Simmy Dodge emerged from Sherry's at nine-thirty. He was leaving Mrs.
Fenwick's dinner-dance in response to an appeal from Anne Thorpe, who had
sent for him by messenger earlier in the evening. Simmy was reluctant
about going down to the house off Washington Square; he was constituted as
one of those who shrink from the unwholesomeness of death rather than from
its terrors. He was fond of Anne, but in his soul he was abusing her for
summoning him to bear witness to the final translation of old Templeton
Thorpe from a warm, sensitive body, into a cold, unpleasant hulk. He had
no doubt that he had been sent for to see the old man die. While he would
not, for the world, have denied Anne in her hour of distress, he could not
help wishing that she had put the thing off till to-morrow. Death doesn't
appear so ugly in the daytime. One is spared the feeling that it is
stealing up through the darkness of night to lay claim to its prey.
Simmy shivered a little as he stood in front of Sherry's waiting for his
car to come up. He made up his mind then and there that when it came time
for him to die he would see to it that he did not do it in the night. For,
despite the gay lights of the city, there were always sombre shadows for
one to be jerked into by the relentless hand of death; there was something
appalling about being dragged off into a darkness that was to be
dissipated at sunrise, instead of lasting forever.
He left behind him in one of the big private diningrooms a brilliant,
high-spirited company of revellers. One of Mrs. Fenwick's guests was Lutie
Tresslyn. He sat opposite her at one of the big round tables, and for an
hour he had watched with moody eyes her charming, vivacious face as she
conversed with the men on either side of her. She was as cool, as self-
contained as any woman at the table. There was nothing to indicate that
she had not been born to this estate of velvet, unless the freshness of
her cheek and the brightness of her eye betrayed her by contrast with the
unmistakable haggardness of "the real thing."
She was unafraid. All at once Simmy was proud of her. He felt the thrill
of something he could not on the moment define, but which he afterwards
put down as patriotism! It was just the sort of thrill, he argued, that
you have when the band plays at West Point and you see the cadets come
marching toward you with their heads up and their chests out,—the thrill
that leaves a smothering, unuttered cheer in your throat.
He thought of Anne Tresslyn too, and smiled to himself. This was Anne
Tresslyn's set, not Lutie's, and yet here she was, a trim little warrior,
inside the walls of a fortified place, hobnobbing with the formidable army
of occupation and staring holes through the uniforms of the General Staff!
She sat in the Tresslyn camp, and there were no other Tresslyns there. She
sat with the Wintermills, and—yes, he had to admit it,—she had winked at
him slyly when she caught his eye early in the evening. It was a very
small wink to be sure and was not repeated.
The night was cold. His chauffeur was not to be found by the door-men who
ran up and down the line from Fifth to Sixth Avenue for ten minutes before
Simmy remembered that he had told the man not to come for him until three
in the morning, an hour at which one might reasonably expect a dance to
show signs of abating.
He was on the point of ordering a taxi-cab when his attention was drawn to
a figure that lurked well back in the shadows of the Berkeley Theatre down
the street—a tall figure in a long ulster. Despite the darkness, Simmy's
intense stare convinced him that it was George Tresslyn who stood over
there and gazed from beneath lowered brows at the bright doorway. He
experienced a chill that was not due to the raw west wind. There was
something sinister about that big, motionless figure, something portentous
of disaster. He knew that George had been going down the hill with
startling rapidity. On more than one occasion he had tried to stay this
downward rush, but without avail. Young Tresslyn was drinking, but he was
not carousing. He drank as unhappy men drink, not as the happy ones do. He
drank alone.
For a few minutes Simmy watched this dark sentinel, and reflected. What
was he doing over there? What was he up to? Was he waiting for Lutie to
come forth from the fortified place? Was there murder and self-murder in
the heart of this unhappy boy? Simmy was a little man but he was no
coward. He did not hesitate long. He would have to act, and act promptly.
He did not dare go away while that menacing figure remained on guard. The
police, no doubt, would drive him away in time, but he would come back
again. So Simmy Dodge squared his shoulders and marched across the street,
to face what might turn out to be a ruthless lunatic—the kind one reads
about, who kill their best friends, "and all that sort of thing."
It was quite apparent that the watcher had been observing him. As Simmy
came briskly across the street, Tresslyn moved out of his position near
the awning and started westward, his shoulders hunched upward and his chin
lowered with the evident desire to prevent recognition. Simmy called out
to him. The other quickened his steps. He slouched but did not stagger, a
circumstance which caused Simmy a sharp twinge of uneasiness. He was not
intoxicated. Simmy's good sense told him that he would be more dangerous
sober than drunk, but he did not falter. At the second shout, young
Tresslyn stopped. His hands were thrust deep into his overcoat pockets.
"What do you want?" he demanded thickly, as the dapper little man came up
and extended his hand. Simmy was beaming, as if he suddenly had found a
long lost friend and comrade. George took no notice of the friendly hand.
He was staring hard, almost savagely at the other's face. Simmy was
surprised to find that his cheeks, though sunken and haggard, were cleanly
shaved, and his general appearance far from unprepossessing. In the light
from a near-by window, the face was lowering but not inflamed; the eyes
were heavy and tired-looking—but not bloodshot.
"I thought I recognised you," said Simmy glibly.
"Much obliged," said George, without the semblance of a smile.
Simmy hesitated. Then he laid his hand on George's arm. "See here, George,
this will not do. I think I know why you are here, and—it won't do, old
chap."
"If you were anybody else, Dodge, I'd beat your head off," said George
slowly, as if amazed that he had not already done so. "Better go away,
Simmy, and let me alone. I'm all right. I'm not doing any harm, am I,
standing out here?"
"What do you gain by standing here in the cold and—"
"Never mind what I gain. That's my affair," said George, his voice shaking
in spite of its forced gruffness.
Simmy was undaunted. "Have you been drinking to-night?"
"None of your damned business. What do you mean by—"
"I am your friend, George," broke in Simmy earnestly. "I can see now that
you've had a drink or two, and you—"
"I'm as sober as you are!"
"More so, I fear. I've had champagne. You—"
"I am not drunk all of the time, you know," snarled George.
"Well, I'm glad to hear it," said Simmy cheerfully.
"I hate the stuff,—hate it worse than anything on earth except being
sober. Good night, Simmy," he broke off abruptly.
"That dance in there won't be over before three o'clock," said Simmy
shrewdly. "You're in for a long wait, my lad."
George groaned. "Good Lord, is it—is it a dance? The papers said it was a
dinner for Lord and Lady—"
"Better come along with me, George," interrupted Simmy quietly. "I'm going
down to Anne's. She has sent for me. It's the end, I fancy. That's where
you ought to be to-night, Tresslyn. She needs you. Come—"
Young Tresslyn drew back, a look of horror in his eyes. "Not if I know
myself," he muttered. "You'll never get me inside that house again.
Why,—why, it's more than I could stand, Simmy. That old man tried—but,
never mind. I can't talk about it. There's one thing sure, though: I
wouldn't go near him again for all the money in New York,—not I."
"I sha'n't insist, of course. But I do insist on your getting away from
here. You are not to annoy Lutie. She's had trouble enough and you ought
to be man enough to let her alone."
George stared at him as if he had not heard aright. "Annoy her? What the
devil are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about. Oh, don't glare at me like that. I'm not
afraid of you, big as you are. I'm trying to put sense into your head,
that's all, and you'll thank me for it later on, too."
"Why, I—I wouldn't annoy her for all the world, Simmy," said George,
jerkily. "What do you take me for? What kind of a—"
"Then, why are you here?" demanded Simmy "It looks bad, George. If it
isn't Lutie, who is it you're after?"
The other appeared to be dazed. "I'm not after any one," he mumbled.
Suddenly he gripped Simmy by the shoulders and bent a white, scowling face
down to the little man's level. "My God, Simmy, I—I can't help it. That's
all there is to it. I just want to see her—just want to look at her. Can't
you understand? But of course you can't. You couldn't know what it means
to love a girl as I love her. It isn't in you. Annoy her? I'd cut my heart
out first. What business is it of yours if I choose to stand out here all
night just for a glimpse of her in all her happiness, all her triumph, all
that she's got because she deserves it? Oh, I'm sober enough, so don't
think it's that. Now, you let me alone. Get out of this, Simmy. I know
what I'm doing and I don't want any advice from you. She won't know I'm
over here when she comes out of that place, and what she doesn't know
isn't going to bother her. She doesn't know that I sneak around like this
to get a look at her whenever it's possible, and I don't want her to know
it. It would worry her. It might—frighten her, Simmy, and God knows I
wouldn't harm her by word or deed for anything on earth. Only she wouldn't
understand. D'you see?" He shook Simmy as a dog would have shaken a rat,
not in anger but to emphasise his seriousness.
"By Jove, George,—I'd like to believe that of you," chattered Simmy.
"Well, you can believe it. I'm not ashamed to confess what I'm doing. You
may call me a baby, a fool, a crank or whatever you like,—I don't care.
I've just got to see her, and this is the only way. Do you think I'd spoil
things for her, now that she's made good? Think I'd butt in and queer it
all? I'm no good, I'm a rotter, and I'm going to the devil as fast as I
know how, Simmy. That's my affair, too. But I'm not mean enough to
begrudge her the happiness she's found in spite of all us damned
Tresslyns. Now, run along, Simmy, and don't worry about anything happening
to her,—at least, so far as I'm concerned. She'll probably have her work
cut out defending herself against some of her fine gentlemen, some of the
respectable rotters in there. But she'll manage all right. She's the right
sort, and she's had her lesson already. She won't be fooled again."
Simmy's amazement had given way to concern. "Upon my word, George, I'm
sorry for you. I had no idea that you felt as you do. It's too darned bad.
I wish it could have been different with you two."
"It could have been, as I've said before, if I'd had the back-bone of a
caterpillar."
"If you still love her as deeply as all this, why—"
"Love her? Why, if she were to come out here this instant and smile on me,
Simmy, I'd—I'd—God, I don't know what I'd do!" He drooped his head
dejectedly, and Simmy saw that he was shaking.
"It's too bad," said Simmy again, blinking. For a long time the two of
them stood there, side by side, looking at the bright doorway across the
street. Simmy was thinking hard. "See here, old fellow," he said at last,
profoundly moved, "why don't you buck up and try to make something of
yourself? It isn't too late. Do something that will make her proud of you.
Do—"
"Proud of me, eh?" sneered George. "The only thing I could do would be to
jump into the river with my hands tied. She'd be proud of me for that."
"Nonsense. Now listen to me. You don't want her to know that you've been
put in jail, do you?"
"What am I doing that would get me into jail?"
"Loitering. Loafing suspiciously. Drinking. A lot of things, my boy.
They'll nab you if you hang around here till three o'clock. You saw her go
in, didn't you?"
"Yes. She—she happened to turn her face this way when she got to the top
of the steps. Saying something to the people she was with. God, I—she's
the loveliest thing in—" He stopped short, and put his hand to his eyes.
Simmy's grip tightened on George's arm, and then for five minutes he
argued almost desperately with the younger man. In the end, Tresslyn
agreed to go home. He would not go to Anne's.
"And you'll not touch another drop to-night?" said Dodge, as they crossed
over to the line of taxi-cabs.
George halted. "Say, what's on your mind, Simmy? Are you afraid I'll go
off my nut and create a scene,—perhaps mop up the sidewalk with some one
like Percy Wintermill or—well, any one of those nuts in there? That the
idea you've got? Well, let me set you right, my boy. If I ever do anything
like that it will not be with Lutie as the excuse. I'll not drag her name
into it. Mind you, I'm not saying I'll never smash some one's head, but—"
"I didn't mean that, at all," said Simmy.
"And you needn't preach temperance to me," went on George. "I know that
liquor isn't good for me. I hate the stuff, as a matter of fact. I know
what it does to a man who has been an athlete. It gets him quicker than it
gets any one else. But the liquor makes me forget that I'm no good. It
makes me think I'm the biggest, bravest and best man in the world, and God
knows I'm not. When I get enough of the stuff inside of me, I imagine that
I'm good enough for Lutie. It's the only joy I have, this thinking that
I'm as decent as anybody, and the only time I think I'm decent is when I'm
so damned drunk that I don't know anything at all. Tell him to take me to
Meikelham's hotel. Good night. You're all right, Simmy."
"To Meikelham's? I want you to go home, George."
"Well, that's home for me at present. Rotten place, believe me, but it's
the best I can get for a dollar a day," grated George.
"I thought you were living with your mother?"
"No. Kicked out. That was six weeks ago. Couldn't stand seeing me around.
I don't blame her, either. But that's none of your business, Simmy, so
don't say another word."
"It's pretty rough, that's all."
"On me—or her?"
"Both of you," said Simmy sharply. "I say, come over and see me to-morrow
afternoon, George,—at three o'clock. Sober, if you don't mind. I've got
something to say to you—"
"No use, Simmy," sighed George.
"You are fond of Anne, aren't you?"
"Certainly. What's that got to do with it?"
"She may need you soon. You must be ready, that's all. See what I mean?"
"Moral support, eh?" scoffed George.
"You are her brother."
"Right you are," said the other soberly. "I'll be on hand, Simmy, if I'm
needed. Tell Anne, will you? I'll stick it out for a few days if it will
help her."
"There is a lot of good in you, George," said Simmy, engagingly. "I don't
mind telling you that Lutie says the same thing about you. She has said to
me more than once that—"
"Oh, don't lie to me!" snarled young Tresslyn, but Simmy did not fail to
note the quickening of interest in his sullen eyes.
"More than once," he went on, following up the advantage, "she has
expressed the opinion that with half a chance you would have been more
than half a man."
"'Gad," said George, wonderingly, "I—I can almost believe you now. That's
just the way she would have put it. God knows, Simmy, you are not smart
enough to have said it out of your own head. She really thinks that, does
she?"
"We'll talk it over to-morrow," said the other, quite well pleased with
himself. Young Tresslyn was breathing heavily, as if his great lungs had
expanded beyond their normal capacity. "Move along now."
"If I thought—" began George, but Simmy had slammed the door and was
directing the chauffeur where to take his fare.
Half an hour later, Mrs. Fenwick's tables were deserted and the dance was
on. Simmy Dodge, awaiting the moment of dispersion, lost no time in
seeking Lutie. He had delayed his departure for Anne's home, and had been
chafing through a long half-hour in the lounge downstairs. She was dancing
with Percy Wintermill.
"Hello, Dodge," said that young man, halting abruptly and somewhat
aggressively when Simmy, without apology, clutched his arm as they swung
by; "thought you'd gone. What d'you come back for?"
"I haven't gone, so I couldn't come back," answered Simmy easily. "I want
a word or two with Mrs. Tresslyn, old boy, so beat it."
"Oh, I say, you've got a lot of cheek—"
"Come along, Mrs. Tresslyn; don't mind Percy. _This_ is important." With
Lutie at his side, he made his way through the crowd about the door and
led her, wondering and not a little disturbed, into one of the ante-rooms,
where he found a couple of chairs.
She listened to his account of the meeting with her former husband, her
eyes fixed steadily on his homely little face. There was alarm at first in
those merry eyes of hers, but his first words were reassuring. He
convinced her that George was not bent on any act of violence, nor did he
intend to annoy or distress her by a public encounter.
"As a matter of fact," he said, "he's gone off to bed, and I am quite
certain that he will not change his mind. I waited here to tell you about
him, Lutie, because I felt you ought to be prepared in case he does come
back and you happen to see him skulking around in—"
"This isn't news to me, Simmy," she said seriously. "A half dozen times in
the past two weeks I have caught sight of him, always in some convenient
spot where he could watch me without much prospect of being seen. He seems
to possess an uncanny knowledge of my comings and goings. I never see him
in the daytime. I felt sure that he would be outside this place to-night,
so when I came in I made it a point to look up and down the
street,—casually, of course. There was a man across the street. I couldn't
be sure, but I thought it was George. It has been getting on my nerves,
Simmy." Her hand shook slightly, but what he had taken for alarm was gone
from her eyes. Instead they were shining brightly, and her lips remained
parted after she had finished speaking.
"Needn't have any fear of him," said he. "George is a gentleman. He still
worships you, Lutie,—poor devil. He'll probably drink himself to death
because of it, too. Of course you know that he is completely down and out?
Little more than a common bum and street loafer."
"He—he doesn't like whiskey," said she, after a moment.
"One doesn't have to like it to drink it, you know."
"He could stop it if he tried."
"Like a flash. But he isn't going to try. At least, not until he feels
that it's worth while."
She looked up quickly. "What do you mean by that?" Without waiting for him
to answer, she went on: "How can you expect me to do anything to help him?
I am sorry for him, but—but, heavens and earth, Simmy, I can't preach
temperance to a man who kicked me out of his house when he was sober, can
I?"
"You loved him, didn't you?"
She flushed deeply. "I—I—oh, certainly."
"Never have quite got over loving him, as a matter of fact," said he,
watching her closely.
She drew a long breath. "You're right, Simmy. I've never ceased to care
for him. That's what makes it so hard for me to see him going to the dogs,
as you say."
"I said 'going to the devil,'" corrected Simmy resolutely.
She laid her hand upon his arm. Her face was white now and her eyes were
dark with pain.
"I shiver when I think of him, Simmy, but not with dread or revulsion. I
am always thinking of the days when he held me tight in those big, strong
arms of his,—and that's what makes me shiver. I adored being in his arms.
I shall never forget. People said that he would never amount to anything.
They said that he was too strong to work and all that sort of thing. He
didn't think much of himself, but I _know_ he would have come through all
right. He is the best of his breed, I can tell you that. Think how young
he was when we were married! Little more than a boy. He has never had a
chance to be a man. He is still a boy, puzzled and unhappy because he
can't think of himself as anything but twenty,—the year when everything
stopped for him. He's twenty-five now, but he doesn't know it. He is still
living in his twenty-first year."
"I've never thought of it in that light," said Simmy, considerably
impressed. "I say, Lutie, if you care so much for him, why not—" He
stopped in some confusion. Clearly he had been on the point of trespassing
on dangerous ground. He wiped his forehead.
"I can finish it for you, Simmy, by answering the question," she said,
with a queer little smile. "I want to help him,—oh, you don't know how my
heart aches for him!—but what can I do? I am his wife in the sight of God,
but that is as far as it goes. The law says that I am a free woman and
George a free man. But don't you see how it is? The law cannot say that we
shall not love each other. Now can it? It can only say that we are free to
love some one else if we feel so inclined without being the least bit
troubled by our marriage vows. But George and I are still married to each
other, and we are still thinking of our marriage vows. The simple fact
that we love each other proves a whole lot, now doesn't it, Simmy? We are
divorced right enough,—South Dakota says so,—but we refuse to think of
ourselves as anything but husband and wife, lover and sweetheart. Down in
our hearts we loved each other more on the day the divorce was granted
than ever before, and we've never stopped loving. I have not spoken a word
to George in nearly three years—but I know that he has loved me every
minute of the time. Naturally he does not think that I love him. He thinks
that I despise him. But I don't despise him, Simmy. If he had followed his
teachings he would now be married to some one else—some one of his
mother's choosing—and I should be loathing him instead of feeling sorry
for him. That would have convinced me that he was the rotter the world
said he was when he turned against me. I tell you, Simmy, it is gratifying
to know that the man you love is drinking himself to death because he's
true to you."
"That's an extraordinary thing to say," said Simmy, squinting. "You are
happy because that poor devil is—"
"Now don't say that!" she cried. "I didn't say I was happy. I said I was
gratified—because he is true to me in spite of everything. I suppose it's
more than you can grasp, Simmy,—you dear old simpleton." Her eyes were
shining very brightly, and her cheeks were warm and rosy. "You see, it's
my husband who is being true to me. Every wife likes to have that thing
proved to her."
"Quixotic," said Simmy. "He isn't your husband, my dear."
"Oh, yes, he is," said Lutie earnestly. "Just as much as he ever was."
"The law says he is not."
"What are you trying to get me to say?"
"I may as well come to the point. Would you marry him again if he were to
come to you,—now?"
"Do you mean, would I live with him again?"
"You couldn't do that without marrying him, you know."
"I am already married to him in the sight of God," said she, stubbornly.
"Good Lord! Would you go back to him without a ceremony of—"
"If I made up my mind to live with him, yes."
"Oh, I see. And may I inquire just what your state of mind would be if he
came to you to-morrow?"
"You have got me cornered, Simmy," she said, her lip trembling. There was
a hunted look in her eyes. "I—I don't know what I should do. I want him,
Simmy,—I want my man, my husband, but to be perfectly honest with you, I
don't believe he has sunk low enough yet for me to claim the complete
victory I desire."
"Victory?" gasped Simmy. "Do you want to pick him out of the gutter? Is
that your idea of triumph over the Tresslyns? Are you—"
"When the time comes, Simmy," said she cryptically, "I will hold out my
hand to him, and then we'll have a _real_ man before you can say Jack
Robinson. He will come up like a cork, and he'll be so happy that he'll
stay up forever."
"Don't be too sure of that. I've seen better men than George stay down
forever."
"Yes, but George doesn't want to stay down. He wants me. That's all he
wants in this world."
"Do you imagine that he will come to you, crawling on his knees, to plead
for forgiveness or—"
"By no means! He'd never sink so low as that. That's why I tell you that
he is a man, a real man. There isn't one in a thousand who wouldn't be
begging, and whining, and even threatening the woman if he were in
George's position. That's why I'm so sure."
"What do you expect?"
"When his face grows a little thinner, and the Tresslyn in him is drowned,
I expect to ask him to come and see me," she said slowly.
"Good Lord!" muttered Simmy.
She sprang to her feet, her face glowing. "And I don't believe I can stand
seeing it grow much thinner," she cried. "He looks starved, Simmy. I can't
put it off much longer. Now I must go back. Thank you for the warning. You
don't understand him, but—thank you, just the same. I never miss seeing
him when he thinks he is perfectly invisible. You see, Simmy, I too have
eyes."