When he saw around the green and tranquil park the familiar
outlines of his club, he had a feeling as though he were seeing
the first welcome lights of civilization after long wandering in
a wilderness. His entrance made quite a stir. Old Joseph at the
door came up beaming to take his hat and coat. A group of men
lounging on the stairs turned with exclamations of surprise. In a
twinkling the rumor of his return spread from floor to floor. Men
came crowding about him, old friends who greeted him uproariously,
concealing under the boisterousness of their greeting the deep
emotion which each felt. He had been a leader here and the sudden
thronging of those whose names he could scarcely recall showed
him the extent to which he had been missed. Every one had a word
of congratulation, every one was talking of his exhibition.
He found himself quite a hero, the center of loyal adherents.
Nothing seemed to have changed. There were the same groups about
the billiard tables, the same evening gatherings at the bar; he
felt even a tolerant affection for the bores and the dead-beats
who never change either. He was back among his own, gloriously,
triumphantly returned. These were of the old guard, who loved him,
who understood what he had accomplished, who would never judge
him, would ask no questions, would be his until the end, no matter
whether that end be victory or emptiness, in the loyal fraternity
of men. The long months which had been so poignantly, vitally alive
were now like the delirious passage of a fever.
It was almost seven o’clock before he realized the hour. He would
have liked to stay for dinner in the old dining room, packed with
relics and to have enjoyed gluttonously this richness of affection,
to have felt again and again the strange tingling delight as
each new figure recognized him with a start of surprise and came
joyfully up to claim him.
On his way to the Arcade he began to plan many things. There was no
reason now why he should continue the meagerness of their present
life. He had always had in him luxurious desires, the need of
beautiful surroundings and a disdain of petty economies. Now that
he had emerged from the wilderness, that success was his, he would
take an apartment with a great double studio which he could fit out
with all the luxury of detail which his pagan temperament craved.
Then, they could readily afford a Japanese servant--a good cook
who would preside over the little dinners for which he had once
been famous. The thought of a butler made him smile a little bit at
himself and at his own vanity. He admitted to himself that he was,
as De Gollyer had said, of the world and that the little niceties
of life meant much to him. But he smiled at himself tolerantly, for
he was aglow with triumph and happiness. If he wanted a thing he
wanted it immediately and it rather annoyed him that it would be
impossible for him to start to work on his quest until another day
should have arrived.
When he came up eagerly to his studio he found Inga waiting. He
hesitated and then deferred the question of their moving until
another day. He had a sudden feeling that she would oppose the
suggestion or if she did not oppose it, behind the baffling calm of
her eyes there would be a deep revolt. Yet when a few days later he
made up his mind after much hesitation to approach the subject, he
found to his surprise that she made no objection. She asked only if
he meant to abandon the studio in the Arcade. This had, in fact,
been his idea but something in the directness and suddenness of
this, her only comment, made him change his mind.
“No, no,” he said hastily, “we’ll keep this for the work, for the
serious business--a place to run away from people. The other will
be just the showcase.”
“I am glad you are not going to give this up,” she said quietly.
“You’ll have to get used to a servant, young lady,” he said
laughing, “and a Jap butler at that.”
“I’ll try. Have you found a place?”
He nodded, a little embarrassed thus to admit that he had kept the
information from her so long.
“You’ll like it and perhaps you will even get used to the butler.”
She seemed to accept the change as a matter of course, as though
it was something she had foreseen for a long while. Her attitude
rather surprised him. He had not expected such easy compliance.
Inga as the head of the house was a new idea to him, something that
amused and perplexed him.
Once the installation completed she seemed to enter into the
new atmosphere quite naturally. It is true that she became more
reticent than ever, seldom joining in the general conversation
except when addressed, but in the company of others--and their
rooms were seldom quiet now--she held herself with grace and
dignity. If she offered no advances she showed no antagonism.
The men who came to his dinners admired her tremendously though
their wives were plainly puzzled by her, never quite at ease in
her presence. Of all the new acquaintances perhaps only one, De
Gollyer, suspected the truth, that she was absolutely out of her
element, quite at loss how to reconstruct her days.
* * * * *
In the middle of the second month she said to Dangerfield quite
suddenly one day:
“Would you mind if I did something?”
“What?” he asked wondering.
“I’ve decided to take up my work again.”
Since their marriage she had abandoned the modest little field of
magazine covers and posters which had formerly been her means of
existence.
“Is this a request or an ultimatum?” he said grimly.
She frowned and for a moment, he saw a look of rebellion in her
eyes, but almost immediately she looked down at the floor.
“I should like to very much,” she said. “I am rather--rather
restless.”
“Then do it by all means,” he said after a moment’s reflection.
He would have liked to seek further the reasons of this sudden
resolve, yet he hesitated, feeling a certain unease before the
answer which might be critical. “Besides, Inga, it isn’t for me to
say what you should or shouldn’t do.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, “but I wanted to tell you.”
He caught her hand as she turned to depart.
“Are you unhappy, Inga?” he said abruptly.
She shook her head.
“There’s nothing I have done, at any time, to hurt you, is there?”
“No, no, Mr. Dan, nothing.”
“You’d tell me?”
“Why, of course.”
The change did not affect the ordinary routine of their lives much
except that as he spent more of his time in the apartment, the
working fit being still absent, while Inga was busy at the Arcade,
their days became more divided. After a little while he ceased to
notice this.
One afternoon she came home later than usual, and at the first
glance at her face he perceived that something out of the ordinary
had transpired. He helped her out of her coat with a vague feeling
of uneasiness. In her hand was a letter, which she had been
clutching so tightly that it had become twisted and wrinkled.
“Well, what has happened?” he said when they had gone into the
studio and were standing by the great window that gave on to the
low spread of park beneath. She looked into his eyes and saw them
go down to the crumpled envelope still in her hand.
“You remember that letter?” she said slowly, “that letter last
summer?”
He nodded.
“And this is another one?”
“Yes.”
“From him?”
“Yes, from him.”
He looked at her, seeing the agitation which had her in its grip,
surprised at the curious calm in himself, a calm which had in it a
sudden sense of pity.
“Inga,” he said gently, “we haven’t said one thing to each other we
really thought for months. Don’t you think it is better to talk it
out?”
She looked at him; then without quite realizing the sense of what
she was doing laid the letter on the shelf of the window and
absent-mindedly began to smooth it out, but her eyes were far away.
“I wonder if we can,” she said doubtfully; “some things are so hard
to understand.”
He took her by the wrist and led her before the great Florentine
fireplace, installed her in one of the big armchairs as though she
were a little girl. Then he sat down himself.
“Inga,” he said presently, “whatever we do let’s feel we can say
to each other just what we think. It’s the concealing and evasion
that does harm. Now understand me. I claim no rights over your life
and your actions. Yes, I did once, but that was a time of tempests
and jealousies--a wild moment,--very wonderful perhaps to have
known but which could only have brought unhappiness to both of us.
I look at things differently now. I don’t want you for my slave. I
want you as a free companion. You must be that, as free as the day
I met you.”
She drew her hands up before her lips and her little teeth closed
over her fingers as she stared into the shadows of the fireplace.
“You are unhappy?” he said slowly.
“No.”
“Is that the truth, I wonder?”
“I am restless,” she said after a moment.
He knew to insist on the avenue she thus opened to him meant the
approach to a perilous understanding. Like all who have loved
and have reached that point where they perceive life must be
readjusted, he began by recoiling. Something seemed to close
cruelly about his heart strings. He had a sudden horror of what
might come, the dread of the very change he knew was inevitable. He
rose, moving aimlessly, sought out his pipe, but without filling
it. Then he returned to his seat, looked at Inga still staring
ahead and said:
“What do you want to say to me? You can talk out freely. I shall
understand now.”
“He has written me again,” she said slowly.
“And the first time,--did you answer?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“I don’t know why I said that, Inga,” he corrected himself hastily,
“forgive me. I know you better.”
She raised her eyes, looked at him and smiled faintly.
“He has written me again,” she repeated as though she had forgotten
that she had announced it before. “It is very pitiful. He is in a
bad way, he has no one and it is all my fault.”
“Yours, Inga?” he said, astonished.
“Yes, it is my fault,” she said, her glance in the distance. “I
failed. He was weak--very weak--but I failed to do what I should.”
She looked down and drew the letter from its envelope and extended
it towards him.
“Mr. Dan--I would like to answer it--very much.”
He looked hungrily at the crumpled paper she thus offered him.
He knew it was the key to many things which had mystified him in
the past, the chart to that shadowy personality which had been
in the background of her life, whom often he had detected in her
eyes intruding when most they were alone, whose words and thoughts
had come to him on her lips. Then a wave of pity came to him for
the woman whom he had absorbed so covetously in his need and in a
moment of generosity he refused to part the veil.
“No, I do not want to see it, that is not necessary,” he said
gently. “Do what you wish. If you can help him, do so.”
“He wants to see me. He is very down. He needs--” she stopped, “he
needs help so.”
She again extended the letter to him.
“I think if you read it--it would be better. You’d understand.”
“I understand,” he said quietly, “I am at a point in life when one
can understand such things. I understand that a person one has
cared for cannot possibly pass completely out of your life. If you
can help him now, do so. I think that will make you happier, won’t
it?”
She raised her eyes suddenly in startled inquiry.
“You mean that?” she said after a full moment of intense absorption.
“I mean there must be perfect faith between us,” he said with
kindness.
“Thank you,” she said, but so low that it was almost a whisper. She
rose very straight and slender, looking down at him. “I shall never
break that faith, Mr. Dan.”
The ending of the interview left them with a feeling of emptiness.
They had tried to face the issue and each had instinctively avoided
it by the memory of the old tenderness which lay in their eyes and
lingered still in the echo of their voices.
“Live your life, Inga,” he said impulsively, “in whatever way it
must be lived to bring you happiness. That is the least I can do
for you, but remember one thing--what you’ve done for me no one can
ever undo. No one can take this place from you--it’s yours.”
And as they were both conscious of how much had been left unsaid,
how much still waited to be faced, they swayed towards each other,
tears in their eyes, and clung to each other passionately, as
though with a sudden unquenchable loneliness.