"No—now—to-day," persisted the sick man. "Listen! You were Stephanie's best friend before the wedding. You've always been a friend—until she went away. I want you to be her friend still, Pendleton. She needs a friend who is trustworthy—who is dependable—who won't be misunderstood by the world. She won't have me—I tried—I offered to take her back—to let the past be buried—to forget and forgive—to be all to her that I should have been. But she declines. I went to her house and offered—plead with her—besought her—without avail. She visited me the other day, at my request—but she hasn't softened toward me. I don't know that she will ever soften. I'm afraid she won't. Yet I mean to try, Pendleton—I mean to try; and though it takes a year, or ten years, I shan't give up. I shall never give up, Pendleton, I shall never give up!—Will you help me—will you be her friend?—Stand by her at this crisis—when she won't have her husband, yet needs him more than she ever needed him? Won't you try to take my place toward her—you understand, old man; guard her—protect her—sympathize with her? You were fond of her once—you still are fond of her. She may let you—she wouldn't let me.—Save her, Pendleton—save her from herself, if need be.—You will, won't you, you will?" he ended, his voice sinking to a mere whisper.
"My dear Lorraine, I'll do anything in my power for Stephanie," said Pendleton. "But I think that you are unduly apprehensive. She is not without friends—she has plenty of friends, and they are staunch friends. Gladys Chamberlain, Helen Burleston, Dorothy Tazewell, Marcia Emerson, Burgoyne, Devereux, Cameron—they all are for her. We have just come from spending the week-end at the Chamberlains. In a few months the Amherst episode will be forgotten, even by the Queen P's. Don't worry, old man, it will only retard your recovery. As for you and Stephanie, you two must work that out alone. But you can depend on us being for Stephanie always." He reached down and took Lorraine's hand. "You know that, don't you? We all will stand by her to the final call."
"I thought you would, Montague, and it's mighty good to know of Gladys and the rest. A woman can do much at such times."
"And you mustn't think of it until you're out of this place," Pendleton urged. "Your business is to get well; we'll look after Stephanie, you may depend on it."
He moved toward the door, and Miss Sayles appeared at the same moment.
"Here is the nurse to send me away!" he smiled. "Good-bye—and we'll look for you at the Club in a week."
"Good-bye, Pendleton, old man," said Lorraine faintly.
He sank back among the pillows and closed his eyes. He could see it, though the other had tried hard to hide it. Pendleton had no interest whatever in him—he had forfeited all claims for sympathy by his vacillating course. All the men had lost patience with him. They might feel for him as a victim of bodily pain, and try to make it easy for him because thereof, but he knew—he knew. He had been a fool—he was still a fool maybe in trying to make it up with Stephanie—yet it was the only decent thing to do—the only thing he wanted to do. He made a gesture of despair—and the nurse came over and spoke to him.
But he did not hear, or did not answer—and after a moment she went back and sat down. She understood in part. Everyone in town was aware of the Lorraines' troubles—and she knew, also, of Stephanie's visit to her husband and how it had terminated.
As for Pendleton, he went to the Club dissatisfied with himself and with what he had done. He had no patience with Lorraine's conduct and Lorraine knew it—at least he had never been at any pains to conceal it—and now he was constrained, by regard for an injured man, to appear to help him, when he hoped for nothing so much as Stephanie's divorce. She was committed to his care—to him, who was the last man Lorraine should have selected to trust.... And maybe Lorraine also knew it—and chose him because of that very fact, tied his hands by trusting him, with full confidence that he not only would not violate the trust, but that he would be vigilant to see that no one else trespassed. He had not credited Lorraine with so much foresight and knowledge of specific human nature. It might be he erred in the credit, but nevertheless it bound him.—Noblesse oblige.