"I suppose you'll think me rather sentimental," Corliss went on,
with a laugh which unexpectedly betrayed a little shyness. "I've
never forgotten that I was born here--was a boy here. In all my
wanderings I've always really thought of this as home."
His voice trembled slightly and his face flushed; he smiled
deprecatingly as though in apology for these symptoms of emotion;
and at that both listeners felt (perhaps with surprise) the man's
strong attraction. There was something very engaging about him: in
the frankness of his look and in the slight tremor in his voice;
there was something appealing and yet manly in the confession, by
this thoroughgoing cosmopolite, of his real feeling for the
home-town.
"Of course I know how very few people, even among the `old
citizens,' would have any recollection whatever of me," he went
on; "but that doesn't make any difference in my sentiment for the
place and its people. That street out yonder was named for my
grandfather: there's a statue of my great uncle in the State House
yard; all my own blood: belonged here, and though I have been a
wanderer and may not be remembered--naturally am _not_
remembered--yet the name is honoured here, and I--I----" He
faltered again, then concluded with quiet earnestness: "I thought
that if my good luck was destined to bring fortunes to others, it
might as well be to my own kind--that at least I'd offer them the
chance before I offered it to any one else." He turned and looked
Richard in the face. "That's why I'm here, Mr. Lindley."
The other impulsively put out his hand. "I understand," he said
heartily.
"Thank you." Corliss changed his tone for one less serious.
"You've listened very patiently and I hope you'll be rewarded for
it. Certainly you will if you decide to come in with us. May I
leave the maps and descriptions with you?"
"Yes, indeed. I'll look them over carefully and have another talk
with you about it."
"Thank heaven, _that's_ over!" exclaimed the lounger in the
hammock, who had not once removed his fascinated stare from the
expressive face of Valentine Corliss. "If you have now concluded
with dull care, allow me to put a vital question: Mr. Corliss, do
you sing?"
The gentleman addressed favoured him with a quizzical glance from
between half-closed lids, and probably checking an impulse to
remark that he happened to know that his questioner sometimes
sang, replied merely, "No."
"It is a pity."
"Why?"
"Nothing," returned the other, inconsequently. "It just struck me
that you ought to sing the Toreador song."
Richard Lindley, placing the notes and maps in his pocket, dropped
them, and, stooping, began to gather the scattered papers with a
very red face. Corliss, however, laughed good-naturedly.
"That's most flattering," he said; "though there are other things
in `Carmen' I prefer--probably because one doesn't hear them so
eternally."
Vilas pulled himself up to a sitting position and began to swing
again. "Observe our host, Mr. Corliss," he commanded gayly. "He is
a kind old Dobbin, much beloved, but cares damn little to hear you
or me speak of music. He'd even rather discuss your oil business
than listen to us talk of women, whereas nothing except women ever
really interests _you_, my dear sir. He's not our kind of man," he
concluded, mournfully; "not at all our kind of man!"
"I hope," Corliss suggested, "he's going to be my kind of man in
the development of these oil-fields."
"How ridic"--Mr. Vilas triumphed over the word after a slight
struggle--"ulous! I shall review that: ridiculous of you to
pretend to be interested in oil-fields. You are not that sort of
person whatever. Nothing could be clearer than that you would
never waste the time demanded by fields of oil. Groundlings call
this `the mechanical age'--a vulgar error. My dear sir, you and I
know that it is the age of Woman! Even poets have begun to see
that she is alive. Formerly we did not speak of her at all, but of
late years she has become such a scandal that she is getting
talked about. Even our dramas, which used to be all blood, have
become all flesh. I wish I were dead--but will continue my
harangue because the thought is pellucid. Women selecting men to
mate with are of only two kinds, just as there are but two kinds
of children in a toy-shop. One child sets its fancy on one
partic"--the orator paused, then continued--"on one certain toy
and will make a distressing scene if she doesn't get it: she will
have that one; she will go straight to it, clasp it and keep it;
she won't have any other. The other kind of woman is to be
understood if you will make the experiment of taking the other
kind of child to a toy-shop and telling her you will buy her any
toy in the place, but that you will buy her only one. If you do
this in the morning, she will still be in the shop when it is
closing for the night, because, though she runs to each toy in
turn with excitement and delight, she sees another over her
shoulder, and the one she has not touched is always her
choice--until she has touched it! Some get broken in the handling.
For my part, my wires are working rather rustily, but I must obey
the Stage-Manager. For my requiem I wish somebody would ask them
to play Gounod's masterpiece."
"What's that?" asked Corliss, amused.
"`The Funeral March of a Marionette!'"
"I suppose you mean that for a cheerful way of announcing that you
are a fatalist."
"Fatalism? That is only a word," declared Mr. Vilas gravely. "If I
am not a puppet then I am a god. Somehow, I do not seem to be a
god. If a god is a god, one thinks he would know it himself. I now
yield the floor. Thanking you cordially, I believe there is a lady
walking yonder who commands salutation."
He rose to his feet, bowing profoundly. Cora Madison was passing,
strolling rather briskly down the street, not in the direction of
her home. She waved her parasol with careless gayety to the trio
under the trees, and, going on, was lost to their sight.
"Hello!" exclaimed Corliss, looking at his watch with a start of
surprise. "I have two letters to write for the evening mail. I
must be off."
At this, Ray Vilas's eyes--still fixed upon him, as they had been
throughout the visit--opened to their fullest capacity, in a gaze
of only partially alcoholic wildness.
Entirely aware of this singular glare, but not in the least
disconcerted by it, the recipient proffered his easy farewells. "I
had no idea it was so late. Good afternoon. Mr. Vilas, I have been
delighted with your diagnosis. Lindley, I'm at your disposal when
you've looked over my data. My very warm thanks for your patience,
and--addio!"
Lindley looked after him as he strode quickly away across the
green lawn, turning, at the street, in the direction Cora had
taken; and the troubled Richard felt his heart sink with vague but
miserable apprehension. There was a gasp of desperation beside
him, and the sound of Ray Vilas's lips parting and closing with
little noises of pain.
"So he knows her," said the boy, his thin body shaking. "Look at
him, damn him! See his deep chest, that conqueror's walk, the
easy, confident, male pride of him: a true-born, natural rake--the
Toreador all over!"
His agitation passed suddenly; he broke into a loud laugh, and
flung a reckless hand to his companion's shoulder.
"You good old fool," he cried. "_You'll_ never play Don Jose!"