TRAVESTY
Out in the street, in front of the Gleason cottage, the red car glistened
in the moonlight. In the shade of the familiar veranda Roberts tossed his
gauntlets and cap on the floor and drew forth two wicker rocking-chairs
where they would catch the slight midsummer night wind.
"Hottest night of the season, I fancy," he commented, as he helped his
companion remove her dust coat and waited thereafter until she was seated
before he took the place by her side. "Old Reliable number two certainly
did us a good turn this evening. Runs like an advertisement, doesn't
it?"
It was a minute before the girl answered. "Yes. It sounds cheap to say
so, but at times, like to-night, it almost seems to me Paradise. It makes
one forget, temporarily, the things one wishes to forget."
"Yes," said her companion.
"I suppose people who have been accustomed to luxuries all their lives
don't think of it at all; but others--" She was silent.
"Yes," said Roberts again, "I think I understand. It's the one
compensation for being hungry a long time, I suppose; the added enjoyment
of the delayed meal when at last it is served. At least that's what those
who never went hungry say. I hope you'll get a lot of pleasure out of the
machine this Summer."
The girl looked at him quickly.
"I? Are you going away again?"
"Yes. I start West to-morrow. Things are moving faster than I expected."
"And you won't take the car with you?"
"No, I shan't play again for a time. I always had a theory that a man
should know a business he conducts, not take some one else's word for it.
I'm going to put on my corduroys and live with that mine until it grows
up. I don't even know how long that will be. In a way to-night is
good-bye."
The girl said nothing this time.
"I meant what I said, though, in regard to the car," returned Roberts. "I
shall be disappointed if you don't use it a lot. I've always felt as
though it sort of belonged to us together, we've had such a lot of
pleasure out of it in common. They tell me at the garage that while I was
away last time it wasn't out at all. Didn't Steve deliver my message?"
"Yes."
"Won't you promise to do differently the rest of the season?"
Again the girl paused before she answered.
"No," she said then. "You understand why?"
"Not if I request otherwise?"
"Don't request it, please," swiftly, "as a favor. I repeat, you
understand."
"Understand, certainly, what you mean to imply." The big hands on the
man's knees drooped a little wearily. "You don't trust me wholly, even
yet, do you, Elice?" he added abruptly.
"Trust you! That's a bit cruel."
The man shifted in his seat unconsciously.
"If it was I beg your pardon," he said gently. "I didn't intend it so. I
suppose I'm wrong; but what others, mere observers, say seems to me so
trivial. The gossip of people who'd knife you without compunction the
instant your back was turned for their own gratification or gain--to let
them judge and sentence--pardon me once more. I shan't mention the
matter again."
The girl looked steadily out into the night, almost as though its peace
were hers. "Yes," she returned, "you are wrong--but in a different way
than you intimated. It isn't what others would say at all that prevents
my accepting, but my own judgment of myself. You've done so many things
for me; and I in return--I'm never able to do anything whatever. It's a
matter of self-respect wholly. One can't accept, and accept, and accept
always--in the certainty of remaining permanently in debt."
The man looked at her oddly. Then he glanced away.
"No; I suppose not," he acquiesced.
"If there were anything I could do for you in turn to make up even
partially; but you're so big and independent and self-sufficient--"
"Self-sufficient!" Roberts caught the dominant word and dwelt on it
meditatively. "I suppose I am that way. It never occurred to me before."
The big hands tightened suddenly, their weariness gone. "But let's forget
it," he digressed energetically. "This is the last time I'll see you for
a long time, months at least; and a lot can happen in months sometimes.
The future is the Lord's, but the present is ours. Let's enjoy it while
we may. What, by the way, are you going to do the remainder of the
Summer?"
"Do?" The girl laughed shortly. "What I'm doing now, I fancy, mostly.
Father will be away the first week in September. I promised Margery I'd
stay with her during that time; otherwise--" A gesture completed the
sentence.
Roberts looked at her oddly. "Is that what you want to do--you?" he asked
bluntly.
"Want to do?" Again the laugh. "What does it matter what I want to do?"
She caught herself suddenly. "Margery and I may go away to a lake
somewhere during that week," she completed.
"And after that?" suggested the man.
"The university will be open then. I've secured a place this
year,--assistant in English."
"You're really serious, Elice?" soberly. "This is news to me, you know.
You really purpose teaching in future?"
"Yes." She returned her companion's look steadily. "Father was not
reappointed for the coming session. He's over the age line. I supposed
you knew."
"No; I didn't know before." Without apparent reason Roberts stood up. The
great hands were working again. A moment he stood there so, the big bushy
head outlined distinctly against the starlit sky; with equal abruptness
he returned to his seat.
"What a farce this is you and I are playing," he said. "Do you really
wish it to go on longer?"
The girl did not look at him, did not move.
"Farce?" she echoed.
The man gestured swiftly.
"Don't do that, please," he prevented. "You and I know each other
entirely too well to pretend. I repeat, do you wish this travesty to go
on indefinitely? If you do I accept, of course--but--do you?"
Instinctively, as on a former occasion, the girl drew her chair farther
back on the porch, until her face was in the shadow. It was out of the
shadow that she spoke.
"Prefer it to go on? Yes," she said; "because I wish you to remain as you
are now. But really wish it, no; because it's unfair, wholly unfair."
"Unfair to me?"
"Yes, to you."
For the second time Roberts gestured. "Take that consideration out of the
discussion absolutely, please," he said. "With that understanding do you
still wish this pretence to go on?"
"I wish to keep your friendship."
"My friendship--nothing more? I'm brutally blunt, I realize; but I can't
let to-night, this last night, go by without knowing something of how you
feel. You never have given me even so much as a hint, you know. I've
waited patiently, I think, for you to select the moment for confidence;
but you avoid it always; and to-morrow at this time--You know I love you,
Elice. Knowing that, do you still wish me to go away pretending merely
polite friendship? Do you wish it to be that way, Elice?"
The girl ignored the question, ignored all except the dominant
statement.
"Yes, I know you love me," she echoed. "You told me so once before."
"Once! A thousand times; you understood the language. It seems foolish
even to reiterate the fact now. And yet you've never answered."
"I know. I said it was unfair; and still--"
"You won't answer even yet."
"I can't. I'm drifting and waiting for light. Don't misunderstand; that
isn't religion--I've not been to church in a year, or said a prayer. It
isn't that at all. I simply don't want to hate myself, or be hated by
another justly later."
"And you expect to drift on until that light comes?"
A halt, long enough for second thought or renewal of a decision. "I can't
do otherwise. There's no other way. It's inevitable."
"'Inevitable!'" Roberts shrugged impatiently. "I don't like the word. It
belongs in the same class with 'chance' and 'predestination' and 'luck.'
There are few things inevitable except death."
"This is one--that I must wait."
"And you can't even take me into your confidence, about the reason why?
Mind, I don't ask it unless you voluntarily desire. I merely suggest."
"No," steadily; "I can't tell you the reason. I've got to decide for
myself--when light comes."
Roberts' great shoulders squared significantly.
"But if I know it already," he suggested evenly, "what then?"
No answer, although the other waited half a minute.
"I repeat: what if I know it already?"
"Do you know?"
Roberts' glance wandered into the shadow where the girl was, then
returned slowly to the street and the red car.
"I rode East with Steve Armstrong," he said, "as far as he went. I also
wired him when I was coming, and we returned together. He told me, I
think, everything--except about your father. He forgot that, if he knew.
Do you doubt I know the reason, Elice?"
Out of the shadow came the girl's face,--the face only.
"You did this for Stephen Armstrong--after what is past! Why?"
"Because life is short and I wanted to know several things before I came
to-night. Would you like to hear what it was I wished to learn?"
Again the face vanished.
"Yes," said a voice.
"You know already, so it won't be news. One was that he still cares for
you--as always. He perjured himself once, because he thought it was his
duty; but he has never ceased to care. The other thing was that he's
changed his mind and is going back to his literary work. His novel, that
was accepted tentatively, will be published next Winter. What else I
learned is immaterial. I don't often venture a prediction, but in his
case I'll make the exception. I believe that this time he'll make good.
He has the incentive--and experience. Do you still doubt I know the
reason, Elice?"
"No. But that you should tell me this!"
"I claim no virtue. You knew it already. I'm merely attempting to
simplify--to aid the coming of the light."
For the second time out of the shadow came the girl's face, her whole
figure. "Darley Roberts," asked a voice, "are you human, or aren't you? I
don't believe another man in the world would, under like circumstances,
do as you have done by Steve Armstrong. I can't believe you human
merely."
The man smiled oddly; the look passed.
"I have merely played the game fair," he explained dispassionately, "or
tried to, according to my standard. Like yourself, I don't want to hate
myself in the future, whatever comes. The hate of others--I'm indifferent
to that, Elice."
"And still you love me."
"I shall never care for another, never. The time when I could, if it ever
existed, is past."
The white hands dropped helplessly into the girl's lap.
"I thought I understood you," she said, "and yet, after all--"
"We live but once," gently. "I wish you to be happy, the happiest
possible. Does that help?"
"Yes, but--" In a panic the face, the hands, retreated back into the
shadow again. "Oh, I'm afraid of you once more, afraid of you," she
completed.
A moment the man sat still; then came his unexpected deliberate smile.
"No; not afraid. I repeat you know me absolutely, and we're never afraid
of things we know. I explained once before that that's why I went through
the detail of telling you everything. You're not afraid of me in the
least, any more than I am afraid of you."
"No?"
The smile still held.
"No."
"And still--"
"I repeat, it isn't fear of me that prevents your answering." Like a
flash the smile vanished. Simultaneously the voice dropped until it was
very low, yet very steady. "You love me in return, Elice, girl. It isn't
that!"
From the darkness silence, just silence.
"I say, you love me in return. Can you deny it?"
Still not an answering sound nor a motion.
Roberts drew a long breath. His big eloquent hands hung free. "Shall I
put in words the exact reason you won't answer, to prove I know?" he
asked.
"Yes." The voice was just audible.
A moment Roberts paused. "It's because you are afraid, not of me, but of
Steve Armstrong: afraid of the way the Lord fashioned him. Elice, come
out into the light, please. We must face this thing. You're not his
mother, and you don't love him otherwise. Tell me, is a sentiment dead
greater than one living? Will you, must you, sacrifice the happiness of
two for the happiness of one? Answer me, please."
An instant the girl hesitated; obediently she came out into the light,
stood there so, her hand on the pillar of the porch. She did not glance
at her companion, did not dare to do so.
"I repeat, I can't answer you yet," she said simply. "It's bitter, cruel
to you, I know, and to myself; but it would be infinitely worse if--if I
made a mistake." She paused, while a restless hand swept across her
face. "I can't help feeling that I'm to blame a good deal already, that
if I hadn't changed, and shown the change--" She sat down helplessly, the
sentence incomplete. "Oh, I can't bear to think of it. It drives me mad.
To feel you have the responsibility of another's very soul on your hands,
and to have failed in that trust--"
"Elice!"
"Don't stop me. It's true. If I had married him years ago when he first
wished me to do so he'd never have gone down. I cared for him then, or
fancied I did so; and I could have held him up. But instead--"
"Elice! I won't listen. You're morbid and see ghosts where nothing
exists. You're no more to blame for being human and awakening than
lightning is to blame when it strikes." He stood up, suddenly. "Besides,
the past is dead. To attempt to revive it is useless. The future alone
matters; and it's that I wish to talk about. I can't bear to think of
going away and leaving you as you are now. It's preposterous. If you
cared for Steve I shouldn't insist for a moment, or trouble you again so
long as I lived; but you don't care for him." He took a step forward, and
stopped where she must look him in the face. "You don't care for him,
that way, do you, Elice?" he asked.
Straight in the eyes the girl answered his look. But the lips spoke
nothing.
"And you do love me, love me, don't you, girl?"
Still not a word; only that same steady look.
"Elice,"--the man's hands were on her shoulders, holding her
immovable,--"answer me. This is unbearable. Don't you love me? Say it. I
must know."
Bit by bit the long lashes dropped, until the dark eyes were hid. "I
can't say it yet," she said, "you know that. Don't compel me to."
"Cannot or will not?"
Still no answer, merely silence.
Just noticeably the man's big hands tightened their grip. "I can make you
very happy, Elice, girl," he voiced swiftly; "I know it; because I have
the ability and I love you. I'll take you away, to any place in the world
you wish to go, stay as long as you wish, do whatever you choose. I'll
give you anything you want, anything you ever wanted. I have the power to
do this now, and I'll have more power in future. Nothing can stop me now
or prevent, except death alone. Say the word and I'll not go West
to-morrow. Instead, we'll begin to live. We're both starved for the good
things that life has to offer. We'll eat our fill together, if you but
say the word. We've wasted years--both of us, long, precious years.
There's a big, big debt owing us; but at last, at last--"
"Darley Roberts!"
The man suddenly halted, passive.
"You don't realize what you're doing, what you're saying. It's unworthy
of you."
A moment longer the grip of the big hands still clung as it was. They
dropped, and the man drew back.
"Unworthy?" He looked at her steadily. "Can you fancy I was trying
to--buy you? I thought you realized I love you."
"I do. But--you're only making it harder for me--to do right."
"Do right?" Once more the echo. "Right!" He laughed, as his companion had
never before heard him laugh. "I wonder if it is right to make a certain
cripple of one human being on the chance of making a real weakling less
weak? Right to--" a sudden tense halt. "I beg your pardon," swiftly. "I
didn't mean that. Forget that I said it." He stooped to pick up his cap
and gauntlets. When he came forward once more he was himself again, as he
would be from that moment on.
"Don't fancy for a minute I mean to hurt you, or to make it harder for
you now," he said steadily; "but this is the end, you realize, the
turning of the ways--and I must be sure. You still can't give me an
answer, Elice?"
The girl did not look at him this time, did not stir.
"No, not even yet."
A pause, short this time.
"And you won't reconsider about going to work for a living, won't let me
help, as a friend, merely as a friend? You know me too well to
misunderstand this. It would mean nothing absolutely to me now to help,
and would not alter our friendship, if you wish, in the least. Won't you
let me do this trifle for you if I ask it?"
Resolutely the girl shook her head, very steadily.
"I understand and appreciate," she said; "but I can't."
A moment longer the man waited. He extended his hand. "There's nothing
more to be said, then, I fancy, except good-bye."
For the first time in that long, long fight the girl weakened. Gropingly
she found the extended hand; but even then the voice was steady.
"Good-bye," she said--and that was all.