THE SIREN
Something went wrong with Jerry's afternoon, for not long after lunch
I heard his machine in the driveway. But I didn't go out to meet him.
I knew that if there was anything he wanted to say to me he would come
to the study door. But I heard him pass and go upstairs. I hadn't been
able to do any work at my book since yesterday morning, and the
prospect of going on with it seemed to be vanishing with the hours.
The astounding frankness of Miss Gore had set me thinking. As may be
inferred, I did not understand women in the least and hadn't cared to,
for their ways had not been my ways, nor mine theirs. But the woman's
revelations as to the character of her cousin had confirmed me in the
belief that Jerry had gotten beyond his depth. I think I understood
her motives in telling me. I was Jerry's guardian and friend. If Miss
Gore was Marcia's cousin she was also her paid companion, her
creature, bound less by the ties of kinship than those of convention.
I suppose it was Jerry's helplessness that must have appealed to the
mother in her, his youth, innocence and genuineness. Perhaps she was
weary treading the mazes of deception and intrigue with which the girl
Marcia surrounded herself. Jerry wasn't fair game. All that was good
in her had revolted at the maiming of a helpless animal.
For such, I am sure, Jerry already was. How much or how little the
unconscious growth in the boy of the sexual impulse had to do with his
sudden subjugation by the girl it was impossible for me to estimate.
For if the impulse was newly born, it was born in innocence. This I
knew from the nature of his comments on his experiences in the city.
Knowledge of all sorts he was acquiring, but, like Adam, of the fruit
of the tree he had not tasted. And yet, even I, stoic though I was,
had been sensible of the animal in the girl. Her voice, her gestures,
her gait, all proclaimed her. Miss Gore had spoken of a psychic
attraction. Bah! There is but one kind of affinity of a woman of this
sort for a beautiful animal like Jerry!
It was bewildering for me to discover how deeply I was becoming
involved in Jerry's personal affairs. With the appointed day I had
turned him adrift to work out in his future career, alone and unaided,
my theory of life and his own salvation. And yet here, at the first
sign of danger, I found myself flying to his defense as Jack Ballard
would have it, like a hen that had hatched out a duckling. I reasoned
with myself sternly that I feared nothing for Jerry. He would emerge
from such an experience greater, stronger, purer even, and yet, in
spite of my confidence, I found myself planning, devising something
that would open the boy's eyes before damage was done. I was
solicitous for Jerry, but there were other considerations. Jerry
wasn't like other men. He had been taught to reason carefully from
cause to effect. He would not understand intrigue, of course, or
double dealing. They would bewilder him and he would put them aside,
believing what he was told and acting upon it blindly. For instance,
if this girl told him she cared for him, he would believe it and
expect her to prove it, not in accordance with her notions of the
obligation created, but in accordance with his own. There lay the
difficulty, for he was all ideals, and she, as I suspected, had none.
There would be damage done, spiritual damage to Jerry, but what might
happen to Marcia? Jerry was innocent, but he was no fool, and with all
his gentleness he wasn't one to be imposed upon. Flynn had understood
him. He was polite and very gentle, but Sagorski, the White Hope, knew
what he was when aroused. I wondered if Marcia Van Wyck with all her
cleverness might miss this intuition.
Dinner time found the boy quiet and preoccupied. If he hadn't been
Jerry I should have said he was sullen. That he was not himself was
certain. It was not until he had lighted his cigarette after dinner
that he was sure enough of himself to speak.
"What made you talk of Una to Marcia, Roger?" he asked quietly.
"I didn't," I said coolly. "_You_ did, Jerry. And if I had, I can't
see what it matters."
"It does a little, I think. You see, Marcia knows who she is. Una gave
a false name. She wouldn't care to have people know she had come in
here alone."
This was a reason, but of course not the real one. It wasn't like
Jerry to mask his purposes in this fashion. I laughed at him.
"If you'll remember, Jerry, I mentioned no names."
"But why mention the incident at all?"
"Because to tell the truth," I said frankly, "I thought Miss Marcia
Van Wyck entirely too self-satisfied."
He opened his eyes wide and stared at me. "Oh!" he said.
And then after the pause:
"You don't like Marcia?"
"No," I replied flatly, "I don't."
He paced the length of the room, while I sat by a lamp and
ostentatiously opened the evening paper.
"I hope you realize," he said presently, with a dignity that would
have been ridiculous if it hadn't been pathetic, "that Miss Van Wyck
is a very good friend of mine."
"Is she?" I asked quietly.
"Yes--I'm very fond of her."
"Are you?" still quietly.
"Yes." He walked the floor jerkily, made a false start or so and then
brought up before me with an air of decision. "I--I'm sorry you don't
like her, Roger. I--I should be truly grieved if I--I thought you
meant it. For I intend some day to ask her to be my--my--wife."
It was as bad as that? I dropped pretense and the newspaper, folding
my arms and regarding him steadily.
"Isn't this decision--er--rather sudden?" I asked evenly.
"I've loved her from the first moment I saw her," he exclaimed. "She
is everything, everything that a woman should be. Amiable, charitable,
beautiful, talented, intellectual." He paused and threw out his arms
with an appealing gesture. "I can't understand why you don't see it,
Roger, why you can't see her as I see her."
I was beginning to realize that the situation was one to be handled
with discretion. He was in a frame of mind where active opposition
would only add fuel to his flame.
"I'm sorry that I've grown to be so critical, Jerry. You forget that
I've never much cared for the sex."
It seemed that this was just the reply to restore him to partial
sanity, for his face broke in a smile.
"I forgot, old Dry-as-dust. You don't like 'em--don't like any of 'em.
That's different. But you _will_ like Marcia. You _shall_. Why, Roger,
she's an angel. You couldn't help liking her."
I smiled feebly. My acquaintance with decadent angels had been
limited. I turned the subject adroitly.
"Have you discovered who Una is?" I asked.
"No. Marcia wouldn't tell me. She only laughed at me, but I really
wanted to know. She _was_ a nice girl, Roger, and I'd hate to have her
shown in a false light. Not that Marcia would do that, of course, but
girls are queer. I think she really resented our acquaintance. I can't
imagine why."
"Nor I," I said shortly. "She doesn't _own_ you, does she?"
He looked up at me with a blank expression.
"No, I suppose not," he said slowly.
I followed up my advantage swiftly.
"It's rather curious, Jerry, this attraction Miss Van Wyck has for
you. A moment ago you were chivalrous enough in your hope that Una's
identity would not be discovered. Was this chivalry genuine? Were you
sorry on Una's account or on your own? I really want to know. You
liked Una, Jerry. Didn't you?"
"Yes, but--"
"She seemed a very interesting, a fine, even a noble creature. The
thought of a girl doing the sort of things she was doing made you
reproach yourself for your idleness--your cowardice, I think you
called it. Now what I'd like to discover is whether you've quite
forgotten the impression she made--the ideal she left in your mind?"
"Of course not. My ideals are still the same. I've tried to tell you
that I'm going to put them into practice," he muttered.
"You've forgotten the impression made by Una herself; what reason have
you for believing that you won't forget the ideals also?"
"There's no danger of that. She merely opened my eyes. Anyone else
could have done the same thing."
"Ah! Has Miss Van Wyck done so?"
"Yes. She's very charitable. But she doesn't make a business of it
like Una. She has so many interests and then--" He paused. I waited.
"Roger," he went on in a moment, "I thought Una wonderful. I still do.
But Marcia's different. Una was a chance visitor. Marcia is a
friend--an old friend. She's like no other woman in the world. You
will understand her better some day."
"Perhaps," I said thoughtfully. After that Jerry would say no more.
Perhaps he thought he had already said too much, for presently he took
himself off to bed. At the foot of the stairs he paused.
"By the way, Roger, we'll be five instead of four for dinner
tomorrow."
"Who now?"
"A friend of Marcia's, Channing Lloyd, a chap from town. He came up
today."
That admission cost Jerry something, and it explained many things, for
I had heard of Channing Lloyd.
"Ah, very well," I said carelessly and shook out my paper.
"Good-night, Roger."
"Good-night, Jerry."
The boy was changed. It may not seem a serious thing to you, my
precocious reader, who number your flirtations among the trivial
affairs of life. Calf love, you will say, is not a matter worth
bothering one's brains about. You will class that ailment perhaps with
the whooping cough and the measles and sneer it out of existence. But
I would remind you that Jerry's mind and character were quite mature.
I had schooled them myself and I know. If Jerry had fallen in love
with Marcia Van Wyck who proposed to play at her game of
"pitch-farthing" with so fine a soul as Jerry's, the thing was
serious, serious for both of them. His attitude toward the girl in his
conversation tonight reminded me that affairs had already progressed a
long way. She had come to Briar Hills, flattering Jerry, of course,
that they could be alone, intriguing meanwhile with Channing Lloyd, a
wild fellow, according to Jack Ballard, who at thirty could have
unprofitably shared his omniscience with the devil. A fine foil for
Jerry!
At dinner, the following night, we made a curious party. Marcia Van
Wyck, radiant in pale green, with her admirers one at either hand;
Channing Lloyd, dark, massive, well-groomed, with a narrow smile and
an air of complete domination of the table; Jerry at the other side,
rolling bread-pills and forcing humor rather awkwardly; Miss Gore,
solemn in black satin--all of them elegant and correct in evening
clothes, while I in my rather shabby serge sat awkwardly trying to
hide the shininess of my elbows. From my position at one end of the
table I had an excellent opportunity to study the company. I saw in
Lloyd, I think, the attraction for Marcia. His looks, his topics, his
appetites were animal and gross. He drank continuously, smoked after
his salad, and monopolized the guest of the evening to the complete
exclusion of the others. Fragments of their talk reached me, of which
I understood a little--Greek to Jerry. Miss Gore sat calmly through it
all, leading Jerry into the conversation at propitious moments and out
of it when it threatened incomprehension.
There is a kind of charity of the dinner table and ballroom finer, I
think, than the mere kindness of giving, finer because it requires
discretion, nobler because it requires self-elimination. The more I
saw of Miss Gore the more deeply was I impressed by her many amiable
qualities. She had an ear for Jerry, but aware of my complete
elimination by the rowdy upon my left, found time to relieve the
awkwardness of my situation and contribute something to the pleasure
of what for me would otherwise have been a very unenjoyable repast.
But when dinner was over, to my great surprise, I found myself alone
with the girl Marcia. I have no very distinct notion of the means by
which she accomplished this feat, remembering only hazily that we all
ambled over to the conservatory, where a particular variety of orchid
seemed to interest the girl. And there we were, I explaining and she
listening, the others off somewhere near the entrance to the
gymnasium, where I heard Lloyd's voice in bored monotone. I was quite
sure in a moment that she hadn't managed to get me there to talk
orchids, and I felt a vague sense of discomfort at her nearness. I
have given the impression that her eyes were cold. As I looked into
them I saw that I had been mistaken. In the dim light they seemed
illumined at their greater depth by a hidden fire. She fixed her gaze
upon my face and moved ever so slightly toward me. You may think it
strange after what I have written when I say that at this moment I
felt a doubt rising in me as to whether or not I might have done this
girl an injustice, for her smile was frank, her air gracious, her tone
friendly.
"Oh, Mr. Canby," she said in her even voice, "I've wanted to tell you
what a wonderful thing it is that you have created--to thank you for
Jerry. He's a gift, Mr. Canby, refreshing like the rain to thirsty
flowers. You can't know what meeting a man like Jerry means to a woman
like me. I don't think you possibly can."
"What does it mean to you?" I asked.
"It means a new point of view on life, a thing scarce enough in this
day when all existence is either sordid or vicious. I had reached a
Slough of Despond, Mr. Canby, weary of the attainable, not strong
enough or clever enough or courageous enough to defy criticism and
obey the small voice that urged. I was sick with self-analysis,
filled to the brim with modern philosophies--"
"I understand," I broke in with a smile, which seemed to come in spite
of me. "There's no medicine for that."
"Yes, Jerry. I--I think he's cured me--or at least Pm well on the road
to recovery. Nobody could be mind-sick long with Jerry letting
daylight in."
"Daylight, yes. You found it startling?"
"A little, at first. I felt the way I look sometimes at dawn after
dancing all night, my tinsel tarnished, my color faded. All my effects
are planned for artificial light, you see."
Her frankness disarmed me.
"I'm thanking you for Jerry," she went on, "but I can't help knowing
that Jerry is what you've made him; that his ideals, his simplicity,
his purity are yours also."
If she had baited her hook with flattery there was no sign of
premeditation in the gentleness of her accents or in the friendly look
she gave me. Could it be possible that this was the person in whom I
had seen such a menace to Jerry's happiness?
"I have merely taught Jerry to be honest, Miss Van Wyck," I replied.
"I ask no credit of him or of you."
"But if it pleases me to give it to you," she said softly, "you surely
can't object."
"No, but I don't ask laurels I don't deserve. Jerry is--merely
himself."
"Plus, Mr. Roger Canby--purist and pedagogue," she laughed. "No, you
can't get out of it. Jerry reflects you; I think I actually recognize
inflections of the voice. You ought to be very glad to have laid so
strong an impress on so fine a thing."
Just then I heard the raucous laugh of Channing Lloyd from the
distant lawn, which reminded me with a startling suddenness that this
slender creature who spoke softly of ideals and purity could choose a
man like this fellow for an intimate. I noticed, too, the delicate
odor which rose from her corsage of which Jack Ballard had spoken,
something subtle and unfamiliar.
I straightened and looked out through the open window, steeling myself
against her.
"I am glad you think him fine," I said dryly. "No doubt he compares
very favorably with other young men of your acquaintance."
"You mean Mr. Lloyd, of course," she said quickly.
I was silent, avoiding her gaze and her perfume.
"I'm afraid you don't understand me, Mr. Canby," she said softly. "I'm
sorry. Any friend of Jerry's ought to be a friend of mine."
"I should like to be, of course, but--"
I paused. This woman, against my will, was making me lie to her.
"But what--? Am I so--so unpleasant to you? What have I done to earn
your displeasure?"
"Nothing," I stammered. "Nothing."
"Is it that you fear the contamination of the kind of culture I've
been bred and born in? Or the effect of my familiarity with doctrines
with which you're not in sympathy?"
Was she mocking? Her voice was still gentle, but I had a notion that
inside of her she was laughing. It was as though, having failed to win
me, she was beginning to unmask. I peered into her face. It was
guileless and wore the appealing expression of a reproachful child.
"You do not understand," I said. "I fear nothing for Jerry. He is
strong enough to stand alone. I hope you know just how strong he is,
that's all."
She was a little puzzled--and interested.
"I hope I do; but I wish you would explain."
I turned toward her quickly.
"I mean this. You and he are very different. He cares for you, of
course. It was to be expected, because you're everything that he is
not. Whatever you are, Jerry will be serious. And you can't bind the
characters of two strong people together without mutilating one or the
other, or perhaps both. Jerry will believe everything you tell him and
continue to believe it unless you deceive him. He's ingenuous, but I
hope you won't underestimate him."
She fingered the leaves of a rose, but her eyes under their lids were
looking elsewhere.
"How should I deceive him, Mr. Canby?" she asked, her voice still
unchanging.
"Perhaps I put it too baldly. But I'm not in the habit; of mincing
words. Jerry is no plaything. I'll give you an instance of how much in
earnest he is." And then briefly, but with some sense of the color of
the thing, I gave her a description of Jerry's bout with Sagorski. She
listened without looking at me, while her slender fingers caressed the
rose leaf, but beneath their lids I saw; her eyes flashing. When I had
finished I turned to her with a smile.
"That's the kind of man that Jerry is--harmless, docile and most
agreeable, but let him be aroused--"
I paused, letting the paralipsis finish my suggestion.
She was silent a moment, finally turning to me with a laugh that rang
a little discordantly against the softness of her speech.
"Jerry wouldn't beat _me_, would he, Mr. Canby?"
"I'm sure I haven't the least means of knowing," I replied.
"You are merely warning me, I see. Thanks. But I'm afraid you give me
credit for greater hardihood than I possess. On the whole I think I'm
flattered."
She snipped a bud and put it to her lips as though to conceal a smile,
and then passed me slowly.
"Come, Mr. Canby," she said. "I think it's time we joined the others."
It was. The night was cool, but I was perspiring profusely.