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But she did not speak of his own health or condition. And presently Lane thought it best to come to the issue at hand. "Mr. Iden, have you made up your mind to to give me what I want?" "Yes, I have, Lane," replied Iden, simply. "You've made me see what Mel's mother always believed, though she couldn't make it clear to me.... I have much to forgive that girl.
They seem to prefer the philosophical sulkiness which Shakspeare's Iden describes himself as enjoying between four garden walls. On passing Aubagne, however, the valley of Gemenos makes ample amends to the eye, uniting the verdure and wild character of a Swiss vale, to the rich productions of Provence.
Mel Iden was a builder, not a destroyer. She had been sexless and selfless. Unconsciously during the fever and emotion of the training of American men for service abroad, and the poignancy of their departure, to fight, and perhaps never return, Mel Iden had answered to this mysterious instinct of nature.
Many a time in the Indian summers long past he had gathered chestnuts there with Dal, with Mel Iden, with Helen. He would never do it again. The April day had been warm and fresh with the opening of a late spring. The sun was now gold rimming the low hills in the west; the sky was pale blue; the spring flowers whitened the meadow.
Was this beautiful woman, with head uplifted and eyes full of fire, the Mel Iden of his school days? Now that he had made her his wife . "Mel, there's no now for me," he replied, with a sad finality. "From this moment, I'll live in the past. I have no future.... Thank God, you let me do what I could. I'll try to come again soon. But I must go now. I'm afraid I overtaxed my strength."
The frogs had begun to trill, sweet and melodious sound to Lane, striking melancholy chords of memory. Joshua Iden was walking on his lawn, his coat off, his gray head uncovered. Mrs. Iden sat on the low-roofed porch. Lane expected to see a sad change in her, something the same as he had found in his own mother.
"I drove my my girl from her mother her home," said Iden, slowly. "Yes, and it was a hard, cruel act," replied Lane, sharply. "You were wrong. You " The mill whistle cut short Lane's further speech. When its shrill clarion ended, Iden got up, and shook himself as if to reestablish himself in the present. "Lane, you come to my house to-night," he said.
And as he talked he gradually forgot himself. It might be hateful to rake up the burning threads of memory for the curious and the soulless, but to tell Mel Iden it was a keen, strange delight. He watched the changes of her expression. He learned to bring out the horror, sadness, glory that abided in her heart. And at last he cut himself off abruptly: "But I must save something for another day."
Then he told Blair about the call he had made upon Helen, and what had transpired at her studio. Blair did not voice the scorn that his eyes expressed. And, in fact, most of his talking was confined to asking questions. Lane found it easy enough to unburden himself, though he did not mention his calls on Mel Iden, or Colonel Pepper's disclosures.
That trenchant word was thought-provoking. A glimmer of understanding began to dawn in Lane. Already an immense pity had flooded his soul, and a profound sense of the mystery and tragedy of Mel Iden. She had always been unusual, aloof, proud, unattainable, a girl with a heart of golden fire. And now she had a nameless child and was an outcast from her father's house.
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