THE GREAT NEUTRAL.
I.
One afternoon a tall, heavily built young man entered his house on
128th Street, New York, and after divesting himself of his coat and
hat, rubbed his hands in genial appreciation of his own hearth and the
exclusion of the raw outside air. He was dressed in a gray lounge
suit, a clerical collar alone denoting his vocation.
'There's a gentleman in your room, Mr. Forbes,' said his housekeeper,
appearing from the kitchen. 'He said he was an old friend, and would
wait.'
'What's his name?'
'Mr. Selwyn, sir.'
'Austin Selwyn? By George!' Taking the stairs three at a time, the
energetic clergyman burst into the library and advanced with both hands
outstretched. 'For the love of Pete!' he ejaculated most unclerically.
'How are you, my boy? Let me have a look at you. Still the same old
Sel, eh? A little thinner, I think, and not quite so much hair--humph!
Sit down; have that easy-chair; tell me all about yourself. Well,
well! this is an unexpected treat.'
The Rev. Edgerton Forbes, who had been looking Selwyn over after the
custom of tailors about to offer sartorial advice, ceased his
inspection, and shook hands all over again.
'Edge,' said Selwyn, speaking for the first time, 'you can't imagine
what your welcome means to me.'
'My dear boy, you never doubted its warmth?'
'Yes I did, old man--after what I've been writing.'
The athletic clergyman laughed uproariously. 'I suppose you're a
dyed-in-the-wool Englishman now, and want your cup of tea. Well, I'll
join you.--Mrs. Perkins.' Going to the door, he gave the necessary
orders, and returned rubbing his hands, and venting his surplus energy
in a variety of hearty noises expressive of pleasure at seeing his old
friend.
'Now, start at the beginning,' he said, 'and give me everything. The
semaphore's up, and there's a clear track ahead.'
'But I want to know about things here first.'
'After you, my son. Put it over now. By the way, that's a nasty scar
on your head. How did you get it?'
In a few words Selwyn traced the course of events which had led to his
crusade against Ignorance, a crusade which had in an inexplicable way
turned particularly against England. He spoke of Doug Watson's letter
with its description of the slaughtered German boy, and he told of the
air-raid in the moonlight, the climax to his long orgy of idealism. He
touched lightly and humorously on his hospital experience, but not once
did he mention the inner secret of his heart. To the whole recital
Forbes listened with a genuineness and a bigness of sympathy which
seemed to belong to his body as well as his mind.
'That is pretty well everything,' said Selwyn. 'I have come back here,
humble and perplexed, to try to get my bearings. There have been two
men financing my stuff, and they must account to me for the uses to
which they have put it. Edge, I was sincere. Not one word was written
but I put my very life-blood into it.'
The arrival of tea put a temporary stop to the author's
self-revelation, and his host busied himself with his hospitable duties.
Selwyn passed his hand querulously over his face. The clergyman looked
at him with a feeling of pervading compassion.
'I was going to ask about Gerard Van Derwater,' said Selwyn, 'How is
he?'
'Van's very well. He is in the Intelligence Division right here in New
York.'
'I heard he was engaged to Marjory Shoreham.'
'Yes--he was. They broke it off a few weeks ago; or, rather, she did.'
'I am sorry to hear that,' said Selwyn earnestly. 'I always liked her
immensely, and I was glad that poor old Van had been the lucky suitor.
You remember how I used to say that he always carried a certain
atmosphere of impending tragedy, although he was never gloomy or moody
about it.'
'Well, Austin, I think the tragedy has come.'
'I must see him,' said Selwyn. 'In coming back here, you and he were
the two I wanted most to meet. I knew that neither of you would
withdraw your friendship without good reason; but also I knew you would
tell me bluntly where I stood. Why did Marjory break off with Van?'
The clergyman told what he knew, and at the conclusion of the story
Selwyn rose to his feet.
'I must see Van at once,' he said. 'There's more in this than appears
on the surface. If you will give me his number, I'll find out when we
can get together.'
Receiving the necessary information, Selwyn went downstairs to the
telephone, returning in a couple of minutes to the den.
'I just caught him,' he said to his host, 'and I am going to his rooms
at nine tonight.'
'Good work. Now sit down and tell me about the English. You'll find
me the most attentive audience you ever had.'
II.
It was theatre-time when Selwyn left his hotel and walked over to
Broadway. That diagonal, much-advertised avenue of Gotham was ablaze
with light. From shop windows, from illuminated signs, from office
buildings, street-cars, and motors, the carnival of theatre-hour was
lit with glaring brilliancy. Women, in all the semi-barbaric
costliness with which their sex loves to adorn itself of a night,
stepped from limousines with their tiny silvery feet twinkling beneath
the load of gorgeous furs and vivid opera-cloaks; while well-groomed
men, in the smart insignificance of their evening clothes, guided the
perilous passage of their fair consorts from the motor's step to the
pavement.
Momentarily reduced to the democracy of pedestrianism, they would lose
themselves in the surging mob of passers-by--shop-girls on their way to
a cinema; rural visitors shocked and thrilled with everything;
keen-faced, black-haired Jews speculating on life's profits;
sallow-faced, lustrous-eyed girls hungry for romance, imagining every
begowned woman to be an adventuress, and every man a Prince Charming;
here and there an Irish policeman, proving that his people can control
any country but their own. Of such threads is woven the pattern of New
York's theatre-hour on Broadway.
From sheer inability to stem the traffic, Selwyn stepped into a
doorway. On the opposite side of the street a theatrical sign
announced that 'Lulu' was 'the biggest, most stupendous, comedy of the
season.' He wondered what constituted largeness in a comedy. Surely
not the author's wit! Before he could formulate a solution of the
mystery, a great overhead sign suddenly ignited with the searching
question--
DO YOU CHEW SWORDSAFE'S GUM?
Hastily detaching his mind from the biggest, most stupendous, comedy of
the season, he stared at the interrogation of the gum company. It
suddenly disappeared, however, and then he saw that, like the goblins
who chased the small boy who was lost, the business interests of New
York had assumed a violent interest in his personal habits. What
underwear did he buy? Did he know that Hot-door's shaving-soap was
used by 76 per cent. of the entire manhood of America? There was only
one place humanly conceivable where lingerie could be purchased; to
prove it, the illuminated signboard promptly showed a lady in a costume
usually confined to boudoirs. To equalise the immodesty of the sexes,
a near male neighbour, at a height of two hundred odd feet, did an
electrified turn by putting on and taking off a pair of
trousers-suspenders.
DO YOU CHEW SWORDSAFE'S GUM?
That was the question. What importance could a mere war have in
comparison with that? Blinking in the glare, Selwyn left the doorway
and made for Madison Avenue, where Van Derwater's rooms were.
The clocks were just striking nine when he reached the number he
wanted, and a negro servant led him upstairs. As Selwyn entered Van
Derwater rose from his chair and greeted him with a restrained
courtliness that was gentlemanly to a degree, but had an instantly
chilling effect on the visitor. It was the room the owner used for
lounging or reading, and the only light was the shaded one on the table.
Van Derwater had just passed thirty, but the premature thinness of his
hair in front, the listless droop of his heavy shoulders, and the
bluish pallor about his firm jaw contrived to make him appear older
than he was. There was a kindliness in the wrinkles about his eyes,
and his mouth, though solid, was not lacking in indications of
intuitive understanding. It was perhaps the formality of his bearing,
the stiffness of his body from the hips, that gave him the air of one
who belonged by right to a past and more ceremonious age.
Although Van Derwater encouraged his guest, after the exchange of
greetings, to talk of his voyage and its attendant experiences, Selwyn
was aware that he was placing a cold impersonal wall between them. His
old friend was interested, courteous, intellectually even cordial, but
Selwyn knew he was being kept at a distance. He forced the talk to old
intimacies--recalled the game when, together, they had crossed Yale's
line in the closing moments of the great Rugby match--brought back a
host of joint experiences, trivial in themselves, but hallowed by time.
Van Derwater remembered them all. For each one he had the slight smile
of his mouth and the quizzical weariness of his eyes; but when the
conversation would droop after each outburst of reminiscence, he would
not make the least attempt to lift it up again. Finally, being
convinced that nothing could come of so bloodless a meeting, Selwyn
dropped the impersonal mask.
'I was mighty sorry,' he said, 'to hear that you and Marjory have
broken off your engagement.'
'It was her wish: not mine.' Van Derwater's voice was deep and rich,
but almost monotonous in its lack of inflection.
'I was talking to Forbes to-day,' went on Selwyn tenaciously. 'He had
been to see Marjory.'
'Yes?'
'Marjory told him that you didn't care enough for her to go overseas.
I should think she would realise that such a matter concerns you only.'
'Not a bit of it.' For the first time the other's manner showed signs
of vitality. 'It means everything to her. She wants to feel that the
man she marries is big enough to go and help France. I admire her for
it. I wish there were more women with her character.'
Selwyn shifted his chair uneasily. 'But--I don't understand,' he
stammered. 'You told her you wouldn't go.'
'Well, what of it?'
'Look here, Van,' said Selwyn vehemently; 'we have been friends for
many years. I came to you to-night because my whole career is at a
standstill. I want to tell you everything--I must do it--but I can't
as long as you withhold your confidence. It isn't curiosity on my
part--you know that. I want to bring back the old sense of
understanding we once had.'
'You haven't changed,' said Van Derwater, an inscrutable smile playing
about his mouth. 'You always had a habit of piercing people's moods,
no matter what defence they put up. But if you want candour, I'll tell
you frankly I am sorry you came here this evening. I knew that it
would be difficult to keep from hurting you, and for old-times' sake I
didn't want to do that. As you know, I have never made friends. You
and Forbes were the nearest thing to it, and I suppose you two meant
more than I would ever care to admit. You might ring the bell over
your head. The fire needs more coal.'
As the negro obeyed his master's instructions and stoked the fire into
vigour, the two friends sat without speaking. Selwyn was mute with
apprehension of what he was to hear; the older man was dreading the
words he had to utter. To certain strong natures it is more painful to
inflict than to receive a wound.
'If you want my story,' resumed the host, after the servant had left
the room, 'and as you are concerned you have a right to hear it, this
is how it goes. I went into the diplomatic service. Then I met
Marjory. I needn't say what that meant to me. For the first time, I
think, I knew what living was. Shortly after came the war. At first I
thought that if America remained neutral as a country, it was not up to
individuals to quarrel with that attitude. Then came the _Lusitania_.
I wanted to go over at once, but hated to suggest it to Marjory. One
night, though, to my delight, the plucky little girl mentioned it
herself. I hurried back to Washington and offered my resignation, but
the chief urged me to remain three months longer, saying that I was
absolutely necessary in the reorganisation of a certain branch of the
Intelligence Division in New York. To cut the story short, months and
months went on, and they refused to release me. As a matter of fact I
was directing an investigation into German foreign diplomacy that was
of so delicate a nature I dared not mention it to Marjory. At its
conclusion I went to Washington and demanded that they let me go--I
gave my exact reason. The chief said he would give me a reply in a
week; but I told him that, no matter what he wrote, I would go at the
expiration of that time. It was while I was waiting for the answer
that Marjory said it rested with me whether or not the engagement was
to be broken. I told her that I should be able to state my position in
a couple of days. Well, the letter came. Perhaps you had better see
it. You can read it to yourself.'
He went to his desk, and searching among the papers, produced a
correspondence-form bearing an official stamp. He handed it to Selwyn.
'WASHINGTON, November 2, 1916.
'_Personal and Confidential_.
'MY DEAR VAN DERWATER,--As a boyhood friend of your father's I have
been most anxious to accede to your request for release from your
present duties. I may say that in my desire to do the fairest thing by
you, I went so far as to place the facts of the matter before the
President himself. He agreed with me that your services entitled you
to every possible consideration; but he also pointed out that the
intimate knowledge of our secret diplomacy which you have gained marks
you as too valuable a man to let go lightly. I finally secured his
consent, but an hour later he sent for me again. It was to talk over a
new enemy that has arisen in this fight of the present administration
to weld the conflicting elements of our nation into a single-thinking
whole. I refer to the ultra-pacifist section which has grown so large
recently.
'You told me once that you knew this fellow, Austin Selwyn. I am sorry
to set friend against friend, but his influence over the cultured and
pacifist elements has to be met sternly and at once. We cannot take
personal action against him, because he is within his rights as a
citizen of a neutral country; but nevertheless his writings are proving
a strong disrupting force--stronger, in fact, than many of the clumsier
methods employed by subjects of belligerent nations.
'Word has reached us that in all probability this nation will be faced
shortly with the most momentous decision of the war. Therefore I must
insist that you take charge of the anti-disruptionist propaganda. I
shall be in New York next Wednesday, and will discuss with you the
methods by which we can stem the tide of disloyal pacificism as
exemplified by this man Selwyn.
'We have no hold over you, my boy; but in the name of this great
Republic which is struggling against such odds for unification of her
national life, I bid you remain at your post. I know that the son of
my old friend Colonel Van Derwater will not question an order.--Yours
faithfully,
A. WALTER GALLEY.'
As Selwyn finished the letter, a flush swept into his cheeks and his
jaw stiffened with his old fighting mannerism.
'This is infamous!' he cried hotly. 'Do you accuse me of disloyalty to
my own country?'
'I do,' said Van Derwater calmly.
Selwyn's fists clenched with fury. 'Van,' he said, his voice quivering
with suppressed passion, 'I may have been blind--I can see where I have
injured you and many others--but when you or Galley say that I have
been trying to disrupt America, you lie. There is no one more
passionately devoted to his country than I.'
'Which is your country?' said Van Derwater.
Through the dim light of the room the eyes of the two men met.
Selwyn's were blazing like hot coals; Van Derwater's were cold and
steely.
'What have I done,' said Selwyn, twice checking himself before he could
trust his voice, 'but tried to show that war is wrong--that men without
quarrel are killing each other now--that every nation has contributed
to this terrible thing by its ignorance? What is there in that which
merits the name of traitor?'
Van Derwater shrugged his shoulders, and taking a book from the table,
idly studied its cover. 'Since the war began,' he said, his tones calm
and low, 'the United States has been trying to speak with one voice,
the voice of a united people. It was the plain duty of every American
to aid the Administration in that. Instead, what have we found?
Pro-Germans plotting outrage, and pro-Britishers casting slurs;
conspiracy, political blackmailing, financial pressure--everywhere she
has looked, this country has found within her borders the factors of
disruption. We have fought them all. We have refused to be bullied or
cajoled into choosing a false national destiny. At the moment that we
seem to have accomplished something--with Europe looking to us for the
final decision that must come--you, and others of your kind, contrive
to poison the great educated, decent-thinking class that we always
thought secure. Your cry of "Peace--peace--at any price let us have
peace," has done its work. Consciously or unconsciously, Austin, you
have been a traitor.'
Selwyn rose furiously to his feet. 'This is the end of our
friendship,' he said, with his voice almost choking, and his shoulders
chafing under the passion which possessed him. 'Your chief has chosen
to name me as a reason for keeping you in America, and so it is I who
have come between you and Marjory. For that I am sorry. But when you
question my loyalty to America--that is the finish.'
Van Derwater had also risen to his feet and with the utmost courtesy
listened to Selwyn's outburst. More than ever there was a mystic
atmosphere of the Past in his bearing. He might have been a diplomat
of the sixteenth century bidding adieu to a thwarted enemy
plenipotentiary.
'Austin,' he said, with the merest inclination of his head, and his
arms hanging wearily by his sides, 'we live in difficult times.'
With an angry gesture, Selwyn left the room, and taking his coat and
hat from the negro, went again into the street.
Closing his study door, Van Derwater moved slowly to his chair, and
lifting his book, opened it. For a long time he gazed at the open page
without reading a line. 'Difficult times,' he murmured.
III.
Still in the grip of uncontrollable fury, Selwyn stamped his way
through the streets. Colliding heavily with a passer-by, he turned and
cursed him for his clumsiness. He cherished a mad desire to return to
Van Derwater's rooms and force an apology by violence. He had expected
criticism, reproach, even abuse; but that any man should brand him
treasonous! . . .
He spat into the gutter, and a sound that was almost a snarl escaped
from his throat. He stopped, irresolute, and the wound in his head
burst into a violent pain. He leaned against a post until the agony
had passed, and once more he made for Broadway. At the sight of his
face glowing-red with passion, girls tittered and men drew aside.
Crossing the road, he stood to let a street-car pass, its covered
wheels giving an odd resemblance to an armoured car, when an extra
burst of light made him look up.
It was the gum advertisement again.