Elizabeth had quite definitely put Dick out of her heart. On the evening
of the day she learned he had come back and had not seen her, she
deliberately killed her love and decently interred it. She burned her
notes and his one letter and put away her ring, performing the rites not
as rites but as a shameful business to be done with quickly. She tore
his photograph into bits and threw them into her waste basket, and
having thus housecleaned her room set to work to houseclean her heart.
She found very little to do. She was numb and totally without feeling.
The little painful constriction in her chest which had so often come
lately with her thoughts of him was gone. She felt extraordinarily
empty, but not light, and her feet dragged about the room.
She felt no sense of Dick's unworthiness, but simply that she was up
against something she could not fight, and no longer wanted to fight.
She was beaten, but the strange thing was that she did not care. Only,
she would not be pitied. As the days went on she resented the pity that
had kept her in ignorance for so long, and had let her wear her heart on
her sleeve; and she even wondered sometimes whether the story of Dick's
loss of memory had not been false, evolved out of that pity and the
desire to save her pain.
David sent for her, but she wrote him a little note, formal and
restrained. She would come in a day or two, but now she must get her
bearings. He was to know that she was not angry, and felt it all for
the best, and she was very lovingly his, Elizabeth.
She knew now that she would eventually marry Wallie Sayre if only to get
away from pity. He would have to know the truth about her, that she did
not love any one; not even her father and her mother. She pretended to
care for fear of hurting them, but she was actually frozen quite hard.
She did not believe in love. It was a terrible thing, to be avoided
by any one who wanted to get along, and this avoiding was really quite
simple. One simply stopped feeling.
On the Sunday after she had come to this comfortable knowledge she sat
in the church as usual, in the choir stalls, and suddenly she hated the
church. She hated the way the larynx of Henry Wallace, the tenor, stuck
out like a crabapple over his low collar. She hated the fat double chin
of the bass. She hated the talk about love and the certain rewards of
virtue, and the faces of the congregation, smug and sure of salvation.
She went to the choir master after the service to hand in her
resignation. And did not, because it had occurred to her that it might
look, to use Nina's word, as though she were crushed. Crushed! That was
funny.
Wallie Sayre was waiting for her outside, and she went up with him to
lunch, and afterwards they played golf. They had rather an amusing game,
and once she had to sit down on a bunker and laugh until she was weak,
while he fought his way out of a pit. Crushed, indeed!
So the weaving went on, almost completed now. With Wallie Sayre biding
his time, but fairly sure of the result. With Jean Melis happening on
a two-days' old paper, and reading over and over a notice addressed to
him. With Leslie Ward, neither better nor worse than his kind, seeking
adventure in a bypath, which was East 56th Street. And with Dick
wandering the streets of New York after twilight, and standing once with
his coat collar turned up against the rain outside of the Metropolitan
Club, where the great painting of his father hung over a mantelpiece.
Now that he was near Beverly, Dick hesitated to see her. He felt no
resentment at her long silence, nor at his exile which had resulted
from it. He made excuses for her, recognized his own contribution to
the catastrophe, knew, too, that nothing was to be gained by seeing her
again. But he determined finally to see her once more, and then to go
away, leaving her to peace and to success.
She would know now that she had nothing to fear from him. All he wanted
was to satisfy the hunger that was in him by seeing her, and then to go
away.
Curiously, that hunger to see her had been in abeyance while Bassett
was with him. It was only when he was alone again that it came up; and
although he knew that, he was unconscious of another fact, that every
word, every picture of her on the great boardings which walled in every
empty lot, everything, indeed, which brought her into the reality of the
present, loosened by so much her hold on him out of the past.
When he finally went to the 56th Street house it was on impulse. He had
meant to pass it, but he found himself stopping, and half angrily made
his determination. He would follow the cursed thing through now and get
it over. Perhaps he had discounted it too much in advance, waited too
long, hoped too much. Perhaps it was simply that that last phase was
already passing. But he felt no thrill, no expectancy, as he rang the
bell and was admitted to the familiar hall.
It was peopled with ghosts, for him. Upstairs, in the drawing-room
that extended across the front of the house, she had told him of her
engagement to Howard Lucas. Later on, coming back from Europe, he had
gone back there to find Lucas installed in the house, his cigars on
the table, his photographs on the piano, his books scattered about.
And Lucas himself, smiling, handsome and triumphant on the hearth rug,
dressed for dinner except for a brocaded dressing-gown, putting his hand
familiarly on Beverly's shoulder, and calling her “old girl.”
He wandered into the small room to the right of the hall, where in other
days he had waited to be taken upstairs, and stood looking out of the
window. He heard some one, a caller, come down, get into his overcoat
in the hall and go out, but he was not interested. He did not know
that Leslie Ward had stood outside the door for a minute, had seen and
recognized him, and had then slammed out.
He was quite steady as the butler preceded him up the stairs. He even
noticed certain changes in the house, the door at the landing converted
into an arch, leaded glass in the dining-room windows beyond it. But
he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror, and saw himself a shabby
contrast to the former days.
He faced her, still with that unexpected composure, and he saw her very
little changed. Even the movement with which she came toward him with
both hands out was familiar.
“Jud!” she said. “Oh, my dear!”
He saw that she was profoundly moved, and suddenly he was sorry for her.
Sorry for the years behind them both, for the burden she had carried,
for the tears in her eyes.
“Dear old Bev!” he said.
She put her head against his shoulder, and cried unrestrainedly; and
he held her there, saying small, gentle, soothing things, smoothing her
hair. But all the time he knew that life had been playing him another
trick; he felt a great tenderness for her and profound pity, but he
did not love her, or want her. He saw that after all the suffering
and waiting, the death and exile, he was left at the end with nothing.
Nothing at all.
When she was restored to a sort of tense composure he found to his
discomfort that woman-like she intended to abase herself thoroughly and
completely. She implored his forgiveness for his long exile, gazing at
him humbly, and when he said in a matter-of-fact tone that he had been
happy, giving him a look which showed that she thought he was lying to
save her unhappiness.
“You are trying to make it easier for me. But I know, Jud.”
“I'm telling you the truth,” he said, patiently. “There's one point I
didn't think necessary to tell your brother. For a good while I didn't
remember anything about it. If it hadn't been for that--well, I don't
know. Anyhow, don't look at me as though I willfully saved you. I
didn't.”
She sat still, pondering that, and twisting a ring on her finger.
“What do you mean to do?” she asked, after a pause.
“I don't know. I'll find something.”
“You won't go back to your work?”
“I don't see how I can. I'm in hiding, in a sort of casual fashion.”
To his intense discomfiture she began to cry again. She couldn't go
through with it. She would go back to Norada and tell the whole thing.
She had let Fred influence her, but she saw now she couldn't do it. But
for the first time he felt that in this one thing she was not sincere.
Her grief and abasement had been real enough, but now he felt she was
acting.
“Suppose we don't go into that now,” he said gently. “You've had about
all you can stand.” He got up awkwardly. “I suppose you are playing
to-night?”
She nodded, looking up at him dumbly.
“Better lie down, then, and--forget me.” He smiled down at her.
“I've never forgotten you, Jud. And now, seeing you again--I--”
Her face worked. She continued to look up at him, piteously. The
appalling truth came to him then, and that part of him which had
remained detached and aloof, watching, almost smiled at the irony. She
cared for him. Out of her memories she had built up something to care
for, something no more himself than she was the woman of his dreams; but
with this difference, that she was clinging, woman-fashion, to the thing
she had built, and he had watched it crumble before his eyes.
“Will you promise to go and rest?”
“Yes. If you say so.”
She was acquiescent and humble. Her eyes were soft, faithful, childlike.
“I've suffered so, Jud.”
“I know.”
“You don't hate me, do you?”
“Why should I? Just remember this: while you were carrying this burden,
I was happier than I'd ever been. I'll tell you about it some time.”
She got up, and he perceived that she expected him again to take her in
his arms. He felt ridiculous and resentful, and rather as though he was
expected to kiss the hand that had beaten him, but when she came close
to him he put an arm around her shoulders.
“Poor Bev!” he said. “We've made pretty much a mess of it, haven't we?”
He patted her and let her go, and her eyes followed him as he left the
room. The elder brotherliness of that embrace had told her the truth as
he could never have hurt her in words. She went back to the chair where
he had sat, and leaned her cheek against it.
After a time she went slowly upstairs and into her room. When her maid
came in she found her before the mirror of her dressing-table, staring
at her reflection with hard, appraising eyes.
Leslie's partner, wandering into the hotel at six o'clock, found from
the disordered condition of the room that Leslie had been back, had
apparently bathed, shaved and made a careful toilet, and gone out again.
Joe found himself unexpectedly at a loose end. Filled with suppressed
indignation he commenced to dress, getting out a shirt, hunting his
evening studs, and lining up what he meant to say to Leslie over his
defection.
Then, at a quarter to seven, Leslie came in, top-hatted and
morning-coated, with a yellowing gardenia in his buttonhole and his
shoes covered with dust.
“Hello, Les,” Joe said, glancing up from a laborious struggle with a
stud. “Been to a wedding?”
“Why?”
“You look like it.”
“I made a call, and since then I've been walking.”
“Some walk, I'd say,” Joe observed, looking at him shrewdly. “What's
wrong, Les? Fair one turn you down?”
“Go to hell,” Leslie said irritably.
He flung off his coat and jerked at his tie. Then, with it hanging
loose, he turned to Joe.
“I'm going to tell you something. I know it's safe with you, and I need
some advice. I called on a woman this afternoon. You know who she is.
Beverly Carlysle.”
Joe whistled softly.
“That's not the point,” Leslie declaimed, in a truculent voice. “I'm not
defending myself. She's a friend; I've got a right to call there if I
want to.”
“Sure you have,” soothed Joe.
“Well, you know the situation at home, and who Livingstone actually is.
The point is that, while that poor kid at home is sitting around killing
herself with grief, Clark's gone back to her. To Beverly Carlysle.”
“How do you know?”
“Know? I saw him this afternoon, at her house.”
He sat still, moodily reviewing the situation. His thoughts were a
chaotic and unpleasant mixture of jealousy, fear of Nina, anxiety over
Elizabeth, and the sense of a lost romantic adventure. After a while he
got up.
“She's a nice kid,” he said. “I'm fond of her. And I don't know what to
do.”
Suddenly Joe grinned.
“I see,” he said. “And you can't tell her, or the family, where you saw
him!”
“Not without raising the deuce of a row.”
He began, automatically, to dress for dinner. Joe moved around the room,
rang for a waiter, ordered orange juice and ice, and produced a bottle
of gin from his bag. Leslie did not hear him, nor the later preparation
of the cocktails. He was reflecting bitterly on the fact that a man who
married built himself a wall against romance, a wall, compounded of his
own new sense of responsibility, of family ties, and fear.
Joe brought him a cocktail.
“Drink it, old dear,” he said. “And when it's down I'll tell you a few
little things about playing around with ladies who have a past. Here's
to forgetting 'em.”
Leslie took the glass.
“Right-o,” he said.
He went home the following day, leaving Joe to finish the business in
New York. His going rather resembled a flight. Tossing sleepless the
night before, he had found what many a man had discovered before him,
that his love of clandestine adventure was not as strong as his caution.
He had had a shock. True, his affair with Beverly had been a formless
thing, a matter of imagination and a desire to assure himself that
romance, for him, was not yet dead. True, too, that he had nothing to
fear from Dick Livingstone. But the encounter had brought home to him
the danger of this old-new game he was playing. He was running like a
frightened child.
He thought of various plans. One of them was to tell Nina the truth,
take his medicine of tears and coldness, and then go to Mr. Wheeler.
One was to go to Mr. Wheeler, without Nina, and make his humiliating
admission. But Walter Wheeler had his own rigid ideas, was
uncompromising in rectitude, and would understand as only a man could
that while so far he had been only mentally unfaithful, he had been
actuated by at least subconscious desire.
His own awareness of that fact made him more cautious than he need have
been, perhaps more self-conscious. And he genuinely cared for Elizabeth.
It was, on the whole, a generous and kindly impulse that lay behind his
ultimate resolution to tell her that her desertion was both wilful and
cruel.
Yet, when the time came, he found it hard to tell her. He took her for
a drive one evening soon after his return, forcibly driving off Wallie
Sayre to do so, and eying surreptitiously now and then her pale, rather
set face. He found a quiet lane and stopped the car there, and then
turned and faced her.
“How've you been, little sister, while I've been wandering the gay white
way?” he asked.
“I've been all right, Leslie.”
“Not quite all right, I think. Have you ever thought, Elizabeth, that no
man on earth is worth what you've been going through?”
“I'm all right, I tell you,” she said impatiently. “I'm not grieving any
more. That's the truth, Les. I know now that he doesn't intend to come
back, and I don't care. I never even think about him, now.”
“I see,” he said. “Well, that's that.”
But he had not counted on her intuition, and was startled to hear her
say:
“Well? Go on.”
“What do you mean, go on?”
“You brought me out here to tell me something.”
“Not at all. I simply--”
“Where is he? You've seen him.”
He tried to meet her eyes, failed, cursed himself for a fool. “He's
alive and well, Elizabeth. I saw him in New York.” It was a full minute
before she spoke again, and then her lips were stiff and her voice
strained.
“Has he gone back to her? To the actress he used to care for?”
He hesitated, but he knew he would have to go on.
“I'm going to tell you something, Elizabeth. It's not very creditable
to me, but I'll have to trust you. I don't want to see you wasting your
life. You've got plenty of courage and a lot of spirit. And you've got
to forget him.”
He told her, and then he took her home. He was a little frightened, for
there was something not like her in the way she had taken it, a sort of
immobility that might, he thought, cover heartbreak. But she smiled when
she thanked him, and went very calmly into the house.
That night she accepted Wallie Sayre.