Stephanie laughed, and they hunted up the cat, discovered her asleep in
the best room, and bore her out to the veranda. Then Cleland locked up
while Stephanie waited for him. Her tears had dried. She was a trifle
pale and languid in her movements, but so lovely that Cleland, already
hopelessly in love with her, fell deeper as he looked at her in this
pale and unfamiliar phase.
Her grey eyes returned his adoration sweetly, pensively humourous:
"I'm in rags, emotionally," she said. "This loving a young man is a
disturbing business to a girl who's just learned how.... Are you coming
upstairs?"
"I suppose so."
"You'll sleep, of course?"
"Probably not a wink, Steve."
"I wonder if I shall."
They ascended the old staircase together in silence. At her door she
held out her hand; he kissed it, released the fingers, but they closed
around his and she drew him to her.
"What _shall_ I do?" she said. "Tell me?"
"I don't know, dearest. There seems to be nothing you can do for us."
She bent her head thoughtfully.
"Anything that dishonours me would dishonour you and dad, wouldn't it,
Jim?"
"Yes."
She nodded.
"You understand, don't you? I count myself as nothing. Only you count,
Jim. But I can't marry you. And I can't go to you otherwise without
betraying both dad and you. It isn't a question of my being married and
of loving you enough to disregard it. I do. But you and dad require
more than that of the girl you made one of your own race. I am loyal to
what you both expect of me.... Good night, dear.... There doesn't seem
to be any way I can make you happy. The only way I can show my love and
gratitude to dad and you is to retain your respect ... by being
unkind--Jim--my dearest--dearest----"
She closed her eyes and gave him her lips, slipped swiftly out of his
arms and into her room.
"Oh, I'm desperately in love," she said, shaking her head at him as she
slowly closed the door. "I'm going to get very, very little sleep, I
fear.... Jim?"
"Yes."
"You know," she said, "Helen is a charming, clever, talented, beautiful
girl. If you are afraid my behaviour is going to make you unhappy----"
"Steve, are you crazy?"
"Couldn't you fall in love with her?"
"Do you want me to try?"
There was a silence, then Stephanie shook her head and gently closed her
door.
*CHAPTER XXXI*
In July Stephanie asked Harry Belter and his wife to spend a week at
Runner's Rest. They arrived, the husband a vastly modified edition of
his former boisterous, careless, assertive self--a subdued young man
now, who haunted his wife with edifying assiduity, moving when she
moved, sitting when she sat, tagging faithfully at her dainty heels as
though a common mind originated their every inclination.
Philip Grayson, who had been asked with them, told Helen that the
Belters had bored him horribly on the journey up.
"You know," he said, "Harry Belter used to be at least amusing, and
Marie Cliff was certainly a sparkling companion. But they seem to have
no conversation except for each other, no interests outside of each
other, and if a fellow ventures to make a remark they either don't
listen or they politely make an effort to notice him."
"You can't blame them," smiled Helen, "after three years of
estrangement, and in love with each other all the while."
She was seated under a tree on the edge of the woods, half way up the
western slope behind Runner's Rest. Grayson lay among the ferns at her
feet. The day had turned hot, but up there in the transparent green
shadows of the woods a slight breeze was stirring.
"Estranged all that time, and yet in love," repeated Helen,
sentimentally, spreading out a fern frond on her knees and smoothing it.
"Do you wonder that they lose no time together?"
Grayson, sprawling on his stomach, his handsome face framed in both
hands, emitted a scornful laugh.
"You're very tender-hearted, theoretically," he said.
The girl looked up, smiled:
"Theoretically?" she inquired. "What do you mean, Phil?"
"What I say. Theoretically you are tender-hearted, sympathetic,
susceptible. But practically----" His short laugh was ironical.
"Practically--what?" demanded the girl, flushing.
"Practically, you're just practical, Helen. You're nice to everybody,
impartially; you go about your sculpture with the cheerful certainty of
genius; nothing ever disconcerts you; you are always the cool, freshly
gowned, charmingly poised embodiment of everything lovely and
desirable--wonderful to look at, engaging and winsome to talk
to--and--and all marble inside!"
"Phil! You unpleasant wretch!"
"Therefore," he said deliberately, "when you sentimentalize over the
Belters and how they loved each other madly for several years after
having bounced each other, your enthusiasm leaves me incredulous."
"The trouble with every man is this," she said; "any girl who doesn't
fall in love with him is heartless--all marble inside--merely because
she doesn't flop when he expects it. He gives that girl no credit for
warm humanity unless she lavishes it on him. If she doesn't, she's an
iceberg and he sticks that label on her for life."
Grayson sat up among the ferns and gathered his legs under him:
"It isn't because you don't care for me," he said, "but I tell you,
Helen, you're too complete in yourself to fall in love."
"Self-satisfied? Thanks!" But she still did not believe he meant it.
"You are conscious of your self-sufficiency," he said coolly. "You are
beautiful to look at, but your mind controls your heart; you do with
your heart what you choose to do." He added, half to himself: "It would
be wonderful if you ever let it go. But you're far too practical and
complacent to do that."
"Let what go?"
"Your heart. You really have one, you know."
The pink tint of rising indignation still lingered on her cheeks; she
looked at this presumptuous young man with speculative brown eyes,
realizing that for the first time in his three years' sweet-tempered
courtship he had said something unpleasantly blunt and virile to
her--unacceptable because of the raw truth in it.
This was not like Phil Grayson--this sweet-tempered, gentle,
good-looking writer of a literature which might be included under the
term of belles lettres--this ornamental young fellow whose agreeable
devotion she had come to take for granted--whose rare poems pleased her
critical taste and flattered it when she saw them printed in the most
exclusive of periodicals and hailed effusively by the subtlest of
critics.
"Phil," she said, her brown eyes resting on him with a curiosity not
free from irritation, "is this really what you think I am--after all
these years of friendship?"
"It really is, Helen."
Into her hurt face came the pink tint of wrath again; but she sat quite
still, her head lowered, pulling fronds from the fern on her lap.
"I'm sorry if you're offended," he said cheerfully, and lighted a
cigarette.
Helen's troubled face cooled; she tore tiny shreds of living green from
the fern; her remote eyes rested on him, on the blue hills across the
valley, on the river below them, sparkling under the July sun.
Down there, Marie Belter, with her red parasol, was sauntering across
the pasture, and Harry paddled faithfully beside her, fanning his
features with his straw hat.
"There goes Marie and Fido," said Grayson, laughing. "Good Lord! After
all, it's a dog's life at any angle you care to view it."
"_What_ is a dog's life?" inquired Helen crisply.
"Marriage, dear child."
"OK. Do you view it that way?"
"I do.... But we dogs were invented for it. After all, I suppose we
prefer to live our dogs' lives to any other--we human Fidos----"
"Phil! You never before gave me any reason to believe you a cynical
materialist. And you have been very unjust and disagreeable to me. Do
you know it?"
"I'm tired of running at your heels, I suppose.... A dog knows when he's
welcome.... After a while the lack of mutual sympathy gets on his
nerves, and he strays by the roadside.... And sometimes, if lonely, the
owner of another pair of heels will look behind her and find him
paddling along.... That's the life of the dog, Helen--with exceptions
like that cur of Bill Sykes. But the great majority of pups won't stay
where they're lonely for such love as they offer. For your dog must
have love.... The love of the human god he worships. Or of some other
god."
He laughed lightly:
"And I, who worship a goddess for her divine genius and her
loveliness--I have trotted at her heels a long, long time, Helen, and
I'm just beginning to understand, in my dog's heart, that my divinity
does not want me."
"I--I _do_ want you!"
"No, you don't. You haven't enough emotion in you to want anybody.
You're too complete, too self-satisfied, too intellectual, too clever to
understand a heart's desire--the swift, unselfish, unfeigned,
uncalculated passion that makes us human. There's nothing to you but
intellect and beauty. And I'm fed up!"
The girl rose, flushed and disconcerted by his brutality. Grayson got
up, bland, imperturbable, accepting her departure pleasantly.
She meant to go back all alone down the hillside; that was evident in
her manner, in her furious calmness, in her ignoring the tiny
handkerchief which he recovered from the moss and presented.
She was far too angry to speak. He stood under the trees and watched
her as she descended the hillside toward the house, just visible below.
Down she went through the heated wild grass and ferns, stepping daintily
over gulleys, avoiding jutting rocks, down, ever down hill, receding
farther and farther from his view until, a long way below him, he saw
her halt, a tiny, distant figure shining white and motionless in the
sun.
He waited for her to move on again out of sight. She did not.
After a long while he saw her lift one arm and beckon him.
"Am I a Fido?" he asked himself. "Damn it, I believe I am." And he
started leisurely down hill.
When he joined her where she stood waiting, her brown eyes avoided his
glance and the colour in her cheeks grew brighter.
"If you believe," she said, "that my mind controls my heart, why don't
you make it an intellectual argument with me? Why not appeal to my
reason? Because I--I am intelligent enough to be open to conviction--if
your logic proves sounder than--mine."
"I can't make love to you logically. Love doesn't admit of it."
"Love _is_ logical--or it's piffle!"
"I don't know how to make intellectual love."
"You'd better learn."
"Could you give me a tip?" he asked timidly.
Then Helen threw back her pretty head and began to laugh with that
irresponsible, unfeigned, full-throated and human laughter that
characterized the primitive girl when her naive sense of humour was
stirred to response by her lover of the cave.
For Helen had caught a glimpse of this modern young caveman's
intellectual brutality and bad temper for the first time in her life,
and it was a vital revelation to the girl.
He had whacked her, verbally, violently, until, in her infuriated
astonishment, it was made plain to her that there was much more to him
than she had ever reckoned with. He had hurt her pride, dreadfully, he
had banged her character about without mercy--handled her with a
disdainful vigour and virility that opened her complacent brown eyes to
a new vision and a new interpretation of man.
"Phil," she murmured, "do you realize that you were positively common in
what you said to me up on that hill?"
"I know I was."
"You told me----" a slight shudder passed over her and he felt it in the
shoulder that touched his--"you told me that you--you were 'fed up!'"
"I _was_!"
"And you, a poet--a man with an almost divine facility of language----"
"Sure," he said, grinning; "I'm artist enough to know the value of
vulgarity. It gives a wonderful punch, Helen--once in a lifetime."
"Oh, Phil! You horrify me. I didn't understand that you are just a
plain, every-day, bad-tempered, brutal, selfish and violent man----"
"Dearest, I am! And thank God you are woman enough to stand for it....
Are you?"
They had reached the house and were standing on the porch now, her hands
restlessly twisting in his sun-browned grasp, her pretty head averted,
refusing to meet his eyes.
"Are you?" he repeated sternly.
"Am I, what? Oh, Phil, you hurt me--my rings hurt----"
"Then don't twist your fingers. And answer me; are you woman enough to
stand for the sort of everyday human man that you say I am? _Are_ you?"
She said something under her breath.
"Did you say yes?" he demanded.
She nodded, not looking at him.
Before he could kiss her she slid out of his grasp with a low
exclamation of warning, and, looking around, he beheld the Belters,
arm-in-arm, approaching across the lawn.
"Fido!" he muttered, "damn!" And he followed his divinity into the
house.
*CHAPTER XXXII*
Helen kept her own council as long as the Belters remained at Runner's
Rest, but as soon as they had departed she went to Stephanie's room and
made a clean breast of it.
"What on earth do you suppose has happened to me, Steve?" she demanded,
standing by the day-bed on which Stephanie was stretched out reading a
novel and absorbing chocolates.
"What?" asked Stephanie, lifting her grey eyes.
"Well, there's the very deuce to pay with Phil Grayson. He isn't a bit
nice to me. He isn't like himself. He bullies me."
"Why do you let him?"
"I--don't know. I resent it. He's entirely too bossy. He's taken
possession of me and he behaves abominably."
"Sentimentally?"
"Yes."
"But you don't have to endure it!" exclaimed Stephanie, astonished.
"If I don't submit," said Helen, "I shall lose him. He'll go away. He
says he will."
"Well, do you care what Phil Grayson does?" demanded Stephanie, amazed.
Then that intellectual, capable, intelligent and superbly healthy girl
flopped down on her knees by Stephanie's day-bed and, laying her lovely
head on the pillow, began to whimper.
"I--I don't know what's the matter with me," she stammered, "but my mind
is full of that wretched man every minute of the day and half of the
night. He is absolutely shameless; he makes love to me t-tyranically.
It's impossible for a girl to keep her reserve--her d-dignity with a
m-man who takes her into his arms and k-kisses her whenever he
chooses----"
"What!" cried Stephanie, sitting bolt upright and staring at her friend.
"Do you mean to tell me that Phil is _that_ sort of man?"
"I didn't think so, either," explained Helen. "I've known him for ages.
He's been so considerate and attentive and sweet to me--so gentle and
self-effacing. I thought I could c-count on him. But a girl can't tell
anything about a man--even when he's been an old and trusted friend of
years."
"What are you going to do about it?" asked Stephanie, blankly.
"Do? I suppose I'll go on doing what he wishes. I suppose I'll marry
him. It looks that way. I don't seem to have any will power.... It's
such an odd sensation to be bullied."
"Are you in love with him?"
"I don't know. I suppose I am. It makes me simply furious.... But I
guess I am, Steve.... If he'd behaved as agreeably and pleasantly as he
always had behaved I should never have cared for him except in a
friendly way. He always has paid his courtship to me in the nicest
way.... It was quite ideal, not disturbing, and we exchanged
intellectual views quite happily and contentedly.... And then, suddenly
he--he flew into a most frightful temper and he told me that he was
'_fed up_!' My dear, can you imagine my rage and amazement? ... And
then he told me what he thought of me--oh, Steve!--the most horrid
things ever said about a girl he said to me! I was breathless! I felt
as though he had beaten me and dragged me about by my hair.... And
then--I don't know how it happened--but I w-waited for him, and we
walked home together, and I understood him to say that I'd got to love
him if I were a human girl.... And I am.... So--it's that way now with
us.... And when I think about it I am still bewildered and furious with
him.... But I don't dare let him go.... There _are_ other girls, you
know."
Stephanie lay very still. Helen rose presently, turned and walked
slowly to the door. There she paused for a moment, then turned. And
Stephanie saw in her brown eyes an expression entirely new to her.
"Helen! You _are_ in love with him!" she said.
"I'm afraid I am.... Anyway, I shall not let him go until I am quite
certain.... It's abominable that he should have made of me a thing with
which I never have had any patience--a girl whose heart has run away
with her senses. And _that's_ what he has done to me, I'm afraid."
Stephanie suddenly flushed:
"If he has," she said, "you ought to be glad! You are free to marry him
if you love him, and you ought to thank God for the privilege."
"Yes. But what is marriage going to do to my work? I never meant to
marry. I've been afraid to. What happens to a girl's creative work if
her heart is full of something else--full of her lover--her
husband--children, perhaps--new duties, new cares! ... I didn't _want_
to love this man. I loved my work. It took all of me. It's the very
devil to have a thing like this happen. It scares me. I can't think of
my work now. It bores me to recollect it. My mind and heart are full
of this man!--there's no room in it for anything else.... What is this
going to do to my career? That's what frightens me to think about....
And I can't give up sculpture, and I _won't_ give up Phil! Oh, Steve,
it's the very deuce of a mess--it really is. And you lie there eating
chocolates and reading piffle, and you calmly tell me to thank God that
I am free to marry!"
Stephanie's clear grey eyes regarded her:
"If you're any good," she said, "your career will begin from the moment
you fell in love. Love clears the mind wonderfully. You learn a lot
about yourself when you fall in love.... I learned that I had no
talent, nothing to express. That's what love has done for me. But you
will learn what genius really means."
Helen came slowly back to where the girl was lying.
"You _are_ in love, then," she said gently. "I was afraid."
"I am afraid, too."
They looked at each other in silence.
"Do you ever mean to live with Oswald?" asked Helen.
"Not if I can avoid it."
"Can you not?"
"Yes, I can avoid it--unless the price of immunity is too heavy."
"I don't understand."
"I know you don't. Neither does Jim. It's a rather ghastly situation."
"You are not at liberty to explain it, are you?"
"No."
Helen bent and laid her hand on Stephanie's hair:
"I'm sorry. I knew you were falling in love. There seemed to be no
help for either of you."
"No, no help. One can't help one's heart's inclinations. The only thing
we can control is our behaviour."
"Steve, are you unhappy?"
"I'm beginning to be.... I didn't think I would be--it's so
wonderful.... But the seriousness of love reveals itself sooner or
later.... A girl begins to understand.... All we want is to give, if
we're in love.... It's tragic when we can't." She turned her face
abruptly and laid one arm across her eyes.
Helen sank to her knees again and laid her cool face against Stephanie's
flushed cheek.
"Darling," she said, "there must be some way for you."
"No honourable way."
"But that marriage is a farce."
"Yes. I made it so.... But Oswald cares for me."
"Still?"
"Yes.... He is a very wonderful, generous, unhappy man; proud, deeply
sensitive, tender-hearted, and loyal. I can not sacrifice him. He has
done too much for my sake.... And I promised----"
"What?"
"I promised him to give myself as long a time as he wished to learn
whether I could ever come to love him."
"Does he know you are in love?"
"No."
"What would he do if he knew?"
Stephanie began to tremble:
"I--don't know," she stammered, "--he must never think that I am in love
with Jim..... It would be--dreadful--terrible----"
She sat up, covering her face with both hands:
"Don't ask me! Don't talk about it! There are things I can't tell
you--things I can't do, no matter what happens to me--no matter whether
I am unhappy--whether Jim is----"
"Don't cry, darling. I didn't mean to hurt you----"
"Oh, Helen! Helen! There's something that happened which I can't ever
forget. It terrifies me. There's no way out of this marriage for
me--there's no way! No way!" she repeated desolately.... "And I'm so
deeply in love--so deeply--deeply----"
She flung herself on her face and buried her head in her arms.
"Just let me alone," she sobbed. "I can't talk about it. I--I'm glad
you're happy, dear. But please go out, now!"
Helen rose and stood for a moment looking down at the slender figure in
its jewelled kimono and its tumbled splendour of chestnut hair. Then
she went out very quietly.
On the porch her audacious young man and Cleland were smoking and
consulting time-tables, and she gave the former a swift glance which
questioned his intentions. He seemed to comprehend, for he said:
"It's Jim. He's been talking to Oswald on the long distance wire, and
he's going down to town to see the model that Oswald has made."
"Are _you_ going, too?" she asked.
"Not until you do," he said boldly.
Helen blushed furiously and glanced at Cleland, but he had not paid them
any attention, apparently, for he rose with an absent air and went into
the house.
"Steve!" he called from the foot of the stairs. "I'm going to town
to-night, if you don't mind."
There was no answer. He ran lightly up the stairs and glanced through
her door, which was partly open. Then he went in.
She did not hear him, nor was she aware of his presence until she felt
his questioning hand on her tumbled hair. Then she turned over, looked
up into his anxious face, stretched out her arms to him in a sudden
passion of loneliness and longing, and drew him convulsively to her
breast with a little sob of surrender. And the next instant she had
slipped through his arms to the floor, sprung to her feet, and now stood
breathing fast and unevenly as he rose, half dazed, to confront her.
"Jim," she said unsteadily, "I had better go back. I'm losing my head
here with you--here under dad's roof. Do you hear what I say? I can't
trust myself. I can't remain here and tear dad's honour to shreds just
because I've gone mad about you.... I'm going back."
"Where?"
"To Oswald."
"What!"
"It's the only safety for us. There's no use. No hope, either. And
it's too dangerous--with no outlook, no possible chance that waiting may
help us. There's not a ghost of a chance that we ever can marry. That
is the real peril for us.... So--I'll play the game.... I'll go to him
now--before it's too late,--before you and I have made each other
wretched for life--and before I have something still worse on my
conscience!"
"What?"
"My husband's death! He'll kill himself if I let you take me away
somewhere."
After a silence he said in a low voice:
"Is _that_ what you have been afraid of?"
"Yes."
"You believe he will kill himself if you divorce him?"
"I--I am certain of it."
"Why are you certain?"
"I can't tell you why."
He said coolly:
"Men don't do that sort of thing as a rule. Weak intellects seek that
refuge from trouble; but his is not a weak character."
"I won't talk about it," she said. "I've told you more than I ever
meant to. Now you know where I stand, what I fear--his death!--if I
dishonour dad's memory and go away with you. And if I ask divorce, he
will give it to me--and then kill himself. Do you think I could accept
even you on such terms as these?"
"No," he said.
He looked at her intently. She stood there very white, now, her grey
eyes and the masses of chestnut hair accentuating her pallour.
"All right," he said, "I'll take you to town."
"You need not."
"Won't you let me?"
"Yes, if you wish.... When you go downstairs, tell them to send up my
trunks. Tell one of the maids to come."
"You can't go off this way, to-night. You've two guests here," he said
in a dull voice.
"You will be here."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Oswald called me on the long distance wire an hour ago. He has asked
me to go to town and look at the sketch he has made for the fountain. I
said I'd go."
She dropped to the couch and sat there with grey eyes remote, her
shoulders, in their jewelled kimono, huddled under her heavy mass of
hair.
"Stay here for a while, anyway," he said. "There's no use taking such
action until you have thought it over. And such action is not
necessary, Steve."
"It is."
"No. There is a much simpler solution for us both. I shall go abroad."
"What!" she exclaimed sharply, lifting her head.
"Of course. Why should you be driven into the arms of a husband you do
not love just because you are afraid of what you and I might do? That
would be a senseless proceeding, Steve. The thing to do is to rid
yourself of me and live your life as you choose."
She laid her head on her hands, pressing her forehead against her
clenched fingers.
"That's the only thing to do, I guess," he said in his curiously
colourless voice. "I came too late. I'm paying for it. I'll go back
to Paris and stay for a while. Time does things to people."
She nodded her bowed head.
"Time," he said, "forges an armour on us all.... I'll wait until mine is
well riveted before I return. You're quite right, Steve.... You and I
can't go on this way. There would come a time when the intense strain
would break us both--break down our resolution and our sense of
honour--and we'd go away together--or make each other wretched here....
Because there's no real happiness for you and me without honour, Steve.
Some people can do without it. We can't.
"We might come to think we could. We might take the chance. We might
repeat the stale old phrase and try to 'count the world well lost.' But
there would be no happiness for you and me, Steve. For, to people of
our race, happiness is composite. Honesty is part of it; loyalty to
ideals is another; the world's respect, the approval of our own hearts,
the recognition of our responsibility to the civilization that depends
on such as we--all these are part of the only kind of happiness that you
and I can understand and experience.... So we must give it up.... And
the best way is the way I offer.... Let me go out of your life for a
while.... Live your own life as you care to live it.... Time must do
whatever else is to be done."
The girl lifted her dishevelled head and looked at him.
"Are you going to-night?"
"Yes."
"You are not coming back?"
"No, dear."
She dropped her head again.
There was a train at four that afternoon. He took a gay and casual
leave of Helen and Grayson, where he found them reading together in the
library.
"Will you be back to-morrow?" inquired the latter.
"I'm not sure. I may be detained for some time," said Cleland
carelessly. And went upstairs.
Stephanie, frightfully pale, came to her door. Her hair was dressed and
she was gowned for the afternoon. She tried to speak but no sound came
from her colourless lips; and she laid her hands on his shoulders in
silence. Their lips scarcely touched before they parted; but their eyes
clung desperately.
"Good-bye, dear."
"Good-bye," she whispered.
"You know I love you. You know I shall never love another woman?"
"Try to--forget me, Jim."
"I can't."
"I can't forget you, either.... I'm sorry, dear. I wish you had me....
I'd give you anything, Jim--anything. Don't you know it?"
"Yes."
She laid her head on his breast, rested a moment, then lifted it, not
looking at him, and turned slowly back into her room.
It was dark when he arrived in New York. The flaring streets of the
city seemed horrible to him.
*CHAPTER XXXIII*
Washington Square seemed to him a little cooler than the streets to the
northward; the white arch, the trees, the splash of water made a
difference. But beyond, southward, narrow streets and lanes were heavy
with the close, hot odours of the slums--a sickening smell of over-ripe
fruit piled on push-carts, the reek of raw fish, of sour malt from
saloons--a subtler taint of opium from blind alleys where Chinese signs
hung from rusting iron balconies.
Through cracks between drawn curtains behind the window of Grismer's
basement studio, light glimmered; and when Cleland pulled the bell-wire
in the area he could hear the crazy, cracked bell jangling inside.
Grismer came.
For a second he hesitated behind the iron area gate, then recognizing
her visitor opened for him.
They shook hands with a pleasant, commonplace word or two of civility,
and walked together through the dark, hot passageway into the lighted
basement.
"It's devilish hot," said Grismer. "There's probably a storm brewing
over Staten Island."
He looked colourless and worn. There was a dew of perspiration on his
forehead, which dampened the thick amber-gold hair. He wore only a
gauze undershirt, trousers and slippers, under which his supple,
graceful figure was apparent.
"Grismer," said Cleland uneasily, "this cellar is hell in July. Why
won't you come up to Runner's Rest for the hot period? You can't do
anything here. You can't stand it."
Grismer fished a siphon out of his ice-box and looked around with a
questioning smile. "I've some orange juice. Would you like some?"
Cleland nodded and walked over to a revolving table on which the wax
model of his fountain stood. Grismer presently came up beside him with
both glasses, and he took his with an absent nod, but continued to
examine the model in silence.
"Probably you don't care for it," suggested Grismer.
Cleland said slowly:
"You gave me a different idea. I didn't know you were going to do
anything like this."
"I'm afraid you are disappointed."
"No.... It's beautiful, Grismer. I hadn't thought that a figure would
be possible, considering the character of the place and the very simple
and primitive surroundings. But this is in perfect taste and amazingly
in accord with everything."
He looked at the slim, naked, sinuous figure--an Indian girl of fifteen
drinking out of cupped hands. Wild strawberry vines in full fruit bound
her hair, which fell in two clubbed braids to her shoulders. A narrow
breadth of faun-skin fell from a wampum girdle to her knees. And, from
the thin metal forehead-fillet, the head of a snake reared, displaying
every fang.
"It's the Lake-Serpent, isn't it?--the young Oneida girl of the Iroquois
legend?" inquired Cleland.
Grismer nodded.
"That's your country," he said. "The Iroquois war-trail passed through
your valley and down the river to Charlemont and Old Deerfield. I read
up on it. The story of the Lake-Serpent and the Eight Thunders
fascinated me. I thought the thing might be done."
"You've done it. It's stunning."
"The water," explained Grismer, "flows out of her hollowed hands, out of
the serpent's throat and down each braid of hair, dripping on her
shoulders. Her entire body will appear to be all glimmering with a thin
skin of running water. I shall use the 'serpent spot' on her forehead
like a caste-mark, I think. And what I want to get is an effect from a
fine cloud of spray which will steam up from the basin at her feet like
the 'cloud on the water' which the legend speaks of. I can get it by an
arrangement of very minute orifices through which spray will rush and
hang over the water in a sort of rainbow mist. Do you think that would
be all right?"
"Of course. It's a masterpiece, Grismer," said the other quietly.
Into Grismer's pale face a slow colour came and spread.
"That's worth living for," he said.
"What?"
"I said that I'm glad I have lived to hear you speak that way of
anything I have done," said Grismer with a smile.
"I don't understand why you should care about my opinion," returned
Cleland, turning an amused and questioning gaze on the sculptor. "I'm
no critic, you know."
"I know," nodded Grismer, with his odd smile. "But your approval means
more than any critic has to offer me.... There's an arm-chair over
there, if you care to be seated."
Cleland took his glass of iced orange juice with him. Grismer set his on
the floor and dropped onto the ragged couch.
"Anybody can point it up now," he said. "It ought to be cast in
silver-grey bronze, not burnished--a trifle over life-size."
"You must have worked like the devil to have finished this in such a
brief period."
"Oh, I work that way--when I do work.... I've been anxious--worried
over what you might think.... I'm satisfied now."
He filled and lighted his pipe, leaned back clasping his well-made arms
behind his head.
"Cleland," he said, "it's a strange sensation to feel power within one's
self--be conscious of it, certain of it, and deliberately choose not to
use it.... And the very liberty of choice is an added power."
Cleland looked up, perplexed. Grismer smiled, and his smile seemed
singularly care-free and tranquil:
"Just think," he said, "what the gods _could_ have done if they had
taken the trouble to bestir themselves! What they did do makes volumes
of mythology: what they refrained from doing would continue in the
telling through all eternity. What they did betrayed their power," he
added, with a whimsical gesture toward his fountain; "but what they
refrained from doing interests me, Cleland--fascinates me, arouses my
curiosity, my respect, my awe, and my gratitude that they were godlike
enough to disdain display--that they were decent enough to leave to the
world material to feed its imagination."
Cleland smiled sombrely at Grismer's whimsical humour, but his features
settled again into grave, care-worn lines, and his absent gaze rested on
nothing. And Grismer's golden eyes studied him.
"It must be pleasant out there in the country," he said casually.
"It's cool. You must go there, Grismer. This place is unendurable. Do
go up while Phil Grayson is there."
"Is there anybody else?"
"Helen--and Stephanie," he said, using her name with an effort. "The
Belters were there for a week. No doubt Stephanie will ask other people
during the summer."
"When do you go back?" asked Grismer quietly.
There was a short silence, then Cleland said in a voice of forced
frankness:
"I was about to tell you that I'm going over to Paris for a while. You
know how it is--a man grows restless--wants to run over and take a look
at the place just to satisfy himself that it's still there." His
strained smile remained stamped on his face after his gaze shifted from
Grismer's penetrating eyes--unsmiling, golden-deep eyes that seemed to
have perceived a rent in him, and were looking through the aperture into
the secret places of his mind.
"When are you going, Cleland?"
"Oh, I don't know. Some time this week, if I can get accommodations."
"You go alone?"
"Why--of course!"
"I thought perhaps you might feel that Stephanie ought to see Europe."
"I hadn't--considered----"
He reddened, took a swallow of his orange juice, and, holding the glass,
turned his eyes on the wax model.
"How long will you be away?" asked Grismer in his still and singularly
agreeable voice.
There was another silence. Then Cleland made a painful effort at
careless frankness once more:
"That reminds me, Grismer," he exclaimed. "I can't ever repay you for
that fountain, but I can do my damndest with a cheque-book and a
fountain pen. I should feel most uncomfortable if I went away leaving
that obligation unsettled."
He drew out his cheque-book and fountain pen and smiled resolutely at
Grismer, whose dark golden eyes rested on him with an intentness that he
could scarcely endure.
"Would you let me give it to you, Cleland?"
"I can't, Grismer.... It's splendid of you."
"I shall not need the money," said Grismer, almost absently, and for an
instant his gaze grew vague and remote. Then he turned his head again,
where it lay cradled on his clasped hands behind his neck: "You won't
let me give it to you, I know. And there's no use telling you that I
shall not need the money. You won't believe me.... You won't
understand how absolutely meaningless is money to me--just now. Well,
then--write in what you care to offer."
"I can't do that, Grismer."
The other smiled and, still smiling, named a figure. And Cleland wrote
it out, detached the cheque, started to rise, but Grismer told him to
lay it on the table beside his glass of orange juice.
"It's a thing no man can pay for," said Cleland, looking at the model.
Grismer said quietly:
"The heart alone can pay for anything.... A gift without it is a cheque
unsigned.... Cleland, I've spoken to you twice since you have returned
from abroad--but you have not understood. And there is much unsaid
between us. It must be said some day.... There are questions you ought
to ask me. I'd see any other man in hell before I'd answer. But I'll
answer _you_!"
Cleland turned his eyes, heavy with care, on this man who was speaking.
Grismer said:
"There are three things in the world which I have desired--to stand
honourably and well in the eyes of such people as your father and you;
to win your personal regard and respect; to win the love of Stephanie
Quest."
In the tense silence he struck a match and relighted his pipe. It went
out again and grew cold while he was speaking:
"I lost the consideration of such people as you and your father; in
fact, I never gained it at all.... And it was like a little death to
something inside me.... And as for Stephanie----" He shook his head.
"No," he said, "there was no love in her to give me. There is none now.
There never will be."
He laid aside his pipe, clasped his hands behind his head once more and
dropped one long leg over the other.
"You won't question me. I suppose it's the pride in you, Cleland. But
my pride is dead; I cut its throat.... So I'll tell you what you ought
to know.
"I always was in love with her, even as a boy--after that single glimpse
of her there in the railroad station. It's odd how such things really
happen. Your people had no social interest in mine. I shall use a more
sinister term: your father held my father in contempt.... So there was
no chance for me to know you and Stephanie except as I was thrown with
you in school."
He smiled:
"You can never know what a boy suffers who is fiercely proud, who is
ready to devote himself soul and body to another boy, and who knows that
he is considered inferior.... It drives him to strange perverseness, to
illogical excesses--to anything which may conceal the hurt--the raw,
quivering heart of a boy.... So we fought with fists. You remember.
You remember, too, probably, many things I said and did to intensify
your hostility and contempt--like a hurt thing biting at its own
wounds----!"
He shrugged:
"Well, you went away. Has Stephanie told you how she and I met?"
"Yes."
"I thought she would tell you," he said tranquilly. "And has she told
you about our unwise behaviour--our informal comradeship--reckless
escapades?"
"Yes."
Grismer raised his head and looked at him intently.
"And has she related the circumstances of our marriage?" he asked.
"Partly."
Grismer nodded.
"I mean in part. There were many things she refused to speak of, were
there not?"
"Yes."
He slowly unclasped his linked fingers and leaned forward on the couch,
groping for his pipe. When he found it he slowly knocked the cinders
from the bowl, then laid it aside once more.
"Cleland, I'll have to tell where I stood the day that my father--killed
himself."
"_What!_"
"Stephanie knew it. There had been a suit pending, threatening him....
For years the fear of such a thing had preyed on his mind.... I never
dreamed there was any reason for him to be afraid.... But there was."
He dropped his head and sat for a few moments thinking and playing with
his empty pipe. Then:
"Stephanie's aunt was the Nemesis. She became obsessed with the belief
that her nephew and later, Stephanie, had suffered wickedly through my
father's--conversion of trust funds." He swallowed hard and passed one
hand over his eyes: "My father was a defaulter.... That woman's
patience was infernal. She never ceased her investigations. She was
implacable. And she--got him.
"She was dying when the case was ready. Nobody knew she was mortally
ill.... I suppose my father saw disgrace staring him in the face....
He made a last effort to see her. He did see her. Stephanie was
there.... Then he went away.... He had not been well. It was an
overdose of morphine."
Grismer leaned forward, clasping his hands on his knees and fixing his
eyes on space.
"The money that I inherited was considerable," he said in his soft,
agreeable voice. "But after I had begun to amuse myself with it, the
papers in the suit were sent to me by that dead woman's attorneys. So,"
he said pleasantly, "I learned for the first time that the money
belonged to Stephanie's estate. And, of course, I transferred it to her
attorneys at once.... She never told you anything of this?"
"No."
"No," said Grismer thoughtfully, "she couldn't have told you without
laying bare my father's disgrace. But that is how I suddenly found
myself on my uppers," he continued lightly. "Stephanie came to me in an
agony of protest. She is a splendid girl, Cleland. She rather
violently refused to touch a penny of the money. You should have heard
what she said to her aunt's attorneys--who now represented her. Really,
Cleland, there was the devil to pay.... But that was easy. I paid him.
Naturally, I couldn't retain a penny.... So it lies there yet,
accumulating interest, payable at any time to Stephanie's order.... But
she'll never use it.... Nor shall I, Cleland.... God knows who'll get
it--some charity, I hope.... After I step out, I think Stephanie will
give it to some charity for the use of little children who have missed
their childhood--children like herself, Cleland."
After a silence he idly struck a match, watched it burn out, dropped the
cinder to the floor:
"There was no question of _you_ at that time," said Grismer, lifting his
eyes to Cleland's drawn face. "And I was very desperately in love....
There seemed to be hope that Stephanie might care for me.... Then came
that reckless escapade at Albany, where she was recognized by some old
friends of your father and by schoolmates of her own....
"Cleland, I would gladly have shot myself then, had that been any
solution. But there seemed to be only the one solution.... She has
told you, I believe?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was what was done.... I think she cried all the way back.
The Albany Post Road seemed like a road through hell to me. I knew then
that Stephanie cared nothing for me in that way; that my place in her
life served other purposes.
"I don't know what she thought I expected of her--what duty she believed
she owed me. I know now that the very thought of wifehood was abhorrent
to her.... But she was game, Cleland! ... What line of reasoning she
followed I don't know. Whether my love for her touched her, or some
generous impulse of renunciation--some childish idea of bringing to me
again the inheritance which I had forced on her, I don't know.
"But she was game. She came here that night with her suitcase. She was
as white as death, could scarcely speak.... I never even touched her
hand, Cleland.... She slept there--behind that curtain on the iron bed.
I sat here all night long.
"In the morning we talked it over. And with every generous plucky word
she uttered I realized that it was hopeless. And do you know--God knows
how--but somehow I kept thinking of you, Cleland. And it was like
clairvoyance, almost, for I could not drive away the idea that she cared
for you, unknowingly, and that when you came back some day she'd find it
out."
He rose from the couch and began to pace the studio slowly, his hands in
his pockets.
"Cleland," he said, "she meant to play the game. The bed she had made
for herself she was ready to lie on.... But I looked into those grey
eyes of hers and I knew that it was pity that moved her, square dealing
that nerved her, and that already she was suffering agonies to know what
you would think of what she had done--done with a man you never
liked--the son of a man whom your father held in contempt
because--because he considered him--dishonest!"
He halted a pace from where Cleland was sitting:
"I told her to go back to her studio and think it over. She went
out.... I did not think of her coming back here.... I was standing in
front of that cracked mirror over there.... To get a sure line on my
temple.... That's what shattered the glass--when she struck my arm
up....
"Well, a man goes to pieces sometimes.... She made me promise to wait
two years--said she would try to care for me enough in that time to live
with me.... The child was frightened sick. The terror of my ever doing
such a--a fool thing remains latent in her brain. I know it. I know
it's there. I know, Cleland, that she is in love with you. And that
she dare not ask me for her freedom for fear that I shall do some such
silly thing."
He began to laugh, quite naturally, without any bitterness at all:
"I tried to make you understand. I told you that I would do anything
for you. But you didn't comprehend.... Yet, I meant it. I mean it now.
She belongs to you, Cleland. I want you to take her. I wish her to
understand that I give her the freedom she's entitled to. That she need
not be afraid to take it--need not fear that I might make an ass of
myself."
He laughed again, quite gaily:
"No, indeed, I mean to live. I tell you, Cleland, there is no
excitement on earth like beating Fate at her own game. There's only one
thing----"
After a pause, Cleland looked up into the man's wistful, golden eyes.
"What is it, Grismer?"
"If I could win--your friendship----"
"Good God!" whispered Cleland, rising and offering a hand that shook,
"--Do you think I'm worth it, Oswald?"
Their hands met, clasped; a strange light flashed in Grismer's golden
eyes.
"Do you mean it, Cleland?"
"With all my heart, old chap.... I don't know what to say to
you--except that you're white all through--straighter than I am,
Grismer--clean to the soul of you!"
Grismer drew a long, deep breath.
"Thanks," he said. "That's about all I want of life.... Tell Stephanie
what you said to me--if you don't mind.... I don't care what others
think ... if you and she think me straight."
"Oswald, I tell you you're straighter than I am--stronger. Your
thoughts never wavered; you stood steady to punishment, not whimpering.
I've had a curb-bit on myself, and I don't know now how long it might
have taken me to get it between my teeth and smash things."
Grismer smiled:
"It would have taken two to smash the Cleland traditions. It couldn't
have been done--between you and Stephanie.... Are you going back to
Runner's Rest to-night?"
"Yes--if you say so," he replied in a low voice.
"I do say so. Call her on the telephone as soon as you leave here.
Then take the first train."
"And you? Will you come?"
"Not to-night."
"Will you let us know when you can come, Oswald?"
Grismer picked up a shabby dressing gown from the back of a decrepit
chair, and put it on over his undershirt and trousers.
"Sure," he said pleasantly. "I've one or two matters to keep me here.
I'll fix them up to-night.... And please make it very plain to Stephanie
that I'm taking this affair beautifully and that the last thing I'd do
would be to indulge in any foolishness to shock her.... I'm really most
interested in living. Tell her so. She will believe it. For I have
never lied to her, Cleland."
They walked together to the area gate.
"Stephanie should see her attorneys," said Grismer. "The easiest way, I
think, would be for her to leave the state and for me to go abroad. Her
attorneys will advise her. But," he added carelessly, "there's time to
talk over that with her. The main thing is to know that she will be
free. And she will be.... Good night, Cleland!" ... He laughed
boyishly. "I've never been as happy in my whole life!"
*CHAPTER XXXIV*
With the clang of the closing gate, Grismer's handsome face altered
terribly, and he turned deathly white for a moment. Two policemen
lounged by in the glare of the arc-light; one of them glanced down into
the areaway and saw a pallid face behind the iron bars--turned sharply
to look again.
"Gee," he said to his mate, "d'yeh get that guy's map?"
"Coke," said the other carelessly. "Looks like a feller I seen in Sing
Sing waitin' for the priest--what's his name, now----" The voices
receded. But Grismer had heard.
Perhaps his brain registered the scene sketched by the policeman--a
bloodless face behind the death-cell grating--the distant steps of the
procession already sounding in the corridor.
He opened the gate and went out to the sidewalk where a young girl,
unskillfully painted, stood looking about her preliminary to opening the
night's campaign.
"Hello," she said tentatively.
"Ah," he said pleasantly, "a goddess of the stars!"
"Got anything on?" she asked, approaching with her mirthless smile.
"Yes, a few casual garments."
She looked him over with the uncanny wisdom of her caste, and, young as
she was, she divined in this man only the opportunity to waste her time.
"What's the matter?" she asked, glancing at his shabby dressing gown.
"Up against it?"
"What I'm up against," he said, absently, "will look good to you, too,
some day."
"What's that?"
"Death, my dear."
"Quit kiddin'!" she retorted, with an uneasy laugh. "You got your looks
yet." She stepped nearer, looking at him curiously. "Nothing like
that," she said. "You're a looker. Buck up, old scout!"
She was leaning against the railing where he stood resting his back.
Presently he turned, leisurely, and surveyed her.
"You _are_ young," he said. "You'll be a tired girl before you're up
against what I am."
"What have you done?" she enquired curiously.
"Nothing."
"Sure. That's why we all go up the river."
"I'm going across the river," he remarked, smiling.
"Which?"
"The Styx. You never heard of it, I suppose."
"One of them dirty rivers in Jersey?"
He nodded gravely.
"What's out there?" she enquired.
"I don't know, my dear."
"Then what's the idea?"
She waited for an answer, but his golden eyes were dreamily remote.
The girl lingered. Once or twice professional sense suggested
departure, but when her tired eyes of a child rested on him something
held her inert.
When she again interrupted his revery he looked around at her as though
he had never before seen her, and she repeated what she had said.
"What?" he asked sharply.
"I got a fiver that ain't workin'," she said again. "You can use it in
your business if it's any good."
"My dear child," he said pleasantly, "you're very kind, but that's not
what the matter is." He turned, dropped his arm on the railing, facing
her: "What's your name?"
"Gloria Cameron."
"Come on," he said, good-humouredly, "what's your other name?"
"Anne."
"Anne, what?"
"O'Hara."
"Will you wait a minute?"
She nodded uncertainly.
He went back through the area, entered his studio and dressed in his
shabby street clothes.
The cheque was still lying on a small table where Cleland had placed it
at his request. And now he picked it up, dipped a rusty pen into an
ink-bottle, and indorsed the cheque, making it payable to Anne O'Hara.
Then he took his straw hat and went out.
The girl was waiting.
"Anne," he said, "I want you to read what's written on this pretty
perforated piece of paper." He held it so that the electric light fell
on it.
"Is it good?" she asked in an awed voice.
"Perfectly." He turned the cheque over and showed her the indorsement.
She found her voice presently:
"What are you putting over on me?"
He said:
"I'd give this cheque to you now, but it wouldn't be any good when the
banks open to-morrow."
She stared her question, and he laughed:
"It's a law concerning cheques. Never mind. But there's a way to beat
it. I had a lot of money once. They'll take my paper at Square Jack
Hennesey's. Shall we stroll up that way?"
She did not understand. It was quite evident that she had no faith in
the scrap of paper either. But it was still more evident that she was
willing to remain with him, even at the loss of professional
opportunities--even though she was facing the obloquy of being "kidded."
"Come into my studio first," he said.
She went without protest. In the brightly lighted basement he turned
and scrutinized her coolly from head to foot.
"How old?" he asked bluntly.
"Seventeen."
"How long are you on the job?"
"Two years."
"Whose are you?"
"I'm for myself----"
"Come on! Don't lie!"
She straightened her thin finger in defiance:
"What are you? A bull?"
"You know I'm not. Who are you working for? Wait! Never mind! You're
working for somebody, aren't you?"
"Y-yes."
"Do your folks know it?"
"No."
"What was it--cloaks, feathers, department store?"
She nodded.
"You _can_ go back?"
She remained silent, and he repeated the question. Then the girl turned
white under her paint.
"Damn you!" she said, "what are you trying to do to me?"
"Send you home, Anne, with a couple of thousand real money. Will you
go?"
"Show it to me!" she said, but her voice had become childish and
tremulous and her painted mouth was quivering.
"I'm going to show it to you," he said pleasantly. "I'll get it at
Square Jack's for you. If I do will you fly the coop? I mean now,
to-night! Will you?"
"W-with you?"
"Dear child, I've got to cross that dirty Jersey river. I told you.
You live up state, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"Hudson."
"All right. Will you go now, just as you are? You'd stand a fat chance
if you went back and tried to pack up. That thing would batter you to a
pulp, wouldn't he?"
She nodded.
"All right," he said. "Take off your hat and wash your face, Anne.
They'd be on to you at home. I've got to pack a few things for my
journey and write a couple of letters. Get all the paint off while I'm
busy. There's soap, towels, and a basin behind that screen."
She came slowly to him and stood looking at him out of her disenchanted
young eyes.
"Is this on the square?" she asked.
"Won't you take a chance that it is?" he asked, taking her slim hands
and looking her in the eyes.
"Yes.... I'll take a chance with you--if you ask me to."
"I do." He patted her hands and smiled, then released them. "Hustle!"
he said. "I'll be ready very soon."
He wrote first to Cleland: