On about the hottest afternoon of that summer I had the yacht take me down
the Sound to a point on the Connecticut shore within sight of Dawn Hill,
but seven miles farther from New York. I landed at the private pier of
Howard Forrester, the only brother of Anita's mother. As I stepped upon the
pier I saw a fine-looking old man in the pavilion overhanging the water. He
was dressed all in white except a sky-blue tie that harmonized with the
color of his eyes. He was neither fat nor lean, and his smooth skin was
protesting ruddily against the age proclaimed by his wool-white hair. He
rose as I came toward him, and, while I was still several yards away,
showed unmistakably that he knew who I was and that he was anything but
glad to see me.
“Mr. Forrester?” I asked
He grew purple to the line of his thick white hair. “It is, Mr. Blacklock,”
said he. “I have the honor to wish you good day, sir.” And with that he
turned his back on me and gazed out toward Long Island.
“I have come to ask a favor of you, sir,” said I, as polite to that hostile
back as if I had been addressing a cordial face. And I waited.
He wheeled round, looked at me from head to foot. I withstood the
inspection calmly; when it was ended I noted that in spite of himself he
was somewhat relaxed from the opinion of me he had formed upon what he had
heard and read. But he said: “I do not know you, sir, and I do not wish to
know you.”
“You have made me painfully aware of that,” replied I. “But I have learned
not to take snap judgments too seriously. I never go to a man unless I have
something to say to him, and I never leave until I have said it.”
“I perceive, sir,” retorted he, “you have the thick skin necessary to
living up to that rule.” And the twinkle in his eyes betrayed the man who
delights to exercise a real or imaginary talent for caustic wit. Such men
are like nettles--dangerous only to the timid touch.
“On the contrary,” replied I, easy in mind now, though I did not anger him
by showing it, “I am most sensitive to insults--insults to myself. But you
are not insulting _me_. You are insulting a purely imaginary, hearsay
person who is, I venture to assure you, utterly unlike me, and who
doubtless deserves to be insulted.”
His purple had now faded. In a far different tone he said: “If your
business in any way relates to the family into which you have married, I do
not wish to hear it. Spare my patience and your time, sir.”
“It does not,” was my answer. “It relates to my own family--to my wife and
myself. As you may have heard, she is no longer a member of the Ellersly
family. And I have come to you chiefly because I happen to know your
sentiment toward the Ellerslys.”
“I have no sentiment toward them, sir!” he exclaimed. “They are
non-existent, sir--nonexistent! Your wife's mother ceased to be a Forrester
when she married that scoundrel. Your wife is still less a Forrester.”
“True,” said I. “She is a Blacklock.”
He winced, and it reminded me of the night of my marriage and Anita's
expression when the preacher called her by her new name. But I held his
gaze, and we looked each at the other fixedly for, it must have been, full
half a minute. Then he said courteously: “What do you wish?”
I went straight to the point. My color may have been high, but my voice
did not hesitate as I explained: “I wish to make my wife financially
independent. I wish to settle on her a sum of money sufficient to give her
an income that will enable her to live as she has been accustomed. I know
she would not take it from me. So, I have come to ask you to pretend to
give it to her--I, of course, giving it to you to give.”
Again--we looked full and fixedly each at the other. “Come to the house,
Blacklock,” he said at last in a tone that was the subtlest of compliments.
And he linked his arm in mine. Halfway to the rambling stone house, severe
in its lines, yet fine and homelike, quaintly resembling its owner, as a
man's house always should, he paused. “I owe you an apology,” said he.
“After all my experience of this world of envy and malice, I should have
recognized the man even in the caricatures of his enemies. And you brought
the best possible credentials--you are well hated. To be well hated by the
human race and by the creatures mounted on its back is a distinction, sir.
It is the crown of the true kings of this world.”
We seated ourselves on the wide veranda; he had champagne and water
brought, and cigars; and we proceeded to get acquainted--nothing promotes
cordiality and sympathy like an initial misunderstanding. It was a good
hour before this kind-hearted, hard-soft, typical old-fashioned New
Englander reverted to the object of my visit. Said he: “And now, young man,
may I venture to ask some extremely personal questions?”
“In the circumstances,” replied I, “you have the right to know everything.
I did not come to you without first making sure what manner of man I was
to find.” At this he blushed, pleased as a girl at her first beau's first
compliment. “And you, Mr. Forrester, can not be expected to embark in the
little adventure I propose, until you have satisfied yourself.”
“First, the why of your plan.”
“I am in active business,” replied I, “and I shall be still more active.
That means financial uncertainty.”
His suspicion of me started up from its doze and rubbed its eyes. “Ah! You
wish to insure yourself.”
“Yes,” was my answer, “but not in the way you hint. It takes away a man's
courage just when he needs it most, to feel that his family is involved in
his venture.”
“Why do you not make the settlement direct?” he asked, partly reassured.
“Because I wish her to feel that it is her own, that I have no right over
it whatever.”
He thought about this. His eyes were keen as he said, “Is that your real
reason?”
I saw I must be unreserved with him. “Part of it,” I replied. “The rest
is--she would not take it from me.”
The old man smiled cynically. “Have you tried?” he inquired.
“If I had tried and failed, she would have been on the alert for an
indirect attempt.”
“Try her, young man,” said he, laughing. “In this day there are few people
anywhere who'd refuse any sum from anybody for anything. And a woman--and a
New York woman--and a New York fashionable woman--and a daughter of old
Ellersly--she'll take it as a baby takes the breast.”
“She would not take it,” said I.
My tone, though I strove to keep angry protest out of it, because I needed
him, caused him to draw back instantly. “I beg your pardon,” said he. “I
forgot for the moment that I was talking to a man young enough still to
have youth's delusions about women. You'll learn that they're human, that
it's from them we men inherit our weaknesses. However, let's assume that
she won't take it: _Why_ won't she take your money? What is there
about it that repels Ellersly's daughter, brought up in the sewers of
fashionable New York--the sewers, sir!”
“She does not love me,” I answered.
“I have hurt you,” he said quickly, in great distress at having compelled
me to expose my secret wound.
“The wound does not ache the worse,” said I, “for my showing it--to
_you_.” And that was the truth. I looked over toward Dawn Hill whose
towers could just be seen. “We live there.” I pointed. “She is--like a
guest in my house.”
When I glanced at him again, his face betrayed a feeling of which I doubt
if any one had thought him capable in many a year. “I see that you love
her,” he said, gently as a mother.
“Yes,” I replied. And presently I went on: “The idea of any one I love
being dependent on me in a sordid way is most distasteful to me. And since
she does not love me, does not even like me, it is doubly necessary that
she be independent.”
“I confess I do not quite follow you” said he.
“How can she accept anything from me? If she should finally be compelled by
necessity to do it, what hope could I have of her ever feeling toward me as
a wife should feel toward her husband?”
At this explanation of mine his eyes sparkled with anger--and I could not
but suspect that he had at one time in his life been faced with a problem
like mine, and had settled it the other way. My suspicion was not weakened
when he went on to say:
“Boyish motives again! They show you do not know women. Don't be deceived
by their delicate exterior, by their pretenses of super-refinement. They
affect to be what passion deludes us into thinking them. But they're clay,
sir, just clay, and far less sensitive than we men. Don't you see, young
man, that by making her independent you're throwing away your best chance
of winning her? Women are like dogs--like dogs, sir! They lick the hand
that feeds 'em--lick it, and like it.”
“Possibly,” said I, with no disposition to combat views based on I knew not
what painful experience. “But I don't care for that sort of liking--from a
woman, or from a dog.”
“It's the only kind you'll get,” retorted he, trying to control his
agitation. “I'm an old man. I know human nature--that's why I live alone.
You'll take that kind of liking, or do without.”
“Then I'll do without,” said I.
“Give her an income, and she'll go. I see it all. You've flattered her
vanity by showing your love for her--that's the way with women. They go
crazy about themselves, and forget all about the man. Give her an income
and she'll go.”
“I doubt it,” said I. “And you would, if you knew her. But, even so, I
shall lose her in any event. For, unless she is made independent, she'll
certainly go with the last of the little money she has, the remnant of a
small legacy.”
The old man argued with me, the more vigorously, I suspect, because he
found me resolute. When he could think of no new way of stating his
case--his case against Anita--he said: “You are a fool, young man--that's
clear. I wonder such a fool was ever able to get together as much property
as report credits you with. But--you're the kind of fool I like.”
“Then--you'll indulge my folly?” said I, smiling.
He threw up his arms in a gesture of mock despair. “If you will have it
so,” he replied. “I am curious about this niece of mine. I want to see her.
I want to see the woman who can resist _you_.”
“Her mind and her heart are closed against me,” said I. “And it is my own
fault--I closed them.”
“Put her out of your head,” he advised. “No woman is worth a serious man's
while.”
“I have few wants, few purposes,” said I. “But those few I pursue to the
end. Even though she were not worth while, even though I wholly lost hope,
still I'd not give her up. I couldn't--that's my nature. But--_she_ is
worth while.” And I could see her, slim and graceful, the curves in her
face and figure that made my heart leap, the azure sheen upon her
petal-like skin, the mystery of the soul luring from her eyes.
After we had arranged the business--or, rather, arranged to have it
arranged through our lawyers--he walked down to the pier with me. At the
gangway he gave me another searching look from head to foot--but vastly
different from the inspection with which our interview had begun. “You are
a devilish handsome young fellow,” said he. “Your pictures don't do you
justice. And I shouldn't have believed any man could overcome in one brief
sitting such a prejudice as I had against you. On second thought, I don't
care to see her. She must be even below the average.”
“Or far above it,” I suggested.
“I suppose I'll have to ask her over to visit me,” he went on. “A fine
hypocrite I'll feel.”
“You can make it one of the conditions of your gift that she is not to
thank you or speak of it,” said I. “I fear your face would betray us, if
she ever did.”
“An excellent idea!” he exclaimed. Then, as he shook hands with me in
farewell: “You will win her yet--if you care to.”
As I steamed up the Sound, I was tempted to put in at Dawn Hill's harbor.
Through my glass I could see Anita and Alva and several others, men and
women, having tea on the lawn under a red and white awning. I could see her
dress--a violet suit with a big violet hat to match. I knew that costume.
Like everything she wore, it was both beautiful in itself and most becoming
to her. I could see her face, could almost make out its expression--did I
see, or did I imagine, a cruel contrast to what I always saw when she knew
I was looking?
I gazed until the trees hid lawn and gay awning, and that lively company
and her. In my bitterness I was full of resentment against her, full of
self-pity. I quite forgot, for that moment, _her_ side of the story.