ERRANDS AND LETTERS
Alixe Ruthven had not yet dared tell Selwyn that her visit to his rooms
was known to her husband. Sooner or later she meant to tell him; it was
only fair to him that he should be prepared for anything that might
happen; but as yet, though her first instinct, born of sheer fright,
urged her to seek instant council with Selwyn, fear of him was greater
than the alarm caused her by her husband's knowledge.
She was now afraid of her husband's malice, afraid of Selwyn's opinion,
afraid of herself most of all, for she understood herself well enough to
realise that, if conditions became intolerable, the first and easiest
course out of it would be the course she'd take--wherever it led,
whatever it cost, or whoever was involved.
In addition to her dread and excitement, she was deeply chagrined and
unhappy; and, although Jack Ruthven did not again refer to the
matter--indeed appeared to have forgotten it--her alarm and humiliation
remained complete, for Gerald now came and played and went as he chose;
and in her disconcerted cowardice she dared not do more than plead with
Gerald in secret, until she began to find the emotion consequent upon
such intimacy unwise for them both.
Neergard, too, was becoming a familiar figure in her drawing-room; and,
though at first she detested him, his patience and unfailing good
spirits, and his unconcealed admiration for her softened her manner
toward him to the point of toleration.
And Neergard, from his equivocal footing in the house of Ruthven,
obtained another no less precarious in the house of Fane--all in the
beginning on a purely gaming basis. However, Gerald had already proposed
him for the Stuyvesant and Proscenium clubs; and, furthermore, a stormy
discussion was now in progress among the members of the famous Siowitha
over an amazing proposition from their treasurer, Jack Ruthven.
This proposal was nothing less than to admit Neergard to membership in
that wealthy and exclusive country club, as a choice of the lesser evil;
for it appeared, according to Ruthven, that Neergard, if admitted, was
willing to restore to the club, free of rent, the thousands of acres
vitally necessary to the club's existence as a game preserve, merely
retaining the title to these lands for himself.
Draymore was incensed at the proposal, Harmon, Orchil, and Fane were
disgustedly non-committal, but Phoenix Mottly was perhaps the angriest
man on Long Island.
"In the name of decency, Jack," he said, "what are you dreaming of? Is
it not enough that this man, Neergard, holds us up once? Do I understand
that he has the impudence to do it again with your connivance? Are you
going to let him sandbag us into electing him? Is that the sort of
hold-up you stand for? Well, then, I tell you I'll never vote for him.
I'd rather see these lakes and streams of ours dry up; I'd rather see
the last pheasant snared and the last covey leave for the other end of
the island, than buy off that Dutchman with a certificate of membership
in the Siowitha!"
"In that case," retorted Ruthven, "we'd better wind up our affairs and
make arrangements for an auctioneer."
"All right; wind up and be damned!" said Mottly; "there'll be at least
sufficient self-respect left in the treasury to go round."
Which was all very fine, and Mottly meant it at the time; but, outside
of the asset of self-respect, there was too much money invested in the
lands, plant, and buildings, in the streams, lakes, hatcheries, and
forests of the Siowitha. The enormously wealthy seldom stand long upon
dignity if that dignity is going to be very expensive. Only the poor can
afford disastrous self-respect.
So the chances were that Neergard would become a member--which was why
he had acquired the tract--and the price he would have to pay was not
only in taxes upon the acreage, but, secretly, a solid sum in addition
to little Mr. Ruthven whom he was binding to him by every tie he could
pay for.
Neergard did not regret the expense. He had long since discounted the
cost; and he also continued to lose money at the card-table to those who
could do him the most good.
Away somewhere in the back of his round, squat, busy head he had an
inkling that some day he would even matters with some people. Meanwhile
he was patient, good-humoured, amusing when given a chance, and, as the
few people he knew found out, inventive and resourceful in suggesting
new methods of time-killing to any wealthy and fashionable victim of a
vacant mind.
And as this faculty has always been the real key to the inner Temple of
the Ten Thousand Disenchantments, the entrance of Mr. Neergard appeared
to be only a matter of time and opportunity, and his ultimate welcome at
the naked altar a conclusion foregone.
In the interim, however, he suffered Gerald and little Ruthven to pilot
him; he remained cheerfully oblivious to the snubs and indifference
accorded him by Mrs. Ruthven, Mrs. Fane, and others of their entourage
whom he encountered over the card-tables or at card-suppers. And all the
while he was attending to his business with an energy and activity that
ought to have shamed Gerald, and did, at times, particularly when he
arrived at the office utterly unfit for the work before him.
But Neergard continued astonishingly tolerant and kind, lending him
money, advancing him what he required, taking up or renewing notes for
him, until the boy, heavily in his debt, plunged more heavily still in
sheer desperation, only to flounder the deeper at every struggle to
extricate himself.
Alixe Ruthven suspected something of this, but it was useless as well as
perilous in other ways for her to argue with Gerald, for the boy had
come to a point where even his devotion to her could not stop him. He
_must_ go on. He did not say so to Alixe; he merely laughed, assuring
her that he was all right; that he knew how much he could afford to
lose, and that he would stop when his limit was in sight. Alas, he had
passed his limit long since; and already it was so far behind him that
he dared not look back--dared no longer even look forward.
Meanwhile the Ruthvens were living almost lavishly, and keeping four
more horses; but Eileen Erroll's bank balance had now dwindled to three
figures; and Gerald had not only acted offensively toward Selwyn, but
had quarrelled so violently with Austin that the latter, thoroughly
incensed and disgusted, threatened to forbid him the house.
"The little fool!" he said to Selwyn, "came here last night, stinking of
wine, and attempted to lay down the law to me!--tried to dragoon me into
a compromise with him over the investments I have made for him. By God,
Phil, he shall not control one cent until the trust conditions are
fulfilled, though it was left to my discretion, too. And I told him so
flatly; I told him he wasn't fit to be trusted with the coupons of a
repudiated South American bond--"
"Hold on, Austin. That isn't the way to tackle a boy like that!"
"Isn't it? Well, why not? Do you expect me to dicker with him?"
"No; but, Austin, you've always been a little brusque with him. Don't
you think--"
"No, I don't. It's discipline he needs, and he'll get it good and plenty
every time he comes here."
"I--I'm afraid he may cease coming here. That's the worst of it. For his
sister's sake I think we ought to try to put up with--"
"Put up! Put up! I've been doing nothing else since he came of age. He's
turned out a fool of a puppy, I tell you; he's idle, lazy, dissipated,
impudent, conceited, insufferable--"
"But not vicious, Austin, and not untruthful. Where his affections are
centred he is always generous; where they should be centred he is merely
thoughtless, not deliberately selfish--"
"See here, Phil, how much good has your molly-coddling done him? You
warned him to be cautious in his intimacy with Neergard, and he was
actually insulting to you--"
"I know; but I understood. He probably had some vague idea of loyalty to
a man whom he had known longer than he knew me. That was all; that was
what I feared, too. But it had to be done--I was determined to venture
it; and it seems I accomplished nothing. But don't think that Gerald's
attitude toward me makes any difference, Austin. It doesn't; I'm just as
devoted to the boy, just as sorry for him, just as ready to step in when
the chance comes, as it surely will, Austin. He's only running a bit
wilder than the usual colt; it takes longer to catch and bridle him--"
"Somebody'll rope him pretty roughly before you run him down," said
Gerard.
"I hope not. Of course it's a chance he takes, and we can't help it; but
I'm trying to believe he'll tire out in time and come back to us for his
salt. And, Austin, we've simply got to believe in him, you know--on
Eileen's account."
Austin grew angrier and redder:
"Eileen's account? Do you mean her bank account? It's easy enough to
believe in him if you inspect his sister's bank account. Believe in him?
Oh, certainly I do; I believe he's pup enough to come sneaking to his
sister to pay for all the damfooleries he's engaged in. . . . And I've
positively forbidden her to draw another check to his order--"
"It's that little bangled whelp, Ruthven," said Selwyn between his
teeth. "I warned Gerald most solemnly of that man, but--" He shrugged
his shoulders and glanced about him at the linen-covered furniture and
bare floors. After a moment he looked up: "The game there is of course
notorious. I--if matters did not stand as they do"--he flushed
painfully--"I'd go straight to Ruthven and find out whether or not this
business could be stopped."
"Stopped? No, it can't be. How are you going to stop a man from playing
cards in his own house? They all do it--that sort. Fane's rather
notorious himself; they call his house the house of ill-Fane, you know.
If you or I or any of our family were on any kind of terms with the
Ruthvens, they might exclude Gerald to oblige us. We are not, however;
and, anyway, if Gerald means to make a gambler and a souse of himself at
twenty-one, he'll do it. But it's pretty rough on us."
"It's rougher on him, Austin; and it's roughest on his sister. Well"--he
held out his hand--"good-bye. No, thanks, I won't stop to see Nina and
Eileen; I'm going to try to think up some way out of this. And--if
Gerald comes to you again--try another tack--just try it. You know, old
fellow, that, between ourselves, you and I are sometimes short of temper
and long of admonition. Let's try reversing the combination with
Gerald."
But Austin only growled from the depths of his linen-shrouded arm-chair,
and Selwyn turned away, wondering what in the world he could do in a
matter already far beyond the jurisdiction of either Austin or himself.
If Alixe had done her best to keep Gerald away, she appeared to be quite
powerless in the matter; and it was therefore useless to go to her.
Besides, he had every inclination to avoid her. He had learned his
lesson.
To whom then could he go? Through whom could he reach Gerald? Through
Nina? Useless. And Gerald had already defied Austin. Through Neergard,
then? But he was on no terms with Neergard; how could he go to him?
Through Rosamund Fane? At the thought he made a wry face. Any advances
from him she would wilfully misinterpret. And Ruthven? How on earth
could he bring himself to approach him?
And the problem therefore remained as it was; the only chance of any
solution apparently depending upon these friends of Gerald's, not one of
whom was a friend of Selwyn; indeed some among them were indifferent to
the verge of open enmity.
And yet he had promised Eileen to do what he could. What merit lay in
performing an easy obligation? What courage was required to keep a
promise easily kept? If he cared anything for her--if he really cared
for Gerald, he owed them more than effortless fulfilment. And here there
could be no fulfilment without effort, without the discarding from self
of the last rags of pride. And even then, what hope was there--after the
sacrifice of self and the disregard of almost certain humiliation?
It was horribly hard for him; there seemed to be no chance in sight. But
forlorn hope was slowly rousing the soldier in him--the grim, dogged,
desperate necessity of doing his duty to the full and of leaving
consequences to that Destiny, which some call by a name more reverent.
So first of all, when at length he had decided, he nerved himself to
strike straight at the centre; and within the hour he found Gerald at
the Stuyvesant Club.
The boy descended to the visitors' rooms, Selwyn's card in his hand and
distrust written on every feature. And at Selwyn's first frank and
friendly words he reddened to the temples and checked him.
"I won't listen," he said. "They--Austin and--and everybody have been
putting you up to this until I'm tired of it. Do they think I'm a baby?
Do they suppose I don't know enough to take care of myself? Are they
trying to make me ridiculous? I tell you they'd better let me alone. My
friends are my friends, and I won't listen to any criticism of them, and
that settles it."
"Gerald--"
"Oh, I know perfectly well that you dislike Neergard. I don't, and
that's the difference."
"I'm not speaking of Mr. Neergard, Gerald; I'm only trying to tell you
what this man Ruthven really is doing--"
"What do I care what he is doing!" cried Gerald angrily. "And, anyway,
it isn't likely I'd come to you to find out anything about Mrs.
Ruthven's second husband!"
Selwyn rose, very white and still. After a moment he drew a quiet
breath, his clinched hands relaxed, and he picked up his hat and gloves.
"They are my friends," muttered Gerald, as pale as he. "You drove me
into speaking that way."
"Perhaps I did, my boy. . . . I don't judge you. . . . If you ever find
you need help, come to me; and if you can't come, and still need me,
send for me. I'll do what I can--always. I know you better than you know
yourself. Good-bye."
He turned to the door; and Gerald burst out: "Why can't you let my
friends alone? I liked you before you began this sort of thing!"
"I will let them alone if you will," said Selwyn, halting. "I can't
stand by and see you exploited and used and perverted. Will you give me
one chance to talk it over, Gerald?"
"No, I wont!" returned Gerald hotly; "I'll stand for my friends every
time! There's no treachery in me!"
"You are not standing by me very fast," said the elder man gently.
"I said I was standing by my _friends_!" repeated the boy.
"Very well, Gerald; but it's at the expense of your own people, I'm
afraid."
"That's my business, and you're not one of 'em!" retorted the boy,
infuriated; "and you won't be, either, if I can prevent it, no matter
whether people say that you're engaged to her--"
"What!" whispered Selwyn, wheeling like a flash. The last vestige of
colour had fled from his face; and Gerald caught his breath, almost
blinded by the blaze of fury in the elder man's eyes.
Neither spoke again; and after a moment Selwyn's eyes fell, he turned
heavily on his heel and walked away, head bent, gray eyes narrowing to
slits.
Yet, through the brain's chaos and the heart's loud tumult and the
clamour of pulses run wild at the insult flung into his very face, the
grim instinct to go on persisted. And he went on, and on, for _her_
sake--on--he knew not how--until he came to Neergard's apartment in one
of the vast West-Side constructions, bearing the name of a sovereign
state; and here, after an interval, he followed his card to Neergard's
splendid suite, where a man-servant received him and left him seated by
a sunny window overlooking the blossoming foliage of the Park.
When Neergard came in, and stood on the farther side of a big oak table,
Selwyn rose, returning the cool, curt nod.
"Mr. Neergard," he said, "it is not easy for me to come here after what
I said to you when I severed my connection with your firm. You have
every reason to be unfriendly toward me; but I came on the chance that
whatever resentment you may feel will not prevent you from hearing me
out."
"Personal resentment," said Neergard slowly, "never interferes with my
business. I take it, of course, that you have called upon a business
matter. Will you sit down?"
"Thank you; I have only a moment. And what I am here for is to ask you,
as Mr. Erroll's friend, to use your influence on Mr. Erroll--every atom
of your influence--to prevent him from ruining himself financially
through his excesses. I ask you, for his family's sake, to
discountenance any more gambling; to hold him strictly to his duties in
your office, to overlook no more shortcomings of his, but to demand from
him what any trained business man demands of his associates as well as
of his employees. I ask this for the boy's sake."
Neergard's close-set eyes focussed a trifle closer to Selwyn's, yet did
not meet them.
"Mr. Selwyn," he said, "have you come here to criticise the conduct of
my business?"
"Criticise! No, I have not. I merely ask you--"
"You are merely asking me," cut in Neergard, "to run my office, my
clerks, and my associate in business after some theory of your own."
Selwyn looked at the man and knew he had lost; yet he forced himself to
go on:
"The boy regards you as his friend. Could you not, as his friend,
discourage his increasing tendency toward dissipation--"
"I am not aware that he is dissipated."
"What!"
"I say that I am not aware that Gerald requires any interference from
me--or from you, either," said Neergard coolly. "And as far as that
goes, I and my business require no interference either. And I believe
that settles it."
He touched a button; the man-servant appeared to usher Selwyn out.
The latter set his teeth in his under lip and looked straight and hard
at Neergard, but Neergard thrust both hands in his pockets, turned
squarely on his heel, and sauntered out of the room, yawning as he went.
It bid fair to become a hard day for Selwyn; he foresaw it, for there
was more for him to do, and the day was far from ended, and his
self-restraint was nearly exhausted!
An hour later he sent his card in to Rosamund Fane; and Rosamund came
down, presently, mystified, flattered, yet shrewdly alert and prepared
for anything since the miracle of his coming justified such preparation.
"Why in the world," she said with a flushed gaiety perfectly genuine,
"did you ever come to see _me_? Will you please sit here, rather near
me?--or I shall not dare believe that you are that same Captain Selwyn
who once was so deliciously rude to me at the Minster's dance."
"Was there not a little malice--just a very little--on your part to
begin it?" he asked, smiling.
"Malice? Why? Just because I wanted to see how you and Alixe Ruthven
would behave when thrust into each other's arms? Oh, Captain
Selwyn--what a harmless little jest of mine to evoke all that bitterness
you so smilingly poured out on me! . . . But I forgave you; I'll forgive
you more than that--if you ask me. Do you know"--and she laid her small
head on one side and smiled at him out of her pretty doll's eyes--"do
you know that there are very few things I might not be persuaded to
pardon you? Perhaps"--with laughing audacity--"there are not any at all.
Try, if you please."
"Then you surely will forgive me for what I have come to ask you," he
said lightly. "Won't you?"
"Yes," she said, her pink-and-white prettiness challenging him from
every delicate feature--"yes--I will pardon you--on one condition."
"And what is that, Mrs. Fane?"
"That you are going to ask me something quite unpardonable!" she said
with a daring little laugh. "For if it's anything less improper than an
impropriety I won't forgive you. Besides, there'd be nothing to forgive.
So please begin, Captain Selwyn."
"It's only this," he said: "I am wondering whether you would do anything
for me?"
"_Any_thing! _Merci_! Isn't that extremely general, Captain Selwyn? But
you never can tell; ask me."
So he bent forward, his clasped hands between his knees, and told her
very earnestly of his fears about Gerald, asking her to use her
undoubted influence with the boy to shame him from the card-tables,
explaining how utterly disastrous to him and his family his present
course was.
"He is very fond of you, Mrs. Fane--and you know how easy it is for a
boy to be laughed out of excesses by a pretty woman of experience. You
see I am desperately put to it or I would never have ventured to trouble
you--"
"I see," she said, looking at him out of eyes bright with
disappointment.
"Could you help us, then?" he asked pleasantly.
"Help _us_, Captain Selwyn? Who is the 'us,' please?"
"Why, Gerald and me--and his family," he added, meeting her eyes. The
eyes began to dance with malice.
"His family," repeated Rosamund; "that is to say, his sister, Miss
Erroll. His family, I believe, ends there; does it not?"
"Yes, Mrs. Fane."
"I see. . . . Miss Erroll is naturally worried over him. But I wonder
why she did not come to me herself instead of sending you as her errant
ambassador?"
"Miss Erroll did not send me," he said, flushing up. And, looking
steadily into the smiling doll's face confronting him, he knew again
that he had failed.
"I am not inclined to be very much flattered after all," said Rosamund.
"You should have come on your own errand, Captain Selwyn, if you
expected a woman to listen to you. Did you not know that?"
"It is not a question of errands or of flattery," he said wearily; "I
thought you might care to influence a boy who is headed for serious
trouble--that is all, Mrs. Fane."
She smiled: "Come to me on your _own_ errand--for Gerald's sake, for
anybody's sake--for your own, preferably, and I'll listen. But don't
come to me on another woman's errands, for I won't listen--even to you."
"I _have_ come on my own errand!" he repeated coldly. "Miss Erroll knew
nothing about it, and shall not hear of it from me. Can you not help me,
Mrs. Fane?"
But Rosamund's rose-china features had hardened into a polished smile;
and Selwyn stood up, wearily, to make his adieux.
But, as he entered his hansom before the door, he knew the end was not
yet; and once more he set his face toward the impossible; and once more
the hansom rolled away over the asphalt, and once more it stopped--this
time before the house of Ruthven.
Every step he took now was taken through sheer force of will--and in
_her_ service; because, had it been, now, only for Gerald's sake, he
knew he must have weakened--and properly, perhaps, for a man owes
something to himself. But what he was now doing was for a young girl who
trusted him with all the fervour and faith of her heart and soul; and he
could spare himself in nowise if, in his turn, he responded heart and
soul to the solemn appeal.
Mr. Ruthven, it appeared, was at home and would receive Captain Selwyn
in his own apartment.
Which he did--after Selwyn had been seated for twenty minutes--strolling
in clad only in silken lounging clothes, and belting about his waist, as
he entered, the sash of a kimona, stiff with gold.
His greeting was a pallid stare; but, as Selwyn made no motion to rise,
he lounged over to a couch and, half reclining among the cushions, shot
an insolent glance at Selwyn, then yawned and examined the bangles on
his wrist.
After a moment Selwyn said: "Mr. Ruthven, you are no doubt surprised
that I am here--"
"I'm not surprised if it's my wife you've come to see," drawled Ruthven.
"If I'm the object of your visit, I confess to some surprise--as much as
the visit is worth, and no more."
The vulgarity of the insult under the man's own roof scarcely moved
Selwyn to any deeper contempt, and certainly not to anger.
"I did not come here to ask a favour of you," he said coolly--"for that
is out of the question, Mr. Ruthven. But I came to tell you that Mr.
Erroll's family has forbidden him to continue his gambling in this house
and in your company anywhere or at any time."
"Most extraordinary," murmured Ruthven, passing his ringed fingers over
his minutely shaven face--that strange face of a boy hardened by the
depravity of ages.
"So I must request you," continued Selwyn, "to refuse him the
opportunity of gambling here. Will you do it--voluntarily?"
"No."
"Then I shall use my judgment in the matter."
"And what may your judgment in the matter be?"
"I have not yet decided; for one thing I might enter a complaint with
the police that a boy is being morally and materially ruined in your
private gambling establishment."
"Is that a threat?"
"No. I will act, not threaten."
"Ah," drawled Ruthven, "I may do the same the next time my wife spends
the evening in your apartment."
"You lie," said Selwyn in a voice made low by surprise.
"Oh, no, I don't. Very chivalrous of you--quite proper for you to deny
it like a gentleman--but useless, quite useless. So the less said about
invoking the law, the better for--some people. You'll agree with me, I
dare say. . . . And now, concerning your friend, Gerald Erroll--I have
not the slightest desire to see him play cards. Whether or not he plays
is a matter perfectly indifferent to me, and you had better understand
it. But if you come here demanding that I arrange my guest-lists to suit
you, you are losing time."
Selwyn, almost stunned at Ruthven's knowledge of the episode in his
rooms, had risen as he gave the man the lie direct.
For an instant, now, as he stared at him, there was murder in his eye.
Then the utter hopeless helplessness of his position overwhelmed him, as
Ruthven, with danger written all over him, stood up, his soft smooth
thumbs hooked in the glittering sash of his kimona.
"Scowl if you like," he said, backing away instinctively, but still
nervously impertinent; "and keep your distance! If you've anything
further to say to me, write it." Then, growing bolder as Selwyn made no
offensive move, "Write to me," he repeated with a venomous smirk; "it's
safer for you to figure as _my_ correspondent than as my wife's
co-respondent--L-let go of me! W-what the devil are you d-d-doing--"
For Selwyn had him fast--one sinewy hand twisted in his silken collar,
holding him squirming at arm's length.
"M-murder!" stammered Mr. Ruthven.
"No," said Selwyn, "not this time. But be very, very careful after
this."
And he let him go with an involuntary shudder, and wiped his hands on
his handkerchief.
Ruthven stood quite still; and after a moment the livid terror died out
in his face and a rushing flush spread over it--a strange, dreadful
shade, curiously opaque; and he half turned, dizzily, hands outstretched
for self-support.
Selwyn coolly watched him as he sank on to the couch and sat huddled
together and leaning forward, his soft, ringed fingers covering his
impurpled face.
Then Selwyn went away with a shrug of utter loathing; but after he had
gone, and Ruthven's servants had discovered him and summoned a
physician, their master lay heavily amid his painted draperies and
cushions, his congested features set, his eyes partly open and
possessing sight, but the whites of them had disappeared and the eyes
themselves, save for the pupils, were like two dark slits filled with
blood.
There was no doubt about it; the doctors, one and all, knew their
business when they had so often cautioned Mr. Ruthven to avoid sudden
and excessive emotions.
That night Selwyn wrote briefly to Mrs. Ruthven:
"I saw your husband this afternoon. He is at liberty to inform you
of what passed. But in case he does not, there is one detail which
you ought to know: your husband believes that you once paid a visit
to my apartments. It is unlikely that he will repeat the accusation
and I think there is no occasion for you to worry. However, it is
only proper that you should know this--which is my only excuse for
writing you a letter that requires no acknowledgment. Very truly
yours,
"PHILIP SELWYN."
To this letter she wrote an excited and somewhat incoherent reply; and
rereading it in troubled surprise, he began to recognise in it
something of the strange, illogical, impulsive attitude which had
confronted him in the first weeks of his wedded life.
Here was the same minor undertone of unrest sounding ominously through
every line; the same illogical, unhappy attitude which implied so much
and said so little, leaving him uneasy and disconcerted, conscious of
the vague recklessness and veiled reproach--dragging him back from the
present through the dead years to confront once more the old pain, the
old bewilderment at the hopeless misunderstanding between them.
He wrote in answer:
"For the first time in my life I am going to write you some
unpleasant truths. I cannot comprehend what you have written; I
cannot interpret what you evidently imagine I must divine in these
pages--yet, as I read, striving to understand, all the old familiar
pain returns--the hopeless attempt to realise wherein I failed in
what you expected of me.
"But how can I, now, be held responsible for your unhappiness and
unrest--for the malicious attitude, as you call it, of the world
toward you? Years ago you felt that there existed some occult
coalition against you, and that I was either privy to it or
indifferent. I was not indifferent, but I did not believe there
existed any reason for your suspicions. This was the beginning of
my failure to understand you; I was sensible enough that we were
unhappy, yet could not see any reason for it--could see no reason
for the increasing restlessness and discontent which came over you
like successive waves following some brief happy interval when your
gaiety and beauty and wit fairly dazzled me and everybody who came
near you. And then, always hateful and irresistible, followed the
days of depression, of incomprehensible impulses, of that strange
unreasoning resentment toward me.
"What could I do? I don't for a moment say that there was nothing I
might have done. Certainly there must have been something; but I
did not know what. And often in my confusion and bewilderment I was
quick-tempered, impatient to the point of exasperation--so utterly
unable was I to understand wherein I was failing to make you
contented.
"Of course I could not shirk or avoid field duty or any of the
details which so constantly took me away from you. Also I began to
understand your impatience of garrison life, of the monotony of the
place, of the climate, of the people. But all this, which I could
not help, did not account for those dreadful days together when I
could see that every minute was widening the breach between us.
"Alixe--your letter has brought it all back, vivid, distressing,
exasperating; and this time I _know_ that I could have done nothing
to render you unhappy, because the time when I was responsible for
such matters is past.
"And this--forgive me if I say it--arouses a doubt in me--the first
honest doubt I have had of my own unshared culpability. Perhaps
after all a little more was due from you than what you brought to
our partnership--a little more patience, a little more appreciation
of my own inexperience and of my efforts to make you happy. You
were, perhaps, unwittingly exacting--even a little bit selfish. And
those sudden, impulsive caprices for a change of environment--an
escape from the familiar--were they not rather hard on me who
could do nothing--who had no choice in the matter of obedience to
my superiors?
"Again and again I asked you to go to some decent climate and wait
for me until I could get leave. I stood ready and willing to make
any arrangement for you, and you made no decision.
"Then when Barnard's command moved out we had our last distressing
interview. And, if that night I spoke of your present husband and
asked you to be a little wiser and use a little more discretion to
avoid malicious comment--it was not because I dreamed of
distrusting you--it was merely for your own guidance and because
you had so often complained of other people's gossip about you.
"To say I was stunned, crushed, when I learned of what had happened
in my absence, is to repeat a trite phrase. What it cost me is of
no consequence now; what it is now costing you I cannot help.
"Yet, your letter, in every line, seems to imply some strange
responsibility on my part for what you speak of as the degrading
position you now occupy.
"Degradation or not--let us leave that aside; you cannot now avoid
being his wife. But as for any hostile attitude of society in your
regard--any league or coalition to discredit you--that is not
apparent to me. Nor can it occur if your personal attitude toward
the world is correct. Discretion and circumspection, a happy,
confident confronting of life--these, and a wise recognition of
conditions, constitute sufficient safeguard for a woman in your
delicately balanced position.
"And now, one thing more. You ask me to meet you at Sherry's for a
conference. I don't care to, Alixe. There is nothing to be said
except what can be written on letter-paper. And I can see neither
the necessity nor the wisdom of our writing any more letters."
For a few days no reply came; then he received such a strange, unhappy,
and desperate letter, that, astonished, alarmed, and apprehensive, he
went straight to his sister, who had run up to town for the day from
Silverside, and who had telephoned him to take her somewhere for
luncheon.
Nina appeared very gay and happy and youthful in her spring plumage, but
she exclaimed impatiently at his tired and careworn pallor; and when a
little later they were seated tête-à-tête in the rococo dining-room of a
popular French restaurant, she began to urge him to return with her,
insisting that a week-end at Silverside was what he needed to avert
physical disintegration.
"What is there to keep you in town?" she demanded, breaking bits from
the stick of crisp bread. "The children have been clamouring for you day
and night, and Eileen has been expecting a letter--You promised to write
her, Phil--!"
"I'm going to write to her," he said impatiently; "wait a moment,
Nina--don't speak of anything pleasant or--or intimate just
now--because--because I've got to bring up another matter--something not
very pleasant to me or to you. May I begin?"
"What is it, Phil?" she asked, her quick, curious eyes intent on his
troubled face.
"It is about--Alixe."
"What about her?" returned his sister calmly.
"You knew her in school--years ago. You have always known her--"
"Yes."
"You--did you ever visit her?--stay at the Varians' house?"
"Yes."
"In--in her own home in Westchester?"
"Yes."
There was a silence; his eyes shifted to his plate; remained fixed as he
said:
"Then you knew her--father?"
"Yes, Phil," she said quietly, "I knew Mr. Varian."
"Was there anything--anything unusual--about him--in those days?"
"Have you heard that for the first time?" asked his sister.
He looked up: "Yes. What was it, Nina?"
She became busy with her plate for a while; he sat rigid, patient, one
hand resting on his claret-glass. And presently she said without meeting
his eyes:
"It was even farther back--her grandparents--one of them--" She lifted
her head slowly--"That is why it so deeply concerned us, Phil, when we
heard of your marriage."
"What concerned you?"
"The chance of inheritance--the risk of the taint--of transmitting it.
Her father's erratic brilliancy became more than eccentricity before I
knew him. I would have told you that had I dreamed that you ever could
have thought of marrying Alixe Varian. But how could I know you would
meet her out there in the Orient! It was--your cable to us was like a
thunderbolt. . . . And when she--she left you so suddenly--Phil, dear--I
_feared_ the true reason--the only possible reason that could be
responsible for such an insane act."
"What was the truth about her father?" he said doggedly. "He was
eccentric; was he ever worse than that?"
"The truth was that he became mentally irresponsible before his death."
"You _know_ this?"
"Alixe told me when we were schoolgirls. And for days she was haunted
with the fear of what might one day be her inheritance. That is all I
know, Phil."
He nodded and for a while made some pretence of eating, but presently
leaned back and looked at his sister out of dazed eyes.
"Do you suppose," he said heavily, "that _she_ was not entirely
responsible when--when she went away?"
"I have wondered," said Nina simply. "Austin believes it."
"But--but--how in God's name could that be possible? She was so
brilliant--so witty, so charmingly and capriciously normal--"
"Her father was brilliant and popular--when he was young. Austin knew
him, Phil. I have often, often wondered whether Alixe realises what she
is about. Her restless impulses, her intervals of curious resentment--so
many things which I remember and which, now, I cannot believe were
entirely normal. . . . It is a dreadful surmise to make about anybody so
youthful, so pretty, so lovable--and yet, it is the kindest way to
account for her strange treatment of you--"
"I can't believe it," he said, staring at vacancy. "I refuse to." And,
thinking of her last frightened and excited letter imploring an
interview with him and giving the startling reason: "What a scoundrel
that fellow Ruthven is," he said with a shudder.
"Why, what has he--"
"Nothing. I can't discuss it, Nina--"
"Please tell me, Phil!"
"There is nothing to tell."
She said deliberately: "I hope there is not, Phil. Nor do I credit any
mischievous gossip which ventures to link my brother's name with the
name of Mrs. Ruthven."
He paid no heed to what she hinted, and he was still thinking of Ruthven
when he said: "The most contemptible and cowardly thing a man can do is
to fail a person dependent on him--when that person is in prospective
danger. The dependence, the threatened helplessness _must_ appeal to any
man! How can he, then, fail to stand by a person in trouble--a person
linked to him by every tie, every obligation. Why--why to fail at such a
time is dastardly--and to--to make a possible threatened infirmity a
reason for abandoning a woman is monstrous--!"
"Phil! I never for a moment supposed that even if you suspected Alixe to
be not perfectly responsible you would have abandoned her--"
"_I?_ Abandon _her!_" He laughed bitterly. "I was not speaking of
myself," he said. . . . And to himself he wondered: "Was it
_that_--after all? Is that the key to my dreadful inability to
understand? I cannot--I cannot accept it. I know her; it was not that;
it--it must not be!"
And that night he wrote to her:
"If he threatens you with divorce on such a ground he himself is
likely to be adjudged mentally unsound. It was a brutal, stupid
threat, nothing more; and his insult to your father's memory was
more brutal still. Don't be stampeded by such threats. Disprove
them by your calm self-control under provocation; disprove them by
your discretion and self-confidence. Give nobody a single possible
reason for gossip. And above all, Alixe, don't become worried and
morbid over anything you might dread as inheritance, for you are as
sound to-day as you were when I first met you; and you shall not
doubt that you could ever be anything else. Be the woman you can
be! Show the pluck and courage to make the very best out of life. I
have slowly learned to attempt it; and it is not difficult if you
convince yourself that it can be done."
To this she answered the next day:
"I will do my best. There is danger and treachery everywhere; and
if it becomes unendurable I shall put an end to it in one way or
another. As for his threat--incident on my admitting that I did go
to your room, and defying him to dare believe evil of me for doing
it--I can laugh at it now--though, when I wrote you, I was
terrified--remembering how mentally broken my father was when he
died.
"But, as you say, I _am_ sound, body and mind. I _know_ it; I don't
doubt it for one moment--except--at long intervals when, apropos of
nothing, a faint sensation of dread comes creeping.
"But I am _sound_! I know it so absolutely that I sometimes wonder
at my own perfect sanity and understanding; and so clearly, so
faultlessly, so precisely does my mind work that--and this I never
told you--I am often and often able to detect mental inadequacy in
many people around me--the slightest deviation from the normal, the
least degree of mental instability. Phil, so sensitive to
extraneous impression is my mind that you would be astonished to
know how instantly perceptible to me is mental degeneration in
other people. And it would amaze you, too, if I should tell you how
many, many people you know are, in some degree, more or less
insane.
"But there is no use in going into such matters; all I meant to
convey to you was that I am not frightened now at any threat of
that sort from him.
"I don't know what passed between you and him; he won't tell me;
but I do know from the servants that he has been quite ill--I was
in Westchester that night--and that something happened to his
eyes--they were dreadful for a while. I imagine it has something to
do with veins and arteries; and it's understood that he's to avoid
sudden excitement.
"However, he's only serenely disagreeable to me now, and we see
almost nothing of one another except over the card-tables. Gerald
has been winning rather heavily, I am glad to say--glad, as long as
I cannot prevent him from playing. And yet I may be able to
accomplish that yet--in a roundabout way--because the apple-visaged
and hawk-beaked Mr. Neergard has apparently become my slavish
creature; quite infatuated. And as soon as I've fastened on his
collar, and made sure that Rosamund can't unhook it, I'll try to
make him shut down on Gerald's playing. This for your sake,
Phil--because you ask me. And because you must always stand for all
that is upright and good and manly in my eyes. Ah, Phil! what a
fool I was! And all, all my own fault, too.
"Alixe."
This ended the sudden eruption of correspondence; for he did not reply
to this letter, though in it he read enough to make him gravely uneasy;
and he fell, once more, into the habit of brooding, from which both
Boots Lansing and Eileen had almost weaned him.
Also he began to take long solitary walks in the Park when not occupied
in conferences with the representatives of the Lawn Nitro-Powder
Works--a company which had recently approached him in behalf of his
unperfected explosive, Chaosite.
This hermit life might have continued in town indefinitely had he not,
one morning, been surprised by a note from Eileen--the first he had ever
had from her.
It was only a very brief missive--piquant, amusing, innocently audacious
in closing--a mere reminder that he had promised to write to her; and
she ended it by asking him very plainly whether he had not missed her,
in terms so frank, so sweet, so confident of his inevitable answer, that
all the enchantment of their delightful intimacy surged back in one
quick tremor of happiness, washing from his heart and soul the clinging,
sordid, evil things which were creeping closer, closer to torment and
overwhelm him.
And all that day he went about his business quite happily, her letter in
his pocket; and that night, taking a new pen and pen holder, he laid out
his very best letter-paper, and began the first letter he had ever
written to Eileen Erroll.
"DEAR EILEEN: I have your charming little note from Silverside
reminding me that I had promised to write you. But I needed no
reminder; you know that. Then why have I not written? I couldn't,
off-hand. And every day and evening except to-day and this evening
I have been in conference with Edgerton Lawn and other
representatives of the Lawn Nitro-Powder Company; and have come to
a sort of semi-agreement with them concerning a high explosive
called Chaosite, which they desire to control the sale of as soon
as I can control its tendency to misbehave. This I expect to do
this summer; and Austin has very kindly offered me a tiny cottage
out on the moors too far from anybody or anything to worry people.
"I know you will be glad to hear that I have such attractive
business prospects in view. I dare say I shall scarcely know what
to do with my enormous profits a year or two hence. Have you any
suggestions?
"Meanwhile, however, your letter and its questions await answers;
and here they are:
"Yes, I saw Gerald once at his club and had a short talk with him.
He was apparently well. You should not feel so anxious about him.
He is very young, yet, but he comes from good stock. Sooner or
later he is bound to find himself; you must not doubt that. Also he
knows that he can always come to me when he wishes.
"No, I have not ridden in the Park since you and Nina and the
children went to Silverside. I walked there Sunday, and it was most
beautiful, especially through the Ramble. In his later years my
father was fond of walking there with me. That is one reason I go
there; he seems to be very near me when I stand under the familiar
trees or move along the flowering walks he loved so well. I wish
you had known him. It is curious how often this wish recurs to me;
and so persistent was it in the Park that lovely Sunday that, at
moments, it seemed as though we three were walking there
together--he and you and I--quite happy in the silence of
companionship which seemed not of yesterday but of years.
"It is rather a comforting faculty I have--this unconscious
companionship with the absent. Once I told you that you had been
with me while you supposed yourself to be at Silverside. Do you
remember? Now, here in the city, I walk with you constantly; and we
often keep pace together through crowded streets and avenues; and
in the quiet hours you are very often, seated not far from where I
sit. . . . If I turned around now--so real has been your presence
in my room to-night--that it seems as though I could not help but
surprise you here--just yonder on the edges of the lamp glow--
"But I know you had rather remain at Silverside, so I won't turn
around and surprise you here in Manhattan town.
"And now your next question: Yes, Boots is well, and I will give
him Drina's love, and I will try my best to bring him to Silverside
when I come. Boots is still crazed with admiration for his house.
He has two cats, a housekeeper, and a jungle of shrubs and vines in
the back yard, which he plays the hose on; and he has also acquired
some really beautiful old rugs--a Herez which has all the tints of
a living sapphire, and a charming antique Shiraz, rose, gold, and
that rare old Persian blue. To mention symbols for a moment,
apropos of our archaeological readings together, Boots has an
antique Asia Minor rug in which I discovered not only the Swastika,
but also a fire-altar, a Rhodian lily border, and a Mongolian motif
which appears to resemble the cloud-band. It was quite an Anatshair
jumble in fact, very characteristic. We must capture Nina some day
and she and you and I will pay a visit to Boots's rugs and study
these old dyes and mystic symbols of the East. Shall we?
"And now your last question. And I answer: Yes, I do miss you--so
badly that I often take refuge in summoning you in spirit. The
other day I had occasion to see Austin; and we sat in the library
where all the curtains are in linen bags and all the furniture in
overalls, and where the rugs are rolled in tarred paper and the
pictures are muffled in cheese-cloth.
"And after our conference had ended and I was on my way to the hall
below, suddenly on my ear, faint but clear, I heard your voice,
sweet as the odour of blossoms in an empty room. No--it neither
deceived nor startled me; I have often heard it before, when you
were nowhere near. And, that I may answer your question more
completely, I answer it again: Yes, I miss you; so that I hear your
voice through every silence; all voids are gay with it; there are
no lonely places where my steps pass, because you are always near;
no stillness through which your voice does not sound; no
unhappiness, no sordid cares which the memory of you does not make
easier to endure.
"Have I answered? And now, good-night. Gerald has just come in; I
hear him passing through the hall to his own apartments. So I'll
drop in for a smoke with him before I start to search for you in
dreamland. Good-night, Eileen. PHILIP SELWYN."
When he had finished, sealed, and stamped his letter he leaned back in
his chair, smiling to himself, still under the spell which the thought
of her so often now cast over him. Life and the world were younger,
cleaner, fresher; the charming energy of her physical vigour and youth
and beauty tinted all things with the splendid hue of inspiration. But
most of all it was the exquisite fastidiousness of her thoughts that had
begun to inthral him--that crystal clear intelligence, so direct, so
generous--the splendid wholesome attitude toward life--and her dauntless
faith in the goodness of it.
Breathing deeply, he drew in the fragrance of her memory, and the
bitterness of things was dulled with every quiet respiration.
He smiled again, too; how utterly had his sister mistaken their frank
companionship! How stupidly superfluous was it to pretend to detect, in
their comradeship, the commonplaces of sentiment--as though such a girl
as Eileen Erroll were of the common self-conscious mould--as though in
their cordial understanding there was anything less simple than
community of taste and the mutual attraction of intelligence!
Then, the memory of what his sister had said drove the smile from his
face and he straightened up impatiently. Love! What unfortunate
hallucination had obsessed Nina to divine what did not exist?--what need
not exist? How could a woman like his sister fall into such obvious
error; how could she mistake such transparent innocence, such visible
freedom from motive in this young girl's pure friendship for himself?
And, as for him, he had never thought of Eileen--he could not bring
himself to think of her so materially or sentimentally. For, although he
now understood that he had never known what love, might be--its coarser
mask, infatuation, he had learned to see through; and, as that is all he
had ever known concerning love, the very hint of it had astonished and
repelled him, as though the mere suggestion had been a rudeness offered
to this delicate and delicious friendship blossoming into his life--a
life he had lately thought so barren and laid waste.
No, his sister was mistaken; but her mistake must not disturb the
blossoming of this unstained flower. Sufficient that Eileen and he
disdainfully ignore the trite interpretation those outside might offer
them unasked; sufficient that their confidence in one another remain
without motive other than the happiness of unembarrassed people who find
a pleasure in sharing an intelligent curiosity concerning men and things
and the world about them.
Thinking of these matters, lying back there in his desk chair, he
suddenly remembered that Gerald had come in. They had scarcely seen one
another since that unhappy meeting in the Stuyvesant Club; and now,
remembering what he had written to Eileen, he emerged with a start from
his contented dreaming, sobered by the prospect of seeking Gerald.
For a moment or two he hesitated; but he had said in his letter that he
was going to do it; and now he rose, looked around for his pipe, found
it, filled and lighted it, and, throwing on his dressing-gown, went out
into the corridor, tying the tasselled cords around his waist as he
walked.
His first knock remaining unanswered, he knocked more sharply. Then he
heard from within the muffled creak of a bed, heavy steps across the
floor. The door opened with a jerk; Gerald stood there, eyes swollen,
hair in disorder, his collar crushed, and the white evening tie
unknotted and dangling over his soiled shirt-front.
"Hello," said Selwyn simply; "may I come in?"
The boy passed his hand across his eyes as though confused by the light;
then he turned and walked back toward the bed, still rubbing his eyes,
and sat down on the edge.
Selwyn closed the door and seated himself, apparently not noticing
Gerald's dishevelment.
"Thought I'd drop in for a good-night pipe," he said quietly. "By the
way, Gerald, I'm going down to Silverside next week. Nina has asked
Boots, too. Couldn't you fix it to come along with us?"
"I don't know," said the boy in a low voice; "I'd like to."
"Good business! That will be fine! What you and I need is a good stiff
tramp across the moors, or a gallop, if you like. It's great for mental
cobwebs, and my brain is disgracefully unswept. By the way, somebody
said that you'd joined the Siowitha Club."
"Yes," said the boy listlessly.
"Well, you'll get some lively trout fishing there now. It's only thirty
miles from Silverside, you know--you can run over in the motor very
easily."
Gerald nodded, sitting silent, his handsome head supported in both
hands, his eyes on the floor.
That something was very wrong with him appeared plainly enough; but
Selwyn, touched to the heart and miserably apprehensive, dared not
question him, unasked.
And so they sat there for a while, Selwyn making what conversation he
could; and at length Gerald turned and dragged himself across the bed,
dropping his head back on the disordered pillows.
"Go on," he said; "I'm listening."
So Selwyn continued his pleasant, inconsequential observations, and
Gerald lay with closed eyes, quite motionless, until, watching him,
Selwyn saw his hand was trembling where it lay clinched beside him. And
presently the boy turned his face to the wall.
Toward midnight Selwyn rose quietly, removed his unlighted pipe from
between his teeth, knocked the ashes from it, and pocketed it. Then he
walked to the bed and seated himself on the edge.
"What's the trouble, old man?" he asked coolly.
There was no answer. He placed his hand over Gerald's; the boy's hand
lay inert, then quivered and closed on Selwyn's convulsively.
"That's right," said the elder man; "that's what I'm here for--to stand
by when you hoist signals. Go on."
The boy shook his head and buried it deeper in the pillow.
"Bad as that?" commented Selwyn quietly. "Well, what of it? I'm standing
by, I tell you. . . . That's right"--as Gerald broke down, his body
quivering under the spasm of soundless grief--"that's the safety-valve
working. Good business. Take your time."
It took a long time; and Selwyn sat silent and motionless, his whole arm
numb from its position and Gerald's crushing grasp. And at last, seeing
that was the moment to speak:
"Now let's fix up this matter, Gerald. Come on!"
"Good heavens! h-how can it be f-fixed--"
"I'll tell you when you tell me. It's a money difficulty, I suppose;
isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Cards?"
"P-partly."
"Oh, a note? Case of honour? Where is this I.O.U. that you gave?"
"It's worse than that. The--the note is paid. Good God--I can't tell
you--"
"You must. That's why I'm here, Gerald."
"Well, then, I--I drew a check--knowing that I had no funds. If it--if
they return it, marked--"
"I see. . . . What are the figures?"
The boy stammered them out; Selwyn's grave face grew graver still.
"That is bad," he said slowly--"very bad. Have you--but of course you
couldn't have seen Austin--"
"I'd kill myself first!" said Gerald fiercely.
"No, you wouldn't do that. You're not _that_ kind. . . . Keep perfectly
cool, Gerald; because it is going to be fixed. The method only remains
to be decided upon--"
"I can't take your money!" stammered the boy; "I can't take a cent from
you--after what I've said--the beastly things I've said--"
"It isn't the things you say to me, Gerald, that matter. . . . Let me
think a bit--and don't worry. Just lie quietly, and understand that I'll
do the worrying. And while I'm amusing myself with a little quiet
reflection as to ways and means, just take your own bearings from this
reef; and set a true course once more, Gerald. That is all the reproach,
all the criticism you are going to get from me. Deal with yourself and
your God in silence."
And in silence and heavy dismay Selwyn confronted the sacrifice he must
make to save the honour of the house of Erroll.
It meant more than temporary inconvenience to himself; it meant that he
must go into the market and sell securities which were partly his
capital, and from which came the modest income that enabled him to live
as he did.
There was no other way, unless he went to Austin. But he dared not do
that--dared not think what Austin's action in the matter might be. And
he knew that if Gerald were ever driven into hopeless exile with
Austin's knowledge of his disgrace rankling, the boy's utter ruin must
result inevitably.
Yet--yet--how could he afford to do this--unoccupied, earning nothing,
bereft of his profession, with only the chance in view that his Chaosite
might turn out stable enough to be marketable? How could he dare so
strip himself? Yet, there was no other way; it had to be done; and done
at once--the very first thing in the morning before it became too late.
And at first, in the bitter resentment of the necessity, his impulse was
to turn on Gerald and bind him to good conduct by every pledge the boy
could give. At least there would be compensation. Yet, with the thought
came the clear conviction of its futility. The boy had brushed too close
to dishonour not to recognise it. And if this were not a lifelong lesson
to him, no promises forced from him in his dire need and distress, no
oaths, no pledges could bind him; no blame, no admonition, no scorn, no
contempt, no reproach could help him to see more clearly the pit of
destruction than he could see now.
"You need sleep, Gerald," he said quietly. "Don't worry; I'll see that
your check is not dishonoured; all you have to see to is yourself.
Good-night, my boy."
But Gerald could not speak; and so Selwyn left him and walked slowly
back to his own room, where he seated himself at his desk, grave,
absent-eyed, his unfilled pipe between his teeth.
And he sat there until he had bitten clean through the amber mouthpiece,
so that the brier bowl fell clattering to the floor. By that time it was
full daylight; but Gerald was still asleep. He slept late into the
afternoon; but that evening, when Selwyn and Lansing came in to
persuade him to go with them to Silverside, Gerald was gone.
They waited another day for him; he did not appear. And that night they
left for Silverside without him.