"That is very good of you. Pray proceed."
"Proceed!" cried Mr. Barrowe. He had already seated himself, but he now
rose, approached Pauline, took her hand, and with an extravagant
gallantry which his lank body caused closely to verge upon the
ludicrous, lifted this hand ceremoniously to his pale lips. Immediately
afterward he resumed his seat. And at once he recommenced speaking.
"I feel that I--I owe you the most profound of apologies," he declared,
with a hesitation that seemed to have a sincere emotional origin.
"Handicapped as I am by a hundred other matters, besieged as I am by
bores who want my autograph, by people who desire me to write for this
or that journal, by people who desire consultation with me on countless
literary or even commercial subjects, I nevertheless have felt it a
question of conscience to pay you this visit."
"A question of conscience?" said Pauline, suavely.
"Yes, Mrs. Varick. I--I have seen that stringently objectionable article
in the ... ahem ... the 'Morning Monitor.' May I ask if you also have
seen it? And pray be sure that when I thus ask I feel confident you
_must_ have seen it, since bad tidings travel quickly, and..."
"Yes, Mr. Barrowe, I have seen it," said Pauline, interrupting another
thin, diplomatic sort of cough on the part of her visitor. "And I
should be glad if you could tell me what devoted foe wrote it."
Mr. Barrowe now trembled with eagerness. "I--I _can_ tell you!" he
exclaimed. "It--it was that unhappy Miss Cragge! I had no sooner read
it, in my office this morning, than I was attacked by a conviction--an
absolute conviction--that _she_ wrote it. Handicapped, besieged as
I am ... but let that pass...."
"Yes--let that pass," softly cried Pauline, meaning no discourtesy, yet
bent upon reaching the bare fact and proof. "You say that you are sure
that Miss Cragge wrote the article?"
"Positively certain," asseverated Mr. Barrowe. "I went to the lady at
once. I found her at her desk in the office of--well, let us not mind
_what_ newspaper. I upbraided her with having written it! I was very
presumptuous, perhaps--very dictatorial, but I did not care. I had stood
up for the lady, not many evenings ago, at the risk of your
displeasure."
"The _lady_!" repeated Pauline, half under her breath, and with a
distinct sneer. "Go on, please, Mr. Barrowe. Did Miss Cragge confess?"
"Miss Cragge _did_ not confess. But she showed such a defiant tendency
_not_ to confess--she treated me with such an overbearing
pugnaciousness and disdain, that before I had been five minutes in her
society I had no doubts whatever as to the real authorship of the
shocking article. And now, Mrs. Varick, I wish to offer you my most
humble and deferential apologies. I wish to tell you how deeply and
sincerely sorry I am for ever having entered into the least controversy
with you regarding that most aggressive and venomous female! For, my
dear madam, besieged and handicapped though I may be by countless..."
"Don't offer me a word of apology, Mr. Barrowe!" here struck in Pauline,
jumping up from her seat and seizing the hand of her guest. "It is quite
needless! I owe you more than you owe me! You have told me the name of
my enemy, of which I was nearly certain all along." And here Pauline
gave the gentleman's bony and cadaverous face one of those glances which
those who liked her best thought the most charming.
"I had been told," she went on, with a very winning intonation, "that
you have a large, warm heart!"
"Who--who told you that?" murmured Mr. Barrowe, evidently under the
spell of his hostess's beauty and grace.
"Mr. Kindelon," Pauline said, gently.
"Kindelon!" exclaimed Mr. Barrowe, "why he is my worst enemy, as--as I
fear, my dear madam, that Miss Cragge is yours!"
"Oh, never mind Miss Cragge," said Pauline, with a sweet, quick laugh;
"and never mind Mr. Kindelon, either. I have only to talk about _you_,
Mr. Barrowe, and to tell you that I have never yet met a good, true man
(for I am certain that you are such) who stood in his own light so
persistently as you do. You have an immense talent for quarrelling," she
went on, with pretty seriousness. "Neglect it--crush it down--be
yourself! Yourself is a very honest and agreeable self to be. I am
always on the side of people with good intentions, and I am sure that
yours are of the best. A really bitter-hearted man ruffles people, and
so do you. But your motives for it are as different from his as malice
is different from dyspepsia. I am sure you are going to reform from this
hour."
"Reform?" echoed Mr. Barrowe.
Pauline gave a laugh of silver clearness and heartiest mirth. As often
happens with us when we are most assailed by care, she forgot all
present misery for at least the space of a minute or so.
"Yes," she cried, with a bewitching glee quite her own and by no means
lost upon her somewhat susceptible listener, "you are going to conform
the Mr. Barrowe of real life to the Mr. Barrowe who writes those
brilliant, judicial, and trenchant essays. Oh, I have read them! You
need not fancy that I am talking mere foundationless flattery such as
you doubtless get from many of those people who ... well, who handicap
you, you know.... And your reformation is to begin at once. I am to be
your master. I have a lot of lessons to teach!"
"When are your instructions to begin?" said Mr. Barrowe, with a certain
awkward yet positive gallantry. "I am very anxious to receive them."
"Your first intimation of them will be a request to dine with me. Will
you accept?--you and your wife of course."
"But my wife is an invalid. She never goes anywhere."
"I hope, however, that she sometimes dines."
"Yes, she dines, poor woman ... incidentally."
"Then she will perhaps give me an incidental invitation to break
bread.... Oh, my dear Mr. Barrowe, what I mean is simply that I want to
know you better, and so acquire the right to tell you of a few
superficial faults which prevent all the world from recognizing your
kindly soul. I...."
But here Pauline paused, for a servant entered with a card. She glanced
at the card, and made an actually doleful grimace.
"Mr. Leander Prawle is here," she said to her visitor.
Mr. Barrowe gave a start. "In that case I must go," he said. "I once
spoke ill of that young gentleman's most revered poem, and since then he
has never deigned to notice me."
"But you will not forget the dinner, and what is to follow," said
Pauline, as she shook hands.
"No," Mr. Barrowe protested. "If you cleave my heart in twain I shall
try to live the better with the other half of it."
"I should not like to cleave it in twain," said Pauline. "It is too
capable and healthy a heart for that. I should only try to make it beat
with more temperate strokes.... _Au revoir_, then. If you should meet
Mr. Prawle outside, tell him that you are sorry."
"Sorry? But his poem was abominable!"
"All the more reason for you to be magnanimously sorry.... Ah, here he
is!"
Here Mr. Leander Prawle indeed was, but as he entered the room Mr.
Barrowe slipped past him, and with a suddenness that almost prevented
his identification on the part of the new-comer....
"Mrs. Varick," exclaimed Leander Prawle, while he pressed the hand of
his hostess. "I came here because duty prompted me to come."
"I hope pleasure had a little to do with the matter, Mr. Prawle," said
Pauline, while indicating a lounge on which they were both presently
seated.
Mr. Prawle looked just as pale as when Pauline had last seen him, just
as dark-haired, and just as dark-eyed; but the ironical fatigue had
somehow left his visage; there was a totally new expression there.
"I suppose," he began, with his black eyes very fixedly directed upon
Pauline's face, "that you have heard of the ... the 'Morning Monitor's'
outrageous...."
"Yes, Mr. Prawle," Pauline broke in. "I have heard all about it."
"And it has pained you beyond expression!" murmured the young poet. "It
must have done so!"
"Naturally," replied Pauline.
"It ... it has made _me_ suffer!" asserted the new visitor, laying one
slim, white hand upon the region of his heart.
"Really?" was the answer. "That is very nice and sympathetic of you."
Mr. Prawle regarded her with an unrelaxed and very fervid scrutiny. He
now spoke in lowered and emotional tones, leaning toward his hearer so
that his slender body made quite an exaggerated curve.
"My whole soul," he said, "is brimming with sympathy!"
Pauline conquered her amazement at this entirely unforeseen outburst.
"Thanks very much," she returned. "Sympathy is always a pleasant thing
to receive."
Mr. Prawle, still describing his physical curve, gave a great sigh. "Oh,
Mrs. Varick," he murmured, "I should like to kill the man who wrote that
horrible article."
"Suppose it were a woman," said Pauline.
"Then I should like to kill the woman!... Mrs. Varick, will you pardon
me if I read you ... a few lines which indignation com----yes, combined
with reverence--actual reverence--inspired me to write after reading
those disgraceful statements? The lines are--are addressed to yourself.
With--with your permission, I--I will draw them forth."
Without any permission on Pauline's part, however, Mr. Prawle now drew
forth the manuscript to which he had referred. His long pale fingers
underwent a distinct tremor as he unrolled a large crackling sheet of
foolscap. And then, when all, so to speak, was ready, he swept his dark
eyes over Pauline's attentive countenance. "_Have_ I your permission?"
he falteringly inquired.
"It is granted, certainly, Mr. Prawle."
After a slight pause, and in a tone of sepulchrally monotonous quality,
the young gentleman read these lines:--
"White soul, what impious voice hath dared to blame
With virulent slander thine unsullied life?
Methinks that now the very stars should blush
In their chaste silver stateliness aloft!
Methinks the immaculate lilies should droop low
For very shame at this coarse obloquy.
The unquarried marble of Pentelicus
Deny its hue of snow, and even the dawn
Forget her stainless birthright for thy sake!
Cursed the hand that wrote of thee such wrong;
Cursed the pen such hand hath basely clasped;
Cursed the actual ink whose...."
"My dear Mr. Prawle!" exclaimed Pauline, at this point; "I must beg you
not to make me the cause of so terrible a curse! Indeed, I cannot
sanction it. I must ask you to read no more."
She was wholly serious. She forgot to look upon the humorous side of Mr.
Prawle's action; his poem, so called, addressed her jarred nerves and
wounded spirit as a piece of aggravating impudence. The whole event of
his visit seemed like a final jeer from the sarcastic episode recently
ended.
He regarded her now with a sorrowful astonishment. "You--you wish me to
read no more!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, if you please," said Pauline, controlling her impatience as best
she could.
"But I--I wrote it especially _for_ you!" he proceeded. "I have put my
soul into it! I consider it in many ways the most perfect thing that I
have _ever_ done. I intended to include it in my forthcoming volume,
'Moonbeams and Mountain-Peaks,' under the title of 'Her Vindication.'
Even the grossly material poetic mind of Arthur Trevor, to whom I read
it a few hours ago, admitted its sublimity, its spirituality!"
"I will admit both, also," said Pauline, whose mood grew less and less
tolerant of this self-poised fatuity. "Only, I must add, Mr. Prawle,
that it would have been better taste for you to have left this
exasperating affair untouched by your somewhat saintly muse. And I shall
furthermore request that you do not include the lines in your 'Moonbeams
and Hill-Tops,' or"--
"Mountain-Peaks!" corrected Mr. Prawle, rising with a visible shudder.
"Oh, Mrs. Varick," he went on, "I see with great pain that you are a
most haughty and ungenerous lady! You--you have smitten me with a
fearful disappointment! I came here brimming with the loftiest human
sympathy! I believed that to-day would be a turning-point in my
existence. I confidently trusted that after hearing my poem there would
be no further obstacle in my career of greatness!"
Pauline now slowly left her seat. Unhappy as she was, there could be no
resisting such magnificent opportunities of amusement as were now
presented to her.
"Your career of greatness?" she quietly repeated. "Did I hear you
properly, Mr. Prawle?"
Her guest was refolding his manuscript with an aggrieved and perturbed
air. As he put the paper within a breast-pocket he rolled his dark eyes
toward Pauline with infinite solemnity.
"You doubt, then," he exclaimed, "that I am born to be great--supremely
great? Ah, there is no need for me to put that question now! I had
thought otherwise _before_ ... when you smiled upon me, when you seemed
to have read my poems, to be familiar with my growing fame!"
"You mistake," said Pauline: "I never meant to show you that I had read
your poems. If I smiled upon you, Mr. Prawle, it was from courtesy
only."
"Horrible!" ejaculated the young poet. He clasped his hands together in
a somewhat theatrically despairing way, and for an instant lowered his
head. "I--I thought that you were prepared to indorse, to assist my
genius!" he soon proceeded, levelling a look of strong appeal at
Pauline. "I thought that you had separated my poetic veracity from the
sham of Trevor and Corson! I--I thought, Mrs. Varick, that in you I had
found a true worshipper!"
Pauline was at last amused. "I usually reserve my worship for
divinities, Mr. Prawle," she said, "and I have found but a few of these
in all the history of literature."
"I see!" cried her companion, "you mean that I am _not_ a genius!"
"I did not say so. But you have given me no proof of it."
"No proof of it! What was the poem I have just read?"
"It was ... well, it was resonant. But I objected to it, as I have told
you, on personal grounds." As she went on, Pauline tried to deal with a
rather insubordinate smile of keen, sarcastic enjoyment.
"So you really think," she continued, "that you possess absolute
genius?"
"I am certain of it!" cried Mr. Prawle.
"That is a very pleasant mental condition."
"Do _you_ doubt it?... Ah! I see but too plainly that you do!"
"Frankly," said Pauline, "I do."
Mr. Prawle flung both his hands towards the ceiling. "It is Kindelon's
work," he cried, with an effect of very plaintive lamentation. "Kindelon
is among those who yet oppose me."
"Mr. Kindelon is not responsible for my opinions," said Pauline.
"However, you probably have other opponents?"
"Their name is legion! But why should I care? Do you join their
ranks?... Well, Shelley almost died because of being misunderstood! I
had hoped that you would assist me in--yes, in the publication of my
book of poems, Mrs. Varick. I do not mean that I wrote to you, for this
reason, the poem which you have just refused to hear me read. Far from
it! I only mean that I have cherished the idea of securing in you a
patron. Yes, a patron! I am without means to bring forth 'Moonbeams and
Mountain-Peaks.' And I had hoped that after hearing me read what I have
already told you is my most nobly able creation, you would ... consent,
as a lover of art, of genius, of...."
"I understand," said Pauline. "You wish me to assist you in the
publication of your volume." She was smiling, though a trifle wearily.
"Well, Mr. Prawle, I will do it."
"You will do it!"
"Yes. You shall have whatever cheque you write me for...." She
approached Prawle and laid her hand upon his arm. "But you must promise
me to destroy 'Her Vindication'--not even to think of publishing it. Do
you?"
"Yes ... if you insist."
"I do insist.... Well, as I said, write to me for the amount required."
Prawle momentarily smiled, as if from extreme gratitude. And then the
smile abruptly faded from his pale face. "I will promise!" he declared.
"But ... oh, it is so horrible to think that you help me from no real
appreciation of my great gifts--that you do so only from _charity_!"
"Charity is not by any means a despicable virtue."
"From a great millionaire to a poor poet--yes! The poet has a sensitive
soul! He wants to be loved for his verses, for his inspiration, if he is
a true poet like myself!"
"And you believe yourself a true poet, Mr. Prawle?"
"I?"
It is impossible to portray the majesty of Mr. Prawle's monosyllabic
pronoun. "If I am not great," he enunciated slowly, "then no one _has_
been or ever _will_ be great. I have a divine mission. A truly and
positively divine mission."
Pauline gave a little inscrutable nod. "A divine mission is a very nice
thing to have. I hope you will execute it."
"I _shall_ execute it!" cried Mr. Prawle. "All the poets, on every side
of me, are singing about The Past. I, and I alone, sing of The Future. I
set evolution to music ... what other poet has done that? I wrest from
Buckle, Spencer, Tyndall, Huxley--from all the grand modern thinkers, in
fact--their poetic and yet rationalistic elements! If you had heard my
poem to yourself _through_--if you had had the patience, I--I may add,
the kindliness, to hear it through, you would have seen that my terminus
was in accord with the prevailing theories of Herbert Spencer's noble
philosophy...."
"Shall I ever cling to or love Herbert Spencer again?" thought Pauline,
"when I see him made the shibboleth of such intellectual charlatans as
this?"
"In accord," continued Mr. Prawle, "with everything that is progressive
and unbigoted. I finished with an allusion to the Religion of Humanity.
I usually do, in all my poems. That is what makes them so unique, so
incomparable!"
Pauline held out her hand in distinct token of farewell.
"Belief in one's self is a very saving quality," she said. "I
congratulate you upon it."
Mr. Prawle shrank offendedly toward the door. "You dismiss me!" he burst
forth. "After I have bared my inmost soul to you, you _dismiss_ me!"
Pauline tossed her head, either from irritation or semi-diversion. "Ah,
you take too much for granted!" she said, withdrawing her hand.
Mr. Prawle had raised himself to his full height. "I refuse your
assistance!" he ejaculated. "You offer it as you would offer it to a
pensioner--a beggar! And you--_you_, have assumed the right of
entertaining and fostering literary talent! I scarcely addressed you at
your last reception ... I _waited_. I supposed that in spite of
Kindelon's known enmity, some of your guests must have told you how
immense were my deserts--how they transcended the morbid horrors of
Rufus Corson, and the glaring superficialities of Arthur Trevor. But I
discover, plainly enough, that you are impervious to all intellectual
greatness of claim. I will accept _no_ aid from you!--none whatever! But
one day, when the name of Leander Prawle is a shining and a regnant one,
you will perhaps remember how miserably you failed to value his merits,
and shrink with shame at the thought of your own pitiable
misjudgment!..."
"Thank Heaven that monstrosity of literary vanity has removed itself!"
thought Pauline, a little later, when Leander Prawle had been heard very
decisively to close the outer hall-door. "And now I must dwell no longer
on trifles--I must concern myself with far weightier matters."
The coming marriage to Kindelon on the morrow seemed to her fraught with
untold incentive for reflection. "But I will not reflect," she soon
determined. "I will at once try to see Mrs. Dares, and let her reflect
for me. She is so wise, so capable, so admirable! I have consented
because I love! Let her, if she shall so decide, dissuade me because of
experiences weightier than even my own past bitter ones!"
The hour of her resolved visit to Mrs. Dares had now arrived. In a
certain way she congratulated herself upon the distracting tendency of
both Mr. Barrowe's and Mr. Prawle's visits. "They have prevented me,"
she mused, "from dwelling too much upon my own unhappy situation. Mr.
Barrowe is a very sensible fool, and Mr. Prawle is a very foolish fool.
They are both, in their way, taunting and satiric radiations from the
dying bonfire of my own rash ambition. They are both reminders to me
that I, after all, am the greatest and most conspicuous fool. Some other
woman, more sensible and clever than I, will perhaps seek to establish
in New York a social movement where intellect and education are held
above the last Anglomaniac coaching-drive to Central Park, or the last
vulgarly-select _cotillon_ at Delmonico's. But it will be decades hence.
I don't know how many ... but it will be decades.... All is over, now. I
face a new life; I have ended with my _salon_. Only one result has come
of it--Ralph Kindelon. Thank Heaven, he is a substantial result, though
all the rest are shadow and illusion!"
Pauline soon afterwards started on foot for the residence of Mrs. Dares.
It was nearly dusk. She had determined to set before this good and
trusted woman every detail of her present discomfort, and while
confessing her matrimonial promise as regarded the marriage with
Kindelon on the morrow, to exhort counsel, advice, guidance,
justification. Being a woman, and having made up her mind,
justification may have been the chief stimulus of her devout pilgrimage.
The great bustling city was in shadow as she rang the bell at Mrs.
Dares's residence.
A strange, ominous, miserable fear was upon her while she did so. She
could not account for it; she strove to shake it off. She remembered her
own reflections: "All is over now. I face a new life."
But she could not dismiss the brooding dread while she waited the answer
of her summons at Mrs. Dares's door.