The Wisdom of Fools. Margaret Wade Campbell Deland

the flowers from her belt between his fingers.

V

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      As he went out past the drawing-room door, Mrs. Paul called to him:—

      “Do come here a moment, Mr. West. Isn’t Amy pretty in her wedding-dress? You really must tell me what to do about something. There is a family”—and she entered upon a puzzling question of relief work, her forehead gathering into a frown, yet with her kind eyes denying the severe common-sense of her statement, that if a man will not work neither shall he eat.

      “But you see we can’t let the children go hungry,” she ended.

      The consideration of other people’s weaknesses and wickedness gave William West time to get his breath; he threw himself into the question with keen and intelligent sympathy. He pointed out this; he suggested that; he cleared the puzzle out of Mrs. Paul’s face, and all the time he was half deafened by a clamoring suspicion: “Have I been a fool? She will never forget it! It will always be between us. I’ve been a cowardly fool.”

      “Well, that’s all settled,” said Mrs. Paul, with an air of relief; “now tell me, what day shall I have Amy’s things sent to the rectory? And shall I take the silver from the bank the day before you arrive? Is it safe to leave it at your house? I hate the responsibility of other people’s silver!”

      “Oh, certainly, yes,” he answered, suddenly absent; and, with a curt good-by, left her.

      Somehow or other, he hardly knew how, he got through the day. There was a service in the afternoon, and there were other people’s affairs and sorrows to remember; fortunately, there always is duty for us poor human creatures as a refuge from our thoughts! Duties to be done saved William West from desperately going back to Amy to explain. For he was guilty of the impulse of “explanation,” the babble with which the weak mind is forever annotating its remarks or its opinions.

      Well, the day passed. In spite of a craving to see Amy that was almost agonizing, he held on to his common-sense, and left her to herself. In the evening, his lawyer came in, bringing some papers in regard to certain property which it was the minister’s intention to make over to his wife, and the looking these over, and the business talk, was a relief to him. He began to feel that he had taken Amy’s perturbation much too seriously; it would be all right; she would see things clearly when the first dismay had passed. He thought, tenderly, that he must not let her feel any regret for having for a moment shown him her pain at what he had told her. Her pain was only part of her exquisite goodness, that goodness which held her, remote and lovely, like some pure and luminous star, so far above the sordid meannesses and wickednesses of common life that she could not understand them; perhaps even she could not pity them. Only the sinlessness which was in all points tempted like as we are can at once understand and pity; his thought, chastened and passionate, fled back to his Master for comfort—yet there was no reproach of Amy in his mind.

      It must have been after ten, as he and Mr. Woodhouse sat before the broad writing-table, with the litter of papers and memoranda before them, that John Paul suddenly burst into the room.

      The senior warden’s strong, kind face was flushed; he was plainly profoundly disturbed and upset.

      “West”—he said explosively, and stopped, seeing that they were not alone. “My dear fellow,” he began again, stammering with agitation, “can I see you a moment? A matter of business, Woodhouse, if you don’t mind. Can we go into another room, West?”

      But the lawyer protested that he was just about to go home. “I have married a wife; you’ll see how it is yourself, Billy, pretty soon! Lois allows me twenty minutes leeway of the hour I name to get home, and if I’m not back then, she threatens to send a policeman after me. Good-night. Good-night, John.” And he went whistling off into the night.

      The minister had not spoken.

      “Look here,” John Paul said, as the front door banged, “what under the sun is this business? Good Lord, West, Amy’s sent you a letter—Kate told me to break it to you, but I—confound it, man—go and read it. The girl’s crazy. Go and read it. What are we going to do?”

      Without a word William West took the letter and read it, standing facing Mr. Paul. (“It looked,” John Paul told his wife afterwards, “as though he died, then and there.”)