It is impossible, even for the most harassed of human beings, to be
entirely pessimistic after a dinner that had been well prepared,
tastefully served, and finely appreciated. With the coffee and the
liqueur a warm glow of pleasant sentiment is sure to invade the dinner;
the dismal reflections that harrowed his soul an hour ago have fled at
the approach of that self-satisfied feeling that marks the man that has
dined.
By this time the Curacao called for discussion, Lancaster had succeeded
in putting away all thoughts of the cheerless philosophy of laughter
that he had come to consider at once his salvation and his curse, and
was quietly, even hopefully, contemplating the chances in his intended
interview with Dorothy Ware.
It was all a question, he had now assured himself, of whether she loved
him or not. If not, then all other things were of no consequence. If she
did, but yet denied the possibilities of their union, he would venture
all things to scatter her arguments to the ground. Nothing else need
matter, so she loved him. Who was he that he should ask of any woman the
question: What art thou?
He had a hansom called and bade the man drive North. The fierceness was
changed a little in the face of the town; it was now the fierceness for
pleasure, rather than for riches. Everywhere there were couples hurrying
to the theatre, the opera, the concert. Carriages drove swiftly through
the glaring streets. The restaurants seemed shining with the eagerness
of expectancy. Men in evening clothes walked along, smoking, laughing
and chatting. The newsboys were gone; in their stead was a miserable,
skirmishing band of Italian tots, who used the papers they carried more
as an aid to mendicancy than as stock in trade.
It came to Lancaster for an instant, that he might tell the driver to
head for the Auditorium; he might go in and hear that charming Santuzza
whose acquaintance he had made and enjoyed abroad. He might send her his
card; there would be a renewal of pleasant fascinations, forgetfulness
of all other things--and laughter! He lifted up his arm, to tap for the
driver's attention; his cuff caught in the window-curtain, and the
accident, slight as it was, recalled him to himself. He shuddered a
little; the things that shaped the courses of men's lives, he thought,
were so absurdly insignificant!
When the cab stopped in front of the house that the Wares occupied when
Lancaster was last in town, a flood of brilliant light flooded out upon
it from the windows and the hall. It was evident that there was an
entertainment in progress. Could it be that they had moved? Lancaster,
paying the cabman, told him to wait for a moment, for further orders.
But the maid, answering Lancaster's ring, settled the doubt in his mind.
Miss Ware, she said, was receiving. He gave his name, dismissed the
driver, and entered, feeling a little annoyed at having fallen upon such
an occasion.
But presently Miss Ware appeared, radiant in a rosehued gown, and
wistful happiness shining in her eyes.
"We thought you were thousands of miles away," she smiled. "What a
will-o'-the-wisp you are! Mother will be ever so glad. We are going back
to Lincolnville soon, you must know; and this is our farewell
reception. Everyone has been so kind to us; we felt we must do something
in return."
"To think," she added, looking up at him shyly, "that the occasion
should bring out such a lion!"
"Don't!" he implored. "Do you really think they'll know--anything about
me? They do? Then, for goodness sake I'm someone else--anyone! For I do
detest--"
She interrupted him gaily. "Oh, no; you are doomed. I shall introduce
you to the most portentous faddists; you shall suffer. That, sir, may be
your punishment for surprising me so!" She glided away, and returned
with Mrs. Ware.
Never, thought Lancaster, had he seen Dorothy so gay, so cheerful, so
roguish. Whence came that playful mood of hers; that mocking, joyous
laughter? Talking to this and that person, Lancaster kept his watch upon
Miss Ware. He saw her go out of the room, laughing and chattering, and
the moment she reached the conservatory, put her hands up to her
forehead and press them swiftly over her eyes. The smile went from her
lips; her whole form testified to a sudden relaxation of an artificial
tension.
A mask, Lancaster told himself, a mask for her feelings. She was
agitated, but she determined to hide all that under a cloak of gayety.
He understood. Had he not himself tested the expungent qualities of
laughter?
As of old, the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice had thrilled
him with a sense of wonderful gladness. At sight, at sound of her all
the good in him seemed to become vibrant; she was still the star, far
above him, that he longed for. The comforts of his cold philosophies,
the promises of the epicureanisms he had delved in so deeply--all faded
into ashes at approach of this girl.
"We are really very fortunate," a voice behind him aroused him from his
rêverie, "in having such a distinguished guest with us tonight." It was
Stanley, who stood with his hand on Lancaster's shoulder. "Surprised to
see me here, are you? Well, to tell the truth, it's only of late that
I've gone into these rare regions. I find that it conserves one's
pessimism to enjoy the company of one's fellow-creatures. Will you
excuse me, I see that man Wreath coming over here. I really can't stand
him. He always remarks to me, sorrowfully, 'Ah, Mr. Stanley, I'm very
much afraid you're not in earnest!' Why, the man himself's an eternal
warning against being in earnest. There's nothing that spoils the look
of a person's mouth so much as earnestness."
In truth, at that moment, just after Stanley had deftly slipped away,
Mr. Wreath had solemnly greeted the artist. "You have shown great
talent, Mr. Lancaster, great talent. But--" and he beamed reproach upon
the other, "why don't you dig deeper?"
Lancaster felt as if he could have sworn at the man's presuming egoism.
But he merely laughed, and said, "Ah, you forget what a fellow-artist of
mine once said, _apropos_ of cleanliness. 'Wash,' he said, 'no, we don't
wash; we merely scratch and rub, scratch and rub.' I choose, in like
manner, only to scratch. If I can scratch an effective creation, why
should I dig?"
Wreath shook his head, with a mournful smile. "Ah, you will agree with
me--later. In the meantime, I want to talk to you about my next novel.
Do you think we could make it worth your while to illustrate it for us?"
He dragged Lancaster off into the library and bored him, for at least
ten minutes. From the other room came sounds of music. Someone was
singing. "_In Einem Kuehlen Grunde_" went the soft, sweet old ballad.
Lancaster promised Wreath that he would let the writer's publishers know
definitely in a day or so, whether he would undertake the illustrations.
He hurried back into the salon, muttering, as he went.
"Several haystacks; two threshing-day scenes; several prairie pictures,
one for each season of the year--that's about what those illustrations
will have to be. Well, I'd do it twice over if that man would promise to
let me alone!"
It was Dorothy Ware that had been singing. She got up just as he entered
the room. She caught his look, and smiled to him. "You must take me to
the conservatory," she commanded, with a pretty air of authority, "for
singing is warm work." She took his arm, and while someone else went to
the piano and began to play the ballet from "Sylvia," together they
strolled out into the cooler rooms beyond.
"And now," she said, when they were snugly seated upon the cushioned
windowseat, "I must tell you how proud mother and I have been of you.
Oh, it was so good to read all these praises of you!"
He smiled. "It came," he said, "because I did not care whether it came
or not. I was indifferent; and so success came."
"Indifferent? Why, Dick? With such power it is not right to be
indifferent. Why--"
"Why should I be anything other than indifferent? For myself? No. I
despise myself too much. I consider myself only a means toward
amusement. And if not for myself, for whom?"
She was playing with the leaves of a palm that hung down over her
shoulder.
"No," he went on, "there was never any motive in it all. It was all
sheer play. There was the joy, the delirium of creation; that was a
sufficient sensation; beyond that--nothing! It might be different
if...." He stopped with the word half spoken.
"If what?"
He looked at her swiftly. There was in her face only earnest curiosity
and sympathy. "If," he continued, "if there were--someone else. Oh,
Dorothy, dear, don't you see? Don't you realize that it is you, you for
whom I would work--yes, work and live? Dorothy, tell me that you are
not altogether indifferent. Once--long ago--you said you might care for
me. Then we were boy and girl; now we are man and woman. Then again you
told me to forget you. I tried. I tried--all ways into forgetfulness. I
tried to laugh away you, and all the past; to live only for the essence
of the moment. And now, Dorothy, why don't you speak?"
She gently disengaged her hand from his. Her face was white, and she
could only shake her head.
"But why?" he moaned, fiercely, "why? Can you not love me a little?"
She looked at him reproachfully, and for a moment he thought he divined
the framing of the words, "Ah, but I do love you," then she merely
sighed, and looked away again.
"Is it," he went on, "that I have put myself beyond your mercy? Have I
become too notorious a vagabond?" He laughed bitterly. "Well, it is all
true; I am come through all the highways and byways of life, and I am
touched with the scum of it all. Perhaps you are right. I am not worthy.
And yet--I only ask for forgiveness, and a little love. With that, I
might--be able to--sink the bitterness of the days behind. But, as I
said, I dare say you are right. Shall we go into the other room?"
"Oh, Dick," she sighed, "how hard you make it! Dick, it is--it is I that
am not worthy." She put her hands to her face suddenly, and pressed
them feverishly to her cheeks and eyes, and then started as if to go
away.
Lancaster took her hand and kissed it. "Dorothy," he said, "Don't talk
nonsense! Unworthy of me--of a man who has used the world as a
playground, and exhausted his days in satiating curiosity! Ah, no! That
is impossible. There is no one, Dorothy--no one, however wretched, who
would not be worthy of me."
"You don't understand," she wailed, "you don't understand! I--" she hid
her face in her hands again, "I have sinned!"
He put his arm about her, and whispered, "What does it matter Dorothy,
if only you love me? Do you, Dorothy, do you love me?"
She sobbed, silently almost. Then she looked up, and, as if she were
defining a happiness that could never be, said, "Yes, Dick, I love you."
Then, as he covered her brow with kisses, she shuddered in his arms, and
again moaned, "But you don't know, you don't understand!"
He smoothed the tears from her eyes, and looked tenderly upon her. "Yes,
dear, I do." He burst into a fierce trumpet of rage. "That cad, Wooton,
--he told me some damnable lies...! He was drunk...!"
She shrank away from him. "Ah, then, you see it is quite--impossible!"
"Dorothy," he said, "I am not speaking of that, am I, dear? I am asking
you to have pity on me, to help me see that there are bright and tender
and true things in life. I tell you that, past or no past, you are as
high above me as the stars. Why must we listen to the old shibboleths,
Dorothy? Have you not spent a lifetime of regret to atone for a moment
of folly? And who am I to judge? I, in whom there is no more of
whiteness left, save only that I love you! Consider, dear, if this is
not to be, what our lives will be! For me, all the old bitterness, the
efforts to drown all things in laughter. For you--memories! But if you
say 'yes,' Dorothy, think! How different the world will seem! We will go
and live in the country, close to the heart of Nature. All the noise and
noisomenesses of this town-world will be shut out; we will forget it.
For you, dear, I will work as I never worked before. Think, dear--think
of the dear old, silent, restful hills of Lincolnville! How the insects
hum in the clear nights; how blue, how deep, how tender the sky seems
there; how the very flowers seem to wear more natural faces than do
those of town! Do you remember how, in summer, we used to go camping by
the river? The simple pleasures, the healthy out-door life--can you not
believe that it would make new creatures of us two, Dorothy? The
house--think of the house we would plan, the orchard, the garden! And
are we to lose all that, dear, for a whim? Dorothy," he held out both
his hands to her, "see, Dorothy, I ask you to let me not see happiness
only to lose it?"
For another moment she wavered, then with a choking "Ah, Dick, I love
you!" she let him take her to his arms. He kissed her shining eyes, and
said, fervidly, "Sweetheart, I thank you."
EPILOGUE
It was in the first beauty of June that Dick Lancaster brought her that
had been Dorothy Ware home to Lincolnville as his wife. The village, as
I remember, was looking its fairest; the trees were radiant and profuse
of shade; the grass was long and luscious, the birds were cheerful and
bold. We welcomed the two with all the heartiness we had command of; we
had known them as children, and we had loved their memory always, all
through the years they had been gone. Of Dick's fame we were
immeasurably proud. We wondered a little, indeed, that a man so dear to
the world's heart should find satisfaction in living so far from the
pulse of it all. But, we argued, if indeed, he preferred Lincolnville,
all the greater was the honor.
Both, as we soon saw, had aged, Mr. Fairly, who had gone up to town to
marry them, had told us as much, but we were but little prepared for the
actual evidence. Those of us, too, who were permitted closer glimpses
into the life of these two, observed in the two a passionate fondness
for the fields, for the silence and stillness of our life there that was
something very different from the matter-of-course acceptance of those
attributes to our existence that existed in the rest of us. It was as if
the place were, for them, a very harbor of refuge, a hospital in which
to forget old ailment, or regain old healthfulness. These things, and
many other signs of something wistful in the affection they bore the
place and the dislike they long showed for leaving it, made up for me
and many others, something of a mystery. At that time, I knew nothing of
the things that had occurred since Dick left Lincolnville.
Afterwards, long afterwards, it happened that I came to know all the
things that have been chronicled here. And, for my part, I came to love
them the more. As Mr. Fairly, who, I suspect, also knew something of
these things, once said to me, "If one has not seen the devil, one does
not know enough to get out of his way." I consider that Dick Lancaster
is much more to be commended for the honest life he lives among us than
old Scrattan, the milkman, who has never been out of Lincoln County in
his life. And as for Dorothy, all Lincolnville thinks she is the
sweetest woman breathing--and when a village as given to gossip as is
this place, agrees on any such eulogy as that, there must be potent
reasons.
It is an ancient trick, I know, and an uncommendable, this of
chronicling the lives of two people only up to the church door. In the
lives of most people, I hear on all sides of me, the tragedy only begins
after marriage. Well, perhaps so. But I hope, for my part, that for
Dick Lancaster and his wife there is not to be much more of battling
against the buffets of the world. For them there had been so much of
tragedy--the tragedy that is almost intangible, the tragedy that
underlies the surface flippancy of our modern life--before Fate chose to
let them come together, that it would seem just that thereafter their
life be but a pleasant pastoral. As for that I cannot say. I know that
Dick's fame grows with each passing year; and that both he and his wife
are beginning to lose the look of weariness that was on them when they
came back to us.
I have not given this chronicle as an example or a lesson. I do not mean
in telling it to declare my belief in the theory that Christ's words
"Go, and sin no more!" can be perpetually applied in the practice of
modern life. I have transcribed one episode, one group of characters,
one set of lives, and having done so, I refer the responsibility whither
it belongs to the Being that mapped, that directed those life-threads. I
do not mean to say that in like instances, a similar course would
inevitably lead to happiness. I only say that yesterday, as I was
walking in my garden, watching the blue-jays quarreling in the firs, I
heard Dick and Dorothy talking and laughing on their veranda. There was
something so infectious about their gladness that I paused and listened,
without thought of curiosity, but rather in something of wistful
appreciation of their happiness.
"I had not thought," I heard him say, "that the world would ever seem
so fair to me."
There was a pause, and I fancied I heard a kiss, but I will not be sure.
"And all," he went on, "is thanks to you."
Again there was a long silence! And then there came a sudden frightened
whisper from her: "Dick--do you think we shall ever see--him--again?"
He laughed bitterly. "No, dear. He is too vain, too selfish, too fond of
his own safety. Besides--what matter if we did. He belongs to the things
that we have forgotten."
Then they turned, laughing into the house, and their voices gradually
died from my hearing.
It seemed to me, as I nipped the dead leaves from my geraniums, that to
these young neighbors of mine Happiness was showing a smiling face. And
whether they had deserved that or no, I wish it may be so always, to the
end.
FINIS