CONFESSION
So many guests were arriving from Iron Hill, Cloudy Mountain, and West
Gate Village that the capacity of Roya-Neh was overtaxed. Room had to be
made somehow; Geraldine and Naïda Mallett doubled up; twin beds were
installed for Dysart and Bunny Gray; Rosalie took in Sylvia Quest with a
shrug, disdaining any emotion, even curiosity, concerning the motherless
girl whose imprudences with Jack Dysart had furnished gossip sufficient
to last over from the winter.
The Tappans appeared with their guests, old Tappan grimmer, rustier,
gaunter than usual; his son and heir, Peter--he of the rambling and
casual legs--more genial, more futile, more acquiescent than ever. The
Crays, Beckmans, Ellises, and Grandcourts arrived; Catharine Grandcourt
shared Mrs. Severn's room; Scott Seagrave went to quarters at the West
Gate, and Duane was driven forth and a cot-bed set up for him in his
studio at Hurryon Lodge.
The lawns and terraces of Roya-Neh were swarming with eager, laughing
young people; white skirts fluttered everywhere in the sun;
tennis-courts and lake echoed with the gay tumult, motors tooted, smart
horses and showy traps were constantly drawing up or driving off; an
army of men from West Gate Village were busy stringing lanterns all over
the grounds, pitching pavilions in the glade beyond Hurryon Gate, and
decorating everything with ribbons, until Duane suggested to Scott that
they tie silk bows on the wild squirrels, as everything ought to be as
Louis XVI as possible. He himself did actually so adorn several
respectable Shanghai hens which he caught at their oviparous duties, and
the spectacle left Kathleen weak with laughter.
As for Duane, he suddenly seemed to have grown years younger. All that
was careless, inconsequential, irresponsible, seemed to have disappeared
in a single night, leaving a fresh, boyish enthusiasm quite free from
surface cynicism--quite innocent of the easy, amused mockery which had
characterised him. The subtle element of self-consciousness had
disappeared, too. If it had remained unnoticed, even undetected before,
now its absence was noticeable, for there was no longer any attitude
about him, no policy to sustain, nothing of that humourous, bantering
sophistication which ignores conventionality. For it is always a
conscious effort to ignore it, an attitude to disregard what custom has
sanctioned.
Kathleen had never realised what a really sweet and charming fellow he
was until that morning, when he took her aside and told her of his
engagement.
"Do you know," he said, "it is as though life had stopped for me many
years ago when Geraldine and I were playmates; it's exactly as though
all the interval of years in between counted less than a dream, and now,
at last, I am awake and taking up real life again.... You see, Kathleen,
as a matter of fact, I'm incomplete by myself. I'm only half of a suit
of clothes; Geraldine always wore the rest of me."
"However," said Kathleen mischievously, "you've been very tireless in
trying on, they say. It's astonishing you never found a good fit----"
"That was all part of the dream interval," he interrupted, a little out
of countenance, "everything was absurdly unreal. Are you going to be
nice to me, Kathleen?"
"Of course I am, you blessed boy!" she said, taking him in her vigorous
young arms and kissing him squarely and thoroughly. Then she held him at
arms' length and looked him very gravely in the eyes:
"Love her a great deal, Duane," she said in a low voice; "she needs it."
"I could not help doing it."
But Kathleen repeated:
"Love her enough. She will be yours to make--yours to unmake, to mould,
fashion, remould--with God's good help. Love her enough."
"Yes," he said, very soberly.
A slight constraint fell between them; they spoke of the fête, and
Kathleen presently left to superintend details which never worried her,
never disturbed the gay and youthful confidence which had always from
the beginning marked her successful superintendence of the house of
Seagrave.
Geraldine and Scott were very busy playing hostess and host, receiving
new-comers, renewing friendships interrupted by half a summer's
separation; but there was very little to do except to be affable, for
Kathleen's staff of domestics was perfectly adequate--the old servants
of the house of Seagrave, who were quite able by themselves to maintain
the household traditions and whip into line of duty the new and less
conscientious recruits below stairs.
A great many people were gathered on the terrace when Duane descended
the stairs, on his way to inspect his temporary quarters in Miller's
loft, at Hurryon Lodge.
He stopped and spoke to many, greeted Delancy Grandcourt's loquacious
and rotund mother, politely listened to her scandalous budget of gossip,
shook hands cordially with her big, handsome daughter, Catharine, a
strapping girl, with the shyly honest eyes of her brother and the rather
heavy but shapely body and limbs of an indolent Juno. A harsh voice
pronounced his name; old Mr. Tappan extended a dry hand and bored him
through with eyes like holes burnt in a blanket.
"And do you still cultiwate the fine arts, young man?" he inquired, as
sternly as though he privately suspected Duane of maltreating them.
Duane shook hands with him.
"The school of the indiwidool," continued Mr. Tappan, "is what artists
need. Woo the muses in solitude; cultiwate 'em in isolation. Didn't
Benjamin West live out in the backwoods? And I guess he managed to make
good without raising hell in the Eekole di Boze Arts with a lot of
dissipated wagabonds at his elbow, inculcating immoral precepts and
wasting his time and his father's money."
And he looked very hard at Duane, who winced, but agreed with him
solemnly.
Geraldine, on the edge of a circle of newly arrived guests, leaned over
and whispered mischievously:
"Is that what _you_ did at the Ecole des Beaux Arts? Did you behave like
all that or did you cultivate the indiwidool?"
He shook hands again, solemnly, with Mr. Tappan, stepped back, and
joined her.
"Where on earth have you been hiding?" she inquired.
"You said that if I carved certain cabalistic signs on the big
beech-tree you would presently appear to me in a pink cloud--you
faithless little wretch!"
"How could I? Three motor-loads arrived from Iron Hill before I was half
dressed, and ever since I've been doing my traditional duty; and," in a
lower voice, "I was perfectly crazy to go to the beech-tree all the
time. Did you wait long, you poor boy?"
"Man is born to wait. I came back just now to find you.... I told
Kathleen," he added, radiant.
"What?" she whispered, flushing deliciously. "Oh, pooh! I told her about
it this morning--the very first thing. We both snivelled. I didn't sleep
at all last night.... There's something I wish to tell you----"
The gay smile suddenly died out in her eyes; a strange, wistful
tenderness softened them, touching her lips, too, which always gave that
very young, almost childish pathos to her expression. She put out her
hand instinctively and touched him.
"I want to be alone with you, Duane--for a little while."
"Shall I go to the beech-tree and wait?"
She glanced around with a hopeless gesture:
"You see? Other people are arriving and I've simply got to be here. I
don't see how I can get away before luncheon. Where were you going just
now?"
"I thought I'd step over to the studio to see what sort of a shake-down
you've given me to repose on."
"I wish you would. Poor child, I do hope you will be comfortable. It's
perfectly horrid to send you out of the house----"
"Oh, I don't mind," he nodded, laughing, and she gave him a shy glance
of adieu and turned to receive another guest.
In his extemporized studio at Hurryon Lodge he found that old Miller had
already provided him with a washstand and accessories, a new tin tub and
a very comfortable iron bed.
The place was aromatic with the odour of paints, varnishes, turpentine,
and fixative; he opened the big window, let in air and sunshine, and
picked up a sheaf of brushes, soft and pliable from a fresh washing in
turpentine and black soap.
Confronting him on a big improvised easel was the full-length,
half-reclining portrait of Rosalie Dysart--a gay, fascinating, fly-away
thing after the deliberately artificial manner of the French court
painters who simpered and painted a hundred and fifty years ago. Ribbons
fluttered from the throat and shoulder of this demure, fair-skinned, and
blue-eyed creature, who was so palpably playing at masquerade. A silken
parody of a shepherdess--a laughing, dainty, snowy-fingered aristocrat,
sweet-lipped, provocative, half reclining under a purposely conventional
oak, between the branches of which big white clouds rolled in a
dark-blue sky--this was Rosalie as Duane had painted her with all the
perversely infernal skill of a brush always tipped with a mockery as
delicate as her small, bare foot, dropping below the flowered petticoat.
The unholy ease with which he had done it gave him a secret thrill of
admiration. It was apparently all surface--the exquisite masquerader,
the surrounding detail, the technical graciousness and flow of line and
contour, the effortless brush-work. Yet, with an ease which demanded
very respectful consideration, he had absorbed and transmitted the
frivolous spirit of the old French masters, which they themselves took
so seriously; the portrait was also a likeness, yet delightfully
permeated with the charm of a light-minded epoch; and somehow, behind
and underneath it all, a brilliant mockery sparkled--the half-amused,
half-indifferent brilliancy of the painter himself. It was there for any
who could appreciate it, and it was quite irresistible, particularly
since he had, after a dazzling preliminary study or two from a
gamekeeper's small, chubby son, added, fluttering in mid-air, a pair of
white-winged Loves, chubby as cherubs but much more Gallic.
Nobody excepting Rosalie and himself had seen the picture. What he meant
to do with it he did not know, half ashamed as he was of its satiric
cleverness. Painters would hate it--stand hypnotised, spellbound the
while--and hate it, for they are a serious sort, your painters of
pictures, and they couldn't appreciate an art which made fun of art;
they would execrate the uncanny mastery and utterly miss the gay
perversity of the performance, and Duane knew it and laughed wickedly.
What a shock! What would sober, seriously inclined people think if an
actor who was eminently fitted to play _Lear_, should bow to his
audience and earnestly perform a very complicated and perfect flip-flap?
Amused with his own disrespectful reflections, he stood before the
picture, turning from it with a grin from time to time to compare it
with some dozen vigorous canvases hanging along the studio wall--studies
that he knew would instantly command the owlish respect of the truly
earnest--connoisseurs, critics, and academicians in this very earnest
land of ours.
There was a Sargent-like portrait of old Miller, with something of that
great master's raucous colouring and perhaps intentional discords, and
all of his technical effrontery; and here, too, lurked that shadow of
mockery ever latent in the young man's brush--something far more subtle
than caricature or parody--deeper than the imitation of
manner--something like the evanescent caprice of a strong hand, which
seems to threaten for a second, then passes on lightly, surely,
transforming its menace into a caress.
There were two adorable nude studies of Miller's granddaughters, aged
six and seven--quaintly and engagingly formal in their naïve
astonishment at finding themselves quite naked. There was a fine sketch
of Howker, wrinkled, dim-eyed, every inch a butler, every fibre in him
the dignified and self-respecting, old-time servant, who added his
dignity to that of the house he had served so long and well. The latter
picture was masterly, recalling Gandara's earlier simplicity and
Whistler's single-minded concentration without that gentleman's rickety
drawing and harmonious arrangements in mud.
For in Duane's work, from somewhere deep within, there radiated outward
something of that internal glow which never entirely fades from the
canvases of the old masters--which survives mould and age, the opacity
of varnish, and the well-intentioned maltreatment of unbaked curators.
There was no mystery about it; he prepared his canvas with white-lead,
gave it a long sun-bath, modelled in bone-black and an earth-red, gave
it another bath in the sun, and then glazed. This, a choice of
permanent colours, and oil as a medium, was the mechanical technique.
Standing there, thoughts remote, idly sorting and re-sorting his
brushes, he heard the birds singing on the forest's edge, heard the wind
in the pines blowing, with the sound of flowing water, felt the warmth
of the sun, breathed the mounting freshness from the fields. Life was
still very, very young; it had only begun since love had come, and that
was yesterday.
And as he stood there, happy, a trifle awed as he began to understand
what life might hold for him, there came quick steps on the stair, a
knock, her voice outside his door:
"Duane! May I come in?"
He sprang to the door; she stepped inside, breathing rapidly, delicately
flushed from her haste.
"I couldn't stand it any longer, so I left Scott to scrape and bow and
pull his forelock. I've got to go back in a few minutes. Are you glad to
see me?"
He took her in his arms.
"Dearest, dearest!" she murmured, looking at him with all her heart in
her brown eyes.
So they stood for a little while, her mouth and body acquiescent to his
embrace.
"Such a long, long time since I saw you. Nearly half an hour," he said.
"Yes." She drew away a little:
"Do you know," she said, looking about her, over his shoulder, "I have
never been here since you took it as a studio."
She caught a glimpse of the picture on the easel, freed herself, and,
retaining his hand in both of hers, gazed curiously at Rosalie's
portrait.
"How perfectly charming!" she said. "But, Duane, there's a sort of
exquisite impudence about what you've done! Did you mean to gently and
disrespectfully jeer at our mincing friends, Boucher, Nattier, _et
al._?"
"I knew you'd understand!" he exclaimed, delighted. "Oh, you wonderful
little thing--you darling!" He caught her to him again, but she twisted
away and tucked one arm under his:
"Don't, Duane; I want to see these things. What a perfectly dear study
of Miller's kiddies! Oh, it is too lovable, too adorable! You wouldn't
sell that--would you?"
"Of course not; it's yours, Geraldine."
After a moment she looked up at him:
"Ours?" she asked; but the smile faded once more from eyes and lips; she
suffered him to lead her from canvas to canvas, approved them or
remained silent, and presently turned and glanced toward the small iron
bed. Manner and gaze had become distrait.
"You think this will be comfortable, Duane?" she inquired listlessly.
"Perfectly," he said.
She disengaged her hand from his, walked over to the lounge, turned, and
signed for him to seat himself. Then she dropped to her knees and
settled down on the rug at his feet, laying her soft cheek against his
arm.
"I have some things to tell you," she said in a low voice.
"Very serious things?" he asked, smiling.
"Very."
"All right; I am listening."
"Very serious things," she repeated, gazing through the window, where
green tree-tops swayed in the breezy sunlight; and she pressed her
cheek closer to his arm.
"I have not been very--good," she said.
He looked at her, suppressed the smile that twitched at his mouth, and
waited.
"I wish I could give myself to you as clean and sweet and untainted
as--as you deserve.... I can't; and before we go any further I must tell
you----"
"Why, you blessed child," he exclaimed, half laughing, half serious.
"You are not going to confess to me, are you?"
"Duane, I've got to tell you everything. I couldn't rest unless I was
perfectly honest with you."
"But, dear," he said, a trifle dismayed, "such confidences are not
necessary. Nor am I fit to hear your list of innocent transgressions----"
"Oh, they are not very innocent. Let me tell you; let me cleanse myself
as much as I can. I don't want to have any secrets from you, Duane. I
want to go to you as guiltless as confession can make me. I want to
begin clean. Let me tell you. Couldn't you let me tell you, Duane?"
"And I, dear? Do--do you expect me to tell _you_? Do you expect me to do
as you do?"
She looked up at him surprised; she had expected it. Something in his
face warned her of her own ignorance.
"I don't know very much about men, Duane. Are there things you cannot
say to me?"
"One or two, dear."
"Do you mean until after we are married?"
"Not even then. There is no use in your knowing."
She had never considered that, either.
"But _ought_ I to know, Duane?"
"No," he said miserably, "you ought not."
She sat upright for a few seconds longer, gazing thoughtfully at space,
then pressed her pale face against his knee again in silent faith and
confidence.
"Anyway, I know you will be fair to me in your own way," she said.
"There is only one way that I know how to be fair to you. Listen."
And in a shamed voice she forced herself to recite her list of sins;
repeating them as she had confessed them to Kathleen. She told him
everything; her silly and common imprudence with Dysart, which, she
believed, had bordered the danger mark; her ignoble descent to what she
had always held aloof from, meaning demoralisation in regard to betting
and gambling and foolish language; and last, but most shameful, her
secret and perilous temporising with a habit which already was making
self-denial very difficult for her. She did not spare herself; she told
him everything, searching the secret recesses of her heart for some
small sin in hiding, some fault, perhaps, overlooked or forgotten. All
that she held unworthy in her she told this man; and the man, being an
average man, listened, head bowed over her fragrant hair, adoring her,
wretched in heart and soul with the heavy knowledge of all he dare not
tell or forget or cleanse from him, kneeling repentant, in the sanctuary
of her love and confidence.
She told him everything--sins of omission, childish depravities, made
real only by the decalogue. Of indolence, selfishness, unkindness, she
accused herself; strove to count the times when she had yielded to
temptation.
He was reading the first human heart he had ever known--a heart still
strangely untainted, amid a society where innocence was the exception,
doubtful wisdom the rule, and where curiosity was seldom left very long
in doubt.
His hands fell over hers as her voice ceased, but he did not speak.
She waited a little while, then, with a slight nestling movement, turned
and hid her face on his knees.
"With God's help," she whispered, "I will subdue what threatens me. But
I am afraid of it! Oh, Duane, I am afraid."
He managed to steady his voice.
"What is it, darling, that seems to tempt you," he asked; "is it the
taste--the effect?"
"The--effect. If I could only forget it--but I can't help thinking about
it--I suppose just because it's forbidden--For days, sometimes, there is
not the slightest desire; then something stirs it up in me, begins to
annoy me; or the desire comes sometimes when I am excited or very happy,
or very miserable. There seems to be some degraded instinct in me that
seeks for it whenever my emotions are aroused.... I must be honest with
you; I--I feel that way _now_--because, I suppose, I am a little
excited."
He raised her and took her in his arms.
"But you won't, will you? Simply tell me that you won't."
She looked at him, appalled by her own hesitation. Was it possible,
after the words she had just uttered, the exaltation of confession
still thrilling her, that she could hesitate? Was it morbid
over-conscientiousness in the horror of a broken promise to him that
struck her silent?
"Say it, Geraldine."
"Oh, Duane! I've said it so often to Kathleen and myself! Let me
promise myself again--and keep my word. Let me try that way, dear,
before I--I promise you?"
There was a feverish colour in her face; she spoke rapidly, like one who
temporises, trying to convince others and over-ride the inward voice;
her slender hands were restless on his shoulders, her eyes lowered,
avoiding his.
"Perhaps if you and Kathleen, and I, myself, were not so afraid--perhaps
if I were not forbidden--if I had your confidence and my own that I
would not abuse my liberty, it might be easier to refrain. Shall we try
it that way, Duane?"
"Do you think it best?"
"I think--I might try that way. Dear, I have so much to sustain me
now--so much more at stake! Because there is the dread of losing
you--for, Duane, until I am mistress of myself, I will never, never
marry you--and do you suppose I am going to risk our happiness? Only
leave me free, dear; don't attempt to wall me in at first, and I will
surely find my way."
She sprang up, trying to smile, hesitated, then slowly came back to
where he was standing and put her arms around his neck.
"Good-bye until luncheon," she said. "I must go back to my neglected
guests--I am going to run all the way as fast as my legs can carry me!
Kathleen will be dreadfully mortified. Do you love me?... Even after my
horrid confessions?... Oh, you darling!... Now that you know the very
worst, I begin to feel as clean and fresh as though I had just stepped
from the bath.... And I _will_ try to be what you would have me,
dear.... Because I am quite crazy about you--oh, completely mad!"
She bent impulsively and kissed his hands, freed herself with a
breathless laugh, and turned and fled.
For a long time her lover stood there, motionless, downcast, clenched
fists in his pockets, face to face with the past. And that which lay
behind him was that which lies behind what is commonly known to the
world as the average man.