Mrs. Hind-Willet, born to the purple--or rather entitled to a narrow
border of discreet mauve on all occasions of ceremony in Manhattan, was
a dreamer of dreams. One of her dreams concerned her hyphenated husband,
and she put him away; another concerned Penrhyn Cardemon; and she woke
up. But the persistent visualisation, which had become obsession, of a
society to be formed out of the massed intellects of Manhattan
regardless of race, morals, or previous condition of social servitude--a
gentle intellectual affinity which knew no law of art except individual
inspiration, haunted her always. And there was always her own set to
which she could retreat if desirable.
She had begun with a fashionable and semi-fashionable nucleus which
included Mrs. Atherstane, the Countess d'Enver, Latimer Varyck, Olaf
Dennison, and Pedro Carrillo, and then enlarged the circle from those
perpetual candidates squatting anxiously upon the social step-ladder all
the way from the bottom to the top.
The result was what Ogilvy called intellectual local option; and though
he haunted this agglomeration at times, particularly when temporarily
smitten by a pretty face or figure, he was under no illusions concerning
it or the people composing it.
Returning one afternoon from a reception at Mrs. Atherstane's he replied
to Annan's disrespectful inquiries and injurious observations:
"You're on to that joint, Henry; it's a saloon, not a salon; and Art is
the petrified sandwich. Fix me a very, ve-ry high one, dearie, because
little sunshine is in love again."
"Who drew the lucky number?" asked Annan with a shrug.
"The Countess d'Enver. She's the birdie."
"Intellectually?"
"Oh, she's an intellectual four-flusher, bless her heart! But she was
the only woman there who didn't try to mentally frisk me. We lunch
together soon, Henry."
"Where's Count hubby?"
"Aloft. She's a bird," he repeated, fondly reminiscent over his
high-ball--"and I myself am the real ornithological thing--the species
that Brooklyn itself would label 'boid' ... She has such pretty,
confiding ways, Harry."
"You'd both better join the Audubon Society for Mutual Protection,"
observed Annan dryly.
"I'll stand for anything she stands for except that social Tenderloin;
I'll join anything she joins except the 'classes now forming' in that
intellectual dance hall. By the way, who do you suppose was there?"
"The police?"
"Naw--the saloon wasn't raided, though 'Professor' Carrillo's poem was
_assez raide_. Mek-mek-k-k-k! But oh, the ginky pictures! Oh, the Art
Beautiful! Aniline rainbows exploding in a physical culture school
couldn't beat that omelette!... And guess who was pouring tea in the
centre of the olio, Harry!"
"You?" inquired Annan wearily.
"Valerie West."
"What in God's name has that bunch taken her up for?"
* * * * *
For the last few weeks Valerie's telephone had rung intermittently
summoning her to conversation with Mrs. Hind-Willet.
At first the amiable interest displayed by Mrs. Hind-Willet puzzled
Valerie until one day, returning to her rooms for luncheon, she found
the Countess d'Enver's brougham standing in front of the house and that
discreetly perfumed lady about to descend.
"How do you do?" said Valerie, stopping on the sidewalk and offering her
hand with a frank smile.
"I came to call on you," said the over-dressed little countess; "may I?"
"It is very kind of you. Will you come upstairs? There is no elevator."
The pretty bejewelled countess arrived in the living room out of breath,
and seated herself, flushed, speechless, overcome, her little white
gloved hand clutching her breast.
Valerie, accustomed to the climb, was in nowise distressed; and went
serenely about her business while the countess was recovering.
"I am going to prepare luncheon; may I hope you will remain and share it
with me?" she asked.
The countess nodded, slowly recovering her breath and glancing curiously
around the room.
"You see I have only an hour between poses," observed Valerie, moving
swiftly from cupboard to kitchenette, "so luncheon is always rather
simple. Miss Tevis, with whom I live, never lunches here, so I take
what there is left from breakfast."
[Illustration: The Countess d'Enver.]
A little later they were seated at a small table together, sipping
chocolate. There was cold meat, a light salad, and fruit. The
conversation was as haphazard and casual as the luncheon, until the
pretty countess lighted a cigarette and tasted her tiny glass of
Port--the latter a gift from Querida. "Do you think it odd of me to
call on you uninvited?" she asked, with that smiling abruptness which
sometimes arises from embarrassment.
"I think it is very sweet of you," said Valerie, "I am very happy to
know that you remember me."
The countess flushed up: "Do you really feel that way about it?"
"Yes," said Valerie, smiling, "or I would not say so."
"Then--you give me courage to tell you that since I first met you I've
been--quite mad about you."
"About _me_!" in smiling surprise.
"Yes. I wanted to know you. I told Mrs. Hind-Willet to ask you to the
club. She did. But you never came.... And I _did_ like you so much."
Valerie said in a sweet, surprised way: "Do you know what I am?"
"Yes; you sit for artists."
"I am a professional model," said Valerie. "I don't believe you
understood that, did you?"
"Yes, I did," said the countess. "You pose for the ensemble, too."
Valerie looked at her incredulously:
"Do you think you would really care to know me? I, an artist's model,
and you, the Countess d'Enver?"
"I was Nellie Jackson before that." She leaned across the table,
smiling, with heightened colour; "I believe I'd never have to pretend
with you. The minute I saw you I liked you. Will you let me talk to
you?"
"Y--yes."
There was a constrained silence; Hélène d'Enver touched the water in the
bowl with her finger-tips, dried them, looked up at Valerie, who rose.
Under the window there was a tufted seat; and here they found places
together.
"Do you know why I came?" asked Hélène d'Enver. "I was lonely."
"_You!_"
"My dear, I am a lonely woman; I'm lonely to desperation. I don't belong
in New York and I don't belong in France, and I don't like Pittsburgh.
I'm lonely! I've always been lonely ever since I left Pittsburgh. There
doesn't seem to be any definite place anywhere for me. And I haven't a
real woman friend in the world!"
"How in the world can you say that?" exclaimed Valerie, astonished.
The countess lighted another cigarette and wreathed her pretty face in
smoke.
"You think because I have a title and am presentable that I can go
anywhere?" She smiled. "The society I might care for hasn't the
slightest interest in me. There is in this city a kind of society
recruited largely from the fashionable hotels and from among those who
have no fixed social position in New York--people who are never very far
outside or inside the edge of things--but who never penetrate any
farther." She laughed. "This society camps permanently at the base of
the Great Wall of China. But it never scales it."
"Watch the men on Fifth Avenue," she went on. "Some walk there as though
they do not belong there; some walk as though they do belong there;
some, as though they lived there. I move about as though I belonged
where I am occasionally seen; but I'm tired of pretending that I live
there."
She leaned back among the cushions, dropping one knee over the other
and tossing away her cigarette. And her little suede shoe swung
nervously to and fro.
"You're the first girl I've seen in New York who, I believe, really
doesn't care what I am--and I don't care what she is. Shall we be
friends? I'm lonely."
Valerie looked at her, diffidently:
"I haven't had very much experience in friendship--except with Rita
Tevis," she said.
"Will you let me take you to drive sometimes?"
"I'd love to, only you see I am in business."
"Of course I mean after hours."
"Thank you.... But I usually am expected--to tea--and dinner--"
Hélène lay back among the cushions, looking at her.
"Haven't you any time at all for me?" she asked, wistfully.
Valerie was thinking of Neville: "Not--very--much I am afraid--"
"Can't you spare me an hour now and then?"
"Y--yes; I'll try."
There was a silence. The mantel clock struck, and Valerie glanced up.
Hélène d'Enver rose, stood still a moment, then stepped forward and took
both of Valerie's hands:
"Can't we be friends? I do need one; and I like you so much. You've the
eyes that make a woman easy. There are none like yours in New York."
Valerie laughed, uncertainly.
"Your friends wouldn't care for me," she said. "I don't believe there is
any real place at all for me in this city except among the few men and
women I already know."
"Won't you include me among the number? There is a place for you in my
heart."
Touched and surprised, the girl stood looking at the older woman in
silence.
"May I drive you to your destination?" asked Hélène gently.
"You are very kind.... It is Mr. Burleson's studio--if it won't take you
too far out of your way."
By the end of March Valerie had driven with the Countess d'Enver once or
twice; and once or twice had been to see her, and had met, in her
apartment, men and women who were inclined to make a fuss over her--men
like Carrillo and Dennison, and women like Mrs. Hind-Willet and Mrs.
Atherstane. It was her unconventional profession that interested them.
To Neville, recounting her experiences, she said with a patient little
smile:
"It's rather nice to be liked and to have some kind of a place among
people who live in this city. Nobody seems to mind my being a model.
Perhaps they _have_ taken merely a passing fancy to me and are
exhibiting me to each other as a wild thing just captured and being
trained--" She laughed--"but they do it so pleasantly that I don't
mind.... And anyway, the Countess d'Enver is genuine; I am sure of
that."
"A genuine countess?"
"A genuine woman, sincere, lovable, and kind--I am becoming very fond of
her.... Do you mind my abandoning you for an afternoon now and then?
Because it _is_ nice to have as a friend a woman older and more
experienced."
"Does that mean you're going off with her this afternoon?"
"I _was_ going. But I won't if you feel that I'm deserting you."
He laid aside his palette and went over to where she was standing.
"You darling," he said, "go and drive in the Park with your funny little
friend."
"She was going to take me to the Plaza for tea. There are to be some
very nice women there who are interested in the New Idea Home." She
added, shyly, "I have subscribed ten dollars."
He kissed her, lightly, humorously. "And what, sweetheart, may the New
Idea Home be?"
"Oh, it's an idea of Mrs. Hind-Willet's about caring for wayward girls.
Mrs. Willet thinks that it is cruel and silly to send them into virtual
imprisonment, to punish them and watch them and confront them at every
turn with threats and the merciless routine of discipline. She thinks
that the thing to do is to give them a chance for sensible and normal
happiness; not to segregate them one side of a dead line; not to treat
them like criminals to be watched and doubted and suspected."
She linked her arms around his neck, interested, earnest, sure of his
sympathy and approval:
"We want to build a school in the country--two schools, one for girls
who have misbehaved, one for youths who are similarly delinquent. And,
during recreation, we mean to let them meet in a natural manner--play
games together, dance, mingle out of doors in a wholesome and innocent
way--of course, under necessary and sympathetic supervision--and learn a
healthy consideration and respect for one another which the squalid,
crowded, irresponsible conditions of their former street life in the
slums and tenements made utterly impossible."
He looked into the pretty, eager face with its honest, beautiful eyes
and sensitive mouth--and touched his lips to her hair.
"It sounds fine, sweetheart," he said: "and I won't be lonely if you go
to the Plaza and settle the affairs of this topsy-turvy world.... Do you
love me?"
"Louis! Can you ask?"
"I do ask."
She smiled, faintly; then her young face grew serious, and a hint of
passion darkened her eyes as her arms tightened around his neck and her
lips met his.
"All I care for in the world, or out of it, is you, Louis. If I find
pleasure in anything it is because of you; if I take a little pride in
having people like me, it is only for your sake--for the sake of the
pride you may feel in having others find me agreeable and desirable. I
wish it were possible that your, own world could find me agreeable and
desirable--for your sake, my darling, more than for mine. But it never
will--never could. There is a wall around your world which I can never
scale. And it does not make me unhappy--I only wish you to know that I
want to be what you would have me--and if I can't be all that you might
wish, I love and adore you none the less--am none the less willing to
give you all there is to me--all there is to a girl named Valerie West
who finds this life a happy one because you have made it so for her."
She continued to see Hélène d'Enver, poured tea sometimes at the
Five-Minute-Club, listened to the consultations over the New Idea Home,
and met a great many people of all kinds, fashionable women with a
passion for the bizarre and unconventional, women of gentle breeding and
no social pretence, who worked to support themselves; idle women,
ambitious women, restless women; but the majority formed part of the
floating circles domiciled in apartments and at the great hotels--people
who wintered in New York and were a part of its social and civic life to
that extent, but whose duties and responsibilities for the metropolitan
welfare were self-imposed, and neither hereditary nor constant.
As all circles in New York have, at certain irregular periods,
accidental points of temporary contact, Valerie now and then met people
whom she was scarcely ever likely to see again. And it was at a New Idea
Home conference, scheduled for five o'clock in the red parlour of the
ladies' waiting room in the great Hotel Imperator, that Valerie,
arriving early as delegated substitute for Mrs. Hind-Willet, found
herself among a small group of beautifully gowned strangers--the sort of
women whom she had never before met in this way.
They all knew each other; others who arrived seemed to recognise with
more or less intimacy everybody in the room excepting herself.
She was sitting apart by the crimson-curtained windows, perfectly
self-possessed and rather interested in watching the arrivals of women
whose names, as she caught them, suggested social positions which were
vaguely familiar to her, when an exceedingly pretty girl detached
herself from the increasing group and came across to where Valerie was
sitting alone.
[Illustration: "'May I sit here with you until she arrives? I am
Stephanie Swift.'"]
"I was wondering whether you had met any of the new committee," she said
pleasantly.
"I _had_ expected to meet the Countess d'Enver here," said Valerie,
smiling.
The girl's expression altered slightly, but she nodded amiably; "May I
sit here with you until she arrives? I am Stephanie Swift."
Valerie said: "It is very amiable of you. I am Valerie West."
Stephanie remained perfectly still for a moment; then, conscious that
she was staring, calmly averted her gaze while the slow fire died out in
her cheeks. And in a moment she had decided:
"I have heard so pleasantly about you through Mrs. Collis," she said
with perfect composure. "You remember her, I think."
Valerie, startled, lifted her brown eyes. Then very quietly:
"Mrs. Collis is very kind. I remember her distinctly."
"Mrs. Collis retains the most agreeable memories of meeting you.... I--"
she looked at Valerie, curiously--"I have heard from others how charming
and clever you are--from Mr. Ogilvy?--and Mr. Annan?"
"They are my friends," said Valerie briefly.
"And Mr. Querida, and Mr. Burleson, and--Mr. Neville."
"They are my friends," repeated Valerie.... After a second she added:
"They also employ me."
Stephanie looked away: "Your profession must be most interesting, Miss
West."
"Yes."
"But--exacting."
"Very."
Neither made any further effort. A moment later, however, Hélène d'Enver
came in. She knew some of the women very slightly, none intimately; and,
catching sight of Valerie, she came across the room with a quick smile
of recognition:
"I'm dreadfully late, dear--how do you do, Miss Swift"--to Stephanie,
who had risen. And to Valerie: "Mr. Ogilvy came; just as I had my furs
on--and you know how casually a man takes his leave when you're in a
tearing hurry!"
She laughed and took Valerie's gloved hands in her own; and Stephanie,
who had been looking at the latter, came to an abrupt conclusion that
amazed her; and she heard herself saying:
"It has been most interesting to meet you, Miss West. I have heard of
you so pleasantly that I had hoped to meet you some time. And I hope I
shall again."
Valerie thanked her with a self-possession which she did not entirely
feel, and turned away with Hélène d'Enver.
"That's the girl who is supposed to be engaged to Louis Neville,"
whispered the pretty countess.
Valerie halted, astounded.
"Didn't you know it?" asked the other, surprised.
For a moment Valerie remained speechless, then the wild absurdity of it
flashed over her and she laughed her relief.
"No, I didn't know it," she said.
"Hasn't anybody ever told you?"
"No," said Valerie, smiling.
"Well, perhaps it isn't so, then," said the countess naïvely. "I know
very few people of that set, but I've heard it talked about--outside."
"I don't believe it is so," said Valerie demurely. Her little heart was
beating confidently again and she seated herself beside Hélène d'Enver
in the prim circle of delegates intent upon their chairman, who was
calling the meeting to order.
The meeting was interesting and there were few feminine clashes--merely
a smiling and deadly exchange of amenities between a fashionable woman
who was an ardent advocate of suffrage, and an equally distinguished
lady who was scornfully opposed to it. But the franchise had nothing at
all to do with the discussion concerning the New Idea Home, which is
doubtless why it was mentioned; and the meeting of delegates proceeded
without further debate.
After it was ended Valerie hurried away to keep an appointment with
Neville at Burleson's studio, and found the big sculptor lying on the
sofa, neck swathed in flannel, and an array of medicine bottles at his
elbow.
"Can't go to dinner with you," he said; "Rita won't have it. There's
nothing the matter with me, but she made me lie down here, and I've
promised to stay here until she returns."
"John, you don't look very well," said Valerie, coming over and seating
herself by his side.
"I'm all right, except that I catch cold now and then," he insisted
obstinately.
Valerie looked at the pink patches of colour burning in his cheeks.
There was a transparency to his skin, too, that troubled her. He was one
of those big, blond, blue-eyed fellows whose vivid colour and
fine-grained, delicate skin caused physicians to look twice.
He had been reading when Valerie entered; now he laid his ponderous book
away, doubled his arms back under his head and looked at Valerie with
the placid, bovine friendliness which warmed her heart but always left a
slight smile in the corner of her mouth.
"Why do you always smile at me, Valerie?" he asked.
"Because you're good, John, and I like you."
"I know you do. You're a fine woman, Valerie.... So is Rita."
"Rita is a darling."
[Illustration: "'John, you don't look very well,' said Valerie."]
"She's all right," he nodded. A moment later he added: "She comes from
Massachusetts."
Valerie laughed: "The sacred codfish smiled on your cradle, too, didn't
it, John?"
"Yes, thank God," he said seriously.... "I was born in the old town of
Hitherford."
"How funny!" exclaimed the girl.
"What is there funny about that?" demanded John.
"Why, Rita was born in Hitherford."
"Hitherford Centre," corrected John. "Her father was a clergyman there."
"Oh; so you knew it?"
"I knew, of course, that she was from Massachusetts," said John,
"because she speaks English properly. So I asked her where she was born
and she told me.... My grandfather knew hers."
"Isn't it--curious," mused the girl.
"What's curious?"
"Your meeting this way--as sculptor and model."
"Rita is a very fine girl," he said. "Would you mind handing me my pipe?
No, don't. I forgot that Rita won't let me. You see my chest is rather
uncomfortable."
He glanced at the clock, leaned over and gulped down some medicine, then
placidly folding his hands, lay back:
"How's Kelly?"
"I haven't seen him to-day, John."
"Well, he ought to be here very soon. He can take you and Rita to
dinner."
"I'm so sorry you can't come."
"So am I."
Valerie laid a cool hand on his face; he seemed slightly feverish. Rita
came in at that moment, smiled at Valerie, and went straight to
Burleson's couch:
"Have you taken your medicine?"
"Certainly."
She glanced at the bottles. "Men are so horridly untruthful," she
remarked to Valerie; "and this great, lumbering six-footer hasn't the
sense of a baby--"
"I have, too!" roared John, indignantly; and Valerie laughed but Rita
scarcely smiled.
"He's always working in a puddle of wet clay and he's always having
colds and coughing, and there's always more or less fever," she said,
looking down at the huge young fellow. "I know that he ought to give up
his work and go away for a while--"
"Where?" demanded Burleson indignantly.
"Oh, somewhere--where there's plenty of--air. Like Arizona, and
Colorado."
"Do you think there's anything the matter with my lungs?" he roared.
"No!--you perfect idiot!" said Rita, seating herself; "and if you shout
that way at me again I'll go to dinner with Kelly and Valerie and leave
you here alone. I will not permit you to be uncivil, John. Please
remember it."
Neville arrived in excellent spirits, greeted everybody, and stood
beside Valerie, carelessly touching the tip of his fingers to hers where
they hung at her side.
"What's the matter with _you_, John? Rita, isn't he coming? I've a taxi
outside ruining me."
"John has a bad cold and doesn't care to go--"
"Yes, I do!" growled John.
"And he doesn't care to risk contracting pneumonia," continued Rita
icily, "and he isn't going, anyway. And if he behaves like a man instead
of an overgrown baby, I have promised to stay and dine with him here.
Otherwise I'll go with you."
"Sure. You'd better stay indoors, John. You ought to buck up and get rid
of that cold. It's been hanging on all winter."
Burleson rumbled and grumbled and shot a mutinous glance at Rita, who
paid it no attention.
"Order us a nice dinner at the Plaza, Kelly--if you don't mind," she
said cheerfully, going with them to the door. She added under her
breath: "I wish he'd see a doctor, but the idea enrages him. I don't
see why he has such a cold all the time--and such flushed cheeks--" Her
voice quivered and she checked herself abruptly.
"Suppose I ring up Dr. Colbert on my own hook?" whispered Neville.
"Would you?"
"Certainly. And you can tell John that I did it on my own
responsibility."
Neville and Valerie went away together, and Rita returned to the studio.
Burleson was reading again, and scowling; and he scarcely noticed her.
She seated herself by the fire and looked into the big bare studio
beyond where the electric light threw strange shadows over shrouded
shapes of wet clay and blocks of marble in the rough or partly hewn into
rough semblance of human figures.
It was a damp place at best; there were always wet sponges, wet cloths,
pails of water, masses of moist clay about. Her blue eyes wandered over
it with something approaching fear--almost the fear of hatred.
"John," she said, "why won't you go to a dry climate for a few months
and get rid of your cold?"
"Do you mean Arizona?"
"Or some similar place: yes."
"Well, how am I to do any work out there? I've got commissions on hand.
Where am I going to find any place to work out in Arizona?"
"Build a shanty."
"That's all very well, but there are no models to be had out there."
"Why don't you do some Indians?"
"Because," said John wrathfully, "I haven't any commissions that call
for Indians. I've two angels, a nymph and a Diana to do; and I can't do
them unless I have a female model, can I?"
After a silence Rita said carelessly:
"I'll go with you if you like."
"You! Out there!"
"I said so."
"To Arizona! You wouldn't stand for it!"
"John Burleson!" she said impatiently, "I've told you once that I'd go
with you if you need a model! Don't you suppose I know what I am
saying?"
He lay placidly staring at her, the heavy book open across his chest.
Presently he coughed and Rita sprang up and removed the book.
"You'd go with me to Arizona," he repeated, as though to himself--"just
to pose for me.... That's very kind of you, Rita. It's thoroughly nice
of you. But you couldn't stand it. You'd find it too cruelly stupid out
there alone--entirely isolated in some funny town. I couldn't ask it of
you--"
"You haven't. I've asked it--of you."
But he only began to grumble and fret again, thrashing about restlessly
on the lounge; and the tall young girl watched him out of lowered eyes,
silent, serious, the lamplight edging her hair with a halo of ruddy
gold.
* * * * *
The month sped away very swiftly for Valerie. Her companionship with
Rita, her new friendship for Hélène d'Enver, her work, filled all the
little moments not occupied with Neville. It had been a happy, exciting
winter; and now, with the first days of spring, an excitement and a
happiness so strange that it even resembled fear at moments, possessed
her, in the imminence of the great change.
Often, in these days, she found herself staring at Neville with a sort
of fixed fascination almost bordering on terror;--there were moments
when alone with him, and even while with him among his friends and hers,
when there seemed to awake in her a fear so sudden, so inexplicable,
that every nerve in her quivered apprehension until it had passed as it
came. What those moments of keenest fear might signify she had no idea.
She loved, and was loved, and was not afraid.
In early April Neville went to Ashuelyn. Ogilvy was there, also
Stephanie Swift.
His sister Lily had triumphantly produced a second sample of what she
could do to perpetuate the House of Collis, and was much engrossed with
nursery duties; so Stephanie haunted the nursery, while Ogilvy, Neville,
and Gordon Collis played golf over the April pastures, joining them only
when Lily was at liberty.
Why Stephanie avoided Neville she herself scarcely knew; why she clung
so closely to Lily's skirts seemed no easier to explain. But in her
heart there was a restlessness which no ignoring, no self-discipline
could suppress--an unease which had been there many days, now--a hard,
tired, ceaseless inquietude that found some little relief when she was
near Lily Collis, but which, when alone, became a dull ache.
She had grown thin and spiritless within the last few months. Lily saw
it and resented it hotly.
"The child," she said to her husband, "is perfectly wretched over Louis
and his ignominious affair with that West girl. I don't know whether she
means to keep her word to me or not, but she's with him every day.
They're seen together everywhere except where Louis really belongs."
"It looks to me," said Gordon mildly, "as though he were really in love
with her."
"Gordon! How _can_ you say such a thing in such a sympathetic tone!"
"Why--aren't you sorry for them?"
"I'm sorry for Louis--and perfectly disgusted. I _was_ sorry for her; an
excess of sentimentality. But she hasn't kept her word to me."
"Did she promise not to gad about with him?"
"That was the spirit of the compact; she agreed not to marry him."
"Sometimes they--don't marry," observed Gordon, twirling his thumbs.
Lily looked up quickly; then flushed slightly.
"What do you mean, Gordon?"
"Nothing specific; anything in general."
"You mean to hint that--that Louis--Louis Neville could be--permit
himself to be so common--so unutterably low--"
"Better men have taken the half-loaf."
"Gordon!" she exclaimed, scarlet with amazement and indignation.
"Personally," he said, unperturbed, "I haven't much sympathy with such
affairs. If a man can't marry a girl he ought to leave her alone; that's
my idea of the game. But men play it in a variety of ways. Personally,
I'd as soon plug a loaded shot-gun with mud and then fire it, as block a
man who wants to marry."
"I _did_ block it!" said Lily with angry decision; "and I am glad I
did."
"Look out for the explosion then," he said philosophically, and
strolled off to see to the setting out of some young hemlocks, headed in
the year previous.
Lily Collis was deeply disturbed--more deeply than her pride and her
sophistication cared to admit. She strove to believe that such a horror
as her husband had hinted at so coolly could never happen to a Neville;
she rejected it with anger, with fear, with a proud and dainty
fastidiousness that ought to have calmed and reassured her. It did not.
Once or twice she reverted to the subject, haughtily; but Gordon merely
shrugged:
"You can't teach a man of twenty-eight when, where, and how to fall in
love," he said. "And it's all the more hopeless when the girl possesses
the qualities which you once told me this girl possesses."
Lily bit her lip, angry and disconcerted, but utterly unable to refute
him or find anything in her memory of Valerie to criticise and condemn,
except the intimacy with her brother which had continued and which, she
had supposed, would cease on Valerie's promise to her.
"It's very horrid of her to go about with him under the
circumstances--knowing she can't marry him if she keeps her word," said
Lily.
"Why? Stephanie goes about with him."
"Do you think it is good taste to compare those two people?"
"Why not. From what you told me I gather that Valerie West is as
innocent and upright a woman as Stephanie--and as proudly capable of
self-sacrifice as any woman who ever loved."
"Gordon," she said, exasperated, "do you actually wish to see my brother
marry a common model?"
"_Is_ she common? I thought you said--"
"You--you annoy me," said Lily; and began to cry.
Stephanie, coming into the nursery that afternoon, found Lily watching
the sleeping children and knitting a tiny sweater. Mrs. Collis was pale,
but her eyes were still red.
"Where have you been, Stephanie?"
"Helping Gordon set hemlocks."
"Where is Louis?"
The girl did not appear to hear the question.
"I thought I heard him telephoning a few minutes ago," added Lily. "Look
over the banisters, dear, and see if he's still there."
"He is," said Stephanie, not stirring.
"Telephoning all this time? Is he talking to somebody in town?"
"I believe so."
Lily suddenly looked up. Stephanie was quietly examining some recently
laundered clothing for the children.
"To whom is Louis talking; do you happen to know?" asked Lily abruptly.
Stephanie's serious gaze encountered hers.
"Does that concern us, Lily?"
After a while, as Mrs. Collis sat in silence working her ivory needles,
a tear or two fell silently upon the little white wool garment on her
lap.
And presently Stephanie went over and touched her forehead with gentle
lips; but Lily did not look up--could not--and her fingers and ivory
needles flew the faster.
"Do you know," said Stephanie in a low voice, "that she is a modest,
well-bred, and very beautiful girl?"
"What!" exclaimed Lily, staring at her in grief and amazement. "Of whom
are you speaking, Stephanie?"
"Of Valerie West, dear."
"W-what do you know about her?"
"I have met her."
"_You_!"
"Yes. She came, with that rather common countess, as substitute delegate
for Mrs. Hind-Willet, to a New Idea meeting. I spoke to her, seeing she
was alone and seemed to know nobody; I had no suspicion of who she was
until she told me."
"Mrs. Hind-Willet is a busybody!" said Lily, furious. "Let her fill her
own drawing-room with freaks if it pleases her, but she has no right to
send them abroad among self-respecting people who are too unsuspicious
to protect themselves!"
Stephanie said: "Until one has seen and spoken with Valerie West one can
scarcely understand how a man like your brother could care so much for
her--"
"How do you know Louis cares for her?"
"He told me."
Lily looked into the frank, gray eyes in horror unutterable. The crash
had come. The last feeble hope that her brother might come to his senses
and marry this girl was ended forever.
"How--could he!" she stammered, outraged. "How could he tell--tell
_you_--"
"Because he and I are old and close friends, Lily.... And will remain
so, God willing."
Lily was crying freely now.
"He had no business to tell you. He knows perfectly well what his father
and mother think about it and what I think. He can't marry her! He shall
not. It is too cruel--too wicked--too heartless! And anyway--she
promised me not to marry him--"
"What!"
Lily brushed the tears from her eyes, heedless now of how much Stephanie
might learn.
"I wrote her--I went to see her in behalf of my own family as I had a
perfect right to. She promised me not to marry Louis."
"Does Louis know this?"
"Not unless she's told him.... I don't care whether he does or not! He
has disappointed me--he has embittered life for me--and for his parents.
We--I--I had every reason to believe that he and--you--"
Something in Stephanie's gray eyes checked her. When breeding goes to
pieces it makes a worse mess of it than does sheer vulgarity.
"If I were Louis I would marry her," said Stephanie very quietly. "I
gave him that advice."
She rose, looking down at Lily where she sat bowed over her wool-work,
her face buried in her hands.
"Think about it; and talk patiently with Louis," she said gently.
Passing the stairs she glanced toward the telephone. Louis was still
talking to somebody in New York.
* * * * *
It was partly fear of what her husband had hinted, partly terror of what
she considered worse still--a legal marriage--that drove Lily Collis to
write once more to Valerie West:
"DEAR MISS WEST: It is not that I have any disposition to doubt your
word to me, but, in view of the assurance you have given me, do you
consider it wise to permit my brother's rather conspicuous attentions to
you?
"Permit me, my dear Miss West, as an older woman with wider experience
which years must bring, to suggest that it is due to yourself to curtail
an intimacy which the world--of course mistakenly in your case--views
always uncharitably.
"No man--and I include my brother as severely as I do any man--has a
right to let the world form any misconception as to his intentions
toward any woman. If he does he is either ignorant or selfish and
ruthless; and it behooves a girl to protect her own reputation.
"I write this in all faith and kindliness for your sake as well as for
his. But a man outlives such things, a woman never. And, for the sake of
your own future I beg you to consider this matter and I trust that you
may not misconstrue the motive which has given me the courage to write
you what has caused me deepest concern.
"Very sincerely yours,
"LILY COLLIS."
To which Valerie replied:
"MY DEAR, MRS. COLLIS: I have to thank you for your excellent intentions
in writing me. But with all deference to your wider experience I am
afraid that I must remain the judge of my own conduct. Pray, believe
that, in proportion to your sincerity, I am grateful to you; and that I
should never dream of being discourteous to Mr. Neville's sister if I
venture to suggest to her that liberty of conscience is a fundamental
scarcely susceptible of argument or discussion.
"I assume that you would not care to have Mr. Neville know of this
correspondence, and for that reason I am returning to you your letter so
that you may be assured of its ultimate destruction.
"Very truly yours,
"VALERIE WEST."
Which letter and its reply made Valerie deeply unhappy; and she wrote
Neville a little note saying that she had gone to the country with
Hélène d'Enver for a few days' rest.
The countess had taken a house among the hills at Estwich; and as chance
would have it, about eight miles from Ashuelyn and Penrhyn Cardemon's
great establishment, El Naúar.
Later Valerie was surprised and disturbed to learn of the proximity of
Neville's family, fearing that if Mrs. Collis heard of her in the
neighbourhood she might misunderstand.
But there was only scant and rough communication between Ashuelyn and
Estwich; the road was a wretched hill-path passable only by buck-boards;
Westwich was the nearest town to Ashuelyn and El Naúar and the city of
Dartford, the county seat most convenient to Estwich.
Spring was early; the Estwich hills bloomed in May; and Hélène d'Enver
moved her numerous household from the huge Castilione Apartment House
to Estwich and settled down for a summer of mental and physical
recuperation.
Valerie, writing to Neville the first week in May, said:
"Louis, the country here is divine. I thought the shaggy, unkempt hills
of Delaware County were heavenly--and they _were_ when you came and made
them so--but this rich, green, well-ordered country with its hills and
woods and meadows of emerald--its calm river, its lovely little brooks,
its gardens, hedges, farms, is to me the most wonderful land I ever
looked upon.
"Hélène has a pretty house, white with green blinds and verandas, and
the loveliest lawns you ever saw--unless the English lawns are lovelier.
"To my city-wearied eyes the region is celestial in its horizon-wide
quiet. Only the ripple of water in leafy ravines--only the music of
birds breaks the silence that is so welcome, so blessed.
"To-day Hélène and I picked strawberries for breakfast, then filled the
house with great fragrant peonies, some of which are the colour of
Brides' roses, some of water-lilies.
"I'm quite mad with delight; I love the farm with its ducks and hens and
pigeons; I adore the cattle in the meadow. They are fragrant. Hélène
laughs at me because I follow the cows about, sniffing luxuriously. They
smell like the clover they chew.
"Louis, dear, I have decided to remain a week here, if you don't mind.
I'm a little tired, I think. John Burleson, poor boy, does not need me.
I'm terribly worried about him. Rita writes that there is no danger of
pneumonia, but that Dr. Colbert is making a careful examination. I hope
it is not lung trouble. It would be too tragic. He is only twenty-seven.
Still, they cure such things now, don't they? Rita is hoping he will go
to Arizona, and has offered to go with him as his model. That means--if
she does go--that she'll nurse him and take care of him. She is devoted
to him. What a generous girl she is!
"Dear, if you don't need me, or are not too lonely without seeing me
come fluttering into your studio every evening at tea-time, I would
really like to remain here a few days longer. I have arranged business
so that I can stay if it is agreeable to you. Tell me exactly how you
feel about it and I will do exactly as you wish--which, please God--I
shall always do while life lasts.
"Sam came up over Sunday, lugging Harry Annan and a bulldog--a present
for Hélène. Sam is _so_ sentimental about Hélène!
"And he's so droll about it. But I've seen him that way before; haven't
you? And Hélène, bless her heart, lets him make eyes at her and just
laughs in that happy, wholesome way of hers.
"She's a perfect dear, Louis; so sweet and kind to me, so unaffected, so
genuine, so humorous about herself and her funny title. She told me that
she would gladly shed it if she were not obliged to shed her legacy with
it. I don't blame her. What an awful title--when you translate it!
"Sam is temporarily laid up. He attempted to milk a cow and she kicked
him; and he's lying in a hammock and Hélène is reading to him, while
Harry paints her portrait. Oh, dear--I _love_ Harry Annan, but he can't
paint!
"Dearest--as I sit here in my room with the chintz curtains blowing and
the sun shining on the vines outside my open windows, I am thinking of
you; and my girl's heart is very full--very humble in the wonder of your
love for me--a miracle ever new, ever sweeter, ever holier.
"I pray that it be given to me to see the best way for your happiness
and your welfare; I pray that I may not be confused by thought of self.
"Dear, the spring is going very swiftly. I can scarcely believe that May
is already here--is already passing--and that the first of June is so
near.
"Will you _always_ love me? Will you always think tenderly of
me--happily--! Alas, it is a promise nobody can honestly make. One can
be honest only in wishing it may be so.
"Dearest of men, the great change is near at hand--nearer than I can
realise. Do you still want me? Is the world impossible without me? Tell
me so, Louis; tell me so now--and in the years to come--very
often--very, very often. I shall need to hear you say it; I understand
now how great my need will be to hear you say it in the years to come."
Writing to him in a gayer mood a week later:
"It is perfectly dear of you to tell me to remain. I _do_ miss you; I'm
simply wild to see you; but I am getting so strong, so well, so
deliciously active and vigorous again. I _was_ rather run down in town.
But in the magic of this air and sunshine I have watched the
reincarnation of myself. I swim, I row, I am learning to sit a horse; I
play tennis--_and_ I flirt, Monsieur--shamelessly, with Sam and Harry.
Do you object--
"We had such a delightful time--a week-end party, perfectly informal and
crazy; Mrs. Hind-Willet--who is such a funny woman, considering the
position she might occupy in society--and José Querida--just six of us,
until--and this I'm afraid you may not like--Mrs. Hind-Willet telephoned
Penrhyn Cardemon to come over.
"You know, Louis, he _seems_ a gentleman, though it is perfectly certain
that he isn't. I hate and despise him; and have been barely civil to
him. But in a small company one has to endure such things with outward
equanimity; and I am sure that nobody suspects my contempt for him and
that my dislike has not caused one awkward moment."
She wrote again:
"I beg of you not to suggest to your sister that she call on me. Try to
be reasonable, dear. Mrs. Collis does not desire to know me. Why should
she? Why should you wish to have me meet her? If you have any vague
ideas that my meeting her might in any possible way alter a situation
which must always exist between your family and myself, you are utterly
mistaken, dearest.
"And my acquaintance with Miss Swift is so slight--I never saw her but
once, and then only for a moment!--that it would be only painful and
embarrassing to her if you asked her to call on me. Besides, you are a
man and you don't understand such things. Also, Mrs. Collis and Miss
Swift have only the slightest and most formal acquaintance with Hélène;
and it is very plain that they are as content with that acquaintance as
is Hélène. And in addition to that, you dear stupid boy, your family has
carefully ignored Mr. Cardemon for years, although he is their
neighbour; and Mr. Cardemon is here. And to cap the climax, your father
and mother are at Ashuelyn. _Can't_ you understand?
"Dearest of men, don't put your family and yourself--and me--into such a
false position. I know you won't when I have explained it; I know you
trust me; I know you love me dearly.
"We had a straw ride. There's no new straw, of course, so we had a wagon
filled with straw from one of the barns and we drove to Lake Gentian and
Querida was glorious in the moonlight with his guitar.
"He's so nice to me now--so like himself. But I _hate_ Penrhyn Cardemon
and I wish he would go; and he's taken a fancy to me, and for Hélène's
sake I don't snub him--the unmitigated cad!
"However, it takes all kinds to make even the smallest of house parties;
and I continue to be very happy and to write to you every day.
"Sam is queer. I'm beginning to wonder whether he is really in love with
Hélène. If he isn't he ought to have his knuckles rapped. Of course,
Hélène will be sensible about it. But, Louis, when a really nice man
behaves as though he were in love with a woman, no matter how gaily she
laughs over it, it is bound to mean _something_ to her. And men don't
seem to understand that."
"Mrs. Hind-Willet departs to-morrow. Sam and Harry go to Ashuelyn; Mr.
Cardemon to his rural palace, I devoutly trust; which will leave José to
Hélène and me; and he's equal to it.
"How long may I stay, dear? I am having a heavenly time--which is odd
because heaven is in New York just now."
Another letter in answer to one of his was briefer:
"My Darling:
"Certainly you must go to Ashuelyn if your father and mother wish it.
They are old, dear; and it is a heartless thing to thwart the old.
"Don't think of attempting to come over here to see me. The chances are
that your family would hear of it and it would only pain them. Any
happiness that you and I are ever to have must not be gained at any
expense to them.
"So keep your distance, Monsieur; make your parents and your sister
happy for the few days you are to be there; and on Thursday I will meet
you on the 9.30 train and we will go back to town together.
"I am going anyway, for two reasons; I have been away from you entirely
too long, and--the First of June is very, very near.
"I love you with all my heart, Louis.
"Valerie West."