CELEBRATION
It had been a gay dinner, a memorable dinner. The mere ostensible
occasion of its being in celebration of the publication of Steve
Armstrong's first novel, "The Disillusioned," would of itself have been
sufficient reason therefor. In addition, the resignation, by a peculiar
coincidence to take effect the same day, of the former manager of the
Traction Company, Darley Roberts, with a recommendation that was
virtually a command for the advancement of his acting assistant, Harry
Randall, to his place, added another reason no less patent. If a cloud
existed that evening to mar the happiness of those four long-time friends
gathered in commemoration of the dispensation of Providence jointly
enjoyed, it most emphatically had not lifted its head above the surface.
Never had Margery Randall bubbled with more spontaneous abandon; or, even
in the old university days, had Elice Gleason laughed more easily. And as
for Steve Armstrong, the guest of honor, the conquering hero,--it was
his hour and in its intoxicating completeness he had enjoyed it to the
full; had stretched it on and on that he might enjoy it again. Now, the
last course served, the last toast proposed and drunk in inadequate
chocolate, and the two girl friends, after the habit of old
acquaintances, left to their own private confab, Randall and Armstrong
drifted instinctively upstairs to the former's den for their after-dinner
smoke. In absolute well-being, too keen almost for words, Armstrong
dropped into a big leather chair, facing his host.
"By Jove, Harry," he commented explosively, "I tell you this is something
like living. I never enjoyed myself so much before in my life."
Harry Randall, decidedly stouter than the Randall of professor days,
smiled appreciatively as he selected a cigar from the convenient
humidor.
"Yes, the world does look rather bright to me to-night, I'll admit," he
acquiesced.
"Bright!" Armstrong laughed outright in pure animal exuberance. "It's
positively dazzling: the more so by comparison." He looked at his
companion with the frank understanding of those long and intimately
acquainted. "What a change a few short years can make sometimes, can't
they? What an incredible change!"
Harry Randall returned the look, but gravely this time.
"Yes, I've been thinking of that all the evening," he said simply.
"So have I." Armstrong laughed shortly; "that is, when I haven't been too
irresponsibly happy to think at all. Just to get my bearings I tried to
fancy myself back where I was once when I came to tell my troubles to
you; and went to pieces at the end of the narrative." He gestured
eloquently. "What a fool I was and what a liar to swear I'd never do any
more literary work, or permit a book of mine to be published in any
circumstances, ever!" Once more the gesture, ending in an
all-comprehensive shrug. "Bah! I don't like to think of it. The whole
thing's a nightmare, neither more nor less!"
Again Harry Randall did not smile.
"Yes; the past was a little that way," he echoed again.
For perhaps half a minute Armstrong smoked in reminiscent gravity;
swiftly as the shadow had intruded it passed.
"Let's forget it," he proposed, "forget it absolutely and never speak of
it again. By the way, do you own this place now?"
"No; Roberts still holds it. I made him an offer before he went away last
Summer, but he wouldn't even consider it then. I'll try again when he
returns. Margery wants it badly."
"When he returns? Is he coming back soon?"
"I judge so, although I've had no word. There were a number of letters
and telegrams came for him yesterday, and a batch of them to-day. I
suspect that he intended being here to-night and is delayed for some
reason." Randall removed his glasses and polished them with unnecessary
diligence. "I wired him when I heard what he'd done for me, but I haven't
had any answer yet. I'd have given anything to have had him here
to-night. It was the one thing lacking."
For a moment there was silence.
"He has done a lot for you, Harry, that's a fact," commented Armstrong,
judicially. "Your new place at six thousand dollars a year is a pretty
good thing even for these days."
"A lot? Everything! He pulled me out of hell and gave me a chance when
I'd never have made one myself. I owe him everything; and I've never
been able to do him one blessed service in return."
Armstrong squirmed uncomfortably. The usually reticent Harry Randall like
this was a novelty.
"For that matter, he's done a lot for both of us," admitted Armstrong,
perfunctorily. "I appreciate it too, thoroughly."
Randall looked up swiftly; in remembrance equally swift he turned away.
"Yes; he's done miracles for both of us, more than we can possibly
realize," he said softly. "More--"
"Harry," interrupted Margery Randall's voice from the stairway, "I'm
sorry to hasten you men, but Elice thinks she must go. Her father isn't
well, you know, and is at home alone."
* * * * *
"I'll wait, Elice. It's early yet. See how your father is and come down
when you can." Armstrong looked at her meaningly, with all but an appeal.
"This is my night, you know. You really can't refuse to let me see you
to-night."
The girl busied herself with the lights and the gas in the grate.
"I know, Steve; but really I'd rather not see any one longer to-night."
She took off her coat almost hurriedly. "It's a busy time for me now
before the holidays; and with father as he is--That's why I came away so
early, you know. Not to-night, please, Steve."
Armstrong silently paced the length of the little library, pitifully bare
in comparison with the home they had just left. He halted.
"Do you realize that you've invariably prevented, by one excuse or
another, my talking with you alone in months now?" he asked abruptly.
"Don't you mean ever to give me a chance again? You know what it is I
wish to speak about, Elice."
The girl was standing--quite still now.
"Yes, I know what it is you wish," she corroborated.
Armstrong fingered the gloves in his hand nervously. "Aren't you going to
listen then? I won't attempt to make any apologies for the past. I can't.
But I'd hoped you'd forgotten, or at least forgiven, by this time. I've
tried to make good, honestly, Elice; and to-night particularly--don't
stand me in the corner any longer, please. I've been punished enough."
"Punished!" The girl wheeled. "I wonder--" She checked herself suddenly.
"Very well," she digressed swiftly,--"wait. I'll be back soon," and she
was gone.
Alone Armstrong threw hat and topcoat into a chair almost irritably;
walking over to the grate, he stood gazing down into the blaze absently.
For some reason it called to mind another grate and another occasion when
he had looked absently therein; and almost unconsciously he caught
himself glancing at the shelf above, half expecting to catch the play of
light from a red decanter thereon. With the shrug of one who banishes an
unpleasant memory he turned away. He was still standing, however, when
the girl returned.
"Is there any way I can assist, with your father?" he asked
perfunctorily.
"No, thank you. He's asleep. It's mental, the trouble with him, more than
anything else." She sat down and indicated a place opposite. "I'm so glad
Harry Randall escaped in time."
"And I as well?"
"Yes, and you, assuredly."
Armstrong waited; but she said no more, and with an odd diffidence he
cleared his throat unnecessarily.
"It's sacrilege, though, for us to talk commonplaces to-night," he
anticipated hastily. "There's too much else to discuss, and to-day has
meant too much. Do you realize what this day really means for both of us,
Elice?"
The long fingers lay in the girl's lap, quite still.
"Perhaps. But tell me if you wish."
Again the fantastic diffidence held Armstrong in its grip; and again he
freed himself with an effort.
"It means, first of all, that at last I'm on my feet, where I've always
wished to be. It means that I'm to have my chance--and that again means
independence." He overlooked absolutely the egotism of the statement, was
unconscious of it. Success loomed too big and incontestible; possible
future failure lay too remote to merit consideration. "It means all of
this; but beyond that it means that I have the right to tell you again
that I love you. You know I love you, as always, Elice."
"As always?"
"Forget, please. This is to-day; my day, our day. You don't doubt I love
you?"
"No; I don't doubt it."
Armstrong breathed deep. An instinct all but overwhelming impelled him to
rise, to--he substituted with his eyes.
"You realize all that I wish to say," he said swiftly, "so why make a
farce of it by words? We've drifted apart for a long time, a hideously
long time, and it's been my fault throughout; but now that it's over
won't you come back to the beginning, Elice, to the place where we
separated?" He halted for breath, for words where none were adequate. "I
want you, Elice, want you--now and always. Tell me, please, that you've
forgiven me, that you'll come back."
In the girl's lap the hands crossed steadily; again that was the only
move she made.
"So far as I am concerned there's nothing to forgive, nor has there ever
been," she said gently. "As for going back, though, I can't; because I
can't. It's useless to lie, for you'd find me out. I've simply
awakened."
"You mean you--don't care for me any more?"
"No; I care for you very much; but not in that way. It was so before the
end came. I awoke before that."
"And still you would have married me then."
"Yes," simply.
"And now?"
The girl did not answer, did not even look up.
"And now," he repeated insistently, "tell me; and now?"
This time the brown eyes lifted, met his steadily.
"Unless something happens I can't marry you now," she said.
Armstrong looked at her; at first dazedly, then with a trace of color
gathering under his fair skin.
"Unless something happens?" he repeated. "Pardon me, but what do you mean
by that?"
"Nothing," swiftly. "I was thinking of something else. I hate to hurt
you; but as I said before, it's useless to temporize. I can't marry you
now, Steve."
In his place Armstrong settled back dumbly. Unconsciously he passed his
handkerchief over his mouth. The hand that carried it trembled a bit.
"You really mean that, do you?" he groped, half to himself, "mean the
break to be really final this time?" He shut his eyes, like a child
suddenly awakened in the dark and afraid. "Somehow I hadn't expected that
at all, hadn't planned on it. I suppose it was childish of me; but I've
been taking things for granted, on the strength of the past, and--and--"
Of a sudden the rambling tongue halted. The eyes opened wide, unnaturally
wide; and in their depths was again that new look of terror, but now
magnified. "Tell me that you don't mean it, Elice, really," he pleaded.
"I was just beginning to live and hope again; and now--tell me!"
Long before this the girl had ceased looking at him. Instead, with the
instinctive fascination an open fire exerts over all human beings, she
had turned toward the tiny jets of gas in the grate; her face propped in
her hands she sat staring into the depths of the flame. She scarcely
seemed to breathe, even when she spoke.
"Yes, I meant it," she repeated patiently.
For a long time there was silence,--long enough with the man for the mood
to pass, the mood of terror, and in reaction its antithesis, reckless
abandon, to come in its stead. For come it did, as was inevitable; and
heralding its approach sounded a laugh,--a sudden mirthless, sarcastic
laugh.
"So this is the end of my day," he said. He laughed again. "I might have
known it was too good to last. What a fool I was to imagine that just
because one thing had come my way everything else was going to follow
suit. What a poor, blithering fool!"
"Steve!" No lethargy in the girl's figure now, in the face of a sudden
turned toward him appealingly. "Don't take it that way or say such
things. Nothing has changed in the least. I'm still your friend, as I've
always been; so is Harry Randall--and the rest. You're still a successful
writer; you've proved it to-day, and you'll prove it further with the new
book you're working on now. I repeat, nothing has altered in the least.
Don't talk that way. It hurts me."
In his chair, erect now, Armstrong merely smiled. But his color was
higher than normal and the blue eyes were unnaturally bright.
"No, nothing has changed, I suppose," he said evenly. "You're right
there. I've simply been in a trance--that's all--and I've inadvertently
come to. I seem to have the habit of doing that." He smiled again,
hopelessly cruel in his egotism. "Of course I have friendship, oceans of
it, yours particularly, as I've had all the time. And success; it
monopolizes the sky, fairly blots out the stars, and obscures the sun
like an eclipse. There's no end to the success I have. It's infinite.
And still further, incentive: to be and to do and to fight." The smile
vanished. He could not mock in the face of that thought even yet.
"Incentive! What a travesty. Elice, you've killed the last trace of
incentive I had just now."
"Steve!" The girl's hands lifted imperiously. "Stop. Have you no pity?"
She shook the swift-gathering flood from her eyes rebelliously and faced
him fair. "You'll be very sorry you said such things after you've had
time to think," she went on. "Don't add regret to the rest to-night.
Please don't."
"Sorry, perhaps," echoed the man, "and regret--possibly. Anyway, what
does it matter? It's true."
"True--no," swiftly. "I can't believe it. I won't. Don't say that. In
pity, don't."
"But, I repeat, it is true," doggedly. "I at least can't help that.
Elice, don't cry so!" Of a sudden he was on his feet bending over her.
"Please don't. I love you!"
"Don't touch me! I can't stand it!" The girl had drawn away swiftly, the
repression of years for an instant broken. "You dare to tell me
that--now! Love--" She cut herself short with an effort of will and,
rising hurriedly, walked the length of the room to the window. For more
than a minute, while Armstrong stood staring after her dumbly, she
remained so; her face pressed against the cold pane, looking out upon the
white earth. Deliberately, normally, she turned. Seemingly without an
effort, so naturally that even Armstrong was deceived, she smiled.
"Pardon me," she said evenly. "I'm not often hysterical." She was
returning slowly. "I'll be glad when vacation comes. I think I'm--tired."
She seated herself and motioned the other back into his place,--a motion
that was a command. "Now, tell me, please, that you didn't mean what you
said a moment ago when we were both irresponsible. It will make us both
sleep better."
The smile had left Armstrong's face now, and in its place was the pallor
of reaction. But he was quiet also.
"I wish I could," he said steadily, "but I can't. It'll be exactly as it
was before."
The girl was still smiling,--that same normal, apparently effortless,
smile.
"Nonsense!" she refuted, in tones deliberately matter-of-fact. "There's
all the difference in the world. Before you had no audience. And
now--the entire country will listen now."
"It doesn't matter," dully. "It's always been you that counted really.
Success was an incident, but you were the real incentive."
"I?" She laughed gently. "On the contrary it was I who tried to lead you
away from your work, to make you practical. Don't you remember the Graham
offer?"
"Yes," hurriedly. "I've thought of it a thousand times. It was the big
mistake of my life when I refused his proposal. If I'd accepted then--"
"You'd not have been a successful writer whose work goes on sale to-day
in every city in the United States."
"Perhaps. But I would have had you. What do I care for success in
comparison to you!"
Listening, just for an instant the girl's nostrils tightened; again she
laughed.
"We seem to be travelling in a circle," she bantered, "and keep returning
to the starting-point. It's discouraging."
"It's written," said Armstrong, simply. "We can't avoid it. With me
you're the starting-point as you're the end, always. Didn't you recognize
yourself so in the last novel?"
The girl settled back in her seat wearily.
"You told me, I recall," she said.
"And in the one before?"
"You told me that also."
Armstrong was observing her steadily.
"You are in the new one too," he said; "the one I've been working on--but
which will never be completed now. You've killed the girl there too,
Elice."
"Steve!" The hands had gone swiftly to the girl's ears, covered them
completely. "I shan't listen. This is worse than folly. It's madness."
"I can't help it," monotonously. "It's myself. I can't avoid being
myself."
"Nor I myself, Steve," very gently. "Can't you realize that?"
The man passed his hand across his eyes as though brushing away something
tangible.
"No, I can't realize anything," he said dully, "except that I love
you--and have lost. This and that the world is dead--and I am alone in
it."
For the second time the girl arose, and even yet quite steadily. But at
last her lips were trembling.
"I think you had better go now," she requested. "I can't stand this much
longer; and besides, to keep it up would do no good that I can see.
To-morrow is Saturday, and if you still feel there is anything you must
say to me I shall be at home all day. But to-night--please go now."
As in a dream, Armstrong arose, obeying her command--as he always obeyed
in small things.
"Yes, I suppose you're right," he echoed dully. "I realize I'm only
making matters worse by staying, only getting us farther apart." He
buttoned his coat to the chin and drew on his gloves lingeringly. "If I
were to call to-morrow, though, isn't there a chance that you would be
different? Can't I have even--hope?"
The girl said nothing, did not appear to hear. Subconsciously she was
counting the seconds, almost with prayer; counting until she should be
alone.
But still Armstrong dallied, killing those same seconds wilfully.
"Aren't you going to offer me even hope, Elice?" he repeated. "I'll be
in--hell when I go, without even hope."
It was the final straw, that prophetic suggestion, the snapping straw.
With one gesture of hopeless, impotent misery, of infinite appeal as
well, the girl threw out her hand.
"Go," she pleaded brokenly, "go quickly. There's a limit to everything
and with me that limit is reached." She motioned again, and Steve went
out into the night.