THE CHIPMUNK
I obeyed. There was nothing left for me to do. Our afternoon had ended
in disaster, but I was not sorry. I had thought from all Jerry had
told me that he was beginning to awaken, to rouse himself and tear
asunder the web of enchantment that this girl Marcia had woven about
him. I had meant to help him lift the veil to let him see her as she
was, a beautiful, selfish little sensualist with a silken voice and an
empty heart. But the time was not yet. I sighed, lamenting my failure
but not regretting my temerity. If he would not waken at least I had
the satisfaction of knowing it was not because I had not tried to wake
him.
I made my way down over the rocks, casting a glance over my shoulder
toward Jerry as I descended. He was following slowly, his hands behind
him, his head down, the pipe hanging bowl downward in his teeth. There
was anger in his appearance but there was something of reflection,
too. Down on a lower level where the going was easier I paused,
deliberating whether I shouldn't put my pride in my pocket and braving
rebuffs, wait for him. I had half decided to choose this ignominious
course when in the path ahead of me at some distance away I espied a
figure walking toward me. I was deep in the shadow and the person, a
female, had not espied me, but I could see her quite clearly in the
sunlight. There was no mistaking her curious gait. It was Marcia Van
Wyck, come at pains which must convince of her contrition, to make
peace with Jerry.
I looked again to be sure that my eyes had not deceived me and then
jumped into the underbrush beside the path and hid myself under a
projection of nearby rock. I disliked the girl intensely and hated the
sight of her, and this must, I suppose, account for the sudden impulse
which led to my undignified retreat. Had I known in advance of the
unfortunate situation in which it would have placed me, I should have
faced her boldly or have fled miles away from that spot, to be forever
associated in my mind with the one really discreditable experience of
my career. I have always been, I think, an honorable man and such a
paltry sin as eavesdropping had always been beneath me, save on the
one occasion when my duty as Jerry's guardian prompted me to listen
for a few moments at the cabin window last year when Una and Jerry
were settling between them the affairs of the world. That was a
pardonable transgression, this, a different affair, for Jerry was now
released from my guardianship, a grown man ostensibly capable of
managing his own affairs, which, as he had some moments before taken
pains to inform me, were none of mine.
But as luck would have it, the girl walking upstream and Jerry walking
down, they met in the path just beside the rock behind which I was so
uncomfortably reclining and scarcely daring to breathe. I could not
see their faces as they came together, but I heard their voices quite
Distinctly.
"Marcia!" said Jerry, it seemed a trifle harshly. "What are you doing
here?"
With my vision obstructed, the soft tones of her voice seemed to take
an added significance.
"I came," she purred, "because, Jerry, I couldn't stay away."
And then, after a pause, her voice even more silken, "You don't seem
very glad to see me."
"I--I--your appearance surprised me."
"But now that the surprise is over--_are_ you glad to see me?" she
asked.
A pause and then I heard him mutter.
"I didn't suppose that--after yesterday _you_ would want to see _me_."
"Yesterday," she sighed, "twenty-four hours--an age! The surest proof
that I wanted to see you is that I'm here, that I ran away from a
house full of people, just to tell you--"
"Is Channing Lloyd still there?" he broke in harshly.
"Yes, Jerry, he is. But doesn't it mean anything to you that I left
him, to come to you?"
"You broke your promise--to give him up--"
"Why, Jerry, I _had_ to invite him to my dance. It would have been a
slight."
"But you promised. He's a--"
"But I've known him for ages, Jerry. I can't be impolite."
"He's not polite to you, to me, or anybody. I told you I wanted you to
give him up."
"You're fearfully exacting," she said, modulating her voice softly.
"He's a cad. I can't understand your inviting him. His very look is
an insult, his touch a desecration. I don't like the way he paws you."
"Of course, he--he means nothing by it," she said soothingly. "It's
only his way."
"But I don't like his way and I don't like him. I've told you so a
good many times."
"You make it very difficult for me. It would have been insulting not
to have asked him. We've been very good friends until you came."
"It's a pity I came, then. You've got to choose between us. I've told
you that before."
"Why, Jerry, I _have_ chosen," she said, her voice softening
suspiciously. "How could I ever think of anybody else now that I have
you? It's so _absurd_ of you to be jealous of Chan. He's not like you,
of course, and his manner is a little rough, but he really isn't
_nearly_ so terrible a person as you think he is." She sighed. "But if
you insist, I suppose I shall have to give him up."
"Is it painful to you?" he muttered.
She laughed. "You silly boy, of course not. I _will_ give him up.
There! Does that settle that matter?"
"I thought it was settled before."
"It was--but--" She paused.
"I don't see how you could want to be with a man I don't like--"
"I don't care for him, Jerry, really I don't. Won't you believe me?"
"I'll believe you when you give him up."
She sighed again, her voice breaking effectively.
"Oh, dear! Do you want me to give up _all_ my friends? And is it
quite fair?"
"I haven't asked you to give up any of your friends, but Lloyd--"
Well, I've given him up, Jerry. I'll send him home tonight. Don't
let's think of him any more. I can't stand having anything come
between us again. I can't, Jerry. It makes me so unhappy. I've been
wretched since yesterday about Una. That's why I came. I wanted you to
know how sorry I am that I spoke to Una the way I did."
"Are you, Marcia?" His voice had softened suddenly and from the
shuffling of his feet I think he took a pace toward her.
"Yes, Jerry dear, contrite. I simply couldn't let another hour pass
without coming to ask your forgiveness."
He was weakening. Perhaps his arm was around her. I don't know, but
his silence was ominous.
"I have been _so_ miserable," she murmured. "My conscience has
troubled me _terribly_. Oh, I can't tell you how I have suffered. All
the evening I thought you would come. I waited for you; I went out on
the terrace a hundred times, watching for the lights of your car; but
you didn't come, you didn't come, Jerry, and I knew how terribly I had
offended you."
I couldn't see her but I'm sure she was wringing her pretty white
hands. Jerry must have been deeply moved for his voice was shaky.
"It didn't matter about me, but a visitor, a guest at Horsham Manor,
Marcia, a friend--!"
"A friend, yes. Oh, I've been so unhappy about it all--so _miserably_
wretched."
Her voice broke and she seemed upon the point of tears.
"Why did you, Marcia? Why did you?" he repeated.
"I--I--" She appeared to break down and weep and Jerry's voice took on
a tone of distress.
"Don't, Marcia, please!"
"I--I'm trying not to--but--" and she wept anew.
"Come," said Jerry's voice. "Sit here a moment. I'm sure it can all be
explained. It makes me very unhappy to see you so miserable."
They moved nearer and she sat upon the very rock beneath which I lay
among the mouldy leaves; so near that I could have reached out and
touched the girl's silken ankle with my fingers. Jerry, I think, still
stood.
"I don't want to--to make you unhappy," she said in a moment. "And it
was all my fault, but I just couldn't--couldn't stand it, Jerry."
"Stand what?"
A pause and then in muffled tones.
"Don't you know? Don't you really understand?"
"No. I--"
"I was mad," she whispered, "mad with jealousy of Una. She was your
first love, your first--"
"Marcia! You mustn't. It's absurd."
"No, no," she protested. "I know. Ever since I first learned that she
had--had been in here with you, I--I haven't been able to get her out
of mind--I may have appeared to, but I'm not one who forgets things
easily; and to meet her at the cabin, the very place where I thought I
should--should have you all to myself--it was too much. Jerry. I
couldn't stand it. Something--something in me rebelled. I grew cold
all over and hard against all the world, even you."
"But this was foolish of you. Una, a friend. Surely there was no harm
in my seeing her here?"
"It was foolish," there was a slight change in the intonation of her
voice here, "but I know the world so much better than you, Jerry.
Girls are so designing, so--so untrustworthy."
"You don't know Una if you say that," said Jerry loyally.
"Perhaps I don't. I don't wish to think badly of anyone you call a
friend but Una is so--er--so independent--so accustomed to moving with
queer people--" She paused a moment again to give her insinuation
weight. "I don't know," she sighed. "I thought all sorts of horrible
things about you."
"Horrible! How? Why?"
"Oh, Jerry. Think for a moment. It was natural in me, wasn't it? If I
hadn't been jealous of you I couldn't have loved you very much, could
I?"
"But horrible thoughts! I don't understand. You might think that there
was something between Una and me if you chose to be suspicious, but to
think unpleasant things of her, I can't see--"
"You're making it very difficult for me--you're so strange," she
murmured. "Isn't it something that I've lowered my pride to the earth
in coming here to you? That I've given up Chan? That I'm pleading to
you for forgiveness?"
"It is, of course. I do forgive you," he murmured
"Oh, Jerry, if you knew how I had longed to hear you say that--if you
knew!"
All this while Jerry had been standing beside her in the path while
the girl sat on the rock. I could tell this from the sounds of their
voices. In spite of her accents of endearment, notes which she played
with the deftest touch, I could understand that Master Jerry was still
a little upon his dignity.
"I do forgive you," he repeated, "but I don't just know what your
insinuations meant, Marcia."
"Insinuations! Oh, Jerry!"
"Well, what were they? You didn't accuse Una of anything, or me. But
you meant something--something unpleasant. Una was very much
disturbed--"
"Oh, she was?" No self-control could have concealed the tiny note of
exultation.
"Yes, disturbed and angry. What did you mean, Marcia?"
There was an effective pause. What grimaces she was making for his
benefit I'm sure I can't imagine, but I hope they were worthy of her
talents.
"Poor, dear Jerry!" she sighed. "You're so innocent. I sometimes
wonder whether you're really as innocent as you seem."
"I'm innocent of wronging Una," he said with some spirit.
She couldn't restrain a short laugh at the ingenuousness of the remark
and its tone.
"There are ways and ways of wronging girls, Jerry," she said slowly. I
couldn't see her face, of course, but I knew that her eyes must have
been searching him sidelong under their lashes with peculiar avidity.
"Of course, I don't _say_ that there was anything wrong, but you'll
admit that Una's hunting you out the way she did was _most_
imprudent."
"No, I don't admit it," said Jerry. "If Una was imprudent, so are you,
_here_, today."
"Jerry!" The girl started up, one of her tall French heels within
reach of my fingers. If her heel had been her vulnerable spot I must
have struck it at once, like a viper.
Jerry apparently stood his ground, for the image of Una must have
still been fresh in his memory.
"What is the difference, Marcia?" he asked calmly. "Will you tell me?
Do you think I could hurt _you_?"
She sank upon the rock again, her tone almost too plaintive.
"You're hurting me now, Jerry--terribly."
"I can't see--"
"That you can't see any difference, between my being here--and Una's."
His voice fell a little.
"Of course, there's a difference. Una is a friend and you--why
Marcia--" and he came near her, "of course there's all the difference
in the world in _that_ way. You're the girl I--I love."
"Jerry!" she whispered.
I was miserable. It was nauseating. Fate was surely unkind to me.
"But I want to be just," he went on clearly. "And I want you to be
just. I surely couldn't harm Una any more than I could you."
"Oh, Jerry; I'm sure you kissed her."
"No. Why should I?"
"Because, I thought she might have asked you to."
"She didn't. I suppose it hadn't occurred to her. I'm not much at
kissing, Marcia. It's rather meaningless if you don't love a person,
isn't it? Kissing ought to be a kind of sacrament. It's a symbol. It
must mean something. At least that's the way it seems to me. The girl
one loves, Marcia, you--"
He was very close to her now and I think his arms encircled her, for I
heard her whisper "Kiss me, Jerry! Kiss me!"
I must have deserved this punishment. Aside from the unhappy nature of
my feelings, I was suffering severe bodily discomfort from some small
object, a stone, I think, pressed against my ribs. I moved slightly
and there was a resounding crackle of broken twigs. The silken foot
beside me started suddenly.
"What was that?" whispered the girl.
"Oh," said Jerry, "merely a squirrel or--or a chipmunk." And then more
convincingly, "Yes, I think it was a chipmunk."
I held my breath in an agony of apprehension, expecting each second to
be hauled out of my retreat by Jerry's muscular hand on my collar, and
it was therefore with a feeling of manifest relief that I heard their
conversation resumed.
"I'm so glad you think a kiss is a sacrament," she murmured. "It
should be--shouldn't it?--a pledge," and then, "But that was _such_ a
light one, Jerry--"
He kissed her again. There was a long silence--long. She had won.
"Oh, Jerry," she sighed at last, "it is _so_ sweet. You have never
kissed me like that before. Why, what is the matter?"
Jerry, it seemed, had risen suddenly. "I--I mustn't, Marcia. I
mustn't. It is sweet--but--but terrible. I can't tell you--"
"Terrible, Jerry?"
"Yes, I can't explain. It's a kind of profanation--your sanctity. I
don't know. It makes me deliriously happy and--horribly miserable."
"But I am yours, Jerry, yours, do you understand? And if I like you to
kiss me--"
"I mustn't, Marcia, not here."
He was very much disturbed. "Marcia!" he said in a suppressed tone as
he came quickly to her again. "Was _that_ what you meant--was _that_
why you asked me if I'd kissed Una?"
"I merely wanted--"
"I didn't," he broke in impetuously. "No, no, I didn't. Why, Marcia,
it wouldn't have been possible--we were merely friends. Don't think
I've ever kissed Una, and don't ever believe she would let me. She
wouldn't. She's not in love with me. She wouldn't let me, if I wanted
to."
"And you don't want to?"
"No, no. I never think about her in that way. I can't. She's different
from you. You allure me. It's subtle. I can't explain. I want to take
you in my arms and yet I don't dare, for fear that I may crush you. I
might, Marcia. I'm afraid. Just now, the thought of my strength
frightened me. Don't let me kiss you like that again, Marcia."
"I'm not afraid," I heard her whisper. "Kiss me again, Jerry."
But he didn't. Apparently he still stood before her at a distance,
fearsome of he knew not what.
"Jerry!" she murmured again, in a little tone of petulance.
"Marcia, we--we should be going on," he muttered.
"Ah, Jerry, not yet," she sighed. "Isn't it wonderful that there's no
quarrel between us? Just you and I, Jerry, here, alone, like the first
man and woman--alone in the world. There's no man in it but you, no
woman but me, we're mated, Jerry, like the birds. Don't you hear them
singing? The woods are alive with songs of love. And you, Jerry, you
stand there staring at me with those great, timid eyes of yours. Why
do you stare at me so? Are you frightened? I think that I am stronger
than you. It is love that makes me strong. Come to me, Jerry. Kiss me,
again."
"Marcia!" he gasped. And then another silence.
"I mustn't."
"I love you, Jerry."
"Will you marry me? Tomorrow!"
"Marriage, Jerry? Yes, some day--"
"Tomorrow--!"
"Aren't you satisfied--with this? The wonder of it."
"But I have no right. I can't explain. It's desecration!"
"A sacrament!" she said.
"A sacrament!"
"You said so."
"Not this, Marcia. A sacrament should be gentle. I want to be gentle
in my thoughts of you. But I can't, not now. I could strangle you if
you let another man do this, and kill--"
"I love you--when you talk like that. Strangle me if you like, kill
me, I'm yours--"
I think that to Marcia, this was the greatest moment of her strange
passion. Fear was its dominant motive, Jerry's innocence its
inspiration. If he had crushed the breath from her body, I think she
would have died rapturously. But Jerry, it seems, tore himself from
her and moved some distance away, I think, his head bent into the
hollow of his arm, torn between his emotions. I would have given all
that I possessed on earth to have caught a glimpse of her face at that
moment. Flushed with victory of course--but passion--Bah! I couldn't
believe her capable of it. If she had been wholly animal I might have
forgiven her everything. But the impression had grown in me with the
minutes that all this like everything else she did was false--false
penitence, false contrition, false tears, false love and now false
passion. She was a mere shell, a beautiful shell in which one hears
the faint murmurs of sweet music, echoes of sounds which might have
been but were not. These were the sounds that Jerry heard, echoes of
some earlier incarnation in which spiritual beauty had been his
fetich. And now, he stood apart, broken, miserable.
"Jerry," I heard her call again softly, "I am not afraid."
That was it. I understood now. What she loved was fear. But Jerry
would not come back. I heard his voice faintly.
"We must go, Marcia."
"Why?"
"I have learned; we have no right here--alone, you and I. It's
what--what you accused Una of."
"But you and I--Jerry! Am I not different from Una? I have rights. She
has none. I've given them to you, and you to me."
"You will marry me, soon?"
"Not if you're going to be so--so--er--inhospitable."
He came forward quickly.
"You know I don't mean that. Would you have me less considerate of
your reputation, your peace of mind, than I am of Una's? I want you to
understand how deeply I respect you--that I want to treat you with
tenderness, with delicacy, with gentle devotion."
I heard her sigh. I'm sure if Jerry's back had been turned she must
have yawned. She rose and I heard her slow footsteps join his.
"How you disappoint me!" I heard her murmur and then more faintly:
"How terribly you disappoint me! To analyze one's feelings! To think
of conventions! Now! What _are_ you?"
"Marcia!"
I heard their voices fading into the distance and peered forth. They
were walking slowly down the path, away from me. I stirred cautiously,
straightened my stiffened legs, rose painfully, and then carefully
made my way farther into the forest, through which I plunged headlong,
eager to escape the sight of that accursed rock and its harrowing
sounds. I had not been far wrong in my estimate of her and of Jerry. I
would to God he had strangled her.