The Courage of Marge ODoone | Page 4

his home. His greatest joy would have been to go with her, hand in hand, through some wonderful cathedral, pointing out its ancient glories and mysteries to her. He wanted aloneness--just they two. Such was his idea of love. And she--wanted other things. You understand, Father?... The thing grew, and at last he saw that she was getting away from him. Her passion for admiration and excitement became a madness. I know, because I saw it. My friend said that it was madness, even as he was going mad. And yet he did not suspect her. If another had told him that she was unclean I am sure he would have killed him. Slowly he came to experience the agony of knowing that the woman whom he worshipped did not love him. But this did not lead him to believe that she could love another--or others. Then, one day, he left the city. She went with him to the train--his wife. She saw him go. She waved her handkerchief at him. And as she stood there she was--glorious."
Through partly closed eyes the Little Missioner saw his shoulders tighten, and a hardness settle about his mouth. The voice, too, was changed when it went on. It was almost emotionless.
"It's sometimes curious how the Chief Arbiter of things plays His tricks on men--and women, isn't it, Father? There was trouble on the line ahead, and my friend came back. It was unexpected. It was late when he reached home, and with his night key he went in quietly, because he did not want to awaken her. It was very still in the house--until he came to the door of her room. There was a light. He heard voices--very low. He listened. He went in."
There was a terrible silence. The ticking of Father Roland's big silver watch seemed like the beating of a tiny drum.
"And what happened then, David?"
"My friend went in," repeated David. His eyes sought Father Roland's squarely, and he saw the question there. "No, he did not kill them," he said. "He doesn't know what kept him from killing--the man. He was a coward, that man. He crawled away like a worm. Perhaps that was why my friend spared him. The wonderful part of it was that the woman--his wife--was not afraid. She stood up in her ravishing dishevelment, with that mantle of gold he had worshipped streaming about her to her knees, and she laughed? Yes, she laughed--a mad sort of laugh; a laughter of fear, perhaps--but--laughter. So he did not kill them. Her laughter--the man's cowardice--saved them. He turned. He closed the door. He left them. He went out into the night."
He paused, as though his story was finished.
"And that is--the end?" asked Father Roland softly.
"Of his dreams, his hopes, his joy in life--yes, that was the end."
"But of your friend's story? What happened after that?"
"A miracle, I think," replied David hesitatingly, as though he could not quite understand what had happened after that. "You see, this friend of mine was not of the vacillating and irresolute sort. I had always given him credit for that--credit for being a man who would measure up to a situation. He was quite an athlete, and enjoyed boxing and fencing and swimming. If at any time in his life he could have conceived of a situation such as he encountered in his wife's room, he would have lived in a moral certainty of killing the man. And when the situation did come was it not a miracle that he should walk out into the night leaving them not only unharmed, but together? I ask you, Father--was it not a miracle?"
Father Roland's eyes were gleaming strangely under the shadow of his broad-brimmed black hat. He merely nodded.
"Of course," resumed David, "it may be that he was too stunned to act. I believe that the laughter--her laughter--acted upon him like a powerful drug. Instead of plunging him into the passion of a murderous desire for vengeance it curiously enough anesthetized his emotions. For hours he heard that laughter. I believe he will never forget it. He wandered the streets all that night. It was in New York, and of course he passed many people. But he did not see them. When morning came he was on Fifth Avenue many miles from his home. He wandered downtown in a constantly growing human stream whose noise and bustle and many-keyed voice acted on him as a tonic. For the first time he asked himself what he would do. Stronger and stronger grew the desire in him to return, to face again that situation in his home. I believe that he would have done this--I believe that the red blood in him would have meted out its own punishment had he not turned just in time,