IN WHICH ADRIAN MAKES DISQUIETING ACQUAINTANCE
WITH THE LONG ARM OF COINCIDENCE
Adrian sat well back in the car. The tires ate up the long
perspectives of white road, while the brave music of the engines made
accompaniment to the lyrics of his thought. On either side the lines
of poplars galloped, and behind them the great gold, green and
rusty-red squares of the crops, marked only by the nature of their
respective growths, innocent of dividing fence or hedge-row, swished
back, half the circle, as on a turn-table. In the valleys herds of
oxen and stout-built, white-bellied, tortoise-shell cows moved
leisurely through the rich meadow-grass. Prosperous gray homesteads,
flanked by mellow wide-ranging barns and sheds, orchards of reddening
apples, and yards containing a cheerfully garrulous population of
poultry, calves, and pigs, came into view only to vanish backward along
with the rest. In places, tracts of forest, the trees crowded and for
the most part very tall and slight, as is the habit of northern French
woodlands, made a dark stain amid the gilded brightness, casting long
shadows across the downward-sloping pastures at their foot. A note of
pastel blue in farmers' and peasants' clothing, now and again of
lustrous dappled gray in the barrel or buttocks of some well-shaped
draught-horse, of orange or rose in a child's frock or walled garden
close, of white in airing linen, struck momentarily into observation.
But dominant was the gilt of the level sunlight, the gold of the
harvest, and the silver powdering dust of the highway. All these found
sublimated repetition in the iridescence of a sunset modulated to rare
half-tones by the near neighborhood of the sea. And Adrian sat well
back in the car, restful yet keen, affected sensuously and passively
rather than consciously and actively by the fair, fruitful landscape
fleeting to right and left of him, revising his impressions of the past
day.
Those impressions were, as he told himself, in a high degree both
stimulating and poetic. He had been happy, very happy; but his
happiness was of the traveling rather than the stationary order. No
touch of satiety showed in it; rather much haunting solicitation of the
Unattained and the Beyond. From Pisgah height he had beheld the Land
of Promise, for the first time reasonably secure of entrance into that
ardently coveted and most delectable country. But the waters of Jordan
still rolled between; and whether these would pile themselves politely
apart, bidding him cross dry-shod, or whether a pretty smart bit of
swimming would be required before he touched the opposite bank, he was
as yet by no means sure. _Enfin_--he could swim for it, if all came to
all, and would swim for it gaily and strongly enough!
As that afternoon he first caught sight of Gabrielle St. Leger
standing, tall and svelte in her light summer dress, upon a grass-grown
mound on the turn of the slope, her strong yet pliant figure detaching
itself in high relief against the immense expanse of Ste. Marie's blue
lagoons and gleaming sands, Adrian apprehended that she too suffered
those solicitations of the Unattained and the Beyond. Her attitude,
indeed, was eloquent of questioning expectation. It recalled to him
the superb and ill-fated drawing of her, uplifted amid the cruel and
witty obscenities of poor René Dax's studio--the exalted Madonna of the
Future, her child upon her arm, going forth from things habitual and
familiar in obedience to the call of Modernity, of the new and
tremendous age. Resemblance was there; yet as he looked a difference
in her to-day's attitude soon disclosed itself to this analytic though
ardent lover. For, assuredly, the sentiment of this second and living
picture of her was less abstract, more warm and directly human? Not
devotion to a Cause, to an impersonal ideal or idea, inspired that
outlooking of questioning expectation across the shimmering levels to
the freedom of the open sea, but some stirring of the heart, some
demand of her sweet flesh for those natural joys which were its
rightful portion. This difference--and then another, which, even here
by himself in the rapidly running car, Adrian approached sensitively
and with inward deprecation. In to-day's picture she had been alone.
She had not carried her child on her arm; so that only the woman,
beautiful and youthful, not the already made mother, was present.
And the above fact, it must be owned, contributed in no small degree to
the young man's content. A thousand times, notwithstanding his love of
analysis, he had refused and shied away from analysis of precisely
this--namely, the feeling he entertained toward little Bette. She was
a delicious being, granted; but she was also poor Horace St. Leger's
child, and from much which this implied Adrian did quite incontestably
shrink. _La belle Gabrielle_ might still be, as he sincerely believed
still was, essentially _la Belle au Bois Dormant_, just as he himself
was the princely adventurer selected by Providence for the very
agreeable task of waking her up. Yet, during that protracted sleep of
hers, things had happened, primitive and practical things, to the
actuality of which delicious Mademoiselle Bette's existence bore
indubitable witness. Hence to carry away with him that other picture
of Gabrielle as seen to-day, interrogating the fair sunlit spaces
unaccompanied, gave him quite peculiar satisfaction. In the glow of
which his thoughts now turned affectionately to the memory of poor
Horace St. Leger. For wasn't _la belle Gabrielle_, after all, his, and
not Adrian's, discovery? And wasn't he, Adrian, consequently under a
gigantic debt of gratitude to Horace for so speedily taking his
departure and leaving the coast clear? He might have lived
on--agonizing reflection!--ten, twenty, even--since centenarians are at
present so conspicuously the fashion--a good thirty years longer; lived
on, indeed, until it ceased to matter much whether he took his
departure or not. Thinking over all which, Adrian forgave the poor man
his abbreviated enjoyment of paternity, and in so doing made his final
peace with the existence of little Bette.
Not to have done so would, in his opinion, have betrayed a culpably
ungenerous and churlish spirit. The more as when--her attention
attracted by the pretty outcry of little Bette herself and of Madame
Vernois--Gabrielle turning her gaze landward became aware of his
presence, the light in her face and quick welcoming gesture of her hand
showed his advent as far from displeasing to her. Both expression and
action struck him so spontaneous and unstudied that, without undue
vanity, he might well believe himself to count for something in those
allurements of the Beyond and the Unattained. Delightfully certain it
was, in any case, that she descended with haste from her grassy
monticule, and--he could most joyfully have sworn--put some restraint
upon herself so as to advance and offer her greetings with due
soberness and dignity.
All through his visit her manner had remained gentle, serious, touched
even with a hint of embarrassment. From these signs he drew most
hopeful auguries. After tea, under the quite perceptibly out-of-joint
noses of the two excellent young Americans, she had drawn him aside and
plied him with questions respecting his nursing of René Dax. In
response he gave her a detailed account of the last two months. With
the artist's happy faculty for playing two mutually destructive parts
at one and the same time in all sincerity, he mourned René's mental
affliction and felt the pity of it while looking into Gabrielle's eyes,
watching her every change of expression and reveling in the emotion his
eloquent recital evoked. Her quickness of sympathy and comprehension
were enchanting. Never had he found her so responsive. Never had he
felt so closely united to her in sentiment.--And that the egregious
Tadpole, of all living creatures, should prove so excellent a
stalking-horse!
Putting aside the high delight of having Madame St. Leger as a
listener, he found sensible relief in speaking freely of the subject.
For the responsibility of his position had been severe and wearing.
Especially had it been so during those, at first, frequently recurrent
periods of acute mania, when his affection and philosophy alike were
strained to breaking-point, making him doubt whether the protracted
struggle to keep wayward soul and distempered body together was either
merciful or obligatory. If this unhappy lunatic of genius was so
passionately desirous of letting loose that same wayward soul of his
through a gaping wound in his throat, why the deuce should he, Adrian,
in company with three or four other strong and healthy men, be at such
tremendous pains to prevent it? Mightn't the poor Tadpole know very
much best what was best for him? And wouldn't it, therefore, be more
humane and intelligent to leave nicely sharpened razors within easy
reach, ignoring the probable consequences of such intentional
negligence? Are there not circumstances which render connivance at
suicide more than permissible? Time and again he had argued the vexed
question with himself as to the binding necessity, even the practical
morality, of preserving human life when, through disease, life has so
cruelly lost its distinctively human characteristics and values.
"And," Gabrielle St. Leger remarked, with a smile edged by engagingly
gentle mockery, "then invariably ended, against your better judgment,
by still carefully removing the razors!"
That same smile dwelt in the young man's memory as singularly rich with
promise, justifying the belief that a lifetime spent in _la belle
Gabrielle's_ society would fail to exhaust her power of--to put it
vulgarly--jumping the unexpected upon you, and bracing your interest by
the firing off of all manner of fine little surprises. Monotony, he
thanked Heaven, would very certainly not be among the dangers to be
feared in marriage with Madame St. Leger!
But while his imagination played about these agreeable matters the
music of the engines changed its tune, the brakes gripped under Martin
the chauffeur's boot-sole, and the car slowed down to a crawl in
passing a flock of sheep. Two large dogs, bobtailed and shaggy, their
red mouths widely open as they raced barking to and fro, rounded up the
scared and scattering flock into a compact, bleating, palpitating mass
of bister color picked out with rusty black upon the dust-whitened
strip of turf by the roadside. The shepherd, tall and lean, a long
staff in his hand, his felt hat, hawk-nosed face, unkempt beard, ragged
cloak and string-girt leggings, presenting a study in rich browns and
umbers under the last glinting gold of the sunset, gesticulated and
shouted, directing the evolutions of the racing dogs in a harsh and
guttural patois. The scene, a somewhat violent pastoral, stamped
itself as a picturesque inset upon the wide-margined page of Adrian's
reflections.
The sheep once safely cleared and the pace again quickening, his
thought centered complacently upon the moment of his farewells. For
surely these showed handsomely on the credit side of his day's pleasure?
The friendly little company--not exclusive of the forgiving though
cheapened Americans--had gathered at the hotel entrance to witness his
start. Anastasia's voice and manner were rich with meaning and
affectionate admonition as she invited him speedily to return. In the
expression of Madame Vernois's refined face he seemed to read something
approaching appeal as she gracefully seconded that invitation. While
Gabrielle herself--she standing a little apart from the rest, nearer to
the waiting automobile--answered, not lightly, but with a sweet and
grave dignity, on his asking her:
"And you, _chère Madame et amie_, have I your invitation also? May I
soon come back? Without your sanction it would, perhaps, be
preferable, be wiser, more desirable for me to stay away."
"I, too, hope you may find it possible soon to return here. If your
doing so depends in any degree upon my sanction I give that sanction
readily."
And thus speaking she had looked him full in the eyes. Whereupon,
though furiously unwilling to quit the dear sight and sound of her,
this very modern young god mounted up into his very modern car in quite
celestial serenity of spirit.
But as the dusk deepened and the lights of Rouen multiplied in the
distance, happy retrospect gave place to happy on-looking, since, at
nine and twenty, no sound and wholesome man seriously questions the
existence of earthly bliss.
Yes, a week, possibly even a few days, would suffice to assure him all
went well with René in his new quarters. Then he might reckon himself
at liberty to return to Ste. Marie and the dear people there. And,
once there, no overstrained delicacy should withhold him from putting
it to the touch with Gabrielle St. Leger. Bowing to Anastasia's
advice, he would risk saying the word too much, so as to avoid the
greater danger of saying the word too little;--risk it the more gladly
because he gratefully believed it mightn't prove the word too much, but
the word acceptable, even the word actually, though silently and
proudly, waited for. The immediate consequence of which belief was
that, the car striking into the town through the _Faubourg Beauvosine_
and traveling the Boulevard and the _rue St. Hilaire_ successively, it
appeared to Adrian in act of traversing an altogether heavenly city,
whose now poetic ancient buildings, now stately new ones, were alike
built of silver, and whose deep-resounding streets, in the growing
brilliance of the lamp-light, were paved with gold. Such extravagant
tricks, even in this machine-made, mammon-worshiping twentieth century,
can love still contrive to play upon the happy lover!
On the way to the hotel, where he had left his light traveling baggage
when passing through from Caen in the morning, Adrian alighted at the
central post-office, in the _rue Jeanne d'Arc_, to claim his two-days'
mail forwarded from Paris.
Coming out, he stood awhile at the edge of the pavement verifying the
several items. Two consignments of proofs--this pleased him. A slim
one from the office, containing, as he knew, his fortnightly
_chronique_ of current home and foreign politics for the forthcoming
number of the Review. The other--and his glance settled upon it
affectionately--was stouter, holding the slips of a story of some forty
pages. Into that story he had put all the imaginative and verbal skill
of which he, as yet, felt himself capable. It was a drama, at once
pathetic and brutal, of the Paris underworld which he had this year so
intimately investigated during his unsuccessful search for Bibby
Smyrthwaite. He felt keen to know how it looked and read in print; for
in the back of his mind lurked a hope that just conceivably it might
prove a little masterpiece and assure his place among those writers of
contemporary fiction whose literary output really counts.
And here for the moment it must be owned the lover was called upon to
make room for the artist, while Adrian promised himself the best of
good hours, after dinner to-night, in revising punctuation, correcting
misprints, and leisurely making those carefully considered alterations
in wording so absorbing to one emulous of combining grace and high
finish with pungency and vivacity of style. Tenderly he laid the
packet down on the seat of the waiting car, and raised his eyes as in
invocation to the star-pierced blue of the summer sky roofing the
perspective of silver-gray houses and silver-gilt street. For mightn't
he take it as a fortunate omen that the proofs should come to hand on
this so fortunate day? Omen that the story would strike home and its
readers acclaim him as a doer of notable and living work?
He glanced rapidly at the envelopes of his private letters; and, while
thus occupied, became aware that Martin, the chauffeur, was engaged--as
not infrequently--in an altercation. The man was a clever driver, and
to him, Adrian, a willing and trustworthy servant. But his temper was
inconveniently inflammable, and he inclined to pick quarrels with half
the men and make amorous overtures to more than half the women he met,
thus involving both himself and his master in superfluously dramatic
incidents. Under provocation his language became variegated and
astonishingly ripe. Epithets of the latter description he was now in
process of discharging upon some individual who had knocked up against
him, in passing, as he stood at the edge of the pavement bending down
to examine the tire of the near front wheel of the car.
"Martin, stop that, if you please," Adrian said, warningly, over his
shoulder, and returned to the survey of his letters.
There was one from Anastasia Beauchamp. Bless the dear woman, wasn't
she indeed a jewel of a friend! And there was one, black-bordered, and
addressed, though less neatly than usual, in Joanna Smyrthwaite's
small, scholarly handwriting. Adrian was conscious of impatience, of
an unreasoning sense of injury. For why, of all days in the year,
should he hear from Joanna to-day? He had thought of her seldom
lately, owing to preoccupation with and anxiety regarding René Dax; and
it struck him as a rather wanton smirching of his delightful day's
record and subtle menace to the success of his precious little story
that the rather unpleasant matter of poor Joanna should thus obtrude
itself. Undefinable apprehension of coming trouble flashed through his
mind.
All this was a matter of seconds; but during those seconds, the voice
of the choleric chauffeur had risen from a gusty snarl into the screech
of a blazing sky-rocket, bursting finally into a star-shower of
unrecordable invective.
Adrian, imposingly tall in his long dust-colored frieze motor-coat,
wheeled round upon the man angrily.
"Ah, _par exemple!_ but this is intolerable!" he exclaimed. "Have I
not already commanded you to be silent? Do you propose to disgrace me,
as well as yourself, by fighting in the open street? Behave
respectably, not like an idiot. Do you hear--get in behind your
steering-wheel and keep quiet until I am ready to start."
"But, Monsieur, the fellow has grossly insulted me. He cannoned into
me by design, the thrice filthy animal, the sodden ass, and would have
rolled me in the gutter had I not skilfully braced myself. Clearly his
intention was robbery. He is a danger to society, a thief, a
pickpocket. Only let Monsieur look for himself, and declare whether a
more verminous gaol-bird has ever been presented for his inspection?"
And looking, Adrian beheld the chauffeur, fiery-eyed, with bristling
black mustache, and, struggling in his vicious grip, Joanna Smyrthwaite
herself--Joanna dissipated, degraded, with prominent, blear blue eyes
and weak hanging underlip, masquerading in man's attire, as in those
infamous, now obliterated drawings upon René Dax's studio wall.
Disgust, and a vague apprehension of something unnatural and outside
reason, seized on Adrian Savage. The sight was loathsome, to a degree,
both in suggestion and in fact. Then he understood; and,
understanding, suffered a moment of acute indecision. But a crowd was
collecting. The police might arrive upon the scene. Making a strong
effort to surmount his disgust, he said:
"Let him go, Martin. I know him. I will explain to you presently.
Now I require your help."
Then he added rapidly, in English:
"Pardon my servant's rudeness. In the end you shall not have cause to
regret it. You are William Smyrthwaite--Bibby--are you not?"
Martin relinquished his hold sulkily. His victim, dazed and
breathless, stood at bay; a ring of curious, contemptuous faces behind
him, and Adrian, stern, yet excited, and with difficulty repressing
evidences of his repugnance, in front.
"And, if I am Bibby Smyrthwaite, what the devil is that to you?" he
answered petulantly in English. "I never set eyes on you before. Why
should you interfere with me? Haven't I as much right to the pavement
as that liveried brute of yours? I've got a job as cab-washer. If I'm
late at the yard I shall forfeit my pay. And I want my pay."
His loose-lipped mouth twisted miserably and tears began to dribble
down his sunken cheeks.
"Let me go," he blubbered. "I haven't done you any harm, and I want my
pay."
Then Adrian, moved by compassion, came close to him and spoke kindly.
"See here, my poor boy," he said. "I am commissioned by persons who
have a regard for you to provide for you. You need not worry about
your pay. I will take care of all that. For months I have tried to
find you to tell you this. I am Adrian Savage, a cousin of your late
father, and his executor."
The tears ceased, and the young man's face was overspread by an
expression of almost imbecile rapture. Adrian turned sick. Exactly
thus had Joanna looked, more than once.
"Is my father dead, then?" Bibby asked.
"Yes, he is dead," Adrian replied, in bewilderment.
Bibby reeled forward and squatted on the broad footboard of the car,
his head thrown back, holding his sides, his thin, loose-jointed limbs
and body writhing with and shaken by hysterical laughter.
"Dead!" he quavered out--"dead! By God! they've got him at last,
then--got him, the stinking, slave-driving old hypocrite! And, please
God, they're cooking him now--now--at this very identical
minute--cooking him to a turn, down in hell."