The time, almost the very minute, when Isabelle realized the peculiar
feeling she had come to have for Cairy, was strangely clear to her. It was
shortly after Percy Woodyard's funeral. She had been to Lakewood with her
mother, and having left her comfortably settled in her favorite hotel, had
taken the train for New York. Tom was to go to the theatre with her that
evening, and had suggested that they dine at a little down-town restaurant
he used to frequent when he was Gossom's slave. He was to meet her at the
ferry.
She had been thinking of Percy Woodyard, of Fosdick's epithet for
Conny,--the Vampire. And there flashed across her the thought, 'She will
try to get Tom back!' (Cairy had told her that he had gone to the funeral
because Conny had written him a little note.) 'And she is so bad for him,
so bad for any man!' Then looking out on the brown March landscape, she
felt a pleasant glow of expectation, of something desirable in immediate
prospect, which she did not at once attribute to anything more definite
than the fact she was partly rested, after her two days at Lakewood. But
when in the stream of outgoing passengers that filled the echoing terminal
she caught sight of Tom's face, looking expectantly over the heads of the
crowd, a vivid ray of joy darted through her.
'He's here!' she thought. 'He has come across the ferry to meet me!'
She smiled and waved the bunch of violets she was wearing--those he had
sent down to Lakewood for her--above the intervening heads.
"I thought I would snatch a few more minutes," he explained, as they walked
slowly through the long hall to the ferry.
The bleak March day had suddenly turned into something warm and gay for
her; the dreary terminal was a spot to linger in.
"That was very nice of you," she replied gently, "and so are these!"
She held up his flowers, and in the look they exchanged they went far in
that progress of emotional friendship, the steps of which Cairy knew so
well.... The city was already lighted, tier on tier of twinkling dots in
the great hives across the river, and as they sat out on the upper deck of
the ferry for the sake of fresh air, Isabelle thought she had never seen
the city so marvellous. There was an enchantment in the moving lights on
the river, the millions of fixed lights in the long city. The scent of sea
water reached them, strong and vital, with its ever witching associations
of far-off lands. Isabelle turned and met Cairy's eyes looking intently at
her.
"You seem so joyous to-night!" he said almost reproachfully.
She smiled at him softly.
"But I am! Very happy!--it is good to be here."
That was it,--the nearest description of her feeling,--it was all so good.
She was so much alive! And as she settled back against the hard seat, she
thought pleasantly of the hours to come, the dinner, the play, and then Tom
would take her home and they would talk it over.... She had asked John to
go with her. But he had declined on the ground that "he could not stand
Ibsen," and "he didn't like that little Russian actress." Really, he was
getting very lazy, Isabelle had thought. He would probably smoke too many
cigars, yawn over a book, and go to bed at ten. That was what he usually
did unless he went out to a public dinner, or brought home work from the
office, or had late business meetings. Nothing for his wife, she had
complained once....
This wonderful feeling of light-hearted content continued as they walked
through dingy streets to the old brick building that housed the restaurant,
half cafe, half saloon, where the Irish wife of the Italian proprietor
cooked extraordinary Italian dishes, according to Cairy. He was pensive. He
had been generally subdued this winter on account of the failure of his
play. And, after all, the London opening had not come about. It was
distinctly "his off year"--and he found it hard to work. "Nothing so takes
the ideas out of you as failure," he had said, "and nothing makes you feel
that you can do things like success."
Isabelle wanted to help him; she was afraid that he was being troubled
again by lack of money. Art and letters were badly paid, and Tom, she was
forced to admit, was not provident.
"But you are happy to-night," she had said coaxingly on the ferry. "We are
going to be very gay, and forget things!" That was what Tom did for
her,--made her forget things, and return to the mood of youth where all
seemed shining and gay. She did that for him, too,--amused and distracted
him, with her little impetuosities and girlish frankness. "You are such a
good fellow--you put heart into a man," he had said.
She was happy that she could affect him, could really influence a man whose
talent she admired, whom she believed in.
"I can't do anything to John except make him yawn!" she had replied.
So to-night she devoted her happy mood to brushing away care from Cairy's
mind, and by the time they were seated at the little table with its coarse,
wine-stained napkin, he was laughing at her, teasing her about growing
stout, of which she pretended to be greatly afraid.
"Oh, dear!" she sighed. "I stand after meals and roll and roll, and Mrs.
Peet pounds me until I am black and blue, but it's no use. I am gaining!
Tommy, you'll have to find some younger woman to say your pretty things to.
I am growing frightfully homely! ... That's one comfort with John,--he'll
never know it."
As the meal passed their mood became serious once more and tender, as it
had been when they met. Cairy, lighting cigarette after cigarette, talked
on, about himself. He was very despondent. He had made a hard fight for
recognition; he thought he had won. And then had come discouragement after
discouragement. It looked as if he should be obliged to accept an offer
from a new magazine that was advertising its way into notice and do some
articles for them. No, he would not go back to be Gossom's private
mouthpiece at any price!
He did not whine,--Cairy never did that exactly; but he presented himself
for sympathy. The odds had been against him from the start. And Isabelle
was touched by this very need for sunshine in the emotional temperament of
the man. Conny had appraised the possibilities of his talent intelligently,
believed that if properly exploited he should "arrive." But Isabelle was
moved by the possibilities of his failure,--a much more dangerous state of
mind....
It was long past the time for the theatre, but Cairy made no move. It was
pleasantly quiet in the little room. The few diners had left long ago, and
the debilitated old waiter had retreated to the bar. Cairy had said, "If it
were not for you, for what you give me--" And she had thought, 'Yes, what I
_might_ give him, what he needs! And we are so happy together here.'...
Another hour passed. The waiter had returned and clattered dishes
suggestively and departed again. Cairy had not finished saying all he
wanted to say.... There were long pauses between his words, of which even
the least carried feeling. Isabelle, her pretty mutinous face touched with
tenderness, listened, one hand resting on the table. Cairy covered the hand
with his, and at the touch of his warm fingers Isabelle flushed. Was it the
mood of this day, or something deeper in her nature that thrilled at this
touch as she had never thrilled before in her life? It held her there
listening to his words, her breath coming tightly. She wanted to run away,
and she did not move.... The love that he was telling her she seemed to
have heard whispering in her heart long before....
The way to Isabelle's heart was through pity, the desire to give, as with
many women. Cairy felt it instinctively, and followed the path. Few men can
blaze their way to glory, but all can offer the opportunity to a woman of
splendid sacrifice in love!
"You know I care!" she had murmured. "But, oh, Tom--" That "but" and the
sigh covered much,--John, the little girl, the world as it is. If she could
only give John what she felt she could give this man, with his pleading
eyes that said, 'With you I should be happy, I should conquer!'
"I know--I ask for nothing!"
(Nothing! Oh, damnable lover's lie! Do the Cairys ever content themselves
with nothings?)
"I will do as you say--in all things. We will forget this talk, or I will
not go back to the Farm; but I am glad we understand!"
"No, no," she said quickly. "You must come to the Farm! It must be just as
it has been." She knew as she said the words that it could never be "as it
had been." She liked to close her eyes now to the dark future; but after
to-day, after this new sense of tenderness and love, the old complexion of
life must be different.
Cairy still held her hand. As she looked up with misty eyes, very happy and
very miserable, a little figure came into the empty room followed by the
waiter, and glanced aimlessly about for a table.
"Vick!" Isabelle cried in astonishment. "Where did you come from?"
Vickers had a music score under his arm, and he tapped it as he stood above
them at the end of their table.
"I've been trying over some things with Lester at his rooms, and came in
for a bite. I thought you were going to the theatre, Belle?"
"We are!" Cairy exclaimed, looking at his watch. "We'll about get the last
act!"
Vickers fingered his roll and did not look at Isabelle. Suddenly she
cried:--
"Take me home, Vick! ... Good-night, Tom!"
She hurried nervously from the place. Vickers hailed a cab, and as they
rode up town neither spoke at first. Then Vickers put his hand on hers and
held it very tightly. She knew that he had seen--her tear-stained eyes and
Cairy's intent face,--that he had seen and understood.
"Vick," she moaned, "why is it all such a muddle? Life--what you mean to
do, and what you can do! John doesn't care, doesn't understand.... I'm such
a fool, Vick!" She leaned her head on his shoulder and sobbed. He caressed
her hand gently, saying nothing.
He was sure now that he was called somewhere on this earth.