TWO EMBASSIES
There was something particularly brutal to me in hearing this estimate
of Marcia Van Wyck's visit to Jerry through the lips of a servant. And
yet I felt no remorse at encouraging the confession. Good Christopher
was not brilliant, and only the most obvious of things impressed him,
but he had seen, and like me, had judged. And his judgment was even
more damning than mine, for Christopher was an amicable person, who
doddered along, accepting life as it came, too weary for enmities, or
too well trained to show them. It must have been at the cost of a
severe wrench to his habits and traditions that he had dared to speak
so freely. Good old Christopher! Ten years of the monastic life had
narrowed your vision and mine, but they had made that vision
singularly clear.
During that night in my hours of wakefulness before sleep came, I
studied Jerry's infatuation from every angle. I feared for him. The
moment of awakening was approaching, and then? Whatever the hidden
weaknesses in his moral fiber, thus suddenly subjected to strain, he
was not one to be lightly dealt with by man or woman. He was gentle,
soft, if you please, childlike with those he loved, but there was
dangerous mettle in him not to be tampered with by trickery or guile.
Christopher had shown me with his uncompromising bluntness what I had
merely suspected; the girl loved danger and saw it in Jerry's eyes,
fascinated by the imminence of peril that lurked in his innocence. A
strange passion, calculating, cold, abnormal. And Jerry loved this
girl--adored her, as though she were a sacred vessel, a fragile thing,
that would break in his fingers! I began to hope that he would break
her (and to fear it), crush her and discover her emptiness.
The morrow brought a resolve to visit Briar Hills. Except for the
afternoons when Jerry fished, he went there daily. He was delighted at
my wish to accompany him. We drove over in the motor in the flush of
the afternoon, Jerry blithe again, I silent, wondering at the
inexhaustible springs of youth, forgetting that it was merely May and
Jerry on his way to the woman he loved.
The house was full of guests for the week-end, but Marcia Van Wyck,
with an air of hospitality that quite took me aback, welcomed me
warmly, confessed herself much honored by this mark of my attention
and took me to see her garden. Oh, she was clever. Spring flowers,
youth, grace, the sweetness of the warm, scented paths, her symbolic
white frock to set the scene for innocence. But I understood her now.
Two could play at her game.
"It was wonderful of you to come, Mr. Canby," she purred. "So kind, so
neighborly."
"It's really a great pleasure, I'm sure," I said with a show of
gallantry. "A lovely spot! Blossoms. I wondered where you got them for
your cheeks."
She flashed a quick glance at me, wholly humorous.
"For that speech, you shall have a bud for your lapel." And she
plucked and fastened it, her face very close to mine. She gave me a
moment of intense discomfort which was only half embarrassment. She
had planned well. She was a part of the purity and sweetness of this
lovely summer garden. Guile and she were miles asunder.
"Thanks," I muttered, smelling the blossom with some ostentation.
"Then we're going to be friends?" she queried archly.
"I'm not aware that we were ever anything else," I replied easily.
"Come now, Mr. Canby. You know we haven't always understood each
other. I'm sure each of us has been frightfully jealous of the other.
Isn't it so?"
"Jealous! I? Of you, Miss Van Wyck?"
"Don't let's misunderstand again. I'm frightfully cheerful this
afternoon. It mightn't happen again for weeks. I couldn't quarrel with
fate itself. You did want Jerry to carry your doctrines out into the
world with him, didn't you?"
"I'm not aware--"
"And I discovered him far too stodgy to endure. It wasn't so much that
your philosophy and mine differed as the difference they made in
Jerry. And so we clashed. I won."
I was silent.
"Didn't I, Mr. Canby?" she persisted, in her gentlest tone.
"Jerry is out of my hands, Miss Van Wyck," I managed coolly.
"And in mine?"
"Yes, in yours," after a pause.
She laughed softly.
"What do you suppose I'm going to do with him?"
The glamour of youth in a garden, her rare humor and the cloudless
day--I had managed well so far, but she pressed me hard. Jerry was no
chattel to be bandied carelessly. I felt my body stiffening.
"Jerry is very sweet, Mr. Canby," she went on with that softness of
voice that I had grown to understand. "He does anything, everything
that I ask him to. It really is a great responsibility. Human judgment
is so fallible, especially a woman's. Suppose I asked him to become a
nihilist or President, or even both."
D--- the vixen. She was making game of me. But I struggled to hold my
temper, taking her literally.
"Nihilism? Political or moral, Miss Van Wyck? To one of your means,
the first would be inconvenient; to one of your affections, the other
dangerous."
She flashed a narrow glance at me. "_Touchée._ I like the thrust from
cover, but I can parry. Suppose that I said that I would relinquish
Jerry."
"I'm not sure that you can," I replied coolly.
Our glances met again. She knew that I read her.
"Nothing is impossible to intelligence. I could send him away
tomorrow, today--"
"But he would come back."
"You frighten me," she said, shuddering prettily.
"That is precisely what I wish to do," I went on stolidly.
"Threats!"
I shrugged. "You underestimate him, that's all."
"Perhaps. You know, Mr. Canby, that you improve vastly on
acquaintance. If you were younger--" She paused and looked at me
slantwise.
"Ingenuous, handsome, a fighting god--!"
I could have bitten out my tongue the moment I had spoken the words,
and the dark look she shot at me as she flashed around gave a measure
of her latent deviltry.
"Jerry told you that!" she said in tones half-suppressed.
"No."
"He did."
"No. But I know. I haven't watched for a month for nothing. I'm not a
child, Miss Van Wyck."
"What are you?" she taunted.
"A prophet. Jerry is no woman's plaything. Let him be. You don't know
him as I do. I warn you."
She suddenly went into a fit of laughter, meant to ruffle my dignity.
"Off with my head! If you knew how much you remind me of the _Queen_
in 'Alice in Wonderland'!"
"I'm sorry you won't take me seriously."
"I can't," she laughed again. "You're too absurd to be tragic."
"Perhaps we had better be going toward the house," I remarked.
She moved slowly along, her back eloquent of disdain. But she paused
for a moment to let me join her.
"You see? I've tried. You won't be friendly."
"My advice is friendly--"
"I never follow advice. We're enemies. It is written."
I shrugged. Impolite I may have been, but there was no use mincing
matters. My preposterous embassy had failed. As we neared the house
she left me on the lawn and turned to where Jerry and the others were
moving toward the tennis courts.
"You'll find Miss Gore upon the veranda," she smiled over her shoulder
with careless gayety. She was extraordinary. But I'm sure that never
before had I hated the girl as at that moment. Thoughtfully I made my
way to the veranda and Miss Gore.
"Well," she said cheerfully as I sank into a chair, "you are friends
again?"
"No."
"It's really too bad. I think you take life too seriously, Mr. Canby."
"Perhaps." I remained silent. She worked at her embroidery frame for a
moment as though to attune herself to my mood and then:
"Briar Hills can't hope for a visit which hasn't an ulterior purpose.
What is it?"
As usual she wasted no words and smiled benignly, a comfortable
motherly smile at once quizzical and forgiving.
"I _did_ want to see you," I put in awkwardly. "It has been a long
time--"
"I'll spare you the necessity for explanations. You're here to tell me
that Jerry is drinking and to find out why. Isn't that so?"
I could only stare at her in wonder at her intuitions, and made some
remark which she chose to disregard.
"As I predicted, the disease is passing," she said quietly, "but it's
leaving Marcia first. Three weeks ago Jerry was a god to Marcia. Last
week she showed signs of disenchantment. This week she is plainly
bored."
"I guessed as much. But why?"
She shrugged her shoulders expressively, but having gone so far I was
not there to waste words.
"I know. Her idol fell in Madison Square Garden, a bone-and-muscle
idol, Miss Gore."
She remained silent, examining her embroidery with a critical eye.
"You know that that is true," I asserted.
"Idols are as easily made as shattered for Marcia. She may adore him
again next week."
"I hope not. It would be a pity."
"I agree with you," she said quietly. "It would be a pity."
I said nothing for a moment, watching her slim fingers weaving to and
fro.
"I have just warned her," I said.
The fingers moved slowly, then stopped and lowered the embroidery
frame to her lap. Her wide gaze was full upon me.
"You--what?"
"I warned her."
"Against what?"
"Against Jerry."
She straightened and a sound came from her throat.
"You--"
She gave a short laugh. "You'll pardon me, Mr. Canby, but I was on the
point of calling you a fool."
"I warned her," I muttered. "Jerry isn't like other men. She's playing
with fire."
"And don't you know that that is the very worst thing you could have
done, for Jerry--for her?"
"I hadn't meant to do exactly that. She angered me."
"She would. Her idea of existence isn't yours. And if you don't mind
my saying so, I think you're wasting your time on the possible chance
of making Jerry appear ridiculous to her, to us all. Your guardianship
is hardly flattering to his intelligence or his character. You can't
help matters. Whatever the crisis, it is bound to come, the sooner the
better for Jerry and for her. My good man, can't you _see_?"
I had realized my futility already, and it was not pleasant to have it
shown me through another's eyes. Nor did I relish her calling me her
"good man," but curiously enough when she had finished I made no
reply. And so I sat meekly, Miss Gore resuming her embroidery.
"It is a pity that he cares for no other girls. There's Margaret
Laidlaw, pretty, attractive, feminine, and Sarah Carew, handsome,
sportive, masculine. One would think he'd find a choice between them
and they both like him. But no, he has eyes in his head for Marcia
only. A moment ago when he was talking to them, his gaze was on the
flower-garden. Has he never cared for any other women? Who was the
girl who got inside the wall last year, Mr. Canby?"
Una! I had forgotten her. But I shook my head.
"I meddle no more, Miss Gore. I've learned a lesson. Jerry must work
out his own salvation."
"It's merely a suggestion. Think it over."
After awhile I rose, pleading the need of exercise and begging her to
make my excuses to Marcia, I set out for the Manor. But instead of
taking the longer road to the lodge gate, when I reached the wall I
turned to the left into the footpath along which I had come that night
with the girl Una, reaching the Sweetwater and crawling under the
broken grille to the rocks where she and Jerry had met. I sat for
awhile on the brink of the stream, watching the tangling reflections
in the tiny current. Una! Somehow the place reminded me of Una
Habberton, a sanctuary for quiet thoughts; the pools below me, her
eyes reflecting the clear heavens; the intonation of the rill, her
voice; the cheerful birdnotes, her joy of life; the dignity of the
tall trees, her sanity. Less than a year ago I had turned her out of
this garden, fearing for the boy the first woman he had seen, and to
my ascetic mind because a woman, a minx. I eyed the broken grille
regretfully and then suddenly rose and started hurriedly toward the
Manor, the new thought drumming in my mind.
A fool's mission? Perhaps, and yet I resolved to take it. I put some
things into a bag and, telling Christopher that Jerry wasn't to expect
me home that night, I caught an evening train to the city.
It was not difficult to reach her by telephone, for I found her at the
house in Washington Square. She did not recall my voice or my name,
and only when I said that I had been Jerry Benham's tutor, did she
remember. It was a personal matter, I explained, having to do with Mr.
Benham, and at that she consented to see me. I left the telephone
booth at the hotel perspiring freely, aware for the first time of the
awkwardness and delicacy of my undertaking. But I dined and changed
into my blue serge suit, one that I had bought upon the occasion of my
last visit to town, and at half past eight presented myself in the
Habberton drawing-room. In the moments before she appeared, I sat ill
at ease, my eyes taking in every detail of the well-ordered room, the
cool gray walls, the family portraits, the old-fashioned ornaments
upon table and mantel, aware, in spite of myself, that I was warm at
the collar, impatient for the interview to begin, yet fearful for it.
I was watching the folding doors at the end of the room when she
startled me by appearing silently almost at my elbow. The lights were
dim, but I could see that her face wore no smile of greeting and as I
rose she did not offer me her hand.
"Mr. Canby," she said politely, indicating a chair, "won't you sit
down?"
"Er--thanks," I said. My throat was dry. I hoped she would not make it
too difficult for me. Meanwhile I saw her eyeing me narrowly as though
the possibility had just occurred to her that I might have come to ask
for money. She waited a moment for me to speak, but I found it
difficult to begin.
"Mr. Benham sent you to me?" she asked at last very coolly.
"Er--not exactly," I stammered. "Mr. Benham did not send me, but
I--I'm here in his interest."
"Yes?"
The rising inflection on the monosyllable could hardly have been
called encouraging.
"The circumstance of our first meeting," I ventured again with an
assumption of ease that I was far from feeling--"its duration was so
brief that I feared you wouldn't remember me."
Her neck stiffened ever so slightly.
"You surely did not come here," she said icily, "merely to discuss the
circumstances of our first meeting."
"N--no, not at all, at least, not altogether, Miss Habberton. But I--I
couldn't help hoping--" here I tried to smile--a ghastly one at
best--"I couldn't help hoping that you had managed to forgive me for
performing a very unpleasant duty."
"If you will please come as quickly as possible to the object of your
visit--"
"I--I will. If you'll be a little patient with me."
She averted her head, but said nothing.
"I think you know, Miss Habberton, that I've given the last eleven
years of my life to Jerry. He has been like a younger brother to me
and I have done what I could to develop him physically, mentally,
morally, to successful manhood. I had hoped under ideal conditions to
produce--"
"I fail to see, Mr. Canby--"
"Please bear with me a moment longer. I think you may have realized
last year what Jerry was. You saw him then, a creature with the body
and intelligence of a man and the heart of a child. He was what I had
made him. From my point of view he was flawless, as nearly perfect as
you will find a man in this--"
"Without temptations," she put in quickly, the first encouraging sign
of her interest.
"I had built my hopes as I had built his body and mind and character,
sure that contact with the world would only refine and strengthen
him."
She shook her head. "You do not know the world as I do. It was a
dream. I could have told you so then, last summer."
"You--you have seen the papers--the accounts of--?"
"I don't see how I could very well help seeing them," she said
smiling. "He began his battle with the world bravely at least."
"My only hope is that you haven't misjudged him in that affair. All
his life he has cared for boxing--"
"I can't see what difference my judgment of him can make one way or
the other. He has done much, is doing much for the people I'm
interested in. Of course, you know of that. But as to his private
life--that is something with which, of course, I can have no concern."
"I am sorry to hear you say that. I thought perhaps that as a
friend--"
"Mr. Benham understands my interest in him, I think," she paused and
averted her head, one small foot tapping the floor impatiently. "I
cannot see where this conversation is leading us. I beg that you will
be explicit."
"I was counting on your interest, for he values your good opinion more
I think than that of anyone in the world."
Her foot ceased tapping and she bent forward, one elbow on her knee,
her head lowered thoughtfully.
"What do you want, Mr. Canby?" she asked abruptly.
"Your help."
"Mine!"
"Yes, your help. Jerry needs it--"
"He did not ask--?"
"No. I haven't consulted Jerry--"
"Then I--"
"Please listen. If Jerry's future means anything to you, you will do
what you can. Jerry has--has gotten into bad company--he is slipping,
Miss Habberton--slipping down. I don't know whose the fault is, his
father's for his idealism, or mine for my selfish delight in the
experiment of his education, but Jerry is failing us. You see, I'm
telling you all. I have given up. A dream, you have called it. It was
a dream; but I can't see him fail without an effort to help him. When
a man centers all his hopes in life on one ambition, its failure is
tragic. You see I'm humble. It has cost me something to come to you. I
hope you understand what it means."
My appeal had reached her, for I think she realized how seldom such a
person as I could be moved to emotion.
"But I--how can I help?" she asked.
"Will you listen and not think me visionary? Jerry cares for you. To
him you have made a different appeal from that of any other woman in
the world. You were the first. You stirred him. You may not be aware.
In his mind you stand for everything that is clean and noble. In his
heart, I know--I have not studied Jerry all these years for
nothing--he has a shrine there--for you, Miss Habberton. You will
always be Una, the first. I hope you will forgive me and believe me.
It is necessary that you should."
She smiled at me gently.
"You are very much in earnest, Mr. Canby. I can forgive much to one
of your sincerity. But doesn't it seem to you a curious conversation?"
"I had hoped you cared enough--"
"And if I did, do you think anything would give you the right to come
to me without Mr. Benham's permission and speak of--"
"You must let me finish," I demanded. "You are kind, charitable.
Trying to save people from themselves is your life work. I merely
bring you a soul to save, a friend in danger. Can you refuse, refuse
him? Jerry is drinking. It has not been for long, but he is in
trouble. He has gotten beyond his depth--a woman--Oh, don't
misunderstand me! It is mental, a strange attraction, weird, Jerry
doesn't understand at all. He's bewitched, but she is slowly
brutalizing him, his mind I mean. Don't you understand?"
"Yes, I think so," she muttered. "It is not a new situation. But I--no
friend, man or girl, could avail in a case like that." She paused a
moment clasping and unclasping her hands. I waited.
"Who is this--this woman?" she blurted out at last.
I hesitated.
"A lady. You--you put me at a disadvantage."
"What is her name?" she insisted.
"Marcia Van Wyck," I muttered.
"Marcia! Surely--" She stopped. A look of bewilderment came over her
face, ending with a frown of perplexity.
"No," she murmured. "He wouldn't understand Marcia. I--" And then with
a gasp, "And you want _me_ to interfere? Mr. Canby, I--"
"Just a moment, please. I ask nothing that you cannot do. I have
thought of a plan. We are alone at the Manor. I ask you to meet Jerry
as you met him there last summer along by the Sweetwater. I am going
to arrange to have him fish up the stream on Saturday afternoon. Will
you come, Miss Habberton, come to the wall and meet him there inside
the broken grille? I know his mind. It is curiously affected by facts
of association. It is the only thing. I have--"
The words died on my lips as she rose, her slim figure straight in its
sudden dignity, and I knew that I had failed.
"Your proposal is preposterous, Mr. Canby," she said coolly, moving
toward the door.
"You refuse?"
"Of course. I am sorry if Mr. Benham has failed, is failing his
friends, but the thing that you suggest is impossible." She put out
her hand in token of dismissal.
"And you won't reconsider? Let me come to see you tomorrow, the next
day. Is it so much that I ask?"
"Good night, Mr. Canby."
"You do not care enough?"
"Good night."
I bowed over her fingers silently.
Then I took up my hat. There was nothing left to do.