"It was a month before either of us went to the house. The old captain thought at first that we were going to the dogs, and, I think, kept up a kind of watch over our movements. He came in one morning, after he had concluded his suspicions were wrong, and made a sort of expiatory call. He tried to tell us how he had judged us too harshly, but couldn't quite bring himself to it, and, after a good many half-uttered remarks that did honor to the old gentleman's heart, if they didn't prove him a cool hand in such matters, he left us with an unspoken blessing and some homely, sound advice to do as we liked, so long as we were manly and honest.
"Within a week he was stricken with apoplexy on receiving news of some serious losses, and was taken home without speaking. He died the next morning just at sunrise, and Grace and Phil mingled their tears at his bedside. He tried in vain to speak to them, and the pleased light in his eyes as they took each other's hands and laid them, joined together, in his, was the only sign he gave of having known there had been a difference between them.
"Poor Grace! she was very miserable and lonely after that. Phil could never bear to be with her after he had spoken. Her true kindness and gentle, loving pity were misery to him. He made a noble effort to stay by and watch over her, but he was hardly fit to take care of himself. She never knew how small a share of what little was left of his father's money he took with him to the mountains, but she realized why he went without waiting for his degree, and sadly approved his resolution. She always kept the growing attachment between her and Herbert from grating on Phil as much as was in her power, but he could not help seeing it. Though he never said anything even to me, it was plain that he had a poor opinion of the young journalist; and Grace was very thankful to him for all he did and suffered.
"She must have felt very much alone in the world after Phil left, and the house certainly seemed empty and sad when I used to go there to see her. There was no one but Grace and the housekeeper and an old gentleman, a clerk in one of the State departments, to whom she had rented rooms, partly for the money and partly to have a man in the house. Herbert was with her whenever his work would permit, and there was some talk about their intimacy among people who, even if they had known her, were too base to have appreciated the fineness and truth and purity of Grace's nature.
"I couldn't blame her for marrying Herbert,—which she did the fall after I graduated. They certainly were very much in love, and Herbert had borne himself creditably in every way. No one could have foreseen that he would turn out so badly; and for a year or more after their marriage they were as happy as birds in May. Grace was never light-hearted, as when I first knew her,—no woman of worth and tenderness would have been,—but still she was happily and sweetly contented, completely bound up in her husband, thinking almost of nothing but him, and caring for nothing but his love.
"When I came back from the law-school, I went to see them as soon as I was settled. They had sold the house, and were living in a rented cottage out in East Lincoln. Nannie, their baby, was quite if not more than a year old then; and, though I had known that Grace would be a fond mother, I was unprepared to see the way in which she seemed absolutely to worship the child. I immediately asked myself if it meant that she was not so happy with Herbert as she had been. I met him at tea, to which Grace insisted on my staying. His dress was as neat and as carefully arranged as ever, and he was cordial enough toward me; but he did not kiss Grace when he came in, and hardly looked at the baby. He laughed a good deal, and told several amusing incidents of his newspaper experience. I noticed that his old habit of looking at one's chin or cravat instead of at one's eyes when he spoke to one had grown upon him. He excused himself soon after tea on the ground of having to be at the office, and went away smoking a cigarette.
"Grace complained of the way in which his work kept him up nights. He was never home until after midnight, she said, and sometimes not before morning. She was afraid it was telling upon his health. 'You must come and see me often. George.' she said, as she gave me her hand at parting. 'I see very little of my husband now, and, if it were not for Nannie, I feel as if I should be almost unhappy. Then he would have to do some other work, though he likes journalism so well.' That was the nearest she ever came to complaining to me, though I soon knew that she had plenty of cause. She was not entirely deceived by Herbert's assertions and excuses. I learned before long, for I made a point of finding out, that he was never obliged to be at the office after nine o'clock, that he gambled and drank, and was looked on with unpleasant suspicions by his employers, so that he might at any time find himself without a position. He owned no property, and Grace's little patrimony had disappeared, even to the money they had received for the house, without leaving the slightest trace. Herbert's ill reputation was common property in the town, and he and Grace went nowhere together. She had even given up going to church, that she might be with him for a few hours on Sundays; and now and then if he took her for a walk and pushed the baby-carriage through the Capitol-grounds for an hour, she cared more for it than for a whole stack of Mr. Gittner's sermons. She had no friends at all, and but few acquaintances, and altogether had much to bear up under. Right nobly she did it, too; never a word of complaint to any one: I believe not even to herself would she admit that she was treated basely.
"They kept on in this way for a year after I opened my office. I heard from Phil now and then,—brief notes that he was alive and well,—and on the 11th of June, the date of the old captain's death, Grace always received a long letter from him, full of references to their childhood, but telling little of himself. Herbert's reputation became worse and worse, and he deserved all the evil that was said of him. The tradesmen refused him credit, and the carpets and furniture of their little cottage grew old and thread-bare and were not replaced. I have seen him play pool at Sudden's for half a day at a dollar a game, and perhaps lose his week's wages. He was hand in glove with the set that lurked about the 'club-room' over the saloon, and almost any night could be seen at the faro-table fingering his chips and checking off the cards on his tally-sheet. Nobody but strangers would sit down to a game of poker or casino with him: he had grown much too skilful. He was what they called a 'very smooth player:' though I never heard of his being openly accused of cheating.
"One of my first cases of consequence was to recover some money which had been paid to some sharpers by an innocent young fellow from the East for a worthless mine in Colorado. In connection with it I went to Denver. Charlie Wayland, a brother of the chemistry professor, happened to be on the same train. He owns the planing-mill down on Sixth Street now, you know; but he was a wild young fellow then, and knew everything that was going on. He intended to have a time, he said, while he was in Denver; that was what he was going for. He went with me to the St. James, where I had written Phil to meet me, if he could come down from Boulder.
"Young Wayland had his time in the city, and I had finished my business and was going to start back and leave him to enjoy by himself his trip to Pike's Peak and the other sights of the State, considerably disappointed at not having seen Phil, when he came in on us as I was packing my grip-sack. He was rough and hardy as a bear, and had grown a tremendous black beard: his heavy hand closed over mine till my knuckles cracked. We were glad enough to see each other, and had plenty to talk about. Of course I stayed over another day, and Wayland put off his trip to Pike's Peak to keep us company, though we didn't care so much for his presence as he seemed to think we did. But he gave us a little dinner at Charpiot's, and I forgave his talkativeness for the sake of the champagne, until he became excited by drinking too much of it and began to talk about George Herbert. He was stating his system of morality, which was, in effect,—and Charlie had acted up to it pretty well,—that a fellow should go it when he was young, but when he was married he ought to settle down.