AN INTERVIEW AND A CRISIS
As I stood there all immediate things were apparitions seen vague and
distorted through a chaos of wild emotion. I had assumed that for an
experimenter in the unexpected I could qualify as tried and seasoned.
Now it seemed that all prior assaults upon my equanimity had been mere
kindergarten exercises in control.
Weighborne, still too self-absorbed to see that worlds were crumbling in
his library, turned suddenly to us with an apologetic laugh.
"Frances," he said, "forgive me, I entirely forgot to present our
guest." Even then he did not present me, but turned to me to add, "We've
talked of you so much here, Mr. Deprayne, that I had overlooked the fact
that introductions were in order. I'm the unfortunate type of one idea
at a time. After all, I hope you'll feel that, having crossed the
threshold you are one of us, and that further formalities may be
dispensed with." Then as I bowed, somewhat incoherently mumbling my
acknowledgments, he turned his back upon the room and busied himself
again with the rubbish that claimed his interest at the desk.
I wanted to leap for his throat. I, who had presented her as a goddess
to a people under skies that rose from the ocean and dipped again to the
ocean, needed no presentation. The casual fashion of his amenities was
in itself an affront.
Of course all this was insanely unfair to my host, and even while my
thoughts seethed in this unamiable vortex--so strong is the grip of
artificial conventions--I was attempting to smile with the agreeable
inanity of a drawing-room smirk.
But as she stood there I could read in her face also the record of the
strange agitation that had evidenced itself at the door. Her spirit too
was in equinox. The lips I knew so well, though only in one expression,
were now grave and a little drawn, and her eyes held a wild questioning,
as though my coming brought a startling riddle.
In a moment she was again the perfectly poised mistress of herself. She
came over and offered her hand and as I took it she met my eyes smiling,
though she must have read in them the rising hunger of a man for a
woman--a hunger which in me was so poignant that my soul was the soul
of a wolf. The touch of her fingers electrified me and the tremor of my
own hand, before I withdrew it, must have telegraphed whatever my pupils
failed to mirror.
That wordless message told her how my sanity reeled on the brink of
seizing her and holding her in wild defiance of this man, across the
room, whose name she bore.
"I won't interrupt business," she was saying with perfect serenity. "But
later I hope to see you again."
I bowed. "I hope so," I answered politely, while a wave of anger swept
me.
She would not interrupt! She who had snapped all the thread of life and
let my soul go plunging down the abysses.
She would not interrupt!
The grandfather clock against the wall stood at nine twenty-four. At
nine twenty I had been stolidly puffing one of Weighborne's Havanas and
listening to his disquisitions on courts of appeals decisions and
squatters' rights. The cigar which I had dropped on an ash-tray at the
first sound of her voice still held its ash and sent up a thin spiral of
smoke. It had outlived me.
My host plunged afresh into his papers. He might as well have been
reading me ukases from the Romonoff Czar in the undiluted Russian. But
as the clock ticked off the half-hour I seemed to freeze out of the
eruptive and into the glacial stage. I felt my lips drawing into a stiff
smile. I even contrived to nod my head in sedulous and ape-like
agreement when he raised interrogative eyes to mine. So rapidly had my
volcanic lava of spirit hardened to clinkers that when the telephone
called him to a barn, where some accident had befallen a thoroughbred
colt, I was able to turn a conventionally masklike countenance on
Frances, who came to chat with me till his return. She sat in a great
leather chair, and I, standing on the hearth, looked down on her, braced
for whatever might develop. I was resolved to make amends for my
self-revelation of a half-hour ago; I should at least prove myself the
capable mummer; yet I found that I was fettered by an unaccustomed
silence.
There was only one topic on which I could find words for talk with this
woman and that topic was forbidden. She, too, for some unaccountable
reason, seemed hampered by a diffidence which her bearing told me was
foreign to her normal nature. So, for a while, our conversation lagged
and faltered and fell into fitful fragments and puerile tatters, while
my gaze devoured her. There was no flaw in the perfection of her beauty
from the coils of her amber and honey hair to the white satin toe of her
small slipper. I had given opulent scope to my painter's fancy in those
island days and had imagined her, in the color of life, as a being
expressed in the souls of orchids. Now I realized, with a terrible
yearning, that I had not done her justice.
Step by step I went back over the record of the last year and found it
painfully distinct and clear. I had, with my imagination built a house
of cards which had tottered. I had been lonely and morbid and had
pretended a picture was a woman. It had come to mean a great deal--clay
idols have come to mean immortal gods to poor creatures who have had no
better deities. I had told myself that the finger of Destiny had traced
through my life a thread of gold linking my life to hers. After all it
had been nothing more than a series of inconceivable coincidences. I had
no more part in her cosmos than in that of any woman whose photograph I
might have admired in a miscellaneous collection. It behooved me to
scourge out of my brain the mischievous chimeras I had harbored there.
As for her momentary excitement--the something vague and deep and
disturbed in her pupils as she stood at the door and later when we
touched hands; that was only the psychic realization that this guest of
her husband was staring at her out of insanely wild eyes.
I started to speak, then halted, perplexed over a ridiculous point. How
should I address her? On the island I had called her Frances, and now I
could no more compel my rebellious tongue to frame the title "Mrs.
Weighborne" than I could have forced it to utter an epithet. So I said
nothing at all.
"You are a great traveler, aren't you, Mr. Deprayne?" she suggested when
the silence had begun to be oppressive.
[Illustration: "You are a great traveler, aren't you, Mr. Deprayne?" she
suggested when the silence had begun to be oppressive.]
I had always been accounted a talkative man. One could read in her face
that she had the wit to sparkle in conversation like champagne in cut
glass, yet under the constraint that had settled over us, we labored as
platitudinously as a knickerbockered boy and a school-girl entertaining
her first caller.
"I have traveled a little," I answered.
"And encountered unusual adventures?"
"No--just traveled."
"Billy says," she went on as graciously as though I had not rebuffed
every conversational advance, "that you were shipwrecked in the south
seas and wounded by savages."
"Billy!" My bruised consciousness flinched under the familiarity of the
title and I fell back upon shameless churlishness.
"A nigger stuck me with a spear," I admitted shortly.
She glanced quickly up with perplexity. Her eyes seemed to read that I
was not at heart a boor and her graciousness remained impervious to my
ruffianism.
"I wish," she said slowly, "you would tell me about it, or are you one
of the men who tell women only empty and pretty things?"
There was a vagrant hint of wistfulness in the tone of the question. I
wondered if she had been fed, like the girl of our diary, too much on
sweetmeats, and wanted a more nutritious fare.
"It wouldn't interest you," I apologized, melting at once to penitence.
Then for a moment came a wild up-sweep of emotion. It was one of those
impulses which master men and, when the trend is violent, make the eyes
swim with blood and the hand rise to murder. With me it swept to
sentiment, and carried me uncontrollably in its undertow.
"I wish," I said with an intensity which must have carried a note of
wildness, "I wish to God I were back on that island now!"
The perplexed questioning of her eyes steadied me again into
self-command.
"I crave your pardon," I said with a disingenuous laugh. "It's the call
of the wild."
"Perhaps I understand something of that call," was her enigmatical
reply.
I wondered. Could she understand? This woman with the perfect
drawing-room poise; this creature of exquisite art? Even if I were
absolutely free to tell her the whole story, from Suez to the Golden
Gate, how much and how little would it mean to her? Could she comprehend
a passion fired with no touch of the physical, painted horizon-wide
against a canvas of cobalt sky? Perhaps not, but I wished as I had never
wished any other thing that I might have been privileged to learn.
Her personality, even in silence, wove an aura of subtle magic about
her. She wore at her breast several hot-house orchids. They were pale
and exotic, quick wilting and artificial. Already the edges of their
petals were curling and darkening. Was she like them? Could she have
carried her splendid shoulders with the same grace through jungles and
over mountains? Could she bloom with the wild splendor of those other
orchids in the sterner environment of God's great out-of-doors?
She smiled as she questioned me.
"You are sceptical of my power to understand things, aren't you?"
"I was wondering," I answered, "just what you meant by it."
"I meant," she said slowly, as her eyes clouded again with that
wistfulness which had a few moments before cost me my self-control,
"that civilized women lead even narrower lives than civilized men.
Maybe they feel even more strongly than men the longing for wider, freer
things."
"But in these times," I inanely suggested, struggling to maintain the
pretense of conversation, "woman has a full measure of liberty."
She tossed her head with an airy contempt for my reasoning and bent her
eyes for a moment on the tip of her satin slipper. "About as much as a
canary in a cage," she announced, "and we are expected to sing joyously
for our cuttle bone and hemp seed. I wonder that it never seems to occur
to you men that we women may want something more than that; that we may
not be satisfied after all to hear affectionate things chirped through
the cage wires--that even human canaries may be able to conceive of some
horizon broader than a window-sill with a pot or two of geraniums to
give it color."
I loved this woman. Why in all conscience did my heart leap almost
triumphantly at the hint that she was restive in captivity? Was it
merely because it was not I who was her captor? Was it jealousy feeding
on the crumbs of a misery shared? There was a long silence.
She had been toying as she talked with a slender gold chain, and under
an involuntary emphasis of her fingers it had given way. She was now
trying to close the broken link with her teeth. I stepped forward and,
without realizing that I was doing it, caught her hand in my restraining
fingers. She looked up quickly.
"I beg your pardon," I said hastily, "but don't bite that with your
teeth."
"If I bite it at all," she replied with impervious logic, "I must bite
it with my teeth."
I took it from her and began the simple work of repair. The contact of
my fingers had left me vibrating, and as I bent my face over the chain,
my hands were trembling.
"Why," she demanded in a soft voice, leaning back and clasping her hands
behind her head, "won't you tell me the story of your island?" Into the
question crept a teasing note of whimsical insistence.
"Because," I answered, "there is a part of it which I couldn't tell
you--and without that there is nothing to tell."
"Will you tell me some other time when you know me better?" she inquired
as naively as a little girl, pleading for a favorite fairy tale.
At every turn she flashed a new angle of herself to view. At one moment
she was impressively regal, at the next an appealing, coaxing child; at
one instant her eyes hinted at heart-hunger and at the next her lips
knew no curves but those of laughter.
And yet there was a thing about it all that hurt and disappointed me.
With nothing tangible, there was still, in a subtle way, much which was
sheer coquetry of eye and lip. It was invitation. Why did she challenge
me to forbidden things so easy to say, so impossible to unsay? She must
know that from the moment I saw her I had stood at a crisis; and that
this was true only because I loved her. Such things need no words for
their telling.
"I'm afraid I shall be denied the privilege of knowing you better," I
said slowly, "I leave for the mountains to-morrow morning."
"You won't be there forever," she retorted, "sha'n't we see you on the
return trip?"
I shook my head.
"I must hurry back East."
"I'm sorry," she answered with sweet graciousness. Any woman in the
country houses about her would probably have spoken in the same fashion,
but to me it was a match touched to powder.
"I will quote you a parable," I said, and although I attempted to smile,
that the speech might be taken lightly, I had that rigid feeling about
the lips and brow which made me conscious that my face was drawn and
tell-tale.
"Icarus was the original bird-man, and he came to grief. His wings were
fastened on with wax, but they worked fairly well until he soared too
close to the sun. Then they melted ... and the first aviation disaster
was chronicled."
She looked at me frankly and level-eyed, but her face held only
mystification.
"I'm afraid," she said, "you must construe the parable."
I shook my head gravely. "I'm glad you don't take its meaning."
"I don't understand," she repeated, yet we both felt that we were
standing in the presence of dammed-up emotions which might at any moment
break over and inundate us. She might yet have no realization of it, but
I knew by an occult assurance, in no way related to egotism, that I
could make her love me. My fable was false after all. I had already
fallen and been broken; my pinions were trailing and blood-stained.
There was yet time to save her. During our silence Weighborne opened the
door and our interview was ended.
It had lasted a few minutes, yet during their continuance I had been
several times perilously near the brink. I saw her rise and smile and
leave the room, and I caught or fancied I caught a glance from her eyes
and a miraculous curve of her lips at the threshold. The expression was
subtle and challenging, seeming to say to me, "You will tell me many
things before I am through with you." Of course, that, too, was my
disordered imagination, yet for the moment it was as though she had
actually spoken words of self-confidence and conquest. And I knew that
if I saw her again I should say many things--forbidden things.
Resentment and bitterness and utter heartache possessed me, and I heard
my host's voice in a maddeningly matter-of-fact pitch as he commented,
"Now I hope our interruptions are over."
As I went to my room at the hotel that night a telegram was handed me. I
did not at once open it. I presumed that it was from Keller, and it was
all of a piece with my grotesque ill luck that the answer should come
just after I had myself in the most painful possible way solved the
problem. In my room, however, I read, under a San Francisco date, "Name
Weighborne, not Carrington. Keller." It was evidently a telegraphic
mistake and should have read "Weighborne nee Carrington." Keller had
told me who she had been before she married Weighborne, the man whose
name, in the words of my fellow unfortunate, Bobby Maxwell, "looked well
on a check."