gesture of strong dissent.
Richmond smiled, went on: “Yes, young man--_yes_! When love commands
we all obey--you--I--_all_--we obey. We may squirm--struggle--but we
surrender. What would you do if you fell in love?”
Roger leaned forward in his chair, looked firmly into the keen, kindly
eyes of Beatrice’s father. “I should fly,” said he slowly.
The two men regarded each other steadily, each reading the other’s
mind. And again beneath the young and romantic handsomeness Richmond
saw the man with whom his daughter was not yet acquainted--the man with
the great character gracefully concealed behind the romantic-looking
painter--a character in the making as yet, but having the imposing
outlines that enable one to imagine something of the final form. At
last Richmond said: “Yes--I believe--you--_could_--fly--and _would_.”
Roger flushed and his gaze sank. “I should feel that I was false to all
that means myself to me if I did not,” said he. “No matter how I loved
her I would fly.”
“And she?” inquired Richmond. “What about her?”
Roger smiled faintly--a sardonic smile. “Women forget their caprices
easily.”
“Would _you_ forget easily?” said the older man gently--he looked very
old and very gentle and kind.
The handsome face of the young painter grew grave. “I’m afraid not,”
said he. “But if _I_ could forget a--a reality, certainly she could
forget a fancy.”
No one--except perhaps his wife, with her memories of Richmond’s ardent
and generous youth when he had wooed and won her despite her father’s
misgivings about his poverty and her own misgivings about his size--but
certainly no one else would have recognized the face of Daniel
Richmond as he replied: “Not if she had, by some divine instinct,
understood and appreciated such a rare man as you.”
Roger’s impatient gesture was almost angry. “I am not a man. I am a
painter.”
“And if she did not forget?” persisted Richmond in the same slow,
insistent way, like conscience itself. “If it was not a whim?”
Roger stood up. “I don’t grant your supposition,” said he. “But,
granting it, then at least I’d not have made a mess of her life and
of my own. For if I were false to my art it would revenge itself by
tormenting me. And the wife of a tormented man is not happy.”
Richmond sat staring at the floor of the veranda. The wrinkles and
seams and hollows in his face seemed to be deepening. After a few
minutes of silence, disturbed by the irritating noisiness of a
flock of sparrows, he said: “She refuses to come home. I offered to
concede--everything. I’d be glad to let her have her way. But, as you
say, it’s impossible. She’ll not come home. She blames me. I thought I
was altogether to blame. I see I’m not. But--she blames me, and always
will. And she’ll not make it up with me.” A long pause, then there came
from him in a mere ghost of his normal voice: “And--it is killing me.”
Roger sat motionless, gazing at the bed of sweet old-fashioned flowers
before the veranda.
Richmond broke the long stretch of evening stillness: “Would you--would
it be asking too much of you-- If you saw her you might persuade her to
make it up with me.”
Roger did not move--did not reply. He had retreated deep within himself.
“I know it isn’t fair to you--or to her--to ask it,” went on her
father’s sad, monotonous voice, heavy with heartache. “I know that
seeing her again would only make it harder for you to do what you’ve
got to do--for I understand about those musts of ambition that make men
like us relentless. And I know that seeing you again--and seeing even
more clearly the man you are--would make it--impossible, perhaps, for
her to forget. But--” Richmond paused long before adding--“I am an old
man and--I have the selfishness of those who have not long to live.”
Roger still neither moved nor spoke.
Richmond observed him for a while, rose with a painful effort.
“Good-by,” he said, extending his hand.
Roger stood, took his hand. “I’d do it if I could--if I were strong
enough,” he said. “It’s humiliating, but I have to confess I am not.”
“Think it over, Wade. Do the best you can for me.”
And Richmond, his feet almost shuffling, went down the steps and
down the walk and out through the gate. He climbed heavily into his
runabout--was gone. Roger leaned against the pillar, staring into
vacancy, until the old woman had twice called him to supper.
XX
BEATRICE LOSES
Beatrice and Miss Clermont were finishing breakfast the following
morning when Richmond came. As he entered the small sitting room with
its bed folded away into a lounge he made no effort to conceal his
feelings. In response to Beatrice’s look of defiance he sent to her
from his haggard face a glance of humble appeal--the look of the beaten
and impotent tyrant--for the pride of the tyrant is not in himself, but
in his power, and vanishes with it. “I’d like to see you alone,” said
he, ignoring Valentine as a servant.
“My partner, Miss Clermont,” said Beatrice, in the tone of making an
introduction.
Richmond’s natural quickness did not fail him. He instantly repaired
his mistake. “Miss Clermont,” said he, bowing politely. Then, “Pardon
my abruptness. I am much upset in mind.”
Miss Clermont, who was now thoroughly adapted to her new rank, smiled
politely and glided into the adjoining room, closing the door behind
her. Said Beatrice: “You can’t imagine how splendid she is. We
shall make a fortune. I’m sure we shall. We have rented a shop--in
Thirty-second Street--south side--three doors from Fifth Avenue.
Frightful rent, but I insisted on beginning at the top.”
“I saw Wade yesterday afternoon,” said Richmond.
The animation died out of the girl’s face. And with its animation
departed most of its beauty, at least most of its charm.
“I practically asked him to marry you.”
Her eyes lit up, immediately became dull again.
“He was polite--everything a man could be. But he--he will never marry.”
“Until he loves,” murmured Beatrice.
“There are men--” began Richmond.
“But they don’t love!” exclaimed Beatrice.
“Perhaps so,” said Richmond, who would not have ventured to discuss
anything with her, however mildly. Also, no woman, no young woman could
be expected to understand that marriage was not the one absorbing
longing of every unattached man, as it was of every unattached woman.
“Anyhow, he will never marry.”
“Until he loves,” repeated Beatrice.
Richmond was silent. He would not aggravate her unhappiness by telling
her that Roger loved her.
“Is he still intending to go abroad?” she asked.
“To-morrow,” replied her father.
“To-morrow!” Beatrice started from her chair, an expression of wild
disorder flashing into her face. But she fought for and regained
control, sat back quietly with a calm, “Oh, I thought it was to be next
week.”
“He has changed his plans.”
The daughter was looking at the father with scrutinizing eyes, full of
doubt. He saw it, said in the tone that carried conviction, “I have
come over to your side. He is a much bigger man than I thought--or than
you know.”
“I know enough,” said the girl.
“At any rate, I wanted him for a son-in-law. I did my best. I haven’t
anything he wants.”
“Nor I,” said Beatrice with a bitter, self-scorning laugh.
“He is opposed to marriage. He thinks----”
“He doesn’t love,” interrupted she. “That’s the whole story. Well”--she
made a gesture of dismissal “now, let me tell you about the shop.”
“He has sent----”
“Please!” said she imperiously. “No more about him.”
“The picture--he promised to have it sent to Red Hill after he sailed.
Instead, it came last night.”
“Why did he do that?” demanded she swiftly.
“I asked him for it.”
“No. I mean, why did he change his mind?”
“Oh, probably for no reason. That’s a trifle.”
She was sitting up, straight and alert. Her eyes were aglow with
excitement. “He is sailing to-morrow instead of next week,” she
said rapidly. “Instead of taking my picture--our picture--his and
mine--instead of taking it with him as he intended at first, he gives
it to you. He first says he’ll send it when he sails, then--after
he has talked with you--he changes his mind and gets it out of the
house--out of his sight--at once.”
Richmond gazed at her with marveling eyes. She was clairvoyant--this
wonderful daughter of his!
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled. Her words came joyfully tumbling
over each other: “Why is he in such a hurry to sail--to get rid of _my_
picture? Because he’s _afraid_! He distrusts himself. He’s fighting
hard. He-- Father, he loves me!”
“Beatrice,” said Richmond tenderly, “he will never marry. He is a man
of the unshakable sort--of my sort----”
Beatrice laughed. “You haven’t changed in this affair--oh, no!”
Richmond smiled guiltily. “I should have said, he is a man whose
resolves haven’t been shaken by age and by foolish paternal fondness
long indulged.”
“He is _afraid_! He is flying--flying from _love_!”
Richmond’s face wore a look of deepest anxiety. “My dear, you will only
distress yourself with false hopes. There are things about men--men
like him--that you don’t understand.”
“Of course. But there are also other things that _you_ don’t
understand, father dear.”
“The picture is at home. Won’t you come and see it?”
“I must see him first. I must dress and go at once.” And she was up and
was hastily gathering together the businesslike papers strewn upon the
table among the breakfast dishes. “You’ll excuse me, father----”
“I asked him to come and see you--to beg you to go home again.”
She paused. “And he said?”
“He refused at first. As I was leaving--I hoped--he might.”
She reflected. “No, he’ll not come. Unless--but I’ll take no chances.”
“I know he was touched by my appeal,” persisted her father.
“Beatrice--go on with this dressmaking if you must. But--forgive me and
let things be with us as they were before.” He stretched out trembling
hands toward her. “You’re all I’ve got in the world--all I care for.
I’m not ashamed or repentant for what I did. I did it because I thought
it was for your good. But I’m sorry. I was mistaken.”
“I do forgive you,” said the girl, “though I don’t like to say anything
that sounds priggish and pious. But you can’t expect me to trust you,
can you, father?”
“I’ve tried to pay for those bonds, but he has sold them to some enemy
of mine--and for a good price.”
“Aren’t you ashamed about the bonds?” said the daughter with a roguish
smile.
“No,” replied Richmond doggedly. “In the circumstances--what I believed
and everything--that was the right move.”
Beatrice laughed with a touch of her old mirthfulness, with all her old
adoration of his skill and courage. “You are so different!” cried she.
“Not a bit a hypocrite. We’re friends again--until you try to undermine
and ruin my dressmaking business.”
“I’ll give you all the capital you want,” he eagerly declared.
“No--thanks,” said she. “But--I’ll tell you what you may do. You may
buy a block of Wauchong bonds I happen to own.”
“_You_ did it?” cried he, delighted.
“You may have them at a hundred and fifty. I always try to make a
reasonable profit on a deal.”
“I’ll send you a blank check.”
She put her arms round him and kissed him. There was a trembling
in his tight return embrace that sent a pang through her; for it
suggested somehow his deep impelling thought--fear--of the eternal
separation--the everlasting farewell, not far away from him and her at
the most. “Father--dear,” she murmured.
“Don’t harass yourself, child--about him,” he whispered. “Let me help
you try to forget.”
She drew away gently and looked at him, in her eyes a will which he now
admitted--proudly--to be more unswerving than his own. Said she: “_You_
didn’t teach me to forget--or to give up, either.”
He sighed. “I’ll wait and take you to the ferry.” And she went into her
bedroom.
She had been dressing perhaps ten minutes when he rapped excitedly on
her door. “What is it?” inquired she.
“He’s come!” cried her father.
The door swung partly open and her face appeared at the edge. “Roger?
Downstairs?”
“Yes--I answered the telephone from the office.”
“I can’t receive him up here. It’s against the rules. Yet I want--
No--say I’ll be down to the parlor immediately.”
“But I’m here,” suggested her father. “He could come up.”
“He mustn’t see you.”
“I could wait in there--couldn’t I?”
“Yes--the door is thick,” reflected Beatrice aloud. “Yes--say he is to
come up. Val--Miss Clermont has gone out.... No--I’ll see him in the
parlor.”
And Beatrice closed the door. It was not many minutes before she opened
it again--to appear bewitchingly dressed in a new spring toilet--and
the styles that year were exactly suited to her figure. She was
radiant, and her father’s depressed countenance did not lessen her
overflowing delight. “You can’t deny that he loves me--can you?” cried
she.
“No,” replied Richmond. “The fact is, I saw he did yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded she.
“You guessed it. What was the use?” evaded he.
“Guess?” The girl laughed. “You call that guessing because you’re
merely a man. It was certainty--proof--plain as if he had said so. But
then, I’ve known it for weeks. Now, keep well back in the elevator,
dear, for he mustn’t see you as I get out.”
When the elevator was slowing for the parlor floor Richmond caught his
daughter’s hand and pressed it convulsively. “Good luck!” he said in an
undertone. “If you don’t win to-day we’ll follow him to France.”
“To the ends of the earth,” laughed she, kissing his hand and gayly
pushing him back to a rear corner of the car.
The door closed behind her and the car resumed its descent; of all the
thoughts boiling in Richmond’s excited brain not one was related to
the strangeness of his own conduct or to the amazing transformation in
a cold, tyrannical nature. In fact, the transformation was apparent
rather than real. The chase had ever dominated him--the passion for the
chase. And it was dominating him now.
* * * * *
In the wall opposite the elevator, and the width of the rather wide
room from it, was a long mirror. No man could well have been freer from
physical vanity than this big, self-conscious Roger Wade. Beyond his
human duty of making himself inoffensive to the eye in the matter of
clothing, he did nothing whatever toward personal adornment. Yet as
Beatrice advanced he was primping industriously and unconsciously. To
occupy his agitated mind he was standing before the mirror smoothing
his hair, arranging his tie, fussing with the hang of the big, loose,
dark-blue suit that gave his splendid figure an air of freedom. Their
eyes met in the glass. He did not turn, but gazed at her--and who
would not have been charmed by a creature so redolent of springtime
freshness, from the yellow roses in her hat, looking as if they were
just from the garden, to the scrupulously neat effect of stockings and
ties? She stood beside him, her yellow roses nodding in line with his
ear. And they made a delightful picture--a rare harmony of contrasts
and symmetries.
She laughed radiantly. “Chang!” she cried.
He was straightway so disconcerted that her amusement could not but
increase. “Through primping?” mocked she.
“I think so,” he replied. “I see you attended to all that thoroughly
before you came down.”
“Yes,” said she with the air of half-serious, half-jesting complacency
she could carry off so well. “I’m ready to the last button. Let’s sit
over there--by the window.” Then, as they sat opposite each other: “Why
are you so solemn?”
Again Roger had to struggle to keep himself in hand.
“Why do you avoid looking at me?” laughed she. And so glad was she
to see him again that she had less difficulty than she had feared in
hiding her anxiety, her feeling that she was playing her last stake in
the game that seemed to her to mean lifelong happiness or lifelong
wretchedness.
He colored, but contrived to smile and to look at her. It was an
unsteady gaze, a grave smile. “I’ve come,” said he, “because I wish to
urge you to go back home. Your father and I----”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted she. “Father has been here.”
“And you’re going back?”
“No--no, indeed. I’ve made the first step toward being independent.
I’m going to keep on. Father’s a dear, but he’s not to be trusted. If
he controls he tyrannizes. He might try not to do it, but he could not
help himself. So--I’m to be a dressmaker.”
“What nonsense, Rix!” exclaimed he. “There’s nothing so detestable as
an independent woman--a masculine woman.”
“One that has a will of her own and proposes to the man if she happens
to feel like it?” suggested she, with dancing eyes.
“Well--yes--if you insist on putting it that way.”
“Woman, the weak, the foolish, the clinging--that’s your ideal?” said
she.
He nodded emphatically.
“Isn’t it strange,” said she absently, “that we never fall in love with
our ideals?”
Roger stirred about in his chair, much embarrassed.
“I suppose it’s part of our never--_never_--wanting to do what we
ought--and never, never doing it if we can help.”
Roger took his hat from the floor beside his chair, got ready to rise.
“If you’re determined on not going home I suppose it’s useless for me
to talk. But--your father is old--much older these last few weeks, Rix.
If you could make it up with him----”
“Oh, but I have,” cried she. “We are better friends than ever. I don’t
think we’ll ever quarrel again.”
The artist showed a rather conventional kind of pleasure. “I’m
sincerely glad,” said he. “I like him and I like you, and I’d have been
sorry to go away feeling that you two were at outs.”
“You’re not a bit natural, Chang. You don’t talk like yourself. What’s
the matter?”
“Probably I’ve got too much on my mind--the hurry of going so soon.
That reminds me. I must say good-by. I’ve got such a lot to do.”
Her face did not change, but her heart began to flutter wildly.
“You and your father are friends,” proceeded he, his inward state
showing only in the fact that he was absurdly repeating himself.
“What I came to do is done. So I’ll go--as that was my only reason for
bothering you.”
She gazed mockingly at him, shaking her head. “Oh, no--Chang. That
wasn’t why you came.”
“I assure you it was. My only reason.”
“You big, foolish Chang!” mocked she. “You don’t know your own mind.
Now, do sit down. That’s better. Now--there you are, jumping up again.
What _is_ the matter?”
“I must be going.”
“Is it really true that big men are more stupid?... No, that wasn’t why
you came. You came because----”
“Now, Rix,” cried he angrily--for her eyes plainly foretold what was
coming. “That joke has gone far enough--too far--much too far.”
“What joke?”
“About your being in love with me.”
“Whether or not it’s a joke that I’m in love with you, it certainly is
not a joke that _you_ are in love with _me_.”
He sat on the arm of his chair and smiled ironically. “Really?” said he.
“Really,” declared she. “Shall I prove it to you?”
He stood. “I’ve no time. It’s very pleasant dawdling here with you,
but----”
She ignored his hand, concentrated on his eyes. “What else have you
painted besides that picture?” asked she.
He blushed slightly. “I’m very slow at my work.”
Her smile let him know that she was fully aware how heavily she had
scored. “You came over to stay here in America,” pursued she. “Yet,
you are going back--never to return, you announce. Why?... You’re not
going through fear of father. No--don’t pretend. Fear isn’t in your
line--fear of _men_. And you’re not going through fear of me? You could
easily bar me out--make it impossible for me to annoy you.”
He had seated himself again. He was listening intently.
“You are going,” she went on, “through fear of yourself.” She laughed
softly. “A regular panic, Chang!” she cried. “You didn’t intend to
sail till next week. You are running off in the morning--by the first
steamer.”
He made a faint effort to rise, gave it up, resumed the study of his
hatband.
“You were going to take my picture with you,” continued she.
“_Your_ picture?” said he with feeble irony.
“_Our_ picture,” corrected she softly.
He waved the hat in a gesture of hopelessness.
“Then,” proceeded she, “you changed your mind and decided to leave
it. But you thought you wouldn’t part with it until the last
moment--to-morrow morning. Oh, Chang! Chang!”
“I found it more convenient to send it last night,” said he with a
brave effort at indifference.
“Convenient?” she laughed. “I can see you storming against your
weakness, as you call it. I can see you resolving to be brave--to free
yourself immediately. But your scheme didn’t work. For the only result
of not having the picture to say good-by to was that you had to come
here and take one last look at the original.”
He laughed aloud--a forced, mirthless laugh. “Same old Rix!” exclaimed
he. “Of all the conceit!”
“Isn’t it, though?” retorted she with a coquettish nod. “But it’s the
truth, too--isn’t it?”
“I’d hate to destroy any illusion that seems to give you so much
happiness.”
“You couldn’t, Chang. For”--softly--“I couldn’t feel as I do toward
you if I didn’t know, with that deep, deep heart knowledge, that we
are--like one.”
He rose resolutely, in his eyes an expression that thrilled and
frightened her. She had from time to time caught glimpses of the man of
whom that was the expression, but only glimpses--when he was at work
and unconscious of her presence. Now, somehow, the expression seemed to
reveal this almost unknown man within the Roger she loved. However, she
concealed her alarm.
“You see, I’ve proved that you do love me,” said she. “But,
Chang”--solemnly--“even though you do love me and I love you, what does
it amount to--except for--for misery--unless we have each other?”
He slowly dropped to the chair again. He looked at her sternly,
angrily. “It’s the truth,” said he. “I do love you. It is a whim with
you--a caprice--a piece of willfulness. But with me”--he drew a long
breath--“I love you. The only excuse for the way you’ve acted is that
you’re too young and light-hearted to know what you’re about.”
Her hands clutched each other convulsively in her lap. But she was
careful to keep from her face all sign of the feeling those words
inspired.
He laughed with bitter irony. “To that extent--you’ve had your way,” he
went on. “Get what satisfaction you can out of it--for, while you’ve
conquered my heart, you’ll not conquer my will. I am not yours to
dispose of as you see fit. I can get over caring for you--and I shall.”
“But _why_, Chang? _Why?_”
For answer he smiled mockingly at her.
“In your heart of hearts you don’t believe for an instant it’s a
caprice with me. You know better, Chang.” Sincerity looked from her
eyes, pleaded in her voice.
But Roger held his ground stubbornly. “I know it is caprice,” he
said. “I’m not clean crazy with vanity, Rix. But even if you were
in earnest--as much in earnest as you pretend--perhaps as you
think--still, that wouldn’t change things. We can’t be anything more
to each other than friends. In any other relation we’d be worse than
useless to each other. You need a man of your own sort. If I tied up
with any woman it’d be with one of my sort.”
“I don’t understand,” said she. “It wouldn’t be worth while for you to
explain--for I couldn’t understand. All I know is, we love each other.”
“But marriage is a matter of temperaments. If you had less will I might
compel you to go my way, to learn to like and lead my kind of life. If
I had less will I might adapt myself to you--and become a comfortable,
contemptible rich woman’s nonentity of a husband. But neither of us can
change--so, we part.”
“I’ve thought of those things,” said she, quiet and sweet and
unconvinced. “I’ve gone over and over them, day and night. But--Chang,
I can’t give you up.”
“That is to say, you don’t care what becomes of me so long as you get
your way.”
She did not respond to his argumentative mood, but took refuge in
woman’s impregnable citadel. “I trust my instinct--what it tells me is
best for us.”
“You don’t realize it,” argued he desperately, “but you count on my
love for you making me weak enough to adapt myself to your kind of
life.”
“I count on our love’s making us both happy.”
“You wish to marry me simply because you think I’m necessary to your
happiness?”
“Yes--Chang. You are necessary to my happiness.”
“And _my_ happiness--have you thought of it?”
“I love you.”
“And you feel that your love ought to be enough to make me happy?”
“Your love is all I need,” replied she with sad gentleness.