marry. I thought of that last night, as a glimpse of moonlit water
flashed under my eyes, and remembered how I laughed you to scorn. All
through those gay and vital young woods which wall the road beyond I
continued to idiotize, unable to see dryads dancing in the moonlight (as
_she_ and I saw them in the same spot to-night), careless that Nature
was distilling magic perfume for us from tree and fern and wild flower,
our eyes shut to the fact that elves disguised as Indian lilies were
using silvered ponds for mirrors.
Do you remember that lonely graveyard in the woods, relic of some
community of early settlers? "I'd as soon be dead and lying there as
live the life you want me to live!" said I, with a would-be wise nod of
the head as I drove past. But now I see too well that you were the wise
one. Why didn't Nature make me understand myself as I begin to
understand now? There must have been the same heart-searching perfume in
the woods that night--a blend of locust bloom with wild roses and the
bitter-sweet tang of young fox-grape tendrils swinging high among the
tree branches. Yet I could do no better than expound to you my
dry-as-dust opinions on marriage. Women, according to me, had only one
way of making a man happy, and thirty thousand ways of torturing him. I
wanted to have inscribed on my tombstone: "What did he do for the good
of womankind? He remained a bachelor." Most husbands and wives, I
thought, had the air of being married to foreigners whose mentality they
could never quite touch. I believed that I was cut out for a bad
husband, a disappointing friend, an irritating acquaintance, and that
the ends of the earth were the only happy hunting grounds for a wild
spirit like mine--places where I could freely dive far down under the
surface of myself and swim at ease. Birds in the hand had no brightness
of plumage for me. They were always moulting. I coveted the ones that
sang farthest away in the bush. "Why have a mad desire to become an
ancestor for people you don't know and may dislike?" I think I remember
inquiring of you, as you sagely dilated--at ancient Smithtown--on the
notable achievements of a certain Bull Rider Smith for the benefits of
his posterity. He was doubtless a smart business man and a good
sportsman, to gallop so far and fast on such an animal, when told he
could have all the road he could ride round on bull-back in the course
of a day. But to me his ambitions seemed futile, and the whole of Long
Island less important than a flyspeck on the map of the world. Now, I
shouldn't mind spending my life here, even in _the_ house, though I
should prefer an old one; and the Smithtown church with its Cyclopian
eye of a clock in a tall Puritanical steeple would exactly suit me to be
married in.
As we bowled along the Middle Island Country Road _she_ wanted to know
if I had ever driven there before. I had to say "yes" (I couldn't lie to
her), and then she asked an embarrassing question or two. But she was
almost pathetically easy to put off, so afraid she was of being
overcurious. I would have given a good deal to burst out with the whole
truth, in that mood of mine, a mood of exaltation with my soul flaming
up like a beacon. But even if I'd seriously thought of speaking, I
couldn't with the back of the car boiling over with handsome giantesses
from Colorado--goddesses from the Garden of the Gods. They were pretty
good about not interrupting; but now and again they couldn't resist
breaking in with "Oh, _is_ it our dear old Peconic River again, that
gives the name to Riverhead?" or, "_Did_ they call it Jamesport after
King James the Second of England?" or, "_Can_ those beautiful black
trees in front of that _darling_ white house be Irish yews?" or,
"_Don't_ you think Southold's the most adorable old town we've seen
_yet_?" Of course, if my companion on the front seat had catechized me
in this way, I should have been charmed to give her all my feeble fund
of information concerning Huguenot and English settlers, dates, etc.
(fortunately 1648 will do in most instances!), but it was a little
disconcerting to hear these extraneous discords just when my heart was
beating well in tune with the oldest song in the world.
You now need no explanation of what has happened to me. Besides, you've
been expecting it to happen. I knew that, and expected on my part to
disappoint you by its _not_ happening. But this Girl Magic has been too
much for me. I've gone under; and I should be a happy man as the moon
sets and the sun rises to-day if only I'd listened to you on that
moonlight night before it was too late.
Yet is it too late? That's what I want to thrash out. Have I locked the
door between myself and happiness with such a girl as Patricia Moore,
and is the key lost? Or can I with your help find the key, oil the lock,
and open the door?
I used to think a very young girl went about--so to speak--with a love
letter in her pocket all ready for post except that it wasn't yet
addressed. But this girl isn't like that. She wouldn't write the letter
till she knew the address she wanted to send it to. All the same I feel
the possibility that I _could_ make her care for me.
I suppose I was falling in love with her when I wrote you that I wasn't.
I thought it was just very pleasant and amusing to be on terms of
friendship with such a charming and unique girl. But now--_friendship_!
There's as much difference between that and love as there is between a
photographic copy of a Tintoretto and the original Tintoret itself. When
I think of any other man getting Patricia Moore, a link seems to drop
right out of my spine. Yet she's not born for an old maid. Love and a
"happy ending" for her story ought to be attached to her like a label.
If I can't work to get her, some one else will. Caspian is doing it
already, but in spite of the money I don't think she'd ever take him:
her instinct finds truth as the needle finds the pole. Three boys are
also working; but they're big babies, with young-chicken-coloured hair
and merry, heather-mixture eyes. They talk no language but slang. They
come to grief in a preposterous automobile about every ten miles and
attract their idol's attention and startle horses by giving vent to S.
O. S. yells. Whenever they have to enter a room they plunge in as if the
door had broken away before them. Their only conception of a "good time"
is ragtime. If one of them shows signs for a moment of having been
trained to house manners, his chums taunt him. "None of your Peche Melba
airs here!" is the favourite expression. So you'll agree with me I have
a fair field, _if_ I'm permitted to enter. Am I?
Can I undo everything and go back to the days before the revolution?
Would it be fair to others concerned? And that reminds me, whatever
happens, young Marcel mustn't suffer. He has been a complication for
some time, but apparently he's likely to be a more serious one now.
You'd never guess what he's done, if I gave you a dozen chances, so I'll
sandwich his love story with mine.
_Her_ best friend is named Adrienne de Moncourt, daughter of the widowed
Marquise "of that ilk." The said Marquise, from what I gather, is
responsible for Miss Moore's being brought up in France, under her own
eye. I shrewdly suspect this was arranged in the hope of attracting our
"Beloved Vagabond," Larry, back and forth across the sea. A terrible,
man-eating tigress of a lady's maid has been imported, nominally to take
care of Princess Pat, secretly (or I'll eat my hat) to keep an eye upon
and report on Larry's capers to the Marquise de Moncourt! Since my
Princess came to these shores, "a distant cousin from America" has
introduced himself to the Marquise. He being young, good looking, and
presumably rich, the lady invited him to her chateau to spend Easter.
Mademoiselle came home from school for the holidays. The two met. The
name of the rich American cousin is Marcel de Moncourt. The Princess
Patricia says that she loves her Adrienne next best to Larry, and she
hopes and prays the cousin is all he should be. She asked me to tell her
if "_our_ Marcel" had a son. I was obliged to confess that he had; but
when she wanted to know if it could possibly be the same, I hedged in
every direction. You and Moncourt and I must have a powwow as soon as
possible.
You can't blame me for falling in love, as you always said the thing
was inevitable; and you'll be even less likely to croak if I tell you
how it was I first diagnosed the serious state of my feelings.
It was at the dance you got me invited to at the Piping Rock Club--many
thanks again. You will deduce that I bought a "reach me down" evening
suit before starting on this expedition--first time I'd worried myself
into such togs for heaven knows how long. I never thought to be caught
by conventions again, but I'd tar and feather my body if that was the
costume best suited to _her_ society. You see how I'm turning over new
leaves--turning so fast I've hardly time to read them as I go on!
As I explained to you in asking the favour, I guessed that Caspian meant
to score over me, so I wanted to be the one to do the scoring. I thought
if I simply swaggered into the ballroom as one of Caspian's guests, he
was certain to repudiate me, which would have been rather amusing if it
hadn't made me conspicuous. It was, as you remarked, something of a risk
to appear at all in such a place on such an occasion, but I've trusted
to luck so often and come out on the top of the wave (literally!) that I
didn't mind, provided I could jog along quietly, and get in even one
dance with my little princess. I felt safe under your respectable wing,
and was looking forward to the fun of not exploding if Caspian had laid
a fuse to blow me up. But Strickland, think of it, _she_ had been
suffering for my sake!
When I went to ask her for our dance, I found her deadly pale. "What is
the matter?" I jerked out, actually scared by her whiteness. "Are you
faint? Shall I take you into the open air?"
"Oh, please do!" she said; and I whisked her out quickly onto one of
those verandas as wide as a room.
"Could we go home?" she asked piteously, but when I suggested making a
dash into the ballroom to find her pal, Mrs. Winston, she wouldn't hear
of it. "No," she said, "Molly mustn't be disturbed. It is nothing.
Only--I should like to go. If you wouldn't mind."
If I wouldn't _mind_! It would have been pretty well worth being born
for to drive her back alone, just we two in the car, but I dared not
take the child at her word. I thought she was too ill to remember Mrs.
Grundy's silly old existence, and I couldn't take advantage of her
forgetfulness. At the same time it seemed the act of a prig grafted on
to a bounder to put the idea into her head, and make her ashamed of
having said the wrong thing. You see what a nuisance my conscience is! I
petted it so much when it was young, now it won't stop in its cage. I
didn't know what to say, and felt as if it would be money in my pocket
not to have been born, for my spirit had melted in me, as one of those
soft capsules melts in your mouth.
I don't know what I should have said or done, my mental state being that
of a hen in front of a motor, if at that instant Mrs. Winston herself
hadn't appeared. It was as if my subconscious self had made a dash and
dragged her out by the hair! Winston was with her (as Mrs. Shuster
ingenuously remarked one day, "That man is as nice to his wife as if he
were somebody else's husband"), and they came straight to us, marching
solemnly, like a deputation.
"Angel child," said Molly (we all think of her as "Molly"), "I noticed
you looking a little wan, so Jack and I just waltzed out to see how you
were, and also to pat Mr. Storm figuratively on the back."
"Why--what has happened?" inquired the princess almost wildly.
"Such fun! Envy is the sincerest flattery, so Mr. Storm ought to be
pleased that Mr. Caspian hasn't loved him since the day he had his great
inspiration about Marcel and Kidd's Pines. It appears that our
vaudevillain (isn't that a nice name for dear Eddy?) passed round the
word that Mr. Storm had no invitation to this dance, when all the time
he had come on the behest of some fearfully celebrated man in New York
every one seems to bow down to. Collapse of the gunpowder plot!"
"Oh, I'm _so_ thankful!" sighed dear Molly's Angel Child. She clapped
her hands and gave a little skip. Then I guessed in a flash why she had
looked pale, why she had wanted to get me out of the ballroom, and why
she'd been ready to defy old Lady Grundy in order to keep me safe, and
avoid hurting the poor secretary-chauffeur's feelings by telling him
what was up. That was the moment, my friend, when I realized that I'd
always been wrong and you'd always been right. I knew that the girl lit
the world for me.
Again I ask you, What am I going to do about it?
I don't believe she's in love with me. It was only that she couldn't
bear to have me humiliated, and was willing to make a sacrifice to save
me pain. But I do believe I could make her love me if I tried.
The kind angel as good as admitted the cause of her illness by making a
quick recovery and going in with Captain Winston while I followed with
his wife. Molly, by the way, almost confessed she'd suspected that Pat
was anxious for my welfare, and had come out to relieve the girl's mind.
Do you wonder at the state of mine? I'm bound to add that my rescue
didn't seem to restore her spirits permanently. She looked rather "wan,"
as Molly said, all the rest of the evening; or it may have been the
effect of a green dress she wore. Certainly she was somewhat _piano_ in
manner, too; and despite her pal's slap at Caspian, the princess didn't
treat him as if he were the dragon of the opera. On the contrary, she
sat out several dances with him. I bear her no grudge, though! She
hadn't the air of enjoying his society.
We were to have started for Kidd's Pines the morning after the dance at
Piping Rock, but a Mrs. Sam de Silverley (who said she knew you) was
moved by curiosity to want me introduced to her. She "pined to see the
inside of the Stanislaws house," first hinted and then pleaded to do so,
and in return invited the whole of our crowd to a garden party at her
place. Some Russian dancers were to "entertain," and the Goodriches--who
are seeing life with all their souls--yearned to go. So did our bride
and bridegroom, who want their money's worth of honeymoon; therefore it
was arranged that we stay over, and drive home in a moonlight
procession.
I am not built for bun worries, be they out of doors or in, and declined
on the plea of important work. Besides, I saw by the look in Patsey's
eyes that she also intended to refuse. I hoped that through some
remarkable coincidence we might meet in the garden "at home," as we had
the day before, but Caspian caught the coincidence this time, so I
sulked in the house with man's most faithful dumb companion, a pipe.
Caspian didn't stay with my little lady for long, so I hope she refused
him and got it over with. Anyhow, she was in a delicious mood all the
way to Kidd's Pines, as you may have assumed from the tone and indeed
the very existence of this letter. We talked of impersonal things, never
of ourselves and seldom of each other, and she was not as gay as when we
began the trip, yet--never had she been so dear.
I began this letter with a partial promise to abide by your advice; but
if you harshly tell me it's too late to change things, I'm afraid I
shall go full speed ahead just the same. I won't, however, decide till I
hear from you--not because I'm patient, but because the girl mustn't be
"rushed" in any case. Besides, I shall very likely not see her to-day. I
dropped the party at the door of Kidd's Pines in the dead middle of the
night (forgot to tell you Caspian didn't come with us, but turned tail
and went to New York: _another_ sign!), garaged the Grayles-Grice, and
biked to the village. I'll now try to sleep for an hour or two--less
because I'm tired than because I want to dream myself back in the path
of the moon, where walks Romance to greet me. My bed here, by the by,
usually reminds me of a rack out of commission. But to-day I don't care.
I shall find it a bed of roses.
Write as soon as you've thought things over, please. Or, better still,
wire: "Advise yes," or--but I won't think of the alternative.
Either way, however, I'll still be yours loyally,
PIETRO.
P.S. Can't sleep, can't dream. Something tells me all isn't well at
Kidd's Pines. I had forebodings before we started that there'd be
ructions when we got back, but I'd mislaid them under a thousand other
thoughts. Seems a long time ago! But while I was trying to sleep just
now, this came into my mind as if a voice spoke it: "Bridge the gulf
that parts you from your wish, and you can walk across." I wish it were
_your_ voice said that, old man!
P.P.S. Talk of women with their postscripts! They're not in it with me.
I keep leaping off the gridiron--I mean out of bed--again and again to
add a word that threatens to burst my brain if bottled up. This time
shall be the last! I only want to assure you that I'm not brooding over
any _coup_ of revenge against Caspian. My personal dislike of him has
nothing to do with my attitude, except that the more I see of the worm
the more I see what a worm he is. Not only is he unworthy to crawl in
the same atmosphere with Miss Moore (don't smile sarcastically at that
expression. I _like_ it!) but he's more fitted for underground
conditions than any caterpillar I ever met. Caterpillars change to
butterflies. Worms, as far as my knowledge goes, are changeless. I don't
feel revengeful against him. But I don't feel conscientious and dutiful
for a cent!
XII
PATRICIA MOORE TO ADRIENNE DE MONCOURT
CHERIE:
I have not the heart or the time for a long letter, but I must quickly
tell you that our Marcel _has_ a son. I asked P. S. But he seems not to
think your new cousin can be the same. Soon, surely, he will himself say
everything to you, and open his heart wide. Ah, how I wish you all there
is of happiness, the more because I am not to have it myself.
The critics knew better about life than I, you see, Mignonne. Yet I am
going to be brave. I have got myself engaged with Mr. Caspian already,
since I wrote from the beautiful house. You will think that strange, but
it came to happen in a simple way. It was at the dance at the Piping
Rock Club. That sounds romantic, is it not? But it was not romantic at
all. I just had to do it. Then, after a little while, I was very sorry.
I thought perhaps I need not have made myself this misery. I was not
nice to him the rest of that night, and the next day I would not let him
take a snapshot of me in the wonderful garden. I said I had a copyright
of my own face, if we _were_ engaged! And I hoped that would make him
break, but it did not. He was only in the sulks. And he does not look
nice in the sulks. I was glad he had to go to New York and not motor
home with us in the Grayles-Grice, and I could not be interested when
he said in hints that his business in town had something to do with
_me_--something I should _like_! I'm sure I cannot like it. And oh,
cherie, he has such _slept_ on looking ears, I dare not think of them:
too flat, and crinkly at the top like inside lettuce leaves!
I was making up my mind all the way home in heavenly moonlight that it
had been a mistake and I must jump out of it. This made me almost happy
again--this, and watching Peter Storm drive, which I do like to see, he
does it so well, so strongly, it seems to give you strength being near
him.
But now I am at home and everything is changed, worse than when Larry
was bankrupted. I found him almost engaged to _Mrs. Shuster_. He was
doing it because of being poor, and to save me from the sacrifice. That
was what he explained. So of course I told him I had promised to marry
Mr. Caspian, and all would be right for us. He is going to get out of it
with Mrs. Shuster if he can in honour. If he cannot I must try to _dig_
him out. Larry matters so _much_ more than I do! I wish I were being
engaged in France instead of here, because there I think _les jeunes
filles_ do not have to kiss. Here, one says they do. But _I_ will not!
I wish again thy happiness, dear one. Mine is lost. Would it do good if
you prayed to Saint Anthony of Padua to find it for me again?
Nobody knows yet except Larry. I shall not tell Angele. She would be
pleased, and I should want to slap her!
Your poor PATRICE.
XIII
MOLLY WINSTON TO MERCEDES LANE
_Awepesha, Long Island_,
_Wednesday._
DEAREST OLD GIRL:
I shouldn't call you that if you weren't young and beautiful!
Jack and I have just sent you a cheap, enthusiastic cable containing the
one word "Hurrah!" You will understand that our cheers ring across the
Atlantic because Monty is mending well. Your letter came this morning
with the good news. Biarritz will be a jolly place for his
convalescence. I shall never forget when Jack and I were there together
before we were engaged. Oh, with _Aunt Mary Kedison, of course_! And in
Jack's car, my poor old Horror of accursed memory being burnt long
before. Jack was "Brown" then, and my "Lightning Conductor" as he still
is and ever shall be; though just at present when we motor I have to sit
behind the scenes and make the lightning work. His wounds have left him
stiff in the left arm and leg, but the doctors say he will really and
truly be himself again in a few months: six or seven at most. I wish you
the same luck with Monty, or better if possible.
By the way, we shall meet Aunt Mary again soon. She has been to the
Bahamas for the winter, with a family of retired missionaries (I think
they retired after one of them was eaten), but has come back to a house
she owns in New England. We shall have to stop and say, "How do you do
and good-bye" on our way somewhere else. I confess I dread it, for
though Aunt Mary is as good as gold, or, anyhow, silver, she's one of
those creatures who begin: "You know I'm a very _truthful_ woman,"
whenever they have a disagreeable personal remark to make. You've met
the type! They're mostly women; and they dissolve in tears and think you
cruel as dozens of graves if you retort in kind. I expect Aunt Mary's
(almost) first words to Jack will be, "Well, Mr. Winston--(oh, _Captain_
is it, Molly?)--I'm glad to see that my niece and you continue to get
along fairly. You're aware I never _could_ approve on principle of these
international matches, or mismatches; American women ought to marry men
of their own country, if they must marry at all." (She's never forgiven
me for snubbing her pet, Jimmy Payne, now a terribly respectable husband
and _Poopa_.) "Still, there _can_ be exceptions, and evidently you don't
bully my niece, as it's established that _most_ Englishmen do their
wives, for she's looking well considering her age. Let me see, she was
born in the year----" But at this point I shall interrupt Aunt Mary by a
bright remark about the weather, or a _bludgeon_ if the weather won't
work!
I thank our lucky stars (Jack and I have a skyful) that we're going to
do another trip before we start for New England. Of course I want my
ewe-lion (I've named him that behind his back since he turned warrior)
to see all of my dear country he can before we have to sail again; but
it's too bad such a lovely part as New England should be infested by
aunts, isn't it? It's called the "Ideal Tour," I believe--through the
White Mountains and some green and blue ones, etc.--but for Jack and me
it will have a drawback. People used to be torn to death by wild horses.
That's not done in the best circles now; but it's perfectly admissible,
alas, to be talked to death by wild aunts.
I'm charmed that you're so interested in Patsey Moore and Peter Storm.
The latter, as I wrote, has developed into _her_ "Lightning Conductor."
Indeed, in some ways Jack and he are alike: for you know Jack "Brown-ed"
himself in order to conduct me; and I can't help thinking that our
Stormy Petrel isn't as Stormy as he's painted. Now I know him so well, I
don't let my mind dwell on the possibility of his being less worthy of
our intense interest than he seems. If there's anything hidden, it's
"buried treasure," such as we hope against hope may exist at Kidd's
Pines.
It's not very long, as the crow flies--I mean the post--since I wrote
you last; but I do think more things can happen in America to the square
minute than anywhere else in the world. Especially at Kidd's Pines! It's
like living in a "movie" when they are running the reels off fast. Why,
our reels go so quickly you hardly know what's happened to the "walking
men and women", and it's even difficult to tell the hero from the
villain.
That sounds frivolous, but it's serious really. I should be very sad if
I weren't hoping that Jack and Peter Storm and I may be able to combine
together and stop things from going all to bits.