"Is that her? Is that her?" asked the children, the nursery door ajar.
"Yes, that is 'her,'" said their mother, as Medora, muffled in white and
with her violin-case under her arm, slipped along through the hall.
"How soon is she going to play? And won't you please let us hear just one
piece, mamma?"
"You may lean over the banister. But if you let anybody catch you at
it----"
"How soon is she going to begin?"
"Not for some time yet."
"Oh-h! Then won't you bring her in so that----"
"'Sh! 'sh! And shut the door."
But the door opened again and the banister was called upon to shield, if
it could, three little figures in white night-dresses as soon as Medora
began to "illustrate" Adrian Bond. The children upstairs were delighted,
and the grown-up children downstairs scarcely less so--for Medora knew
the infirmities of the polite world and never tired its habitues by her
suites and sonatas. She took her cue from Bond's crisp, brief sketches of
amusing travel-types, and gave them a folk-song from the Bavarian
highlands and one or two quaint bits that she had picked up in Brittany.
Abner, who knew her abilities, was vastly disconcerted to find her thus
minimizing herself; as for his own part of the performance, emphasis
should not fail. No, these rich, comfortable, prosperous people should
drink the cup to the dregs--the cup of mire, of slackness, of drudgery,
of dull hopelessness that he alone could mix. To tell the truth, his
auditors tasted of the cup with much docility and appeared to enjoy its
novel flavour. They listened closely and applauded civilly--and waited
for more of Bond and Medora.
Abner was piqued. The situation did not justify itself. There was no
reason why Medora Giles should lend her talents to promote the success of
Adrian Bond--Bond with his thin hair plastered so pitifully over his poor
little skull and his insignificant face awry with a conventional society
smirk. Yet how, pray, could she contribute to his own? What was there in
any work of his for her to take hold upon? He himself could not claim
charm for it, nor an alluring atmosphere, nor a soft poetical
perspective, nor participation in the consecrated traditions so dear,
apparently, to the sophisticated folk around him. Medora, in fact, had
shaken herself loose from the farmyard, and if he were to follow her must
he not do the same?
He meant to follow her--he had come to feel sure of that. He was not
certain what it would lead to, he was not certain what he wanted it to
lead to; but if he had not fully realized her to be most rare and
desirable there were many round about him now to help open his eyes.
Hers, after all, was the triumph; everybody was applauding her grace, her
tact, her beauty, her dress, discreetly classical, her distinction; while
she herself parried compliments with smiling good-humour in the very
accents of society itself.
And he was to follow her with _Less Than the Beasts_. The farm-yard
claimed him for its own once more. He must go in up to his knees, up to
his middle, up to his chin. But as he progressed he forgot his
surroundings, his auditory; all he felt was the fate of his poor heroine,
the pitiful farm-drudge, sunk in hopeless wrong and misery. He read in
his very best manner, with abundant feeling and full conviction, and for
a moment his hearers felt with him. Then came a last elegiac paragraph,
and here Abner's voice grew husky, his throat filled, he coughed, and as
he laid aside his last sheet and turned to rise a quick pain darted
through his chest; he coughed again and involuntarily raised his hand
against his breast, and the acute and sudden pang was signalled clearly
in his face.
Whyland advanced quickly. "_Now_," he said, in a low tone, "you must let
me have _my_ way--if it isn't too late. Come." He led Abner toward the
dining-room.
"It is nothing," said Abner, on his return.
"It is something, I am sure," said Edith Whyland, with great solicitude.
"It is something serious, I feel certain," said Medora, pale as her
dress.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Abner. "I shall know just what to do as soon as I
get home----" He clutched at his breast again.
"You will not go home to-night," said Whyland.
Abner did not go home that night, nor the next, nor the next. He was put
to bed in an upper chamber and remained there. Outside was the gray
welter of the lake. Its white-capped waves knocked viciously against the
trembling sea-wall, and their spray, flying across the drenched bed of
the Drive, stung on the window-panes as if to say, in every drop, "It is
we, we who have brought you to this!"
Medora sent her brother next morning to make inquiries, and at noon she
came herself.
"The nurse will be here in an hour or two," said Edith Whyland.
"I will stay till she arrives," said Medora.
For a fortnight Abner lay muffled in that big, luxurious bed and did as
he was told.
"Men!" said Medora. "They don't know anything; they have no idea of
looking after themselves. And the bigger they are, the more helpless."
Abner had his good days and his bad, and suffered the gentle tyranny of
two or three solicitous women, and trusted that his sudden illness was
making due public stir.
The Readjusters, who had lately been asking after him, first heard of his
plight from the press. The same newspapers that brought them further
details of the adventures of the new Pence-Whyland Franchise in the
Common Council informed them that Abner Joyce--Abner, the one time foe of
privilege--lay ill in Leverett Whyland's own house.
"He is no longer one of us," pronounced the Readjusters. "We disown him;
we cast him off."