JERRY ASKS QUESTIONS
Fortunately for me, neither Jack Ballard nor the expected overflow
from the Van Wyck house-party came to disturb the serenity of my
thoughts, Jack being suddenly called to Newport, the guests having
been taken in elsewhere. So I sat up alone for Jerry until late and
finally went to bed, happily conscious that my embassy, impossible as
it had seemed, had borne fruit after all. Jerry did not go to Marcia
Van Wyck's party, and his evening clothes remained where Christopher
had laid them out, on the bed in his room. I gave myself an added
pleasure in slumber that night by going in and looking at them before
I sought my own room. I cannot remember a night when I have slept more
soundly and I rose refreshed and intensely eager to hear how things
had gone with Jerry and the dear lady whom I had once so inaptly
dubbed "the minx." At the breakfast table Poole informed me that Jerry
had returned late to the Manor and was sleeping. It was good. The
glimmerings of reason that had appeared in the boy during the last few
days had been encouraging, and his open revolt against the enchantress
had made me hopeful that her dominion over him was not so complete as
it had appeared. Viewed from any angle, the conduct of the Van Wyck
girl was reprehensible, and admitted of no excuse. She had overshot
the mark and had done her target no harm. However warm her friendship
with those of her guests who were at the cabin, the comments I had
heard convinced me that Jerry and I were not alone in our
condemnation. The attack seemed to savor of a lack of finesse,
surprising in a person of her cleverness, for had her bias not been so
great she should have known that as a gentleman, Jerry must resent so
palpable and designing an insult to a guest at Horsham Manor. Her
impudence still astounded me. Did she think herself so sure of Jerry
that she chose purposely to try him? Or had the point been reached in
their amatory relations where she was quite indifferent as to what
Jerry might do?
Smoothly as my plan had worked and happily (or unhappily) as Marcia's
pique and ill-humor had fitted into it, I could not believe that
Jerry's revolt had ended matters. Even if the boy had been willing to
end them (a thing of which I was not at all sure), Marcia Van Wyck was
not the kind of girl to retire on this ungraceful climax, and Jerry's
absence from her house on so important an occasion was nothing less
than a notice to those present that he and Marcia were no longer on
terms. I had had a sense of the girl's taste for conquest, and the
more I thought of her the surer I was that Jerry's championship of Una
Habberton would revive whatever remained of the lingering sparks of
Marcia's passion.
Jerry joined me in the study later in the morning and sat for awhile
reading the newspapers. He was silent, almost morose, and at last got
up and walked about the place. I feared for a moment that he had gone
to the garage with the intention of getting into his machine, and
this I knew meant nothing less than a ride posthaste, to Briar Hills.
But he came back presently in a more cheerful mood and after luncheon
suggested fishing, a proposal that I instantly fell in with. And so I
followed him up stream, my own humor being merely to carry the net,
watch him whip the pools and pray that his luck might be good, for a
full creel meant good humor and good humor, perhaps confidences.
Fortune favored. By the time we had gotten up the gorge, Jerry was in
high spirits, for luck had crowned his skill and at least a dozen fish
lay stiffening in the basket, and when we reached the iron grille
Jerry emitted a deep sigh of satisfaction, drew out his pipe and sank
on a rock to smoke it. I lay back beside him, my hat over my eyes.
Nothing stimulates confidences so much as indifference. Jerry glanced
at me once or twice, but I made no sign and after awhile he began
talking. Whenever he paused I put in a grunt which encouraged him to
go on. That is how I happened to hear about Jerry's ride home with Una
Habberton.
It seems that when they got into the machine Una was very quiet and
answered his questions only in mono-syllables, but Jerry was patient
and all idea of Marcia's party being out of his head, he drove slowly
so that he would not reach the city until everything was clear and
friendly between them again. Her profile was very sober and demure, he
said. He wasn't quite sure for a long time whether she was going to
burst into anger, tears, or to laugh. Jerry must have looked sober too
and for awhile it couldn't have been a very cheerful ride, but at last
the boy saw Una looking at him slantwise and when he turned toward
her she burst into the merriest kind of a laugh.
"Oh, Jerry, is it home you're driving me to, or just a funeral?"
He gasped in relief at her sudden change of mood. "I was just
waiting," he said quietly. "I didn't want to intrude, Una."
"But you _do_ look _so_ like the undertaker's assistant," she smiled.
"You have no right to be glum. I have. I'm the corpse. A corpse
_might_ laugh in sheer relief when the lid was screwed down and
everything comfortable."
"Una! I don't see anything so funny--"
"My reputation! A trifling thing," she said coolly, "still, I value
it."
"_Your_ reputation! That's absurd--nothing could hurt _you_. I don't
understand."
"I can't quite see yet how it all came out," she went on thoughtfully,
"how Marcia knew that I had been inside the wall. Why, Jerry, unless
she learned it recently, since I saw you in New York--" she paused.
"No," protested Jerry uncomfortably. "It was last summer--"
"But I had no name to you then--I was merely Una--"
"And I blurted it out, Una, the only name I knew, never thinking that
you and Marcia were acquaintances."
"Oh, I see," and she smiled a little. "If my name had been plain Jane
or even Mary, my reputation would have been safe."
"What rubbish, Una! Can't a fellow and a girl have a chat without--"
"Yes, but the girl mustn't get through eight-foot walls."
"I don't see what difference that makes." She must have given him a
swift glance here. But she laughed again. "You evidently don't
realize, Jerry, that monasteries are supposed to be taboo for young
girls."
"Yes, but you didn't know about it being a monastery," he said
seriously.
"Of course, or I shouldn't have dared. But that makes no difference to
Marcia. I was there. You told her. Don't you know, Jerry, that it
isn't good form to tell _everything_ you know?"
"She guessed it," he muttered. "It's such a lot of talk about
nothing." I think Jerry was getting a little warm now. "Suppose you
_were_ in there, whose affair is it but yours and mine?"
"Everybody's," she shrugged. "Everybody's business! That ought to be
inscribed on the tombstone of every dead reputation. _Hic jacet_ Una
Habberton. Nice girl, but she _would_ visit monasteries."
But nothing was humorous to Jerry's mood just then.
"I can't have you talking like that, Una," he said in a suppressed
tone. "It's very painful to me. I can't imagine why anyone should try
to injure you. They couldn't, you know. You're above all that sort of
thing. It's too trivial--"
"Oh, is it? You'll see. All New York will have the story in
twenty-four hours. Pretty sort of a tale to get to the Mission! The
Mission! If those people heard! Imagine the embroideries! I could
never lift my head down there again."
"Let the world go hang. Have you anything to be ashamed of, Una?"
"No."
"Nor I. Very well."
The seriousness that Una attached to the affair, while it bewildered,
also inflamed him. "I wish it had been a man who had talked to you the
way Marcia did."
Una turned toward him soberly.
"What would you do to him, Jerry?"
He smiled grimly. "I think I'd kill him," he said softly.
I think Jerry's tone must have comforted her, for he said that after
that Una grew quieter.
"The world is very intolerant of idyls, Jerry."
They had reached a road which overlooked the river. Long, cool shadows
brushed their faces as they rushed on from orchard to meadow, all
redolent of sweet odors.
"Why?"
"Because they're a reproach."
"Friendship is no idyl, Una, with us. It's more like reality, isn't
it?"
"I hope so."
"Don't you believe it?"
"Yes, I think I do."
He smiled at her gayly.
"I'm sure of it. I'm always myself with you, Una. I seem to want you
to know all the things I'm thinking about. That's the surest
indication, isn't it? And I want to know what you're thinking about. I
feel as though I'd given you too many additional burdens down town,
that you may tire this summer."
"Oh, you needn't worry. I'm quite strong."
"I want you to lay out some definite work that I can do, not merely
giving money, but myself, my own strength and energy." He laughed.
"You know I'm really thinking of asking you to establish a mission for
men only, with _me_ as the first patient. It does seem to straighten
me out somehow, just being with you--keeps me from thinking crooked."
"_Do_ you think crooked, Jerry?"
"Yes, often. Things bother me. Then I'm like a child. You've no idea
of the vast abyss of my ignorance."
"But you _mustn't_ think crooked. I won't have it."
"I can't help it, sometimes. People aren't always what you expect 'em
to be. I ought to understand better by this time, but I don't."
"People aren't like books, Jerry. You're sure of books. But with
people, you can turn the same page again and again and the printing is
different every time."
"People _do_ change, don't they?"
"Yes, and the pages are rather smudgy here and there, but you'll learn
to read them some day. The office will help you, Jerry, because
business people _have_ to think straight or be repudiated. You ought
to go to the office every day and work--work whether you like it or
not. You've got too much money. It's dangerous. You're like a colt
just out in the pasture, all hocks and skittishness. Work is the only
thing for that. It may be tiresome but you've got to stick at it if it
kills you."
"I suppose you're right," he muttered.
"Jerry," she went on rapidly, and I think with a twinkle of mischief
in her eye, "all of us have streaks of other people in us. I have,
lots of 'em. Sometimes I wonder which part of me is other people and
which is me. I think you've even got more different kinds of people in
you than I have. Students, philosophers, woodsmen, prize fighters--"
"Una!"
"I must. Everything, almost everything you've been and done I like
except--"
"Oh, don't Una--"
"I've got to. You wanted to clear things up between us. That's one of
the things we've got to clear up. I don't understand the psychology of
the prize ring and I'm not sure that I'd care to understand it. I know
that you are strong in body. You should be glad of that, but not so
glad as to be vain of it. One doesn't boast of the gifts of the gods.
One merely accepts them, thankfully--"
"I was a fool--"
"Say rather, merely an animated biped, an instinct on legs. Is _that_
a thing to be proud of--for a man who knows what real ideals are?"
"Don't--"
"Did you discuss Shakespeare and the musical glasses with 'Kid'
Spatola?"
"Please!"
"Or the incorporeal nature of the soul with Battling Sagorski?"
"Una!" Her irony was biting him like acid.
"Or did Sagorski make you an accessory before the fact of his next
housebreaking expedition?"
"Una, that isn't fair. Sagorski is--"
"He's a second-story man, Jerry, with a beautiful record. Shall I give
it to you?"
"Er--no, thanks," gasped Jerry breathlessly. "I can't believe--"
"You missed nothing at the house?"
She waited for his reply.
"I'm not sure _who_ took them--"
"But you _did_ miss--?"
"Yes, spoons, forks and things--" He broke off exasperated. "Oh, Una,
it's cruel of you?"
"No, kind. Sagorski is a smudgy page, Jerry. I happened to have seen
it in the records. And there's a woman at the Mission--"
It was Una's turn to pause in sudden solemnity.
"A woman. His wife?" asked Jerry.
"No, just a woman."
"He had treated her badly?"
"Her soul," she replied slowly, "is dead. Her body doesn't matter."
She must have been thankful for the silence that followed? for the
look of bewilderment, piteous, I think, it must now have seemed to
Una, was in his face again. And before he could question further she
had turned the topic.
A little later, I think, personalities began again.
"You're always helping people, Una, always helping," he said slowly.
"Does it make you happy?"
"Yes, if I _can_ help."
"And you want to help me? I wonder if I'm worth it."
"Yes, I wouldn't bother if you weren't."
"And how do you know I'm worth it?"
"It's my business to know," she said.
Jerry sent the car spinning joyously down a fine stretch of straight
empty road. And then when he had reduced the car to a slower pace,
"You know, Una," he laughed, "you do take charge of a fellow, don't
you?"
"You need 'mothering'," she smiled.
"Or sistering. I wish I had a sister like you. Fellows ought to have
sisters, anyway. People ought to be born in pairs, male and female."
She laughed and then with sudden seriousness:
"But people ought to stand on their feet. All the 'sistering' in the
world won't help a lame man to walk."
"I'm not so awfully lame, am I?"
"No. Just limpy. But don't try to run yet, Jerry."
"Oh, I say--"
"Just keep your eyes open. You'll see." And then quietly, "You know
Phil Laidlaw, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, fine chap."
"I think it wouldn't harm you to know Phil better. He isn't brilliant,
but he's steady, sure, reliable. And he _stands on his feet_, Jerry,
on both of them."
Jerry's comment to me in telling this part of the conversation was
amusing. "Phil Laidlaw _is_ a good fellow and all that," he muttered,
"but hang it all, Roger, you can't stomach having another man's
virtues thrust down your throat!"
My own comment may be interesting.
"I don't wonder that she cares for him," I said. "A good match, I
should say."
"H--m," replied Jerry. "I can't seem to think of Una married to
anybody. She's so much occupied--"
"But she _will_ be married some day, my boy. Charity begins at home."
She had used her woman's weapons loyally, at least. I think her
comments on Laidlaw must have made Jerry silent for awhile and he told
me little of the conversation that followed. But they must have
"cleared up" all the things that stood between them. I think the
subsequent conversation must have been largely pleasant and personal,
for Jerry spoke of the wonderful weather and how Una admired the view
they had of the great river from Hoboken with the lights of the towers
of Manhattan, like the sparks of some mighty fire, hanging midway in
the air.
I was silent when he had concluded. Evidently he wanted me to say
something, for he looked at me once or twice as he was refilling his
pipe. But I was thinking deeply.
"She's a wonder," he said after awhile. "You know the committee of
ladies that's supposed to manage things down town have all gone away,
leaving the whole responsibility to Una--the plans, specifications,
business arrangements and all."
"As Marcia suggested," I replied, "they're sure that matters are in
good hands."
"Yes, she's so sane. That's it. You know when we got to town I took
dinner with the family down in Washington Square. Jolly lot of girls,
like stair-steps, from eight to eighteen, but not a bit like Una,
Roger, and the mother, placid, serene, intelligent with a dignity that
seems to go with the house and neighborhood--a dear old lady, not so
terribly old, either, and astonishingly well informed--Fine old house,
refreshing, cool, mellow with age and decent associations; none of
your Louis Quinze business there. I always wondered where Una got her
poise. Now I know."
"Had you never called there before?" I asked when he paused to light
his pipe.
"No, I always went to her office in the Mission and had her in a
different setting, a bare room, desk, filing-cases, placards on the
wall, scrupulously neat and business-like, but uncompromising, Roger,
and severe. The house makes a better frame for her somehow--"
I knew what he meant, for I had seen her in it, but of course was
silent.
"She's doing a tremendous work down town. She _is_ the Mission. The
superintendent and nurses idolize her. I was questioning her mother
about it. Una has a way with her. The women that come there have to be
handled carefully, it seems. I'm afraid they're a bad lot, though Una
won't talk about 'em. She says I wouldn't understand. I suppose I
wouldn't. I've never learned much about women yet, Roger. Funny, too.
They seem so easy to understand, and yet they're not. It's the men
that bring the women down--ruin them, but I can't see why it couldn't
just as well be the other way about. Men are weak, too; why are the
men always blamed? That's what I want to know, and what does it all
mean? I suppose I'm awfully ignorant. Things go in one ear and out the
other without making any impression. I lack something. It's the way
I'm made. I've missed something, of the meaning of life, I suppose,
because I've lived it all with so few people, you, Una, Uncle
Jack--Flynn and the boys--"
"And Marcia," I put in suggestively.
He ignored my remark.
"Most chaps I've met seem to take so much of my knowledge for granted.
The boys at Flynn's puzzled me, their strange phrases, hinting at
hidden vices, but I wasn't going to question _them_. It's up to you,
Roger. I want to know. What is this threat to Una's reputation when
Marcia tells of our meeting here alone?"
As I remained resolutely silent, Jerry got up and paced with long
strides up and down before me.
"Why shouldn't she and I meet here alone if we want to? And why these
absurd restrictions surrounding the life of girls? I've accepted them,
as I accept my morning coffee, because they're there. But what do they
mean? I know that a girl is more delicate than a boy, a being to be
sheltered and cared for; that seems natural. I accept that. But it
goes too far. Una does what she pleases. Why shouldn't she? What is
the meaning of unconventional morality? And why unconventional? Is
morality so vague a term that there can be any sort of doubt as to its
real meaning? And is Una any the less moral because she chooses to be
unconventional? Una! I'd stake my life on her morality and innate
refinement. No girl sacrifices her youth in the interests of others
less fortunate than herself without being fine clear through. Then
what did Marcia mean? And what could Una mean when she said her
reputation was in danger? The very thought of my having harmed her,
even by imputation, in the minds of others makes me desperately
unhappy. And what, what on earth could Marcia suspect of me or of Una
to place us both in so false a light? What could Marcia mean in
speaking in that way about Una's visit here when she herself came--"
He bit the word off abruptly and came to a stop. Some instinct--some
baser instinct that Marcia was a part of, made frankness impossible. I
could have finished his sentence for him but I didn't. Instead, I
rose suddenly to a sitting posture, my tongue loosened.
"Bah!" I muttered. "The spleen of a jealous woman; it stops
nowhere--at nothing!"
"But what was there in the story," he persisted, "to cause so much
tension? I felt it in the air, Roger. It was in the looks of those
about me, in Una's face. She was troubled. I had to speak."
"You did well, Jerry. You had to speak--to defend her--"
"Against what?"
"The results of her own imprudence," I said slowly, feeling my way
with difficulty. "Una's visits here and at the cabin were not what are
called conventional."
"Conventional! Perhaps not. But where does the question of morality
come in?" he went on boring straight at the mark.
"It doesn't," I remarked calmly. "It seems to me that Una's reply was
quite clear upon that point."
He frowned. "Yes, but she said that Marcia's mind wasn't clean, or
that's what she meant. That's a terrible thing to say and Una
shouldn't have said it. She shouldn't have, Roger."
"She had to defend herself," I muttered. "That's the privilege of the
poorest beast of the woods."
"Yes," he said slowly, "but it has upset me, given me a new view of
things, of women, of life. What is this terrible thing that threatens
them, that they fear and court at the hands of men? They act it in
their advances and sudden defenses. I've learned that much--Even
Una--Why, Roger, there's something that they're more jealous of than
they are of life itself. Reputation! That's what Una called it.
Una--who's giving up her life to try to make people better! If a girl
like Una has to defend herself, then the world is a rotten place and
Marcia--"
"And Marcia--"
He walked up and down again muttering.
"She has gone too far, Roger--too far." He paused before me.
"But you haven't answered my questions," he said flatly.
"You've hardly given me time," I said with a smile.
To be truthful, I did not propose to answer them. Aside from a curious
shyness born of our long and innocent intimacy which made frankness
now seem a violation of the precedent of years, I found that the
desire was born in me, born anew with Jerry's awakening consciousness,
to stand by my guns, and await the results of his lessons from the
world. He must solve the riddle of the Great Experiment alone.
"You haven't answered my questions, Roger," he insisted.
I was unjointing Jerry's rod with scrupulous care.
"I'm not going to," I said quietly.
"You--?" He examined me with a curious expression. "Who else should I
go to if not to you?"
I paused a long moment, during which he scraped at the moss with the
toe of his boot.
"My dear Jerry," I said. "I am more than convinced since the period of
your probation has passed that my mission at Horsham Manor is ended. I
was brought here to bring you to manhood with the things that were
requisite as well for the body as the soul. I thought I had acquitted
myself with tolerable success in obeying the desires of your dead
father. But once freed from my influence you took the bit in your
teeth and ran the race in your own way. I gave you advice but you
wouldn't take it. If you had listened then, I could have helped you
now. But you didn't listen. And if I were to warn you, to answer your
questions, you wouldn't heed me now. Experience is the great teacher.
Seek it. I'm through."
He reddened and took a turn up and down.
"Do you mean that?"
"I do. I meddle with your personal affairs no longer. If I did I
should begin at once--" I paused, for an attack on Marcia Van Wyck was
trembling at the top of my tongue. "But there--you see we should only
quarrel. I don't like your friends. We couldn't agree--"
"You like Una."
"Yes, unqualifiedly. She is one in a million."
"Well, we're agreed on that at least," he said smiling.
There was another silence in which Jerry puffed on his unlighted pipe.
"You know I've invited Una and her mother up here this week and what's
better still, they're coming."
This was excellent news. To me it meant that Una thought the boy worth
saving from himself and now proposed to carry the war into the enemy's
country.
"I'm delighted," I said briefly.
"So am I," he returned thoughtfully. He scraped his pipe, filled it
slowly and when it was lighted again, settled down comfortably.
"I think Una has wakened me, Roger. The force of her example is
tremendous, her life, her way of thinking of things, her cheerfulness,
hopefulness about everybody. I can't make out why Marcia should attack
her so unjustly. It wasn't fair."
"It was _cattish_."
"I don't like your saying that," he put in quickly.
"I'm sorry. Can you imagine Una doing a similar thing?"
"No," he admitted, "but Una has been brought up differently."
Another silence. In spite of the recrudescence of Una we were on
dangerous ground. But hope had given me temerity. In another moment he
was back to the earlier questions.
"I see no reason why you shouldn't answer me, Roger. I've got to know
what all this trouble means. If Una has been imprudent I want to know
why, still more so, if she is to suffer as a consequence of it. If
Marcia's insinuations are cruel I've got to understand what they
mean."
"You may take my word for their cruelty," I said dryly and stopped
with compressed lips. He clasped his hands over his knees and looked
down into the pool before us.
"Do you think you're quite fair with me, Roger? I give you my
confidences and you refuse--"
"Half-confidences, Jerry. My usefulness to you is ended. If you would
speak, I could perhaps help you, solve some of your problems, answer
your questions. But--"
I paused, throwing out my hands in a helpless gesture.
"What more do you want?" he asked.
I took the bull by the horns. I had wanted to for weeks.
"Freely, unreservedly, the nature of your relations with Marcia Van
Wyck--"
He rose suddenly, his face flushing darkly and took up his rod and
creel.
"If you don't mind my saying so," he muttered, "that is none of your
affair."
I rose, though his reproach stung me bitterly.
"Confidences and advice are inseparable," I said coldly.
"You hate Marcia," he mumbled.
"I do."
"Why?"
"Because she's unsound, unsafe, im--"
"Be careful!" he cried.
I shrugged but was silent, I think, from the fear of Jerry's fists
which were clenching his rod and creel ominously.
"She's the woman I love," he declared with pathetic drama.
I braved the fists and laughed.
"Tush!" I said.
He was furious. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me. Had
he done so I should have been ended there and then, and this
interesting history brought to an untimely conclusion on the very eve
of its most interesting disclosures.
But he thought better of it and with a shaking forefinger pointed
toward the path downstream. "Go, Roger," he said in a trembling voice,
"please go."