Calvin Gray did not return to the bank. He went straight to his hotel
and, as soon as he could sufficiently control himself to do so, he
telephoned Gus Briskow, telling him that he intended to leave town.
Then he began mechanically to pack his bag. He moved like a man in a
trance, for the blow had fallen so suddenly as to numb him; his only
impulse was to escape, to hide himself from these people who, of a
sudden, had become hateful. His city of dreams had collapsed. The
ruins, as they lay, meant nothing as yet, for his mind refused to
envisage them and he could see them only as they had stood. He groped
amid a hopeless confusion of thought--at one moment bewildered,
piteously hurt, at the next suffering a sense of shameful betrayal. He
had grown old and dull and feeble, too, and for the time being he was
incapable of feeling the full force of a strong man's resentment. This
surprised him vaguely.
Soon, however, like kindling fires among the ruins, his fury rose--fury
at himself, at Buddy, at Barbara--and in the heat of those scorching
flames he writhed. She _had_ loved him. He'd swear to that. He had
swayed her, overpowered her; he had lacked only the courage to trust
his instinct. Coward's luck! It served him right. He had held her in
his arms and had let her slip through; her lips had been raised to his,
and he had refused to press them. Imbecile!
He groaned; he tore the collar and the tie from his neck, for they were
choking him. Old, eh? Too old! That was the grimmest jest of all, for
at the mere thought of Barbara's lips unruly forces took possession of
him; he experienced a fierce, resistless vigor such as he had never
felt in his younger days. It was a dreadful, an unappeasable yearning
of soul and body, and when the paroxysm had passed, it left him weak.
He sank into a chair and lay there stupid, inert, until again those
fires began to lick at him and again he twisted in dumb agony. Buddy
Briskow! Buddy, of all people! That lout; that awkward simpleton, who
owed him everything! But Buddy was _young_!
Gray heard himself laughing in hoarse derision. He rose and tramped
heavily around his room, and, as he went, he crushed and ripped and
mutilated whatever his hands encountered. His slow, deliberate,
murderous rage demanded some such outlet. All the while he felt within
himself two conflicting impulses, heard two voices: the one voice
shouted at him to search out Buddy and visit upon him the punishment
warranted by a base betrayal; the other told him jeeringly to lay the
scourge upon his own shoulders and endure the pain, since he had
betrayed himself. His mind was like a battle ground, torn, up-heaved,
obscured by a frightful murk--he remembered a night in France, a black
night of rumbling, crashing terror, when, as now, the whole world
rocked and tumbled. Some remnant of self-control induced him to lock
his door and pocket the key, for Buddy might come. He probably would
look him up, all grins and smirks and giggles, to tell him the glorious
news, to acclaim the miracle. That would be too much.
One thing was certain, there was no safety except in flight,
ignominious, cowardly flight... After all, how could Buddy have known?
He was a good boy, and he had shown his love, his loyalty, in a
thousand ways. Gray hated him at this moment, but, more bitterly even,
he hated himself. It was fate.... He fell to cursing aloud, but there
was no relief in that, and again the appalling irony of the situation
silenced him. He had deified himself, set himself upon a high place,
bent men and affairs to his own ends, until he had acquired a godlike
belief in his power to accomplish all things. His victory had been
complete. He had won all--except the one thing he most desired, the
very fruit of victory.
Some time later he heard Buddy come whistling merrily down the hall and
knock at his door. Gray cowered in his chair, listening in breathless
dread until the footsteps retreated. When he rose he moved about
stealthily.
When night came he took his bag and slunk out of the hotel, for it
seemed that men must surely know what a fool he had made of himself. It
would have been a relief to feel that he was leaving never to return;
but even that was denied him, for, after his first panic, the truth had
come home. He could not run away. He had forged chains for his own
limbs. Like a tethered mustang he could plunge only to the end of his
rope. Friendship, again! There was simple, trustful, faithful Gus
Briskow. And the bank. God, what a mess things were in! Gray knew he
would have to return, have to see "Bob" and Buddy day after day, month
after month, and the prospect was too distressing to dwell upon. Again
his mind grew weary, baffled; he experienced a wretched physical
illness... Where to go, where to hide until his sickness had passed?
That was the question.
For the first time he appreciated the full extent of his loneliness;
his utter lack of resource in a crisis like this. Most men, however
solitary, lay by material things for themselves, build homes and
surround themselves with personal possessions from which, or amid
which, they can gain some sort of solace in times of trial. But he had
not fashioned so much as a den into which he could creep and lick his
wounds. Once he had left his hotel room behind him he was in the open
and without cover. Not a single soul cared whether he came or went, not
another door stood ajar for him. And he had planned so much upon having
a home, a real home--But he could not trust himself to think much along
that line; it induced an absurd desire to weep at his plight. It made
him feel like a child lost in a wood. That was silly, just an emotional
reaction; nevertheless, the impulse was real and caused him to yearn
poignantly for human comfort.
He thought of Ma Briskow, finally. She was human; she had a heart. And
Dallas was a sort of homey place; anyhow, the bellboys at the Ajax knew
and liked him. That was probably because he had tipped them handsomely,
but what of that? If they'd be kind to him now he'd tip them more
handsomely than ever. Lonely men--old ones--must expect to pay for what
they get. He bought a ticket to Dallas.
Ma Briskow's eyes were dim; nevertheless, she saw the change in Calvin
Gray when, late the following afternoon, he came to see her.
"Land sakes!" she exclaimed, in a shocked voice. "Pa never said you was
ailin'. Why, Mr. Gray!"
"I'm not really ill," he told her, wearily, "just old. I've had a bad
night." Seating himself beside her couch, he took her hand in his and
made her tell him all about herself. He had brought her an armful of
flowers, as usual, and extravagant gifts for her adornment--giving, it
seemed, was his unconscious habit. While she admired them with ecstatic
"Ohs!" and "Ahs!" he busied himself with bowls and vases, but Ma noted
his fumbling uncertainty of touch and the evident effort with which he
kept up his assumption of good cheer. She told him, finally:
"Something mighty bad has happened to you, Mr. Gray."
He gazed at her mutely, then nodded.
"Is it something about the--the Princess of Wichita Falls?"
"Yes, Ma."
"Tse! Tse! Tse!" It was a sympathetic cluck. "Was she a wicked
princess?" The query was gently put, but it deeply affected the man. He
tried to smile, failed, then like a forlorn little boy he came and
bowed his head beneath her hand.
"I knew you'd understand, Mother Briskow, so I--I ran to you with my
hurt, just as I used to run to my Mother Gray." After a while he
continued in a smothered voice: "She isn't a wicked princess. She
didn't mean to hurt me and--that's what makes it hurt so deep. She
tumbled the old duke's castle down upon his head; tumbled the old duke
out of his dreams. He isn't a duke any longer."
"He'll allus be a duke," Mrs. Briskow firmly declared. "He was born
that way."
"At any rate, he's a sad old duke now; all his conceit is gone. You
see, he was a vain old gentleman, and his courtiers used to tell him he
was splendid, handsome--They said he looked as handsome as a king, and
by and by he began to think he must be a king. His enemies sneered at
this and said he was neither duke nor king, but a--a mountebank. That
made him furious, so he went to war with them, and, by Jove, he fought
pretty well for an old fellow! Anyhow, he licked 'em. When they fell
down and begged for mercy he knew he was indeed a great person--greater
even than he had suspected and worthy of any princess in the land."
"Pshaw! Ain't a duke higher than a princess?"
"No, Ma. Not higher than this princess. Her father made all the laws.
She is very noble and very good. Good princesses are scarce and--and
so, of course, they're very high. But the Duke of Dallas didn't stop to
think of that. He told himself that he was so strong and so rich and so
desirable that she would be flattered at his notice. He got all dressed
up and went to call on her, and, on the way, whenever he looked into a
shop window, he didn't see the buns and the candies and the dolls
inside; all he saw was his own reflection. It looked so magnificent
that he strutted higher and thought how proud he was going to make her.
"I guess that was the trouble with the old duke all along; he had never
looked deeply enough to see what was inside. Anyhow, what do you think,
Ma? While he'd been off at war conquering people and making them
acknowledge that he was a king, the little princess had fallen in love
with--with his nephew. Nice boy, that nephew, and the duke thought a
lot of him."
Ma Briskow's hand, which had been slowly stroking Gray's bent head,
ceased its movement; she drew a sharp breath.
"There happened to be an old mirror in the princess's boudoir, and
while the duke was waiting for her he saw himself in it. He saw himself
just as he was, not as he had looked in the shop windows, for it was a
truthful mirror and it told everything. My! That was a bad moment for
the Duke of Dallas, when he saw that he wasn't young and beautiful, but
old and wrinkled and--funny. That was bad enough, but when he looked
again and saw the princess whom he loved in the arms of his handsome
nephew, why, he gave up. All his fine garments fell off and he realized
with shame that, after all, he was only the withered mountebank.
"When he got home his castle had collapsed. There wasn't a stone
standing, so he ran away--ran to his mother."
"Oh, Mr. Gray!" Ma Briskow quavered. "I could cry. An' after all you
done for Buddy!"
The man shook his head vigorously, still with his face hidden. "It
isn't Buddy. It's youth. Youth needs no fine adornment, no crown, no
victory."
"What you goin' to do?" she asked him.
"Go on playing the duke, I suppose; rebuild the castle the best way I
can. That's the hard part. If I could run away and forget, but--I
can't. The old duke walled himself in. He must grin and strut and keep
people from guessing that he's only a fraud until he can find a hole in
the wall through which he can creep."
There was a long silence, then Ma inquired: "Would you like to tell me
something about the little princess? Sometimes it helps, to talk."
"N-not yet."
"You're a duke, an' the best one that ever lived, Mr. Gray. You can't
fool me; I've met too many of 'em. That lookin'-glass lied! Real dukes
an' kings an' such people don't get old. It's only common folks.
There's lots of magic, the world's full of it, an' your castle is goin'
up again."
"After a fashion, perhaps"--Gray raised his head and smiled
crookedly--"but it will never be a home, and that's what I wanted most
of all. Do you think I'm very weak, very silly to come to you for a
little mothering?"
"That's the kind of children mothers love best," the old woman said,
then she drew him down to her and laid her cheek against his.
"There! I've made you cry," he exclaimed, reproachfully. "What a
selfish beast I am! I'll go now."
"Won't you stay an' have supper with Allie an' me? We're awful lonesome
with Pa gone. Allie's out som'er's, but--it would do me good to know
you was here an' it 'll do you good to stay. You can rest yourself
while I take my nap."
Ma Briskow did not wish to take a nap, but she knew that Gray needed
the solace of his own thoughts just now, so, when he agreed, she sent
him downstairs.
First balm, indeed, had come to the man; the smart was less intense. To
put his trouble into words somehow lightened it; then, too, the
grateful knowledge that some warmth of sympathy was his made it easier
to bear. But it remained a cruel burden. That gentle, dreamy soul up
yonder could not know how it hurt. How could she understand, for
instance, what it meant to go back and face the deadly dull routine of
a life from which all zest, all interest, had fled? A routine broken
only by moments of downright torture. Yes, and the effort it would take
to smile! God! If there were only some way to break his fetters, slip
his gyves!
Gray's brain, like his body, had grown tired and feverish. To be sure,
little more than a day had gone by since he had sallied forth like a
knight, but it seemed a year, an age, and every hour brought a new and
keener distress. He found it possible now, for the first time, to relax
a bit physically, so he closed his eyes and lay back in an easy chair
while the twilight stole in upon him. Sooner or later his mind, too,
would cease its torment, for pain distils its own anodyne. Then he
would sleep. It would be a blessing to forget for even an hour, and
thus gain strength with which to carry on the fight. But what a useless
battle it was! He could never win; peace would never come.
He heard Allie enter the house, but he did not stir. He would have to
put on the mask soon enough, for, of course, she must never suspect, on
Buddy's account. The room, which had grown agreeably dark, was suddenly
illuminated, and he lurched to his feet to find the girl facing him
from the door. She was neither startled nor surprised at his presence,
and when he tried to smile and to greet her in his accustomed manner,
she interrupted him by saying:
"I knew you were here."
"So? Then Ma is awake again?"
Allie shook her head vaguely. "I knew you were here the minute I came
in. I can 'most always tell." There had been a shadow of a smile upon
her lips, but it vanished; a look of growing concern crept over her
face. "What's the matter? Whatever has happened, Mr. Gray?"
"Why, nothing. I was feeling tired, worn out. Indulging myself in a
thoroughly enjoyable fit of the blues." His voice broke when he tried
to laugh.
Allie uttered a quick, low cry, a wordless, sympathetic sound. Her dark
eyes widened, grew darker; she came forward a step or two, then she
halted. "Would you rather be alone?" she asked. He signified his
dissent, and she went on: "I know what the blues are like. I sit alone
in the dark a good deal."
She busied herself about the room for a few moments, straightening
things, adjusting the window shades. Allie had the knack of silence,
blessed attribute in man or woman, and to Gray's surprise he found that
her mere presence was comforting. She startled him by saying, suddenly:
"You're hurt! Hurt badly!"
He looked up at her with an instinctive denial upon his lips, but,
realizing the futility of deceit, he nodded. "Yes, Allie."
The girl drew a deep breath, her strong hands closed, harshly she said:
"I could kill anybody that hurt you. I wanted to kill Buddy that time.
Is it those Nelsons? Have they got you down?" There was something
fierce and masterful in Allie's concern, and her inquiry carried with
it even more than a proffer of help; she had, in fact, flung herself
into a protective attitude. She suggested nothing so much as a lioness
roused.
"No, no! It is nothing like that. I merely fooled myself--had a dream.
You wouldn't understand, my dear."
Allie studied him soberly for a moment. "Oh yes, I would! I do! I
understand perfectly. Nobody _could_ understand as well as I do."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I've been hurt, too." She laid a hand upon her breast. "That's why I
sit in the dark."
"My dear child! I'm sorry. Gus said you were unhappy, but I thought it
was merely--the new life. You're young; you can forget. It's only us
old ones who can't forget. Sometime you must tell me all about it." The
girl smiled faintly, but he nodded, positively: "Oh, it's a relief to
tell somebody! I feel better already for confiding in Ma. Yes, and your
sympathy is mighty soothing, too. It seems almost as if I had come
home." He closed his eyes and laid his head back.
Allie placed her hand upon his forehead and held it there for a moment
before she moved away. It was a cool and tranquilizing palm and he
wished she would hold it there for a long time, so that he could sleep,
forget--
Allie Briskow went to her room, and there she studied her reflection in
the mirror carefully, deliberately, before saying: "You can do it.
You've _got_ to do it, for he's hurt. When a girl is hurt like that, it
makes a woman of her, but when a man's hurt it makes him a little boy.
I--I guess it pays to keep on praying."
It was perhaps a half hour later that Ma Briskow heard a sound that
caused her to rise upon her elbow and listen with astonishment. It was
the sound of low, indistinct, but joyous singing; it came from Allie's
room. Allie singing again! What could have happened? Slowly Ma's face
became wistful, eager. "Oh, Mister Fairy King!" she whispered. "Please
build up his castle again. You can do it. There's magic in the world.
Make him a duke again, an' her a queen, for yours is the power an' the
glory for ever an' ever. Amen!"
THE END