“See here, Crocker, I know all about that. You told me yourself. Have
you forgotten?” Slowly the recollection came to him. “Oh, yes,” he
replied, “at Yokohama.”
“And you told Sir Robert at Nagasaki. Have you forgotten that?”
This seemed to sting him. “How do you know I did?” he asked sharply.
“He told me. We talked you over. I asked him about the legal possibility
of placing you under some sort of restraint.”
Curiously, this didn't anger him. He merely looked puzzled. I wonder if
I am doomed to remain ineffectual to the last--an odd, scientific little
person, to be humored by the practical men of this rough-and-ready
world, even in their least practical moments.
“I don't get you, Eckhart,” said he. “What have you to do with my
affairs?”
“At this moment--everything,” I answered him, feeling suddenly very sad.
Sad, because it came to me that you can not talk intelligently with
another human being without a common language. And this, I knew all at
once, Crocker and I did not have. I had thought of many things that
I should say to him; now I had lost confidence in all of them, for I
realized that the word which means one thought to me would mean another
and different thought to him. Each of us would have to interpret words
and phrases in the light of his own mental images. And the mental images
of each were outgrowths of his individual philosophy of life.
Yes, my arguments, that had, on the way over, seemed so potent, would
not do now. In order to reach that mind of his, I must think in his
terms and not in my own. And I tried, desperately, to piece together
something like his code, as I sat there.... That man is a free and
dominant creature, half god, half beast; that a small, sheltered section
of womankind is of superior, almost divine stuff, designed to comfort
and elevate man on his god side, to bear his children and, under his
own general government, “keep his house,” while the other and greater
section of this same womankind is mysteriously of poorer stuff, and is
worthy only to do his rougher work at such a wage as can be wrung from
him or (in a pitifully matter-of-fact way) to cater to the vices of his
beast side--something like this was surely Crocker's sort of philosophy.
I tried to bring myself to realize what this meant. Holding so curious
a faith, it was surely natural enough that he should have tried to force
poor Heloise's life into his own hard mold of thought and habit. Nor
is it unnatural that he should have been outraged when this lovely
possession turned in despair from the atmosphere of suppression and
inactivity in which he had been so determined to keep her and tried,
blunderingly, all wrong, to find an outlet for the fine spirit stirring
in the depths of her being.
For this was rebellion. And Crocker, I can see, hates rebellion. His
sort always do. He is profoundly a conventional man, even in his vices.
I thought all this in a swift moment, as I sat there, wondering,
wondering, how I could say the things that must somehow be said.
Crocker waited as long as he could for me to go on, keeping himself busy
with his cigar. Once I thought I detected a furtive expression on his
face, as if he dreaded what was to come.
[Illustration: 0241]
The man was conscious of his own inner weakness, of course. He must have
been. Perhaps he remembered telling me of his solemn resolution to give
up liquor. Even as this thought occurred to me, he reached out and again
tipped that convenient bottle. It seemed to me that there was an extra
set to his chin as he did this, a slightly overemphasized casualness
that bordered on bravado.
Then he sprang to his feet and moved about the room behind me.
As for myself, I was cool enough. And, once I could hit on the proper
beginning to the talk, I felt pretty sure that I could handle the
situation. It is evident to me now that the plan I arrived at last
night, there in Heloise's room, had cleared the air for me. For I
knew--deep, deep in my heart I knew--that I stood ready to give Heloise
up. There is selfishness enough in me, God knows. There will be moments
of weakness, when the touch of her hand, the blue of her eyes or the
shadow of her long lashes on her skin--perhaps even the mention of her
name by some common acquaintance--will stir that strange magic that has,
in such different ways, torn Crocker's heart and mine. But I believe I
shall never again forget that the woman I love, has a life to build, and
that the finest duty I have is to help her build it.
I heard a rustling behind me. I turned. Crocker had thrown aside his
lounging robe, and was getting into his street clothes. While I sat
there watching him, he put on his waistcoat and coat. He put on his hat,
pushing it back on his head. Then he busied himself transferring his
pocketbook, a handful of small change, some papers and a key ring from
the pockets of another suit that hung from a hook on the closet door.