On about the hottest afternoon of that summer I had the yacht take me
down the Sound to a point on the Connecticut shore within sight of
Dawn Hill, but seven miles further from New York. I landed at the
private pier of Howard Forrester, the only brother of Anita's mother.
As I stepped upon the pier I saw a fine looking old man in the
pavilion overhanging the water. He was dressed all in white except a
sky-blue tie that harmonized with the color of his eyes. He was
neither fat nor lean, and his smooth skin was protesting ruddily
against the age proclaimed by his wool-white hair. He rose as I came
toward him, and, while I was still several yards away, showed
unmistakably that he knew who I was and that he was anything but glad
to see me.
"Mr. Forrester?" I asked.
He grew purple to the line of his thick white hair. "It is, Mr.
Blacklock," said he. "I have the honor to wish you good-day, sir." And
with that he turned his back on me.
"I have come to ask a favor of you, sir," said I, as polite to that
hostile back as if I had been addressing a cordial face. And I waited.
He wheeled round, looked at me from head to foot. I withstood the
inspection calmly; when it was ended I noted that in spite of himself
he was somewhat relaxed from the opinion of me he had formed upon what
he had heard and read. But he said: "I do not know you, sir, and I do
not wish to know you."
"You have made me painfully aware of that," replied I. "But I have
learned not to take snap judgments too seriously. I never go to a man
unless I have something to say to him, and I never leave until I have
said it."
"I perceive, sir," retorted he, "you have the thick skin necessary to
living up to that rule." And the twinkle in his eyes betrayed the man
who delights to exercise a real or imaginary talent for caustic wit.
Such men are like nettles--dangerous only to the timid touch.
"On the contrary," replied I, easy in mind now, though I did not anger
him by showing it, "I am most sensitive to insults--insults to myself.
But you are not insulting _me_. You are insulting a purely imaginary,
hearsay person who is, I venture to assure you, utterly unlike me, and
who doubtless deserves to be insulted."
His purple had now faded. In a far different tone he said: "If your
business in any way relates to the family into which you have married,
I do not wish to hear it. Spare my patience and your time, sir."
"It does not," was my answer. "It relates to my own family--to my wife
and myself. As you may have heard, she is no longer a member of the
Ellersly family. And I have come to you chiefly because I happen to
know your sentiment toward the Ellerslys."
"I have no sentiment toward them, sir," he exclaimed. "They are
non-existent, sir--non-existent! Your wife's mother ceased to be a
Forrester when she married that scoundrel. Your wife is still less a
Forrester."
"True," said I. "She is a Blacklock."
He winced, and it reminded me of the night of my marriage and Anita's
expression when the preacher called her by her new name. But I held
his gaze, and we looked each at the other fixedly for, it must have
been, full a minute. Then he said, courteously: "What do you wish?"
I went straight to the point. My color may have been high, but my
voice did not hesitate as I explained: "I wish to make my wife
financially independent. I wish to settle on her a sum of money
sufficient to give her an income that will enable her to live as she
has been accustomed. I know she would not take it from me. So I have
come to ask you to pretend to give it to her--I, of course, giving it
to you to give."
Again we looked full and fixedly each at the other. "Come to the
house, Blacklock," he said at last in a tone that was the subtlest of
compliments. And he linked his arm in mine. Halfway to the rambling
stone house, severe in its lines, yet fine and homelike, quaintly
resembling its owner, as a man's house always should, he paused. "I
owe you an apology," said he. "After all my experience of this world
of envy and malice, I should have recognized the man even in the
caricatures of his enemies. And you brought the best possible
credentials--you are well hated. To be well hated by the human race
and by the creatures mounted on its back, is a distinction, sir. It is
the crown of the true kings of this world."
We seated ourselves on the wide veranda; he had champagne and water
brought, and cigars; and we proceeded to get acquainted--nothing
promotes cordiality and sympathy like an initial misunderstanding. It
was a good hour before this kind-hearted, hard-soft, typical
old-fashioned New Englander reverted to the object of my visit. Said
he: "And now, young man, may I venture to ask some extremely personal
questions?"
"In the circumstances," replied I, "you have the right to know
everything. I did not come to you without first making sure what
manner of man I was to find." At this he blushed, pleased as a girl at
her first beau's first compliment. "And you, Mr. Forrester, cannot be
expected to embark in the little adventure I propose, until you have
satisfied yourself."
"First, the why of your plan."
"I am in active business," replied I, "and I shall be still more
active. That means financial uncertainty."
His suspicion of me started up from its doze and rubbed its eyes. "Ah!
You wish to insure yourself."
"Yes," was my answer, "but not in the way you hint. It takes away a
man's courage just when he needs it most, to feel that his family is
involved in his venture."
The old man settled back, partially reassured. "Why do you not make
the settlement direct?" he asked.
"Because I wish her to feel that it is her own, that I have no right
over it whatever."
He thought about this. His eyes were keen as he said: "Is that your
real reason?"
I saw I must be unreserved with him. "Part of it," I replied. "The
rest is--she would not take it from me."
The old man smiled cynically. "Have you tried?" he inquired.
"If I had tried and failed, she would have been on the alert for an
indirect attempt."
"Try her, young man," said he, laughing. "In this day there are few
people anywhere who'd refuse any sum from anybody for anything. And a
woman--and a New York woman--and a New York fashionable woman--and a
daughter of old Ellersly--she'll take it as a baby takes the breast."
"She would not take it," said I.
My tone, though I strove to keep angry protest out of it, because I
needed him, caused him to draw back instantly. "I beg your pardon,"
said he. "I forgot for the moment that I was talking to a man young
enough still to have youth's delusions about women. You'll learn that
they're human, that it's from them we men inherit our weaknesses.
However, let's assume that she won't take it. _Why_ won't she take
your money? What is there about it that repels Ellersly's daughter,
brought up in the sewers of fashionable New York--the sewers, sir?"
"She does not love me," I answered.
"I have hurt you," he said, quickly, in great distress at having
compelled me to expose my secret wound.
"The wound does not ache the worse," said I, "for my showing it--to
_you_." And that was the truth. I looked over toward Dawn Hill, whose
towers could just be seen. "We live there." I pointed. "She is--like a
guest in my house."
When I glanced at him again, his face betrayed a feeling which I doubt
if anyone had thought him capable in many a year. "I see that you love
her," he said, gently as a mother.
"Yes," I replied. And presently I went on: "The idea of anyone I love
being dependent on me in a sordid way is most distasteful to me. And
since she does not love me, does not even like me, it is doubly
necessary that she be independent."
"I confess I do not quite follow you," said he.
"How can she accept anything from me? If she should finally be
compelled by necessity to do it, what hope could I have of her ever
feeling toward me as a wife should feel toward her husband?"
At this explanation of mine his eyes sparkled with anger--and I could
not but suspect that he had at one time in his life been faced with a
problem like mine, and had settled it the other way. My suspicion was
not weakened when he went on to say:
"Boyish motives again! They show you do not know women. Don't be
deceived by their delicate exterior, by their pretenses of
super-refinement. They affect to be what passion deludes us into
thinking them. But they're clay, sir, just clay, and far less
sensitive than we men. Don't you see, young man, that by making her
independent you're throwing away your best chance of winning her?
Women are like dogs--like dogs, sir! They lick the hand that feeds
'em--lick it, and like it."
"Possibly," said I, with no disposition to combat views based on I
knew not what painful experience; "but I don't care for that sort of
liking--from a woman or from a dog."
"It's the only kind you'll get," retorted he, trying to control his
agitation. "I'm an old man. I know human nature--that's why I live
alone. You'll take that kind of liking, or do without."
"Then I'll do without," said I.
"Give her an income, and she'll go. I see it all. You've flattered her
vanity by showing your love for her--that's the way with the women.
They go crazy about themselves, and forget all about the man. Give her
an income and she'll go."
"I doubt it," said I. "And you would, if you knew her. But, even so, I
shall lose her in any event. For, unless she is made independent,
she'll certainly go with the last of the little money she has, the
remnant of a small legacy."
The old man argued with me, the more vigorously, I suspect, because he
found me resolute. When he could think of no new way of stating his
case--his case against Anita--he said: "You are a fool, young
man--that's clear. I wonder such a fool was ever able to get together
as much property as report credits you with. But--you're the kind of
fool I like."
"Then--you'll indulge my folly?" said I, smiling.
He threw up his arms in a gesture of mock despair. "If you will have
it so," he replied. "I am curious about this niece of mine. I want to
see her. I want to see the woman who can resist _you_."
"Her mind and her heart are closed against me," said I. "And it is my
own fault--I closed them."
"Put her out of your head," he advised. "No woman is worth a serious
man's while."
"I have few wants, few purposes," said I. "But those few I pursue to
the end. Even though she were not worth while, even though I wholly
lost hope, still I'd not give her up. I couldn't--that's my nature.
But--_she_ is worth while." And I could see her, slim and graceful,
the curves in her face and figure that made my heart leap, the azure
sheen upon her petal-like skin, the mystery of her soul luring from
her eyes.
After we had arranged the business--or, rather, arranged to have it
arranged through our lawyers--he walked down to the pier with me. At
the gangway he gave me another searching look from head to foot--but
vastly different from the inspection with which our interview had
begun. "You are a devilish handsome young fellow," said he. "Your
pictures don't do you justice. And I shouldn't have believed any man
could overcome in one brief sitting such a prejudice as I had against
you. On second thought, I don't believe I care to see her. She must be
even below the average."
"Or far above it," I suggested.
"I suppose I'll have to ask her over to visit me," he went on. "A fine
hypocrite I'll feel."
"You can make it one of the conditions of your gift that she is not to
thank you or speak of it," said I. "I fear your face would betray us,
if she ever did."
"An excellent idea!" he exclaimed. Then, as he shook hands with me in
farewell: "You will win her yet--if you care to."
As I steamed up the Sound, I was tempted to put in at Dawn Hill's
harbor. Through my glass I could see Anita and Alva and several
others, men and women, having tea on the lawn under a red and white
awning. I could see her dress--a violet suit with a big violet hat to
match. I knew that costume. Like everything she wore, it was both
beautiful in itself and most becoming to her. I could see her face,
could almost make out its expression--did I see, or did I imagine, a
cruel contrast to what I always saw when she knew I was looking?
I gazed until the trees hid lawn and gay awning, and that lively
company and her. In my bitterness I was full of resentment against
her, full of self-pity. I quite forgot, for the moment, _her_ side of
the story.