_In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes; and in
Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary._
As has been said, Porter Bigelow was not a snob, and he was a
gentleman. But even a gentleman can, when swayed by primal emotions,
convince himself that high motives rule, even while performing acts of
doubtful honor.
It was thus that Porter proved to himself that his interest in Roger
Poole's past was purely that of the protector and friend of Mary
Ballard. Mary must not throw herself away. Mary must be guarded
against the tragedy of marriage with a man who was not worthy. And who
could do this better than he?
In pursuance of his policy of protection he took his way one afternoon
in July to Colin's studio.
"I'm staying in town," Colin told him, "because of Miss Jeliffe. Her
father is held by the long Session. I'm painting another picture of
her, and fixing up these rooms in the interim--how do you like them?"
In his furnishing, Colin had broken away from conventional tradition.
Here were no rugs hung from balconies, no rich stuffs and suits of
armor. It was simply a cool little place, with a big window
overlooking one of the parks. Its walls were tinted gray, and there
were a few comfortable rattan chairs, with white linen cushions. A
portrait of Delilah dominated the room. He had painted her in the
costume which she had worn at the garden party--in all the glory of
cool greens and faint pink, and heavenly blue.
Porter surveying the portrait said, slowly, "You said that you had
painted--other women?"
"Yes--but none so satisfactory as Miss Jeliffe."
"There was the little saint--in red."
"You remember that? It is just a small canvas."
"You said you'd show it to me."
Colin, rummaging in a second room, called back, "I've found it, and
here's another, of a woman who seemed to fit in with a Botticelli
scheme. She was the long lank type."
Porter was not interested in the Botticelli woman, nor in Colin's
experiments. He wanted to see Roger Poole's wife, so he gave scant
attention to Colin's enthusiastic comments on the first canvas which he
displayed.
"She has the long face. D'you see? And the thin long body. But I
couldn't make her a success. That's the joy of Delilah Jeliffe. She
has the temperament of an actress and simply lives in her part. But
this woman couldn't. And lobster suppers and lovely lank ladies are
not synonymous--so I gave her up."
But Porter was reaching for the other sketch.
With it in his hand, he surveyed the small creature with the angel
face. In her dress of pure clear red, with the touch of gold in the
halo, and a lyre in her hand, she seemed lighted by divine fire, above
the earth, appealing.
"I fancy it must have been the man's fault if marriage with such a wife
was a failure," he ventured.
Colin shrugged. "Who can tell?" he said. "There were moments when she
did not seem a saint."
"What do you mean?" Porter's voice was almost irritable.
"It is hard to tell," the little artist reflected--"now and then a
glance, a word--seemed to give her away."
"You may have misunderstood."
"Perhaps. But men who know women rarely misunderstand--that kind."
"Did you ever hear Roger Poole preach?" Porter asked, abruptly.
"Several times. He promised to be a great man. It was a pity."
"And you say she married again."
"Yes, and died shortly after."
The subject ended there, and Porter went away with the vision in his
mind of Roger's wife, and of what the picture of the little saint in
red would mean to Mary Ballard if she could see it.
The thought, having lodged like an evil seed, grew and flourished.
Of late he had seen comparatively little of Mary. He was not sure
whether she planned deliberately to avoid him, or whether her work
really absorbed her. That she wrote to Roger Poole he knew. She did
not try to hide the fact, but spoke frankly of Roger's life in the
pines.
The flames of his jealous thought burned high and hot. He refused to
go with his father and mother to the northern coast, preferring to stay
and swelter in the heat of Washington where he could be near Mary. He
grew restless and pale, unlike himself. And he found in Leila a
confidante and friend, for the General, like Mr. Jeliffe, was held in
town by the late Congress.
Little-Lovely Leila was Little-Lonely Leila now. Yet after her
collapse at the boat, she had shown her courage. She had put away
childish things and was developing into a steadfast little woman, who
busied herself with making her father happy. She watched over him and
waited on him. And he who loved her wondered at her unexpected
strength, not knowing that she was saying to herself, "I am a wife--not
a child. And I mustn't make it hard for father--I mustn't make it hard
for anybody. And when Barry comes back I shall be better fitted to
share his life if I have learned to be brave."
She wrote to Barry--such cheerful letters, and one of them sent him to
Gordon.
"It would have been better if I had brought her with me," he said, as
he read extracts; "she's a little thing, Gordon, but she's a wonder.
And she's the prop on which I lean."
"Presently you will be the prop," Gordon responded, "and that's what a
husband should be, Barry, as you'll find out when you're married."
When!--if Gordon had only known how Barry dreamed of Leila--in her
yellow gown, trudging by his side toward the church on the
hill--dancing in the moonlight, a primrose swaying on its stem. How
unquestioning had been her faith in him! And he must prove himself
worthy of that faith.
And he did prove it by a steadiness which astonished Gordon, and by an
industry which was almost unnatural, and he wrote to Leila, "I shall
show them, dear heart, and then they'll let me have you."
It was on the night after Leila received this letter that Porter came
to take her for a ride.
"Ask Mary to go with us," he said; "she won't go with me alone."
Leila's glance was sympathetic. "Did she say she wouldn't?"
"I asked her. And she said she was--tired. As if a ride wouldn't rest
her," hotly.
"It would. You let me try her, Porter."
Leila's voice at the telephone was coaxing. "I want to go, Mary, dear,
and Dad is busy at the Capitol, and----"
"But I said I wouldn't."
"Porter won't care, just so he gets you. He's at my elbow now,
listening. And he says you are to ask Aunt Isabelle, and sit with her
on the back seat if you want to be fussy."
"Leila," Porter was protesting, "I didn't say anything of the kind."
She went on regardless, "Well, if he didn't say it he meant it. And we
want you, both of us, awfully."
Leila hanging up the receiver shook her head at Porter. "You don't
know how to manage Mary. If you'd stay away from her for weeks--and
not try to see her--she'd begin to wonder where you were."
"No she wouldn't." Porter's tone was weighted with woe. "She'd simply
be glad, and she'd sit in her Tower Rooms and write letters to Roger
Poole, and forget that I was on the earth."
It was out now--all his flaming jealousy. Leila stared at him. "Oh,
Porter," she asked, breathlessly, "do you really think that she cares
for Roger?"
"I know it."
"Has she told you?"
"Not--exactly. But she hasn't denied it. And he sha'n't have her.
She belongs to me, Leila."
Leila sighed. "Oh, why should love affairs always go wrong?"
"Mine shall go right," Porter assured her grimly. "I'm not in this
fight to give up, Leila."
When they took Mary in and Aunt Isabelle, Mary insisted that Leila
should keep her seat beside Porter. "I'm dead tired," she said, "and I
don't want to talk."
And now Porter, aiming strategically for Colin Quale's studio, took
them everywhere else but in the direction of his objective point. But
at last, after a long ride, they crossed the park which was faced by
Colin's rooms.
"Have you seen Delilah's portrait?" Porter asked, casually.
They had not, and he knew it.
"If Colin's in, why not stop?"
They agreed and found Delilah there, and her father. The night was
very hot, the room was faintly illumined by a hanging silver lamp in an
alcove. From among the shadows, Delilah rose. "Colin is telephoning
to the club for lemonades and things," she said; "he'll be back in a
minute."
"We came to see your picture," Mary informed her.
"He is painting me again," Delilah said, "in the moonlight, like this."
She seated herself in the wide window, so that back of her was the
silver haze of the glorious night Her dress of thin fine white was
unrelieved.
Colin, coming in, set down his tray hastily and hastened to change the
pose of her head. "It will be hard to get just the effect I want," he
told them. "It must not be hard black and white, but luminous."
"I want them to see the other picture," Porter said.
Colin switched on the lights. "I'll never do better than this," he
said.
"Do you like it, Mary?" Delilah asked. "It is the garden party dress."
"I love it," Mary said. "It isn't just the dress, Delilah. It's you.
It's so joyous--as if you were expecting much of life."
"I am," Delilah said. "I'm expecting everything."
"And you'll get it," Colin stated. "You won't wait for any one to hand
it to you; you'll simply reach out and take it."
Porter's eyes were searching. "Look here, Quale," he said, at last,
"do you mind letting us see the others?--that Botticelli woman and the
Fra Angelico--they show your versatility."
Colin hesitated. "They are crude beside this."
But Porter insisted. "They're charming. Trot them out, Quale."
So out they came---the picture of the lank lady with the long face, and
the picture of the little saint in red.
It was to the girl in red that they gave the most attention.
"How lovely she is," Mary said, "and how sweet."
But Delilah, observing closely, did not agree with her. "I'm not sure.
Some women look like that who are little fiends. You haven't shown me
this before, Colin. Who was she?"
Colin evaded. "Some one I knew a long time ago."
Porter was shaken inwardly by the thought that the little blond artist
was proving himself a gentleman. He would not proclaim to the world
what he had told Porter in confidence.
Porter's instincts, however, were purely primitive. He wanted to shout
to the housetops, "That's the picture of Roger Poole's wife. Look at
her and see how sweet she is. And then decide if she made her own
unhappiness."
But he did not shout. He kept silent and watched Mary. She was still
studying the picture attentively. "I don't see how you can say that
she could be anything but sweet, Delilah. I think it is the face of a
truthful child."
Porter's heart leaped. The time would come when he would tell her that
the picture of the little trustful child was the picture of Roger
Poole's wife. And then----
Colin had turned off the lights again. They sat now among the shadows
and drank cool things and ate the marvelous little cakes which were a
specialty of the pastry cook around the corner.
"In a week we'll all be away from here," Delilah said. "I wonder why
we are so foolish. If it weren't for the fact that we've got the
habit, we'd be just as comfortable at home."
"I shall be at home," Mary said. "I'm not entitled yet to a vacation."
"Don't you hate it?" Delilah demanded frankly.
Mary hesitated. "No, I don't. I can't say that I really like it--but
it gave me quite a wonderful feeling to open my first pay envelope."
"Women have gone mad," Porter said. "They are deliberately turning
away from womanly things to make machines of themselves."
Delilah, taking up the cudgels for Mary, demanded, "Is Mary turning her
back on womanly things any more than I? I am making a business of
capturing society--Mary is simply holding down her job until Romance
butts into her life."
Colin stopped her. "I wish you'd put your twentieth century mind on
your mid-Victorian clothes," he said, "and live up to them--in your
language."
Delilah laughed. "Well, I told the truth if I didn't do it elegantly.
We are both working for things which we want. Mary wants Romance and I
want social recognition."
Leila sighed. "It isn't always what we want that we get, is it?" she
asked, and Porter answered with decision, "It is not. Life throws us
usually brickbats instead of bouquets."
Colin did not agree. "Life gives us sometimes more than we deserve.
It has given me that picture of Miss Jeliffe. And I consider that a
pretty big slice of good fortune."
"You're a nice boy, Colin," Delilah told him, "and I like you--and I
like your philosophy. I fancy life is giving me as much as I deserve."
The others were silent. Life was not giving Leila or Porter or Mary at
that moment the things that they wanted. Porter's demands on destiny
were definite. He wanted Mary. Leila wanted Barry. Mary did not know
what she wanted; she only knew that she was unsatisfied.
Porter took Leila home first, then drove Mary and Aunt Isabelle back
through the park to the old house on the hill.
"I'm coming in," he said, as he helped Mary out of the car.
"But it is so late, Porter."
"I've been here lots of times as late as this. I won't be sent home,
Mary, not to-night."
Aunt Isabelle, tired and sleepy, went at once up-stairs. Mary sat on
the porch with Porter. Below them lay the city in the white moonlight.
For a while they were silent, then Porter said, suddenly:
"Mary, there's something I want to tell you. You may think that I'm
interfering in your affairs, but I can't help it. I can't see you
doing things which will make you unhappy."
"I'm not unhappy. What do you mean, Porter?"
"You will be--if you go on as you are going. Mary--I took you to
Colin's to-night on purpose, so that you could see the picture of the
little saint in red, the Fra Angelico one."
"Yes."
"You know what you said about her--that she had such a trustful,
childish face?"
"Yes."
"That was the picture of Roger Poole's wife, Mary."
She sat as still in her white dress as a marble statue.
At last she asked, "How do you know?"
"Quale told me. I fancy he hadn't heard that Poole had lived here, and
that we knew him. So he let the name drop carelessly."
"Well?"
He turned on her flaming. "I know what you mean by that tone, Mary.
But you're unjust. You think I've been meddling. But I haven't. It
is only this. If Poole could break the heart of one woman, he can
break the heart of another--and he sha'n't break yours."
"Who told you that he broke her heart?"
"You've seen the picture. Could a woman with a face like that do
anything bad enough to wreck a man's life? I can't believe it, Mary.
There are always two sides of a question."
She did not answer at once. Then she said, "How did you know
about--Roger?"
"Delilah told me--he couldn't expect to keep it secret."
"He did not expect it; and he had much to bear."
"Then he has told you, and has pleaded with eloquence? But that
child's face in the picture pleads with me."
It did plead. Remembering it, Mary was assailed by her first doubts.
It was such a child's face, with saint's eyes.
Porter's voice was proceeding. "A man can always make out a case for
himself. And you have only his word for what he did. Oh, I suppose
you'll think I'm all sorts of a cad to talk this way. But I can't see
you drifting, drifting toward a danger which may wreck your life."
"Why should it wreck my life?"
"Because Poole, whatever the merits of the case--doesn't seem to me
strong enough to shape his destiny and yours. Was it strong for him to
let go as he did, just because that woman failed him? Was it strong
for him to hide himself here--like--like a criminal? A strong man
would have faced the world. He would have tried to rise out of his
wreck. His actions all through spell weakness. I could bear your not
marrying me, Mary. But I can't bear to see you marry a man who isn't
worthy of you. To see you unhappy would be torture for me."
In his earnestness he had struck a genuine note, and she recognized it.
"I know," she said, unsteadily. "I believe that you think you are
fighting my battle, instead of your own. But I don't think Roger Poole
would--lie."
"Not consciously. But he'd create the wrong impression--we can never
see our own faults--and he would blame her, of course. But the man who
has made one woman unhappy would make another unhappy, Mary."
Mary was shaken.
"Please don't put it so--inevitably. Roger hasn't any claim on me
whatever."
"Hasn't he? Oh, Mary, hasn't he?"
There was hope in his voice, and she shrank from it.
"No," she said, gently, "he is just--my friend. As yet I can't believe
evil of him. But I don't love him. I don't love anybody--I don't want
any man in my life."
She thought that she meant it. She thought it, even while her heart
was crying out in defense of the man he had maligned.
"How can one know the truth of such a thing?" she went on, unsteadily.
"One can only believe in one's friends."
"Mary," eagerly, "you've known Poole only for a few months. You've
known me always. I can give you a devotion equal to anybody's. Why
not drop all this contrariness--and come to me?"
"Why not?" she asked herself. Roger Poole was obscure, and destined to
be obscure. More than that, there would always be people like Porter
who would question his past. "It is the whispers that kill," Roger had
said. And people would always whisper.
She rose and walked to the end of the porch. Porter followed her, and
they stood looking down into the garden. It was in a riot of summer
bloom--and the fragrance rushed up to them.
The garden! And herself a flower! It was such things that Roger Poole
could say, and which Porter could never say. And he could not say them
because he could not think them. The things that Porter thought were
commonplace, the things which Roger thought were wonderful. If she
married Porter Bigelow, she would walk always with her feet firmly on
the ground. If she married Roger Poole they would fly in the upper air
together.
"Mary," Porter was insisting, "dear girl."
She held up her hand. "I won't listen," she said, almost passionately;
"don't imagine things about me, Porter. I have my work--and my
freedom--I won't give them up for anybody."
If she said the words with something less than her former confidence he
was not aware of it. How could he know that she was making a last
desperate stand?
When at last she sent him away, he went with an air of depression which
touched her.
"I've risked being thought a cad," he said, "but I had to do it."
"I know. I don't blame you, dear boy."
She gave him her hand upon it, and he went away, and she was left alone
in the moonlight.
And when the last echo of his purring car had died away into silence
she went down and sat in the garden on the bench beside the
hundred-leaved bush. Aunt Isabelle's light was still burning, and
presently she would go up and say "Good-night," but for the moment she
must be alone. Alone to face the doubts which were facing her.
Suppose, oh, suppose, that the things which Roger had told her about
his marriage had been distorted to make his story sound plausible?
Suppose the little wife had suffered, had been driven from him by
coldness, by cruelty? One never knew the real inner histories of such
domestic tragedies. There was Leila, for example, who knew nothing of
Barry's faults, and Barry had not told her. Might not other men have
faults which they dared not tell? The world was full of just such
tragedies.
When at last Mary reached the Tower Rooms, she undressed in the dark.
She said her prayers in the dark, out loud, as had been her childish
habit. And this was what she said: "Oh, Lord, I want to believe in
Roger. Let me believe--don't let me doubt--let me believe."
When at last she slept, it was to dream and wake and to dream again.
And waking or dreaming, out of the shadows came ghostly creatures, who
whispered, "His little wife was a saint--how could she make him
unhappy?" And again, "He may have been cruel, how do you know that he
was not cruel?" And again, "If you were his wife, you would be
thinking always of that other wife--thinking--thinking--thinking."