Clifford took the yellow missive with a hand that he tried to keep from shaking. He was quite certain what was in it—the end of things, just as he had suddenly planned them in his new vision of some three or four hours earlier. Yet, none the less, he had a moment of supreme and sickening suspense as he opened the envelope.
Yes, it was just what he had expected. He gazed fixedly at the typewritten lines before him—lines which were like heavy doors swinging to and locked between him and that of which he had dreamed. Then he became conscious that the big round eyes of little Peter Loveman were gazing at him curiously. Silently he handed the telegram to the lawyer.
Loveman glanced the telegram through. “The devil!” he cried. Then he read it again, this time aloud:—
Married quiet place ten miles from here. Everybody will keep it secret. Happy you bet.
J.
Loveman stared at Clifford. “And it’s addressed to you!” he exclaimed. “Say, this means you’ve crossed yourself! What the devil are you up to?”
Clifford did not answer.
There was a moment of silence, then Loveman whispered to himself: “And I just promised Nina Cordova!”
Again Clifford did not answer; he did not hear Loveman. Such of his senses as were not numbed by the finality of which that telegram was the token were directed into that unfinal future which human vision could not penetrate. How was it all going to work out for Mary Regan? Was experience going to do for her what he had failed to do, or was experience going to stimulate to complete and final dominance her worldliness? And had he played into Peter Loveman’s hands? And what would Loveman do?
But these were questions only Life could answer. He had stepped aside to give Life full play, to let human impulses move unhindered by him toward their destiny; and he must wait until Life was ready to speak.