Having no further pretext for calling upon her, Curtis thought of Elsie
as of a strain of music which had passed. He was rather silent at
dinner, but not noticeably so, for Maynard absorbed most of the time and
attention of those present. At the first opportunity he returned to his
papers, and was deep in work when Jennie came in to tell him that Elsie
was coming over to stay the night.
"She has given up her bed to her father, and so she will sleep here. Go
over about nine and get her."
If she knew how deeply this command moved him, she was considerate
enough to make no comment. "Very well, sis," he replied, quietly. "As
soon as I finish this letter."
But he did not finish the letter--did not even complete the sentence
with which his pen was engaged when Jennie interrupted him. After she
went out he sat in silence and in complete immobility for nearly an
hour. At last he rose and went out into the warm and windless night.
When he entered the studio he found her seated upon one trunk and
surveying another.
"This looks like flight," he said.
"Yes; papa insists on our going early to-morrow morning. Isn't it
preposterous! I can only pack my clothing. He says the trouble is only
beginning, and that I must not remain here another day."
"I have come to fetch you to Jennie."
"I will be ready presently. I am just looking round to decide on what to
take. Be seated, please, while I look over this pile of sketches."
He took a seat and looked at her sombrely. "You'll leave a great big
empty place here when you go."
"Do you mean this studio?"
"I mean in my daily life."
She became reflective. "I hate to go, and that's the truth of it. I am
just beginning to feel my grip tighten on this material. I know I could
do some good work here, but really I was frightened at papa's condition
this afternoon. He is better now, but I can see that he is failing. If
he insists on campaigning I must go with him--but, oh, how I hate it!
Think of standing up and shaking hands with all these queer people for
months! I oughtn't to feel so, of course, but I can't help it. I've no
patience with people who are half-baked, neither bread nor dough. I
believe I like old Mary and Two Horns better."
"I fear you are voicing a mood, not a conviction. We ought not to
condemn any one;" he paused a moment, then added: "I don't like you to
even _say_ cruel things. It hurts me. As I look round this room I see
nothing which has to do with duty or conviction or war or politics.
There is peace and beauty here. You belong in this atmosphere; you are
fitted to your environment. I admit that I was fired at first with a
desire to convert you to my ways of thought; now, when a sense of duty
troubles you, takes you away from the joy of your art, I question
myself. You are too beautiful to wear yourself out in problems. I now
say, remain an artist. There is something idyllic about your artist life
as I now understand it. It is simple and childlike. In that respect it
seems to have less troublesome questions of right or wrong to decide
than science. Its one care seems to be, 'What will produce and preserve
beauty, and so assuage the pain of the world?' No question of money or
religion or politics--just the pursuit of an ideal in a sheltered nook."
"You have gone too far the other way, I fear," she said, sadly. "Our
lives, even at the best, are far from being the ideal you present. It
seems very strange to me to hear you say those things--"
"I have given the matter much thought," he replied. "If I have made you
think of the woes of the world, so you have shown me glimpses of a life
where men and women are almost free from care. We are mutually
instructed." He rose at this point and, after hesitation, said: "When
you go I wish you would leave this room just as it is, and when I am
tired and irritable and lonely I'll come here and imagine myself a part
of your world of harmonious colors, with no race questions to settle and
no harsh duties to perform. Will you do this? These few hangings and
lamps and easels are unimportant to you--you won't miss them; to me they
will be priceless, and, besides, you may come back again some time. Say
you will. It will comfort me."
There was a light in his eyes and an intensity in his voice which
startled her. She stammered a little.
"Why, of course, if it will give you the slightest pleasure; there is
nothing here of any particular value. I'll be glad to leave them."
"Thank you. So long as I have this room as it is I shall be able to
persuade myself that you have not passed utterly out of my life."
She was a little alarmed now, and hastened to say: "I do not see why we
should not meet again. I shall expect you to call when you come to
Washington--" she checked herself. "I'm afraid my sense of duty to the
Tetongs is not strong. Don't think too hardly of me because of it."
He seemed intent on another thought. "Do you know, you've given me a dim
notion of a new philosophy. I haven't organized it yet, but it's
something like this: Beauty is a sense of fitness, harmony. This sense
of beauty--call it taste--demands positively a readjustment of the
external facts of life, so that all angles, all suffering and violence,
shall cease. If all men were lovers of the beautiful, the gentle, then
the world would needs be suave and genial, and life harmoniously
colored, like your own studio, and we would campaign only against
ugliness. To civilize would mean a totally different thing. I'm not
quite clear on my theory yet, but perhaps you can help me out."
"I think I see what you mean. But my world," she hastened to say, "is
nothing like so blameless as you think it. Don't think artists are
actually what they should be. They are very human, eager to succeed, to
outstrip each other; and they are sordid, too. No, you are too kind to
us. We are a poor lot when you take us as a whole, and the worst of it
is the cleverest makers of the beautiful are often the least inspiring
in their lives. I mean they're ignorant and spiteful, and often
dishonorable." She stopped abruptly.
"I'm sorry to hear you say that. It certainly shatters a beautiful
theory I had built up out of what you and other artists have said to
me." After a little silence he resumed: "It comes down to this, then:
that all arts and professions are a part of life, and life is a
compromise between desire and duty. There are certain things I want to
do to-day, but my duties for to-morrow forbid. You are right in going
away with your father--I'm not one to keep you from doing that--but I
must tell you how great has been the pleasure of having you here, and I
hope you will come again. If you go to-morrow morning I shall not see
you again."
"Why not?"
"I start at dawn to arrest Cut Finger."
"Alone?"
"No. The captain of the police goes with me."
Her face paled a little. "Oh! I wish you wouldn't! Why don't you take
the soldiers?"
"They are not necessary. I shall leave here about four o'clock and
surprise the guilty man in his bed. He will not fight me." He rose. "Are
you ready to go now?"
"In a moment," she said, and softly crossed the floor to peep into the
bedroom. "Poor papa, he looks almost bloodless as he sleeps."
As they stepped out into the darkness Curtis realized that this was
their last walk together, and the thought was both sweet and sad.
"Will you take my arm?" he asked. "It is very dark, though there should
be a new moon."
"It has gone down; I saw it," she replied, as she slipped her hand
through his elbow. "How peaceful it all is! It doesn't seem possible
that to-morrow you will risk your life in the performance of duty, and
that I will leave here, never to return. I have a curious feeling about
this place now. It seems as though I were settled here, and that I am to
go on living here forever."
"I wish it were true. Women like you--you know what I mean; there are no
women like you, of course--come into my life too seldom. I dread the
empty futility of to-morrow. As an Indian agent, I must expect to live
without companionship with such as you. I have a premonition that Jennie
is going to leave me--as she ought."
"You will be very lonely then; what will you do?"
"Work harder; do more good, and so cheat myself into forgetfulness that
time is flying."
"You are bitter to-night."
"Why shouldn't I be when you are going away? It wouldn't be decent of me
to be gay."
"Your methods of flattery are always effective. At one moment you
discuss the weightiest matters with me--which argues I have brains--and
then you grow gloomy over my going and would seem to mean that I am
charming, which I don't think is quite true."
"If I weren't a poor devil of an army officer I'd convince you of my
sincerity by asking you not to go away at all."
"That _would_ be convincing," she said, laughingly. "Please don't do
it!"
His tone became suddenly serious. "You are right, I can't ask you to
share a life like mine. It is too uncertain. I may be ordered back to my
regiment next winter, and then nothing remains but garrison duty. I
think I will then resign. But I am unfitted for business, or for any
money-getting, and so I've decided that as an honorable man I must not
imperil the happiness of a woman. I claim to be a person of taste, and
the girl I admired would have other chances in life. I can't afford to
say to her, 'Give up all your comfort and security and come with me to
the frontier.' She would be foolish to listen--no woman of the stamp I
have in mind could do it." They were nearing "the parsonage" gate, and
he ended in a low voice: "Don't you think I am right?"
"The theory is that nothing really counts in a woman's life but love,"
she replied, enigmatically.
"Yes, but theory aside--"
"Well, then, I can conceive of a girl--a very _young_ girl--leaving
wealth and friends, and even her art, for the man she loved, but--"
He waited a moment as a culprit listens to his judge. "But then--but in
case--"
"If the girl were grown up and loved luxurious living, and shared an
enthusiasm--say for art--then--" She broke off and said, wearily, "Then
she might palter and measure values and weigh chances, and take account
of the future and end by not marrying at all."
They had reached the gate and he spoke with perceivable effort: "I've no
right to ask it, of course, but if you take pity on my loneliness at any
time and write to me, your letters will be more welcome than it is
seemly in me to say, and I'll promise not to bore you with further
details of my 'Injines.' Will you be kind to me?"
"I will be glad to write," she replied, but in her voice was something
he did not understand. As they entered the house Elsie said: "Captain
Maynard, Captain Curtis is going out to-morrow morning to arrest that
crazy Indian. Do you think he ought to go alone?"
"Certainly not! It would be too dangerous. He shall have an escort,"
replied Maynard, emphatically.
"No, no!" said Curtis, decisively. "I am safer to go unarmed and alone."
"George!" protested Jennie, "you shall not go out there alone. Why don't
you send the police?"