Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "The least we can do is to apologize, and we do
it--thus."--Page 299]
THE
ARCH-SATIRIST
BY
FRANCES DE WOLFE FENWICK
ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES COPELAND
"Justice had been done, and Time, the Arch-Satirist,
had had his joke out."--THOMAS HARDY.
BOSTON
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
Published, March, 1910
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD Co.
_All Rights Reserved_
_Entered at Stationer's Hall, London_
THE ARCH-SATIRIST
Norwood Press
BERWICK & SMITH CO.
Norwood, Mass., U. S. A.
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. "Half Devil and Half Child"
II. A Visit to Agatha
III. "Forsaken Guts and Creeks"
IV. A Brilliant Match
V. "Blind Fools of Fate"
VI. "Life at its End"
VII. A Short Repentance
VIII. "Punchinello"
IX. "Just a Few of the Girls"
X. "A Fin-de-siecle Pair"
XI. Visitors and Disclosures
XII. The Views of Two Women
XIII. Rejected Addresses
XIV. A Decision to be Reached
XV. "Be Pitiful, O God!"
XVI. The Hockey Match
XVII. A Scandal Verified
XVIII. Mrs. Hadwell's Fancy Dress Ball
XIX. Agatha "Does Her Duty" and is Rewarded
XX. The Twins under a New Aspect
XXI. A Lie Which Is Part a Truth
XXII. Whispering Tongues
XXIII. When Love Is Done
XXIV. Mrs. Langham-Green Pays Her Debt; and Mrs. Waite, Hers
XXV. The Shadows Fall
*THE ARCH-SATIRIST*
*CHAPTER I*
*"HALF DEVIL AND HALF CHILD"*
"Then the preacher preached of Sin ... fair of flower and bitter
of fruit."--_Juliana Horatia Ewing_.
"To me the idea of slaving for a life-time in order to die rich is a
pitiful sort of insanity. That's the Italian in me, I suppose. I would
think it wiser to drink--drink deep and long and gloriously--and die of
it--die in a ditch if necessary! _Then_ I would have lived some sort of
life, anyway, and enjoyed it after my fashion. But I'm not going to
live or die that way. I'm going to take everything in life that's worth
having, and I'm going to enjoy--and enjoy--and enjoy! The devil,
himself, can't cheat me of it. I've long arrears of happiness to make
up and by God----_I'll make them!_" The speaker broke off, coughing
horribly; a gleam of intense rage shone in his great, wild eyes and his
thin nostrils quivered, furiously. Poor slight earth-worm! caught in
the whirlwind of Destiny and tossed hither and thither! compelled to
falsify his weak boasts even as he uttered them! The man who sat
opposite, smoking and lounging in the dim light of the studio, withdrew
his gaze with an effort from his visitor's frail form and frenzied face;
there seemed something indecent in gazing thus openly at the contortions
of a naked soul.
"Have a little hot Scotch for the cough," he suggested, reluctantly.
"What's the use? I may just as well give it to him, here," he added to
himself. "The boy's trebly doomed and a drop more or less isn't going
to make any difference either way." He busied himself with a spirit
lamp and glasses and soon his visitor was gulping down the proffered
draught, greedily.
"That's good!" he exclaimed. "That puts life in me. I feel as if I
could write something now--something worth while."
"Something unfit for reading, I suppose you mean," returned his host,
cheerfully.
The boy laughed easily and settled back among the cushions of his easy
chair with panther-like grace.
"Not a bit of it," he answered, gaily. "I only write them after gin.
The best thing I ever did was gin--'Sin's Lure.' You read it?"
"I did."
"Strong, wasn't it?"
"Strong, yes. So is a--so are various other things strong. Just the
sort of thing a diseased, vice-racked, dissipated young--genius--like
you might be expected to produce. What bothers me now is your prose.
Anything more uncharacteristic"--
The boy laughed and gazed at the older man, intently and mischievously.
"Nothing morbid about that, is there?"
"Nothing. Bright, dainty, unerringly truthful, delightfully witty--how
in thunder do you do it? You must have two souls."
"Two! I've got a dozen."
The boy lit a cigarette and puffed it, meditatively. The man smoked a
well-coloured pipe and gazed steadily at his visitor. Seen thus, they
were an ill-assorted pair.
Gerald Amherst, the owner of the studio, was an artist, uncursed
overmuch by the artistic temperament. His strong, sane face and massive
figure suggested the athlete, the pose and substance of his attitude the
successful business man. Nor did the omens lie. He was an athlete in
his leisure moments, a business man at all times. Art was his
occupation, his delight; but he never forgot that she was also his
bread-winner. Amherst painted good, sometimes exceptional pictures; and
he demanded--and obtained--good, sometimes exceptional prices for them.
For the rest he was thirty-four, fine-looking, well-bred, honest--and
popular. Friends came to him as flies come in July to ordinary mortals.
So alien was his visitor that he hardly seemed to belong to the same
world. Lithe, long-limbed, sinuous, with features of almost feminine
delicacy and charm and hands that made the artist soul in Gerald vibrate
pleasurably. The eyes--deep-set, hollow, passionate--were the eyes of a
lost soul; impenetrable, fathomless, and lurid.
Strange, alluring, repellent personality! where the seeds of a thousand
sins--sown centuries before--bore hideous fruit. Madness, vice, disease,
and death--and, through them all, the golden fire of genius! This boy's
age was nineteen; and no second glance was needed to tell that the
fierce, straining spirit must soon leave its wretched tenement behind
and fare forth into darkness. In the meantime--Amherst puffed at his
pipe and thought. A year ago this boy had been a pet and idol of
Montreal society; to-day his open corruptness had closed all doors to
him save those of a few, who, like Amherst, forgave the madman in the
genius, and the beast in the dying boy.
Then, too, our hero was an artist; and Leo Ricossia was a model such as
artist seldom sees. He was graceful as some young wild animal; his
delicately nervous body could form no pose that was not pleasing. As
for his face--thin-lipped, wide-eyed, luminous--"Ricossia will never
write a poem so wonderful as his face," a brother-artist had once
remarked; and Amherst fully concurred in the opinion.
Ricossia spoke presently, his dark eyes heavy with thought.
"You think it possible that one may have ten souls?"
"I think it probable that one soul may have twenty outlooks, and all of
them vile, when he has soaked in sufficient gin. But how an unhealthy
mind can produce healthy stuff--that's beyond me. Your prose is
healthy, and what's more, it's fine. It ranks with"--He stopped
abruptly, amazed and confounded by the glitter in Ricossia's eye.
"You--you don't think it better than my poetry? You can't!"
"I think--in a sense--it is better!" Amherst spoke slowly and Ricossia
leaned forward to catch his words with an avidity which seemed
disproportioned to the matter in hand. "In another sense it's not so
good, of course. The poems are unhealthy, feverish, abnormal--but, in
their way, they're efforts of genius. The stories are simply very
unusually clever prose--healthy, witty, and clean. Personally I prefer
them."
"You--you miserable Philistine!"
The boy leaned back as though relieved and his scarlet lips parted in a
smile of startling sweetness. The eyes had lost their wild gleam now
and were simply wells of dusky kindness and fellowship; the eyes of an
intelligent, friendly brute with something added. Gerald noted the
change with unflagging interest; as a study the boy never palled.
"You think I'm a bad lot, don't you?"
"I think you're as bad as the worst. But a chap like you isn't to be
judged by ordinary standards."
"Yet," pursued Ricossia, slowly, "you allow that I can write clean
stuff. Perhaps in spite of it all, underneath it all--my soul is clean."
"I hope so; but I don't believe it for a moment. No, I can't account
for it that way."
"Possibly," suggested the other, puffing fitfully, "possibly, then, my
unclean spirit has gained control of some healthy, human soul which it
dominates."
"Possibly you're talking awful rot," returned the other, good-humouredly
but a trifle impatiently.
"Possibly I am."
The poet smiled softly and leaned back, making a lovely thing of the
corner where he lounged.
"Healthy people often have a liking for me," he observed. "You, for
instance--the healthiest man I know. And the healthiest woman--Miss
Thayer."
"That'll do."
"What do you mean?"
"That you mustn't speak of her."
"Why?"
"You ought to know."
The boy stared, uncomprehendingly; then threw himself back, chuckling
inaudibly.
"You didn't understand me," he said at last, his beautiful eyes bright
with amusement. "She has far too much sense to be attracted by me in
the ordinary way. I meant only"--
"I don't care what you meant. I don't like to talk to you about her and
I won't. If she did bestow a good deal of attention on you at one time
it was before she knew your real character; she regarded you just as a
sick, inspired boy. None of them ever speak of you, now; you ought to
know that."
Ricossia fixed his great eyes on the speaker's face with an impenetrable
expression, then shook with silent laughter.
"We'll talk on some less delicate subject," he said at last with a keen,
bright glance at the other man, replete with subtle mockery. "Still,"
he added, softly, "you'll allow--leaving all personalities out of the
question--that I have a magnetic attraction for all women, good and
bad--even if I am ostracized from polite society."
"I'll allow nothing--I don't want to discuss it, I tell you," said
Amherst, irritably. "There are some things and some people one doesn't
care to hear you mention, you young-- Can't you understand that?"
"Perfectly!" returned the boy, laughing. His laugh was an uncanny thing,
so melodious and bell-like as to be startlingly unmasculine. Amherst
liked it no better than the rest of him--and found it equally
attractive.
After all, he mused, his momentary irritation subsiding, our ideas of
what a man should be were arbitrary. Certainly there was a beauty of
disease; a beauty even of corruption, which, while no one cared to
imitate, no one, on the other hand, could deny the existence of. Here
was a living example; the scapegoat of heredity, laden down with sin,
weighted with disease, yet possessed of how many goodly gifts! And all
to end in--what? The passion of the hot heart, the sweat of the
over-active brain--all, all for nothing. An evil life and an early
grave. Retribution, yes; but retribution, really, for the sins of the
dead men whose deeds lived, poisoning the life and rotting the blood in
the veins of this, their human puppet. And these dead men, what of
them? What of their life, endlessly self-renewed, unceasingly sinned
against until this, the last representative of a name that had once been
great, went to fertilize the waiting earth. "About all he is fit for,
too," mused Gerald grimly enough, noting the signs plainly written on
the face of the boy. Then his mood changed. How pitiful! This
beautiful creature, in nature a cross between a satyr and an elfin, in
face, nothing short of a god; this "vessel of a more ungainly make"
"leaning all awry"; this marionette of the scornful gods, dancing gaily
enough, to every tune the devil chose to play him; this strange, only
half human being of the unbridled will, the untempered desires. And
only nineteen!
The studio showed bright with candle-light and lamp-light. A fire of
wood and coal glowed and chattered on the hearth. It was all very quiet,
very restful. The boy still lingered among the rich-hued cushions and
his face showed an unwonted sense of peace.
The poetic instincts which an Italian father, an Irish grandmother, had
bequeathed to him responded amazingly to this atmosphere of cosy,
sinless warmth. He was quite capable of rising to heights of
extraordinary mental spirituality at such moments, though quite
incapable of applying the first principle of morality to his daily life.
Gerald Amherst thought, as he had thought many times before, of the
strange inequalities of life. Here was he, thirty-four, the possessor
of a sound body, a clear conscience, a healthy mind and a sufficient
income. He reflected on these various advantages with no sense of
personal merit, feeling that they had been bequeathed to him as truly as
had the old mahogany chest which formed one of the chief ornaments of
his room. He had certainly started as well equipped as most to play the
great game of life.
What if he, too, had had this boy's heritage? He tried, smiling a
little, to imagine himself a Ricossia; a doomed, reckless, light-hearted
being who chose to spend his few remaining years in hopeless vice. As
he thought, a sudden pity for the boy overtook him as it had very often
done before, a sudden curiosity as to what really transpired behind the
black veil which we all hang between our inmost selves and the eyes of
our fellow-humans. Did the boy ever feel regret or shame or loathing
for himself or reluctance to continue in his vile career? Would he
confess to it if he did? Amherst, pressed by a sudden desire to know
more of his whimsical visitant, questioned him, soberly.
"I say--Leo!"
"Well, old man?"
"You've been going it a bit, lately, haven't you? Drinking pretty hard?
Drugs, too, of some sort, I fancy. You look pretty seedy."
The boy started and glanced hastily in a polished, steel mirror which
hung near. What he saw evidently re-assured him, for he tossed his black
head and smiled, carelessly.
"I think I look pretty fit," he said, coolly. "I'd hate to think
otherwise. My word! I don't know what I'd do if--some fellows show
that sort of thing so. Swollen faces, purple round the nose and all
that--you know?"
"I know."
"But I'm not in that class, yet, thank the Lord."
"Yes, but suppose the Lord went back on you and handed you the red nose
and the pimples and all the other ornaments which rightfully belong to
you--what then?"
"Then?--oh, then, I'd end it very quickly. I can't bear to have an ugly
object in the room with me; do you think I could bear to be one myself?
Chloral's painless."
"Yes, and cheap. The idea of suicide appeals to you, then?"
"Not especially," answered the boy, beginning to stir, restlessly. "But
one must do something if the worst comes to the worst."
"I wonder, if you feel like that, that you continue to live. Do you
really think your life's worth living?"
"No," answered Ricossia, calmly. "Do you think yours is?"
Gerald stopped half-way in an answer, struck by a sudden thought. _Was_
his life worth living? It was a good life as lives go; but if he could
exchange it now, to-night, for total oblivion, absolute insurance
against future pain, old age, illness, sorrow--would he, or would he
not? He hesitated.
"I ask you," pursued Ricossia, quietly, "because, just now, as I leaned
back here in your comfortable chair with your fire dancing in my eyes
and your good drink warming the very cockles of my heart, I thought of
you and, for a moment, envied you. Then I thought of your life. Your
tiresome routine of work, exercise, wholesome food, good air, sound
sleep--God! how do you stand it? I'd go mad!"
"You think your own life preferable?"
"My life _is_ life of a kind. My cough's a devilish nuisance but I can
always purchase oblivion with a few cents--oblivion! Have you ever known
what it is to want sleep? No? I thought not. Wait until you have.
Then know what it is to want sleep _and to get it_; to drop off to
slumber, lulled with pleasant thoughts, dreams, fancies, and to feel no
pain, no bother, nothing but a delicious drowsiness. Of course the
waking up is bad--but you don't think of that; if you did, I suppose
you'd take a bigger dose once for all."
"I'm not paid to induce you to commit suicide, but, feeling as you do, I
wonder what on earth you live for?"
"So do I. So do most of us. But of course there is only one answer to
that question; namely, that Nature has implanted in the breast of the
tiniest insect that lives and crawls on the face of this globe not only
the desire to live but the intention to live. It's an instinct. We all
have it. Life is a horrible thing, really. This world is an unspeakable
place. But none of us wants to leave it all the same. That may be
because it is the only life we have or it may be because there's a worse
life waiting. But I don't believe that, someway. Though the Creator
seems pretty cruel at times I think perhaps old Khayyam did him no
injustice. 'He's a good fellow and 'twill all be well.' And now,
Amherst, yarning always makes me restless and dry and the night's still
young. I'm going to get drunk."
"Hold on!" expostulated Amherst, genuinely shocked and startled, he
could hardly tell why, at this most unexpected and unpleasant ending to
their talk. "Don't do it, Ricossia. How can you? What--what can you
expect from the 'Good Fellow' if you fly in his face, that way? It's
devilish, that's what it is. Stay and let me fix you up for the night,
you young fool, you!"
Ricossia laughed. "You're a funny old boy, Amherst," he observed,
meditatively. "I wonder what it feels like to have a conscience. I'd
rather have a drink--a series of drinks! 'My Clay with long oblivion
has gone dry.' As for the 'Good Fellow'--I haven't seen anything of
him, yet. Have you? But the other old Boy is howling to be fed, so I'm
off. Good-night."
*CHAPTER II*
*A VISIT TO AGATHA*
"This life of ours is a wild AEolian harp of many a joyous
strain--
But under them all there runs a loud, perpetual wail as of
souls in pain."--_Longfellow_.
Agatha Ladilaw had made a pink dress and was embroidering it with roses.
Each of us has some particular talent; Agatha's was dressmaking. Her
parents were not wealthy and therefore she could not indulge in the
"creations" affected by many of her friends; but by dint of constant
industry, excellent taste and unusual skill, she contrived to be always
charmingly costumed. True, with a figure that might have stepped out of
a Fifth Avenue shop window and a face which any colour rendered lovely,
she did not confront the difficulties of ordinary mortals.
As physical perfection is rare and as Agatha Ladilaw was, in her way, an
unusually fine specimen of purely mundane and limited loveliness, a pen
picture of her as she sat may be of interest.
Nature in planning Agatha had done unusually well. She had not only
bestowed upon her a great amount of comeliness, but she had, apparently,
taken pride in finishing her work in a way that is not common. How often
a pretty face is spoilt by an irregular nose, a large ear, an imperfect
contour of cheek or brow! In Agatha's case, however, no pains had been
spared to produce a thoroughly bewitching whole. While face and form
were sufficiently classical in outline to satisfy the most exacting,
there was a warmth, a colour, a radiance about her, born partly of
exuberant youth, partly of brilliant health. Her eyes were wonderful;
purple pansies, black-lashed, white-lidded; her hair was a ripe
chestnut, deepening to auburn, lightening to gold. Her skin had that
pure satin whiteness peculiar to extreme youth; her hands were plump,
dimpled, tapering, with pink palms and transparent nails. Her teeth
were white, tiny and sharp; when she smiled, her pink cheeks broke into
enchanting dimples which added the last touch of enticement to her
kitten-like charms.
Nature had planned her upon classic lines--a sort of pocket edition
Venus. Agatha, however, after a careful perusal of the fashion plates
every spring, moulded her figure in accordance with the latest "craze."
When long waists and narrow hips held sway, Agatha presented a
faultlessly correct outline; when the coquettish athlete adorned
magazine covers, Agatha might have passed for her sister. How all this
was accomplished with no injury to health is a mystery which only the
corsetiere can solve; Agatha at all times might have sat for a picture
of Hebe.
For the rest, she was slightly under medium height, a fact which she
publicly deplored, but for which she was secretly grateful. She did not
admire tall girls; in fact, she did not admire anybody or anything which
differed very greatly from her extremely attractive self. She had an
intense and artistic appreciation of her various good points and looked
with pity on those to whom the fairies had been less lavish. One who
came in for a share of this ingenuous pity was her cousin, Lynn Thayer.
This young lady had dropped in at the time the chapter opens, for a cup
of tea, in accordance with a long-deferred promise. As she sank into an
easy-chair and loosened her furs she smiled at Agatha with a smile which
held no tinge of envy. For Lynn, while cherishing in common with many
plain women an enthusiastic admiration for beauty, enjoyed it in much
the same way that she enjoyed music; intensely, even emotionally, but
impersonally. Notwithstanding, she attached an exaggerated importance to
it and affected her small cousin more than she otherwise might have done
because she possessed it in such unstinted measure.
As she sat, idly watching Agatha's white fingers moving through the pink
draperies of the gown which she was embroidering, the thought of Leo
Ricossia occurred to her and she mentally compared them. Both were
beautiful to an extraordinary degree; but Agatha's beauty suggested
roses, kittens, Cupids, everything that was soft and appealing,
exquisite and empty, while Ricossia's beauty suggested storm, flaming
sunset, glorious music. His was, in short, the beauty of a young caged
tiger, Agatha's the loveliness of a very perfect white Persian kitten.
Lynn laughed as this simile presented itself to her mind; it seemed to
her singularly apropos. What different worlds they inhabited, these two
radiant young creatures! Ricossia represented the pagan element, Agatha
was the last word of civilized young-ladyship. The world was wide
enough to contain both; nay, this little, stately old city was wide
enough for that. They lived within an hour's distance of one another,
as far asunder in thought, life, knowledge, ideals as is this little
earth from "the last star's uttermost distance."
Lynn Thayer's and Agatha Ladilaw's mothers had been sisters and both had
been beauties. Lynn, however, as her maternal relatives were fond of
remarking, had "taken after her father." Though her face was pleasing
it was rather plain; plain, not ugly; for its plainness consisted rather
in lack of positive beauty than in any particular defect. Her hair was
brown and abundant, her eyes deep-set and giving the effect of brown to
the casual observer, although, as a matter of fact, they were a dark
greyish green. Her skin was colourless, her mouth, large and
thin-lipped, her nose, ordinary. However, her figure was excellent of
its kind, tall, straight, flat-backed, and, while delicately
proportioned, giving the effect of considerable reserve strength. Her
movements, too, were graceful, but graceful somewhat as a young boy's
are graceful, alert, easy, noiseless and entirely lacking in effort or
self-consciousness. Perhaps her only positive beauty consisted in her
teeth which, though not dainty like Agatha's, were white and regular.
It would hardly be fair to say that her face lacked expression, but it
was not a mobile face; habits of self-control and repression had stamped
themselves too deeply in her nature not to show elsewhere. Her bearing
was dignified and even distinguished and her voice well-modulated and
soft. As a whole, she was the sort of girl whom one might meet any day
in any city of the continent; a girl who was no longer young, yet showed
no signs of age; a girl who could never be pretty, yet would hardly be
considered ugly; a girl who wore dark coloured tailor-made costumes and
looked like a lady in them; a girl who closely resembled scores of other
girls the world over.
Lynn Thayer occupied a somewhat unusual position in Montreal. Her
mother had been a pretty woman of fashion, her father a well-to-do man.
However, her father dying shortly after his marriage and her mother
losing all her money in a way which shall be explained elsewhere, Lynn
had been left penniless. Her father's only living brother had offered
her a home and a dress allowance; but she had refused the latter, had
qualified as a public school teacher, and was earning a regular salary
in one of the Board Schools. As both her father's and her mother's
relatives were people of some wealth and much social standing, she
occupied an anomalous position in what is known as "society." As a
young girl she had "gone out" quite a little; now for reasons which
shall presently develop, she went only to the homes of intimate friends
and was seldom seen in public.
Oddly enough Lynn Thayer possessed a considerable fascination for both
sexes. All men and most women liked her. She had never been pretty and
was no longer a young girl, but her attraction had rather augmented than
diminished as time went by. Debutantes, secure in the possession of
unimpeachable gowns and rosy cheeks, often looked with amazement at the
alacrity with which their partners left them for a dance with Miss
Thayer. Probably these same partners would have found it difficult to
explain why, themselves. Lynn always created the impression that she
was a nice girl; a positive "nice girl," not a negative "nice girl."
People liked her. Children "took to her" at once, dogs followed her;
cats jumped on her knee without waiting for an invitation. Beyond an
admirable figure and a pretty wit she possessed no surface charms; but
something about her attracted and inspired confidence and trust. It is
difficult to say why one excellent person is universally liked, another
excellent person universally detested, another excellent person
universally respected and shunned. Lynn Thayer belonged to the first
class, that was all.
Certainly no two girls could resemble one another less than the cousins.
Lynn was at best "a nice-looking girl," Agatha was "a dream." She
showed to excellent advantage, too, in her mother's house where
everything had been planned with an eye to the petted daughter as the
central figure.
It was a very pretty sitting-room where Agatha Ladilaw sat, this cold
January day. Without, the sharp air cut like a knife; within, all was
comfort, warmth, cosiness. It would be difficult to imagine Agatha in
anything but elegant and graceful surroundings. She was like a lovely,
white, Persian kitten who had fed on cream and lain on cushions all her
life; and, someway, one always knew that she would continue to feed on
cream and lie on silk even if she lost her fur and her teeth in the
course of time. If certain natures carry within themselves the elements
of tragedy, others carry within themselves not only the desire for the
soft things of life but the capacity for obtaining them. To the latter
class Agatha undoubtedly belonged. Her beautiful aunt, Lynn's mother,
had made rather a mess of her life, in spite of the fact that she had
had all and more than Agatha possessed in the way of beauty and
fascination. One knew instinctively that Agatha would never fall into
her mistakes. In the first place she would not wait till twenty-five
before marrying; in the second place she would never dislike any man who
fed and clothed her sumptuously; in the third place she would never be
carried away by any indiscreet and expensive infatuation. In short
Agatha was quite the most correct thing in young ladies, eminently
satisfactory and desirable.
The room where Agatha liked to sit with embroidery or sewing was long,
low, light. The bay-window was filled with plants, and the fragrance of
mignonette and jasmine hung about the rose-coloured curtains which
draped the alcove and separated it from the rest of the room. The
furniture was light and artistic rather than costly; easy chairs
upholstered in rose-patterned chintz; mission-wood tables, bookcases and
"rockers"; the inevitable "cosy corner," cushioned to the last degree of
comfort; a green carpet displaying a border of various-coloured roses; a
silver-laden tea-table, a table containing books and magazines--mostly
uncut; another containing one beautiful vase of cut flowers. Presently,
when dusk arrived, the room would be suffused with rose-coloured
lamp-light, but, at present, the winter sun flooding the room and the
tiny fire which burned on the hearth gave a sufficient suggestion of
cheer.
Agatha in her pink environment sewing on a pink dress gave one a
delightful sense of the eternal fitness of things. One forgot, for the
time being, the bitter January wind howling outside, the flock of black
cares that dog the footsteps of ordinary mortals. Agatha certainly had
her place in the scheme of the universe, just as the Persian kitten has.
If the kitten were thrust out into the world and told to earn its
cream--that would be another story.
Agatha, as has before been stated, would never have to earn her cream,
otherwise than by existing and ornamenting. She would always be
cheerfully ready to pay for it whenever necessary in the coin with which
Nature had so richly endowed her. Therefore it will at once be seen that
Agatha was a most satisfactory girl; everything that a young lady ought
to be; just the sort of person who could be depended upon to give
Society no shocks and her parents no anxiety.
Lynn almost wished that Agatha would not think it necessary to talk; the
fire-lit, rose-decorated room and the beautiful little occupant who sat,
absorbed in her draperies, were both so eminently satisfactory from an
artistic point of view that she would have preferred to lounge idly, and
enjoy them. Everything about Agatha was so attractive, so feminine, in
such charming taste. The delicate white fingers moving in and out of
the pink draperies; the graceful pose of the pretty figure in the easy
chair; the absorbed, almost spiritual expression of the great, violet
eyes; all charmed Lynn, even while she realized their misleadingness and
realized, too, that, by breaking into these absorbed meditations, one
was liable to disturb nothing more important than the set of an
imaginary train. Soon, however, Agatha spoke; slowly and with something
resembling an effort.
"Lynn, what do you think of Harry Shaftan, the General's nephew?"
"He's a nice boy."
"Nicer than Howard Pyle or Jimmy Gresham?"
"I believe I like him better."
"What do you think of the others?"
"Why? Are you engaged to any of them?" asked Lynn, laughing.
"Oh, no! That is--I mean to say--yes. I mean, I'm engaged to them all."
Lynn leaned back and gasped. Agatha continued to embroider.
"And--may I ask which one you intend to marry?"
"I don't know, exactly," confessed Agatha, poising her needle on her
pink lip and gazing reflectively heavenward. "They're all nice; but I
don't think I'll marry any of them."
"Agatha Ladilaw! What do you mean?"
"Why, lots of engagements are broken," said Agatha, looking surprised.
"Lots and lots of them. If I found that I didn't really love any of
these men--that the real passion of my life was yet to come--you
wouldn't advise me to marry them, would you?" She looked at her cousin
with an air of virtuous surprise and Lynn shouted.
"Oh, Agatha, you're a treat!" she exclaimed, with intense enjoyment. "A
veritable, living treat!"
"I really don't see why," said Agatha, coldly, proceeding to thread a
needle with an offended air. "And if you're going to laugh about
serious subjects like love and marriage, why, I won't talk about them,
that's all."
This consummation was far from Lynn's desire; and by dint of earnest and
respectful entreaties she finally induced her small cousin to continue.
"What made you accept them all in the first place?" she asked with
interest.
"Why, they all wanted me," said Agatha, simply. "And it's so hard to
say no to a nice man. Even if he isn't nice, it's not easy. And you
said yourself that they"--
"But, Agatha?"
"Yes?"
"Doesn't it seem queer to--well, to let three men kiss you at the same
time?"
"The idea!" said Agatha, haughtily. "Of course they don't all do it at
once. I very seldom see more than one of them in the same evening."
"Oh, don't be silly, Agatha; you must know what I mean. Doesn't it
seem--isn't it a little hard to"--
"Why, no," said Agatha, staring, "it's the easiest thing in the world."
"Dear me! You don't feel at all sneaky or confused about it?"
"Confused? Why, no. You see, I've always been engaged to two or three
people more or less ever since I was fifteen; of course before that it
wasn't really necessary."
"How do you mean?"
"Why, to be engaged, you know! one didn't have to be. But after you're
fifteen, it seems rather fast, somehow, to let people kiss you that
you're not engaged to."
"I had no idea you were so particular," murmured Lynn, bending down to
hide a smile.
"Oh, I always think a girl can't be too particular about those things,"
said Agatha, firmly. "Because suppose someone happened to see you! All
you have to do then is to say, 'To tell you the truth, I'm engaged to
Mr. ----,' whichever one it was. And there you are!"
"And suppose the same person found you with one of the others--what
then?"
"Oh, that would be very unlucky. I don't believe I would ever be so
unlucky as that. And, Lynn, now that I have taken you into my
confidence and told you things, won't you make a friend of me? and let
me give you a little advice?"
"Why, yes," said Lynn, smiling.
"It's about Mr. Lighton. You know he is so eligible and it would be so
dreadful if, by any mismanagement, you let him slip through your
fingers."
"Oh!"
"Yes, indeed; and men are so deceitful," continued Agatha, piously, "you
can't tell a thing about them, you really can't. Now there was a case I
knew; it was something like yours only not so disappointing, for the man
had only two thousand a year. But he kept running after this girl, just
the way Lighton does after you, and everybody thought he meant
something. People kept expecting to hear the engagement announced; but
it never came off."
"What was the trouble?"
"Why, you know, it was the queerest thing! he kept calling and calling
and every time you'd think he was going to propose; but _he never did_.
So the girl got mad. She said she simply wasn't going to stand it a
moment longer, so she packed her trunk and went off to stay with some
people in Toronto. She was not going to have any such nonsense. But it
didn't do any good, for he married some one else."
"What a sad story!"
"Isn't it?" agreed Agatha, oblivious of sarcasm. "But she was very
lucky, for she met someone who had quite six hundred a year more than
the first man had, and he proposed to her quite quickly, and so then of
course they were married, and I sent them a centrepiece that I had
embroidered, myself. It was a very handsome one but you see Toronto is
a nice place to stay in."
"Oh, I quite see why you sent it. I also see why you told me the story.
It has a moral. If the man who is rushing you doesn't propose after a
reasonable space of time--go to Toronto! Isn't that the idea?"
"You are so clever," said Agatha with an apologetic smile, "that
sometimes I don't quite understand you. But if you mean that you think
that I am advising you to go to Toronto, that isn't right, because any
other place would do as well. Except that, of course, there are quite a
good many men in Toronto."
"And you think that one of them might be induced to accept me?"
"Why not?" said Agatha, encouragingly. "But, of course, you wouldn't be
at all likely to make another match like Mr. Lighton. So that is why I
want you to be so particularly careful. You don't take these things
seriously enough, Lynn, you know you don't. You must remember that you
are getting on."
"Every year brings me nearer the grave, but no nearer matrimony,"
commented Lynn, assuming an appropriately funereal aspect.
"Oh, don't say that!" cried Agatha, looking genuinely shocked. "Please
don't! It sounds so dreadfully as if it might be-- And I am sure Mr.
Lighton is most attentive and Mr. Amherst and two or three others call
pretty often, don't they?"
"Yet," said her cousin, solemnly, "I think myself, Agatha, that there is
just one little thing which is going to effectually prevent Mr. Lighton
from marrying me. You mark my words! as sure as I stand here just so
surely will I never be Mrs. Lighton. This one little obstacle is going
to stand in the way."
"Why, what can it be?" queried Agatha, with intense interest.
"You have no idea?"
"Why, no."
"I thought that you wouldn't have," returned Lynn, very gravely.
"It won't prevent him from proposing, will it?"
"Not a bit of it. It will only prevent him from marrying--that is, from
marrying me."
"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Agatha in genuine distress. "And to think of
all the men you have refused, Lynn! and I suppose that there isn't one
you could get back at a pinch."
"I fear not. The majority are either dead or married and the Grave and
the Other Woman do not disburse."
"No, indeed," sighed her mentor. "And it's so necessary for you to
marry, Lynn, for if Uncle Horace died to-morrow he would leave Aunt Lucy
everything and there would be nothing left for you. Oh, what a pity
that your mother's money was all spent."
"Yes, it seems a little unfortunate."
"That dreadful Italian! What a pity Aunt Clara married him after your
father died. And didn't they have a son? What has become of him?"
"My dear Agatha, how should I know?" said Lynn, restlessly. "Don't you
remember that, when Uncle Horace adopted me, he did it with the distinct
understanding that I was to hold no communication with my mother and my
little half-brother?"
"Oh, how dreadful! How could you bear to be parted from your own dear
mother for ever?"
Lynn surveyed the questioner with a slight smile.
"Oh, I enjoyed the feeling that I brought in six hundred a year. I knew
that it would procure my mother more pleasure than my society could, and
that, with six hundred a year, her baby boy, and an occasional kiss from
the biggest blackguard the Lord ever let loose on earth, she would be as
happy as she could ever be. Poor mother! she was pretty, they say, even
when she lay dead; her beauty didn't do her much good, but, on the other
hand, my ugliness hasn't profited me, greatly. On the whole, I wish I
looked like her."
"Aunt Clara was so awfully pretty and that Italian she married was so
wonderfully handsome! the boy must have been a perfect little beauty."
"He was." Lynn spoke without enthusiasm.
"Weren't you fond of him?
"Very."
"Wouldn't you like to see him, again?"
"No--yes"--
"I don't believe you cared much about him, really."
Lynn looked at her and smiled.
"I was nine when he was born. My own father had died when I was a baby
and my earliest recollections are those of seeing my mother crying half
the day because my stepfather was out and laughing and chatting wildly
because he was in. She never noticed me. I was an ugly little thing
and she worshipped beauty--as I do. Besides, there are certain people
who seem to suck the lifeblood of all who care for them, and my
stepfather was of these; her love for him was a feverish thing, a thing
that absorbed and tortured and finally killed her. Such is the perfect
justice of the universe! no good man or woman ever receives that
idolatrous love; it is only the vile, the utterly selfish, the
heartlessly cruel--oh, here! what am I saying? To return to my story; I
had a nurse till we grew too poor, then I looked after myself. Then ...
the baby came. The baby! Oh, Agatha, if you had seen him! He was so
beautiful, so utterly dear and heavenly, and no one had ever cared for
me, and he--the very first time I saw him he put out his tiny hand and
the little fingers twined about mine ... oh, my baby, my baby, how could
I ever love anything in earth or heaven as I loved you? Well! for three
years I was always with him and then--and then Uncle Horace wanted to
adopt me, to rescue me, as he called it. And--I went. I was twelve
years old at the time--in years--and I realized, in the bitterest moment
of my life, that to go meant money and comfort and pleasure for him--my
idol! All I could do for him was to leave him--I saw it plainly--and I
went without a word. I went. I wonder if any misery in after life can
ever compare with the agony of that last hour when I sat, holding him in
my arms and rocking him to and fro--and waiting. The carriage came at
last to take me to the station and I kissed the wonderful little face
and looked into the marvellous baby eyes and went! Oh, my baby, my
baby, if I ever have a child of my own, will he, can he, ever be to me
what you were, I wonder!--dear me, what a lot of nonsense I'm talking,
Agatha! You mustn't mind."
"Not at all," said Agatha, politely, "it's interesting. I had no idea
that you were so fond of babies, Lynn. But it seems so queer that you
don't know where he is, now. What became of him when your mother died?
He was about ten, wasn't he? for I remember you were nineteen."
"Yes, he was ten. Oh, he lived at school and then with his father till
the latter died of consumption. That was two years ago."
"And now?"
"Why, now--he is probably living somewhere else. He is a man, you see,
and able to take care of himself."
"But, oh, Lynn dear, you show so little feeling," said Agatha, with
dainty reproach. "Not to care what has become of that boy--when you used
to be so fond of him."
"Oh, we forget everybody and everything--in time," returned Lynn,
listlessly. "At least," she added in a lower voice, "I hope we do."
"Yes, I suppose so," said Agatha, comfortably. "Lynn, did you ever see
anything so sweet as that last rosebud I've just made? And it's given
me such a lovely idea. The very next fancy dress ball I'm asked to,
I'll go as the Queen of the Roses. Don't you think that will be lovely?
Pale pink, you know, with garlands of rosebuds and a rose-wreath. Ring
for tea, won't you, please? I'm dying for a cup, and it's getting too
dark to work."
*CHAPTER III*
*"FORSAKEN GUTS AND CREEKS"*
"If we have loved but well
Under the sun,
Let the last morrow tell
What we have done."
--_Bliss Carman_.
On an exceptionally disreputable Montreal street stood a particularly
unsavoury old studio building. Like other unsavoury things it had an
interesting history, having, in its palmy days, belonged to an English
duke. The duke was now dust and the studio building unpopular with the
constabulary. Yet an air of former greatness enveloped it and its
large, spacious halls and lofty ceilings bore mute and pathetic
testimony to the grandeur of former days.
In an apartment which a duchess had once inhabited rats and spiders
revelled, unrebuked, save when, once a week, a wild-eyed slattern
clattered noisily in and attacked them with broom and scrubbing-brush.
Sometimes the heavy old-fashioned door was locked and she went away
rejoicing; sometimes it was merely closed, in which case she entered
fearlessly and performed her tasks as expeditiously and abominably as
possible. Frequently, during these revels, the lithe form of Mr.
Ricossia might have been discerned, stretched upon the studio couch in
deep and peaceful slumber. Even the prosaic and work-harrowed drudge of
the Chatham was wont to pause occasionally and gaze with something
approaching awe at the frail form and beautiful face of the
opium-drugged consumptive. A spiritual majesty lay on his brow and his
whole being seemed expressive of an unearthly peace and a sombre
loveliness. Like some dark, fallen star he lay quiescent in the dim
light of the studio; a thing to make one's heart ache when one reflected
that he, too, was born of a human mother.
Mr. Ricossia's movements were uncertain, however; and one fine January
evening found him sitting at the studio table, smoking and scribbling,
busily. Presently the door opened; he looked up, pleasantly, showing no
surprise, and bent over his writing.
"Just a minute!" he said, in a low voice.
The visitor nodded, closed the door quietly, and stood as though
waiting. Presently she raised a thick veil and fixed her eyes intently
on the writer. They were sombre eyes, not over large but somewhat
expressive; and as she watched the other occupant of the studio, they
dilated and glowed in a way that was almost fierce and wholly human. So
might a fire-tortured martyr have regarded in death the symbol of his
faith, the cross for which he died.
Presently the woman spoke.
"I can only stay a few minutes, my darling," she said in a low voice,
vibrating with painful tenderness. "There is the money."
The boy sprang to his feet and grasped it, his dark eyes aflame with
eagerness. Hastily, greedily, he counted it over, then put it in his
pocket and turned to the woman with a brilliant smile.
"That is fine," he said, his flute-like voice making melody in the
studio and in his hearer's heart. "You must have done well, lately.
How much have you sold altogether?"
"A long story to the 'Alhambra,' a funny skit to the 'Woman's Hearth'
and an article or two to some smaller concerns. Try to make it last,
for I had to spend nearly all my month's salary--oh, Liol, Liol!"
A burst of coughing interrupted her and turned her wind-flushed face
white. She stood in silence, knowing that nothing infuriated the dying
boy like sympathy, and held her breath, waiting for the paroxysm to
pass. So long did it last, however, that she forgot all caution and,
rushing to the sick man's side, caught his hand and screamed aloud.
"Oh, Liol, Liol, do you want to kill me? Won't you go to that retreat?
and try to live for my sake? Oh try, only try! I can't bear it! I
thought I could, but I can't. Oh, for God's sake, go! try it, only try
it for a little while"--
He snatched his hand away and flung himself on the couch, shaking with
weakness and fury.
"Again?" he cried, raging. "You ask me again to go to one of those vile
cures? after all I've said and sworn? God in Heaven! how often must I
tell you that, if I've only a few months to live, I'm going to _live!_
not die by inches. Fool that you are!"
She covered her face with her hands and turned away from him.
"Go to those beastly mountains," he snarled, venomously. "Go where all
that makes life worth living will be out of reach and I dogged by a pack
of vile, prying doctors and attendants! If you're tired of keeping me
I'll take an extra dose and end it to-night!"
"Liol!"
"Then don't madden me! Here! you said you couldn't stay long, didn't
you? My last poems are on the table. Send a couple more to 'Hosmer's
Monthly'--they asked for them--God! is this another fit coming on? ...
There! I feel better. It passes sometimes and I daresay I'll outlive
you all, yet." His face brightened and became luminous with hope and
defiance. The terrible paroxysm of coughing had flooded his dusky cheeks
with rose; his black hair curled limply back from his damp forehead; his
magnificent eyes expanded and fired with the consumptive's cheating
illusion of future health. Beside his glowing, burning beauty Lynn
Thayer seemed one of those daughters of earth who, in former ages, loved
the sons of God. She devoured him with her eyes in a silence so tense
and sorrow-laden that the very air seemed to vibrate with it.
"Ah God, how I love you," she said at last, hopelessly. "And you--oh,
Liol, Liol, you never even kissed me, to-night."
"What? Never even kissed you?" answered the other, good-humouredly.
"Well, but, my dear old girl, you must remember that the fool doctors
say that consumption's catching. They're right, too; I caught it from
my father, curse him! I wouldn't be where I am to-day if it wasn't for
him." His face darkened, moodily; then he shrugged his shoulders and
held out his arms with a smile that was more mirthful than tender.
Lynn Thayer walked swiftly to the couch, dropped on her knees beside it
and buried her face in the frail shoulder of its occupant. She remained
thus for a few minutes while he wound thin arms about her and murmured
endearments which held a perfunctory note even to her love-deafened
ears. Presently she rose.
"Leo Ricossia is making quite a name by his prose writing," she said
with forced cheerfulness. "I must try to keep it up, Liol. Do you
remember when I called you 'Liol' once, before some people and they
thought it so funny and we were so worried about it? Yet you see no one
has ever suspected anything."
"No. If they did, I suppose it would have to come out," said the boy,
slowly.
"What?"
Lynn started and looked confounded.
"What?" she cried. "Break my word to my dead mother? Tell who you are?
how she made me promise to keep you and watch over you until you died
and let no one know who you were?--What are you dreaming of, Liol?"