He 
 quickly stood beside her. 
 
 "Lucy," he said, "where is Auchester?" 
 
 "You've made an awful mess of things," was her only 
 reply. "How did you know that I was here? " 
 
 "Susette tried to reach Margaret and I took the 
 message. Babs was ill " 
 
 "My baby ill!" Lucy cried, springing to her feet. 
 
 "It's nothing serious I stopped at the house on the 
 way down, but Susette was worried. She said that 
 you inquired something about ' Spicer's ' yesterday. After 
 what you wrote me I was anxious. I called Auchester 
 up at his club, and the motor service man said he had 
 hired a car to go to 'Spicer's'. Now you understand." 
 
 She relaxed again as soon as he reassured her regarding 
 Babs. "Did you hear what Mrs. Channing said as she 
 went out?" she asked. 
 
 "I'm not concerned with her," he insisted with a slight 
 show of impatience. "Is Auchester still here?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered; "but you are concerned with 
 Mrs. Channing, whether you wish to be or not. She 
 thinks that you and I have dined together." 
 
 [211]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I care nothing about what she thinks or does 
 not think of me. Look at me, Lucy. What about 
 Auchester?" 
 
 She sprang to her feet indignantly. "You too, Ned? 
 This is too much! I came here to dine with Captain 
 Auchester because nobody else cares whether I ever dine 
 or not. We have had a beautiful evening and were just 
 leaving when we ran into the Channing party. There 
 has been nothing which is not perfectly proper, and 
 I won't stand your insinuations. That old cat has 
 reason to hate me and to put the worst possible con- 
 struction on everything I do, but you have been my 
 friend and I have the right to expect something better 
 from you." 
 
 "It is because I am your friend that I have rushed 
 here as fast as a motor could bring me, to give you the 
 fullest expression friendship can make. But it is not 
 'perfectly proper' for you to be here alone with Captain 
 Auchester until after midnight, and you know it is 
 not." 
 
 "Is it as late as that? I had no idea 
 
 "The hour makes little difference; the fact remains." 
 
 "Is it any more proper for me to be here alone with 
 you than with him?" 
 
 "Perhaps not; but I am protecting your husband's 
 interests 
 
 "You have no right to suggest that Captain 
 Auchester is less considerate." 
 
 "May I not speak for myself?" Auchester interrupted 
 calmly, coming toward them from the stairway. 
 
 "There will be ample opportunity for you to do so 
 later," Cunningham replied. "Since you have been will- 
 ing to withhold yourself from the events which have just 
 
 [212]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 been happening, your patience will undoubtedly serve you 
 until tomorrow." 
 
 "Of course you understand that I have refrained from 
 taking part solely in the interests of Mrs. Spencer." 
 
 "Then you, at least, appreciate how serious this is. 
 Mrs. Spencer does not." 
 
 " I think we can easily explain 
 
 "You owe me no explanation, that belongs to Mr. 
 Spencer. In the meantime I shall see to it that she 
 returns to him without further delay." 
 
 "I am going back with Captain Auchester," Lucy 
 insisted firmly. 
 
 "You are going back with me," Cunningham replied 
 with finality. "My car is waiting." 
 
 She was no match for Cunningham when thus deter- 
 mined, but still was in no mood to comply. She looked 
 helplessly from one to the other. 
 
 "It will be wiser to follow Mr. Cunningham's advice," 
 Auchester said quietly. "This is no place for discussion. 
 Please let me help you into his motor." 
 
 "Mrs. Spencer requires no assistance beyond my own," 
 Cunningham said brusquely. "Come, Lucy, we are 
 losing time which may prove important." 
 
 "May I call at your office tomorrow?" Auchester 
 asked Cunningham. 
 
 "You may call whenever you like. Whether I see you 
 or not depends upon circumstances." 
 
 "There are certain claims which one gentleman always 
 has upon another," the Captain said with much dignity. 
 
 "If your claims are those of a gentleman, you may rest 
 assured that I shall recognize them." 
 
 Lucy had risen, and without waiting for either of the 
 men she passed out of the door and quickly seated her- 
 
 [213]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 She did not respond, and Cunningham saw that she was 
 in no way appeased. 
 
 "After tonight you may call our friendship ended if 
 you choose, but until I have completely satisfied the 
 demands which it makes upon me I cannot conscientiously 
 do less than I am doing. Your impulses make you weak, 
 Lucy, and Heaven knows that the world is far more pitiless 
 of weakness than it is of sin." 
 
 "The world is far less pitiless than you," she exclaimed, 
 her heart at last crying out in its suffering. "You sit 
 there in your complacency and try to break me on the 
 wheel. You shan't do it, Ned Cunningham. It isn't 
 the act of a friend and it isn't manly. I know I'm weak, 
 but I have a right to be because I'm a woman. I know 
 that I'm a creature of impulses, but they're not evil 
 ones and they do no one any harm. You can't even let 
 me enjoy one evening with a friend who is agreeable 
 company, after weeks of almost complete isolation, just 
 because this friend happens to be a man. It isn't fair, 
 Ned, and you shan't do it." 
 
 The machine turned into the Spencers' driveway. 
 
 "Here we are," Cunningham exclaimed, making no 
 attempt to reply. "My one hope is that Vallie may still 
 be detained on board the 'Sylph.' " 
 
 "Oh, that won't make any difference," Lucy replied in- 
 differently. " If he doesn't hear about it tonight, Mrs. 
 Channing will take good care that it isn't overlooked. 
 Trust her for that." 
 
 Cunningham's prayer was not answered, for Vallie 
 was not only at home, but evidently awaited Lucy's 
 return. The engine had scarcely come to a standstill 
 when he appeared coming toward the head of the steps 
 leading from the piazza. 
 
 [216]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Don't stop," Lucy said as Ned helped her out; "I 
 would rather have you go." 
 
 "I have no idea of running away," he insisted, closing 
 the door and placing his hand beneath her elbow as they 
 walked up the steps. Spencer came forward to meet them 
 and peered into Cunningham's face. 
 
 "Hullo, Vallie," Ned greeted him as naturally as he 
 could in the face of an overpowering desire to seize him 
 by the throat and choke back his insolence. 
 
 "It's you, is it?" Spencer replied in an ugly mood. 
 "What are you doing here at one o'clock in the 
 morning? " 
 
 "What you ought to be doing." Cunningham met the 
 issue squarely, and his retort was so unexpectedly direct 
 that Vallie drew back with a moment's hesitation. 
 
 "Good-night, Lucy," Cunningham continued, holding 
 out his hand and paying no attention to Spencer. "Mar- 
 garet will be down to see you some day this week." 
 
 As Lucy turned into the house Cunningham started 
 toward the car, but Spencer had recovered his former 
 belligerent attitude. "I'm not through with you yet," 
 he said. "What do you mean by your confounded 
 impudence?" 
 
 "Don't be a fool," Cunningham replied, pausing for a 
 moment. "I have no desire to be disagreeable, and you 
 have no right to be. Let's forget it. Good-night." 
 
 " It's because you think I'm a fool that you run me like 
 this," Vallie continued. "I've let you and the other men 
 jolly me so long at the club that you think you can do 
 anything you like with me, but there are limits. I'm 
 getting tired of it, and the sooner you understand it the 
 better for all concerned. I don't intend to have you or 
 any other man trailing around my wife and giving people 
 
 [217]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 a chance to talk about it. Take it from me, it's got to 
 stop." 
 
 Cunningham retraced his steps until he stood directly 
 in front of him. "Look here, Spencer," he said, "if you 
 insist on prolonging this conversation it may be that 
 you'll hear something that won't be pleasant. I'm a fairly 
 patient man, but you're getting close to my limitations. 
 You know as well as I do that it's all poppycock as far 
 as talk about Lucy and me or Lucy and any other man is 
 concerned. If you don't buck up and remember that you 
 have a wife, and give her something to think about besides 
 herself, you can't blame her if she does do something 
 foolish, just to break the monotony. But if there's any 
 talk going around about any woman, it's some one other 
 than Lucy, and the man in the case doesn't stand very 
 far from me at this moment." 
 
 "What business is it of yours, confound you?" 
 
 "None, except when you try to drag some one else into 
 your class. Then I make it my business." 
 
 Spencer laughed disagreeably. "As a matter of fact 
 there is a good deal more talk about you and Lucy than 
 you have any idea. I haven't paid any attention to it, 
 because we've been friends. But I'm not a fool, and some- 
 times near-scandal sounds a whole lot worse than the real 
 thing. You take it from me that unless you cut it out 
 the worm will turn." 
 
 "I hope it will." Cunningham's disgust gained the 
 better of his judgment. "I have great respect for 
 worms after they actually do turn, and very little until 
 they have accomplished the metamorphosis. Good-night." 
 
 [218]
 
 XXIV 
 
 WHEN Auchester called at Cunningham's office 
 the following morning he was given immediate 
 audience. In spite of his prejudice, Cunning- 
 ham had discovered something in the man's words and 
 manner which interested him. He was relieved, the even- 
 ing before, to have Spencer vent his spleen upon his head, 
 for that of course could do no possible harm, while to 
 associate Auchester's name with Lucy's would indeed be 
 serious. He congratulated himself upon the fortunate 
 accident which made it possible for him to step into the 
 breach, and he was sure that when "the child," as he so 
 frequently spoke of her, had time to think things over, 
 she would be as grateful to him as she was now incensed. 
 But whatever the result, Cunningham knew that he had 
 done his duty and there was a certain grim satisfaction 
 in that. Margaret would be interested in this latest 
 denouement, and he regretted that in his haste to get down 
 to his office this morning there had not been time to give 
 her the details. Now Auchester had come, and he would 
 have a fuller story to repeat when he returned home that 
 evening. 
 
 Cunningham was mistaken if he expected the Captain 
 to appear as an embarrassed man. Auchester's quiet 
 
 [219]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 dignity was one of his greatest assets, and his whole 
 bearing marked him as a man of breeding. This, however, 
 Cunningham discounted during that first impression as 
 being perhaps the natural expression of his army training. 
 A man may carry himself with a certain air and yet be 
 every inch a rascal, and Ned was determined to tear aside 
 the mask which he felt convinced served as a polished 
 veneer to a scarred interior. 
 
 His greeting was cold, yet there was no lack of civility. 
 The Captain evidently expected this and passed it over 
 lightly. He was deliberate as he laid down his hat and 
 cane, and drew his chair closer to where Cunningham sat 
 in front of a large table, covered with legal documents. 
 
 "I appreciate your courtesy in seeing me after the 
 unfortunate misunderstanding of last evening," Auchester 
 began. 
 
 "Was there any misunderstanding?" Cunningham de- 
 manded bluntly. "The affair seemed to me to be only 
 too clear." 
 
 "It is natural that you should put that interpretation 
 upon it. The occasion of my call this morning is to place 
 you in possession of the real facts." 
 
 "As I said last night, your explanations belong to Mr. 
 Spencer rather than to me." 
 
 It was evident that the Captain's ideas on this point 
 failed to coincide. "When the husband of the lady in 
 question disregards his responsibilities and another man 
 assumes them," he said with significant emphasis, "may 
 I not conclude that the other man is at least interested 
 in the real facts?" 
 
 "I have assumed no responsibilities beyond that of a 
 friend," Cunningham insisted. 
 
 Auchester looked at him a moment deliberately, with 
 [220]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 a quiet smile. "You are a courageous man, Mr. Cunning- 
 ham, or else singularly inexperienced with the world. I 
 am at a loss to decide which." 
 
 "I do not flatter myself that you took the trouble to 
 call upon me for the pleasure of exchanging personal 
 impressions." 
 
 "No," the Captain admitted, brought by Cunningham's 
 remark to his definite purpose; "I came to tell you that 
 last evening I made Mrs. Spencer a definite offer of 
 marriage." 
 
 Cunningham gazed at him incredulously. "In civilized 
 countries like America we do not practise polyandry," 
 he said dryly. 
 
 Auchester appeared not to notice the sarcasm. "Un- 
 fortunately I was laboring under a misapprehension as 
 far as Mrs. Spencer is concerned," he continued. 
 
 "She felt that even one husband at a time was one 
 too many, I imagine," Cunningham laughed. "Come, 
 Auchester, I expected a better story from you than 
 that!" 
 
 "Since circumstances seemed to place me in the wrong 
 last evening, Mr. Cunningham, I refuse to take offense, 
 but may I not ask that our conversation be treated with 
 the seriousness which the occasion demands?" 
 
 There was a flash in the Captain's eye which Cunning- 
 ham noted, and his tone contained a certain authority 
 which compelled respect. 
 
 "I beg you to continue," Cunningham said quietly. 
 
 "I have been aware of the domestic infelicities of the 
 Spencers," Auchester went on; "but the personal desire to 
 take a part of them upon my own shoulders 'is of more 
 recent date. My offer of marriage was made with a full 
 knowledge of the circumstances, and with the utmost 
 
 [221]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 respect for Mrs. Spencer. One could scarcely entertain 
 less than that toward the woman he wishes to make his 
 wife, could he?" 
 
 "You will have to make it clearer still before I under- 
 stand." Cunningham failed to follow him. "How can an 
 offer of marriage be made to a woman already married 
 without in itself being an affront?" 
 
 "I will answer your question by asking another. Does 
 marriage in its true sense exist incases like the Spencers'?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Does the mere fact that a legal ceremony was per- 
 formed sometime in the dim past justify the living to- 
 gether of a man and a woman who are no more to each 
 other than utter strangers?" 
 
 "You have a large contract on your hands if you intend 
 to remedy our existing marriage law^s," Cunningham 
 replied. "Is that your idea?" 
 
 "I have no interest in them whatever except as they 
 affect me," Auchester explained. "In my opinion every 
 one should settle this all-important matter for himself. 
 My own country has laws even more cruel than yours, 
 and in a question which so vitally affects me I decline to 
 consider myself bound by them." 
 
 "Just what was your proposition to Mrs. Spencer, 
 if I may ask?" 
 
 "That she leave her husband and go with me out into 
 the daylight. That if a divorce could be secured, we 
 would then be married; if not, we would be law unto 
 ourselves." 
 
 "Then you would think it wise to have a ceremony 
 performed as soon as it could legally be done?" 
 
 "Certainly. I do not object to the law when it operates 
 justly; it is the injustice which I would remedy." 
 
 [ 222 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "A dangerous doctrine, Captain." 
 
 "I learned it as a soldier, Mr. Cunningham; there are 
 times when martial law is imperative." 
 
 "It is less dangerous for the man than for the 
 woman," Cunningham continued. "Had you thought 
 of that?" 
 
 "Yes; and the condition can only exist where both 
 have the same moral standard, far higher, to my mind, 
 than the conventional code." 
 
 "That was the misapprehension you were laboring 
 under?" 
 
 "Yes. Mrs. Spencer appeared to have the same 
 disregard for conventions which I have; as a matter of 
 fact she only thinks she disregards them: they are as 
 fearsome to her as to others. Then again, I believed 
 that she reciprocated my affection. In this I was also 
 wrong." 
 
 "All this developed during your dinner at 'Spicer's'?" 
 
 "Yes; your coming had no bearing whatever upon the 
 situation. Mrs. Spencer had made her position quite 
 clear, and I had told her that as long as she held to it I 
 was bound to respect her feelings. She, at all events, 
 fully realizes that nothing I said was spoken in other than 
 the deepest honor which a man may show a woman. We 
 were about to leave when we ran into some people whom 
 she did not care to meet. Then you came in, and from 
 that point you know more than I." 
 
 There was a long silence between the two men after 
 Auchester ceased speaking. Every word the Captain 
 uttered conveyed an impression of manly sincerity, and 
 during the interview Cunningham's attitude toward him 
 underwent a complete change. He was dangerous still, 
 but only because of his inherent qualities of upright man- 
 
 [223]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 hood, which stood out clearly even though his code of 
 life differed so widely from his listener's and from that of 
 the world at large. Cunningham's only wonder now was 
 that Lucy had been able to resist him at all. 
 
 "May I ask who you are? " Cunningham said abruptly, 
 breaking the silence. 
 
 "Lord Annersley, of Annersley Manor, Devonshire." 
 
 "And why are you here incog ? " 
 
 "Auchester was my name before I succeeded to my 
 brother's title," he explained. "I am in Boston on con- 
 fidential business for the house of Bennett Brothers, 
 and we don't usually mix business and titles. I have a 
 dozen letters of introduction, but I have chosen to win 
 my friends myself, which has left me less restricted in 
 my personal affairs." 
 
 "Since last evening, then, you have abandoned your 
 intentions regarding Mrs. Spencer?" Cunningham re- 
 turned to the earlier portion of the conversation. 
 
 "No," was the frank response. "I have never yet 
 abandoned anything which I undertook; but sometimes 
 I have had to wait." 
 
 "Surely your family would not receive her under the 
 circumstances you suggest?" 
 
 " My plan was to live in Italy until the divorce could be 
 secured. After that I am the head of my family." 
 
 "How is it that you, an officer in the British Army, 
 are so indifferent to conventions? I had supposed that 
 unless a soldier rigidly observed them he got plenty of 
 service but little social recognition." 
 
 "You are entirely right, Mr. Cunningham. It has 
 been service that I have always sought. It is, per- 
 haps, natural -that every man should seek that which 
 he lacks." 
 
 [2241
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Cunningham required no credentials to know that 
 Auchester belonged to the aristocracy. The quiet 
 yet forceful dignity of his manner, the flash in his eye 
 when he demanded a hearing, the masterly note in 
 his voice as he spoke these last words, all marked 
 him as a man who knew himself to be secure in his 
 position. 
 
 "Then, as I understand it, you would still take Mrs. 
 Spencer with you to Europe if she would go." 
 
 "Only when convinced upon the two points I mention," 
 Auchester corrected. "A woman whom conventions can 
 terrify would be utterly wretched under unconventional 
 conditions, and unless her affection centered wholly in 
 me it would be merely exchanging one impossible situation 
 for another." 
 
 "Auchester," said Cunningham bluntly, holding out 
 his hand, "I've done you an injustice and I'm sorry for it. 
 Personally, I don't agree with you at all, but you have as 
 much right to your opinion as I have to mine, espe- 
 cially since you recognize the importance of respecting the 
 ideas of others, as you have done with Mrs. Spencer. 
 But, frankly, if you continue to live up to your present 
 position, I don't believe you will succeed in this under- 
 taking. Mrs. Spencer is a woman, and being a woman she 
 is dependent upon conventions whether she thinks so or 
 not. What you have already told me bears out my state- 
 ment. A man can afford to be more independent of them. 
 Look back over similar cases you have known or read about : 
 how many of the women have been happy? No, Auches- 
 ter, say what you will, we men can't put ourselves in 
 woman's place, and such retribution as may come as a 
 result of breaking society's laws falls on her far more 
 heavily than it does on us." 
 15 [225J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I thank you for hearing me through so patiently," 
 Aucnester said, rising to go. 
 
 "I'm obliged to you for coming," Cunningham replied, 
 shaking his hand cordially. "If you will forgive my early 
 prejudice, I hope I may see more of you." 
 
 "It would be a pleasure to me," the Captain responded, 
 bowing. "Until then good morning." 
 
 Cunningham was full of the affair when he returned 
 home that evening, and went at once to Margaret's room, 
 wondering that she was not at the door as usual to greet 
 him. He found her sitting in a chair by the window with 
 a book in her lap, but judging by the small number of 
 leaves turned she had either just sat down or had made 
 little progress. He saw from her face as she looked up 
 that she was worried, and he hastened forward. 
 
 "What's the matter, Peggy?" he asked with solicitude. 
 "Aren't you feeling well?" 
 
 "Draw up a chair, Ned," she replied, leaving his ques- 
 tions unanswered. "Something serious has happened, 
 and I must know more about it." 
 
 Anxious lines came in Cunningham's face as he sat down 
 near her. "Don't keep me in suspense," he urged. 
 
 "Is it true that you were motoring with Lucy last 
 evening? " 
 
 "Is that all!" he exclaimed with relief. "If that is the 
 trouble I can brush it away like a straw." 
 
 Then he rehearsed the events of the previous even- 
 ing from the time Susette had telephoned until he had 
 returned Lucy to her home, and from this point he 
 continued what he considered the amazing story of 
 Auchester. Margaret listened attentively until he had 
 finished. 
 
 "There, that straightens that all out, doesn't it?" 
 [226]
 
 he asked confidently. "Aren't you ashamed to hav^ let 
 it worry you even for a moment?" 
 
 "No, Ned; it doesn't straighten things out at all. You 
 have committed a grave indiscretion, as grave as any 
 you have cautioned Lucy against; and I tremble for the 
 possible consequences." 
 
 "Nonsense," he replied half-impatiently; "I thought 
 she was trapped there with Auchester, and I did only what 
 any friend would have done under the circumstances." 
 
 " You consider that you ow r ed that to Lucy as a friend? " 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Then what do you owe me, Ned, as your wife? Have 
 you a right to risk your reputation in the community and 
 my happiness in order to rescue some other woman from 
 a fancied danger?" 
 
 "What possible risk could there be to you or to me?" 
 he demanded incredulously. "As the affair turned out 
 there was no risk to any one." 
 
 "If you can't see it yourself then I must see it for you." 
 It was the first time that Margaret had ever reproved 
 him. "No man can be mixed up in an affair like this 
 without having it reflect on him, and if the man happens 
 to be married then his wife must suffer with him. We 
 can't tell yet how much this may amount to, but there 
 is enough in it to raise a wretched scandal." 
 
 Cunningham was forced to accept the seriousness of 
 the situation by Margaret's all too evident anxiety. "I 
 can't believe it, Peggy," he said, "but it's enough that 
 you feel as you do about it. What has brought it all 
 up?" 
 
 She handed him a letter which had been delivered to 
 Ler by messenger. 
 
 "Shall I read it?" he asked. 
 [227]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I thank you for hearing me through so patiently," 
 Aucnester said, rising to go. 
 
 "I'm obliged to you for coming," Cunningham replied, 
 shaking his hand cordially. "If you will forgive my early 
 prejudice, I hope I may see more of you." 
 
 "It would be a pleasure to me," the Captain responded, 
 bowing. "Until then good morning." 
 
 Cunningham was full of the affair when he returned 
 home that evening, and went at once to Margaret's room, 
 wondering that she was not at the door as usual to greet 
 him. He found her sitting in a chair by the window with 
 a book in her lap, but judging by the small number of 
 leaves turned she had either just sat down or had made 
 little progress. He saw from her face as she looked up 
 that she was worried, and he hastened forward. 
 
 "What's the matter, Peggy?" he asked with solicitude. 
 "Aren't you feeling well?" 
 
 "Draw up a chair, Ned," she replied, leaving his ques- 
 tions unanswered. "Something serious has happened, 
 and I must know more about it." 
 
 Anxious lines came in Cunningham's face as he sat down 
 near her. "Don't keep me in suspense," he urged. 
 
 "Is it true that you were motoring with Lucy last 
 evening? " 
 
 "Is that all!" he exclaimed with relief. "If that is the 
 trouble I can brush it away like a straw." 
 
 Then he rehearsed the events of the previous even- 
 ing from the time Susette had telephoned until he had 
 returned Lucy to her home, and from this point he 
 continued what he considered the amazing story of 
 Auchester. Margaret listened attentively until he had 
 finished. 
 
 "There, that straightens that all out, doesn't it?" 
 [2261
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 he asked confidently. "Aren't you ashamed to have let 
 it worry you even for a moment?" 
 
 "No, Ned; it doesn't straighten things out at all. You 
 have committed a grave indiscretion, as grave as any 
 you have cautioned Lucy against; and I tremble for the 
 possible consequences." 
 
 "Nonsense," he replied half-impatiently; "I thought 
 she was trapped there with Auchester, and I did only what 
 any friend would have done under the circumstances." 
 
 "You consider that you owed that to Lucy as a friend? " 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Then what do you owe me, Ned, as your wife? Have 
 you a right to risk your reputation in the community and 
 my happiness in order to rescue some other woman from 
 a fancied danger?" 
 
 "What possible risk could there be to you or to me?" 
 he demanded incredulously. "As the affair turned out 
 there was no risk to any one." 
 
 "If you can't see it yourself then I must see it for you." 
 It was the first time that Margaret had ever reproved 
 him. "No man can be mixed up in an affair like this 
 without having it reflect on him, and if the man happens 
 to be married then his wife must suffer with him. We 
 can't tell yet how much this may amount to, but there 
 is enough in it to raise a wretched scandal." 
 
 Cunningham was forced to accept the seriousness of 
 the situation by Margaret's all too evident anxiety. "I 
 can't believe it, Peggy," he said, "but it's enough that 
 you feel as you do about it. What has brought it all 
 up?" 
 
 She handed him a letter which had been delivered to 
 her by messenger. 
 
 "Shall I read it?" he asked. 
 [2271
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 He took the letter from the envelope as she nodded, and 
 read: 
 
 DEAR MRS. CUNNINGHAM: Ned and Lucy were motoring 
 last evening until one o'clock. You may have no objections, 
 but I have. Until now I have not taken exceptions to their 
 intimacy because of the friendship between the families, but 
 the limit has been reached. I trust that I may not have to 
 take further action. VALENTINE SPENCER. 
 
 "The insulting little whelp!" Cunningham exclaimed 
 indignantly. "I'll make him eat every word of that!" 
 
 "That would hardly improve matters," Margaret re- 
 plied. "He is in a position where he can make things un- 
 comfortable for all concerned. The question is whether 
 or not he will." 
 
 "He wouldn't dare! You see from what I've told you 
 how absolutely unfounded the whole story is." 
 
 Margaret's eyes fell and she sighed deeply. When she 
 looked up again they were filled with tears. "Oh, my 
 husband," she said, the words coming straight from her 
 heart, "what can I say to open your eyes to the fact that 
 a knowledge of your profession is not everything? What 
 will make you understand that you are no more privileged 
 to defy conventions than this foolish girl who seems de- 
 termined to bruise her head against the wall? It is not 
 enough that I understand, for the world chooses always 
 to accept the worst. I begged you to go no further in your 
 platonic protectorship, I warned you of the dangers, but 
 you brushed everything one side, and now we are face to 
 face with the fact itself. You say that the whole story is 
 unfounded: is it? Mr. Spencer evidently doesn't know 
 it all yet, and it is just as well that he doesn't. You were 
 
 [2281
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 seen alone with Lucy at midnight at a public roadhouse, 
 you went off together in your motor, is there any lawyer 
 who need ask a better case of circumstantial evidence 
 than that?" 
 
 Cunningham bowed his head. "Yes," he acknowledged, 
 "you are right, as you always are. I've been a fool, 
 but I can't believe that anything uncomfortable will 
 come of it. What concerns me most is that you have been 
 made unhappy. A world full of Lucys and their troubles 
 isn't worth a moment's anxiety to you, dear. You believe 
 me, don't you, Peggy?" 
 
 "Of course," she answered; "that doesn't enter into 
 the question at all. But you are so upright and strong 
 and brave that you don't realize how rotten the world is 
 around you. Suspicion loves a shining mark, and your 
 reputation means so much to us both that you must not 
 take such awful risks." 
 
 He reached over and took her hand, pressing it to his 
 lips. "Peggy dear," he said, "a man's knowledge is 
 pitifully weak compared with a woman's intuition. I 
 am still confident that nothing will come of this, but that 
 doesn't alter the fact that you are right. Forgive me, and 
 believe me when I say that I shall do my best to practise 
 what I preach." 
 
 [2291
 
 XXV 
 
 THE letter which Spencer sent to Margaret was but 
 a partial outlet of a spirit outraged almost to the 
 point of explosion. Importuned by his creditors, 
 harassed by financial demands from a quarter which at 
 all costs must be kept in the background, balked by Lucy 
 in his expectations to secure sums sufficient to relieve the 
 strain, it was more than his nature could endure to be 
 finally ignored by his wife and, as he expressed it, bully- 
 ragged by Cunningham. Such self-respect as he possessed 
 demanded that something be done, and the first thing 
 which suggested relief to his offended mind was to write 
 Margaret. He really had little idea that the letter would 
 even cause annoyance, but, after the few moments' con- 
 versation he had enjoyed with her, it occurred to him that 
 perhaps she might read between the lines what a deeply 
 injured man he was, and at least be sympathetic. Toward 
 Cunningham he now entertained the deepest resentment, 
 but the encounter on the piazza showed him that upon 
 anything like equal terms he was certain to be worsted. 
 The lawyer's trained mind, always in readiness for action, 
 was too great a handicap to overcome; and after his recent 
 experiences Spencer did not relish further humiliation. 
 
 It was while in this uncomfortable state of unrest that 
 the first definite rumors of the affair at "Spicer's" reached 
 
 [230]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 his ears. When he greeted Lucy and Cunningham so 
 savagely upon their return it had not seriously occurred 
 to him that he had other than general grounds for com- 
 plaint, and his attitude was simply an expression of ordi- 
 nary ill-humor. Cunningham's position in the community, 
 his congenial home life, his character and bearing as 
 a man, all removed him hi Spencer's mind from that 
 class of men whose names could ever be associated with 
 anything not wholly honorable. In fact this was Vallie's 
 chief grudge against him. He knew that Lucy had often 
 measured them up against each other, and he had no doubt 
 that her present attitude was either due to Cunningham's 
 advice or a direct result of the unequal comparison. So, 
 when rumor said that Lucy had dined with him in a private 
 room at "Spicer's," and Spencer found that people other 
 than himself were commenting upon the fact, he saw in it 
 ah 1 only an opportunity to make Lucy uncomfortable and 
 possibly to reach Cunningham through her. In the light 
 of later developments he regretted that the letter had 
 been sent to Margaret so prematurely: it would make 
 far better reading now. 
 
 Lucy had been fairly successsful in avoiding him since 
 the evening in question, but a house has only four walls, 
 and there is a limited number of exits and entrances 
 which may be used with self-respect. In her own mind 
 she had no reason for keeping apart from him except 
 the fact that even the sight of him caused an inward 
 resentment which made her almost ill. Still, when the 
 moment came for him to make the issue he had determined 
 upon, he knew he would have no difficulty in finding the 
 opportunity. 
 
 The looms in Lucy's mill of life were weaving fast, but 
 the patterns were ludicrously grotesque. The long stretch 
 
 [231]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 of gay colors had yielded to somber shades of drab; 
 then, as suddenly, they shifted to a bright variation, only 
 to change again to neutral tones; but the colorless drab 
 shades did not return. The effect of the brief exhilaration 
 still remained, tempered now by the sober reality which 
 later developments had brought. Her old friends still 
 stood by her, and Cunningham, even though he offended, 
 had evidenced his friendliness. All this encouraged her, 
 and the seriousness which came as a reaction proved agree- 
 able rather than otherwise. During the days which fol- 
 lowed the tempestuous home-coming, a calm had entered 
 into her life which she did not analyze, but which brought 
 with it a strange relief. It was good to be liked, as the 
 men showed so plainly they did like her; it was good to 
 be scolded by so dear a friend as Ned whether she deserved 
 it or not. And beyond all this she was buoyed up by the 
 unexpected experience with Auchester. With her eyes 
 closed she could still see the straight, stalwart figure 
 standing before her; beyond all other sounds she could 
 hear the declaration of his love and the brave, manly 
 defense of his position; more penetrating than any sensa- 
 tion sheiiad ever experienced she could feel the pressure 
 of his lips against her own. She had not even yet asked 
 herself if she loved him; it was enough to know that she 
 was loved. 
 
 This afternoon she wandered off the piazza, down into 
 a shady portion of the garden, finding there an intangible 
 reminder of a red-letter day. Sitting beneath the great 
 overspreading oak, she read and thought, unconscious 
 of the passing time or that she was alone. At length a 
 shout of childish voices roused her from the reverie as 
 Larry and Babs bounded into view, the advance guard of 
 Susette and the supper tray. When they discovered that 
 
 1232]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 their rendezvous was already occupied, all three came to 
 an abrupt halt. 
 
 "Pardon, madame," Susette apologized; "I will take 
 the children to the piazza." 
 
 "No," Lucy said quickly; "we will all have supper 
 together, right here." 
 
 "Hurrah!" Larry cried impulsively, but still somewhat 
 incredulously; "you will eat supper with us?" 
 
 "Yes," she smiled, holding out her arms; "mother is 
 oh! so hungry! Will you see that she gets enough?" 
 
 "I will," the diminutive Babs assured her, as both 
 children came forward. "If there isn't enough, Larry 
 may go without." 
 
 Susette spread the little table, unloading the tray while 
 the eyes of her charges watched every movement. 
 
 "You may have my strawberry jam," Larry announced 
 generously. 
 
 "Humph!" exclaimed Babs, "that's nothing, you 
 know you don't like jam." 
 
 "Yes, I do," he faltered; "only I'm sick of it." 
 
 "There isn't any plate for mother," Larry continued, 
 quite willing to turn the conversation, "nor any spoon 
 nor any napkin." 
 
 "I'll get them," Susette said, starting for the house. 
 
 "No; Larry and Babs must feed mother," Lucy 
 urged; "it will taste much better." 
 
 So the supper proceeded, supper for the children, 
 play for the mother-heart which warmed under the un- 
 usual experience. Babs was the dignified member of the 
 party, correcting the table manners of the others and 
 completely living up to her self-assumed responsibility. 
 Then, with the creature-necessities provided for, the 
 animal instinct for play became assertive. As Susette 
 
 [2331
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 cleared away the relics of the repast, Larry turned to his 
 mother. 
 
 "Come on down to the beach," he invited hesitatingly. 
 
 "Oh, please!" Babs echoed, seizing Lucy's hand. 
 
 From force of habit she started to make some excuse, 
 but for the first time in her life a sudden desire to be with 
 them took possession of her. Why not? With the quick- 
 ness of childhood to sense unspoken thoughts, Babs tugged 
 at her hand and Lucy rose to her feet. "Why not?" she 
 said to herself. To little Babs she answered, "Will you 
 teach mother all your games?" 
 
 "Mother's coming! mother's coming!" cried the de- 
 lighted Babs, releasing the hand and dancing about for 
 
 joy- 
 
 "Susette," Larry shouted to the returning figure, 
 "mother's going down on the beach with us!" 
 
 Babs again took Lucy's hand and slyly kissed it. Why 
 was it that the touch of those baby lips went straight to 
 Lucy's heart, causing her to sink upon the grass and press 
 the little figure to her breast? There are more strange 
 changes in the chemistry of the spirit than can be found 
 within the laboratory of the scientist. Else why should 
 the joy -tears in Lucy's eyes transform her in that instant 
 from the moth fluttering about the flame of life into a 
 woman capable of being a part of life itself? Excuse 
 herself from responding to that appeal! No power on 
 earth could have prevented her at that moment from 
 embracing the opportunity. 
 
 As Lucy had said, her summer had been a long succes- 
 sion of waves, and whenever she found herself carried to 
 the heights on the crest of one, she knew that another was 
 only awaiting its opportunity to dash away the insecure 
 foundation upon which she rested, and to swamp her in 
 
 [234]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 its undertow. It had happened so often now that she 
 came to look for it; so when, after her play with the 
 children, she found that Vallie had returned home, she 
 simply sighed wearily and wondered what particular form 
 his generally disagreeable mood would take. 
 
 The time had passed for dissembling, and neither one 
 made any effort to converse during the trying period of 
 dinner. Lucy's pride prevented her from openly avoiding 
 him, for she felt that this action would in some way be a 
 tacit admission that she had something to conceal; but 
 at the earliest possible moment she silently rose from the 
 table and started to leave the room. 
 
 "Where are you going?" Spencer demanded. "I have 
 something I want to say to you." 
 
 "Down on the beach," she replied, moving toward the 
 piazza. 
 
 "I'd rather talk to you up here." 
 
 "You'll find me on the beach," she said firmly, without 
 pausing. 
 
 Spencer followed closely behind as she passed through 
 the garden and down the ivy-grown stone steps leading 
 to the little sandy beach below. Something drew her back 
 to the scene of her afternoon's experience, something in 
 that experience seemed to promise her protection. She 
 proceeded as if unconscious of her husband's proximity, 
 while he, angered still further by her apparent indiffer- 
 ence, fumed disagreeably in her wake. Once on the beach 
 she stood still and looked out across the water. The 
 red moon was just rising above the horizon line, the sky 
 had not yet lost the last reflections from the sunken sun, 
 a faint breeze cooled the atmosphere, but was not enough 
 to make impression upon the surface of the sea, which 
 beat gently and peacefully with mathematical rhythm 
 
 [2351
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 upon the shore. What right had discordant elements to 
 enter here? Lucy's heart cried out against it, why 
 should not Nature, at peace with itself, rise up to pre- 
 vent such sacrilegious human intrusion? 
 
 Then she turned to the trailer behind her. "There's 
 a rock over here where I may sit," she said with a total 
 lack of feeling in her voice. "Your conversations are 
 such that I enjoy them better sitting down. What is it 
 this time, the odious money question again?" 
 
 "No; I've given that up 
 
 "You might as well," she interrupted; "there's nothing 
 more to say concerning that." 
 
 "I want to know about you and Cunningham at 
 'Spicer's ' last week," he said bluntly. 
 
 Lucy looked at him curiously. This was a new variety 
 after all. The tone in his voice was actually demanding, 
 which he had never before employed in asking explana- 
 tions of her actions. "Didn't Ned tell you all you wanted 
 to know the other evening?" 
 
 "He told me nothing about 'Spicer's'; I supposed you 
 had simply been motoring with him." 
 
 "I'm sorry he didn't chart out the course the car took, 
 if that is what you wish. I'm afraid I can't do it." 
 
 "Then you admit that you were there with him?" 
 
 "Oh, dear no! I haven't admitted anything." 
 
 "Do you deny that you and he dined there, in a private 
 room, and were together alone until one o'clock in the 
 morning?" 
 
 "Absolutely. What an absurd idea!" she laughed. 
 
 "But I tell you that you did," Spencer insisted. "I 
 can produce witnesses, and I intend to push this thing to 
 the limit." 
 
 "What do you call 'the limit,' Vallie?" 
 [236]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "The divorce court." 
 
 Lucy clapped her hands. "Will you really let me get 
 a divorce?" she cried. "Will you fix things so that I need 
 never see your wretched little self again?" 
 
 Spencer was not looking for this response. "So that 
 is what you want, is it?" 
 
 "Nothing so much. Will you do it?" 
 
 " What good will that do, you can't marry 
 Cunningham." 
 
 "Of course I can't; but at least I can be rid of you." 
 
 "Unless Cunningham's wife divorces him," Spencer 
 continued; "that would fix it up for you." 
 
 "Why should Margaret do that, even to please me?" 
 
 Spencer laughed at her apparent innocence. "Most 
 women object to living with a man after he's been shown 
 up with another woman in the divorce court." 
 
 "But Ned has nothing to do with our affair." Lucy was 
 still puzzled. 
 
 "Oh, hasn't he?" Spencer replied. "I intend to name 
 him as corespondent." 
 
 Her face sobered for an instant, and then she laughed 
 outright. "I didn't know you had so much humor, Vallie. 
 The idea of Ned Cunningham, dear, upright, puritanical 
 Ned, who doesn't know the world contains any other 
 woman besides Margaret, being named as a corespond- 
 ent! It's a joke!" 
 
 "It may not strike him the same way." 
 
 "Surely you don't mean it?" 
 
 "If you have any doubts, you have only to wait and 
 see." 
 
 For the first time Lucy realized that Spencer was in 
 earnest, and that it was necessary for her to explain enough 
 to exonerate Ned. "But I did not dine with him that 
 
 [237]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 evening," she repeated firmly, "I did not see him until 
 just before I left, and he simply brought me home in his 
 car." 
 
 "Tell that to the marines," Spencer retorted. 
 
 "But it's the truth." 
 
 "You didn't dine there alone, did you?" 
 
 "No; but it was not with Ned." 
 
 She waited a moment for him to question her, but he 
 was silent. 
 
 "Do you want to know who it was?" she asked, fright- 
 ened by even the thought that Cunningham should in 
 some way be involved. 
 
 Spencer bent over until his face was near hers, and his 
 ferret-eyes snapped as they looked into hers. "No," he 
 replied shortly ; " it is enough for me that Cunningham was 
 there; he's the man I want to get, and I'll give him a 
 chance to explain in court. You'll get what you want, 
 which is a separation from me, and I'll get Cunningham. 
 It will make fine headlines in the papers: the great 
 publicist, the famous lawyer, the upright citizen, the 
 irreproachable husband, caught alone with a married 
 woman at ' Spicer's ' at midnight ! Damme, I don't care 
 whether you dined together or not : I can fove that you 
 were there with him, and I'm content to let imagination 
 and the yellow journals do the rest. They're even talking 
 seriously about him for United States Senator. Bah ! I'll 
 show him up as a whitened sepulcher! I told him that 
 the worm would turn, and now, by Gad, he may behold 
 the 'metamorphosis.'" 
 
 Lucy's cheeks blanched as Spencer ran on and the 
 realization clearly came to her that the situation could 
 be construed exactly as he put it. She had boasted that 
 her indiscretions were of such a nature that they could 
 
 [2381
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 injure no one but herself; now she saw how far-sighted 
 Cunningham's contention was that her confidence in this 
 was unwarranted. As she knew Vallie now he was quite 
 capable of carrying out his threat, and the malignant 
 gleam in his eye showed that he would take no little 
 delight in the undertaking. 
 
 "You are contemptible enough to admit that you 
 don't care whether your charge is true or not? That all 
 you want is to smear his good name with some of the 
 filth from your own mind? " 
 
 "Oh, there's no question in my mind that he's the man 
 all right," Spencer protested. 
 
 "You lie, Vallie, and you know it! You know as well 
 as I do that there's nothing in the whole affair except your 
 own evil designs, whatever they may be. You know that 
 Ned Cunningham is as far above any such thought as 
 common decency is above you." 
 
 "Calling names and throwing mud won't help things 
 a bit," he replied calmly. "It has been Ned this and 
 Ned that ever since we came to Boston, and I'm sick to 
 death even of his name. Now he has gone too far and so 
 have you. I warned him the last time I saw him. Now 
 I'll show you both that I mean business." 
 
 Lucy regarded him for a moment with a silence which 
 was eloquent in expressing her feelings toward him. 
 "What is the game, Vallie?" she demanded at length. 
 "I think it will work out quicker if you take me into your 
 confidence." 
 
 "Game?" he repeated as if reproaching her for so un- 
 worthy a suggestion. "There isn't any game. I'm simply 
 protecting the sanctity of my home." 
 
 [239]
 
 XXVI 
 
 IN reading the sensational records of causes celebres, 
 it is natural to assume that association with them in 
 any capacity means constant dash and excitement 
 and a freedom from the ordinary uneventful happenings 
 of life. This, perhaps, is due to the fact that those who 
 transcribe these annals do not consider the minor details 
 of sufficient interest to the general reader to warrant 
 their recording. Langdon could have borne testimony 
 that it represented the apotheosis of tedium and fatigue. 
 The address which Cunningham gave him of the woman 
 In the Montgomery case eliminated much of his prelim- 
 inary work, and the detectives to whom she had been 
 assigned performed such portion of the task as naturally 
 belonged to them. Langdon's function was to follow 
 up such clues as were supplied to him by others; and 
 this undertaking he found filled with disappointments 
 and exasperating delays. Cunningham had been quietly 
 amused more times than he would allow Langdon to 
 realize by the exclamations of disgust, despair, and dismay 
 which the younger man made in discussing with him 
 during the summer the progress he was making. Yet 
 never once had there been a wavering in his purpose to 
 secure every fact which could be elicited by force or chance 
 from those whose interests lay in concealment or subter- 
 
 [240]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 fuge. He forswore invitations to summer gaieties which 
 interfered with his investigations, and became almost 
 unknown to his familiar haunts; so his self-effacement 
 during these months was as complete as the disappearance 
 of the famous Montgomery case from the scarelines of the 
 daily press. 
 
 Still, in spite of all the disappointments, Langdon's 
 work had not been without result. Montgomery had 
 succeeded in keeping his identity to himself, even the name 
 under which he was indicted being obviously an assumed 
 one; and this was one point which the lawyer hoped to 
 clear up. Brewster had been a local character, but no 
 one who knew him had ever met Montgomery in his 
 company. Several of these witnesses were given an oppor- 
 tunity, in one way or another, to identify the woman, 
 but she proved equally mysterious. At best it could only 
 be conjectured that the two unknowns were acquaintances 
 of brief standing; and Langdon's theory became strength- 
 ened that the two had worked together in accomplishing 
 perhaps the double crirre of robbery and murder. The 
 fact that no money was found on Montgomery's person 
 proved nothing one way or the other since the presence 
 of a third party was establis/ed, as this woman, if she be 
 the one, could easily have taken the proceeds of their 
 crime with her when she left the carriage. 
 
 Montgomery was a man of better breeding than he had 
 been willing to disclose, and Langdon was convinced from 
 what he had seen that his surly bearing was assumed and 
 intended to deceive. Yet he was not prepared to find his 
 supposed accomplice just the type of woman as was the 
 one whom Cunningham had indicated. She was a dashing 
 brunette, handsome in a way, living with her mother in 
 a well-furnished apartment in the West End of Boston. 
 16 [ 241 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 She had her own motor and was a familiar figure at those 
 functions to which admittance was gained without social 
 credentials. Langdon could scarcely associate her with 
 the man in Charles Street jail, nor with anything so 
 desperate as the crime of which she stood suspected. 
 Cunningham had not thought it necessary to give him 
 all the details which had brought her within the pale of 
 suspicion; but such of the lawyer's doubts as at first 
 existed disappeared as his investigations proceeded. It 
 was a shock for him to find that the mild-faced old 
 "mother" was evidently hired to give respectability to 
 the apartment, and that the motor car and the marvelous 
 gowns might be accounted for by the fact that their 
 possessor was evidently living along the "easiest way." 
 This last discovery weakened Langdon's theory that she 
 was expending the proceeds of the crime, and caused other 
 complications in his mind when he discovered through 
 the detectives the identity of the man. This latest in- 
 formation, indeed, was of so personal a nature that, as it 
 had no possible bearing upon the case, he hesitated to pass 
 it along to Cunningham. He considered it as one of 
 those secrets which professional men are bound in honor 
 to protect; yet he was entitled to his own indignation. 
 
 The evidence collected by the detectives was fairly 
 conclusive as to the woman's earlier association with 
 Montgomery, but it lacked absolute corroboration. To 
 strengthen his own convictions, Langdon secured a snap- 
 shot picture showing her stepping into her car. Armed 
 with this, he sought another interview with Montgomery, 
 in the course of which he suddenly held the picture before 
 him. 
 
 "Did you ever know this woman?" he demanded 
 abruptly. 
 
 [242]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Montgomery's involuntary start and the expression 
 in his eyes gave Langdon his answer, but in an instant 
 the man recovered his composure and his lips denied 
 what had already been acknowledged. " No," he answered 
 in a tone more surly than ever; "what should I have to 
 do with a woman like that?" 
 
 "That's curious," the lawyer continued. "There's 
 some one here at the jail in whom she is interested, and 
 I thought it might perhaps be you." 
 
 The man looked at him suspiciously, but Langdon could 
 sec that he was eager to hear more. "Why should she 
 or any one else care what happens to me?" he said at 
 length. 
 
 "I'm glad it's not you," Langdon went on, "for much 
 as you dislike me, I'm really the best friend you have. 
 The woman in that picture, pretty as she is, is nothing 
 better than a beast, she's a vampire." 
 
 Montgomery's hands clenched. "Well," he said, evi- 
 dently holding himself in, "well, go on. How do you 
 know so much about her?" 
 
 "She's mixed up with some one here in this jail, and they 
 will arrest her presently. I'm relieved to know that you 
 are not the man. She and this other person, whoever 
 he is, did a job together, and she evidently got away 
 with the plunder. Since then she's been blowing it in 
 on herself, and has landed an easy mark who has set up 
 a grand establishment for her. He gave her that car. 
 Now she's afraid her pal, who hasn't come to trial yet, 
 may get out and spoil her little game. Pretty tough on 
 him, isn't it?" 
 
 Langdon watched him carefully as the story progressed, 
 and felt certain that the breaking point was near at hand. 
 "Yes," he continued, "vampire is the only name to give 
 
 [243]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 a woman like that. One can have a certain respect for 
 those who go wrong when they remain loyal to their pals, 
 but this one is evidently relieved to get rid of her late 
 companion in crime, poor chap. After they get her I must 
 find out who he is, for my sympathy is all with him. 
 She can ride around in automobiles and wear fine clothes 
 and have champagne suppers, leaving him to rot in jail 
 for all she cares, by Gad! It's tough, I say." 
 
 Langdon rose to leave the cell. 
 
 "Let me see that picture again," Montgomery de- 
 manded, holding out his hand, but not meeting the lawyer's 
 eyes. He took the photograph in his hand, and bending 
 forward as he sat on the edge of his cot, he gazed at it 
 for a long time. 
 
 "Handsome woman, isn't she?" Langdon ventured at 
 length; "but you never can tell by the looks. Vampire, 
 that's what she is." 
 
 The lawyer was certain that the man would give way, 
 and waited expectantly for the outburst of abuse which 
 he felt sure would be heaped upon the head of the woman. 
 Montgomery's superb control of himself was shaken, the 
 twitching features and the clenched hands giving the 
 only evidence of his mental struggle. Suddenly the storm 
 broke, but it was of a nature so different from what 
 Langdon had expected that he started forward in surprise. 
 The man's head dropped upon his hands and his body 
 swayed with convulsive grief. 
 
 When at length he raised his head he saw the sur- 
 prised look in Langdon 's eyes. "Let me keep this 
 picture," he begged; "it reminds me of some one I used 
 to know." 
 
 "Keep that picture of a vampire!" the lawyer cried. 
 
 "She may be what you call her," the man admitted, 
 [244]
 
 "but the one she reminds me of was an angel." He 
 paused for a moment, ashamed of his emotion. "The 
 woman she reminds rne of," he repeated, "wa? one any 
 man might be proud to acknowledge, and I'd be glad of 
 a chance to go to hell for her. Tell her that if you ever 
 see her." 
 
 There was no doubt as to the identification in spite of 
 Montgomery's best efforts to conceal it, and after a con- 
 sultation with Cunningham the evidence was placed in 
 the hands of the District-Attorney, who issued a warrant 
 for the woman's apprehension. The two lawyers were 
 already in his office when she was brought in for examina- 
 tion, and Langdon passed through his first experience in 
 the vituperative power of a woman's tongue. He recalled 
 the name he had given her when talking with Montgomery 
 and regretted that he had not employed a milder one, 
 since its use had deprived him now of adequate descrip- 
 tion. Her vigorous denial was to be expected, her anger 
 could be explained as the one resource left to prevent the 
 facts from being known; but no one of those present could 
 have foreseen her forensic ability. When anger and threats 
 proved unavailing, she fell back upon her pride, and ex- 
 pressed her entire indifference to the fate which would 
 overtake her persecutors as a result of the insult they had 
 offered her. She had influential friends in the city who 
 could vouch for her. She preferred not to pass through 
 the humiliation of having them know of the predicament 
 in which she found herself as a result of the criminal mis- 
 take these "gentlemen" had made, but if there was no 
 alternative she would summon them to release her and 
 to punish her offenders. 
 
 Cunningham did not appreciate as Langdon did that 
 the outcome of ah 1 this would in all probability be far- 
 
 [245]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 reaching in a personal way. The older lawyer was 
 studying the case entirely from a professional standpoint, 
 considering the information which had come to him, and 
 applying it from various points of view to the probable 
 relation which the woman bore to the case itself. Possi- 
 bly the facts would come out before the trial, but it was 
 necessary to assume that the case must stand entirely 
 upon circumstantial evidence; so it was all-important to 
 gain as many first impressions as the opportunity would 
 permit. It was not a woman under examination, as far 
 as Cunningham was concerned: she was merely a factor 
 in the case, and with his experience he was able to regard 
 her with an impersonality which was denied to Langdon. 
 The preliminary fireworks soon spent themselves, and the 
 struggle resolved itself into a contest between a woman 
 whose wits had been sharpened by experience and an 
 inquisitor whose skill came from the practice of years. 
 Back and forth the battle waged, anger thwarted by 
 patience followed by threats made harmless by indiffer- 
 ence, sarcasm meeting determination, tears falling upon 
 a heart of stone. Then at length, with little progress 
 made on either side, the contest ended and the moment 
 which Langdon had dreaded arrived. 
 
 "You are free to summon any friends you may desire 
 and to retain counsel," the District-Attorney repeated. 
 
 The woman drew herself up to her full stature, disdain 
 replacing the other emotions which her face had shown. 
 "I will write a note which I will ask you to have delivered." 
 
 When the envelope was placed in the hands of the 
 District-Attorney she was taken into the detention room. 
 After glancing at the name he handed it to Cunningham, 
 and Langdon watched the effect. The note was addressed 
 to Valentine Spencer. Cunningham glanced at the letter, 
 
 [246]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 gave it back to the District-Attorney, and left the office 
 without comment. Langdon, following close behind, laid 
 a hand upon his shoulder as they reached the street: 
 
 "It's going to be a miserable affair," he said. 
 
 "Poor little girl!" was the response. "He might at 
 least have spared her this." 
 
 [3471
 
 XXVII 
 
 THE new-born driving force which had been de- 
 veloping in Spencer all summer reached its cul- 
 mination in his determination to carry his threat 
 into execution. The evolution had been gradual, but it 
 was now complete. Lucy's indifference and ridicule 
 had broken the surface, so that her refusal to come to 
 his assistance hi his financial stress made the injury smart 
 the more; Cunningham's patronizing acquaintanceship 
 came to a climax with his insulting remarks when he 
 brought Lucy home on that night which was now separated 
 in Spencer's mind from all others. When he started in 
 to express his individuality he had no notion that affairs 
 would go so far. The idea of a divorce had not occurred 
 to him until his wife pressed him for an explanation of 
 what his words actually meant, and the reply slipped from 
 his angry lips before he realized what he was saying. At 
 first it seemed that he had made a fatal mistake, for the 
 avidity with which she seized upon the suggestion of a 
 separation showed that she was by no means averse to 
 the proposition; but the deep concern she manifested 
 when Cunningham's name was brought into the case 
 showed that at last he had gained the whip-hand, and 
 he proposed to enjoy the novel sensation to the utmost 
 while it lasted. 
 
 [248]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 The effect which a divorce would have upon his own 
 fortunes did not suggest itself until some hours after his 
 determination was crystallized, but by that time he had 
 become a hero to himself, and this was only another 
 sacrifice which he must make for the great principle for 
 which he stood. Fortunately no one pressed him for a 
 definition of just what that principle was; it sufficed that 
 it appeared great to him. At all events, being already 
 hopelessly involved, his present step could place him in 
 no worse predicament than that in which he now found 
 himself. All else assumed a subordinate position to the 
 satisfaction he felt in the opportunity he saw before him 
 to wipe out the score which had been mounting up, and 
 to show his wife and Cunningham that he was a real 
 force too dangerous to be ignored. 
 
 Realizing the strength of his position, he was in no 
 haste actually to start proceedings. Lucy's obvious 
 contempt for him as they met in moving about the house 
 concerned him little as against the new sensation he en- 
 joyed of holding the upper hand. He could see that she 
 was desperately in earnest, and that she was thinking out 
 the whole situation with an intensity he had not known 
 she possessed. He could afford to be patient and await 
 the effect of his newly asserted manhood upon her. He 
 watched her day by day, discovering in the process that 
 the woman he knew now was vastly changed from the girl 
 he had formerly known. Of course this was to be expected 
 from her altered relations toward him, but he wondered 
 at the interest which she now took in the life centering 
 in and around the home. He noticed that she was with 
 the children more than he had ever seen before, and it 
 nettled him to see their intimacy and to contrast it with 
 their evident efforts to avoid him. Now Lucy never 
 
 [249J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 thought of taking her afternoon motor ride without them, 
 and supper under the trees was a common occurrence. 
 The only smiles or bursts of laughter which came to Lucy's 
 lips were when she joined with them in some of their 
 childish games, in which she had by this time become 
 proficient. But all signs of joy vanished summarily if he 
 approached their vicinity, and some excuse was made to 
 transfer the scene of their activity to a spot where they 
 would be safer from unwelcome intrusion. 
 
 In the meantime, the chemistry of Lucy's spirit was 
 undergoing still further changes, but the crystals it de- 
 posited were larger and of more enduring quality than 
 before. Since the moment when realization came to her 
 of the awful possibilities which the present situation 
 contained, she had reviewed in her mind the entire history 
 of her life from the time when she could first recall any- 
 thing; and the pitiless clearness with which one views 
 weaknesses and failures when once the power is given 
 to pull aside the kindly concealing veil, struck her with 
 terrific force. Strangely enough, there was still none of 
 the old depression in the sensation she experienced; on 
 the contrary, she felt herself to be keyed up to intensest 
 pitch, and filled with a desire to make some sacrifice which 
 should atone for the long years of selfishness and the 
 blind, self-centered pride. Never in her life had she 
 denied herself for another's happiness; never had it 
 occurred to her that she was responsible to any one except 
 herself in her every-day expression. Now, when perhaps 
 it was too late, an understanding came of experiences 
 and conversations which had conveyed only superficial 
 messages; now, when the opportunity was perhaps denied, 
 came a desire for atonement which contained a strange 
 element of joy. 
 
 [250]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 And through it all with constant recurrence came the 
 memory of her red-letter afternoon with the two children. 
 The happy note in Larry's voice as he called out to Susette 
 sounded in her ears, and the pressure of Babs' little lips 
 upon her hand, the first voluntary expression of affection 
 the child had ever given, burned its way with life-giving 
 warmth into the very depths of her heart. She could 
 atone to them; at least it was not too late for that. The 
 thought of the children reminded her of Cunningham: 
 "See how quickly your life will respond to that love which 
 they will give back to you, see how the little fingers will 
 twine around your heart-strings, and see how much 
 strength those tiny hands possess to help you bear the 
 disappointments which are bound to come." 
 
 What a man Ned was to foresee that this moment would 
 actually arrive, what friends he and Margaret had been 
 in trying to show her the way to make something out of 
 her useless, unworthy self! Now, through her blindness 
 and indifference to their counsels, she had placed him 
 in jeopardy of becoming hopelessly compromised. It 
 must not be, Lucy kept repeating to herself, it should 
 not be! 
 
 So at length she sought an interview which Spencer 
 magnanimously granted. It pleased him beyond measure 
 to have her come to him, and his important manner would 
 have attracted his wife's attention and comment except 
 for the anxiety in her heart. It was not the time to notice 
 personalities or moods. She felt the responsibility of a 
 man's reputation resting upon her head, and for days she 
 had pondered the situation, striving to determine upon 
 the best method of solution and the one most likely to 
 succeed. Vallie needed money, and the thought came to 
 her that if she could not persuade perhaps she could buy 
 
 [251]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 him off. She knew that in such a case the price would be 
 a heavy one, but she was ready for the sacrifice. She was 
 tired of the long struggle and the hopeless uncertainty. 
 What did it matter if she did give up more than she ought? 
 The money meant much less to her than peace and the 
 comfort of knowing beyond a question of doubt that her 
 foolishness had not reacted upon another. She had always 
 used it to buy what she wanted; now she wanted just one 
 thing in the world, and she could afford to be extravagant. 
 
 "Suppose we go down on the beach," Spencer suggested 
 in acquiescing to her request. 
 
 Wondering why he should so express his preference, but 
 indifferent to details, Lucy followed him as he desired. 
 When they came to the foot of the steps he turned. 
 
 "There's a rock over here where I may sit," he said, 
 mocking as closely as he could her words of a few days 
 back. " I presume I shall enjoy your conversation better 
 sitting down." 
 
 Lucy looked at him curiously, biting her lip to hold 
 back the angry words which his insolence provoked. 
 What a pitiful object he was in spite of the self-satisfied 
 expression on his face! What a degradation to be obliged 
 to trade or to plead with such a man as he! In that 
 moment, while she struggled to remain calm, she wondered 
 that she could now hold so cheap the man whom she had 
 once accepted as her husband, and through habit at least 
 had learned to regard as a part of her life. She wondered 
 too that her concern for the outcome of this interview was 
 for Cunningham and Margaret and the children rather 
 than for herself. Even the personal agonies of the court- 
 room, called into being by Vallie's threat, had sunk into 
 insignificance while her greater responsibilities oppressed 
 her. Would he fall in with the suggestion she was about 
 
 [252]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 to make, or was his desire for retaliation so strong that it 
 overshadowed even his own self-interest? 
 
 Spencer seated himself casually, crossing his legs and 
 assuming an air of complete indifference. "I don't know 
 just why I'm here," he said, "but I presume you will 
 make that point clear to me." 
 
 "I want to ask you what the real reason is for your 
 determination to make trouble for Ned. I can under- 
 stand your desire to humiliate me." 
 
 "As I told you," he replied grandly, "my only intention 
 is to protect the sanctity of my home." 
 
 "Let's cut out the fireworks, Vallie," she urged. "This 
 isn't a cheap melodrama. What has Ned ever done to 
 make you so vindictive?" 
 
 "Isn't this affair with you enough?" 
 
 "You know that there was no 'affair,' and that you are 
 only making that a pretext. What is the real reason? Or is 
 it simply because I won't agree to give you the money?" 
 
 "You don't suppose that any such sordid question as 
 money enters into this?" he demanded theatrically. 
 
 "Yes; that is exactly what I think as far as your threat 
 to me is concerned, but I can't understand why you drag 
 him in. Is it to hurt me through him, or is there some 
 reason why you are unwilling to learn the real facts?" 
 
 "You want the divorce, don't you?" 
 
 "Yes; but not at the price you name. I insist upon a 
 separation, for I hate myself every moment we remain 
 under the same roof; but I care little whether or not there 
 is a divorce." 
 
 "Why are you so devilish anxious to protect Cunning- 
 ham?" he demanded pointedly. 
 
 "Because there are not the slightest grounds for your 
 charge, and your threat is intended merely to hurt him." 
 
 [253]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "You say you took dinner there with a man, but not 
 with Cunningham?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "In a private room?" 
 
 "Yes. I don't care how much you compromise me, if 
 you'll only leave Ned out of it." 
 
 "How about compromising the other man?" 
 
 "I shouldn't hesitate a moment," Lucy replied un* 
 expectedly, rising eagerly to the suggestion. 
 
 "You don't care how much his reputation is hurt?" 
 
 "I could make it up to him." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "By marrying him." 
 
 "Then there is some one you are in love with?" Spen- 
 cer's eyes gleamed maliciously as he continued his cross- 
 examination. 
 
 "No, Vallie; there isn't any one hi the world I love; 
 but for pity's sake tell me that you'll leave Ned alone. 
 Go ahead, if you choose, and drag me into court. Drag 
 this man in too, I'll tell you who he is. We were there 
 together, but that is the worst which even the world can 
 say of us. Tell the open-mouthed hangers-on in the 
 courtroom what you think your wife and the mother of 
 your children is, no one else will believe it. Do any- 
 thing and everything which you can to hurt me, and 
 take such revenge as you like for the pity and contempt 
 in which I hold you; but be sufficiently honest with your- 
 self, even in the wretched work you've undertaken, to 
 vent your spleen upon those who are really guilty of 
 having passed an agreeable evening together." 
 
 Spencer enjoyed posing in a judicial role. The appeal 
 did not affect him in the least, but it interested him tre- 
 mendously. If he could only succeed in getting Cunning- 
 
 [254]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 ham in a position where he too would cry for mercy he 
 might find enough satisfaction to warrant some sort 
 of a final compromise which would show his real mag- 
 nanimity! But until that time came he would remain as 
 hard as adamant. 
 
 "This is a pretty story for a husband to listen to," he 
 responded to Lucy's impassioned words. "A wife tries to ' 
 shield her real lover by throwing the blame upon another 
 man, and will make it up to the other man by marrying 
 him" 
 
 " You shall not insult me so ! " she cried, her face deathly 
 pale. 
 
 "I'm only repeating your own story," he said calmly. 
 "Because you have handled the purse-strings you have 
 assumed that your husband is of no consequence, and that 
 you can do as you please. I have been indulgent and 
 patient with you, but this time you have gone too far." 
 
 "Will you leave Ned out of it?" she demanded. 
 
 "No," he replied. "You have not deceived me by your 
 efforts to shield him. Your anxiety for him and your 
 disregard of this other alleged man is evidence enough 
 that Cunningham is the one you were with. Nothing you 
 have said has shaken my intentions to proceed as I 
 originally intended. Shall we consider our interview at 
 an end?" 
 
 "Very well," Lucy said, the pathetic note in her voice 
 becoming hard and bitter; "then suppose we put it on a 
 business basis: you need money and I have it. Any one 
 who will do what you have already done will not have his 
 sensibilities shocked by receiving a commercial proposi- 
 tion. What is your price? On what terms will you agree 
 to leave Ned's name out of the consideration?" 
 
 The gleam in Spencer's eyes became keener. He had 
 [255]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 expected that this moment would come, and he knew that 
 it would be a moment of temptation; but to yield would 
 give Lucy too much satisfaction, and Cunningham would 
 never know that the worm had turned. Again he was a 
 martyr to a principle, and he felt it to be vastly to his 
 credit that he placed his personal advantage behind him. 
 "This is not a matter which money can settle," he said 
 with a well-assumed air of indignation. "The fact that 
 you do not realize it shows how little you understand me. 
 and the proposition itself is conclusive evidence that 
 Cunningham is the man with whom I am to deal." 
 
 [256]
 
 XXVIII 
 
 LUCY was not deceived by the mock-heroic attitude 
 Spencer assumed throughout the interview, but 
 she became finally convinced that he was deter- 
 mined to gratify his spirit of retaliation at the expense of 
 all else. Up to tliis time her anxiety had been tempered 
 by a hopefulness that his underlying motive was to 
 frighten her enough to force her to yield to the demand 
 which she had previously refused. Now it was evident 
 that his intentions were far more hostile, and the anxiety 
 which had oppressed her became aggravated into a terror 
 which overwhelmed. 
 
 The whole affair was so involved that Lucy felt the 
 impossibility of proceeding further without a helping hand 
 to guide and a sympathetic mind to advise, so she natu- 
 rally turned to Amsden. Notliing she had ever done so 
 pleased the old man, for it gave him a reasonable excuse 
 to forget his professional relations to her and to the estate, 
 and to extend that affectionate assistance he would rather 
 give. He felt her to be the only remaining tie binding him 
 to the past, which had really been his life. One by one 
 the old friends had passed away, and Amsden had not 
 realized the importance of forming new associations until 
 too late. Now that the generation of which he was a part 
 had served its turn and given way to its successor, he 
 
 [257]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 found himself left almost wholly to the companionship 
 of his books and to the enjoyment alone of those forms 
 of recreation which had once included friends dear and 
 sustaining. 
 
 Of these, Lucy's father had been the nearest. They 
 had been boys together, and Amsden's early admiration 
 for the daring courage always exhibited by his companion 
 remained steadfast throughout the various stages which 
 culminated in the brilliant business success this same 
 characteristic compelled w r hen applied to sterner pursuits. 
 When Lucy's mother died, Amsden was as much shocked 
 by the rude awakening from the assumption that nothing 
 could go against his friend as he was by the grim fact of 
 death itself. He threw himself into the void thus left in 
 the life of the bereft man as fully as the distance be- 
 tween the two cities would permit, coming to consider 
 himself, in the process, as Lucy's second father, and fully 
 warranted in criticizing his friend for the surfeit of indul- 
 gence amidst which the child grew up. His position in this 
 instance was characteristic of all others: he was second 
 father to everything. Triumphs never came to him, but he 
 could enjoy those of others; he remained unmarried, but 
 the family of his friend was as great a responsibility as if it 
 had been his own; he was wise and resourceful in advanc- 
 ing the projects of his clients and in protecting their in- 
 terests, but it never occurred to him to apply these same 
 instincts to the advancement of himself. 
 
 In Lucy, as she grew up, he found the prototype of his 
 old friend, but lacking the balance which had made those 
 characteristics practical. She possessed the same high- 
 strung disposition, the same disregard of dangers which 
 threatened to engulf, the same lovable personality which 
 invited indulgence rather than censure; but the tempering 
 
 [258]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 qualities which experience had taught the father were yet 
 to be acquired. The affection which Amsden entertained 
 for his boyhood companion, when it could no longer be 
 given to its object, centered itself upon the daughter; but 
 of this Lucy had not the least suspicion. Times without 
 number, during the term of his trusteeship, his heart 
 had gone out to her with a longing for expression, but he 
 sternly repressed himself, remaining always the retainer 
 rather than the friend. 
 
 Amsden 's disapproval of Spencer dated back to the time 
 when he first heard that Lucy wanted to marry him, or 
 thought she wanted to, which amounted to the same 
 thing. It was instinctive rather than based upon anything 
 tangible, but it was sufficiently real to him to warrant the 
 expression of his misgivings to his friend. Lucy's father 
 chided him playfully for his prejudice, and swept the 
 objections one side, as he always did when his mind was 
 once made up. Valentine was only half-baked as yet, he 
 explained, but he was young and would outgrow it. No 
 young man ever measured up to a parent's ideal, but as 
 boys went he thought Spencer was as promising as any of 
 them. It is all a lottery : one has to figure it out as care- 
 fully as he can, and then trust to luck that the result will 
 justify the judgment. Lucy apparently wanted him, and 
 anything which Lucy wanted she should have. 
 
 The removal of the Spencers from New York to Boston 
 came shortly after the death of Lucy's father, and Ams- 
 den's appointment as trustee gave him a real pleasure 
 in being able to serve one he loved for the sake of one he 
 had loved; yet until now their relations had been purely 
 perfunctory. At last the moment had come when she 
 needed him, and he felt his heart beat faster with a touch 
 of the old-time enthusiasm when he responded to her call. 
 
 [259]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 The first interview was in his office, and he listened to the 
 story with no comments, but with occasional words of 
 sympathy or encouragement. He knew that at worst 
 she had been but foolish and ill-advised, yet he saw even 
 more clearly than she that circumstances were more than 
 unkind in arraying themselves against her. He did not 
 say so, but his belief was strong that Spencer's threat was 
 made definitely to influence the financial situation, and 
 that his refusal to accept his wife's proposition was merely 
 to strengthen his position in that Lucy would urge it more 
 strongly upon him. It was not a graceful act for any 
 man to allow himself to be bought off, and Amsden credited 
 Vallie with about as much self-respect as this. 
 
 The old man would not have tamely submitted to what 
 seemed to him disreputable means to an equally contemp- 
 tible end except for the fact that Lucy had made quite 
 clear to him, by her attitude rather than by her words, 
 that she regarded the giving up of her property not merely 
 as the only method she saw of protecting Cunningham's 
 reputation, but also as an act of expiation for the follies 
 she had committed. This, the old man realized, was the 
 experience which her character had lacked in measuring 
 it up against her father's. The interview had drawn them 
 wonderfully close together, she finding comfort and relief 
 in his understanding sympathy; he tasting the joy of a 
 parent's heart in being able to give that relief. 
 
 "Remember," she repeated to him, "I am ready to 
 pay a very great price to protect the good name of one 
 whose only thought has been to protect mine. I have 
 done wrong in placing myself in a position which could be 
 misconstrued, and if I can bear the penalty alone that is 
 all I ask. I am ready to sacrifice all my property and pass 
 the rest of my life in poverty and want if that is necessary." 
 
 [260]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I am sure that no such sacrifices will be required," he 
 reassured her, gently pressing the hand which rested con- 
 fidingly within his own; "but I understand." 
 
 "I deserve to be punished," she continued contritely; 
 " but Ned only did what he believed to be his duty, and 
 it was for Vallie that he did it as well as for me." 
 
 For a long time they sat there in silence, the old man 
 content that at least he had calmed her present fears, Lucy 
 still unable to recall her mind in its rapid workings from 
 the events which crowded so fast each upon the other. 
 Strangely enough, the word "duty" she had just used in 
 speaking of Cunningham came back to her again as it 
 had come before, but it did not seem so hideous to her as 
 once it did. Now it appeared as an expression of friend- 
 ship, which had been unselfishly exercised with no thought 
 of the consequences w r hich were so soon to follow 7 ; now it 
 seemed to call out to her for action equally unselfish, and 
 she felt herself moving forward to meet it. "No monu- 
 ment was ever reared for what a man received, but for 
 what he gave of himself," she remembered once hearing 
 Cunningham say. How much more it meant to her now 
 than when she had heard it! She must give now, or life 
 would continue to be the same meaningless existence as 
 before; and the determination which was born in the dread 
 and apprehension of that hour in Amsden's office gave her 
 courage to go back into her old surroundings with a con- 
 fidence that he would show her how to prove herself equal 
 to her opportunity. 
 
 At the lawyer's suggestion, the second interview took 
 place at Lucy's home, and Spencerwas also present. When 
 he learned that the matter had been placed in Amsden's 
 hands Vallie's first sensation was that Lucy had taken 
 advantage of him, but his later conclusions exonerated her 
 
 [2611
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 from the earlier blame. At last he was being taken seri- 
 ously! He was well acquainted with "Poppy" Amsden's 
 wholesome disapproval of him and his ways, and he still 
 held him largely responsible for the tightening of the purse- 
 strings just at the time when it affected him the most. 
 In his present mood it would be a real pleasure to have 
 the old man join with Lucy in her supplications, and when 
 he succeeded in adding Cunningham to the suppliants 
 his satisfaction would be complete. 
 
 By this time Spencer's plight did not seem so desperate 
 as at first. As the affair progressed he was convinced 
 that by the exercise of his manhood he had succeeded in 
 rescuing himself from oblivion and financial mortification. 
 He had been wise to refuse Lucy's suggestion when she 
 first made it, but it was not too late to reconsider after 
 he had impressed upon them all the fact that he was a 
 man to be reckoned with, and that his final yielding to 
 their importunities would be an act of supreme generosity 
 rather than a sordid business transaction, as Lucy would 
 be glad to make it out. It was painfully ridiculous, of 
 course, to be obliged to provide against misunderstanding, 
 but Amsden and Cunningham were men who would be 
 only too ready to attribute sinister motives to anything 
 he did. The property in question had been shared by Lucy 
 and himself ever since their marriage, and while techni- 
 cally it stood in his wife's name, it was only fair to consider 
 that a common ownership existed. Lucy had never 
 thought of it otherwise until this meddling lawyer had 
 put it into her head, and now she had the audacity to 
 propose to buy him off with money which really belonged 
 as much to him as it did to her! It would be no more 
 ridiculous, Spencer reasoned, for "Poppy" Amsden to 
 brand him as a thief for taking a muffin from the break- 
 
 [262]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 fast table merely because Lucy happened to pay the 
 household expenses! He was entitled to half the income, 
 and except for the unwarranted interference he was cer- 
 tain that he could have got it. Now it became necessary 
 to meet conspiracy to defraud him of his rights with clever- 
 ness and sagacity; but if he finally decided to accept 
 pecuniary satisfaction, after having taught his persecutors 
 their richly merited lesson, it would only be a diplomatic 
 method of securing that which really belonged to him, 
 after all. A step in this direction was to impress upon 
 Amsden the real strength of his position, so his mature 
 judgment told him that the interview Lucy suggested 
 could not be otherwise than favorable to his cause. 
 
 When Spencer last talked with Amsden, the lawyer had 
 made it painfully clear as to his dependence upon his 
 wife's estate for anything beyond the allowance which 
 had been provided in the will, and had listened calmly 
 and imperturbably to the rantings of the angry and dis- 
 appointed man. Now the positions were reversed, and 
 Yallie's attitude was cheerful and confident, with nothing 
 to suggest that he stood in a self-appointed position of 
 injured husband. The conversation, guided by the lawyer, 
 went far more deeply into the various phases of the subject 
 than the earlier one had done, but the result was no more 
 satisfactory. Determined as he was to demonstrate his 
 individuality and his independence, Spencer's arrogaL.ee 
 and insolence exceeded all bounds. Amsden accepted the 
 abuse which he heaped upon his head with equanimity, 
 but scored him so roundly when his insults touched Lucy 
 that he found little satisfaction. The only telling point 
 he made was when he demanded whether Lucy had not 
 dined or lunched alone with Cunningham at other times, 
 even though she denied the present instance. 
 
 [263]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Why, yes," she admitted frankly; "but there has 
 never been the slightest thing during my acquaintance 
 with Ned to which any one could take exception." 
 
 "Are you sure?" Spencer again demanded, on a chance 
 shot. Lucy's mind suddenly reverted to the one unfortu- 
 nate experience she had had with Cunningham, and she 
 felt the color rush to her face. Neither man could fail 
 to observe her temporary confusion, Vallie noting it with 
 triumph, Amsden with surprise. 
 
 "Nothing of which I am ashamed," she insisted firmly. 
 
 To Lucy, the discussion confirmed the certainty of 
 all that she dreaded, and the old man's words of encour- 
 agement lost their comforting power; to Amsden it was 
 evident that he had to deal with a man whose desire for 
 retaliation had destroyed all perspective of decency. 
 Sooner or later the lawyer was confident that a compro- 
 mise could be effected, but he feared that before that 
 moment arrived the damage would be done. 
 
 "Well, Lucy," Amsden said at length, with deep sorrow 
 in his voice, "I know of nothing more to say or do. We 
 are not dealing with a rational being, but with a madman 
 who is so obsessed with his one desire to injure that argu- 
 ment or persuasion is equally futile. There is no court in 
 the world which would accept the flimsy evidence on 
 which he bases his threats, and you would come through 
 such an ordeal in a far better light than he." 
 
 "I have no interest at all in its effect upon me," she 
 replied, weakly. 
 
 "I know, and he is taking advantage of the same knowl- 
 edge; but what he has to gain I cannot comprehend." 
 
 "There are many things you have yet to learn how to 
 comprehend," Spencer remarked, in no way disturbed by 
 Amsden 's words. 
 
 [264]
 
 '* Yes," Amsden answered sharply; "and there are some 
 for which I have no desire for comprehension. Now, 
 one more question: How much longer are you planning 
 to remain in Lucy's house?" 
 
 Spencer looked up quickly. 
 
 "I mean just that," Amsden replied to his questioning 
 expression. "It is apparently necessary for some one to 
 remind you that under the existing circumstances it is 
 not agreeable to her to have you beneath the same roof. 
 You have no claims now which need to be respected. Will 
 formal action be required?" 
 
 The change in the old man's manner took Spencer by 
 surprise, and for a moment the flush in his face was the 
 only evidence that he appreciated the meaning of his 
 words. Then the suave, self-satisfied expression altered, 
 and was replaced by the malignant glitter in his eyes 
 which Lucy had come to dread and abhor. 
 
 "So I'm ordered out of my own house, am I?" he 
 demanded. 
 
 "It never has been your house except through your 
 wife's indulgence," Amsden said sternly. "There is much 
 besides which you have enjoyed through the same gener- 
 ous source. Now all that is ended." 
 
 "Do you stand for that, Lucy? " Vallie turned suddenly 
 to his wife. 
 
 "Oh, Vallie, what an ending!" she cried. "Is there 
 no way that we can keep this pitiful state of affairs to 
 ourselves?" 
 
 "Yes," he replied unexpectedly. 
 
 "What is it?" Lucy exclaimed, hope again coloring 
 her voice; "for pity's sake tell me what it is! There is 
 nothing I will not sacrifice." 
 
 Spencer paused a moment. "There are three condi- 
 [265]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 tions," he said deliberately. "If you will meet them I 
 will agree to a quiet separation." 
 
 "What are they?" she begged. 
 
 "First, that you make over to me, unconditionally, one 
 half of the property which stands in your name." 
 
 "We'll do it," Lucy cried; "we'll do it, won't we, Mr. 
 Amsden?" 
 
 "Second, that Cunningham apologizes to me for what 
 he said the night he brought you home." 
 
 "Oh, he wouldn't do that! He has nothing to apologize 
 for." The hopefulness waned in her voice. 
 
 "Hear him through," Amsden urged. "Let us get the 
 whole story and see whether anything can be done." 
 
 "Third, that I take one of the children." 
 
 Lucy drew her breath sharply, but the physical weak- 
 ness which affected her when she heard the second condi- 
 tion disappeared. She sprang to her feet and stood erect 
 and fearless, facing Spencer with a determination so at 
 variance with the broken woman she appeared but a 
 moment before that it startled both of the men. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she demanded. "You want 
 one of the children! Why, you wouldn't recognize them 
 if you met them away from the house." 
 
 "Still, they're my children," he insisted doggedly, 
 "and I shall claim my rights." 
 
 "Your rights!" she repeated scornfully after him. 
 Then she suddenly turned to Amsden. "Is there any 
 chance that I shall lose my children if the suit is brought? " 
 
 "Not the slightest," he reassured her. 
 
 "Your rights!" she repeated again, facing Spencer 
 with all thought of conciliation abandoned. "What 
 rights can remain which you have not already forfeited? 
 Give up Larry or Babs to you? I would rather see them 
 
 [266]
 
 dead! Give up my children, who are more to me than 
 all the world? Nothing on earth could ever make me do 
 it. Go on with your suit, Vallie. Do anything that you 
 wish. I am through with argument or persuasion. I 
 am through with this awful agonizing. I am through 
 with you!" 
 
 "I thought you wanted to save Cunningham's reputa- 
 tion," Spencer suggested. "You seem to have forgotten 
 that." 
 
 "I have forgotten nothing," she replied, still at white 
 heat, yet strangely calm. " I was ready to make any sacri- 
 fice except that to save him from what might come from 
 this miserable affair, but now we will fight it out to the 
 equally miserable end. Ned himself wouldn't ask me to 
 make that sacrifice. Give up Larry or Babs just when 
 they have learned to love me and I have learned to know 
 them? You have no idea what you are asking, no 
 woman would do that. Larry! Babs!" she cried, seeing 
 them in the garden, her face lighting with a calm hap- 
 piness at their quick response to her call. 
 
 She stood very straight, with one arm about the boy's 
 shoulders, the other hand resting on Babs' golden head. 
 "Look!" she said, facing Amsden with a new confidence 
 born of the touch of the childish bodies against her own, 
 "look! Do you think any man could ask a mother to 
 value his reputation above these?" 
 
 [267]
 
 XXIX 
 
 SPENCER decided that affairs had reached a point 
 where it would be desirable to secure legal advice. 
 Until now it had seemed safe to postpone definite 
 action, as the situation was entirely satisfactory as it was, 
 but at the present moment everything was up in the air 
 again, and he realized that he had overplayed his hand. 
 The first and second conditions were the vital ones after 
 all, and those he probably could have secured. The 
 financial end was safe at all events, Cunningham might 
 make the apology in order to simplify matters for Lucy, 
 and the question of the children could perhaps be yielded. 
 Yes, he had overplayed his hand, and in taking this next 
 step he must make no second mistake. 
 
 He was unwilling to give Lucy the satisfaction of seeing 
 that he even remembered Amsden's suggestion to leave 
 the house, but as it was wise to consult his attorney with- 
 out delay he took a leisurely departure late the following 
 morning. On arrival in town he found that his lawyer 
 was away for a few days, so, cursing his luck that he had 
 not telephoned in advance, he debated as to his next move. 
 Being in the city, it occurred to him that he might drop 
 in at his office without excessive inconvenience, particu- 
 larly as its location was but a few blocks from where he 
 now was. These had been unusually eventful days for 
 him, and he felt fatigued. If he went to the Badminton 
 
 [268]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Club he was sure to meet men he knew, and he was in 
 no mood for conversation; but at the office he could make 
 sure that he was left alone. 
 
 Thoroughly out of sorts with himself and every one else, 
 Spencer covered the short distance between the two build- 
 ings and entered his office. Usually his intermittent 
 appearances there attracted little attention, and he was 
 surprised to have the head clerk leave his desk and follow 
 him into the private room. 
 
 "Well?" he interrogated, turning on him sharply, 
 "what is it?" 
 
 The clerk held out a letter. "This came for you this 
 morning, and the messenger said it was urgent. We 
 have been telephoning Beverly Farms and Marblchead to 
 find out where to send it. I w^as on the point of despatch- 
 ing some one down to your house with it." 
 
 Spencer recognized the handwriting as he took the letter 
 without comment. Waiting until the door was closed, 
 he opened the envelope with a scowl upon his face. She 
 should not have done this. He had explicitly instructed 
 her never to send him anything in writing, and he was 
 annoyed that she had disregarded his wishes. Then he 
 read the few hastily written words, whistled softly to 
 himself, and flopped disconsolately into a large leather 
 chair, completely exhausted by the day's complications. 
 Here was a situation which demanded careful considera- 
 tion indeed! On one side his wife and her lawyer arrayed 
 against him, and all in the shadow of the divorce court; 
 on the other a demand from a woman of whose antecedents 
 he was ignorant that he rescue her from the hands of the 
 police! Spencer actually squirmed with distress and 
 indecision, and finally stretched himself out at full length, 
 pressing his hands to his temples. 
 
 [269]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "God!" he exclaimed aloud, "did a fellow ever find 
 himself in such a mess!" He groaned audibly. "And 
 I never did care for women anyhow," he added in a 
 discouraged tone. 
 
 Pity for himself rapidly gained strength. She demanded 
 that he come to the District-Attorney's office and force 
 them to release her; but of course he could not do that. 
 She was held as an accessory on a charge of murder, the 
 letter said. In his present state of mind Spencer had 
 little doubt that, being a woman, she was guilty of any 
 charge they might bring against her. He shuddered as 
 he thought of the risk he had run: she might even have 
 murdered him when she found that he could not pay the 
 bills he had allowed her to run up! Of course he could 
 not be expected to mix in with a murder case: he would 
 cut a pretty figure standing as the champion of this 
 woman; and, what was more to the point, the episode 
 could not have come at a more unfortunate time. Still 
 undecided, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. 
 What new complication now? he thought as it opened 
 and the clerk reappeared. 
 
 "A gentleman on the wire wishes to know where he can 
 find you." 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "He didn't give his name." 
 
 "Find out who it is no, I'll take it. Have the call 
 switched onto the private line. Well," he said brusquely, 
 picking up the receiver, "who is it?" 
 
 "Is that you, Spencer?" the voice demanded. 
 
 "Yes; who are you?" 
 
 " Cunningham," repeated the voice. " I hadn't expected 
 to find you at the office, but I've tried everywhere else. I 
 must see you immediately on a matter of great importance." 
 
 I270J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Cunningham!" Vallie repeated to himself, with his 
 hand over the transmitter. So Lucy had reached him 
 after all, and the tone in his voice showed his concern! 
 Good! This completed the circle, and after taking his 
 satisfaction out on him he would be ready for the final 
 adjustment. Spencer stiffened up hi his chair, and his 
 manner recovered some of its former confidence. 
 
 "I don't know that I care especially to see you," he 
 replied; "but if you'll come right over, I'll wait for you." 
 
 "Very well," the voice replied; "I'll be there inside 
 of ten minutes." 
 
 Punctual to the moment, Cunningham was ushered into 
 Spencer's office. He made no attempt to be cordial, and 
 from the expression on his face Vallie saw that he was 
 seriously upset by the matter on his mind. "I presume 
 you already know why I have called," Cunningham began. 
 
 "I told you the other night that the worm would turn," 
 Spencer observed, with a certain gratification in his voice. 
 
 "The other night? The worm would turn? I don't 
 think I understand." 
 
 "You've come to talk with me about Lucy, haven't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes; I want to spare the child if it is possible." 
 . "Your very commendable idea comes rather late." 
 
 "Then she knows about it?" 
 
 "Yes; and every one else will know about it soon." 
 
 Cunningham groaned. "You might have spared her 
 that," he said. 
 
 "I might have spared you too, I presume?" Spencer 
 added suggestively. 
 
 "You might have spared all her friends; but now that 
 it is too late, we must shield her as much as we can. Have 
 you been to the District- Attorney's office yet?" 
 
 [271]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Spencer rose to his feet, enraged. "So you're butting 
 in on that again, are you? I told you that it was my 
 affair." 
 
 " I know it is, but for Lucy's sake I don't want you to be 
 dragged into it any more than is necessary. Are you going 
 to respond to that letter?" 
 
 "What do you know about any letter?" Spencer de- 
 manded angrily. "How ' 
 
 "I know all about it," Cunningham interrupted im- 
 patiently. "I read it at the District- Attorney's office 
 before it was sent to you. It's the Montgomery case, you 
 know." 
 
 Spencer's jaw fell and he gazed into Cunningham's face 
 in utter amazement. "The Montgomery case!" he 
 repeated. "Do you mean to tell me 
 
 "This woman is suspected of being either the principal 
 or else Montgomery's accomplice, it is certain that she 
 was in the buggy when the shots were fired. When she 
 was arrested she named you as a 'next friend,' and that 
 brings you into the limelight. I've kept it from the 
 papers so far, for I hoped Lucy might be spared this final 
 humiliation; but of course if she knows it already it is 
 too late, as you say." 
 
 Affairs were moving too swiftly for Vallie to keep pace 
 with them. At the mention of the Montgomery case 
 and the news that he had been drawn into it he sank back 
 into the chair from which he had excitedly risen. Cun- 
 ningham was not surprised to see him so visibly affected: 
 the situation was such as might well test the nerve of a 
 stronger man; yet he had no conception of what was 
 actually passing through his mind. Here was Cunning- 
 ham, whose name Spencer had threatened to couple with 
 Lucy's, in full possession of all the damnable facts concern- 
 
 [272]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 ing his relations with this woman, and it was only because 
 of his desire to shield Lucy that the evening papers had 
 not come out with the whole story. He could see Lucy's 
 disgust reach its culminating point; he could hear 
 "Poppy" Amsden's scornful denunciation and permission 
 to proceed and do his worst! 
 
 "Lucy knows nothing about this," he said at length. 
 
 "But I thought you told me " 
 
 "I misunderstood your question," Spencer replied, not 
 caring to go into further explanations. 
 
 "Then we must plan things somehow so as to keep her 
 from knowing," Cunningham said, with relief in his voice. 
 "Of course you have no information about this woman 
 which bears on the case?" 
 
 "No," was the reply. 
 
 " Then 1 think we can keep you out of it. You are not 
 planning to make any effort in her behalf?" 
 
 "No," Spencer said; "there is no reason why I should." 
 
 "I'm glad of that, for it simplifies matters. You had 
 better make no reply to her note. I will arrange with the 
 District- Attorney's office so that you will not be brought 
 into the case." 
 
 "Thank you." Spencer acknowledged his appreciation 
 with an inward sense of gratitude toward Cunningham 
 which fifteen minutes before he would not have believed 
 himself capable of feeling. 
 
 "You are under no obligations to me," Cunningham 
 hastened to tell him. "If you alone were concerned I am 
 frank to say that I might have allowed matters to run 
 their course, but I have seen Lucy's brave struggle to 
 keep up her courage in the face of your indifference and 
 neglect, and am glad to contribute in any way possible to 
 her peace of mind. You are being saved from a notoriety 
 18 [ 273 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 you could never live down, and if you care to manifest 
 appreciation, I beg of you to express it by giving her 
 the best there is in you instead of the worst." 
 
 Instinctively Spencer would have liked to resent Cun- 
 ningham's uncompromising words, but he felt himself 
 in no position to do so. Even with his brain addled by 
 the unusual demands the day's complications had placed 
 upon it, the irony of this latest situation was even too 
 apparent. The triumph he had anticipated tasted of 
 gall and wormwood. This man whom he had marked for 
 public execration now alone saved him from occupying 
 the same position ! As he listened to his words the absur- 
 dity of the charge he had contemplated struck him with 
 discouraging force: who could be made to believe, by 
 any possible evidence, that eyes from which honor and 
 integrity shone with such direct clearness, that the voice 
 in which such sincerity was the dominant note, could 
 belong to one capable of departing from the straight line 
 of upright living ! These very elements of strength which 
 he resented formed his own protection now; but they 
 rankled in his heart and he would have sacrificed much to 
 discover an escape from the necessity of accepting immu- 
 nity from the hand of the man he longed to attack. 
 
 Cunningham saw that he was face to face with an op- 
 portunity, and was not slow to complete the work he had 
 begun. "I had expected that our next meeting would be 
 of a nature far different from what this has proved to be," 
 he continued with deliberation, "but perhaps it is better 
 as it is. There are a few things which you ought to hear, 
 Spencer, for your own good, and I'm inclined to believe 
 that circumstances have taken affairs into their own 
 hands and made me their agent: I meant every word I 
 said to you the other night, and your contemptible letter 
 
 [274]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 to Mrs. Cunningham gives me the right to speak even 
 more plainly. Lucy is as fine a woman as the good Lord 
 ever gave as wife to an unappreciative husband, but she 
 is high strung and possessed of a personality which ex- 
 plodes every time it is too long compressed. One of those 
 explosions came that night I brought her home to you. 
 There was no damage done, only a brilliant display of 
 fireworks, but there was need for some one to be on hand 
 to put his foot on the sparks. I don't blame her; the 
 responsibility rests with you. I know you don't care for 
 my advice, and I know you won't believe me when I say 
 that it is as disagreeable to me to give it as for you to listen, 
 but the fact remains : if Lucy means no more to you than 
 you seem to show r , for Heaven's sake, man, take some 
 steps to give her back her freedom and let her live her own 
 life. There are men who could give her something to live 
 for, and I have no doubt she will find her happiness if 
 only offered the chance. Then go ahead and hit the pace 
 you've set for yourself this summer, if that is what you 
 enjoy. It is a crime for two people to make such a mess of 
 things as you and Lucy are doing, and this is your chance 
 to show what you have in you." 
 
 Spencer's face was livid with anger by the time Cunning- 
 ham concluded, but a wholesome fear of what might 
 result if the lawyer's assurance of protection was with- 
 drawn served to hold back the hot retort he would have 
 liked to make. This was the apology he had looked 
 forward to with so much satisfaction! 
 
 "You've got me in a corner," he said sullenly, "and I 
 suppose I must take my medicine; but it doesn't strike 
 me as altogether manly to rub it in when the other chap 
 isn't in a position to defend himself. I've told you that 
 I'm obliged to you for keeping this mess out of the papers 
 
 1275]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 and for fixing it so as to keep me out of it too. If you've 
 said all you think is necessary, I suggest that we consider 
 the interview closed." 
 
 "It is quite evident that I have not said all that is 
 necessary," Cunningham replied, rising, "but I agree with 
 you that it is desirable to conclude our conference. If 
 I need you, I will send for you." 
 
 [2761
 
 XXX 
 
 CUNNINGHAM left town two days after his in- 
 terview with Spencer. The plans for the prosecu- 
 tion were completed, and he was quite ready for 
 a holiday after his unusually confining summer. More 
 than this, he was eager for the opportunity to drive from 
 Margaret's mind the foolish anxiety which Vallie's letter 
 had given her, foolish, yet to be respected because it 
 had seemed real to her. He made no attempt to argue, 
 though it seemed an act of treachery to go away without 
 seeing Lucy, to make more plain to her, if the necessity 
 remained, that his part hi that unfortunate evening's 
 experience had been prompted by friendship alone. But 
 Margaret's peace of mind meant more to him than any 
 possibility of misunderstanding with any one else in the 
 world, so he postponed straightening out this perplexity 
 until she was able to look at the matter in a rational light. 
 Spencer's letter had undoubtedly been written as the result 
 of a moment's pique, and of course w r as not worthy of a 
 second thought. Knowing the complications by which 
 the man was at present overwhelmed, Margaret's fears 
 seemed almost grotesque in then* absurdity; but of these 
 he could not speak even to her. He hoped that Spencer 
 would take some of his advice to heart, but this was a 
 desire rather than an expectation. 
 
 [277]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 September took its place upon the calendar, bringing 
 with it varied emotions to different people. To many of 
 those on the North Shore it meant simply a continuation 
 of the summer gaieties at Lenox or Stockbridge before 
 turning their thoughts upon the homegoings and the 
 sterner interests of "the season" in town; to Margaret 
 it had brought the eagerly anticipated outing with her 
 husband which he had promised her; to Langdon it sig- 
 nified the approaching trial upon which his mind had so 
 long been focused; to Lucy Spencer it was an extended 
 period of uncertainty. 
 
 She had seen her husband but twice since the interview 
 with Amsden, when he had come to the house to complete 
 arrangements for transferring his belongings to The 
 Yacht Club at Marblehead. There had been no con- 
 versation, and she had no reason to expect other than a 
 speedy serving of the threatened libel. Amsden explained 
 that there was nothing to do but to await developments, 
 urging her in the meantime to see Cunningham and to 
 place in his possession all the facts in the case. He saw 
 no way to avert the catastrophe, but being forewarned 
 the effect of the attack could at least be minimized. At 
 present he was away, and his office reported that he had 
 left no address, wishing to prevent any possible interrup- 
 tion to his vacation. As the worst that Spencer could do 
 during the interval was to have the papers served, Amsden 
 did not consider the delay serious, but he was as surprised 
 as Lucy that Vallie so long postponed taking this pre- 
 liminary step. 
 
 So the uncertainty continued, wearing Lucy out with 
 the painful anxiety of waiting. The September days aj; 
 the shore were the rarest of the summer, but each morning 
 brought to her a sense of impending disaster, each night 
 
 [278J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 a feeling akin to regret that the long period of suspense 
 was still unbroken. She shrank from the thought of seeing 
 any one, yet she longed for some sympathetic spirit with 
 whom she might share her burden. The Cunninghams 
 were, of course, away, Valentine had eliminated himself 
 from her life except as an element of torture, Auchester 
 had made his existence known only by a letter expressing 
 sorrow for having unintentionally caused her pain. She 
 had not answered it yet, for she was not sure that his 
 self-reproach was justified. As she looked back upon that 
 evening, even with the complications which had since 
 ensued, she was conscious of a sense of satisfaction that 
 her personality had called forth from such a man a declara- 
 tion of devotion. Of course he should not have made it, 
 but the intoxicating knowledge that he loved her made 
 her present suffering easier to bear. She had never been 
 *ible to analyze her feeling toward him. Marriage, in her 
 mind, possessed no attractions, but her whole being called 
 for love. Could the two be associated? Did she love 
 Auchester, or was she simply in love with love? She 
 could not tell. 
 
 Fully aware of her isolation, Lucy wondered that she 
 was not oppressed by loneliness; yet no sense of this had 
 entered into her thoughts. It is the last weight which 
 makes the scales turn : she did not realize that the possi- 
 bility of losing one of her children had been the means 
 at last of bringing to the surface that mother-love which 
 Margaret and Ned had striven so hard to call into being. 
 She was with them constantly now, making their lives her 
 We, discovering in the process much that was new to her. 
 Susette marveled at the change, but true woman that she 
 was, rejoiced that they could find a response to those 
 demands of growing childhood which none but a mother 
 
 [279]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 can give. Child-like, they had forgotten that any other 
 condition had ever existed, content in their present joy 
 of sympathetic companionship. 
 
 Then the Cunninghams returned, and Lucy would have 
 gone to Ned at once, hard as it was for her to do it, but 
 Amsden urged further delay. Spencer had still to make 
 his preliminary move, and the lawyer knew the impor- 
 tance of leaving Cunningham free from diverting thoughts 
 during the period of the trial, now close at hand. So the 
 suspense continued. 
 
 Commonwealth v. Montgomery appeared no different on 
 the Court Calendar from hundreds of other entries which 
 dragged their slow length along from month to month as 
 mute protestants against the law's delay; but in the minds 
 of the people it was the only case the calendar contained. 
 Even a clever stage manager could not have planned a 
 more dramatic climax than the woman's apprehension 
 had supplied, and that portion of the dear public which 
 thrives upon excitement discussed the problem at every 
 street corner, advanced theories based only upon the 
 unauthentic reports contained in the sensational daily 
 press, judged, and passed sentence. Fortunately it was 
 beyond their power to place the victim in the electric 
 chair. 
 
 Cunningham's prominence in the trial was accentuated 
 by the critical illness of the Attorney-General, which left 
 him, with the District-Attorney, in practical control. The 
 evidence hi the hands of the prosecution had not warranted 
 a charge of murder against the woman, but was of suffi- 
 ciently direct nature to hold her as the most important 
 witness in the case. Langdon, impressed by Montgomery's 
 behavior at the time he showed him the photograph, and 
 since, was convinced that his client was shielding her, 
 
 [280]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 and directed his efforts toward shifting the probabilities 
 from the man to his companion. By this time she had 
 dropped all theatricals and was desperately alive to the 
 seriousness of her position; yet nothing could weaken her 
 impassioned denial of any acquaintance with or knowl- 
 edge of Montgomery. The attitude of the two was note- 
 worthy, as the man maintained his sullen, indifferent 
 demeanor, making Langdon's efforts in his behalf even 
 more difficult than necessary. 
 
 The preliminaries of the great trial were passed through 
 with only the ordinary delays incidental to the impaneling 
 of the jury, the personnel of which Langdon watched with 
 jealous care. The District- Attorney opened for the prose- 
 cution and outlined what the State undertook to prove. 
 The expressman who had heard the shots, the farm labor- 
 ers who discovered the bodies in the buggy, and a few other 
 less important witnesses gave what little information they 
 possessed, but the evidence brought out by their examina- 
 tion and cross-examination in no way incriminated Mont- 
 gomery beyond the incontestable fact that he and Brewster 
 were together at the time of the latter 's death. The 
 mystery still remained unsolved, and Langdon felt elated 
 that the Government's case appeared so weak. Then, to 
 his intense surprise and gratification, the woman was 
 asked to take the stand. This step, on the part of the 
 prosecution, was exactly what the defense desired, but 
 Langdon could not believe that Cunningham would dare 
 give him the opportunity for which he was amply pre- 
 pared. Was it an expression of Ned's altruistic policy in 
 order to give the prisoner the benefit of any possible mis- 
 take? Was it evidence that he was already convinced 
 that Montgomery was innocent? Was it a yielding to the 
 unwise urging of the District- Attorney? He could not 
 
 [281]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 settle it in his own mind, and he knew that Cunningham 
 would never disclose the facts; but it was enough that the 
 opportunity was there to be embraced. Montgomery's 
 indifference had from the beginning baffled him to the 
 point of despair, but with this woman on the witness- 
 stand Langdon could prove the presence of a third party 
 in the buggy, which must at least raise a reasonable 
 doubt as to the prisoner's guilt, despite the man's dogged 
 refusal to assist his case. 
 
 Langdon listened attentively to the futile efforts of the 
 prosecution to tear from the unwilling witness an ad- 
 mission that she was in the buggy, or that she had ever 
 known or even seen the prisoner. If they had counted on 
 any direct evidence from this source, they had gained 
 nothing but disappointment. Then she was turned over 
 to the defense, and Langdon began his cross-examination. 
 He recognized in her obstinacy a subordinate form of 
 egoism which, if contradicted, would simply be made more 
 firm. From the first, therefore, he appeared to accept her 
 statement that she was unacquainted with the prisoner, 
 that she was not in the buggy, and that the assumption 
 of her connection with the case at all was based upon error. 
 Encouraged by support instead of the opposition she had 
 expected, the woman became less suspicious and talked 
 freely: she not only answered the questions which were 
 put to her, but volunteered much information concerning 
 herself which, if substantiated, w r ould at once eliminate 
 her from the problem. 
 
 After she stepped lightly and confidently from the 
 stand, Langdon's assisting counsel presented the case for 
 the defense, deprecating the necessity in view of the 
 weakness of the evidence submitted by the State. It was 
 not incumbent upon them to prove the prisoner innocent, 
 
 [282]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 as the Government had failed so utterly to establish even 
 the presumption of guilt. They proposed to place the 
 prisoner himself upon the stand, after which witnesses 
 would be called to prove the actual presence of a third 
 party. 
 
 Little came from the examination or cross-examination 
 of Montgomery. All in all, the effect of his replies was 
 favorable to the defense. Then witnesses were introduced 
 whose testimony tore the woman's statements into 
 shreds. Langdon was pitiless in showing her mendacity, 
 for he believed her guilty, and when the culmination came 
 in evidence which showed that she had lived with Mont- 
 gomery as his wife, and actually placed her in the buggy 
 at the time the shots were fired, no one of the spectators 
 of the human tragedy doubted that the case against 
 Montgomery would be dropped and the woman substi- 
 tuted as the criminal. 
 
 Langdon prepared himself for the final argument when 
 Cunningham surprised him by asking that he permit 
 Montgomery to be recalled to the stand. Conscious of 
 the advantage he had gained, he did not hesitate to give 
 assent. 
 
 " I wish to question the defendant upon one or two points 
 which I omitted during the cross-examination," Cunning- 
 ham said, as Montgomery took his place. "Was your 
 reconciliation with Brewster sincere?" 
 
 "It was." The prisoner's hand, resting on the rail in 
 front of him, closed tightly. 
 
 "What w^ere Brewster's relations to the woman in the 
 buggy?" 
 
 "I have never seen this woman before," he insisted 
 doggedly. 
 
 "Yet you testified that there was a woman." 
 [283]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But it was not this woman?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What were Brewster's relations to this woman?" 
 
 "The same as mine." Again the fingers, which had 
 relaxed, tightened. 
 
 "And what were yours?" 
 
 "Friendly." 
 
 "But. you had quarreled with Brewster?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Over the woman?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Yet your reconciliation was genuine?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That will do," Cunningham concluded. 
 
 Still further surprised that the prosecution should have 
 thought it desirable to ask Montgomery questions which 
 covered points already substantiated, Langdon rose for 
 his argument. He called attention to the weakness of the 
 State in the absence of direct evidence, and emphasized 
 the alternative possibilities. A man had been killed, but 
 what had been brought forth to show that the fatality 
 was other than accidental? His client has been charged 
 with the crime, but what had been shown to prove that he 
 fired the fatal shot? Was not the fact that the prisoner 
 himself was wounded a better argument in his defense than 
 the State had yet advanced against him, as evidence that 
 both shots had been fired by a third party? Langdon 
 explained the difficulties he had experienced in securring 
 his client's cooperation. This he attributed fco a desire 
 on Montgomery's part to shield the real criminal, and he 
 gave it as his reason for proving the presence of the 
 woman in the buggy in spite of the prisoner's flat denial 
 
 [284]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 under oath. He disclaimed the intention of throwing 
 suspicion upon any one in particular, but as it had been 
 shown by the defense that a third party was actually 
 present at the time of the murder, was it not at least 
 possible that some one, not yet accused, might be the 
 real assassin? 
 
 When Cunningham rose to make his argument for the 
 State many supposed that he would concede the position 
 taken by the defense, and Langdon, knowing his con- 
 victions better than any one else, was bitterly disappointed 
 to discover that he intended still to contest. Then his 
 eye passed from Cunningham to the jury box and from 
 there to the spectators, and the universal surprise which 
 was manifested gave him confidence. 
 
 Cunningham's argument was a long one. "What the 
 defense has so ably shown," he said at one point, "is 
 entitled to the utmost consideration and should count its 
 full weight in favor of the accused, but from the stand- 
 point of the prosecution, it appears that the search has 
 been directed more toward the personality of the criminal 
 than the study of the causal conditions of the crime. 
 Causal law does not claim that all which occurs has a 
 single ground, but brings the searchlight of investigation 
 upon the efficient or satisfying cause, not only for the deed 
 itself, but for each individual detail. Upon the final 
 success or failure in correlating these causes when found 
 depends the existence or the non-existence of a case. It 
 is not within the province of the prosecution to say that 
 the prisoner committed the crime of which he stands 
 accused ; the responsibility for that decision rests with the 
 gentlemen of the jury. The State is eager for no man's 
 blood, but she is jealous of the sanctity of life within her 
 jurisdiction. In arriving at their decision the gentlemen 
 
 1285]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 of the jury must piece together, as the prosecution has 
 done, the facts as they exist and the probabilities as they 
 appear, and unless the result is moral certainty of guilt, 
 the prisoner is entitled to acquittal. 
 
 "To the prosecution the case resolves itself into another 
 eternal triangle: two men and a woman, jealousy, un- 
 controlled anger or deliberate forethought, culminating 
 in accident. The defense has shown that two years ago 
 this woman was living with the prisoner as his wife; it 
 has shown that Brewster became infatuated with her and 
 was the occasion of trouble between them; it has shown 
 that an apparent reconciliation was made between the 
 two men, and that on the fatal night the three parties 
 concerned were on their way together to the city. Why 
 did Montgomery place the revolver in his pocket if the 
 reconciliation was genuine? What occurred to transfer 
 it from his pocket into the hands of one of the occupants 
 of the buggy? There was no quarrel, there were no loud 
 words, as proved by the testimony we have heard. Into 
 whose hands did the revolver pass? If it could be shown 
 that the wounds found on the two men could possibly 
 have been inflicted by any third party, in the buggy or 
 out of it, the prosecution would feel that the defense was 
 complete; but in the absence of such evidence the case 
 can only be reconstructed as a premeditated murder. 
 The prosecution is bound to assume that Montgomery 
 with deadly intent placed the weapon against Brewster's 
 side and fired the shot which killed him, and that the 
 second shot resulted from a struggle between the prisoner 
 and this woman here, frightened and perhaps frenzied, 
 during which an accidental discharge sent the bullet into 
 the body of the second man. This solution of what has 
 seemed to be a mystery is, I admit freely, hypothetical, 
 
 [286]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 and should be considered only in case the prisoner himself 
 has conveyed to you a definite impression of guilt. 
 
 "In the consideration of this point you are entitled to 
 know the processes by which the prosecution has arrived 
 at its conclusion. The defense has questioned the rele- 
 vancy of the testimony introduced regarding the 'timbre' 
 of speech. You have listened patiently to the statements 
 of two reputable physicians as to the effect which a cer- 
 tain physiological phenomenon produces upon persons who 
 deny what they know to be the truth. They have told 
 you that the stimulation of the nerves influences the 
 snapping movement of the mouth, which alternates with 
 the reflex tendency to swallow, that it causes lapses in 
 blood pressure and palpitation of the heart by means of 
 disturbances of the heart action. The meaning of their 
 statements is that all this taken together causes the lightly 
 vibrating, cold, and toneless voice which you must have 
 noticed when the prisoner was placed upon the stand to 
 deny his guilt. It is so significant that the expert is rarely 
 deceived. 
 
 "Let not the fact that this woman has falsely sworn 
 to have been elsewhere on the night of the crime bear too 
 much weight against her. In the history of criminology 
 you will find countless cases where the denial of circum- 
 stances which have no essential relation to the deed have 
 left behind the real problem of evidence. In countless 
 cases you will find guilt falsely established because these 
 denied non-essential circumstances have been proved to 
 be facts. There is no question in the mind of the prose- 
 cution that this woman was in the buggy at the time of 
 the murder, but her presence there does not make her 
 the criminal. If she had at once admitted it and given 
 what I believe to be the real facts, she would not now 
 
 [287J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 rest under the suspicion which the defense has cast 
 about her. 
 
 "The vital evidence in this case has been given by the 
 defendant himself. Lest the full effect of it be lost upon 
 some of the gentlemen of the jury, the prosecution asked 
 that he be recalled to the stand. If lie was telling the 
 truth, why did he clench his fist whenever Brewster's 
 name was mentioned?" 
 
 Cunningham paused deliberately as he put the ques- 
 tion, allowing its full significance to sink into the minds 
 of his hearers. Then he continued: "He did not tell 
 the truth with his lips, gentlemen, but rather with his ges- 
 ture, which is the physical correlate. The very thought 
 of the man Brewster caused an inner resentment that 
 dominated his body even though he was able to control 
 his speech. Those of you who have watched him 
 throughout the trial must have observed that the same 
 phenomenon occurred every time Brewster's name was 
 mentioned. 
 
 "It may be claimed that the application of psychology 
 to criminology is unusual, but that is only because its 
 importance has been slow in being recognized. In dealing 
 with crime the Government is under obligations to employ 
 every known expedient to discover the truth and to ad- 
 minister justice. Whether or not the gentlemen of the 
 jury believe in the nature of the evidence submitted rests 
 in their hands. The defendant is entitled to the benefit 
 of any reasonable doubt, and the prosecution feels that 
 it has done its whole duty in placing before you its con- 
 victions as well as its doubts, with no desire to sway your 
 judgment from the straight path which justice demands." 
 
 The silence which followed the close of Cunningham's 
 argument was evidence enough of the deep impression 
 
 [288]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 which his words had created. The judge made a brief 
 charge to the jury, and the only sound which followed was 
 the shuffling of their feet as they retired for deliberation. 
 For hour after hour and far into the night the spectators 
 remained in their seats, relieving the tension by quietly 
 discussing in little groups the probable outcome, which no 
 one could clearly foresee. 
 
 At last it was announced that the jury had arrived at a 
 decision, and the excitement again became tense. The 
 jurymen silently filed in, seated themselves, and awaited 
 the question from the clerk. 
 
 " Gentlemen of the jury, will you make answer as your 
 names are called?" 
 
 The crier counted as they answered. The clerk called 
 the prisoner, and when all were in their accustomed places, 
 he again addressed the jury. 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed on your 
 verdict?" 
 
 The foreman answered in the affirmative. Then the 
 clerk turned to the prisoner. "James Montgomery, hold 
 up your right hand. Mr. Foreman, look upon the prisoner. 
 Prisoner, look upon the foreman. What say you, Mr. 
 Foreman; is James Montgomery, prisoner at the bar, 
 guilty or not guilty?" 
 
 With the silence in the courtroom so tense that not a 
 syllable was lost, the foreman made answer: "Guilty of 
 murder in the first degree." 
 
 The Court silenced the murmur which involuntarily 
 rose as the tension was relaxed. 
 
 "Gentlemen of the jury," droned the clerk, so me- 
 chanically that many of the spectators instinctively 
 rebelled, "harken to your verdict as the Court has 
 recorded it. You upon your oaths do say that James 
 19 [ 289 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Montgomery is guilty of murder in the first degree. So 
 say you, Mr. Foreman, and so you all say, gentlemen." 
 
 After a few moments devoted to details the clerk, or- 
 dered by the Court, again spoke. "James Montgomery, 
 have you anything to say why sentence of death should 
 not be passed upon you?" 
 
 The prisoner maintained a dogged silence, yet, for a 
 condemned man, there was an evidence of relief and 
 satisfaction which could but impress his counsel, who 
 particularly noticed it. Langdon entered formal excep- 
 tions. Montgomery and the witnesses were removed, 
 the jury dismissed, and court adjourned. Cunningham 
 found his departure impeded by scores of men who 
 crowded about him to offer their congratulations; for in 
 the moment, whether he desired it or not, his preeminence 
 as a criminal lawyer had been established. He refused 
 to accept any of the compliments which were offered 
 him. "This is not a case of personal triumph or dis- 
 appointment," he insisted; "it is simply an effort to 
 secure justice and justice only." 
 
 At last he pushed his way to the door, where he came 
 face to face with Langdon. Instinctively he held out his 
 hand, and words of praise were on his lips for the young 
 lawyer's handling of his first big case. But Langdon 
 deliberately drew back, his face drawn and his voice 
 quavering with emotion. 
 
 "It is a crime to convict a man on any such evidence," 
 he said in a low tone which Cunningham alone heard. 
 "But it wasn't the evidence which did convict him, it 
 was your damnable persuasiveness." 
 
 Cunningham staggered for a moment under the blow 
 which Langdon's words dealt him, but reason held back 
 the reply he would otherwise have made. "You're worn 
 
 [290J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 out, Tom, or you wouldn't say that to me," he said 
 patiently. "You know me better than to say that." 
 And placing his arm about him as if he were a younger 
 brother, the two men walked down the courthouse steps 
 out into the city street. 
 
 12911
 
 XXXI 
 
 DURING the weeks occupied by the Montgomery 
 trial, the North Shore gradually became deserted, 
 and Lucy Spencer was among those who moved 
 back to their city homes. Here she found evidences that 
 Vallie had transferred his Lares and Penates elsewhere, 
 and she learned later that he had taken up his abode at 
 the Badminton Club. But still he took no action! 
 
 The evolution of a dreaded event, delayed in its culmi- 
 nation i? a curious phenomenon. Apprehension at first 
 overwhelms, later giving way to a demand for realiza- 
 tion: "since it must come, let it come now!" When this 
 demand remains unanswered, the familiarity which comes 
 from living with Dread lessens its horror: "I thought 
 you terrifying, but lo! you had your opportunity and 
 embraced it not! Have I not magnified your power?" 
 When Dread strikes not back at this defiance, the Spirit 
 rests upon the unsafe refuge of False Assurance, for the 
 Spirit instinctively seeks for Peace. So it was in Lucy's 
 case. Amsden found it necessary to change his attitude, 
 and instead of trying to ease her fears he now with diffi- 
 culty convinced her that the danger still existed, and that 
 the moment Cunningham was released by the close of the 
 trial, she must hasten to him. She knew that he was right; 
 it was only cowardice which caused her hesitation. 
 
 [292]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Then the moment which she had awaited and yet 
 dreaded finally arrived, as all such moments must. 
 She found it in the scare-lines of the morning paper as 
 she came down to breakfast, for now her day began with 
 the children's. Oblivious to all else, she devoured every 
 word, absorbed by the interest of Cunningham's unex- 
 pected argument, surprised by the verdict, and appalled 
 by the personal significance of the ending of the trial. 
 She was pleased by the unstinted praise given to Langdon, 
 but it was her pride which rejoiced over the enconiums 
 bestowed on Ned. Then, as an aftermath to her pleasure, 
 there came a full realization that the higher he rose in 
 man's esteem, the more shining and vulnerable mark he 
 made for the attack which Vallie planned against him. 
 How could she bring herself to tell him the whole story! 
 
 Margaret was the single refuge to which Lucy's troubled 
 mind turned. Surely a woman's heart would respond to 
 another woman's needs! Shortly after breakfast she 
 telephoned, and was frightened, as she hung the receiver 
 up, to realize that the appointment was actually made 
 for that evening. How could she keep it! 
 
 It was with positive relief that she found Margaret 
 alone. When the limousine stopped in front of the Cun- 
 ninghams' house, Lucy dragged herself rather than walked 
 up the steps, and it seemed an eternity that she was left 
 alone in the reception room. She did not realize that she 
 noticed anything, yet for weeks afterward the details 
 remained vividly photographed upon the sensitized film 
 of her mental vision. She could have drawn with absolute 
 fidelity the intricate pattern of the silk prayer rug at her 
 feet; she knew the exact number of tiles which went to 
 make the hearth before the fireplace, though she had never 
 consciously counted them; she could have described 
 
 [293]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 without an error the arrangement of the pictures on 
 ,'ach wall. She and that room could never become 
 disassociated! 
 
 "Welcome!" Margaret greeted her cheerfully. The 
 month's holiday with her husband had dissipated earlier 
 apprehensions. She had grown accustomed to having 
 Ned's judgment proved right, and Vallie's letter and the 
 covert threat it contained now seemed as absurd to her 
 as it had from the first to her husband. Then, too, the 
 trial was over and the strain upon Ned was lightened. 
 She had read these further recognitions of his abilities 
 and, wife-like, was experiencing her triumph. 
 
 "Come into the library," Margaret continued. "Xed 
 is lying down. He is completely used up, but he insisted 
 that I call him when you came." 
 
 "Not yet," Lucy urged quickly; "I want to talk with 
 you first." 
 
 Then she told the story, simply and yet with agonizing 
 directness, to her companion. Margaret's contented 
 bearing changed with the first sensing of danger to her 
 husband. Lucy, intent upon carrying through to its bitter 
 end her humiliating story, did not see the frightened look 
 come into her eyes, nor the lines of pain which settled 
 about her mouth. So the specter which had haunted her 
 was not dead after all, but still stalked abroad awaiting 
 its opportunity to strike him whom she loved best where 
 it would hurt him most! Curiously, Lucy had not fully 
 comprehended the effect of her story upon Margaret. 
 She was conscious of her own pain and appreciated 
 Cunningham's concern for himself; but when she looked 
 up at the close of her recital and saw the change wrought 
 in those brief moments in her companion's face, she knew 
 that it was Margaret who would suffer more than Ned. 
 
 [294]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Peggy dear," she cried, aghast at the result of her 
 words, "you are ill!" 
 
 "No, no! go on. I must hear it all." 
 
 When it was over there was an awful silence. It was 
 pitifully clear to Margaret. She understood exactly how 
 it had come about and could find no blame in her heart, 
 yet she cried out in protest against the injustice. Here 
 were two children, as they seemed to her, who had played 
 with deadly explosives, unmindful of their destructive 
 power, and she stood by about to witness the fatal tragedy, 
 powerless to prevent! If Lucy had felt the situation 
 before, it was aggravated a thousand-fold by Margaret's 
 silent suffering. Oh ! if she could go back and live those 
 months over again! 
 
 "I am only too ready to sacrifice myself," she said at 
 length. 
 
 "I know," Margaret answered; "but even that sacrifice 
 will not save Ned now." 
 
 "If Vallie would only take my property, all of it." 
 
 "That would be a simple solution, for, of course, money 
 couldn't count against Ned's reputation." 
 
 Then the thought came to Lucy that there was still one 
 sacrifice which could be made, which she had believed to 
 be beyond consideration. Margaret had not suggested it, 
 and yet 
 
 "Margaret," she said slowly, "do you think is it my 
 duty to give up one of the children? I thought 
 
 "Don't ask me that!" was the reply, almost fierce in 
 its intensity; "you have no right to make me decide. 
 But if that would do it Ned means so much more to 
 me than your children ever have to you " 
 
 "Margaret!" Lucy interrupted, this time speaking with 
 a quality in her voice which caused her companion to 
 
 [295]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 raise her head and look at her with surprise. " You must 
 take that back, dear. I know what Ned means to you, 
 but God alone knows what those children have come 
 to mean to me! This is but another blessing for which 
 you and Ned are responsible, and that adds still further 
 to my terrible responsibility. Oh ! Peggy, I want to 
 bear all the consequences of my folly alone; and I thought 
 I was strong enough to make any sacrifice, but when it 
 comes to losing Larry or Babs you must help me, dear. 
 I'm too weak to do it myself." 
 
 "I can't, I can't!" Margaret pressed her hands against 
 her temples. " I am as weak as you re. Ned is the only 
 one who can decide, and we know you and I what he 
 will say ! I'll call him now. He nnist at least know what 
 threatens, so that he may meet it squarely." 
 
 Cunningham, all unconscious of what had taken place, 
 came breezily into the library, changing the atmosphere 
 by his optimistic nature. He was genuinely glad to see 
 Lucy, and in Margaret's presence. She met him almost 
 diffidently, and it was evident that she questioned his 
 possible attitude toward her. 
 
 "Have you forgiven me?" she asked, as she took his 
 hand and looked frankly into his face, eager to read there 
 the answer to her question before he could give it in words. 
 "I was hateful to him the last time we were together," 
 she continued, turning to Margaret, satisfied with her 
 inspection. " He was just the same dear old Ned, rushing 
 headlong into my troubles to save me from making a fool 
 of myself again." 
 
 "I was the fool after all," he added generously. "I 
 haven't seen you since Auchester called, but I've been 
 with him several times since. I'll take back all I ever 
 said to you about ^him. He's a fine fellow, and you 
 
 [296]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 were just as safe in his hands that night as you were in 
 mine." 
 
 It was still hard to introduce the subject of the dreaded 
 conversation. "Dear me," Lucy said as they sat down, 
 eager to postpone the hated moment, " Ned is becoming 
 so famous that we no-accounts won't dare speak to him! 
 Are you really going to be elected Senator as the papers 
 say?" 
 
 Cunningham's face became serious. "I haven't decided 
 whether or not to let my name be considered," he said. 
 "It would mean great sacrifices, but I have talked reform 
 so long that it is a bit difficult to side-step when the op- 
 portunity is offered to put my principles into practice." 
 
 "I'm trying to persuade him against it," Margaret 
 added, "but you know how determined Ned is when he 
 thinks there's a principle involved. This Montgomery 
 case has taken every ounce of strength he had. I thought 
 he could rest when it was over, but now " 
 
 "And so well over," Lucy interrupted quickly, terrified 
 by the approach to the danger point. "I was sure that 
 the woman was really guilty until I read your final argu- 
 ment. Of course every one was convinced to the contrary 
 after that." 
 
 "Do you suppose "Cunningham began, and then 
 paused. 
 
 " Suppose what? " Margaret asked, wondering at the 
 tone in his voice. 
 
 Cunningham laughed consciously. "It's perfectly 
 ridiculous, of course, but do you suppose it would be 
 possible for a lawyer, myself for example, to become so 
 saturated with a subject and so controlled by an idea 
 that he would be blinded to a fair consideration of facts 
 which failed to fit in with his theories?" 
 
 [297J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Lucy looked at Margaret hopelessly. " Does he expect 
 us to answer that offhand?" she asked. 
 
 Margaret smiled in spite of the apprehension which was 
 chilling her blood. Still, there was nothing to be gained 
 by haste: the blow would fall all too soon as it was. 
 "Yes," she answered Cunningham; "I think that would 
 be quite possible, and particularly with you. Why do 
 you ask?" 
 
 "You do think so?" A peculiar expression crossed his 
 face as he looked up quickly. " You do think so? " Then 
 he turned it off lightly. " I don't know why I thought of it 
 at just that moment; but Tom Langdon said something 
 after the trial which bothered me." 
 
 "Please get the trial out of your mind," Margaret 
 begged. "He has carried it with him night and day," 
 she told Lucy. "I have really feared he would break 
 down under the strain." 
 
 "Lucy didn't come here tonight to talk about me," 
 he said, glad to turn the subject. "How has all gone since 
 we saw you last?" 
 
 Her face sobered as she realized that she now stood on 
 the brink. "Badly," she said; "and that's why I'm here. 
 I know how tired you are, Ned, and that I ought not to 
 burden you with another care; but matters have gone 
 too far for me to handle by myself, and there are some 
 things you must know." 
 
 "Of course I must know of anything that is worrying 
 you. Here are two good friends of yours just as eager 
 now as always to be of service; and I promise I won't 
 rush in again without knowing more than I did last time 
 of the character of the man." 
 
 "The man this time is Vallie," Lucy explained hesitat- 
 ingly, "and he is determined to bring suit for divorce." 
 
 [298]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "So!" Cunningham interjected. "He is determined, 
 is he? How do you feel about it?" 
 
 "I am sure that a separation would be better for both 
 of us; and I don't care for myself if he insists upon 
 dragging me into court, but " 
 
 "He can't drag you into court, and if a separation 
 is really the wise thing I shall insist that you get it from 
 him, instead of the reverse." 
 
 "But you don't understand. I haven't any grounds 
 for it." 
 
 "Neither has he," Cunningham replied shortly. 
 
 "No; but he thinks he has. That's just the point. 
 He is making a lot out of that affair at 'Spicer's'." 
 
 Cunningham rose abruptly, shoved his hands into his 
 pockets, and paced up and down the room. At length he 
 stopped, standing in front of Lucy. "Tell me more," 
 he said. 
 
 As briefly as possible she gave him an outline of the 
 situation, but she could not even yet bring herself actually 
 to the point of saying that he was the man her husband 
 intended to name. She must tell him, of course, but she 
 still postponed the evil moment. 
 
 Cunningham became more and more indignant as the 
 story was continued. "I wouldn't have believed it possi- 
 ble, even for him," he kept repeating. "So unless he gets 
 half the estate he threatens to bring suit and make the 
 affair at 'Spicer's' the basis?" 
 
 "I'm afraid it's more than that now," Lucy said, doling 
 out the facts piecemeal. "He also insists that he must 
 have one of the children." 
 
 Margaret had been a silent spectator, knowing that 
 Lucy needed Ned's advice more than her sympathy. As 
 she sat there and heard their conversation she came to 
 
 [299J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 understand the relations which existed between the two 
 far better than she could have learned in any other way, 
 and for a moment pride in her husband made her forget 
 the pain. When Lucy spoke of the children, and Mar- 
 garet noted the quivering of her lips, the woman's heart 
 could remain silent no longer. 
 
 "Lucy has yielded everything," she said simply, un- 
 willing to have his judgment influenced by a knowledge 
 of her own emotions, "except this last demand for either 
 Larry or Babs. Just think, Ned, the children have come 
 to mean to her what we believed they might, and now 
 Vallie threatens to tear one of them away from her." 
 
 Cunningham's face lighted with a real joy as he turned 
 to Lucy. "At last!" he cried; "at last the little mother 
 has come into her own ! I knew it would come, I knew it ! 
 Now you realize what life really is!" 
 
 Her eyes refused to respond to his happy mood, and she 
 turned despairingly to Margaret, who quickly took up the 
 recital where it had been interrupted. 
 
 "It appears to be a question of saving the man's reputa- 
 tion or keeping the child," she went on, watching him 
 deliberately; "and Lucy and I are not strong enough to 
 settle it." 
 
 "Then I will settle it for you," he replied decisively. 
 " The children shall not be separated, nor shall they be 
 taken from their mother." 
 
 "What , of the man's reputation?" Margaret asked 
 weakly. 
 
 Cunningham crossed quietly over to where his wife 
 was sitting, and held her face gently between his hands. 
 "Peggy darling," he said, in a tone which manifested his 
 depth of feeling, "there are some things in life which are 
 so far above a man's reputation that we never mention 
 
 [300]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 them in the same breath, and mother-love is one of 
 these. There is no man, whose reputation is worth the 
 thought of protecting, who would hesitate a moment." 
 
 "Suppose you were that man, Ned?" she asked 
 pointedly. 
 
 "My only anxiety would be its possible effect on you, 
 dear. To accept the temporary responsibility of an unjust 
 accusation would be a light penalty to pay for the satis- 
 faction ot saving a child to its mother. I know the man 
 in this present case, and I know that he would answer 
 your question as I have; but it will never come to that." 
 
 " Oh," Lucy cried involuntarily, "but it will!" 
 
 "It shall never come to that," he said with finality. 
 
 "But you don't understand " 
 
 "I understand better than any one except Vallie him- 
 self," he continued confidently. "This is a matter you 
 may safely leave in my hands. Now the question is, do 
 you really wish a separation?" 
 
 "Yes; if the man's reputation need not suffer and I 
 can keep my children, but 
 
 "I will guarantee all that; and we'll settle matters at 
 once. Where is Vallie?" 
 
 "At the Badminton, I suppose." 
 
 Cunningham picked up the telephone. 
 
 "You're not going to talk with him now?" Lucy asked, 
 aghast, desperately frightened that he proposed to act 
 at once. 
 
 "I'm going to get him here right away if I can." 
 
 "But I must tell you some other things." 
 
 "Peggy," he said, addressing his wife, "I appoint you 
 deputy sheriff. You are to prevent Lucy from saying or 
 doing anything to interfere with me. Everything is work- 
 ing out to a nicety, and I don't want any interruption." 
 
 [301]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "It is vital that you listen to her," Margaret 
 expostulated. 
 
 Cunningham was almost impatient. The audacity of 
 this man's threat in view of existing conditions angered 
 him beyond control. "You must leave me alone with 
 this," he said decisively. "There is more to it than you 
 or Lucy realize. You must leave me alone." 
 
 The telephone call was successful. "I told you that 
 I would send for you if you were needed," Cunningham 
 told Spencer. "That moment has arrived. Please take 
 a taxi and come to my house at once." 
 
 "Will you listen now?" Margaret asked as he turned 
 from the telephone. 
 
 "I need every moment to crystallize this matter in my 
 mind," he replied, scarcely heeding her. "Please don't 
 break into my chain of thought." 
 
 All sorts of dire possibilities loomed up in Spencer's 
 mind as he covered the distance as swiftly as a motor 
 cab could carry him. At Cunningham's suggestion 
 Margaret and Lucy had taken chairs on the farther side 
 of the library, and Vallie did not notice them as he entered. 
 
 "What's up?" he demanded excitedly. "I thought 
 everything was settled yesterday. Has she " 
 
 "As far as you're concerned, I judge that things have 
 just begun," was Cunningham's response. 
 
 "My God! you don't tell me! I thought I was through 
 with her forever!" 
 
 "You haven't said 'good evening' to Margaret and 
 Lucy," Ned reminded him. 
 
 His eye quickly followed Cunningham's glance, and 
 .his face clouded angrily. "What are you doing here?" 
 he demanded of Lucy. "Isn't it enough " 
 
 "I only suggested that you say 'good evening,'" Cun- 
 [302]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 ningham interrupted before he could continue further. 
 "Our interview will be confined to ourselves." 
 
 "What is this, a trap?" Spencer asked suspiciously. 
 
 "No; it's a clearing-house," was the calm reply. " Lucy 
 tells me that you have suggested a legal separation, and 
 I find that the suggestion is an agreeable one to her. 
 I've asked you to come here so that I may assist you in 
 accomplishing what you both desire." 
 
 "Has she told you on what grounds I propose to bring 
 suit?" 
 
 "She has intimated what you apparently had in mind 
 when you talked with her, but of course you were not 
 serious." 
 
 "Has she mentioned the name of the man?" 
 
 "She doesn't need to. You forget that I was there. 
 You and I both know that there's nothing in it." 
 
 "How would such a suit affect his reputation? " Spencer 
 asked significantly. 
 
 "No man can pass through such an experience, even 
 though wholly innocent as in this case, without being 
 denied. After a nail is driven into a board you may re- 
 move the nail, but the hole still remains. I am glad that 
 the man in question is to be spared such a misfortune." 
 
 "You are going to prevent the bringing of this suit?" 
 
 "No; you have already decided to abandon it. All 
 I am going to do is to relieve Lucy's anxiety. I assume, 
 in spite of what has happened, that I may still consider 
 you a gentleman, and as such you are going to give me 
 your word of honor that you will desert your wife for 
 the period required by law, at the expiration of which 
 time Lucy will apply for a divorce on those grounds. As 
 a gentleman, you will agree that her suit will not be 
 contested, that the two children are to remain in her 
 
 [303]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 custody before and after the divorce, and that you will 
 accept such financial settlement as she may decide volun- 
 tarily to make. I believe that covers everything. Now 
 I want you to tell Lucy in Margaret's presence and mine 
 that you will agree to this. " 
 
 Spencer's face expressed the gamut of emotions as Cun- 
 ningham spoke with a voice so full of confidence that 
 Margaret and Lucy were amazed. Expecting that each 
 moment would bring out the real facts, and convinced that 
 the final outcome could only be a triumph for Vallie, they 
 hung on each word in an agony of suspense. Surely 
 this arrogant disregard of Spencer's malign advantage 
 must bring disaster! Lucy expected to hear his angry 
 protests, Margaret feared personal violence. Instead, 
 Vallie laughed disagreeably. 
 
 "Will I agree to it?" he repeated after Cunningham. 
 *' Certainly not ! This is the time you have a boy on your 
 hands too big to spank! Look here, Cunningham," he 
 said, becoming dramatic in his anger, "you told me once 
 that there were a few things I ought to know, and then 
 proceeded to instruct me. Now I intend to reciprocate. 
 You have gone through your life with an idea that there 
 is only one side to any question, and that you are on 
 that side. You have made a certain number of people 
 think that you are a great man, but it's because they don't 
 know you as I do. I know you for a damned prig, so 
 puffed up by the sense of your own imp6rtance that some 
 day you'll explode like a toy balloon. You think now that 
 you've got me cornered. I know what's in your mind; 
 but I'd as soon face that as admit myself licked by you. 
 You should have sprung this just a bit earlier, for I'll 
 admit I shouldn't relish being mixed up with that case. 
 But now go ahead. Tell Lucy if you like, tell
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 everybody. I'll have my papers served tomorrow. She 
 may bring a counter-suit if she chooses, but in the pro- 
 cess I'll get the man I'm after." 
 
 To the two women all was over, and they only awaited 
 the final statement from Spencer that in these papers 
 Cunningham would be named. If they had only been 
 allowed to speak before Vallie's arrival! Margaret 
 blamed herself that she had not risked Ned's censure by 
 insisting against his express command. He sat there pa- 
 tiently and calmly. What would be his attitude if he 
 really knew! 
 
 "So you refuse? " he asked when Spencer paused at last. 
 
 "Of course. What kind of a fool do you take me for?" 
 
 "Very well." Cunningham's patience changed into a 
 determination which could not be mistaken. "The 
 Montgomery case has been appealed," he said. "The 
 witnesses will all be held to await the result of the ex- 
 ceptions, and I propose to add a new witness. Do you 
 follow me, Spencer? a new witness. I shall have him 
 taken into custody tonight." 
 
 Vallie's insolence disappeared. The confidence which 
 had marked his attitude up to this time vanished, and he 
 sat dull and sullen as if stunned. 
 
 "Do you care to reconsider?" Cunningham asked him. 
 "Now will you agree to it?" 
 
 "You know I will, damn you," he said at length, and 
 then relapsed into his apathy. 
 
 "I was sure that I could not be mistaken," Cunning- 
 ham said with satisfaction. "A gentleman always yields 
 precedence to a lady in a matter of this kind." 
 
 Vallie rose mechanically. "There's no stopping you 
 since you sent that poor devil to the electric chair, is 
 there?" he said brutally. 
 
 20 [305]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "If there is a re-trial, perhaps the woman will finally 
 be convicted?" Cunningham replied with significance. 
 
 Spencer glared at him, but made no response. Then he 
 left the room abruptly. They heard his rapid steps upon 
 the stairway and a heavy slam of the door. 
 
 Cunningham turned to Lucy manifesting a tenderness 
 and feeling which contrasted curiously with the attitude 
 he had assumed with Vallie. "There," he said, with a sigh 
 of relief; "there he goes out of your life forever." He 
 paused for a moment in deep thought. "You two have 
 made a sorry mess of the years you've had together," 
 he continued, "and you are both partly to blame. Now 
 the slate is wiped off, and I'm sure you'll make better use 
 of the years to come." 
 
 "What does it all mean?" she demanded, still feeling 
 as if in a dream from which she must soon awaken. 
 
 "Just a legal service which I can render him for which 
 he could never pay except by this," Cunningham replied 
 gravely. 
 
 "And there will be no suit?" Margaret asked, as dazed 
 as Lucy by the sudden reversal of emotions. 
 
 "Not until Lucy brings it." 
 
 "Oh!" she cried, throwing her arms about his neck 
 with an ecstasy which he failed to comprehend, "thank 
 God! thank God!" 
 
 [306]
 
 XXXII 
 
 A UCHESTER found the time approaching when his 
 L\ sojourn in America must come to an end, and he 
 J- ^- viewed the prospect of his departure with genuine 
 regret. The confidential business mission which had 
 occasioned his coming to Boston had been satisfactorily 
 concluded, but in his own affairs he acknowledged frankly 
 to himself that he had miserably failed. Had it been mere 
 failure to accomplish he might have forgiven himself, but 
 to have lost through error in sizing up the situation was 
 unpardonable. A general who meets defeat through lack 
 of numbers or through greater skill in the opposing force 
 may still look forward to achievement, but he who loses 
 in an engagement based upon a false hypothesis is entitled 
 to nothing but disgrace. 
 
 The fact that Lucy had made no reply to his letter was 
 evidence enough of his signal defeat. He could not with 
 self-respect do more than he had done, yet it was not easy, 
 during these weeks, for him to sit idly by when his spirit 
 demanded action. Her last memory of him must be that 
 of a skulker, meekly accepting Cunningham's cutting 
 sarcasm, tacitly admitting that he was wrong. He knew 
 that he had squared himself with the lawyer, but to 
 Lucy, who had looked upon him as a man of strength and 
 courage, he must appear a paper soldier, retreating at 
 
 [307]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 the first smell of powder. What of his claims that even 
 men's conventions possessed no terrors for him! She 
 could but interpret his attitude throughout the whole 
 affair as giving him the lie. She could not be expected 
 to understand that it was alone consideration for her that 
 had controlled his actions; she could never know how 
 gladly he would have placed his arm about her and 
 defied the world! 
 
 The Captain would not have believed he could be so 
 hard hit. In the past he had smiled indulgently at fellow- 
 officers who allowed affaires de cceur to place a blight even 
 temporarily upon their lives. He was not a man to boast, 
 but had he been forced to answer such a question, he 
 would have expressed absolute incredulity that any 
 woman could so make him lose conviction in himself. Now 
 he realized that it 'is through personal experience alone 
 that one learns to know the truth. Now he knew that 
 whatever the future years held for him, his life could 
 never be the same. He had given himself to her without 
 reserve, he had held her in his arms, he had felt her lips 
 against his own. This experience would mean nothing 
 except that she was the one woman; being such, his life 
 could but be the richer for it, albeit that the bitter 
 mingled with the sweet. 
 
 During these weeks Lucy had dropped out of everything 
 still more completely than during the period of her self- 
 immolation. This prevented even an accidental meeting, 
 which was all Auchester now had to look forward to. 
 He had no doubt that he was the cause of her present 
 retirement, and knowing how distressing the summer's ex- 
 perience had been, he assumed heavy responsibility. Any 
 other woman would have understood the significance of 
 his proposition, any other woman would have preconsid- 
 
 [308]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 ered the consequences, and thus prevented the complica- 
 tion which resulted from the misunderstanding; but it 
 was because she was unlike any other woman that he loved 
 her, and he, with his wider experience, should have pro- 
 tected her innocent love of excitement, and prevented it 
 from becoming the mistake which she had been incom- 
 petent to foresee. 
 
 What made defeat still more difficult to accept was his 
 unconquerable conviction that in spite of her disclaimers 
 her heart really did respond to his affection. He believed 
 her sincere in her uncertainty, but while she held 
 herself unable to accept his love, it was but natural that 
 she should refuse to allow her own sentiment to be crys- 
 tallized. "Oh! it is sweet to be loved!" she had mur- 
 mured as she rested in his arms. What aggravation! A 
 tired soul longing for affection and appreciation, and he 
 so ready to give her both, yet denied the privilege! 
 
 As he had gradually broken away from his familiarity 
 with Spencer, shortly after the disillusionment during his 
 week-end visit at Beverly Farms, Auchester also separated 
 himself from Vallie's boon companions. He had been 
 long enough in America now to have made lasting friend- 
 ships, and such friends, few in number but valued, invited 
 him to their homes, making him less dependent upon the 
 clubs. To them, as to Cunningham, he disclosed his name 
 and position, but his confidence w r as respected. He accepted 
 Cunningham's suggestion to become better acquainted 
 as a matter of principle at first, for he was determined 
 not to allow himself to rest under any misapprehension 
 in the lawyer's mind; but in doing this both men came to 
 admire and respect each other. He followed the Mont- 
 gomery trial with a less passionate interest and, therefore, 
 with clearer understanding than most of the spectators. 
 
 [309J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 In this way he saw Cunningham in action, and was amazed 
 by the contrast between the man's character as manifested 
 in his every-day life among his friends and the new ex- 
 position of him in his professional capacity. He was one 
 of the few who was not swayed by Cunningham's argu- 
 ment, masterly as he admitted it to be. He did not claim 
 that Montgomery was necessarily innocent, but he felt 
 strongly that the lawyer's experiment in psychology was 
 inconclusive. Auchester had been present at trials iii 
 France where demonstrations of psychological criminology 
 were frequent, and had seen phenomenology applied even 
 more dramatically than in the case just ended. He be- 
 lieved in it as a method of detecting crime, but in the 
 Montgomery case he was convinced that the jury as well 
 as the spectators were swayed by Cunningham's evi- 
 dent conviction and by the dramatic incident itself rather 
 than by anything it disclosed. He promised himself the 
 pleasure of discussing the matter sometime with him, 
 when a sufficient interval had elapsed to prevent his 
 difference in opinion from seeming to be criticism. 
 
 In the meanwhile Spencer came to the Badminton Club, 
 to remain an indefinite period, so Auchester heard it 
 rumored. What did this mean? Was it simply a con- 
 tinuation of the neglect which was the portion of his 
 wife, or did the act possess a deeper significance? It was 
 certain that he was unaware of the part the Captain had 
 played in the Spicer episode, or that he was indifferent 
 to it, for he met him with as much civility as he now 
 manifested toward any one. Auchester dared not think 
 of the second alternative, for it again raised in him that 
 hope which he had sternly tried to kill. But if there should 
 be anything to it if Lucy should be freed from her pres- 
 ent conventional bonds No, the Captain assured 
 
 [310]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 himself; such happy coincidences never happen outside 
 the story-book or off the stage. 
 
 His opportunity to discuss psychological criminology 
 with Cunningham came about naturally after all, and 
 sooner than he expected. It was, perhaps, a fortnight 
 after the trial that the lawyer invited him to take lunch- 
 eon with him, suggesting his office as their meeting-place. 
 As Auchester entered he met Langdon on the point of 
 leaving, and Cunningham, evidently deeply concerned 
 with the subject they had been discussing, impulsively 
 asked them both back into his private room. 
 
 "Langdon and I have been exchanging ideas," Cunning- 
 ham said, "and I should like to get your opinion. I saw 
 you at the trial many times, and a man of your tempera- 
 ment gains a different impression from that of nine- 
 tenths of the spectators." 
 
 Cunningham had asked Langdon for this conference 
 as soon as he felt himself equal to the discussion. The 
 younger man's words at the close of the trial had been 
 with him constantly, and when Margaret intimated that 
 his own mental processes were such as to make him 
 susceptible to over-subservience to an idea, he became 
 obsessed with the fear that he had made a mistake. 
 Freed from the heat of the argument and the surprise 
 and disappointment of the verdict, Langdon regretted 
 his remark, but the intervening time had not lessened his 
 conviction. For more than an hour previous to Auchester's 
 arrival they had discussed the question in a friendly way, 
 and Cunningham had found his friend unwavering in 
 his belief that a miscarriage of justice had resulted from 
 the unusual presentation of the case on the part of the 
 prosecution. 
 
 "Of course I don't question your sincerity, Ned, and 
 1311]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 I'm ashamed of myself that I allowed my feelings to get 
 the better of me when I spoke to you that day. I have no 
 excuse for it whatever. But I am even more certain than 
 ever that the woman did the shooting and that Mont- 
 gomery is shielding her. I believe that your construc- 
 tion of the case was absolutely correct except that the 
 principals should change places: the woman shot Brews- 
 ter and Montgomery was wounded in struggling with 
 her to gain possession of the revolver. I'll prove that 
 if we get a new trial." 
 
 Langdon's quiet confidence had its effect upon the 
 older man. "You still think it was my 'uncanny power,' 
 do you, Tom?" 
 
 "Frankly, yes," was the uncompromising yet friendly 
 answer; "but as you once said, I realize that this power 
 comes from your own conviction that you are right." 
 
 "Do you remember what else I said that day?" Cun- 
 ningham asked; "that if through that power, as you call 
 it, I ever accomplished an injustice to a prisoner, I should 
 never forgive myself?" 
 
 "Yes, I remember it perfectly; but as long as you 
 remain convinced that you are right, you can't feel that 
 you have accomplished an injustice." 
 
 "I think you'll get a re-trial, Tom," Cunningham 
 replied. "I do feel that I'm right, but I intend to put 
 myself through a rigid examination before I'm done 
 with it." 
 
 So they had left the matter when they ran into Auches- 
 ter in the outer office. When they were seated, Cunning- 
 ham stated the question clearly to him, and waited 
 eagerly for his answer. 
 
 "I shall be much influenced by your opinion," he said. 
 
 The Captain tugged at his mustache as he always did 
 [3121
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 when placed in a crucial position. "You want me to say 
 exactly what I think, I suppose?" 
 
 "Exactly," Cunningham replied with emphasis. "There- 
 are no personalities in this." 
 
 "Well," Auchester said deliberately, "I agree entirely 
 with Mr. Langdon." 
 
 "You do!" Ned exclaimed. "You think the psycho- 
 logical test a failure?" 
 
 "On the contrary; it was by means of that test that I 
 arrived at my conclusion." 
 
 "Then how can you agree with Langdon?" 
 
 "You watched the man; I watched the woman." 
 
 Both men followed his words with excited interest, 
 Langdon showing satisfaction, Cunningham the deepest 
 concern. 
 
 "You watched the woman?" Ned repeated. "What 
 did you observe?" 
 
 "The same phenomenon which you found in Mont- 
 gomery: she clenched her hand every time Brewster's 
 name was mentioned." 
 
 "Don't you see, Ned?" Langdon broke in. "You 
 approached the case with a preconceived idea that Mont- 
 gomery was guilty; if you had happened to settle upon 
 the woman, the same test and the same argument would 
 have convicted her." 
 
 "On the basis of the experiment and what jointly we 
 all saw, it would appear that both are guilty," Cunning- 
 ham said, meditatively. 
 
 "They may be," Auchester admitted; "but the woman 
 struck me as being more likely to do the shooting in a 
 moment of rage than the man to premeditate deliberate 
 murder. Of course that doesn't go in law, but you asked 
 my opinion." 
 
 [313]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "You have given me quite a shock, both of you," Cun- 
 ningham remarked. "We'll speak of this again, Tom. 
 Now the Captain is going to cheer me up at luncheon. 
 Won't you join us?" 
 
 "Thanks, no; I have an appointment at the Exchange 
 Club." 
 
 "That's where we're going. We'll walk along to- 
 gether." 
 
 Auchester was surprised to find that his host had en- 
 gaged a private dining-room, as there appeared to be no 
 reason for seclusion. The conversation ran along general 
 lines, touching on the topics in which they both were 
 interested. Cunningham had thrown off the concern he 
 manifested at his office, and the Captain found him the 
 best of good company. 
 
 After the coffee had been served and the cigars lighted, 
 Cunningham pushed his chair back from the table and 
 crossed his legs. Auchester watched his face curiously, 
 for it was evident that he was about to say something of 
 importance. Ned's friends had learned to associate cer- 
 tain personal acts and gestures with corresponding mental 
 processes, and the Captain had become more or less 
 familiar with them. 
 
 "Today," Cunningham said at length, "I propose to 
 perform an act of restitution. Last summer I did you an 
 injustice, and I also did an injustice to a certain woman 
 whom we both admire, though, perhaps I should add, in 
 a different way. The fact that I thought it necessary to 
 rush in upon you that night at 'SpicerV was an affront 
 to you both, and I have heartily regretted it. Now let 
 me ask you a question: Has Spencer ever made any 
 reference to it?" 
 
 "None whatever," Auchester replied. "He has had 
 [3141
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 every chance, for lately I've seen him almost daily at the 
 club." 
 
 "Has he recognized you?" 
 
 "Certainly; he's been quite civil." 
 
 "Then it was all bluff, as I suspected," Cunningham 
 continued. Then he leaned across the table. "Do you 
 know, Auchester, that that little whelp actually threat- 
 ened Lucy to bring suit for divorce, naming you as 
 coresponden . ? " 
 
 "The devil " Auchester exclaimed, thoroughly aroused. 
 "Why haven't I been advised of it?" 
 
 "I only knew about it the night after the trial. Lucy 
 came to my house and poured out the whole story. Poor 
 little girl! he has made her life a pitiful spectacle.'' 
 
 "But that was a fortnight ago. What has happened 
 since? Surely I have a right to defend myself and her." 
 
 "There is no occasion for any defense, my dear fellow, 
 and that is where I perform my act of restitution. For 
 certain reasons which we need not go into, I have shown 
 Spencer reasons why he should abandon his intention, if 
 he ever had one, and the incident is closed." 
 
 "But he couldn't have made that grounds for divorce." 
 
 "As a matter of fact, it is Lucy who has the grounds," 
 Cunningham replied. "His threat was merely a bluff to 
 frighten her, but he seemed determined to pull it off, 
 * simply to injure the man's reputation,' as he expressed 
 it." 
 
 Auchester relapsed into silence. "I'm not sure that I 
 should not have preferred to take a hand in this myself," 
 he said, showing plainly that he was perfectly sure. 
 
 "You can employ your time to better advantage," 
 Cunningham said, becoming almost jocose. Match- 
 making was a new role for him to play, and he did it rather 
 
 [315]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 clumsily. "Spencer sails for Europe next week," he con- 
 tinued. * 'He will be absent some length of time. At the 
 expiration of the legal limitation Lucy will sue for divorce 
 on the grounds of desertion. Do you think you could 
 have handled this matter any better yourself?" 
 
 The situation gradually cleared for Auchester. Cun- 
 ningham leaned back in his chair, puffing good-naturedly 
 at his cigar, and enjoying the changing expressions on his 
 companion's face. 
 
 "By Jove!" the Captain exclaimed, a broad smile 
 appearing at last. "That will leave her free!" 
 
 * You told me once that you never abandoned any- 
 thing you undertook, but that sometimes you have had to 
 wait. Is your patience still equal to the test?" 
 
 But Auchester appeared to be absorbed in his own 
 thoughts. The smile still lingered, and whatever may 
 have been upon his mind seemed all-sufficient. "By 
 Jove!" he repeated at length, "by Jove!" 
 
 1316]
 
 XXXIII 
 
 NOVEMBER found "the season" starting in with 
 full swing. Lucy's new life was slowly recons'ruct- 
 ing itself within as well as without. When she 
 left the Cunninghams' house that evening the only thing 
 which seemed clear was that the awful dread which had 
 oppressed her had been miraculously lifted from her heart. 
 At the moment the how or the why signified nothing so 
 long as the specter had disappeared. On her return home 
 her first thought was to go to the children's room, where 
 Larry and Babs were peacefully dreaming. She turned 
 on the night lamp and stood at the foot of the tiny twin 
 beds, listening to the quiet, regular breathing, gazing at 
 the calm, sweet features reflecting back at her the inno- 
 cence of childhood. These were her children, her own 
 flesh and blood, and they were to be hers forever ! A lump 
 came in her throat, tears welled up in her eyes, but they 
 were tears of thanksgiving. Sight alone did not satisfy, 
 she must feel the touch of their warm flesh against her 
 own. She sank on her knees between the two beds, 
 brushed back the golden locks which partially concealed 
 Babs' face, and covered the soft cheek with kisses. Then 
 she turned to the other bed and looked at Larry's sturdy 
 features. Her boy ! what had the future in store for him? 
 Could it be possible that a man such as Vallie was ever a 
 
 [317]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 sweet, innocent child like this ! What would her boy grow 
 to be! Would he be a lawyer like Ned, or she buried 
 her face in the pillow beside him or would he be a 
 soldier like Auchester? No, not a soldier, she decided, 
 for that would lead him into danger, and she could not 
 endure that; but still a man like Auchester. For a 
 long time she rested her cheek against his, assimilating 
 in part his peaceful calm, accepting in part his quiet 
 contentment which demanded no explanation. She 
 rose with a new strength, for the Voice of which 
 Margaret had told her had spoken again, and this time 
 she had heard and understood ! 
 
 Margaret came in the next day. Together they had 
 passed through the agonies of suspense, together they 
 would rejoice in the emancipation. Lucy listened eagerly 
 to the explanation of Cunningham's mysterious influence 
 over Spencer, of which Margaret had learned the night 
 before. A blush of shame came to her cheek at this 
 evidence of Vallie's further degradation; yet why should 
 she feel it more than the countless other humiliations she 
 had endured? She could not know that the chemistry of 
 the spirit was still at work within her, completing its 
 labor of crystallization now that it found no opposition; 
 she could not know that in that blush of shame she spoke 
 now for her children as well as for herself. 
 
 " Ned has not the slightest idea that he was in any way 
 involved," Margaret told her; "and he is taking much 
 satisfaction in the thought that in saving Captain Auches- 
 ter he has atoned for his previous distrust." 
 
 "Need he ever know?" Lucy asked. "What would be 
 gained?" 
 
 "Sometime he must know it," she replied, "but not 
 now. Sometime he must be made to realize that it is not 
 
 [318]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 safe to keep one's eyes only on the goal ahead. The path 
 may contain pitfalls." 
 
 "It was all my fault," Lucy insisted. "He deserves to 
 escape, but I am getting off all too easily." 
 
 Margaret looked tenderly at the thin face and the hollow 
 eyes which the anxious days had left behind. "You have 
 paid your price, my dear, you have paid your price." 
 
 Unexpectedly, and seemingly incongruously, Margaret 
 broke the silence which followed her last remark with a 
 light laugh. "I was thinking of Ned," she said in answer 
 to Lucy's questioning look. "Now that the danger is 
 past we can afford to smile; and his satisfaction over 
 the whole affair is grotesque to us who know the facts. 
 He is like that Indian prince in the Hindoo legend 
 perhaps you remember it who was determined to see 
 his lady-love. He was warned that the way was beset 
 with dangers, but he would not be deterred. He came to 
 the river Ganges, which they had told him was impassable, 
 but he found a spot where he could walk across, dry-shod; 
 they told him that the valley he must pass through was 
 full of hidden terrors, but he found it lighted by the 
 moon's reflection on white substances beneath his feet; 
 they told him that the ravine which he must cross was 
 guarded by the enemy, but he found a bridge over which 
 he passed with ease; they told him that when he came to 
 the princess' palace he could not reach her window, but 
 there he found a rope by means of which he attained the 
 object of his quest. Then he turned toward home. The 
 glamour which had spread itself over all had vanished, 
 and he found that the path on which he had crossed the 
 Ganges was made up of corpses; that the white sub- 
 stances which had reflected the moon's light in the valley 
 were the bleached bones of those who had entered it before; 
 
 [319]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 that the bridge across the ravine was formed by the crossed 
 knives of the soldiers; that what he had thought to be a 
 rope was in reality a deadly cobra. His eyes, like Ned's, 
 were fixed only upon his goal; he, like Ned, could not see 
 the dangers in his path." 
 
 "That is like Ned," Lucy smiled; "but after all, what 
 a relief to see one man out of the thousand whose first 
 thought is to respond rather than to make sure that 
 the ground is firm beneath his feet. You should be very 
 proud of him, Peggy." 
 
 "I am proud, even though anxious at times. He gets 
 that trait from his Puritan ancestors; but in those days 
 they hoped there might be hidden pitfalls so that they 
 could become Christian martyrs. Times have changed 
 since then. One isn't canonized nowadays for falling 
 into a manhole or the subway. Now, one other thing, 
 my dear. We have taken the Leslies' box at the Opera for 
 Monday nights, and we want you to go with us for the 
 opening performance. It's the twenty-fifth, you know." 
 
 "I'd love to go," Lucy exclaimed. "By that time I 
 shall have dispensed with these dark lines beneath my 
 eyes; and, thank Heaven! one doesn't have to wear black 
 for an approaching divorce!" 
 
 "And Lucy," Margaret went on, "Ned would like to 
 have me ask Captain Auchester. Would it be unpleasant 
 for you? The Brookses will be the other two." 
 
 "Would it be unpleasant?" she repeated, with just 
 a touch of color showing in her pale face. "Why, no; 
 I'd be glad to see him again." Then her hesitation van- 
 ished. "Of course I'd be glad to see him again." 
 
 "Splendid! That makes our party complete. We'll 
 have a short little dinner at six-thirty sharp; the curtain 
 rises at eight." 
 
 [3201
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Even with his business affairs entirely settled, Auches- 
 ter found reasons for postponing his return to England. 
 After his luncheon with Cunningham several important 
 changes took place in his previously arranged plans, and 
 for a man who ordinarily resented outside interference 
 he accepted Ned's friendly offices with singular good- 
 nature. When the dinner and box party for the opening 
 night of the Opera was suggested, together with a sly 
 intimation from Ned that Lucy would be of it, he de- 
 murred until he learned that she had already been con- 
 sulted. If she still cherished against him the liberties he 
 took at 'Spicer's" she would not now voluntarily place 
 herself in a position which could but reopen their previous 
 acquaintance, and knowing as she did that his sentiments 
 had long since passed the bounds of friendship, her accept- 
 ance showed that she did not seriously object to him. 
 These thoughts, together with others along the same 
 line, gave the Captain much satisfaction, and he viewed 
 the approach of the opening of the Opera season with an 
 anticipation not wholly due to his love of music. 
 
 Lucy, too, found herself concerned with more than her 
 interest in the particular opera selected to start music- 
 mad Boston off into another season of intellectual de- 
 bauch. It may have been a coincidence that in ordering 
 her new gown she should have determined upon white, 
 or it may have been that she remembered a remark which 
 Auchester had once made to the effect that white became 
 her best. That was what she had worn on the eventful 
 evening at "Spicer's," and she would wear it again if only 
 to show him that with it she associated no unhappy 
 memories. He had probably forgotten her by this time; 
 no man thoroughly consumed with love would have 
 stayed away all these weeks simply because his letter 
 21 [ 321 ]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 had remained unanswered! But the Captain differed 
 from other men. He had imagination enough in some 
 ways, but when it came to aught which had to do with 
 women she knew that his sense of gallantry would cause 
 him to accept their words with literal exactness. What 
 could he have seen in her? Had he really spoken those 
 words which she seemed to recall with such heavenly 
 vividness, yet which were clothed with no reality? She 
 could never make him or any other man happy; she 
 was too inconsequential and too irresponsible to satisfy 
 any one after the glamour of first companionship passed 
 into that analytical period which displays everything in 
 the pitiless light of truth. It was a further act of folly, 
 she told herself, to have Auchester so much in her mind, 
 for by this time he had undoubtedly reached that period, 
 and rejoiced that circumstances had preserved him. Still 
 she did not chide herself when she found her thoughts 
 running along forbidden paths. 
 
 In spite of Margaret's warning, Lucy was the last to 
 arrive for dinner. She was not too late, being guilty only 
 of that genteel tardiness which makes the entrance of a 
 beautiful woman into a reception room one of the events 
 of the occasion. It had been so long since she had given 
 herself up to the enjoyment of an evening such as this 
 that she felt almost diffident as she paused a brief moment 
 in the doorway before greeting her hostess. Then the joy 
 of it possessed her and she was herself again. No one who 
 did not know would have believed that suffering could 
 ever have found shelter behind that smiling, contented 
 face; no one who did not know would have recognized 
 in the quiet, attractive dignity of pose the one-time rest- 
 less spirit which had set out upon its quest for happiness 
 unmindful that the world is what it is, and had returned 
 
 [322J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 to its haven chastened and refined by the fire through 
 which it passed. 
 
 The entire evening was unreal to Lucy, forming a 
 climax to the dream-world in which she now lived. Au- 
 chester took her out to dinner, and their conversation was 
 as natural as if they were casual acquaintances. How 
 could it be possible, when together they had sipped the 
 cup of forgetfulness, and but for the awakening of an 
 untried sense would together have drained it to the 
 dregs! Cunningham was in the rarest spirits and Mar- 
 garet reflected the glow of his satisfaction. The Brookses, 
 just home from Germany, contributed interesting side- 
 lights on Max Rheinhardt's triumphs, and of the prob- 
 able results of his influence, from which the conversation 
 naturally turned upon the new scenic effects to be tried 
 at the Opera House; they spoke of the regrets of the 
 German people that America had wrested from them 
 their beloved conductor for the Boston Symphony. The 
 Captain showed an astonishing fund of knowledge upon 
 these as on every subject, and the discussion formed a 
 brilliant prelude for the evening to follow. 
 
 Lucy was but dimly conscious of the break in the moving 
 of events as they rose from the table and later put on their 
 wraps, yet she was keenly alive to the touch of Auchester's 
 hand as he assisted her into the limousine. The long line of 
 motors, awaiting their turn to discharge their aristocratic 
 freights, the glare of the lights, the mob of handsomely 
 gowned women and well-groomed men in the foyer, all 
 made their impression, but it might have been a picture 
 she was looking at instead of a living reality. What did 
 seem real was the meeting at the door with the Channings, 
 the expression on "Medusa's" face as her eyes quickly 
 sought and found Cunningham, and the curious change 
 
 [323]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 which took place when the next glance showed Lucy 
 and Margaret close together. They moved on through the 
 doors and to the Cunninghams' box hi the upper tier, 
 which the trim maid unlocked for them to enter. Gradu- 
 ally the chaos became order, the lights were lowered, the 
 conductor struck his baton authoritatively against the 
 desk in front of him, the strings softly drew the tangible 
 from out the intangible, followed quickly by the 'cellos 
 and the basses as the brief overture of "Madama Butter- 
 fly" seized the audience in its grip. Then the curtain 
 rose: in front of it, pride of birth and of possession; be- 
 hind, song-birds whose golden notes represented the for- 
 tunes of the Incas, the apotheosis of human luxury ! 
 
 All still the dream! Lucy had heard this opera many 
 times, but tonight the music came to her with a new mean- 
 ing, and she listened to it with sensations she had not 
 before experienced. At other times the tense little Butter- 
 fly had amused her. How absurd to think that she could 
 love and suffer as the clever librettist portrayed her! Now 
 Lucy found that she was living her tragedy with her. It 
 was not the Oriental but the woman whom she saw before 
 her, and her sympathy went out to her with such definite 
 sincerity that the intensifying passion of the music sank 
 into her heart with a force which caused her pain. And 
 when the last act came, and the neglected wife changed 
 into the self-sacrificing mother, it was not a mimic repro- 
 duction of life which she saw enacted before her; it was 
 life itself. Why had it never before brought tears to her 
 eyes? Why had the opera never before touched her heart? 
 
 It might have been the art of the singer; but she had 
 heard it well sung before. It was true that in the long 
 reaches of the love-duet there was a richness in the beauty 
 of the sustained song, that the music of the strewing of 
 
 [324]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 the flowers was no more lovely than the tones of the 
 singer's voice, that the short phrases with which the music 
 of the opera teems became on her lips the voice of a clar- 
 inet. Amsden would have told her that Puccini's later 
 music-dramas are fabrics of orchestral and vocal inter- 
 jection, designed to excite the nerves of those who listen 
 as they watch the tense action on the stage. But Lucy 
 did not wish it analyzed. She and Cio-Cio-San were 
 one throughout the transitions of emotion. She felt 
 rather than heard the gladness of the first act, the wist- 
 ful, patient longing of the second, and the desolation of 
 the third. But, most astonishing of all, she needed no 
 analysis; she knew that it was that same Voice, still 
 speaking, which now made it real! 
 
 During the interval in which they promenaded, Au- 
 chester told her that he was soon to return home, and 
 asked if he might call to say "goodbye". She had not 
 thought of his leaving Boston, yet of course it was natural 
 that this should happen. Of a certainty she would be glad 
 to see him, and sorry indeed that the time of parting was 
 so near at hand. The performance came to an end, the 
 merry party found its way again to the entrance, discuss- 
 ing the merits of the singers and the brilliancy of the 
 premiere. The motor separated itself from the throb- 
 bing mass of machines, and swiftly passed on to the 
 different homes, where the party gradually became 
 disintegrated. 
 
 Lucy found herself at length in her own room, alone; 
 and then the dream-world gave up its uncertainty and 
 life became real. She had seen him again, and she felt 
 the strength and courage of his personality pass into her 
 own spirit, which she no longer trusted. He would 
 come to her the following afternoon to say "goodbye". 
 
 [325]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Was it to be a last farewell, or would she sometime see 
 him again, and 
 
 The maid found her strangely distraite as she assisted 
 her in preparing for the night. Lucy was eager to be rid 
 of all human companionship, that she might give herself 
 up to the thoughts which crowded upon each other in her 
 mind. At last she threw herself upon the bed and turned 
 out the light, welcoming the darkness as a confederate 
 to aid her as she surreptitiously drew her mental picture. 
 And in this picture she saw herself again in the little 
 dining-room at "Spicer's," listening to a man's story of 
 his devotion, and the woman made reply, "Oh! it is sweet 
 to b loved, it is so sweet to be loved!" 
 
 [326]
 
 XXXIV 
 
 AMSDEN and Cunningham arranged the final 
 /_% details with Spencer, so that Lucy might be 
 -* *- spared the disagreeable necessity of seeing him 
 again. Against her lawyer's advice, the settlement, con- 
 ditional only upon his carrying out his agreement, was 
 too generous; but she gloried in this only opportunity left 
 for self-penalization. There was still enough remaining 
 to insure comfort for herself and the children, so the 
 sacrifice was really not so serious as she imagined, and 
 Amsden was satisfied that the moral effect upon her was 
 worth the price it cost. Spencer was agreeably surprised, 
 and sailed for Europe with less iron in his soul than would 
 otherwise have been the case; so the final break was made 
 with a minimum shock to all concerned. 
 
 The old man was scarcely less relieved than Lucy when 
 he heard from her that her husband had been forced into 
 an agreement. She could give him only a hazy idea of 
 what had occurred, so he talked matters over with Cun- 
 ningham, and learned from him the whole story. 
 
 "It goes against my gram to force a man to do the right 
 tiling by means of a threat," Cunningham told him, 
 "but if ever there was an end which justified the means, 
 this is it. Lucy is as innocent as an unborn babe, and 
 Auchester is the soul of honor; it would have been a 
 
 [3271
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 rough deal to have had a scandal come out of their foolish 
 escapade." 
 
 "Auchester?" queried Amsden. "Did you think it was 
 Auchester Mr. Spencer was trying to reach?" 
 
 "Of course it was Auchester." Cunningham showed 
 his surprise. "Lucy must have told you. Who else could 
 it be?" 
 
 "Why frankly "the old man stumbled, "I under- 
 stood that it was you." 
 
 Cunningham regarded him as if he had suddenly lost 
 his mind. "You understood that Spencer was to name me 
 as corespondent?" he demanded, speaking slowly. 
 
 "There is no question whatever about it," Amsden 
 replied firmly, with equal doubts as to the other man's 
 sanity. "That was what almost drove Lucy to 
 distraction." 
 
 "How perfectly ridiculous!" he replied; but the assur- 
 ance which was ever with him had disappeared. 
 
 "I'm surprised that Lucy did not tell you," the old man 
 went on, fearing lest he be criticized professionally. "It 
 was understood that she would do so as soon as the trial 
 was over. As Spencer had not served his papers I thought 
 it wise not to divert you needlessly." 
 
 "She came to tell me," Cunningham hastened to 
 exonerate her. "She came the night after the trial ended, 
 and I wouldn't let her tell me." 
 
 "I am surprised that you could keep her from it," 
 Amsden said. "Her one thought has been to protect you 
 from the results of her own folly. She would have given 
 her husband her entire estate, but when it came to relin- 
 quishing one of the children, she stood up and fought." 
 
 "God bless her for that!" he returned. "I could not 
 respect her as I do if she had yielded that." 
 
 [328]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 Amsden saw by Cunningham's manner that the news he 
 had given him had produced a tremendous shock. His 
 whole attitude had changed, and it was with difficulty 
 that he kept his mind upon the subject before them. At 
 its conclusion the old man expressed his regrets that 
 he should have been the one to acquaint him with the 
 unpleasant facts. 
 
 "It hits me a good deal harder than you imagine," he 
 replied, with much feeling. "A man can perhaps take a 
 certain amount of satisfaction in being a knave, but pre- 
 cious little in being shown up an ass. Now you can do me 
 one more favor. Will you meet me at Lucy's house this 
 afternoon?" 
 
 "With pleasure. At what hour?" 
 
 "Four o'clock." 
 
 "I shall be there at that time," Amsden said, wonder- 
 ingly, as he took his departure. 
 
 So it happened that Lucy received a larger company 
 than she had looked for on that afternoon which followed 
 the Opera party with the Cunninghams. Margaret 
 arrived first and found Lucy in the midst of her toilette. 
 
 "I don't know why I'm here, but Ned telephoned me. 
 He and Mr. Amsden are coming at four," she said by way 
 of explanation. 
 
 "Four?" Lucy queried, looking at the clock appre- 
 hensively. "Why, it's nearly that now. Well, I won't 
 keep them waiting long." 
 
 Mr. Amsden was walking up the steps when Cunning- 
 ham alighted from a motor cab, such being the punctuality 
 of the two men, and they entered the house together. 
 Margaret explained Lucy's delay and tried to keep up the 
 conversation, but her husband was entirely absorbed. It 
 was a relief when Lucy at last entered the room. 
 
 [329]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "I am so glad to see you," she greeted them with a 
 happy smile. "It isn't as gay as it was the last time you 
 were here, Ned, but you're just that much safer!" She 
 could not resist the temptation to be mischievous. "You 
 aren't afraid of me now, are you, Ned? " 
 
 But he was in no mood for bantering. "This is my party 
 today, Lucy," he said meaningly. "I've asked Margaret 
 and Mr. Amsden to be here so that I can tell you all at 
 once that the scales have been lifted from my eyes, and 
 that at last I see myself as I must always have appeared 
 to others." 
 
 As they wondered at the significance of his unexpected 
 words, Auchester was announced. 
 
 "Ask him to wait in the reception room," Lucy told 
 the butler. 
 
 "No," Cunningham corrected; "please have him come 
 up here. He is needed to make this complete." 
 
 Still wondering, Lucy complied with his request. 
 
 "Auchester," he said, scarcely giving him time for 
 greetings, "I was just telling these friends here, among 
 whom you are included, that at last I have learned what 
 an arrant cad I've been always, I suspect. First of 
 all, I've tried to show Lucy how she ought to live, and you 
 know what a failure I've made of that; then I undertook 
 to tell you the proper code for a gentleman to observe, and 
 you've taught me by that patient indulgence which is a 
 part of your natural manhood a lesson which I shall never 
 forget; I ridiculed Margaret when she did her best to show 
 me that I was guilty of far greater disregard of conven- 
 tions than Lucy ever thought of, and now I learn that 
 while I thought I was protecting you, I was only saving 
 my own skin." 
 
 "You know, then!" both women exclaimed together. 
 [330J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 "Yes; Amsden told me, supposing of course that I 
 knew it all the time. I've tried to run the universe, and 
 considered myself the only one competent to do it. Don't 
 you see, Peggy?" he added, turning to his wife, "this was 
 another instance of insane adherence to a preconceived 
 idea, such as I spoke to you about the other night. I 
 knew that Lucy and the Captain were together there, and 
 nothing could drive it into my head that I was in any way 
 included. You and Lucy tried to tell me, but I wouldn't 
 listen. Then I took it upon myself to instruct Langdon in 
 the ethics of the law, but in my own practice I was again 
 blinded by a preconceived idea. Through this I may 
 have jeopardized an innocent man's life, but, thank God! 
 it is not too late to rectify that mistake." 
 
 He paused for a moment after his fierce self-arraign- 
 ment, during which his bitterness frightened those who 
 heard it. Margaret with difficulty restrained herself 
 from checking him; but knowing him so well she 
 realized that to a conscience such as his this castiga- 
 tion was the saving clause. Uncompromising in meeting 
 mistakes in others, he was pitiless when he found himself 
 offending. 
 
 "Now, my friends," he continued, "y u know me for 
 what I am, and, what is more important, I know myself. 
 You will be generous, but that only makes my responsi- 
 bility the greater." 
 
 Cunningham's words were so affecting that no one 
 tried to make reply. When he concluded there was a 
 tense silence, which he himself was the first to break. 
 He surprised every one by the sudden change in voice 
 and manner. 
 
 "Lucy," he said, so tenderly that it almost brought the 
 tears which were already near the surface, "I thank you 
 
 [331]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 from the bottom of my heart for the sacrifices you tried 
 to make for me. I wasn't worth it, for I acted like a fool; 
 but I'm glad you did it, for Margaret's sake. Auchester," 
 he continued, holding out his hand, "I hope I may always 
 claim your friendship." 
 
 The Captain grasped the extended hand with warm 
 cordiality. "Only on condition that we divide the 
 blame and place it where it belongs," he said. "What- 
 ever this experience may have taught you, Cunningham, 
 I have learned from it that my code and the one I've 
 tried to persuade Mrs. Spencer to adopt is not as sound 
 as I once considered it." 
 
 "Peggy," Cunningham said, "come home, and let me 
 tell you what I have to say to you where no one else can 
 hear." 
 
 As they turned toward the door Lucy placed her hand 
 on Ned's arm. "You are still trying to shoulder my 
 load," she said. "I can't say the right thing now, but I 
 told you once just why I lo.ved you, and my ideas haven't 
 changed a bit since then. I have been the moth, dazzled 
 by the light and hovering about the flame. Now I stand 
 on the threshold, appalled by the possibilities you have 
 taught me to see, and wondering if I can discover their 
 meaning. But you have done your part." 
 
 When Amsden said "goodbye" she threw her arms 
 about his neck and kissed him, causing the old man 
 untold embarrassment but inward joy. "Without you I 
 could never have had courage or strength to pass through 
 these bitter experiences," she said. "I can never thank 
 you enough, but I'm sure my father knows and blesses 
 you for what you've done." 
 
 Then Lucy and Auchester were left alone. "Well." 
 she said to him as they seated themselves, "we have 
 
 [332]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 managed to stir up a little unpleasantness for you after 
 all! Do you remember that when you first dined with 
 us, and spoke of your fighting blood, I suggested it?" 
 
 "I remember every word you have ever said to 
 me," he replied. "The same fighting blood is in me 
 now, and I've come to you today ready to fight the 
 greatest battle of my life for the highest stake in the 
 world." 
 
 She could not misunderstand his w r ords this time, and 
 she made no attempt to avoid the issue. She had known 
 since the night before that this moment would come, and 
 she had made her decision. 
 
 "I must sail on Saturday," he said. "May I not take 
 with me your promise to be my wife? I realize now that 
 we must wait for the legal formalities, but your promise 
 will make that waiting possible." 
 
 She looked at him with infinite tenderness. "It would 
 be so easy for me to answer 'yes'." 
 
 "Then you will- ' He started forward eagerly, but 
 she interrupted him. 
 
 "No, Malcolm; I cannot give you that promise." 
 
 "You cannot?" he exclaimed, drawing back. 
 
 "Not yet, but if you are content to wait " 
 
 "We must wait, of course," he answered, not compre- 
 hending. "All I ask for now is your promise." 
 
 "But that is what I dare not give. Don't misunder- 
 stand me," she added quickly, noting his expression. 
 "If I gave you that promise now, it would be simply 
 because my heart is so hungry for the love you offer 
 me. That would not be fair to you, and I could not 
 accept it. All these years I have lived a life wrapped 
 up wholly hi myself. My husband has meant nothing 
 to me; it is only recently that I have learned to know 
 
 [333]
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 my children, I am not sure even now that I know 
 myself. It would be so easy for me to answer 'y es ' 
 Don't you understand?" 
 
 "I am content to take that risk," he replied. 
 
 "But I am not. I love you, Malcolm, and I'm proud 
 to tell you so; but it is a love which has not yet been 
 tested. How do I know that it is real, that it is other 
 than the hope that love will come. It seems real now, 
 and it is a struggle not to yield to it." 
 
 ' ' Why should you struggle ? Why should you not yield ? " 
 he demanded with man's impatience. 
 
 "The love itself is why," she answered simply. "Had 
 I been free when you asked me before I should not have 
 hesitated. Today, loving you, I realize what it means. 
 You are prepared to give much to your wife; in return she 
 should be able to give you an equal portion. I believe 
 that all will be as you wish if you will let me have time to 
 test myself, but I cannot make you that promise now. 
 Let me forget the woman I was and learn to know the 
 woman I am or can become." 
 
 Auchester found it difficult to accept the situation. 
 Just when the cup seemed at his lips, she dashed it away 
 for what seemed to him no real reason, but simply because 
 of baseless doubts. Of course he could be patient, but 
 what might not intervene! 
 
 "You forget how many years I have already waited 
 for you," he said. "I was waiting before I knew you, 
 before I knew for what I was waiting." 
 
 "Since it has been so long surely a little longer will not 
 matter," she urged, smiling sweetly, "if you really want 
 me." 
 
 "If I really want you!" he exclaimed, all the unex- 
 pressed longing of the past, all the pent-up emotion of 
 
 [334J
 
 THE MOTH 
 
 the present crowding itself into his words. "It is because I 
 want you so desperately that I cannot bring myself to 
 take even the slightest risk of losing you." 
 
 "Let me have the sweet thought of becoming your wife 
 to keep me constant in my effort to make myself equal to 
 that joy," she pleaded. 
 
 "Too great perfection in the wife imposes impossible 
 conditions on the husband." 
 
 "It won't be perfect enough for that," she laughed; 
 but you told me that you became more demanding as 
 you grew older, and you'll be just that much older 
 then." 
 
 " You are a feminine Tantalus ! " he cried. 
 "Woman is the soldier's aggravation,'" she quoted. 
 
 "You remember my words so well that I shan't dare 
 speak " 
 
 "Don't speak;" she interrupted quickly, "only 
 wait!" 
 
 [535]
 
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