From the Housetops Part 22

"He-he doesn't like whiskey," said she, after a moment.

"One doesn't have to like it to drink it, you know."

"He could stop it if he tried."

"Like a flash. But he isn't going to try. At least, not until he feels that it's worth while."

She looked up quickly. "What do you mean by that?" Without waiting for him to answer, she went on: "How can you expect me to do anything to help him?

I am sorry for him, but-but, heavens and earth, Simmy, I can't preach temperance to a man who kicked me out of his house when he was sober, can I?"

"You loved him, didn't you?"

She flushed deeply. "I-I-oh, certainly."

"Never have quite got over loving him, as a matter of fact," said he, watching her closely.

She drew a long breath. "You're right, Simmy. I've never ceased to care for him. That's what makes it so hard for me to see him going to the dogs, as you say."

"I said 'going to the devil,'" corrected Simmy resolutely.

She laid her hand upon his arm. Her face was white now and her eyes were dark with pain.

"I shiver when I think of him, Simmy, but not with dread or revulsion. I am always thinking of the days when he held me tight in those big, strong arms of his,-and that's what makes me shiver. I adored being in his arms.

I shall never forget. People said that he would never amount to anything.

They said that he was too strong to work and all that sort of thing. He didn't think much of himself, but I _know_ he would have come through all right. He is the best of his breed, I can tell you that. Think how young he was when we were married! Little more than a boy. He has never had a chance to be a man. He is still a boy, puzzled and unhappy because he can't think of himself as anything but twenty,-the year when everything stopped for him. He's twenty-five now, but he doesn't know it. He is still living in his twenty-first year."

"I've never thought of it in that light," said Simmy, considerably impressed. "I say, Lutie, if you care so much for him, why not-" He stopped in some confusion. Clearly he had been on the point of trespa.s.sing on dangerous ground. He wiped his forehead.

"I can finish it for you, Simmy, by answering the question," she said, with a queer little smile. "I want to help him,-oh, you don't know how my heart aches for him!-but what can I do? I am his wife in the sight of G.o.d, but that is as far as it goes. The law says that I am a free woman and George a free man. But don't you see how it is? The law cannot say that we shall not love each other. Now can it? It can only say that we are free to love some one else if we feel so inclined without being the least bit troubled by our marriage vows. But George and I are still married to each other, and we are still thinking of our marriage vows. The simple fact that we love each other proves a whole lot, now doesn't it, Simmy? We are divorced right enough,-South Dakota says so,-but we refuse to think of ourselves as anything but husband and wife, lover and sweetheart. Down in our hearts we loved each other more on the day the divorce was granted than ever before, and we've never stopped loving. I have not spoken a word to George in nearly three years-but I know that he has loved me every minute of the time. Naturally he does not think that I love him. He thinks that I despise him. But I don't despise him, Simmy. If he had followed his teachings he would now be married to some one else-some one of his mother's choosing-and I should be loathing him instead of feeling sorry for him. That would have convinced me that he was the rotter the world said he was when he turned against me. I tell you, Simmy, it is gratifying to know that the man you love is drinking himself to death because he's true to you."

"That's an extraordinary thing to say," said Simmy, squinting. "You are happy because that poor devil is-"

"Now don't say that!" she cried. "I didn't say I was happy. I said I was gratified-because he is true to me in spite of everything. I suppose it's more than you can grasp, Simmy,-you dear old simpleton." Her eyes were shining very brightly, and her cheeks were warm and rosy. "You see, it's my husband who is being true to me. Every wife likes to have that thing proved to her."

"Quixotic," said Simmy. "He isn't your husband, my dear."

"Oh, yes, he is," said Lutie earnestly. "Just as much as he ever was."

"The law says he is not."

"What are you trying to get me to say?"

"I may as well come to the point. Would you marry him again if he were to come to you,-now?"

"Do you mean, would I live with him again?"

"You couldn't do that without marrying him, you know."

"I am already married to him in the sight of G.o.d," said she, stubbornly.

"Good Lord! Would you go back to him without a ceremony of-"

"If I made up my mind to live with him, yes."

"Oh, I see. And may I inquire just what your state of mind would be if he came to you to-morrow?"

"You have got me cornered, Simmy," she said, her lip trembling. There was a hunted look in her eyes. "I-I don't know what I should do. I want him, Simmy,-I want my man, my husband, but to be perfectly honest with you, I don't believe he has sunk low enough yet for me to claim the complete victory I desire."

"Victory?" gasped Simmy. "Do you want to pick him out of the gutter? Is that your idea of triumph over the Tresslyns? Are you-"

"When the time comes, Simmy," said she cryptically, "I will hold out my hand to him, and then we'll have a _real_ man before you can say Jack Robinson. He will come up like a cork, and he'll be so happy that he'll stay up forever."

"Don't be too sure of that. I've seen better men than George stay down forever."

"Yes, but George doesn't want to stay down. He wants me. That's all he wants in this world."

"Do you imagine that he will come to you, crawling on his knees, to plead for forgiveness or-"

"By no means! He'd never sink so low as that. That's why I tell you that he is a man, a real man. There isn't one in a thousand who wouldn't be begging, and whining, and even threatening the woman if he were in George's position. That's why I'm so sure."

"What do you expect?"

"When his face grows a little thinner, and the Tresslyn in him is drowned, I expect to ask him to come and see me," she said slowly.

"Good Lord!" muttered Simmy.

She sprang to her feet, her face glowing. "And I don't believe I can stand seeing it grow much thinner," she cried. "He looks starved, Simmy. I can't put it off much longer. Now I must go back. Thank you for the warning. You don't understand him, but-thank you, just the same. I never miss seeing him when he thinks he is perfectly invisible. You see, Simmy, I too have eyes."

CHAPTER XIV

The next afternoon but one Templeton Thorpe was on the operating table. In a private sitting-room on the third floor of the great hospital, three people sat waiting for the result-two women and a man. They were the Tresslyns, mother, son and daughter. There were unopened boxes of flowers on the table in the middle of the room. The senders of these flowers were men, and their cards were inside the covers, damp with the waters of preservation. They were for Anne Thorpe, and they were from men who looked ahead even as she had looked ahead. But the roses and orchids they sent were never to be seen by Anne Thorpe. They were left in the boxes with their little white envelopes attached, for Anne was not thinking of roses as she sat there by the window, looking down into the street, waiting for the word from upstairs,-the inevitable word. Later on the free wards would be filled with the fragrance of American Beauties, and certain smug gentlemen would never be thanked. No one had sent flowers to Templeton Thorpe, the sick man.

There had been a brief conference on the day before between Anne and Braden. The latter went to her with the word that he was to operate, provided she offered no objection.

"You know what an operation will mean, Anne," he said steadily.

"The end to his agony," she remarked. Outwardly she was calm, inwardly she shivered.

"It is absurd to say that he has one chance in a million to pull through.

He hasn't a single chance. I appreciate that fact and-so does he."

"You are willing to do this thing, Braden?"

"I am willing," he said. His face was like death.