THE PATH IN THE WOOD
Had I not been obsessed with the desire at all costs to divert the
unhappy tide of Jerry's infatuation, I must have known that no girl
such as Una Habberton could lend herself as accessory to a plan like
mine. I had had evidence enough that she cared for Jerry in a tender,
almost a motherly way, and while I had been unsuccessful in my
mission, I now saw no reason to change my opinion. Indeed, in my hotel
room that night, the more I thought of the interview the more
convinced I was that whatever modesty deterred her, it was the very
fact of her caring so much that made the thing impossible to her. Her
air of indifference, carefully assumed, had not hidden the rapid rise
and fall of her breast at the confession of my fears. The inquietude
of her manner, the curiosity which had permitted me to finish my
story, were proof convincing that her interests in Jerry were more
than ordinarily involved, and the more I thought of her attitude the
more I wondered at my own temerity.
A brazen minx I had once thought her, but tonight in her plain white
frock and sober conventional surroundings she seemed to show something
of the quiet poise of a nurse or a nun. She seemed to exemplify the
thought that the ideal woman is both wood-nymph and madonna. By
contrast to the Nietzschian intriguer I had left that morning at
Briar Hills, she was a paragon of all virtues. Nietzsche! The
philosopher of the sty! Freud, his runt!
When, the following morning, I found Jack Ballard in his apartment at
eleven (as usual fastening his cravat) I told him of the unfortunate
end to my ventures, but he only laughed at me.
"My dear Pope," he said, "you are suffering from a severe attack of
paternomania. If you don't mind my saying so, you're making a
prodigious ass of yourself and of Jerry. If I were the boy, I'd pack
you out bag and baggage. Imagine it! Put yourself in his place. Would
_you_ like any meddling in your little affairs of gallantry?" And he
laughed aloud at his joke. I scowled at him, but passed the absurd
remark in dignified silence.
"If it _were_ an affair of gallantry!" I said at last, "I could
forgive him that, and her. But this--it's mere milk and water and he
thinks it's the nectar of the gods. The pity of it!"
"A pity, yes. But who is responsible? Not Jerry, surely. He's what
you've made him," Jack paused expressively. "Does he--?" he began and
paused. I read his meaning.
"No," I said.
"Um! Knowledge will come like a thunderclap to Jerry. Then--look out!"
I agreed with him.
"But Jerry's amatory ventures are none of your business, Pope," he
went on. "Let the boy go the limit. He has got to do it. It won't hurt
him. I told you that Marcia would help him cut his eye-teeth. She's
doing it in approved modern fashion, without instruments or gas.
He'll recover. Let 'em alone. I'll tell you what to do. Just put your
precious dialectics in cold storage awhile--they'll keep; nobody'll
thaw 'em out unless you do--and take a trip to 'Frisco."
"Frisco or not, I meddle no more."
"Frankenstein!" he laughed again. "The monster is getting away from
you."
"If you're going to be facetious--"
"There are times when nothing else is possible. This is one of 'em.
Brace up, old boy. All's lost but hope and that's going soon. You go
home and take a pill. You're yellow. Perhaps I'll come up for the
week-end for Marcia's party, you know,--if you'll promise to have the
beds well-aired. I'm sure they're reminiscent of Jerry's pugs. Going?
Oh, very well. Love to Jerry. And remember, old top, that a man is as
heaven made him and sometimes a great deal worse."
This was the comforting reflection I took with me to the train that
afternoon. But I was now resigned. I had done what I could and failed.
The only thing left, it seemed, was to reconcile myself to the
situation, seek a friendship with Marcia and await the _débâcle_.
I made, of course, no mention of the object of my visit to New York
and Jerry gave me no confidences. He went to town Tuesday and
Wednesday, returned tired and sullen. And the next night after a long
period alone in the study in which I had managed at last to get my
mind on my work, I found Jerry in the dining-room quite drunk with the
brandy bottle beside him. He was ugly and disposed to be quarrelsome,
but I got him to bed at last, suffering myself no graver damage than a
bruised biceps where his great fingers had grasped me. Jack Ballard's
remark about Frankenstein was no joke. That night a monster Jerry was;
from the bottom of my heart I pitied him.
I argued with Jerry in the morning, pleaded with him and threatened to
leave the Manor, but he was so contrite, so earnest in his promises of
reformation that I couldn't find it in my heart to go. I proposed a
trip to Europe, but he refused.
"Not now, Roger," he demurred. "I've got to stay here now. Just stick
around with me for awhile, won't you, old chap?"
"Will you stop drinking?" I asked.
"Brandy?"
"Everything."
"H--m. You're the devil of a martinet."
"Will you?"
It was the supreme test of what remained of my influence over him. His
head ached, I'm sure, for he looked a wreck. I watched his face
anxiously. He went to the table, took a cigarette from the box and
lighted it deliberately. Then turning, faced me with a smile, and
offered his hand.
"Yes," he said. "Old Dry-as-dust, I will."
"A promise? You've never broken one, Jerry."
"A promise, Roger. I--I think I'm getting a little glimmering of
sense. A promise. I'll keep it."
"Thank God, for that," I said, in so fervent a tone that the boy
smiled at me.
"Good old Roger! You're a brick," he said. "Friendship, after all, is
the greatest thing in the world." He turned his head and walked to
the window and looked out, assuming an air of unconcern which I knew
hid some deep-seated emotion. I, too, was silent. It was a fine moment
for us both.
He turned into the room after awhile with an air of gayety.
"We're going to have a party, Roger."
"Ah, when?"
"Marcia's giving a dance tomorrow night, people from all over, and
I'll have a few of 'em here in the afternoon--for tea out at the
cabin. Sort of a picnic. Some of 'em are bringing rods to try the
early fishing. Rather jolly, eh? I'll tell Poole and Christopher--"
I confessed myself much pleased with this arrangement and thanked my
stars that Una had refused me. It was the day I had wanted her.
Indeed, since Jerry's promise, life at the Manor had suddenly taken a
different complexion. A new hope was born in me. Jerry would keep that
promise. I was sure of it.
I will come as rapidly as possible to the extraordinary happenings of
that Saturday afternoon, which as much as any other event in this
entire history, portrays the mutability of the feminine mind. I had
gone out to the cabin to see that everything was in order, and Jerry
was to follow later, while a few of the men fished up stream, Marcia
and some of her guests driving in motors to the upper gate, cutting
across to the cabin through the woods. Christopher had cleared the
cabin and he and Poole had brought the eatables and set a table. The
two days that had passed since Jerry had given me his promise had been
cheerful ones for the boy. I had not seen Miss Gore, but for aught I
knew Marcia Van Wyck might have been adoring Jerry again. I did not
care what her mood was. All would come right, for Jerry had given me a
promise and he would not break it. The arrangements within the cabin
having been completed, I went outside and wandered a short way down
the path toward the stream, sat on a rock and became at once engaged
in my favorite woodland game of counting birdcalls. Thrushes and
robins, warblers, sparrows, finches, all engaged in the employment
that Jerry had described as "hopping around a bit," or chirping,
calling, singing until the air was melodious with sound. The birdman's
surprise, a new note differing from the others, a loud clear gurgling
song, brought me to my feet and I went on down the path listening. It
was different from the note of a wren which it resembled, that of a
Lincoln sparrow, I was sure, a rarity at the Manor, only one specimen
of which Jerry possessed. But midway in my pursuit of the elusive bird
I saw movement in the path in front of me and I caught a glimpse of
leather leggins and a skirt. In a moment all thought of my Lincoln
sparrow was gone from my head. At first I thought the visitor one of
Jerry's guests, but as she approached, butterfly net in hand, I saw
that it was Una Habberton. So great was my surprise at seeing her that
I stood, mouth open, stupidly staring. But she was laughing at me.
"You're a nice one," she was saying. "Here I am a trespasser through
the grille and not a soul to greet me."
"You came," I muttered inanely.
"Obviously; since here I am. It's Saturday, isn't it?"
"Yes. But--" I paused.
"But what?"
"You said you wouldn't come."
"Oh," she laughed. "I merely changed my mind--my privilege, you know.
I was a trifle stale. I thought it would do me good. But you don't
seem in the least glad to see me."
I was--delighted. Joy was one of the things that made me dumb.
"I was just trying to realize--er--Won't you sit down? On a rock, I
mean. Jerry's somewhere about. He'll be along in a minute."
The possible effect on Una of Jerry's guests, who also might be along
in a minute, was just beginning to bewilder me.
"He's fishing?"
"He was to meet me at the cabin. He'll be along presently. It will be
a wonderful surprise. Suppose we hadn't been out here at all?"
"I was prepared to go all the way to the house. Nice of me, wasn't it?
You know I promised Jerry some day I'd come to see his collection."
"He'll be delighted--Ho! There's his whistle now." I sounded the
familiar call on my fingers and moved toward the cabin, but she
stopped me.
"You're not to leave me, Mr. Canby, or I'll go."
"Why?"
"A chance meeting would have been different. This is premeditation.
Don't leave me. Do you hear!"
I nodded and when Jerry came in sight I called him. He appeared in the
path, a basket of wine in one hand, a fishing rod in the other.
"Hello, Roger," he shouted and then paused, setting the basket down.
"I didn't know--"
"A surprise, Jerry!"
"Why, it's Una!" he cried. "Una! What on earth--?"
"I was butterflying, and wandered through." She laughed. "I told you
to have that railing mended."
"The necessity for that is past," he laughed gayly. "Oh, it's jolly
good to see you."
He took her by both hands and held her off from him examining her
delightedly.
"It seems like yesterday. I'm not sure it isn't yesterday that you
broke in and I was going to throw you over the wall. Imagine it! You!
You're just the same--so different from the sober little mouse of
Blank Street. I believe you have on the very same clothes, the same
gaiters--"
"Naturally. Do you think I'm a millionaire?"
Three was a crowd. I would have given my right hand to have
transported the cabin and all the gay people expected there to the
ends of the earth. In a moment the woods would be full of them. I was
at a loss what to do, for when they came the bird would take flight,
but Jerry seemed to have forgotten everything but the girl before him.
It was a real enthusiasm and happiness that he showed, the first in
weeks.
"So you expected to slip in and out without being caught, did you?"
Jerry was saying. "Pretty sort of a friend, you are! You might at
least have let a fellow know you were going to be in this part of the
world; where are you staying?"
"I don't see how that's the slightest concern of yours," she said
demurely.
"The same old Una!" cried Jerry delightedly. "Always making game of a
fellow. Do sit down again and let's have a chat. It seems ages since
I've seen you. How's the day nursery coming on? Did you get the last
check? I meant to stop in and see the plans. I couldn't, though," he
frowned a little. "Something turned up. Business, you know."
"Jerry _is_ busy," I put in mischievously, as I sat down beside them.
"He worked Tuesday and Wednesday this week."
"Aren't you afraid of injuring your health, Jerry?" she asked sweetly.
"I hope you're not working _too_ hard."
He frowned and then burst into laughter.
"Roger's a chump. He sits staring at a sheet of foolscap all day and
thinks he's working. I do work, though. I'm reorganizing a railroad,"
he finished proudly.
"How splendid! I'm sure it needs it. Railroads are the most
disorganized and disorganizing--"
"And I'm engaged in a freight war with a rival steamship company. It's
perfectly bully. I've got 'em backed off the map. We're carrying stuff
for almost nothing and they're howling for help." He had taken out his
pipe and was lighting it. "I'm going to buy 'em out," he finished.
"But you don't want to hear about _me_. What are--"
"I do. Of course"--and she exchanged a quick glance with me. "Of
course, I see a little about you in the papers--your interest in
athletics--"
"Oh, I say, Una," he cried, flushing a dark red. "It's not fair to--"
"I'm fearfully interested," she persisted calmly. "You know it's
actually gotten me into the habit of the sporting page. 'Walloping'
Houligan and 'Scotty' Smith, the Harlem knock-out artist, are no
longer empty names for me. They're real people with jabs and things."
"It's not kind of you--"
"I've been waiting breathlessly for your next encounter. I hope it's
with 'Scotty.' It would be so much more of an achievement to win from
a real knock-out artist--"
"Stop it, Una," he cried painfully. "I forbid you--"
"Do you mean," she asked innocently, "that you don't like to
discuss--"
"I--I'd rather talk of something else," he stammered. "I've stopped
boxing."
"Why?" wide-eyed. "The newspapers were wild about you. It _was_ a
fluke, wasn't it--Clancy 'getting' you in the ninth?"
"No," he muttered sullenly, "he whipped me fairly."
"Really. I'm awfully sorry. When one sets one's heart upon a thing--"
"Will you be quiet, Una?" he cried impetuously. "I won't have you
talking this way, of these things. I--I was jollied into the thing. I
mean," with a glance at me, "I never thought of the consequences.
It--it was only a lark. I'm out of it, for good."
"Oh!" she said in a subdued tone, her gaze upon a distant tree-trunk.
"It's too bad."
Whatever she meant by that cryptic remark, Jerry looked most
uncomfortable. Her irony had cut him to the quick, and her humor had
flayed his quivering sensibilities. That he took it without anger
argued much for the quality of the esteem in which he held her.
Another person, even I, in similar circumstances, would have courted
demolition. Secretly, I was delighted. She had struck just the right
note. He still writhed inwardly, but he made no effort at unconcern. I
think he was perfectly willing that she should be a witness of his
self-abasement.
"I was an idiot, Una, a conceited, silly fool. I deserve everything
you say. I think it makes me a little happier to hear you say it,
because if you weren't my friend you'd have kept quiet."
"I haven't said anything," she remarked urbanely. "And of course it's
none of my affair."
"But it _is_," he was insisting.
I had risen, for along the path some people were coming. Jerry and
Una, their backs being turned, were so absorbed in their conversation
that they did not hear the rustle of footsteps, but when I rose they
glanced at me and saw my face. I would have liked to have spirited
them away, but it was too late. I made out the visitors now, Marcia,
Phil Laidlaw, Sarah Carew and Channing Lloyd. I saw a change come in
Jerry's face, as though a gray cloud had passed over it. Una started
up, butterfly-net in hand, and glanced from one to the other of us, a
question in her eyes, her face a trifle set.
"Oh, here you are," Marcia's soft voice was saying. "It seemed ages
getting here."
Jerry took charge of the situation with a discretion that did the
situation credit.
"Marcia, you know Miss Habberton--Miss Van Wyck."
"Of course," they both echoed coolly. Marcia examining Una
impertinently, Una cheerfully indifferent.
"Miss Habberton and I were after butterflies," said Jerry, "but she
has promised to stop for tea."
"I really ought to be going, Jerry," said Una.
"But you can't, you know, after promising," said Jerry with a smile.
The introductions made, the party moved on toward the cabin, Miss
Habberton and I bringing up the rear.
"I could kill you for this," she whispered to me and the glance she
gave me half-accomplished her wish.
"It isn't my fault," I protested. "I didn't know they were coming
until yesterday--and you know you said--"
"Well, you ought to have warned me. I've no patience with you--none."
"But, my dear child--"
"I feel like a fool--and it's your fault."
"But how could I--?"
"You _ought_ to have known."
Women I knew were not reasonable beings, but I expected better things
than this of Una. I followed meekly, aware of my insufficiency. I felt
sorry if Una was uncomfortable, but I had seen enough of her to know
that she was quite able to cope with any situation in which she might
be placed. Marcia with Jerry had gone on ahead and I saw that, while
the girl was talking up at him, Jerry walked with his head very erect.
The situation was not clear to Marcia. I will give her the credit of
saying that she had a sense of divination which was little short of
the miraculous. It must have puzzled her to find Una here if, as I
suspected. Jerry made her the confidante of all his plans, present and
future--Una Habberton, the girl who had ventured alone within the
wall, the account of whose visit had once caused a misunderstanding
between them. The thought of Una's visit I think must have always been
a thorn in Marcia's side, for Jerry's strongest hold on Marcia's
imagination was nurtured by the thought that she, Marcia, was the
first, the only woman that Jerry had ever really known. And here was
her forgotten and lightly esteemed predecessor sporting with Jerry in
the shade!
In the cabin we made a gay party. Una, I am sure, in spite of her
cheerful pretense with Phil Laidlaw, had a woman's intuition of
Marcia's antagonism. Jerry joined and chatted in Una's group for a
moment, but I could see that he had lost something of his buoyancy. I
watched Marcia keenly. Though absorbed apparently in the pouring of
the tea, a self-appointed prerogative which she had assumed with
something of an air--(meant, I am sure, for Una)--her narrowly veiled
eyes lost no detail of any happening in Una's group, and her ears, I
am sure, no detail of its conversation. Subtle glances, stolen or
portentous, shot between them, and Jerry, poor lad, wandered from one
to the other like some great ship becalmed in a tropic sea aware of an
impending tempest, yet powerless to prevent its approach.
Una Habberton, I would like to say, had recovered her composure
amazingly. Phil Laidlaw was an old acquaintance whom she very much
liked and in a while they were chatting gayly, exchanging
reminiscences with such a rare degree of concord and amusement that it
seemed to matter little to either of them who else was in the room.
But Una, I think, in spite of this abstraction, missed nothing of
Marcia's slightest glances. She said nothing more of going. It seemed
almost as though, war having tacitly been declared, she was on her
mettle for the test whatever it was to be. I had not misjudged her.
She knew Marcia Van Wyck, and what she did not know she suspected, and
by the light of that knowledge (and that suspicion) had a little of
contempt for her.