"I do."
"Then we ought to ask for nothing more."
"If he stood alone. Unfortunately he doesn't."
Arlt raised his brows.
"But the risk is hers."
Thayer untied his necktie with a long, deliberate pull, and made a
second attempt to arrange it to his liking. At length he turned from the
mirror and faced Arlt.
"Would you be willing to allow Katarina to take such a risk?"
"No," Arlt answered honestly, after an interval.
Neither man spoke for some time. Arlt was unwilling to continue the
subject, and Thayer knew from experience the uselessness of trying to
force him to talk when he was minded to keep silence. It was Arlt,
however, who finally broke the silence, and his subject was one utterly
remote from Lorimer.
"I have heard from the mother, to-day," he said suddenly.
"Good news, I hope." Thayer's tone was as hearty as if he had felt no
passing annoyance at the boy's stubborn reticence.
"The best that can be for them. An old cousin has died, and they are his
heirs."
"Good! Is it much?"
"Enough so they can live in comfort, whatever happens to me."
"And enough so that you can live in comfort, without anxiety for them,"
Thayer supplemented kindly.
"Without anxiety; I can do without the comfort," Arlt replied. "I have
worried sometimes."
Crossing the room, Thayer laid his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"And you have borne the worry very pluckily, too, Arlt. It has been hard
for you, this first year in America, with the double care for them and
for yourself. I hope things are going to be easier now."
"It will be a help in my work," he assented. Then he added, with a
sudden effort which showed how dear the subject was to his heart, "I
think I shall now have a few more lessons in counterpoint."
"More?" Thayer said interrogatively.
"Yes; I had already studied for two years."
"And you want to compose?"
"When I know enough. Not till then."
"It takes something besides the knowing, to make a composer, Arlt,"
Thayer said warningly.
"I know. But I think I have something to say, when I am ready," the boy
answered, with simple directness.
"But, if you wanted to study counterpoint, why didn't you say so? You
knew I would lend you the money."
"Yes, you would give me everything; but I could never accept this."
"Why not?"
Arlt looked up, and even Thayer, well as he knew him, was surprised at
the sudden concentration of character in the boy's face.
"One will be helped in the small things, never in accomplishing the real
purpose of his life. Each one of us must work that out for himself.
Then, if he succeeds or fails, at least the result is of his own
making."
Dismissing four or five importunate cab drivers with a brief shake of
his head, Thayer went striding away up the Avenue towards Miss Gannion's
house. As he went, he was half-consciously applying Arlt's words to the
question of his own future. It was true enough that he must work out his
own real purpose for himself; and, in one sense the unsuccessful boy was
happier by far than the successful man. Arlt's purpose was single.
Thayer's was two-fold, and as yet he could not determine which of them
would prove to be the dominant impulse of his life.
"Really, it does seem very good to drop back into the old ways," Miss
Gannion said contentedly, two hours later.
The loitering, lingering dinner was over; the servants had been
instructed to admit no other guests, and Miss Gannion was snuggled back
in her deep chair, gazing up at Thayer who stood on the rug with his
hands idly locked behind his back. In this room which showed so plainly
its feminine occupancy, he seemed uncommonly virile, and Miss Gannion,
watching him, felt a momentary exultation in his virility. Most of the
men whom she knew, put on a feminine languor as an adjunct to their
evening clothes. Thayer looked down upon her with manifest approval.
After months of separation, it was good to find himself in the presence
of this woman to whom he was allowed to speak freely his real opinion.
Miss Gannion by no means always agreed with him; but she usually
understood his point of view and was willing to admit its weight.
Moreover, she was able to discuss without losing her temper, and she
belonged to that species of good listener who understands that an
occasional word of comprehension is worth more than hours of mere silent
attention.
"It is refreshing to get back to a place where my personality counts for
something," Thayer assured her. "The past two months have left me
feeling as if I had not a friend in the world, nothing but audiences."
"What an ingrate you are! Most of us would be willing to have that kind
of impersonality."
"Would you?"
"No," she said candidly. "I'm not large enough for that."
"It wouldn't have occurred to me that it was any indication of
largeness."
"To be able to resign your own individuality, for the sake of the
pleasure you can give other people? That seems to me rather large."
"It depends. I think I would rather concentrate my efforts, person on
person, instead of spreading myself out like a vast impersonal plaster."
She laughed a little, though her eyes were very grave.
"You might apply your theory here and now. Go and sing to me, not a new
song, but one of the old favorites."
Obediently he crossed the room to the piano where he sat for an hour,
now singing, now stopping to comment on a song or to relate some of his
experiences of the past two months. Later that night, when Miss Gannion
was thinking over the talk of the evening, it suddenly occurred to her
that he had made no reference at all to the summer. At length he rose to
return to the fire.
"No," she objected. "There is one song still lacking. You've not sung
_The Rosary_ yet."
His stride across the room never hesitated, although duller ears than
his own could not have mistaken the wish in her voice.
"I have worn out _The Rosary_," he said briefly. "I shall have to let it
rest for a while."
"I am sorry. I loved it."
He laughed mirthlessly.
"It is the weakest kind of sentimentality, Miss Gannion. The song itself
amounts to very little; it is merely a question of the key."
"I am sorry," she repeated, still a little sadly. "I have cared a good
deal for the song."
Thayer made no answer, and she sat looking up at him with a steady
wishfulness which made him uneasy. Her next words, though chosen by
chance, increased his uneasiness.
"Have you seen Miss Dane, since you came back?"
"I was there, yesterday."
"How did she seem to you?"
His steady eyes met hers without wavering.
"I don't quite understand what you mean by the question."
Miss Gannion varied the form of her words.
"Did you think she looked well?"
"Very."
"And yet, I don't think Beatrix is happy," Miss Gannion said, half to
herself.
"Why not?"
"How can she be? Beatrix is not dense. She thinks things, and she must
know the uncertainty of the future."
"But I thought it was quite certain." There was a level monotony in
Thayer's accent.
"You think Mr. Lorimer has really reformed and is out of danger?" Miss
Gannion asked quickly.
"I wish he had," Thayer answered half involuntarily.
"Then there is still trouble?"
But already Thayer was once more upon his guard.
"I have heard of nothing since I came home."
"Have you seen Mr. Lorimer?"
"No."
There was a curt brevity in his manner which was new to Miss Gannion. In
spite of herself, it set her to wondering whether prosperity had been
good for her friend, whether the consciousness of his own importance
were making him indifferent to the interests of others. Perhaps, after
all, it was true that he was becoming impersonal. He might be growing
larger; he was certainly growing more remote from her life. Miss
Gannion cared for Thayer. Now, while she watched him, her eyes were
lighted with an almost fierce affection, even though her disappointment
made her voice take on a hard, metallic ring, as she asked,--
"Are you turning your back upon the problem of your old friend, Mr.
Thayer?"
"No," he answered; "but I thought we had solved it, in this very room."
She raised her brows interrogatively.
"'To say our prayers, and wait,'" he quoted.
Her momentary distrust of him weakened, and her face lighted, as she
heard him quoting her own words, spoken so long ago.
"Yes; but I--we all--think it is time--think it may be a mistake."
He lifted his eyes from the fire, looked at her steadily for a minute,
and then stared into the fire again. She grew restless with the
stillness.
"And we thought perhaps you could say something."
"To--?" he asked, without raising his eyes.
"To Mr. Lorimer."
"What could I say?"
"Something to break it off."
In spite of himself, he laughed outright.
"Would you advise threats or bribery, Miss Gannion? I really can't
imagine any argument that would lead Lorimer to give up Miss Dane of his
own accord."
"Couldn't you put it to him strongly that he has no moral right to hold
her to her promise?"
"I could; but he would probably put it to me just as strongly that I
have no moral right to interfere in his concerns."
Miss Gannion sat up straight, bracing her elbows against the sides of
her chair.
"Mr. Thayer, have you any idea that Mr. Lorimer will ever give up
drinking, drinking more than is good for him?"
"I have not."
"Have you any idea that Beatrix, if she marries him, can escape years of
anxiety and wretchedness?"
"I have not," he answered again.
"Oh, how cold you are!" she cried, in passionate revolt against his even
tone. "Don't you care anything at all for Beatrix?"
If he flinched at her question, he rallied again too quickly for her to
discover it. Then he looked her squarely in the eye.
"I would do anything in my power to protect Miss Dane; but this is a
case where I have no right to speak to her. I have spoken to Lorimer
again and again, urging him to control himself for her sake. Beyond
that, I have no right to go."
"But you said once that you thought she ought to be told."
"That was months ago. She found out, without being told."
"Not all."
"Enough."
"But, if she knew all about it, all that you know, Beatrix Dane would
never marry Sidney Lorimer."
"Very likely not."
"Then you ought to tell her. What right have you to suppress facts that
would change her whole point of view? You have it in your power to save
Beatrix Dane. Once you were willing to do it." She had risen and stood
on the rug, facing him. Stung by his coldness and by her disappointment
in him, she allowed a sudden note of hostility to creep into her voice,
and it cut Thayer like the edge of a steel knife.
"I am sorry," he said, after a pause; "but it is too late for that now,
Miss Gannion."
His words were more true than he realized. When, after a half-hour of
uncomfortable, disjointed talk, he said good-night and went away, he
found Lorimer waiting for him in his own rooms. Thayer's greeting was
curt, for he was still smarting from the memory of his talk with Miss
Gannion. He had been impenetrable to her questions, but not to her
sharpness, and he was hurt by the disapproval she had shown. It was the
first time he had heard the curious icy tone in her voice; it had struck
a jarring note in their friendship. For the time being, Miss Gannion had
distrusted him; but at least she had gained no idea of the cause of his
changed attitude. For so much, he was thankful. He had saved his own
respect at the risk of forfeiting that of Miss Gannion.
Lorimer met him excitedly; but Thayer's experienced eye saw that the
excitement had no alcoholic basis.
"Congratulations, old fellow! Everything is settled at last, and we are
to be married, early in January. I came straight to you, for I knew you
would be delighted. Of course, I shall count on you as best man."
It would never have occurred to Thayer that there was need to brace
himself against any possible shock. For a minute, the droplight on the
table seemed to be dancing a Russian _trepac_. Then, just as it was
ready to fall, he heard his own voice saying, with exactly the proper
degree of cordiality,--
"I do congratulate you, Lorimer, and I am delighted that it is settled."
Later on, he knew that he had spoken the truth.
"And you will be best man?" Lorimer questioned eagerly.
"Yes. Who else has better claim?" The conventional note was still there;
Thayer felt its aloofness far more than Lorimer, absorbed in his own
joy, was able to do. The silence was short; then Thayer mastered himself
again. "Lorimer," he said quietly; "I certainly do congratulate you, for
you have been able to gain one of the noblest women in the world. Your
happiness ought to be great; but you have taken a fearful responsibility
along with it. At your best you can be worthy of her; but, if you fall
one inch below your best level, you will deserve to be flayed alive. You
have gone into this with your eyes open. You know that you can make
Beatrix Dane's life a heaven or a hell. You and I both know the danger;
we know that she is running a terrible risk in marrying you, and that
you yourself are the only person who can save her from shame and sorrow.
For God's sake, Lorimer, do all you can to make yourself live up to the
best that is in you."