I
That night was one of the most extraordinary that Peter ever spent.
Although he was smarting under the terrible injustice of Ranken
Townsend's few, but very definite words, and felt like a man who had
suddenly come up to an abyss, he took Graham in hand and devoted
himself, with all the tenderness of a woman, to this poor boy.
All the way home in the cab Graham had been more or less held down by
Kenyon and his brother. His brain was in a wild chaos. The realization
that he had been tricked and made a fool of hit him hard. In his first
great flush of anger he was filled with an overwhelming desire to go to
the apartment in which he had placed Ita Strabosck and smash it up. He
wanted to have the satisfaction of breaking and ripping apart every
piece of furniture that he had bought to make her comfortable and happy,
and make an absolute shambles of the place. He wanted also to order that
girl out into the street. At that moment he no longer cared what
happened to her or where she went. His vanity had received its first
rude shock. All the way home he shouted at the top of his voice and
struggled to get away from the men who were looking after him. It took
all Peter's strength to hold him tight. It was by no means a good sight
to see this young man, who only half an hour before had been
exhilarated by champagne and the feeling that he was really of some
account as a man of the world, reduced to a condition of utter weariness
by his violent outbursts. At first he absolutely refused to enter the
house and insisted upon walking up and down the street. Finally, by
making an appeal to his brother's affection, Peter persuaded him to go
in quietly and up to his own room. There, pale and exhausted and
entirely out of spirits, Graham turned quickly on his brother. "Keep
Kenyon out," he said. "For God's sake, keep Kenyon out! I want _you_."
Kenyon heard these words and smiled to himself, nodded to Peter, and
went downstairs again to make himself comfortable in the library and
have a final cigarette before going to bed. He had every reason for
self-congratulation. Graham was free,--there was no doubt about
that,--and it looked as though Peter also would now be able to be made
useful again. Luck certainly had been on his side that night.
It was not much after one o'clock when Peter shut the door of Graham's
bed-room. From then onwards he turned himself into a sort of nurse,
doing his best to concentrate all his thoughts on his brother's trouble
and keep his own until such time as he could deal with it; and, while
Graham poured out his heart--going over his story of the Ita Strabosck
rescue again and again--Peter quietly undressed him, bit by bit. "Yes,
old man," he kept saying, "I quite understand; but what you've got to do
now is to get to bed and to sleep. Let me take off your coat. That's
right. Now sit down for a second. Now let me undo your shoes. It's a
jolly good thing I came home. You bet your life I'll stand by you and
see you through--you bet your life I will!"
"And you swear you'll not say anything about this to mother or Belle,
and especially father--even if I'm ill,--in fact to any one? You swear
it?"
"Of course," said Peter.
There was something comical as well as pathetic in the sight of this big
fellow playing the woman to this distraught boy,--undoing his tie,
taking off his collar and gradually getting him ready for bed. It was a
long and difficult process and needed consummate tact, tender firmness
and quiet determination. A hundred times Graham would spring to his feet
and--with one shoe on and one shoe off, minus coat and waistcoat, tie
and collar--pace the room from end to end, gesticulating wildly, sending
out a torrent of words in a hoarse whisper--sometimes almost on the
verge of tears. He was only twenty-four--not much more than a boy. It
was very hard luck that he should be up against so sordid a slice of
life at a time when he stood at the beginning of everything.
But Peter knew intuitively that it was absolutely necessary for Graham
to rid his system of this Strabosck poison and empty out his heart and
soul before he could be put to sleep, like a tired child. And so, with
the utmost patience, he subjected himself to play the part of a mental
as well as a physical nurse. Better than that, he mothered his brother,
smoothed him down, sympathized with him, assured him again and again
that he had done the only possible thing; and finally as the first touch
of dawn crept into the room had the infinite satisfaction of putting the
clothes about his brother's shoulders and seeing his dark head buried in
his pillow. Even then he was not wholly satisfied. Creeping upon tip-toe
about the room he laid hands on Graham's razors and put them in his
pocket. He was possessed with a sort of terror that the boy might wake
up and, acting under a strong revulsion of feeling, cut his throat. It
must be remembered that he had watched a human being under the strain
and stress of a very strong and terrible emotion and he was naturally
afraid. He knew his brother's excitable temperament. He had heard him
confess that the girl had exercised over him something more than mere
physical attraction, and although he was no psychologist it was easy for
him to see that, for a time at any rate, Graham was just as ready to
hurt himself as to hurt the girl. Some one had to be paid out for his
suffering and it was Peter's business to see that his brother, at any
rate, escaped punishment. Not content with having got Graham to bed and
to sleep and secured the razors which might be used in a moment of
impetuousness, Peter stayed on, sat down near the bed and listened to
one after another of the sounds of the great city's awakening. It was
then that he permitted himself to think back. He didn't remember the
fracas in the studio apartment or the unpleasantness of the place with
the unhealthy, unpleasant creatures who had been there. He repeated to
himself over and over again the words--the cold, cruel words of Ranken
Townsend,--"So this was your precious business engagement. Well, I don't
give my daughter to a man who shares her with women like Papowsky, so
you may consider yourself free." In his mind's eye he could see the tall
artist march away. He felt again as though he had been kicked in the
mouth.