FEET OF CLAY
It is with some reluctance that I begin these chapters dealing with
the most terrible event in Jerry's life, and for that matter the most
terrible experience in my own, for as the reader of this history must
now be aware, Jerry's life was mine. I had made him, molded him for
good or ill according to my own definite plan, by the results of which
I had professed myself willing to stand whatever came. Had I known
what these results were to be, it would have been better if I had cast
myself into the sea than have come to Horsham Manor as Jerry's
preceptor, the sponsor for old Benham's theory. But human wisdom is
fallible, true virtue a dream. Dust we are and to dust return,
groveling meanwhile as best we may, amid the wreck of our illusions.
It costs me something to admit the failure of the Great Experiment,
its horrible and tragic failure! To lose a hand, an eye, a limb, to be
withered by disease, one can replace, repair, renew; but an ideal, a
system of philosophy, ingrained into one's very life! It is this that
scars and withers the soul.
I must go on, for, after all, it is not my soul that matters, but
Jerry's. It was quite an hour after Jerry disappeared before I began
to suspect that he had gone to Briar Hills. The last I had seen of him
was when he was on his way up the stair to his own room. But when I
sought him there a short while afterward, I could not find him, nor
was he anywhere in the house. I questioned the servants, telephoned
the garage. All the machines, including Jerry's own roadster, were in
the building. I went out to question the gardeners and found a man who
had seen Jerry awhile before, entering the path into the woods behind
the house. Mr. Benham was hatless, the fellow said, and walked
rapidly, his head bent. Even then I did not suspect where he was
going. I thought that he had merely gone to "walk it off," a phrase we
had for our own cure for the doldrums. But as the moments passed and
he did not return, I took Jack into confidence, and expressed the fear
that he had gone to Briar Hills for a reckoning with Marcia and Lloyd.
A worried look came into Jack's face, but he shrugged his shoulders.
"Let him. It's time. We can't do anything."
"We might try."
"What?"
"Go there before damage is done, bring him home."
"And make ourselves ridiculous."
"Oh, that--! I don't care."
"Well, _I_ do. You've got to let this problem work itself out, Pope.
It's gone too far. He's on the brink of disillusionment. Let it come,
no matter how or what."
"But violence--!"
"Let it come. Better a violence which may cure than this quiet madness
that is eating his soul away."
"But Lloyd! Jerry's strength! He might kill the brute."
"Don't fear. If the man would fight Jerry might do him damage. But
he'll run, Pope. You can't kill a bounder. The breed is resilient."
"I'm afraid."
"You needn't be. This is the turning point of his affair."
"Perhaps. But in which way will it turn?"
"Wait."
I was helpless. Against my own judgment I did as he bade. We waited.
We sat upon the terrace for awhile with the ladies, Jack reading
aloud. Una made no comment upon Jerry's absence and gave no sign of
her prescience of anything unusual, except the frequent turning of her
head toward the house or toward the paths within the range of her
vision, as though she hoped every moment that Jerry might appear. The
shadows lengthened. Jack challenged the girl to a game of tennis and
even offered to play in the double court against us both, but neither
of us was willing. I think she knew where Jerry had gone and, like me,
was frightened. It was a miserable afternoon. As the dinner hour
approached the ladies retired to dress and I gave a sigh of relief. In
my anxious state of mind the burden of entertaining them had weighed
heavily upon me. It had occurred to me that Una's mother might have
thought it strange that Jerry should have left them so suddenly
without excuses, for he owed them an explanation at least. I think
some inkling of an unusual situation had entered Mrs. Habberton's
mind, for when dinner was nearly over and her host had not appeared,
she made a vague remark about a letter that had come in the morning
which might oblige her to curtail her visit, a tactful anticipation
of any situation which might make their stay impossible. The evening
dragged hopelessly and the ladies retired early, while at the foot of
the stair I made some fatuous remark about Jerry's possibly having
been summoned to town. The "good-nights" were said with an excess of
cheerfulness on Una's part and my own which did nothing to conceal
from either of us the real nature of our anxiety.
Jack and I smoked in the library, discussing every phase of the
situation. The coming of night without a word or a sign from the boy
had made us both a prey to the liveliest fears. Something had happened
to Jerry--What? He had been wild, determined. I could not forget his
look. It was the same expression I had seen at Madison Square Garden
when he had made his insensate effort to knock Clancy out--a narrow
glitter of the eyes, brute-keen and directed by a mind made crafty by
desperation. Weary of surmises, at last we relapsed into silence,
trying to read. Jack at last dozed over his book and, unable longer to
remain seated, I got up, went outside and walked around the house
again and again. The garage tempted me. Jerry's machine was inside.
Unknown to Jack I would go myself to Briar Hills and see Miss Gore.
She would know.
There was a light in the window. I turned the knob and entered. As I
did so someone stooping rose and faced me. It was Jerry, a terrible
figure, his clothes torn and covered with dirt, his hair matted and
hanging over his eyes, which gleamed somberly out of dark circles. He
had a wrench in his hand. For a moment in my timidity and uncertainty
I thought him mad and about to strike me with it. But he made no move
toward me and only hung his head like a whipped dog.
"_You_, Roger?"
"What has happened. Jerry?"
"Nothing. Don't ask."
"But Jack and I have been sitting up for you. We've been worried."
"I know. But it couldn't be helped. Just don't ask me anything,
Roger."
I was glad enough to have him safe and apparently quite sane. I don't
know why I should have considered his sanity at that moment of
peculiar importance unless because my own mind had been all the
afternoon and evening so colored with the impression of his last
appearance. I had become so used to the sense of strain, of tension in
his condition of mind, that the quiet, rather submissive tone of his
voice affected me strangely. It seemed almost as if the disease was
passing, that his fever was abated.
"I won't ask you anything, if you don't like, but I think you'd better
come to the house and get a hot bath and to bed."
He remained silent for a long moment.
"I'm not going to the house, Roger. I'm going--"
He paused again.
"Going! Where?" I asked.
"I don't know just yet. Away from here, from New York--at once."
"But I can't let you go without--"
He held up his hand and I paused.
"Don't talk, Roger," he said quickly. "Don't question and don't talk.
It won't do any good. I had hoped I shouldn't see you. I was
waiting--waiting until the lights went out."
"But I couldn't."
"Please!" he said quietly, and then went on.
"I was going to get some things and go during the night. Now you'll
have to help me. Tell Christopher to pack a bag--just a clean suit and
linen--and bring it here--And--and that's all." He held out his hand
with a sober smile. "Good-by, Roger," he finished.
"But I can't let you go like this."
"You've got to. Don't worry. I'm all right. I'm not going to make a
fool of myself--or--or drink or anything. I've got to be alone--to do
some thinking. I'll write you. Good-by."
"But Una! What shall I say?"
"Una!" He turned away and bent his head. "My God!" he said and then
repeated the words below his breath, almost like a prayer, and then,
turning, with a wild gesture, "Tell her anything, Roger. Say I'm all
right but I can't see her. Say I had a telegram--called West on a
Railroad matter--anything. Now go."
He caught me by the hand with a crushing grip while he pushed me
toward the door.
"You will not--?"
"I'm all right, quite. Don't fear for me. I'll come back--soon. Now
go, old chap. I'll wait for Christopher here. Hurry, please."
He spoke kindly but sharply. I could see that argument was of no
avail. His mind was made up and with Jerry that was final. Whatever
had happened--and from his appearance I suspected a soul-wrenching
struggle--he was at least for the present physically safe and entirely
sane. But it was with serious misgivings that I slipped past the
somnolent Jack and upstairs to Jerry's room, where I found Christopher
and together we packed a bag, descending by the back stairs, where I
took the bag from Christopher's hand and sent him to bed.
In a moment I was in the garage with Jerry.
"Oh, _you_--!" he frowned.
"Let me go with you at least as far as town," I pleaded.
"No," gruffly. "No one." He threw the bag into the car and clambered
quickly in.
"Here, your cap," I said, handing it to him. Our fingers met. He
grasped mine until they pained me.
"Forgive me, Roger. I don't mean to be unkind. You're too good to me."
"Jerry, you fool!" I cried, my eyes wet.
He had started the machine and when I opened the door he moved slowly
out.
"Good-by, old Dry-as-dust," he called with a wave of the hand and a
rather sinister smile.
"For God's sake no drink, Jerry!" I whispered tensely.
"I promise," he said solemnly. "Good-by!"
And while I watched, he swept noiselessly around the drive and was
soon lost in the blur of the trees below.
I walked slowly toward the terrace in the shadow of the trees, deep in
bewilderment. What should I say to Una? Half unconsciously I glanced
up at her window, the corner one over the terrace. Something white
stirred and I thought I heard a sound, a faint sound, and then a
strangling hush.