Dinner was served in her exquisite little drawing-room now loaded with
sweet peas. For some reason that I have forgotten, the tiresome old
Mrs. Bleecker was not in evidence--still I did not have a good time. I
believe none of us had. "Alfred" still stuck in my crop. I reflected
jealously, that if it had not been for the accidental meeting with me,
Mount would have been alone with her. No doubt he was thinking of
that, too. Everything from _hors d'oeuvres_ to _chartreuse_ was
exquisite, but I had no zest in it.
It was "Alfred" this and "Alfred" that. Really it seemed as if my dear
lady was rubbing it in. I suppose that was her delicate way of letting
me know of her intentions. I fancied I perceived a certain
apprehensiveness in her as to how I was going to take it. Perhaps I
flattered myself. Anyhow it was enough to make the angels weep. She
was not in the least in love with him, she _could not_ have been, but
after the way of dear, ignorant women she was trying to persuade
herself that she was. Hence the "Alfreds." I thought of my passionate
young friend eating his heart out in a hall bedroom and my food choked
me.
Irma made some half laughing reference to the relief of being freed
from Mrs. Bleecker's presence.
"If she bothers you why don't you let her go?" said Mount.
"Poor soul! What would she do?" said Irma. "She'd never get another
situation, she's so disagreeable. Besides, I don't know that I could
do any better."
"Hardly worth while," said Mount. "You won't need a chaperon much
longer."
This was plain enough. It killed conversation for a moment or two. I
was sure Irma sent an imploring glance in my direction, but I kept my
eyes on my plate. Was it imploring me not to judge her, or imploring
me to support her in what she meant to do, or imploring me to save her
from it? How was a man to tell? I am sure she would have been glad if
I had forced the question into the open, but I didn't know how to do
it. True, I could have dropped a bomb in the middle of the table that
would have shattered Mount's hopes, merely by telling what I knew of
Roland. But my lips were sealed by my promise to him.
Mount made some facetious remark at which we laughed and fled from the
disconcerting subject. But it seemed as if we could not avoid it for
long. The most innocent line of conversation had a way of landing us
squarely in front of it. As when Irma said:
"Have you heard that Beulah Maddox has started again to get a divorce?"
Miss Maddox had been the heavy woman in our company.
"That is the eleventh time she has started proceedings, isn't it?" said
I.
"Constant in inconstancy!" murmured Mount.
"Miss Maddox's emotions are like soap-bubbles," I said.
"Do you think women are fickle?" Irma asked with a direct look in which
there was something very painful.
I, thinking of poor Roland agonizing over his shorthand book until
after midnight every night, could not help but shrug slightly.
"If they are it's the men's fault!" said Irma bitterly. "The men I
have known would make constancy in women an indication of imbecility!"
So there we were again!
"Funny, isn't it," drawled Mount, "how the sexes have no use for each
other, yet love stones still sell."
We laughed again. You had to admit Mount was a good man at a dinner
table.
I excused myself early on the plea of business, and went direct to
Roland. Here I find I am a little ahead of my story, for I have not
told you of his present circumstances.
Roland had forsworn the stage. In this, as in everything else, he was
an extremist, and he had cut himself off absolutely from his former
life. People were always deceived by Roland's quietness. That
composed face and indifferent manner concealed a capacity for white hot
passion. As a matter of fact, I suppose, really passionate people are
always like this, they couldn't live with themselves else, but we are
blind to it. Roland had the spirit of a fanatic. He was always
torturing himself one way or another. You couldn't help being fond of
him he was so noble--and so silly.
Now, if you please, he had sold everything he possessed, and with the
proceeds had pensioned off his old servant with an annuity. The
mysterious legacy which had counted so against him, he had turned over
to me with instructions to use it in bringing the thieves of Irma's
pearls to justice. I couldn't very well refuse the money without
confessing that Walter Dunsany was backing me, and no one in the world,
not even Sadie, was to know of the relations between Mr. Dunsany and
me. Besides, if I hadn't taken it he would have done something more
foolish with it. So I was holding it in trust.
Having divested himself literally of every cent, Roland set about
finding a job. Among his old acquaintances there were several
prominent men who would have been glad to put him in the way of a good
berth, but of course he would not apply to them. I could have done
something for him myself, but he would not let me. He wanted to stand
on his own bottom, he said. He set about answering advertisements, and
visiting employment bureaus like any green lad from the country.
Roland with his romantic good looks could not be insignificant in any
sphere however humble. He had some quaint experiences. More than once
he had to fall back on his good looks to save himself, as he thought,
from starvation. He served as a demonstrator for a while, and another
time as a model. Roland used to say at this time that he hated his
good looks, and I really think he meant it.
He finally landed a job as assistant bookkeeper and invoice clerk with
a coffee importer on Water street. How he hypnotised them into
believing he could keep books I can't say. His salary was ten dollars
a week, and he lived within it, which you will grant was something of a
change for the late darling of the matinees. He had a hall bedroom on
East Seventeenth street, and ate outside. In the evenings he boned
shorthand. His idea was to become first an expert law stenographer,
and finally to study law.
I found him as usual in the wretched little room, bending over the
shorthand manual with a green shade over his eyes. I was his only
visitor in those days. He was thinner than of yore, not so harassed
perhaps, but grimmer. There were deep hawklike lines from his proud
nose to the corners of his bitter lips. It made me savage to see him
wasting his splendid youth in this fashion.
"I've just had dinner with Irma," I said.
"Yes?" he said calmly.
You never could get any change out of Roland. Whatever he felt he
never dropped that hawk mask.
"Mount was there."
"Charming fellow, Mount."
"Do you like him?" I asked amazed.
"I neither like him nor dislike him," he said evenly. "He's a charming
fellow, isn't he?"
"Oh, that's the tag they put on him," I said impatiently.
He returned his attention to the shorthand book. This unnatural
pretence of indifference exasperated me beyond bearing.
"I believe they're preparing to get married," I said brutally.
"We expected that, didn't we?"
"Don't you _care_?"
"Not overmuch."