XLVI
One thing Dick knew must be done and got over with. He would have to seeElizabeth and tell her the story. He knew it would do no good, but shehad a right to the fullest explanation he could give her. She did notlove him, but it was intolerable that she should hate him.
He meant, however, to make no case for himself. He would have to standon the facts. This thing had happened to him; the storm had come,wrought its havoc and passed; he was back, to start again as nearly ashe could where he had left off. That was all.
He went to the Wheeler house the next night, passing the door twicebefore he turned in and rang the bell, in order that his voice might becalm and his demeanor unshaken. But the fact that Micky, waiting on theporch, knew him and broke into yelps of happiness and ecstatic wrigglingalmost lost him his self-control.
Walter Wheeler opened the door and admitted him.
"I thought you might come," he said. "Come in."
There was no particular warmth in his voice, but no unfriendliness. Hestood by gravely while Dick took off his overcoat, and then led the wayinto the library.
"I'd better tell you at once," he said, "that I have advised Elizabethto see you, but that she refuses. I'd much prefer--" He busied himselfat the fire for a moment. "I'd much prefer to have her see you,Livingstone. But--I'll tell you frankly--I don't think it would do muchgood."
He sat down and stared at the fire. Dick remained standing. "She doesn'tintend to see me at all?" he asked, unsteadily.
"That's rather out of the question, if you intend to remain here. Doyou?"
"Yes."
An unexpected feeling of sympathy for the tall young man on the hearthrug stirred in Walter Wheeler's breast.
"I'm sorry, Dick. She apparently reached the breaking point a week ortwo ago. She knew you had been here and hadn't seen her, for one thing."He hesitated. "You've heard of her engagement?"
"Yes."
"I didn't want it," her father said drearily. "I suppose she knows herown business, but the thing's done. She sent you a message," he addedafter a pause. "She's glad it's cleared up and I believe you are not toallow her to drive you away. She thinks David needs you."
"Thank you. I'll have to stay, as she says."
There was another uncomfortable silence. Then Walter Wheeler burst out:
"Confound it, Dick, I'm sorry. I've fought your battles for months,not here, but everywhere. But here's a battle I can't fight. She isn'tangry. You'll have to get her angle of it. I think it's something likethis. She had built you up into a sort of superman. And she's--well, Isuppose purity is the word. She's the essence of purity. Then, Leslietold me this to-night, she learned from him that you were back with thewoman in the case, in New York."
And, as Dick made a gesture:
"There's no use going to him. He was off the beaten track, and he knowsit. He took a chance, to tell her for her own good. He's fond of her. Isuppose that was the last straw."
He sat still, a troubled figure, middle-aged and unhandsome, and veryweary.
"It's a bad business, Dick," he said.
After a time Dick stirred.
"When I first began to remember," he said, "I wanted whisky. I wouldhave stolen it, if I couldn't have got it any other way. Then, when Igot it, I didn't want it. It sickened me. This other was the same sortof thing. It's done with."
Wheeler nodded.
"I understand. But she wouldn't, Dick."
"No. I don't suppose she would."
He went away soon after that, back to the quiet house and to David.Automatically he turned in at his office, but Reynolds was writingthere. He went slowly up the stairs.
Ann Sayre was frankly puzzled during the next few days. She had had aweek or so of serenity and anticipation, and although things were notquite as she would have had them, Elizabeth too impassive and evenWallie rather restrained in his happiness, she was satisfied. But DickLivingstone's return had somehow changed everything.
It had changed Wallie, too. He was suddenly a man, and not, shesuspected, a very happy man. He came back one day, for instance, to saythat he had taken a partnership in a brokerage office, and gave as hisreason that he was sick of "playing round." She rather thought it was totake his mind off something.
A few days after the funeral she sent for Doctor Reynolds. "I caughtcold at the cemetery," she said, when he had arrived and was seatedopposite her in her boudoir. "I really did," she protested, as shecaught his eye. "I suppose everybody is sending for you, to have achance to talk."
"Just about."
"You can't blame us. Particularly, you can't blame me. I've got to knowsomething, doctor. Is he going to stay?"
"I think so. Yes."
"Isn't he going to explain anything? He can't expect just to walk backinto his practise after all these months, and the talk that's been goingon, and do nothing about it."
"I don't see what his going away has to do with it. He's a good doctor,and a hard worker. When I'm gone--"
"You're going, are you?"
"Yes. I may live here, and have an office in the city. I don't care forgeneral practise; there's no future in it. I may take a special coursein nose and throat."
But she was not interested in his plans.
"I want to know something, and only you can tell me. I'm not curiouslike the rest; I think I have a right to know. Has he seen ElizabethWheeler yet? Talked to her, I mean?"
"I don't know. I'm inclined to think not," he added cautiously.
"You mean that he hasn't?"
"Look here, Mrs. Sayre. You've confided in me, and I know it's importantto you. I don't know a thing. I'm to stay on until the end of the week,and then he intends to take hold. I'm in and out, see him at meals, andwe've had a little desultory talk. There is no trouble between the twofamilies. Mr. Wheeler comes and goes. If you ask me, I think Livingstonehas simply accepted the situation as he found it."
"He isn't going to explain anything? He'll have to, I think, if heexpects to practise here. There have been all sorts of stories."
"I don't know, Mrs. Sayre."
"How is Doctor David?" she asked, after a pause.
"Better. It wouldn't surprise me now to see him mend rapidly."
He met Elizabeth on his way down the hill, a strange, bright-eyedElizabeth, carrying her head high and a bit too jauntily, and with asort of hot defiance in her eyes. He drove on, thoughtfully. All thisturmoil and trouble, anxiety and fear, and all that was left a crushedand tragic figure of a girl, and two men in an old house, preparing tofight that one of them might regain the place he had lost.
It would be a fight. Reynolds saw the village already divided into twocamps, a small militant minority, aligned with Dick and David, and awaiting, not particularly hostile but intensely curious majority,who would demand certain things before Dick's reinstatement in theirconfidence.
Elizabeth Wheeler was an unconscious party to the division. It was, ina way, her battle they were fighting. And Elizabeth had gone over to theenemy.
Late that afternoon Ann Sayre had her first real talk with Wallie sinceDick's return. She led him out onto the terrace, her shoulders militantand her head high, and faced him there.
"I can see you are not going to talk to me," she said. "So I'll talk toyou. Has Dick Livingstone's return made any change between Elizabeth andyou?"
"No."
"She's just the same to you? You must tell me, Wallace. I've beenbuilding so much."
She realized the change in him then more fully than ever for he facedher squarely and without evasion.
"There's no change in her, mother, but I think you and I will both haveto get used to this: she's not in love with me. She doesn't pretend tobe."
"Don't tell me it's still that man!"
"I don't know." He took a turn or two about the terrace. "I don't thinkit is, mother. I don't think she cares for anybody, that way, certainlynot for me. And that's the trouble." He faced her again. "If marryingme isn't going to make her happy, I won't hold her to it. You'll have tosuppo
rt me in that, mother. I'm a pretty weak sister sometimes."
That appeal touched her as nothing had done for a long time. "I'll helpall I can, if the need comes," she said, and turned and went heavilyinto the house.