"I WILL LAUGH, TOO."
Harry Osgood was a man whose life was devoted to sport, and as he had
inherited a large fortune, he was able to indulge his tastes to the
fullest extent. Some one of his friends had said facetiously, that he
was fond of horses, hounds, and his wife, in the order named, and no one
who knew him well would deny that more of his life was spent in his
stables and kennels than in his home. He had passed many years in
England, and most of his time there was spent in a hard riding country,
where everyone, including the parson, followed the hounds. To Osgood,
therefore, there was no sport like hunting, and no music like the
inspiriting cry of the pack. He had been brought up on the "pigskin" and
felt a supreme contempt for many of the men about New York who went in
for sport, not for the love of it, but as a pose which enabled them to
wear the pink and talk the slang of the shires. He had seen so many
chaps of that description come an ignominious "cropper" at the first
fence, that he paid little attention to the talk of the clubs, and never
passed his opinion on a would-be sportsman until he saw him in the
hunting field. In his opinion it took something more than a pink coat to
make a hunting man, so he endeavored to collect around him, in New
Jersey, a few of as hard riders as ever followed hounds.
The Essex Hunt had become famous for its long runs, and as few men not
born to the saddle cared to risk their necks over the rolling country
about Morristown, this hunt was decidedly unpopular with the
drawing-room sportsmen. However, if the field was small at the meet, it
diminished little at the finish. For years Harry Osgood had been M. F.
M. of the Essex Hunt, and the pack could not have been in better hands,
as he had a capital huntsman of long experience with the Quorn Hunt, and
he devoted his own time, during the hunting season, entirely to the
sport. Osgood had this peculiarity, however, he must have sport all the
year round; so he was as much at home on the box seat, or at the
tiller, as in the saddle. There is a popular impression that a man
cannot be both a horseman and a sailor, but Harry Osgood had often
refuted it. In the summer months, when there was no hunting, and it was
too hot for driving, he went to sea, and his schooner, "Persephone," was
one of the crack flyers of the N. Y. Y. C. fleet, while her owner was a
qualified navigator who had taken an English Board of Trade yachtsman's
certificate.
It is, therefore, not surprising that Helen Osgood entered little into
her husband's life, for, except when frost was in the ground, he had no
time to devote to his wife. Helen, however, heartily approved of his
neglect, and, except for the fact that he compelled her to reside so
much of the time in the country, was perfectly satisfied with her
husband. She always managed to have at least one amusing man in the
house who did not go in for hunting, and as she never interfered with
Harry's sport, theirs was a _menage_ where husband and wife were both
contented and amused. The world had been surprised at Harry Osgood's
marriage, but probably no one was more astonished than himself. A
country house, a rare day's sport, a good dinner, a cozy corner, a pair
of bewitching blue-black eyes, a hasty word, and his fate was sealed
before he had had time fully to realize the situation; but, having been
"landed," as he expressed it, he made up his mind to bear it like a man
and make the best of a hasty bargain. The marriage was, however, no
surprise to Helen. She had carefully arranged it in her mind several
months before, and Harry Osgood's proposal was but the consummation of
her plans. He was precisely the kind of man that she considered an
attractive, poor girl ought to marry, and women like Helen seem to
possess a faculty for adjusting their lives according to their desires.
She was the only woman whom Duncan Grahame had ever asked to be his
wife, and perhaps for the reason that she had refused him, she continued
to occupy the most central cell of his somewhat honeycombed heart. She
had declined to marry Duncan because, at that time, he was poor, and she
knew that he possessed too quick a perception, and too arbitrary a
disposition, to be a suitable husband for a woman of her ambitions. She
had, however, since her marriage, granted Duncan the privileges of a
somewhat equivocal friendship, which, owing to a general misconception
of Helen Osgood's character, the world often misapprehended. Her
acquaintances fancied her unhappy in her home life, but she was
perfectly contented. Her friends believed she was a woman of strong
feelings and sympathies, but she was subtle and calculating. The world
thought her friendship for Duncan must be of a serious nature, while, in
reality, it was scarcely more than a _passe temps_. Though not harassed
by any scruples, she was too cold really to love, and too clever
actually to compromise herself. But she was, however, sufficiently
selfish to receive without giving, and sufficiently vain to enjoy the
continued admiration of so scarred and complex a heart as Duncan's. She
had been gifted with a peculiar insight into human character, and having
studied the nature of man as a scientist might that of a mollusk, she
felt that she understood every masculine vagary. Prompted mostly by
curiosity, she singled out Duncan as the specimen best calculated to
demand the full exercise of her powers. If she had, at times, permitted
certain familiarities which the world might not entirely approve, she
had been careful to define the boundaries beyond which they must not
pass; and the fact that his actions were governed in a manner so
contrary to his wishes kept Duncan in a continuous state of irritation,
and served at the same time to produce a continuity of affection quite
unusual in his other experiences.
For nearly four years this peculiar friendship, so galling to Duncan, so
gratifying to Helen, had continued intermittently; and though many
ruptures had occurred, they had all ended in Duncan's suing for peace.
The long continuance of so unnatural a relation was rendered possible
only by the fact that Helen Osgood had, so far, been incapable of
experiencing the feelings of other women, and seeing no reason to
transgress where there was no temptation, she contented herself with
inspiring a love where others excited a passing fancy. Other women might
amuse Duncan, but she would control him; other women might love him, but
she would study him; other women might lose him, but she would remain
his master. That was her analysis of the affair, and, so far, she felt
that it had been correct. It is true she had not seen Duncan since the
quarrel in January, and she knew that he must, in the meantime, have
been intimate with other women; but she felt confident that he would
come back to her and plead again for the love she had so often refused
him. She did not believe that Duncan's passion was of a lofty nature. On
the contrary, she doubted his sincerity just as she doubted the
sincerity of every man of the world. She knew perfectly well the view of
life held by the men about her, and she often said that were she a man
she would be a freebooter too, and capture the hearts that came in her
way. She thought that if a woman was weak enough to be trapped into
taking a false step, she got her deserts. She, for one, would go armed,
not because her conscience troubled her, but because she did not
consider the game worth the risk.
The unexpected return of Duncan had been somewhat of a surprise to
Helen; but, in order to impress upon him that it was a matter of
indifference to her, she avoided him as much as possible during the
evening of his arrival at Oakhurst. The house party spent the evening
playing pool in the billiard-room, and in that atmosphere of whiskey,
soda, and smoke, where the conversation was hilarious and general, and
often interspersed with familiar repartee and laughter, it was not
difficult for Helen to keep Duncan at a convenient distance, while,
however much he might chafe under the restraint, he was unable to free
himself from his unpleasant position. There is nothing so exasperating
to a man of Duncan's disposition and experience as to feel that he is
being made a fool of by a woman. Though nothing had been said, Duncan
realized the galling fact that Helen Osgood was playing with him. After
the women had gone to bed he sat in the smoking-room, sulking over his
"night-cap," and though Osgood and Howard-Jones carried on a heated
discussion about the merits of perch bits, he paid not the slightest
attention to what was being said. Waterman and Van Vort occasionally
tried to chaff him, but he was so snappish in his manner that they
wisely decided to let him alone. Meanwhile Duncan was thinking of the
time, at Newport, when, jogging home after a day with the hounds, he had
asked Helen Osgood to marry him. He had felt confident that she would do
so, but instead, he got laughed at for his sincerity, and he had been
laughed at ever since. He had often brought himself to the point of
believing that he did not care for her, but the next time he was brought
under her subtle influence he was compelled to acknowledge that he was
still under her spell. Other women had surrendered to him with a
facility that destroyed the pleasure of an exciting contest, but other
women were not Helen Osgood.
The next morning none of the house party put in an appearance before
eleven o'clock, and it was not until luncheon that they all met
together. Some of the men had, it is true, been out to the kennels, and
Osgood and Howard-Jones had taken out a tandem--much to the horror of
neighboring Sabbath-keepers--but Mrs. Osgood and the girls managed to
keep secluded until the luncheon-hour. Dinner was the only formal meal
at Oakhurst, and there was a freedom about the life that made it very
attractive to the men. Any sort of lounging costume was permissible
during the daytime, and the guests straggled in at luncheon without
regard for promptness. No one waited for the others, and the last to
come was the last to be served. The conversation was chiefly about
horses and dogs, with social gossip for a relish, but no topic more
intellectual than the last French novel or the latest comedy at Daly's
was permissible. In fact, any one bold enough to inaugurate a literary
or political discussion would have been greeted with a stare of mingled
pity and astonishment. If any of the guests were acquainted with matters
literary or artistic, they were usually discreet enough to remain silent
out of deference to the host; but on one occasion a school friend of
Helen's, from Boston, hearing some remarks about the last story of
Bourget, took the opportunity to start a discussion upon the poetic
psychology of Sully-Prudhomme, which was greeted in a manner that made
the poor girl fancy she had said something very indiscreet. At the first
favorable opportunity, however, Helen reassured her, but advised her not
to talk about books, if she wanted to get on with the Essex Hunt.
On the present occasion the conversation was confined to the stables,
and after luncheon the house party sought amusement for the afternoon.
Osgood suggested a drive, so a team was put to the drag, and the
afternoon, until tea-time, was spent behind three chestnuts and a
piebald "tooled" by the host.
Meanwhile Duncan chafed under the discipline to which he felt he was
being carefully subjected, but it was not until after an elaborately
prepared dinner, served by the late butler of His Grace, the Duke of
Northampton, and two footmen, that he was permitted a word alone with
Helen. The other guests had gone into the drawing-room, at Helen's
suggestion, to listen to Van Vort's latest comic song, and feeling that
they would be off her hands for a while, she detained Duncan in the
passage-way leading to the library. Between the two doors was a broad
lounge, which had been placed there to offer an opportunity for a quiet
talk, and Helen took the initiative by seating herself and motioning
Duncan to a place beside her. He sat down sulkily, and remained silent
for a while, trying to drive off the peculiarly helpless feeling which
a man invariably experiences in the presence of a woman whose
personality is stronger than his own. Duncan plunged his hands into his
pockets and sank into a corner of the lounge, mentally deciding that he
was an ass, and trying to bring his reason to control his feelings. He
looked at Helen a moment, but when he met her glance, he winced and
turned his eyes away, and she felt that she had not been wrong in her
confidence that he would come back to her unchanged.
"You are solemn enough for a _croque-mort_," said Helen, after a few
moments of silence. "Aren't you going to amuse me?"
"No," grunted Duncan peevishly, "you brought me here."
"I didn't bring you here to sulk. I hope, for your own sake, you haven't
been behaving this way for the past six months. I understand you, but
strangers might not appreciate such manners." She said this in the
indifferent manner she invariably assumed when Duncan indulged in a
display of temper, and it was this indifference which always made his
outbursts so abortive.
"There is no need to behave so with strangers," he replied, trying to
assume a sarcastic manner, and feeling, inwardly, that it was not
successful. "They are usually civil to me."
"O, indeed! and pray how do I treat you?"
"Like a dog," he sneered gruffly.
"Like a pet poodle," she replied, "whom I allow to lie about the house
in the snuggest corners; like a pet poodle whom I fondle when he is
agreeable, and humor when he is snappish; but take care how you behave
or I may think you are only a puppy."
Duncan jumped to his feet. "I won't be blackguarded," he muttered
angrily.
Helen leaned forward and caught his hand.
"Come, Duncan, dear," she said, drawing him gently toward her, "you must
sit down and tell me who it was that commenced this quarrel."
Duncan permitted himself to be drawn to the seat beside her. His heart
was consumed with conflicting sentiments, but he felt that the courage
which had made the quarrel in January possible was failing, and that he
would be compelled to sue for peace. "I am not a child," he said, as
though to expostulate against her manner.
"Yes, you are," answered Helen softly, "but a big, lovable child of whom
I am very fond."
Duncan looked into her eyes to see if he could read behind her words,
but he only felt the deep, mysterious power which had brought him under
her influence that day in Newport. Then he had felt a hopeful, honest
love, for a moment, but it had been crushed out by her laughter. Before
that he had been a thoughtless boy, taking life as only a holiday
frolic. Had she given him her love, he felt that to him life would have
been different; but that laughter had chilled his heart, and the
hopeful, honest love had gone out forever. She had married and he had
loved her again, but it was a feeling of a different sort, for the man
who speaks of love to a married woman casts out honesty from his heart.
He loved her with a heated longing which her coldness fanned. He wanted
to possess her for his own, yet felt that he was balked by his stupidity
and cowardice. In her presence he was a shrinking child with the
yearning of a man. "Helen," he said, after a moment, "I will not be
played with; I am too much in earnest."
"You frighten me by your seriousness," she said, with a roguish tone in
her voice. "I like you better when you are angry. It suits you."
"I will not be trifled with, Helen," he said; "you have no right to
treat me so."
"I have the right of a billigerent," she laughed. "You declared war, you
remember."
"Then I sue for peace."
"And I grant it," she replied softly, putting out her hand. "Come, let
us be friends."
Duncan took her hand and pressed it to his lips. He looked up into her
tantalizing eyes and felt again the warm impulse of the old love burning
in his heart. "I cannot be your friend, Helen," he said passionately,
"for I love you."
She drew her hand away quickly and patted his cheek disapprovingly, as
she might have patted a child's; then with a little, playful laugh, she
said: "don't be silly, you know I don't like it."
Man of the world as he was, without scruples and usually reckless, he
felt cowed. For a moment he sat moving his hands nervously; then he
looked up and asked in a serious tone: "Why didn't you marry me?"
"Because I liked you too well."
"That is no answer."
"Because I wanted to keep your love."
"That is not true."
"Well, because marriage is a business partnership, which, to be
successful, requires a person of experience and a person of money. You
had too much experience and I had no money, _le voila_."
"You are a heartless flirt," Duncan said, slowly and earnestly.
"That's what a man always says of a woman when he fails to make her love
him."
"You are a heartless flirt, I repeat," he answered. "You stole the best
love in my heart; you crushed it and threw it aside like a flower which
no longer pleased you."
"Nonsense, Duncan, such poetic similes are ridiculous. Better say that
love, to a man, is an apple of Sodom, fair to behold; but when he has it
in his grasp it crumbles to sickening ashes."
"You stole my love, Helen; a man never loves but once."
"And in revenge, to use your metaphor, you have plucked and trampled
under foot every flower within your reach. I know you, Duncan. It is
only because I was stronger than the rest that I still bloom fair in
your eyes."
Duncan looked full into Helen's face with an injured expression in his
eyes. "Helen," he said finally, "'tis women like you who make us men
distrust your sex; who make us what we are."
Helen returned his glance, and replied scornfully: "No; it is men like
you who drag us down. We women must go through life armed, like
travelers of old, against the attacks of you highwaymen. If we are weak,
we are robbed of our best possessions, and left helpless by the way; if
we are strong and ward off your attacks, you take your revenge on those
who fall into your unscrupulous hands. But that is moralizing, and I am
no moralist; I take the world as it is."
"Then why not take the pleasure in it?" said Duncan insinuatingly.
"Because it doesn't amuse me," she answered coldly. "I am not like other
women, I suppose; at least, what you call pleasure disgusts me."
"Then why have you let me be your friend so long?"
"Because you amuse me," she replied carelessly. "I like to see you
bluster and go away, and then come back to me. Other women pander to
you, but I don't; other women love you, but I don't."
As Duncan listened to these words, a blush of anger came to his cheek.
He thought of how strong had been his influence over other women, and
how weak he had always been in Helen's hands. "After all, love is a game
of strength," he mused. He had been no better than a ball to be tossed
about at pleasure, but he would throw off the spell of this woman, which
had bound him so fast--he who thought he knew the world so well. An
expression of firmness came into his face, and he said: "I loved you
once, Helen, but I hate you now."
"I am glad," she answered; "now there is a chance that your passion will
be returned."
Duncan did not reply. He left his seat beside her and walked slowly into
the next room. Helen's eyes followed him. "Silly boy," she thought, "I
hope he will hate me; I might love him then."
Long after the lights in the smoking-room had gone out, long after the
laughter had ceased, Duncan slowly paced his room. His hands were deep
in his pockets and he held a briar pipe between his lips. Occasionally
he would take a draw at the pipe, and then watch the blue smoke curl
gently upward and fade away in long, thin streaks; but all the time he
was thinking over the part Helen Osgood had played in his life. "She is
right," he said, half aloud; "I do bluster and go away, and come back to
her, and I will do it again. No, by Jove! I won't. A man can't forget
that he has been played fast and loose with, and I would not be a man if
I went back to that woman. I hate her. I hate her," he repeated. "She
might have made a different man of me. I was young and might have taken
life better, but she laughed me into the selfish brute I am. O, well,"
he sighed, as he thought of his past, "I suppose I am no worse than
those around me. We all worry over what might have been, but we don't
take the pleasure that comes to us. A man's an ass to break his neck for
any woman. There are others in the world, good looking ones, too, who
will love for the asking." He returned his pipe to its case and closed
it with a loud snap. "I have been in the garden before," he continued,
"and I will go there again and pluck the flowers that come in my path. I
will hold them for a minute; then I will crush them and cast them aside,
and I will laugh, too."