Clavering slept when he first went to bed, for he was healthily tired,
but he awoke suddenly at midnight with body refreshed and mind
abnormally clear. He knew that he would sleep no more that night, and
he put on his trousers and coat over his pyjamas, thrust his feet into
bedroom slippers and went out into the living-room. There he put a log
on the fire and paced up and down, not unlike a tiger round its cage.
He felt as if black bats were flying about his brain, each charged with
a different portent of disaster. Once more the unreality of the whole
affair overwhelmed him. How could he have been so fatuous as to
believe that he had really won such a woman? He remembered his first
impression: that she was on a plane above, apart. They hadn't an
interest in common, not even a memory that antedated their meeting a
few short weeks ago. She had lived a life of which he knew nothing
outside of European novels and memoirs. She had known nothing of any
other world until he had introduced her to his friends, and he made no
doubt that her interest in them was about as permanent as a highly
original comedy on the stage would inspire. There was nothing,
literally, between them but a mutual irresistible attraction, and that
bond recognized so unerringly by both.
That bond.
Would it hold?
Had this man offered her something that would make love seem
insignificant and trivial? She, who had had a surfeit of love long
since? Whose eyes had looked a thousand years old until he had given
her mind back its youth as the great Vienna biologist had rejuvenated
her body.
He was entirely indifferent to her old love affair with Hohenhauer. It
was those years of political association and mutual interdependence in
Vienna that he feared. He had, when he first met her, appraised her as
a woman to whom power was the breath of life. Ambition--in the grand
manner--incarnate. She had all the appearance and the air of a woman
to whom the wielding of power, however subtly, was an old story. He
recalled that that terrifying suggestion of concealed ruthless forces
behind those charming manners, those feminine wiles, had almost made
him resolve to "avoid her like the plague." And then he had fallen
madly in love with her and forgotten everything but the woman.
He had divined even before these last miraculous days that she had
looked upon love with abhorrence for almost half as many years as he
had lived, an abhorrence rooted in a profound revulsion of body and
mind and spirit. For nearly twenty years that revulsion had endured
and eaten into the very depths of her being. . . . He had a sudden
blaze of enlightenment. She had frequently alluded to that Lodge of
hers in the Dolomites and their sojourn there together, but always in
the terms of romance. . . . She had never given him a glance of
understanding. . . . And she had put off the wedding until the last
possible moment. . . . If she had really been as eager as himself she
would have left her power of attorney with Trent and started for
Austria six weeks ago. Or the papers could have been sent to her to
sign, if her signature were imperative. . . . And in spite of the fact
that everybody had taken the engagement for granted, she had, with
wholly insufficient reasons,--as he saw, now that he was removed from
the influence of her plausible and dominating self,--refused to
announce it. Could it be that in the depths of her mind--unadmitted by
her consciousness--she had never intended to marry him? Was that old
revulsion paramount? . . . Sixteen years! . . . A long time, and
nothing in life is more corroding than habit.
Perhaps--as long as they were down there in New York. But not up here.
That he would be willing to swear. There had been another revolution,
involuntary perhaps, but the stronger for that; and every shackle that
memory and habit can forge had dropped from her. She had been youth
incarnate. The proof was in her joyful consent to marry him
immediately and remain in the mountains . . . and then her complete
surrender of the future into his hands. . . . She had during those
three brief days loved him wholly, and without a shadow in her soul.
But now? Whatever had happened, she was not Mary Ogden tonight,
hastening to New York, nor would she be when in her own house on the
morrow. She might hate Hohenhauer, but his mere presence would have
made the past live again. She must have known when she went down that
mountain that even with her strong will and powers of self-delusion,
things could not be quite the same again. Not even if she had returned
with Dinwiddie. Why in heaven's name had she been so mad as to go?
She could have sent Hohenhauer a peremptory refusal to see him and then
gone off on a camping trip that could have lasted until he gave up the
game. She must have been mad--mad.
And he did not believe for a moment that she had gone to Washington.
She had gone home to think--think.
And if he followed Dinwiddie's advice and remained here she might think
too long. And if he followed and insisted upon seeing her, the result
might be more fatal still. He knew nothing of those personalities she
may have concealed from him. For all he knew she might have depths in
her nature as black as the bottomless pit.
And God only knew what the man had said to her. . . . Should he let
her fight it out by herself? What in heaven's name should he do?
Whatever happened, this divine interval, like some exquisitely adjusted
musical instrument, had been hopelessly jarred out of tune. He almost
hoped she would not return. Let it remain a perfect memory. . . .
They could marry in New York and return here, when she was his
wife. . . . If he had not already lost her. . . . What in God's name
was the thing for him to do? He'd go mad if he stayed here, and if he
went he might regret it for the rest of his days. Why could not light
be vouchsafed him?
Gora.
Fortunately he knew her room for he had carried up her luggage. He ran
lightly up the stairs and tapped on her door. A startled sleepy voice
answered. He opened the door and put in his head.
"Come downstairs at once, Gora," he said peremptorily. "I must talk to
you."
She came down in a moment, clad in a scarlet kimono, her hair hanging
in thick braids. With her large round forehead exposed she looked not
unlike a gnome, but curiously young.
"What on earth is the matter, Clavey?" she asked as she pushed her
chair as close to the fire as possible. "It has something to do with
this sudden trip of Mary's, I suppose. Mr. Dinwiddie said she had been
called to New York on important business, and the others accepted the
explanation as a matter of course; but I'll confess I wondered."
Clavering, still too nervous to sit down, jerked out the whole story,
omitting only the old love affair with the man who had exercised so
strong an influence on Mary Zattiany's later life.
"You see," he concluded, "there are two things: Austria had taken the
place in her affections that women of her age generally concentrate on
human beings--it became almost a sacrament. And then--for nearly
twenty years she had hated everything in men but their minds. Sex was
not only dead but a detestable memory. After that rejuvenescence she
had never cast a thought to loving any man again. That mental habit,
at least, was fixed. When I met her she was a walking intellect. . . .
I thought I had changed all that . . . up here I had not a doubt
left . . . but now . . . I don't know. . . . Put that cold-blooded
mind of yours on it and tell me what to do."
"Let me think a minute, Clavey."
As he resumed his restless march, Gora sent her mind travelling out of
the mountains and far to the south, and tried to penetrate the brain of
Mary Zattiany. She could not visualize her in the bed of a casual
hotel or sitting in the chair of a parlor car, so she skipped the
interval and saw her next day in that intimate room of hers upstairs;
the room, assuredly, where she would think out her problem.
Gora had studied Madame Zattiany with all the avidity of the artist for
a rare human theme, and she believed that she knew her as well as
Clavering did, if not better. She had also not failed to observe
Prince Hohenhauer's picture, and had read the accompanying text with
considerable interest, an interest augmented, not unnaturally, by his
exceeding good looks. That same day she had met a Viennese at dinner
who had talked of him with enthusiasm and stated definitely that he was
the one hope of Austria.
Gora Dwight was a very ambitious woman and revelled in the authority
that fame and success had brought her. She was also as disillusioned
in regard to men as any unmarried woman could be; although quite aware
that if she had lacked a gift to entice her emotions to her brain, she
no doubt would even now be looking about for some man to fall in love
with. But her pride was spared a succession of humiliating
anti-climaxes, and she had learned, younger than most women, or even
men, that power, after sex has ceased from troubling, is the dominant
passion in human nature.
And Madame Zattiany was twenty years older than herself, and had
drained the jewelled chalice to the dregs. And for many years more she
had enjoyed power, revelled in it, looked forward, Gora made no doubt,
to a greater and greater exercise of it. Power had become the master
passion of her life.
Like men in the same case, she had indulged herself, during a period of
enforced inaction, with an exciting love adventure. That she had
fallen in love, romantically in love, with this young man, whom so many
women loved, and who, no doubt, had given her the full benefit of all
his pent-up ardors--Gora could imagine those love scenes--she had not
questioned, in spite of Madame Zattiany's carefully composed tones when
speaking of him, and her avoidance of so much as the exchange of a
meaning glance with him in public. Up here "Mary" had ceased to be a
woman of the world, she had looked like a girl of twenty: and that she
was in love and recklessly happy in the fact, was for all to see. That
had been one of her most interesting divagations to the novelist, Gora
Dwight--but a phase. Gora was not deluded.
And this man Hohenhauer had brought her to her senses; no doubt of that
either to a mind both warmly imaginative and coldly analytical. And
what had he come up here for except to ask her to marry him--to share
his power? She dismissed the Washington inference with the contempt it
deserved. Mr. Dinwiddie was a very experienced and astute old
gentleman, but he always settled on the obvious like a hen on a
porcelain egg. . . . What a manifest destiny! What an ideal
match. . . . She sighed, almost envying her. But it would be almost
as interesting to write about as to experience. After all, a novelist
had things all her own way, and that was more than even the Zattianys
could hope for.
Then she remembered poor Clavering and looked up at him with eyes that
were wholly sympathetic.
"I don't think there's a doubt," she said, "that Prince Hohenhauer came
up here to ask her to marry him. You can see for yourself what such a
match would mean for him, for aside from that indisputable genius of
hers--trained in later years by himself--she has great wealth and few
scruples; and where he failed to win men to his purpose, she, with her
superlative charm, and every feminine intuition sharpened by an
uncommon experience of men and public life, would succeed. She may
hate him, as Mr. Dinwiddie says--for the moment. But even if she
continued to hate him that would not prevent her from marrying him if
she believed he could help her to power. If it had not been for you I
don't believe she would have hesitated a moment."
"Do you mean to say you believe she'll throw me over?" demanded
Clavering fiercely.
"I think you're in danger, and if I were you I'd throw Mr. Dinwiddie's
advice to the winds and take the morning train for New York."
"Don't you believe that she loves me?"
"Oh, yes. As love goes."
"What d'you mean by that?"
"I mean that Madame Zattiany has long since reached the age when power
means more than love--in a woman of that calibre. But you, in turn,
have tremendous power over her. Sweep her off her feet again and make
her marry you."
"You don't believe she's gone to Washington?"
"I do not. If that was all he wanted of her, why didn't he telephone?
I am sure he could be ambiguous enough to defeat the curiosity of any
listeners-in. But a man of that sort does not ask a woman to marry him
over the telephone----"
"But Din thinks----"
"How long do you think you can stand inaction?"
"Not another hour, by God! I'm nearly mad as it is."
"I thought so. You are about the last man on earth equipped to play
the waiting game."
"You don't think she means to return here?"
"Never. She's too much of an artist for one thing. She might be
willing to begin a new chapter, but she knows that asterisks in the
wrong place are fatal. This interruption has done for your idyl!"
"I had thought the same thing." He sighed heavily.
"Oh, yes, Clavey dear, you are an artist yourself. No matter what
happens never forget that it is your destiny to be a great one."
"Artist be damned. If--if--God! if I lose her--I'll never write
another line."
"I don't doubt you think so. But you're only just beginning to know
yourself. You got a few glimpses, I should think, while you were
writing that play."
"Don't mention that play to me. I hate it. If I hadn't let myself go
with the damned thing I'd have had my wits about me and would have
married her off-hand."
"I wonder. Was she so very anxious to marry?"