husband had said that morning; and he was a little more than her best friend when he took her over to the ferry in a hansom.
“Marjorie,” he said gently, when he left her, as usual, on the porch, “if at any time you want to call on me, remember that I am always waiting, always waiting.”
She nodded gravely and put both her hands in his.
“I know,” she said. “I know you’re my friend, my best friend.”
Then she ran into the house and he watched there until the gas went on.
For the next week Samuel was in a nervous turmoil. Some persistently rational strain warned him that at bottom he and Marjorie had little in common, but in such cases there is usually so much mud in the water that one can seldom see to the bottom. Every dream and desire told him that he loved Marjorie, wanted her, had to have her.
The quarrel developed. Marjorie’s husband took to staying in New York until late at night, came home several times disagreeably overstimulated, and made her generally miserable. They must have had too much pride to talk it out—for Marjorie’s husband was, after all, pretty decent—so it drifted on from one misunderstanding to another. Marjorie kept coming more and more to Samuel; when a woman can accept masculine sympathy it is much more satisfactory to her than crying to another girl. But Marjorie didn’t realize how much she had begun to rely on him, how much he was part of her little cosmos.
One night, instead of turning away when Marjorie went in and lit the gas, Samuel went in, too, and they sat together on the sofa in the little parlor. He was very happy. He envied their home, and he felt that the man who neglected such a possession out of stubborn pride was a fool and unworthy of his wife. But when he kissed Marjorie for the first time she cried softly and told him to go. He sailed home on the wings of desperate excitement, quite resolved to fan this spark of romance, no matter how big the blaze or who was burned. At the time he considered that his thoughts were unselfishly of her; in a later perspective he knew that she had meant no more than the white screen in a motion picture: it was just Samuel—blind, desirous.
Next day at Taine’s, when they met for lunch, Samuel dropped all pretense and made frank love to her. He had no plans, no definite intentions, except to kiss her lips again, to hold her in his arms and feel that she was very little and pathetic and lovable…. He took her home, and this time they kissed until both their hearts beat high—words and phrases formed on his lips.
And then suddenly there were steps on the porch—a hand tried the outside door. Marjorie turned dead-white.
“Wait!” she whispered to Samuel, in a frightened voice, but in angry impatience at the interruption he walked to the front door and threw it open.
Every one has seen such scenes on the stage—seen them so often that when they actually happen people behave very much like actors. Samuel felt that he was playing a part and the lines came quite naturally: he announced that all had a right to lead their own lives and looked at Marjorie’s husband menacingly, as if daring him to doubt it. Marjorie’s husband spoke of the sanctity of the home, forgetting that it hadn’t seemed very holy to him lately; Samuel continued along the line of “the right to happiness”; Marjorie’s husband mentioned firearms and the divorce court. Then suddenly he stopped and scrutinized both of them—Marjorie in pitiful collapse on the sofa, Samuel haranguing the furniture in a consciously heroic pose.
“Go up-stairs, Marjorie,” he said, in a different tone.
“Stay where you are!” Samuel countered quickly.
Marjorie rose, wavered, and sat down, rose again and moved hesitatingly toward the stairs.
“Come outside,” said her husband to Samuel. “I want to talk to you.”
Samuel glanced at Marjorie, tried to get some message from her eyes; then he shut his lips and went out.
There was a bright moon and when Marjorie’s husband came down the steps Samuel could see plainly that he was suffering—but he felt no pity for him.
They stood and looked at each other, a few feet apart, and the husband cleared his throat as though it were a bit husky.
“That’s my wife,” he said quietly, and then a wild anger surged up inside him. “Damn you!” he cried—and hit Samuel in the face with all his strength.
In that second, as Samuel slumped to the ground, it flashed to him that he had been hit like that twice before, and simultaneously the incident altered like a dream—he felt suddenly awake. Mechanically he sprang to his feet and squared off. The other man was waiting, fists up, a yard away, but Samuel knew that though physically he had him by several inches and many pounds, he wouldn’t hit him. The situation had miraculously and entirely changed—a moment before Samuel had seemed to himself heroic; now he seemed the cad, the outsider, and Marjorie’s husband, silhouetted against the lights of the little house, the eternal heroic figure, the defender of his home.
There was a pause and then Samuel turned quickly away and went down the path for the last time.
IV.
Of course, after the third blow Samuel put in several weeks at conscientious introspection. The blow years before at Andover had landed on his personal unpleasantness; the workman of his college days had jarred the snobbishness out of his system, and Marjorie’s husband had given a severe jolt to his greedy selfishness. It threw women out of his ken until a year later, when he met his future wife; for the only sort of woman worth while seemed to be the one who could be protected as Marjorie’s husband had protected her. Samuel could not imagine his grass-widow, Mrs. De Ferriac, causing any very righteous blows on her own account.
His early thirties found him well on his feet. He was associated with old Peter Carhart, who was in those days a national figure. Carhart’s physique was like a rough model for a statue of Hercules, and his record was just as solid—a pile made for the pure joy of it, without cheap extortion or shady scandal. He had been a great friend of Samuel’s father, but he watched the son for six years before taking him into his own office. Heaven knows how many things he controlled at that time—mines, railroads, banks, whole cities. Samuel was very close to him, knew his likes and dislikes, his prejudices, weaknesses and many strengths.
One day Carhart sent for Samuel and, closing the door of his inner office, offered him a chair and a cigar.
“Everything O. K., Samuel?” he asked.
“Why, yes.”
“I’ve been afraid you’re getting a bit stale.”
“Stale?” Samuel was puzzled.
“You’ve done no work outside the office for nearly ten years?”
“But I’ve had vacations, in the Adiron——”
Carhart waved this aside.
“I mean outside work. Seeing the things move that we’ve always pulled the strings of here.”
“No,” admitted Samuel; “I haven’t.”
“So,” he said abruptly, “I’m going to give you an outside job that’ll take about a month.”
Samuel didn’t argue. He rather liked the idea and
