"A la cour
A la cour
Aimer est un badinage
Et l'amour
Et l'amour
N'est dangereux qu'au village
Un berger
Un berger
Si la bergere n'est tendre
Sait se prendre
Sait se prendre
Mais il ne saurait changer.
Et parmi nous quand les belles
Sont legeres ou cruelles,
Loin d'en mourir de depit
On en rit, on en rit,
Et l'on change aussi-tot qu'elles."
Jeff listened composedly and joined perfunctorily in the applause. Rita
Cheyne laughed.
"Charming, Baroness. I'm so in sympathy with the sentiment, too. It's
delightfully French."
"What is the sentiment?" asked Jeff vaguely of any one.
Mrs. Cheyne undertook to explain.
"That love is only dangerous to the villager, Mr. Wray. In the city
it's a joke--it amuses and helps to pass the time."
"Oh!" said Jeff, subsiding, conscious, that the question and reply had
been given for the benefit of the entire company.
"Rather dainty rubbish, I should say," said Perot, with a sense of
saving a situation (and a client). "Love is less majestic in the
village--that's all, but perhaps a little sweeter. Ah, Baroness!"--he
sighed tumultuously--"Why should you recall--these memories?"
The conversation became general again, and Wray finished his glass and
set it down on the edge of the transom.
"What is the matter, Mrs. Cheyne?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see
me?"
"Why should I be?" coolly.
"I don't know. I thought you might be. I stopped at your house. They
told me you were here, so I came right down."
"You're very kind--but I didn't leave any instructions."
"No, but they told me. I wanted to see you." "You didn't want to see me
the other night."
"I couldn't--I 'phoned you."
"Don't you think it would have been in better taste if you had come
yourself?"
"I left in the morning for Washington. I've just returned. I'm sorry
you didn't understand."
"I did. You had other fish to fry. Did you know I came all the way in
from the country to see you? No woman cares to throw herself at the
head of a man. Personally I prefer an insult to a slight, Mr. Wray."
"Good Lord! I hope you don't think I could do that. I certainly have
never showed you anything but friendship. I've been worried over--over
business matters."
"That's a man's excuse. It lacks originality. I'm not accustomed to
rebuffs, Mr. Wray. I made the mistake of showing that I liked you.
That's always fatal, I thought you were different. I know better now.
There's no depth too great for the woman who cheapens herself--I'm glad
I learned that in time."
"Don't talk like that. I tell you I've been away," he protested.
"Really! Why didn't you write to me then?"
"Write?"
"Or send me some roses?"
"I'll send you a wagon-load."
"It's too late," she sighed. "It was the thought I wanted."
Wray rubbed his chin pensively. It occurred to him that there were
still many things with which he was unfamiliar.
"I did think of you."
"Why didn't you tell me so then?"
"I'm telling you now."
She leaned toward him with a familiar gesture of renewed confidences.
"There are a thousand ways of telling a woman you're thinking of her,
Mr. Wray. The only way not to tell her is to _say_ that you are. What
a man says is obvious and unimportant. A woman always judges a man by
the things that he ought to have done--and the things he ought not to
have done."
"I don't suppose I'll ever learn----"
"Not unless some woman teaches you."
"Won't you try me again?"
"I'll think about it." And then with one of her sudden transitions, she
added in a lower tone, "I am at home to-night. It is your last chance
to redeem yourself."
"I'll take it. I can't lose you, Mrs. Cheyne."
"No--not if I can help it," she whispered.
A general movement among Perot's visitors brought the conversation to a
pause. Mrs. Rumsen, after a final word with Camilla, departed with her
small brood. Cortland Bent, with a mischievous intention of supplying
evidence of the inefficacy of the parental will, removed one wing of the
screen which sheltered Berkely and his own ex-fiancee. But Miss Janney
was not in the least disconcerted, only turning her head over her
shoulder to throw at him:
"Please go away, Cort. I'm extremely busy."
Camilla smiled, but was serious again when Bent whispered at her ear,
"_My_ refuge!" he said. "_Yours_ is yonder."
She followed his glance toward Wray and Rita Cheyne, who were so wrapped
in each other's conversation that they were unconscious of what went on
around them.
"Come," said Camilla, her head in the air, "let us go."
*CHAPTER XIII*
*GOOD FISHING*
A clock struck the hour of nine. Mrs. Cheyne lowered the volume of
Shaw's plays, the pages of which she had made a pretence of reading, and
frowned at the corner of the rug. She now wore a house gown of clinging
material whose colors changed from bronze to purple in the shadow of the
lamps. It fitted her slim figure closely like chain-mail and shimmered
softly like the skin of a dusky chameleon. Mrs. Cheyne was fond of
uncertain colors in a low key, and her hour was in the dim of twilight,
which lent illusions, stimulated the imagination to a perception of the
meaning of shadows--softened shadows which hung around her eyes and
mouth, which by day were merely lines--a little bitter, a little hard, a
little cynical. Mrs. Cheyne's effects were all planned with exquisite
care; the amber-colored shades, the warmish rug and scarlet table cover,
the Chinese mandarin's robe on her piano, the azaleas in the yellow
pots, all were a part of a color scheme upon which she had spent much
thought. Her great wealth had not spoiled her taste for simplicity.
The objects upon her table and mantel-shelf were few but choice, and
their arrangement, each with reference to the other, showed an artistry
which had learned something from Japan. She hated ugliness. Beauty was
her fetich. The one great sorrow of her life was the knowledge that her
own face was merely pretty; but the slight irregularity of her features
somewhat condoned for this misfortune, and she had at last succeeded in
convincing herself that the essence of beauty lies rather in what it
suggests than in what it reveals. Nature, by way of atoning for not
making each feature perfect, had endowed them all with a kind of Protean
mobility, and her mind with a genius for suggestion, which she had
brought to a high degree of usefulness. Without, therefore, being
beautiful at all, she gave the impression of beauty, and she rejoiced in
the reputation which she possessed of being marked "Dangerous."
She had rejoiced in it, moreover, because she had been aware that, no
matter how dangerous she might prove to be with others, with herself she
had not been dangerous. The kind of romance, the kind of sentiment, in
which she indulged she had come to regard as highly specialized art in
which she was Past Grand Mistress. She loved them for their own sake.
She was a fisher of men, but fished only for the love of fishing, and it
was her pleasure while her victims still writhed to unhook them as
tenderly as might be and let them flap ungracefully back into their own
element. Her fly-book was a curiosity and of infinite variety. Izaak
Walton advances the suggestion that trout bite "not for hunger, but
wantonness." Rita Cheyne was of the opinion that men bit for a similar
reason; and so she whipped the social streams ruthlessly for the mere
joy of the game, matching her skill to the indifference of her quarry,
her artistry to their vehemence.
And now she suddenly discovered that she must throw her fly-book
away--she had tried them all--the "silver-doctor," the "white moth," the
"brown hackle"--and all to no purpose. Her fish had risen, but he would
not bite. She was fishing in unfamiliar waters, deeper waters, where
there were hidden currents she could not understand. The tackle she had
used when fishing for others would not serve for Jeff Wray.
It provoked her that her subtlety was of no avail, for she had the true
fisher's contempt for heavy tackle. And yet she realized that it was
only heavy tackle which would land him. He was the only man who had
really interested her in years, and his conquest was a matter of pride
with her. She had other reasons, too. His wife was beautiful. Rita
Cheyne was merely artistic. Victory meant that Beauty was only an
incident--that Art, after all, was immortal. The theory of a whole
lifetime needed vindication.
When Wray entered she was deep in "You Never Can Tell," but looked up at
her visitor slowly and extended a languid hand.
"Aren't you early?" she asked, slipping a marker in the pages of her
book and closing it slowly.
"No, I don't think so. I thought I was late. I was detained."
She held up a hand in protest.
"I was really hoping you might not come. I've been really so
amused--and when one is really amused nowadays one should expect nothing
more of the gods."
Wray got up hurriedly. "I won't 'butt in' then. I don't want to
disturb----"
"Oh, sit down--do. You make me nervous. Have a cigarette--I'll take
one, too. Now tell me what on earth is the matter with you."
"The matter? Nothing. I'm all right."
"You've changed somehow. When I met you at the Bents' I thought you the
most wonderful person I had ever met--with great--very great
possibilities. Even at the Janneys' the illusion still remained.
Something has happened to change you. You do nothing but scowl and say
the wrong thing. There's no excuse for any man to do that."
"I'm worried. There's been a slight tangle in my plans. I--but I'm not
going to trouble you with----"
"I want to hear--of course. You went to Washington?"
"Yes--to see some of our congressmen. I have the law on my side in this
fight, and I'm trying to make things copperlined--so there can't be a
leak anywhere. Those fellows down there are afraid of their own lives.
They act as though they were on the lookout for somebody to stab them in
the back. Washington is too near New York. A fellow goes there from the
West and in about six months he's a changed man. He forgets that he
ever came from God's country, and learns to bow and scrape and lick
boots. I reckon that's the way to get what you want here in the
East--but it goes against my grain."
"Weren't you successful?"
"Oh, yes, I found out what I wanted to know. It's only a question of
money. They'll fall in line when I'm ready. But it's going to take
cash--more than I thought it would."
"Are you going to have enough?"
"My credit's good, and I'm paying eight per cent."
"Eight? Why, I only get four!"
"I know. Eight is the legal rate in my state. Business is done on that
basis."
"I wish I could help. You know I'm horribly rich. I'd like to look into
the matter. Will you let me?"
"Yes, but there's a risk--you see, I'm honest with you. I'll give stock
as security and a share in the profits--but my stock isn't exactly like
government bonds. Who is your lawyer? I'll put it up to him if you
like."
"Stephen Gillis. But he'll do what I say."
"I'd rather you consulted him."
"Oh, yes, I shall. But I have faith in you, Jeff Wray. It seems like a
good speculation. I'd like you to send me all the data. I'll really
look into it seriously." She stopped and examined his face in some
concern. In the lamplight she saw the lines that worry had drawn there.
"But not to-night. You've had enough of business. You're tired--in your
mind"--she paused again that he might the better understand her
meaning--"but you're more tired in your heart. Business is the least of
your worries. Am I right?"
"Yes," he said sullenly.
"I'm very sorry. Is there any way in which I can help?"
"No."
The decision in his tone was not encouraging, but she persevered.
"You don't want help?"
"It isn't a matter I can speak about."
"Oh!"
Her big fish was sulking in the deeps? It was a case for shark-bait and
a "dipsy" lead.
"You won't tell me? Very well. Frankness is a privilege of friendship.
I'll use it. Your wife is in love with my cousin Cortland."
Wray started violently.
"How do you know?"
She smiled. "Oh, I don't know. I guessed. It's true, though." She
paused and examined him curiously. He had subsided in his chair, his
head on his breast, his brows lowering.
"Are you unhappy?" she asked.
"No," he muttered at last. "It's time we understood each other."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Do? Nothing," he said with a short laugh. "There's nothing to do. I'm
a good deal of a fool, but I know that putting trouble in a woman's way
never made her quit going after what she'd set her mind on. If I licked
Cort Bent she'd make me out a brute; if I shot him, she'd make _him_ out
a martyr. Any way, I'm a loser. I'm going my own way and she----" He
got up and strode the length of the room and back, and then spoke
constrainedly: "I'm not going to speak of this matter to you or to any
one else."
He dropped into his chair beside her again and glared at the window
curtain. Mrs. Cheyne leaned one elbow on the arm of her chair which was
nearest him and sighed deeply.
"Why is it that we always marry the wrong people? If life wasn't so
much of a joke, I'd be tempted to cry over the fallibility of human
nature. The love of one's teens is the only love that is undiluted with
other motives--the only love that's really what love was meant to be.
It's perfectly heavenly, but of course it's entirely unpractical.
Marrying one's first love is iconoclasm--it's a sacrilege--a
profanation--and ought to be prohibited by law. First love was meant
for memory only--to sweeten other memories later on--but it was never
meant for domestication. Rose petals amid cabbage leaves! Incense amid
the smells of an apartment kitchen!"
She sank back in her chair again and mused dreamily, her eyes on the
open fire.
"It's a pretty madness," she sighed. "Romance thrives on unrealities.
What has it in common with the butcher? You know"--she paused and gave
a quick little laugh--"you know, Cheyne and I fell in love at first
sight. He was an adorable boy and he made love like an angel. He had a
lot of money, too--almost as much as I had--but he didn't let that spoil
him--not then. He used to work quite hard before we were married, and
was really a useful citizen.
"Matrimony ruined him. It does some men. He got to be so comfortable
and contented in his new condition that he forgot that there was
anything else in the world but comfort and content--even me. He began
to get fat and bald. Don't you hate bald-headed men with beards? He
was so sleek, shiny, and respectable that he got on my nerves. He
didn't want to go anywhere but to symphony concerts and the opera.
Sometimes he played quite dolefully on the 'cello--even insisted on
doing so when we had people in to dinner. It was really very
inconsiderate of him when every one wanted to be jolly. He began making
a collection of 'cellos, too, which stood around the walls of the music
room in black cases like coffins. Imagine a taste like that! The thing
I had once mistaken for poetry, for sentiment, had degenerated into a
kind of flabby sentimentality which extended to all of the commonplaces
of existence. I found that it wasn't really me that he loved at all.
It was _love_ that he loved. I had made a similar mistake. We
discovered it quite casually one evening after dinner."
She broke off with a sigh. "What's the use? I suppose you'll think I'm
selfish--talking of myself. Mine is an old story. Time has mellowed it
agreeably. Yours is newer----"
"I'm very sorry for you. But you know that I'm sorry. I've told you so
before. I think I understand you better now."
"And I you," and then softly, "Mrs. Wray was your first love?"
"No," he muttered, "she was my last."
Mrs. Cheyne's lids dropped, and she looked away from him. Had Wray been
watching her he would have discovered that the ends of her lips were
flickering on the verge of a smile, but Wray's gaze was on the andirons.
They sat there in silence for some moments, but Wray, who first spoke,
restored her self-complacency.
"You're very kind to me," he said slowly. "You say you like me because
I'm different from other fellows here. I suppose I am. I was born
different and I guess I grew up different. If you think I'm worth
while, then I'm glad I grew up the way I did." He got up and walked
slowly the length of the room. She watched him doubtfully, wondering
what was passing in his mind. She learned in a moment; for when he
approached her again he leaned over her chair and, without the slightest
warning, had put his arms around her and kissed her again and again on
the lips.
She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible to do so, and she
was too bewildered for a moment to do anything but sit and stare blankly
before her. He was a strange fish--a most extraordinary fish which rose
only when one had stopped fishing. It was the way he did it that
appalled her--he was so brutal, so cold-blooded. When he released her
she rose abruptly, her face pale and her lips trembling.
[Illustration: "She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible to
do so."]
"How could you?" she said. "How could you?" And then, with more
composure, she turned and pointed toward the door.
"I wish you'd please go--at once."
But as he stood staring at her she was obliged to repeat: "Don't you
hear me? I want you to go and not to come back. Isn't that plain? Or
would you prefer to have me ring for a servant?"
"No, I don't prefer either," he said with a smile; "I don't want to go.
I want to stay here with you. That's what I came for."
She walked over to the door and stood by the bell. "Do you wish me to
ring?"
"Of course not."
"Will you go?"
"No."
She raised her hand toward the bell, but halted it in midair. Wray
noticed her hesitation.
"Wait a moment. Don't be foolish, Rita. I have something to say to
you. It wouldn't reflect much credit on either of us for you to send me
out. I thought we understood each other. I'm sorry. You said once that
you liked me because I was plain-spoken and because I said and did just
what came into my head, but you haven't been fair with me."
"What do you mean?"
"Just this: You and I were to speak to each other freely of ourselves
and of each other. You said you needed me, and I knew I needed you. We
decided it was good to be friends. That was our agreement. You broke
it wilfully. You have acted with me precisely as you have acted with a
dozen other men. It was lucky I discovered my danger in time. I don't
think any woman in the world could do as much with me as you could--if
you wanted to. When I like anybody I try to show them that I do. If
you were a man I'd give you my hand, or loan you money, or help you in
business. I can't do that with you. You're a woman and meant to be
kissed. So I kissed you."