Paradise Garden by George Gibbs

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He turned quickly, caught me by the shoulders and peered closely into
my face. "You think so, Roger? Do you?" he said.

"I'm sure of it; from the very first."

Slowly his hands relaxed and he turned away. "No--I--can't. I would
have to tell her all. I owe her that. She would despise me."

"You might at least give her that opportunity," I suggested dryly.

"No," he said softly. "I wouldn't dare. It would make a terrible
difference between us. I couldn't."

And then his hand grasping my arm as he pushed me toward the stairway,
"Never speak of this again, Roger--do you hear? Never." I nodded and
said no more, for he had set me to thinking deeply, and I walked all
the way uptown to my hotel turning the matter over in my mind,
arriving, before sleep came, at a decision.

In the morning at half-past seven I dared to call Una upon the
telephone. I knew her habits and she answered at once, agreeing to
give me an hour before she went down town. When I reached the
Habberton house she was ready for the street, and when I told her that
I had something of importance to talk about, led the way over into the
square where we found a deserted bench in a shady spot. It was a
joyous morning of flickering sunlight and a pleasant commotion of
hurrying people and moving traffic was all about us, in the midst of
which we seemed unusually isolated. As I have related, there was a
warm friendship between us. The girl knew that her mission at the
Manor during Jerry's darkest hour had been an open book to me, but the
fact that I knew that she had failed in it had made for no loss of
pride. She knew too, I am sure, that I was aware of the real nature of
her feelings for Jerry, but my own interest in and affection for them
both had given me privileges in her friendship possessed not even by
Jerry himself.

I wasted no words, though I chose to be careful in my use of them.
With some deliberation, born of the difficulties of this second
embassy, I told her all that I knew of Jerry's affair with Marcia Van
Wyck, beginning with the parts of it which she knew, and leading by
slow degrees to the moment when Jerry had abandoned his guests at the
Manor and gone on his madman's quest of vengeance through the woods. I
recalled to her the state of his mind, the indubitable evidences of
his innocence, and then told of Jerry's meeting with Marcia and Lloyd
by the spring in the pine wood. She sat, leaning slightly forward, her
gaze on the sunlit arch, her finely-drawn profile clearly outlined
against the shadows of the bushes, saying nothing, listening as though
to a twice-told tale. I could not tell all, but something in her
calmness advised me that she had already guessed. There was knowledge
in her eyes, not the hard knowledge one sees in the eyes of the women
of the streets, but knowledge tempered with pity; wisdom tempered with
charity for all sin, even for Jerry's. She did not speak for a long
while and by this token I think she wished me to take her
understanding for granted.

"Mr. Canby," she said at last softly. "I know something of the world,
more, I think, in a way than you do, and the more I learn, the less I
am inclined to judge. But of all the women in the world with whom I
come in contact, the most dangerous, the most difficult to help, is
the hypocrite. When a woman is weak one can pity. When she is defiant
one can even admire, but the hypocrite is beyond the pale. She will
fawn while her heart is untouched, she will assent while her mind is
eluding you. And the worst hypocrite is the one who wears the mask of
decency over a filthy mind. She is diseased, a moral leper--at large
to contaminate. Jerry was helpless from the first. Oh, the pity of
it!"

"It was my fault; mine is the blame," I muttered hoarsely.

"No," she said, gently putting her hand over mine. "I would not have
you relinquish your idyl even now. Jerry is translated, but he is not
changed. It is curious--you will think it strange--but I cannot find
it in my heart to judge him. He has suffered much. Perhaps, God knows,
a man cannot grow to his full stature except through knowledge of
evil! Jerry has grown. He is a man--a man!"

Her eyes sparkled softly and my spirits rose.

"You care for him, Una? You can forgive him?"

"I--I care for him," she murmured. "You know I have, always."

"Can you forgive him?" I repeated. She remained silent and her gaze
which sought the distant buildings was troubled. But I had gone too
far to pause now.

"He worships you, Una," I blurted out. "He has told me. But he cannot
speak. He is unclean, he says. Have pity on him, Una. Forgive him,
forgive him--"

She turned toward me, her slate-blue eyes brimming with moisture. And
then with one of those sudden transitions that were her greatest
mystery and charm, she rose and with a quick touch of her fingers to
mine, left me swiftly and in a moment was gone.

I stood a moment bewildered. Then I fingered in my pocket for Miss
Gore's new address. That remarkable woman would discern what Una's
conduct meant. Queer creatures, women! But interesting, strangely
interesting....

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