During the year which followed, Mr. Perry was forced to return to the
States, but he made two flying trips across "the pond," as he called
it, in the interests of his magazine, always running down his prey of
notorieties in that quarter of Europe in which Miss Vance and her
charges chanced to be.
When he came in July he found them in a humble little inn in Bozen. He
looked with contempt at the stone floors, the clean cell-like chambers,
each with its narrow bed, and blue stone ewer perched on a wooden
stool; and he sniffed with disgust when breakfast was served on a table
set out in the Platz.
"Don't know," he said, "whether I can digest food, eating out of doors.
Myself, I never give in to these foreign ways. It's time they learned
manners from us."
"I have no doubt," said Miss Vance placidly, "that you can find one of
the usual hotels built for rich Americans in the town. We avoid them.
We search out the inns du pays to see as far behind the scenes as we
can. I don't care to go to those huge houses with mobs of Chicagoans
and New Yorkers; and have the couriers and portiers turn the
flashlights on Europe for me, as if it were a burlesque show."
"Now, that's just what I like!" said Perry. "I always go to the houses
where the royalties put up. I like to order better dishes and give
bigger tips than they do. They don't know Jem Perry from Adam, but
it's my way of waving the American flag."
"I am afraid we have no such patriotic motive," said Clara. "My girls
seem to care for nothing now but art. We have made this little inn our
headquarters in the Tyrol chiefly out of love for the old church
yonder."
Mr. Perry glanced contemptuously across the Platz at the frowning gray
building, and sat down with his back to it.
"Art, eh? Well, I've no doubt I could soon catch on to Art, if I
turned my mind that way. It pays, too,--Art. Not the fellows who
paint, but the connoisseurs. There's Miller from our town. He was a
drummer for a candy firm. Had an eye for color. Well, he buys
pictures now for Americans who want galleries in their houses. He
bought his whole collection for Stout--the great dealer in hams. Why,
Miller can tell the money value within five dollars, at sight, of any
picture in Europe. He's safe, too. Never invests in pictures that
aren't sure to go up in price. Getting rich! And began as a candy
drummer! No, ma'am! Art's no mystery. I've never taken it up myself.
Europe is sheer pleasure to me. I get the best out of it. I know
where to lodge well, and I can tell you where the famous plats are
cooked, and I have my coats built by Toole. The house pays me a salary
which justifies me in humoring my little follies," stroking his red
beard complacently.
Lucy's chubby face and steady blue eyes were turned on him
thoughtfully, and presently, when they sauntered down the windy street
together, he talked and she still silently watched him.
"Miss Precision is weighing him in the balance," said Jean, laughing,
as she poured out more black coffee. "With all of her soft ways Lucy
is shrewd. She knows quite well why he races across the Atlantic, and
why Prince Wolfburgh has backed away from us and charged on us again
all summer. She is cool. She is measuring poor Perry's qualifications
for a husband now just as she would materials for a cake. A neat
little inventory. So much energy, so much honest kindness--so much
vulgarity. I couldn't do that. If ever a man wants to marry me, I'll
fly to him or away from him, as quick as the steel needle does when the
magnet touches it." Miss Vance listened to her attentively. "Jean,"
she said, after a pause, "are you sure that it is Lucy whom the prince
wishes to marry?"
"It is not I," said Miss Hassard promptly. "He has thought of me
several times--he has weighed my qualifications. But the man is in
love with Lucy as honestly as a ploughman could be. Don't you think
I've tough luck?" she said, resting her elbow on the table and her chin
on her palm, her keen gray eyes following Miss Dunbar and her lover as
they loitered under the shadow of the church. "I am as young as Lucy.
I have a better brain and as big a dot. But her lovers make her life a
burden, and I never have had one. Just because our noses and chins are
made up differently!"
"Oh, my dear!" said Clara anxiously. "I never thought you cared for
that kind of success!"
"I'm only human," Jean laughed. "Of course I'm an artist. I'm going
to paint a great picture some day that all the world shall go mad
about. Of Eve. I'll put all the power of all women into her. But in
the meantime I'd like to see one man turn pale and pant before me as
the fat little prince does when Lucy snubs him."
"Lucy is very hard to please," complained Miss Vance. "She snubs Mr.
Perry--naturally. But the prince--why should she not marry the prince?"
"Your generation," said Jean, smiling slyly, "used to think that an
unreasonable whim called love was a good thing in marriage----"
"But why should she not love the prince? He is honorable and kind, and
quite passable as to looks---- Can there be any one else?" turning
suddenly to Jean.
Miss Hassard looked at her a moment, hesitating. "Your cousin George
used to be Lucy's type of a hero----"
"Why! the man is married!" Miss Vance stood up, her lean face
reddening. "Jean! You surprise me! That kind of talk--it's indecent!
It is that loose American idea of marriage that ends in hideous divorce
cases. But for one of my girls----"
"It is a very old idea," said Jean calmly.
"David loved another man's wife. Mind you, I don't accuse Lucy of
loving any body, but when the needle has once touched the magnet it
answers to its call ever after."
Miss Vance vouchsafed no answer. She walked away across the Platz,
jerking her bonnet strings into a knot. Jean was one of the New Women!
Her opinions stuck out on every side like Briareus' hundred elbows!
You could not come near her without being jabbed by them. Such women
were all opinions; there was no softness, no feeling, no delicacy about
them. Skeletons with no flesh! As for Lucy, she had no fear. If even
the child had loved George, she would have cast out every thought of
him on his wedding day, as a Christian girl should do!
She passed Lucy at that moment. She was leaning against one of the
huge stone lions which crouch in front of the church, listening to Mr.
Perry. If ever a pure soul looked into the world it was through those
limpid eyes!
The Platz was nearly empty. One or two men in blouses clattered across
the cobblestones and going into the dark church dropped on their knees.
The wind was high, and now and then swept heavy clouds low across the
sunlight space overhead.
Lucy, as Jean had guessed, knew why the man beside her had crossed the
Atlantic, and she had decided last night to end the matter at once.
The tears had stood in her eyes for pity at the thought of the pain she
must give him. Yet she had put on her new close-fitting coat and a
becoming fur cap, and pulled out the loose hair which she knew at this
moment was blowing about her pink cheeks in curly wisps in a way that
was perfectly maddening. Clara, seeing the mischief in her eyes as she
listened shyly to Perry, went on satisfied. There was no abyss of
black loss in that girl's life!
Lucy just now was concerned only for Perry. How the poor man loved
her! Why not marry him after all, and put him out of his pain? She
was twenty-four. Most women at twenty-four had gone through their
little tragedy of love. But she had had no tragedy. She told herself
firmly that there had been no story of love in her life. There never
could be, now. She was too old.
She was tired, too, and very lonely. This man would seat her on a
throne and worship her every day. That would be pleasant enough.
"I am ashamed of myself," he was saying, "to pursue you in this way.
You have given me no encouragement, I know. But whenever I go to New
York and bone down to work, something tells me to come back and try
again."
Lucy did not answer, and there was a brief silence.
"Of course I'm a fool,"--prodding the ground with his stick. "But if a
man were in a jail cell and knew that the sun was shining just outside,
he'd keep on beating at the wall."
"Your life is not a jail cell. It's very comfortable, I think."
"It has been bare enough. I have had a hard fight to live at all. I
told you that I began as a canal-boy."
She looked at him with quick sympathy. At once she fancied that she
could read old marks of want on his face. His knuckles were knobbed
like a laborer's. He had had a hard fight! It certainly would be
pleasant to rain down comfort and luxury on the good, plucky fellow!
"Of course that was all long ago," said Perry. "I'm not ashamed of it.
As Judge Baker remarked the other day, 'The acknowledged aristocrats of
America, to-day, are its self-made men.' He ought to know. The Bakers
are the top of the heap in New York. Very exclusive. I've been
intimate there for years. No, Miss Dunbar, I may have begun as a
mule-driver on a canal, but I am choice in my society. My wife will
not find a man or woman in my circle who is half-cut."
Lucy drew a long breath. To live all day and every day with this man!
And yet--she was so tired! There was a good deal of money to manage,
and he could do that. He would like a gay, hospitable house, and so
would she, and they would be kind to the poor--and he was an
Episcopalian, too. There would be no hitch there. Lucy was a zealous
High Churchwoman.
Why should she not do it? The man was as good as gold at heart. Jean
called him a cad, but the caddishness was only skin deep.
Mr. Perry watched her, reading her thoughts more keenly than she
guessed.
"One thing I will say in justice to myself," he said. "You are a rich
woman. If you marry me, YOU will know, if nobody else does, that I am
no fortune-hunter. I shall always be independent of my wife. Every
dollar she owns shall be settled on her before I go with her to the
altar."
"Oh, I'm not thinking of the money," said Lucy impatiently.
"Then you are thinking of me!" He leaned over her. She felt as if she
had been suddenly dragged too close to a big unpleasant fire. "I know
you don't love me," he panted, "you cold little angel, you! But you do
like me? Eh? just a little bit, Lucy? Marry me. Give me a chance.
I'll bring you to me. If there is a single spark of love in your heart
for me, I'll blow it into a flame! I can do it, I tell you!" He
caught her fiercely by the shoulder.
Lucy drew back and threw out her hands. "Let me have time to think!"
"Time? You've had a year!"
"One more day. Come again this evening----"
"This evening? I've come so often!" staring breathlessly into her
face. "It will be no use, I can see that. Well, as you please. I'll
come once more."
The young fellow in his jaunty new clothes shook as if he had the ague.
He had touched her. For one minute she had been his!
He turned and walked quickly across the Platz.
Lucy, left alone, was full of remorse. She looked down into her heart;
she had forgotten to do it before. No, not a spark for him to blow
into a flame; not a single warm thought of him!
The girl was ashamed of herself. He might be a cad, but he was real;
his honest love possessed him body and soul. It was a matter of
expediency to her; a thing to debate with herself, to dally over, with
paltry pros and cons.
Miss Vance came hurriedly up the street, an open letter in her hand.
Lucy ran to meet her.
"What is it? You have heard bad news?"
"I suppose we ought not to call it that. It is from George Waldeaux.
They have a son, two months old. He tells it as a matter for
rejoicing."
"Oh, yes," said Lucy feebly.
"They are at Vannes--in Brittany. He has a cough. He seems to know
nobody--to have no friends, and, I suspect, not much money. He is
terribly depressed." Clara folded the letter thoughtfully. "He asks
me to tell his mother that the baby has come."
"Where is his mother?"
"In Switzerland."
"Why is she not with him?" demanded Lucy angrily. "Wandering about
gathering edelweiss, while he is alone and wretched!"
"He has his wife. You probably do not understand the case fully," said
Clara coldly. "I am going to wire to his mother now." She turned away
and Lucy stood irresolute, her hand clutching the shaggy head of the
stone beast beside her.
"I can give him money. I'll go to him. He needs me!" she said aloud.
Then her whole body burned with shame. She--Lucy Dunbar, good proper
Lucy, whose conscience hurt her if she laid her handkerchiefs away awry
in her drawer, nursing a criminal passion for a married man!
She went slowly back to the inn. "He has his wife," she told herself.
"I am nothing to him. I doubt if he would know me if he met me on the
street." She tried to go back to her easy-going mannerly little
thoughts, but there was something strange and fierce behind them that
would not down.
Jean came presently to the salle. "I have had a letter too," she said.
"The girl who writes came from Pond City. She was in the same atelier
in Paris with George. She says: 'Your friends the Waldeaux have come
to grief by a short cut. They flung money about for a few months as if
they were backed by the Barings. The Barings might have given their
suppers. As for their studio--there was no untidier jumble of old
armor and brasses and Spanish leather in Paris; and Mme. George posing
in the middle in soiled tea-gowns! But the suppers suddenly stopped,
and the leather and Persian hangings went to the Jews. I met Lisa one
day coming out of the Vendome, where she had been trying to peddle a
roll of George's sketches to the rich Americans. I asked her what was
wrong, and she laughed and said, "We were trying to make thirty francs
do the work of thirty thousand. And we have made up our minds that we
know no more of art than house painters. We are in a blind alley!"
Soon after that the baby was born. They went down to Brittany. I hear
that Lisa, since the child came, has been ill. I tell all this dreary
stuff to you thinking that you may pass it on to their folks. Somebody
ought to go to their relief.'"
"Relief!" exclaimed Miss Vance. "And the money that they were flinging
into the gutter was earned day by day by his old mother! Every dollar
of it! I know that during the last year she has done without proper
clothes and food to send their allowance to them." "You forget," said
Lucy, "that George Waldeaux was doing noble work in the world. It was
a small thing for his mother to help him."
"Noble work? His pictures or his sermons, Lucy?" demanded Miss Vance,
with a contemptuous shrug.
Lucy without reply walked out to the inn garden and seated herself in a
shady corner. There Mr. Perry found her just as the first stroke of
the angelus sounded on the air. Her book lay unopened on her lap.
He walked slowly up to her and stopped, breathing hard, as if he had
been running. "It is evening now. I have come for my answer, Miss
Dunbar," he said, forcing a smile.
"Answer?" Lucy looked up bewildered.
"You have forgotten!"
The blood rushed to her face. She held out her hands. "Oh, forgive
me! I heard bad news. I have been so troubled----"
"You forgot that I had asked you to be my wife!"
"Mr. Perry----"
"No, don't say another word, Miss Dunbar. I have had my answer. I
knew you didn't love me, but I did not think I was so paltry that you
would forget that I had offered to marry you."
Lucy pressed her hands together, looking up at him miserably without a
word. He walked down the path and leaned on the wall with his back to
her. His very back was indignant.
Presently he turned. "I will bid you goodby," he said, with an effort
at lofty courtesy, "and I will leave my adieux for your friends with
you."
"Are you going--back to the States?" stammered Lucy.
"Yes, I am going back to the States," he replied sternly. "A man of
merit there has his place, regardless of rank. Jem Perry can hold his
head there as high as any beggarly prince. Farewell, Miss Dunbar."
He strode down the path and disappeared. Lucy shook her head and cried
from sheer wretchedness. She felt that she had been beaten to-day with
many stripes.
Suddenly the bushes beside her rustled. "Forgive me," he said
hoarsely. She looked up and saw his red honest eyes. "I behaved like
a brute. Good-by, Lucy! I never loved any woman but you, and I never
will."
"Stay, stay!" she cried.
He heard her, but he did not come back.