|IT is not a simple matter to record in any detail the violent emotional
reaction through which Peter now passed. Peter had the gift of creative
imagination, the egotism to drive it far, and, for background, the
character of a theatrical chameleon. Of these qualities, I have always
believed that the egotism predominated. He could appear dignified, even
distinguished; he could also appear excitable, ungoverned. Either would
be Peter.
Nothing that had happened hitherto in his life had excited him as had
the events of this evening. The excitement was, indeed, greater than he
could bear. It set his imagination blazing, and there was among Peter's
intricate emotional processes no hose of common sense adequate to the
task of subduing the flames. He stood, breathless, quivering, at the
window, looking out over the dim Square, exulting to the point of
nervous exhaustion. He walked the floor. He laughed aloud. Finally, his
spirit went on around the emotional circle through a high point of
crazy happiness to an equally crazy despondency. More time passed. The
despondency deepened. She had made stipulations. He was not to see her
again. If it should be necessary to communicate, he was to write. She
had been kind about it, but that was what she had said. Yes, she had
been kind, but her reaction would come as his had. She would hate him.
Necessarily. Hy was to that extent right.
He sat on the couch (where she had sat), held the paper in shaking hands
and stared wildly into the dying fire. Thoughts, pictures, were now
racing through his mind, in a mad tangle, hopelessly confused. One
notion he laid hold of as it went by... She had been his guest--here
in his rooms. She had trusted herself with him. He had violated the
trust. If he permitted a man to do such a thing in one of his plays,
it would be for the purpose of exhibiting that man as a cad at
least--probably as a villain. The inference was clear. Any audience that
Peter was capable of mentally projecting would instantly, automatically,
accept him as such. Peter himself knew no other attitude. And now to
find himself guilty of this very act brought the final bewilderment.
So he, Peter, was a cad at least--perhaps a villain.
And then, at the lowest ebb of his reaction, his imagination set to work
building up grotesque plans for a new different life. All these plans
were out of the conventional stuff of his plays; all were theatrical.
They had to do with self-effacement and sacrifice, with expiation, with
true nobility. There was a moment when he considered self-destruction.
If you think this wholly fantastic, I can only say that it was Peter.
Another notion was of turning explorer, becoming a world's rough hand,
of meeting hardship and privation. He pictured himself writing Sue manly
letters, once a year, say. He would live then in her memory not as a cad
or villain, but (perhaps) as a man who had been broken by a great love.
Then, in reminiscent moments, as when she saw a log fire burning low,
she would think tenderly of him. She might even sigh.... And he tried to
think out acceptable devices for leaving his money in her hands. For he
must see the Nature Film through.
He had just finished deciding this when Hy Lowe came.
Had Peter been less preoccupied, he would have noted that Hy was
unusually silent. As it was, conscious only that the atmosphere of
magical melancholy had been shattered when the door opened,
Peter undressed, put out the gas lamp and went to bed, his bed being
the very couch on which she had curled up while he read the scenario.
He knew that sleep would be impossible, but he felt that he should make
every possible effort to control himself. Hy was fussing about in the
bedroom.
After a while--a long while--he heard Hy come tiptoeing into the room
and stand motionless.
“What the devil do you want!” cried Peter, starting up, all nerves.
“Just wanted to make sure you weren't asleep.” And Hy chuckled
breathlessly.
“Quit your cackling! What do you want?”
“Let me sit down, Pete. Damn it. I've got to talk--to somebody. Pete,
I'm crazy. I'm delirious. Never mind what I say. Oh, my boy. My boy, you
don't know--you can't imagine!... She's the darling of the gods, Peter!
The absolute darling of the absolute gods!”
“Is that any reason why you should come driveling all over my room at
this time of night?”
“Wait, Pete--serious now. You've got to stand by me in this. The way
I've stood by you once or twice. To-day was Friday, wasn't it? Or am I
crazy?”
“Both.”
“Then it's to-morrow! I'm just trying to believe it, Pete, that's all.”
“Believe _what?_”
“Look here--you've got to know, and protect me if any unexpected thing
should come up. We're going on a little trip, Peter.” Hy was solemn now,
but his voice was uncertain. “Betty and I, Pete. To-morrow. On the night
boat.”
Peter was silent. Hy stood there for what seemed rather a long time,
then suddenly bolted back into the bedroom. In the morning he was less
expansive, merely asking Peter to respect his confidence. Which request
Peter gloomily resented as he resented Hy's luck. The fortunate young
man then packed a hand-bag and hurried off to breakfast at the club.
Peter tried to work on an empty stomach, but the effort gave him a
headache, so he made himself a cup of coffee.
He walked the streets for a while with increasing restlessness; then, to
soothe his nerves, went to the club and listlessly read the magazines.
At noon he avoided his friends, but managed to eat a small luncheon. At
two o'clock he went out aimlessly and entered the nearest moving-picture
theater. At five he wandered back to the club and furtively asked the
telephone boy if there' had been any messages for him. There had not.
He permitted himself to be drawn into a riotous game of Kelly pool. Also
he permitted himself a drink or two.
During the evening, I regret to note, he got himself rather drunk and
went home in a taxicab. This was unusual with Peter and not successful.
It intensified his self-consciousness and his sorrow, made him even
gloomier. But it did help him to sleep.
He was awakened, just before nine o'clock on Sunday morning, by the
banging of a door. Then Hy, dusty, bedraggled, haggard of face, rushed
in and stared at him.
Peter decided it was a dream and rolled over.
Hy shook him. “For God's sake, Pete!” he cried. How hoarse he was!
“Where is she? Have you heard anything?”
Peter was coming awake.
“God, Pete, I'm crazy! Don't you understand--She wasn't on the boat.
Must have got the wrong one. Oh, it's awful!... I walked that deck
nearly all night--got off way up the river and came back to New York
with the milk cans. Something terrible may have happened.”
Peter sat up.
“It seems to me,” he said, rubbing his tousled head, “that I remember
something--last night--”
Hy waited, panting.
“Look on the desk. Didn't I bring up a note or something and lay it
there?”
Hy was on the desk like a panther. There was a note. He tore it open,
then thrust it into Peter's hands, crying hoarsely, “Read it!”--and
dropped, a limp, dirt-streaked wreck of a man, into the Morris chair.
This was the note:
“_Henry, I'm not going. I hope this reaches you in time. Please
understand--forgive if you can. You won't see me again. B._”
Peter read it again, thoughtfully; then looked up. His own
none-too-clear eyes met Hy's distinctly bloodshot ones.
“And what do you think of that!” cried Hy. “What do you think of
that!... Damn women, anyway! They don't play the game. They're not
square.”... He was clenching and unclenching his hands. Suddenly he
reached for the telephone.
But just as his hand closed on it, the bell rang.
Hy snatched up the receiver. “Yes!” he cried shortly--“Yes! Yes! He
lives here. Wait a moment, please. It's for you, Fete.”
Peter sprang out of bed and hurried to the instrument.
“Yes,” said he, “this is Mr. Mann.”
“Peter, it's Sue--Sue Wilde.”
“Oh--hello! I was going to call up myself in a few minutes. How have you
been?”
“Not awfully fit. This constant rehearsing seems to be on my nerves, or
something.”
There was a pause. Hy went off into the bedroom to get out of his
travel-stained clothes.
“I wanted to say, Peter--I've been thinking it all over--”
Peter braced himself.
“--and I've come to the conclusion that you are right about that
southern trip. It really isn't necessary.”
“I'm glad you feel that way.”
“I do. And we must make Zanin see it as we do.”
“We'll try.”
Another pause. Then this from Peter--
“Busy to-day?”
“I ought to be. Are you?”
“No. Can't work. Wish we could do something.”
“I'd like some air--to get away from the streets and that stuffy
theater. What could we do?”
“I'll tell you what you need, child--just the thing! We'll run down to
one of the beaches and tramp. Pick up lunch anywhere. What do you say?”
“I'll do it, Peter. Call for me, will you?... And oh, Peter, here's an
odd thing! Betty packed up yesterday while I was out and went home. Just
left a note. She has run away--given up. Going to marry a man in her
town. He makes gas engines.”
Peter started the coffee machine, smiling as he worked. A sense of deep
utter calm was flowing into his harassed spirit, pervading it.
He went into the bedroom and gazed with tolerant concern at the downcast
Hy.
“The trouble with you, my boy,” he began, then paused.
“What's the trouble with me?” growled Hy.
“The trouble with you, my boy, is that you don't understand women.”