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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Tales Of Men And Ghosts + +Author: Edith Wharton + + +Release Date: October, 2003 [Etext# 4514] +This file was first posted on January 28, 2002 +Last Updated: October 4, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF MEN AND GHOSTS *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + TALES OF MEN AND GHOSTS + </h1> + <h2> + By Edith Wharton + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + London <br /> <br /> 1910 + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> THE BOLTED DOOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> HIS FATHER’S SON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE DAUNT DIANA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE DEBT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> FULL CIRCLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE LEGEND </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE EYES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE BLOND BEAST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> AFTERWARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE LETTERS </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BOLTED DOOR + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + HUBERT GRANICE, pacing the length of his pleasant lamp-lit library, paused + to compare his watch with the clock on the chimney-piece. + </p> + <p> + Three minutes to eight. + </p> + <p> + In exactly three minutes Mr. Peter Ascham, of the eminent legal firm of + Ascham and Pettilow, would have his punctual hand on the door-bell of the + flat. It was a comfort to reflect that Ascham was so punctual—the + suspense was beginning to make his host nervous. And the sound of the + door-bell would be the beginning of the end—after that there’d be no + going back, by God—no going back! + </p> + <p> + Granice resumed his pacing. Each time he reached the end of the room + opposite the door he caught his reflection in the Florentine mirror above + the fine old walnut <i>credence</i> he had picked up at Dijon—saw + himself spare, quick-moving, carefully brushed and dressed, but furrowed, + gray about the temples, with a stoop which he corrected by a spasmodic + straightening of the shoulders whenever a glass confronted him: a tired + middle-aged man, baffled, beaten, worn out. + </p> + <p> + As he summed himself up thus for the third or fourth time the door opened + and he turned with a thrill of relief to greet his guest. But it was only + the man-servant who entered, advancing silently over the mossy surface of + the old Turkey rug. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Ascham telephones, sir, to say he’s unexpectedly detained and can’t + be here till eight-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + Granice made a curt gesture of annoyance. It was becoming harder and + harder for him to control these reflexes. He turned on his heel, tossing + to the servant over his shoulder: “Very good. Put off dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Down his spine he felt the man’s injured stare. Mr. Granice had always + been so mild-spoken to his people—no doubt the odd change in his + manner had already been noticed and discussed below stairs. And very + likely they suspected the cause. He stood drumming on the writing-table + till he heard the servant go out; then he threw himself into a chair, + propping his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his locked hands. + </p> + <p> + Another half hour alone with it! + </p> + <p> + He wondered irritably what could have detained his guest. Some + professional matter, no doubt—the punctilious lawyer would have + allowed nothing less to interfere with a dinner engagement, more + especially since Granice, in his note, had said: “I shall want a little + business chat afterward.” + </p> + <p> + But what professional matter could have come up at that unprofessional + hour? Perhaps some other soul in misery had called on the lawyer; and, + after all, Granice’s note had given no hint of his own need! No doubt + Ascham thought he merely wanted to make another change in his will. Since + he had come into his little property, ten years earlier, Granice had been + perpetually tinkering with his will. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly another thought pulled him up, sending a flush to his sallow + temples. He remembered a word he had tossed to the lawyer some six weeks + earlier, at the Century Club. “Yes—my play’s as good as taken. I + shall be calling on you soon to go over the contract. Those theatrical + chaps are so slippery—I won’t trust anybody but you to tie the knot + for me!” That, of course, was what Ascham would think he was wanted for. + Granice, at the idea, broke into an audible laugh—a queer + stage-laugh, like the cackle of a baffled villain in a melodrama. The + absurdity, the unnaturalness of the sound abashed him, and he compressed + his lips angrily. Would he take to soliloquy next? + </p> + <p> + He lowered his arms and pulled open the upper drawer of the writing-table. + In the right-hand corner lay a thick manuscript, bound in paper folders, + and tied with a string beneath which a letter had been slipped. Next to + the manuscript was a small revolver. Granice stared a moment at these + oddly associated objects; then he took the letter from under the string + and slowly began to open it. He had known he should do so from the moment + his hand touched the drawer. Whenever his eye fell on that letter some + relentless force compelled him to re-read it. + </p> + <p> + It was dated about four weeks back, under the letter-head of + </p> + <p> + “The Diversity Theatre.” + </p> + <h3> + “MY DEAR MR. GRANICE: + </h3> + <p> + “I have given the matter my best consideration for the last month, and + it’s no use—the play won’t do. I have talked it over with Miss + Melrose—and you know there isn’t a gamer artist on our stage—and + I regret to tell you she feels just as I do about it. It isn’t the poetry + that scares her—or me either. We both want to do all we can to help + along the poetic drama—we believe the public’s ready for it, and + we’re willing to take a big financial risk in order to be the first to + give them what they want. <i>But we don’t believe they could be made to + want this.</i> The fact is, there isn’t enough drama in your play to the + allowance of poetry—the thing drags all through. You’ve got a big + idea, but it’s not out of swaddling clothes. + </p> + <p> + “If this was your first play I’d say: <i>Try again</i>. But it has been + just the same with all the others you’ve shown me. And you remember the + result of ‘The Lee Shore,’ where you carried all the expenses of + production yourself, and we couldn’t fill the theatre for a week. Yet ‘The + Lee Shore’ was a modern problem play—much easier to swing than blank + verse. It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds—” + </p> + <p> + Granice folded the letter and put it carefully back into the envelope. Why + on earth was he re-reading it, when he knew every phrase in it by heart, + when for a month past he had seen it, night after night, stand out in + letters of flame against the darkness of his sleepless lids? + </p> + <p> + “<i>It has been just the same with all the others you’ve shown me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + That was the way they dismissed ten years of passionate unremitting work! + </p> + <p> + “<i>You remember the result of ‘The Lee Shore.‘</i>” + </p> + <p> + Good God—as if he were likely to forget it! He re-lived it all now + in a drowning flash: the persistent rejection of the play, his sudden + resolve to put it on at his own cost, to spend ten thousand dollars of his + inheritance on testing his chance of success—the fever of + preparation, the dry-mouthed agony of the “first night,” the flat fall, + the stupid press, his secret rush to Europe to escape the condolence of + his friends! + </p> + <p> + “<i>It isn’t as if you hadn’t tried all kinds.</i>” + </p> + <p> + No—he had tried all kinds: comedy, tragedy, prose and verse, the + light curtain-raiser, the short sharp drama, the bourgeois-realistic and + the lyrical-romantic—finally deciding that he would no longer + “prostitute his talent” to win popularity, but would impose on the public + his own theory of art in the form of five acts of blank verse. Yes, he had + offered them everything—and always with the same result. + </p> + <p> + Ten years of it—ten years of dogged work and unrelieved failure. The + ten years from forty to fifty—the best ten years of his life! And if + one counted the years before, the silent years of dreams, assimilation, + preparation—then call it half a man’s life-time: half a man’s + life-time thrown away! + </p> + <p> + And what was he to do with the remaining half? Well, he had settled that, + thank God! He turned and glanced anxiously at the clock. Ten minutes past + eight—only ten minutes had been consumed in that stormy rush through + his whole past! And he must wait another twenty minutes for Ascham. It was + one of the worst symptoms of his case that, in proportion as he had grown + to shrink from human company, he dreaded more and more to be alone. ... + But why the devil was he waiting for Ascham? Why didn’t he cut the knot + himself? Since he was so unutterably sick of the whole business, why did + he have to call in an outsider to rid him of this nightmare of living? + </p> + <p> + He opened the drawer again and laid his hand on the revolver. It was a + small slim ivory toy—just the instrument for a tired sufferer to + give himself a “hypodermic” with. Granice raised it slowly in one hand, + while with the other he felt under the thin hair at the back of his head, + between the ear and the nape. He knew just where to place the muzzle: he + had once got a young surgeon to show him. And as he found the spot, and + lifted the revolver to it, the inevitable phenomenon occurred. The hand + that held the weapon began to shake, the tremor communicated itself to his + arm, his heart gave a wild leap which sent up a wave of deadly nausea to + his throat, he smelt the powder, he sickened at the crash of the bullet + through his skull, and a sweat of fear broke out over his forehead and ran + down his quivering face... + </p> + <p> + He laid away the revolver with an oath and, pulling out a cologne-scented + handkerchief, passed it tremulously over his brow and temples. It was no + use—he knew he could never do it in that way. His attempts at + self-destruction were as futile as his snatches at fame! He couldn’t make + himself a real life, and he couldn’t get rid of the life he had. And that + was why he had sent for Ascham to help him... + </p> + <p> + The lawyer, over the Camembert and Burgundy, began to excuse himself for + his delay. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t like to say anything while your man was about—but the fact + is, I was sent for on a rather unusual matter—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s all right,” said Granice cheerfully. He was beginning to feel + the usual reaction that food and company produced. It was not any + recovered pleasure in life that he felt, but only a deeper withdrawal into + himself. It was easier to go on automatically with the social gestures + than to uncover to any human eye the abyss within him. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, it’s sacrilege to keep a dinner waiting—especially + the production of an artist like yours.” Mr. Ascham sipped his Burgundy + luxuriously. “But the fact is, Mrs. Ashgrove sent for me.” + </p> + <p> + Granice raised his head with a quick movement of surprise. For a moment he + was shaken out of his self-absorption. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Mrs. Ashgrove?</i>” + </p> + <p> + Ascham smiled. “I thought you’d be interested; I know your passion for <i>causes + celebres</i>. And this promises to be one. Of course it’s out of our line + entirely—we never touch criminal cases. But she wanted to consult me + as a friend. Ashgrove was a distant connection of my wife’s. And, by Jove, + it <i>is</i> a queer case!” The servant re-entered, and Ascham snapped his + lips shut. + </p> + <p> + Would the gentlemen have their coffee in the dining-room? + </p> + <p> + “No—serve it in the library,” said Granice, rising. He led the way + back to the curtained confidential room. He was really curious to hear + what Ascham had to tell him. + </p> + <p> + While the coffee and cigars were being served he fidgeted about the + library, glancing at his letters—the usual meaningless notes and + bills—and picking up the evening paper. As he unfolded it a headline + caught his eye. + </p> + <h3> + “ROSE MELROSE WANTS TO PLAY POETRY. + </h3> + <h3> + “THINKS SHE HAS FOUND HER POET.” + </h3> + <p> + He read on with a thumping heart—found the name of a young author he + had barely heard of, saw the title of a play, a “poetic drama,” dance + before his eyes, and dropped the paper, sick, disgusted. It was true, then—she + <i>was</i> “game”—it was not the manner but the matter she + mistrusted! + </p> + <p> + Granice turned to the servant, who seemed to be purposely lingering. “I + shan’t need you this evening, Flint. I’ll lock up myself.” + </p> + <p> + He fancied the man’s acquiescence implied surprise. What was going on, + Flint seemed to wonder, that Mr. Granice should want him out of the way? + Probably he would find a pretext for coming back to see. Granice suddenly + felt himself enveloped in a network of espionage. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed he threw himself into an armchair and leaned forward to + take a light from Ascham’s cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about Mrs. Ashgrove,” he said, seeming to himself to speak + stiffly, as if his lips were cracked. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Ashgrove? Well, there’s not much to <i>tell</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “And you couldn’t if there were?” Granice smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Probably not. As a matter of fact, she wanted my advice about her choice + of counsel. There was nothing especially confidential in our talk.” + </p> + <p> + “And what’s your impression, now you’ve seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “My impression is, very distinctly, <i>that nothing will ever be known.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—?” Granice murmured, puffing at his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “I’m more and more convinced that whoever poisoned Ashgrove knew his + business, and will consequently never be found out. That’s a capital cigar + you’ve given me.” + </p> + <p> + “You like it? I get them over from Cuba.” Granice examined his own + reflectively. “Then you believe in the theory that the clever criminals + never <i>are</i> caught?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. Look about you—look back for the last dozen years—none + of the big murder problems are ever solved.” The lawyer ruminated behind + his blue cloud. “Why, take the instance in your own family: I’d forgotten + I had an illustration at hand! Take old Joseph Lenman’s murder—do + you suppose that will ever be explained?” + </p> + <p> + As the words dropped from Ascham’s lips his host looked slowly about the + library, and every object in it stared back at him with a stale + unescapable familiarity. How sick he was of looking at that room! It was + as dull as the face of a wife one has wearied of. He cleared his throat + slowly; then he turned his head to the lawyer and said: “I could explain + the Lenman murder myself.” + </p> + <p> + Ascham’s eye kindled: he shared Granice’s interest in criminal cases. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! You’ve had a theory all this time? It’s odd you never mentioned + it. Go ahead and tell me. There are certain features in the Lenman case + not unlike this Ashgrove affair, and your idea may be a help.” + </p> + <p> + Granice paused and his eye reverted instinctively to the table drawer in + which the revolver and the manuscript lay side by side. What if he were to + try another appeal to Rose Melrose? Then he looked at the notes and bills + on the table, and the horror of taking up again the lifeless routine of + life—of performing the same automatic gestures another day—displaced + his fleeting vision. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t a theory. I <i>know</i> who murdered Joseph Lenman.” + </p> + <p> + Ascham settled himself comfortably in his chair, prepared for enjoyment. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>know?</i> Well, who did?” he laughed. + </p> + <p> + “I did,” said Granice, rising. + </p> + <p> + He stood before Ascham, and the lawyer lay back staring up at him. Then he + broke into another laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this is glorious! You murdered him, did you? To inherit his money, I + suppose? Better and better! Go on, my boy! Unbosom yourself! Tell me all + about it! Confession is good for the soul.” + </p> + <p> + Granice waited till the lawyer had shaken the last peal of laughter from + his throat; then he repeated doggedly: “I murdered him.” + </p> + <p> + The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and this time Ascham + did not laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Granice!” + </p> + <p> + “I murdered him—to get his money, as you say.” + </p> + <p> + There was another pause, and Granice, with a vague underlying sense of + amusement, saw his guest’s look change from pleasantry to apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the joke, my dear fellow? I fail to see.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not a joke. It’s the truth. I murdered him.” He had spoken painfully + at first, as if there were a knot in his throat; but each time he repeated + the words he found they were easier to say. + </p> + <p> + Ascham laid down his extinct cigar. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter? Aren’t you well? What on earth are you driving at?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m perfectly well. But I murdered my cousin, Joseph Lenman, and I want + it known that I murdered him.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You want it known?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. That’s why I sent for you. I’m sick of living, and when I try to + kill myself I funk it.” He spoke quite naturally now, as if the knot in + his throat had been untied. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord—good Lord,” the lawyer gasped. + </p> + <p> + “But I suppose,” Granice continued, “there’s no doubt this would be murder + in the first degree? I’m sure of the chair if I own up?” + </p> + <p> + Ascham drew a long breath; then he said slowly: “Sit down, Granice. Let’s + talk.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + GRANICE told his story simply, connectedly. + </p> + <p> + He began by a quick survey of his early years—the years of drudgery + and privation. His father, a charming man who could never say “no,” had so + signally failed to say it on certain essential occasions that when he died + he left an illegitimate family and a mortgaged estate. His lawful kin + found themselves hanging over a gulf of debt, and young Granice, to + support his mother and sister, had to leave Harvard and bury himself at + eighteen in a broker’s office. He loathed his work, and he was always + poor, always worried and in ill-health. A few years later his mother died, + but his sister, an ineffectual neurasthenic, remained on his hands. His + own health gave out, and he had to go away for six months, and work harder + than ever when he came back. He had no knack for business, no head for + figures, no dimmest insight into the mysteries of commerce. He wanted to + travel and write—those were his inmost longings. And as the years + dragged on, and he neared middle-age without making any more money, or + acquiring any firmer health, a sick despair possessed him. He tried + writing, but he always came home from the office so tired that his brain + could not work. For half the year he did not reach his dim up-town flat + till after dark, and could only “brush up” for dinner, and afterward lie + on the lounge with his pipe, while his sister droned through the evening + paper. Sometimes he spent an evening at the theatre; or he dined out, or, + more rarely, strayed off with an acquaintance or two in quest of what is + known as “pleasure.” And in summer, when he and Kate went to the sea-side + for a month, he dozed through the days in utter weariness. Once he fell in + love with a charming girl—but what had he to offer her, in God’s + name? She seemed to like him, and in common decency he had to drop out of + the running. Apparently no one replaced him, for she never married, but + grew stoutish, grayish, philanthropic—yet how sweet she had been + when he had first kissed her! One more wasted life, he reflected... + </p> + <p> + But the stage had always been his master-passion. He would have sold his + soul for the time and freedom to write plays! It was <i>in him</i>—he + could not remember when it had not been his deepest-seated instinct. As + the years passed it became a morbid, a relentless obsession—yet with + every year the material conditions were more and more against it. He felt + himself growing middle-aged, and he watched the reflection of the process + in his sister’s wasted face. At eighteen she had been pretty, and as full + of enthusiasm as he. Now she was sour, trivial, insignificant—she + had missed her chance of life. And she had no resources, poor creature, + was fashioned simply for the primitive functions she had been denied the + chance to fulfil! It exasperated him to think of it—and to reflect + that even now a little travel, a little health, a little money, might + transform her, make her young and desirable... The chief fruit of his + experience was that there is no such fixed state as age or youth—there + is only health as against sickness, wealth as against poverty; and age or + youth as the outcome of the lot one draws. + </p> + <p> + At this point in his narrative Granice stood up, and went to lean against + the mantel-piece, looking down at Ascham, who had not moved from his seat, + or changed his attitude of rigid fascinated attention. + </p> + <p> + “Then came the summer when we went to Wrenfield to be near old Lenman—my + mother’s cousin, as you know. Some of the family always mounted guard over + him—generally a niece or so. But that year they were all scattered, + and one of the nieces offered to lend us her cottage if we’d relieve her + of duty for two months. It was a nuisance for me, of course, for Wrenfield + is two hours from town; but my mother, who was a slave to family + observances, had always been good to the old man, so it was natural we + should be called on—and there was the saving of rent and the good + air for Kate. So we went. + </p> + <p> + “You never knew Joseph Lenman? Well, picture to yourself an amoeba or some + primitive organism of that sort, under a Titan’s microscope. He was large, + undifferentiated, inert—since I could remember him he had done + nothing but take his temperature and read the <i>Churchman</i>. Oh, and + cultivate melons—that was his hobby. Not vulgar, out-of-door melons—his + were grown under glass. He had miles of it at Wrenfield—his big + kitchen-garden was surrounded by blinking battalions of green-houses. And + in nearly all of them melons were grown—early melons and late, + French, English, domestic—dwarf melons and monsters: every shape, + colour and variety. They were petted and nursed like children—a + staff of trained attendants waited on them. I’m not sure they didn’t have + a doctor to take their temperature—at any rate the place was full of + thermometers. And they didn’t sprawl on the ground like ordinary melons; + they were trained against the glass like nectarines, and each melon hung + in a net which sustained its weight and left it free on all sides to the + sun and air... + </p> + <p> + “It used to strike me sometimes that old Lenman was just like one of his + own melons—the pale-fleshed English kind. His life, apathetic and + motionless, hung in a net of gold, in an equable warm ventilated + atmosphere, high above sordid earthly worries. The cardinal rule of his + existence was not to let himself be ‘worried.’ . . I remember his advising + me to try it myself, one day when I spoke to him about Kate’s bad health, + and her need of a change. ‘I never let myself worry,’ he said + complacently. ‘It’s the worst thing for the liver—and you look to me + as if you had a liver. Take my advice and be cheerful. You’ll make + yourself happier and others too.’ And all he had to do was to write a + cheque, and send the poor girl off for a holiday! + </p> + <p> + “The hardest part of it was that the money half-belonged to us already. + The old skin-flint only had it for life, in trust for us and the others. + But his life was a good deal sounder than mine or Kate’s—and one + could picture him taking extra care of it for the joke of keeping us + waiting. I always felt that the sight of our hungry eyes was a tonic to + him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I tried to see if I couldn’t reach him through his vanity. I + flattered him, feigned a passionate interest in his melons. And he was + taken in, and used to discourse on them by the hour. On fine days he was + driven to the green-houses in his pony-chair, and waddled through them, + prodding and leering at the fruit, like a fat Turk in his seraglio. When + he bragged to me of the expense of growing them I was reminded of a + hideous old Lothario bragging of what his pleasures cost. And the + resemblance was completed by the fact that he couldn’t eat as much as a + mouthful of his melons—had lived for years on buttermilk and toast. + ‘But, after all, it’s my only hobby—why shouldn’t I indulge it?’ he + said sentimentally. As if I’d ever been able to indulge any of mine! On + the keep of those melons Kate and I could have lived like gods... + </p> + <p> + “One day toward the end of the summer, when Kate was too unwell to drag + herself up to the big house, she asked me to go and spend the afternoon + with cousin Joseph. It was a lovely soft September afternoon—a day + to lie under a Roman stone-pine, with one’s eyes on the sky, and let the + cosmic harmonies rush through one. Perhaps the vision was suggested by the + fact that, as I entered cousin Joseph’s hideous black walnut library, I + passed one of the under-gardeners, a handsome full-throated Italian, who + dashed out in such a hurry that he nearly knocked me down. I remember + thinking it queer that the fellow, whom I had often seen about the + melon-houses, did not bow to me, or even seem to see me. + </p> + <p> + “Cousin Joseph sat in his usual seat, behind the darkened windows, his fat + hands folded on his protuberant waistcoat, the last number of the <i>Churchman</i> + at his elbow, and near it, on a huge dish, a fat melon—the fattest + melon I’d ever seen. As I looked at it I pictured the ecstasy of + contemplation from which I must have roused him, and congratulated myself + on finding him in such a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask him a + favour. Then I noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm as an + egg-shell, was distorted and whimpering—and without stopping to + greet me he pointed passionately to the melon. + </p> + <p> + “‘Look at it, look at it—did you ever see such a beauty? Such + firmness—roundness—such delicious smoothness to the touch?’ It + was as if he had said ‘she’ instead of ‘it,’ and when he put out his + senile hand and touched the melon I positively had to look the other way. + </p> + <p> + “Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener, who had + been specially recommended for the melon-houses—though it was + against my cousin’s principles to employ a Papist—had been assigned + to the care of the monster: for it had revealed itself, early in its + existence, as destined to become a monster, to surpass its plumpest, + pulpiest sisters, carry off prizes at agricultural shows, and be + photographed and celebrated in every gardening paper in the land. The + Italian had done well—seemed to have a sense of responsibility. And + that very morning he had been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be + shown next day at the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to + gaze on its blonde virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned + scoundrelly Jesuit done but drop it—drop it crash on the sharp spout + of a watering-pot, so that it received a deep gash in its firm pale + rotundity, and was henceforth but a bruised, ruined, fallen melon? + </p> + <p> + “The old man’s rage was fearful in its impotence—he shook, + spluttered and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and had + sacked him on the spot, without wages or character—had threatened to + have him arrested if he was ever caught prowling about Wrenfield. ‘By God, + and I’ll do it—I’ll write to Washington—I’ll have the pauper + scoundrel deported! I’ll show him what money can do!’ As likely as not + there was some murderous Black-hand business under it—it would be + found that the fellow was a member of a ‘gang.’ Those Italians would + murder you for a quarter. He meant to have the police look into it... And + then he grew frightened at his own excitement. ‘But I must calm myself,’ + he said. He took his temperature, rang for his drops, and turned to the <i>Churchman</i>. + He had been reading an article on Nestorianism when the melon was brought + in. He asked me to go on with it, and I read to him for an hour, in the + dim close room, with a fat fly buzzing stealthily about the fallen melon. + </p> + <p> + “All the while one phrase of the old man’s buzzed in my brain like the fly + about the melon. ‘<i>I’ll show him what money can do!</i>’ Good heaven! If + <i>I</i> could but show the old man! If I could make him see his power of + giving happiness as a new outlet for his monstrous egotism! I tried to + tell him something about my situation and Kate’s—spoke of my + ill-health, my unsuccessful drudgery, my longing to write, to make myself + a name—I stammered out an entreaty for a loan. ‘I can guarantee to + repay you, sir—I’ve a half-written play as security...’ + </p> + <p> + “I shall never forget his glassy stare. His face had grown as smooth as an + egg-shell again—his eyes peered over his fat cheeks like sentinels + over a slippery rampart. + </p> + <p> + “‘A half-written play—a play of <i>yours</i> as security?’ He looked + at me almost fearfully, as if detecting the first symptoms of insanity. + ‘Do you understand anything of business?’ he enquired mildly. I laughed + and answered: ‘No, not much.’ + </p> + <p> + “He leaned back with closed lids. ‘All this excitement has been too much + for me,’ he said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll prepare for my nap.’ And I + stumbled out of the room, blindly, like the Italian.” + </p> + <p> + Granice moved away from the mantel-piece, and walked across to the tray + set out with decanters and soda-water. He poured himself a tall glass of + soda-water, emptied it, and glanced at Ascham’s dead cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Better light another,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + The lawyer shook his head, and Granice went on with his tale. He told of + his mounting obsession—how the murderous impulse had waked in him on + the instant of his cousin’s refusal, and he had muttered to himself: “By + God, if you won’t, I’ll make you.” He spoke more tranquilly as the + narrative proceeded, as though his rage had died down once the resolve to + act on it was taken. He applied his whole mind to the question of how the + old man was to be “disposed of.” Suddenly he remembered the outcry: “Those + Italians will murder you for a quarter!” But no definite project presented + itself: he simply waited for an inspiration. + </p> + <p> + Granice and his sister moved to town a day or two after the incident of + the melon. But the cousins, who had returned, kept them informed of the + old man’s condition. One day, about three weeks later, Granice, on getting + home, found Kate excited over a report from Wrenfield. The Italian had + been there again—had somehow slipped into the house, made his way up + to the library, and “used threatening language.” The house-keeper found + cousin Joseph gasping, the whites of his eyes showing “something awful.” + The doctor was sent for, and the attack warded off; and the police had + ordered the Italian from the neighbourhood. + </p> + <p> + But cousin Joseph, thereafter, languished, had “nerves,” and lost his + taste for toast and butter-milk. The doctor called in a colleague, and the + consultation amused and excited the old man—he became once more an + important figure. The medical men reassured the family—too + completely!—and to the patient they recommended a more varied diet: + advised him to take whatever “tempted him.” And so one day, tremulously, + prayerfully, he decided on a tiny bit of melon. It was brought up with + ceremony, and consumed in the presence of the house-keeper and a hovering + cousin; and twenty minutes later he was dead... + </p> + <p> + “But you remember the circumstances,” Granice went on; “how suspicion + turned at once on the Italian? In spite of the hint the police had given + him he had been seen hanging about the house since ‘the scene.’ It was + said that he had tender relations with the kitchen-maid, and the rest + seemed easy to explain. But when they looked round to ask him for the + explanation he was gone—gone clean out of sight. He had been + ‘warned’ to leave Wrenfield, and he had taken the warning so to heart that + no one ever laid eyes on him again.” + </p> + <p> + Granice paused. He had dropped into a chair opposite the lawyer’s, and he + sat for a moment, his head thrown back, looking about the familiar room. + Everything in it had grown grimacing and alien, and each strange insistent + object seemed craning forward from its place to hear him. + </p> + <p> + “It was I who put the stuff in the melon,” he said. “And I don’t want you + to think I’m sorry for it. This isn’t ‘remorse,’ understand. I’m glad the + old skin-flint is dead—I’m glad the others have their money. But + mine’s no use to me any more. My sister married miserably, and died. And + I’ve never had what I wanted.” + </p> + <p> + Ascham continued to stare; then he said: “What on earth was your object, + then?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, to <i>get</i> what I wanted—what I fancied was in reach! I + wanted change, rest, <i>life</i>, for both of us—wanted, above all, + for myself, the chance to write! I travelled, got back my health, and came + home to tie myself up to my work. And I’ve slaved at it steadily for ten + years without reward—without the most distant hope of success! + Nobody will look at my stuff. And now I’m fifty, and I’m beaten, and I + know it.” His chin dropped forward on his breast. “I want to chuck the + whole business,” he ended. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + IT was after midnight when Ascham left. + </p> + <p> + His hand on Granice’s shoulder, as he turned to go—“District + Attorney be hanged; see a doctor, see a doctor!” he had cried; and so, + with an exaggerated laugh, had pulled on his coat and departed. + </p> + <p> + Granice turned back into the library. It had never occurred to him that + Ascham would not believe his story. For three hours he had explained, + elucidated, patiently and painfully gone over every detail—but + without once breaking down the iron incredulity of the lawyer’s eye. + </p> + <p> + At first Ascham had feigned to be convinced—but that, as Granice now + perceived, was simply to get him to expose himself, to entrap him into + contradictions. And when the attempt failed, when Granice triumphantly met + and refuted each disconcerting question, the lawyer dropped the mask + suddenly, and said with a good-humoured laugh: “By Jove, Granice you’ll + write a successful play yet. The way you’ve worked this all out is a + marvel.” + </p> + <p> + Granice swung about furiously—that last sneer about the play + inflamed him. Was all the world in a conspiracy to deride his failure? + </p> + <p> + “I did it, I did it,” he muttered sullenly, his rage spending itself + against the impenetrable surface of the other’s mockery; and Ascham + answered with a smile: “Ever read any of those books on hallucination? + I’ve got a fairly good medico-legal library. I could send you one or two + if you like...” + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Granice cowered down in the chair before his writing-table. He + understood that Ascham thought him off his head. + </p> + <p> + “Good God—what if they all think me crazy?” + </p> + <p> + The horror of it broke out over him in a cold sweat—he sat there and + shook, his eyes hidden in his icy hands. But gradually, as he began to + rehearse his story for the thousandth time, he saw again how + incontrovertible it was, and felt sure that any criminal lawyer would + believe him. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the trouble—Ascham’s not a criminal lawyer. And then he’s a + friend. What a fool I was to talk to a friend! Even if he did believe me, + he’d never let me see it—his instinct would be to cover the whole + thing up... But in that case—if he <i>did</i> believe me—he + might think it a kindness to get me shut up in an asylum...” Granice began + to tremble again. “Good heaven! If he should bring in an expert—one + of those damned alienists! Ascham and Pettilow can do anything—their + word always goes. If Ascham drops a hint that I’d better be shut up, I’ll + be in a strait-jacket by to-morrow! And he’d do it from the kindest + motives—be quite right to do it if he thinks I’m a murderer!” + </p> + <p> + The vision froze him to his chair. He pressed his fists to his bursting + temples and tried to think. For the first time he hoped that Ascham had + not believed his story. + </p> + <p> + “But he did—he did! I can see it now—I noticed what a queer + eye he cocked at me. Good God, what shall I do—what shall I do?” + </p> + <p> + He started up and looked at the clock. Half-past one. What if Ascham + should think the case urgent, rout out an alienist, and come back with + him? Granice jumped to his feet, and his sudden gesture brushed the + morning paper from the table. Mechanically he stooped to pick it up, and + the movement started a new train of association. + </p> + <p> + He sat down again, and reached for the telephone book in the rack by his + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Give me three-o-ten ... yes.” + </p> + <p> + The new idea in his mind had revived his flagging energy. He would act—act + at once. It was only by thus planning ahead, committing himself to some + unavoidable line of conduct, that he could pull himself through the + meaningless days. Each time he reached a fresh decision it was like coming + out of a foggy weltering sea into a calm harbour with lights. One of the + queerest phases of his long agony was the intense relief produced by these + momentary lulls. + </p> + <p> + “That the office of the <i>Investigator?</i> Yes? Give me Mr. Denver, + please... Hallo, Denver... Yes, Hubert Granice. ... Just caught you? Going + straight home? Can I come and see you ... yes, now ... have a talk? It’s + rather urgent ... yes, might give you some first-rate ‘copy.’ ... All + right!” He hung up the receiver with a laugh. It had been a happy thought + to call up the editor of the <i>Investigator</i>—Robert Denver was + the very man he needed... + </p> + <p> + Granice put out the lights in the library—it was odd how the + automatic gestures persisted!—went into the hall, put on his hat and + overcoat, and let himself out of the flat. In the hall, a sleepy elevator + boy blinked at him and then dropped his head on his folded arms. Granice + passed out into the street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue he hailed a + crawling cab, and called out an up-town address. The long thoroughfare + stretched before him, dim and deserted, like an ancient avenue of tombs. + But from Denver’s house a friendly beam fell on the pavement; and as + Granice sprang from his cab the editor’s electric turned the corner. + </p> + <p> + The two men grasped hands, and Denver, feeling for his latch-key, ushered + Granice into the brightly-lit hall. + </p> + <p> + “Disturb me? Not a bit. You might have, at ten to-morrow morning ... but + this is my liveliest hour ... you know my habits of old.” + </p> + <p> + Granice had known Robert Denver for fifteen years—watched his rise + through all the stages of journalism to the Olympian pinnacle of the <i>Investigator’s</i> + editorial office. In the thick-set man with grizzling hair there were few + traces left of the hungry-eyed young reporter who, on his way home in the + small hours, used to “bob in” on Granice, while the latter sat grinding at + his plays. Denver had to pass Granice’s flat on the way to his own, and it + became a habit, if he saw a light in the window, and Granice’s shadow + against the blind, to go in, smoke a pipe, and discuss the universe. + </p> + <p> + “Well—this is like old times—a good old habit reversed.” The + editor smote his visitor genially on the shoulder. “Reminds me of the + nights when I used to rout you out... How’s the play, by the way? There <i>is</i> + a play, I suppose? It’s as safe to ask you that as to say to some men: + ‘How’s the baby?’” + </p> + <p> + Denver laughed good-naturedly, and Granice thought how thick and heavy he + had grown. It was evident, even to Granice’s tortured nerves, that the + words had not been uttered in malice—and the fact gave him a new + measure of his insignificance. Denver did not even know that he had been a + failure! The fact hurt more than Ascham’s irony. + </p> + <p> + “Come in—come in.” The editor led the way into a small cheerful + room, where there were cigars and decanters. He pushed an arm-chair toward + his visitor, and dropped into another with a comfortable groan. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then—help yourself. And let’s hear all about it.” + </p> + <p> + He beamed at Granice over his pipe-bowl, and the latter, lighting his + cigar, said to himself: “Success makes men comfortable, but it makes them + stupid.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned, and began: “Denver, I want to tell you—” + </p> + <p> + The clock ticked rhythmically on the mantel-piece. The room was gradually + filled with drifting blue layers of smoke, and through them the editor’s + face came and went like the moon through a moving sky. Once the hour + struck—then the rhythmical ticking began again. The atmosphere grew + denser and heavier, and beads of perspiration began to roll from Granice’s + forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mind if I open the window?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It <i>is</i> stuffy in here. Wait—I’ll do it myself.” Denver + pushed down the upper sash, and returned to his chair. “Well—go on,” + he said, filling another pipe. His composure exasperated Granice. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no use in my going on if you don’t believe me.” + </p> + <p> + The editor remained unmoved. “Who says I don’t believe you? And how can I + tell till you’ve finished?” + </p> + <p> + Granice went on, ashamed of his outburst. “It was simple enough, as you’ll + see. From the day the old man said to me, ‘Those Italians would murder you + for a quarter,’ I dropped everything and just worked at my scheme. It + struck me at once that I must find a way of getting to Wrenfield and back + in a night—and that led to the idea of a motor. A motor—that + never occurred to you? You wonder where I got the money, I suppose. Well, + I had a thousand or so put by, and I nosed around till I found what I + wanted—a second-hand racer. I knew how to drive a car, and I tried + the thing and found it was all right. Times were bad, and I bought it for + my price, and stored it away. Where? Why, in one of those + no-questions-asked garages where they keep motors that are not for family + use. I had a lively cousin who had put me up to that dodge, and I looked + about till I found a queer hole where they took in my car like a baby in a + foundling asylum... Then I practiced running to Wrenfield and back in a + night. I knew the way pretty well, for I’d done it often with the same + lively cousin—and in the small hours, too. The distance is over + ninety miles, and on the third trial I did it under two hours. But my arms + were so lame that I could hardly get dressed the next morning... + </p> + <p> + “Well, then came the report about the Italian’s threats, and I saw I must + act at once... I meant to break into the old man’s room, shoot him, and + get away again. It was a big risk, but I thought I could manage it. Then + we heard that he was ill—that there’d been a consultation. Perhaps + the fates were going to do it for me! Good Lord, if that could only + be!...” + </p> + <p> + Granice stopped and wiped his forehead: the open window did not seem to + have cooled the room. + </p> + <p> + “Then came word that he was better; and the day after, when I came up from + my office, I found Kate laughing over the news that he was to try a bit of + melon. The house-keeper had just telephoned her—all Wrenfield was in + a flutter. The doctor himself had picked out the melon, one of the little + French ones that are hardly bigger than a large tomato—and the + patient was to eat it at his breakfast the next morning. + </p> + <p> + “In a flash I saw my chance. It was a bare chance, no more. But I knew the + ways of the house—I was sure the melon would be brought in over + night and put in the pantry ice-box. If there were only one melon in the + ice-box I could be fairly sure it was the one I wanted. Melons didn’t lie + around loose in that house—every one was known, numbered, + catalogued. The old man was beset by the dread that the servants would eat + them, and he took a hundred mean precautions to prevent it. Yes, I felt + pretty sure of my melon ... and poisoning was much safer than shooting. It + would have been the devil and all to get into the old man’s bedroom + without his rousing the house; but I ought to be able to break into the + pantry without much trouble. + </p> + <p> + “It was a cloudy night, too—everything served me. I dined quietly, + and sat down at my desk. Kate had one of her usual headaches, and went to + bed early. As soon as she was gone I slipped out. I had got together a + sort of disguise—red beard and queer-looking ulster. I shoved them + into a bag, and went round to the garage. There was no one there but a + half-drunken machinist whom I’d never seen before. That served me, too. + They were always changing machinists, and this new fellow didn’t even + bother to ask if the car belonged to me. It was a very easy-going place... + </p> + <p> + “Well, I jumped in, ran up Broadway, and let the car go as soon as I was + out of Harlem. Dark as it was, I could trust myself to strike a sharp + pace. In the shadow of a wood I stopped a second and got into the beard + and ulster. Then away again—it was just eleven-thirty when I got to + Wrenfield. + </p> + <p> + “I left the car in a dark lane behind the Lenman place, and slipped + through the kitchen-garden. The melon-houses winked at me through the dark—I + remember thinking that they knew what I wanted to know. ... By the stable + a dog came out growling—but he nosed me out, jumped on me, and went + back... The house was as dark as the grave. I knew everybody went to bed + by ten. But there might be a prowling servant—the kitchen-maid might + have come down to let in her Italian. I had to risk that, of course. I + crept around by the back door and hid in the shrubbery. Then I listened. + It was all as silent as death. I crossed over to the house, pried open the + pantry window and climbed in. I had a little electric lamp in my pocket, + and shielding it with my cap I groped my way to the ice-box, opened it—and + there was the little French melon... only one. + </p> + <p> + “I stopped to listen—I was quite cool. Then I pulled out my bottle + of stuff and my syringe, and gave each section of the melon a hypodermic. + It was all done inside of three minutes—at ten minutes to twelve I + was back in the car. I got out of the lane as quietly as I could, struck a + back road that skirted the village, and let the car out as soon as I was + beyond the last houses. I only stopped once on the way in, to drop the + beard and ulster into a pond. I had a big stone ready to weight them with + and they went down plump, like a dead body—and at two o’clock I was + back at my desk.” + </p> + <p> + Granice stopped speaking and looked across the smoke-fumes at his + listener; but Denver’s face remained inscrutable. + </p> + <p> + At length he said: “Why did you want to tell me this?” + </p> + <p> + The question startled Granice. He was about to explain, as he had + explained to Ascham; but suddenly it occurred to him that if his motive + had not seemed convincing to the lawyer it would carry much less weight + with Denver. Both were successful men, and success does not understand the + subtle agony of failure. Granice cast about for another reason. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I—the thing haunts me ... remorse, I suppose you’d call it...” + </p> + <p> + Denver struck the ashes from his empty pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Remorse? Bosh!” he said energetically. + </p> + <p> + Granice’s heart sank. “You don’t believe in—<i>remorse?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Not an atom: in the man of action. The mere fact of your talking of + remorse proves to me that you’re not the man to have planned and put + through such a job.” + </p> + <p> + Granice groaned. “Well—I lied to you about remorse. I’ve never felt + any.” + </p> + <p> + Denver’s lips tightened sceptically about his freshly-filled pipe. “What + was your motive, then? You must have had one.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you—” And Granice began again to rehearse the story of + his failure, of his loathing for life. “Don’t say you don’t believe me + this time ... that this isn’t a real reason!” he stammered out piteously + as he ended. + </p> + <p> + Denver meditated. “No, I won’t say that. I’ve seen too many queer things. + There’s always a reason for wanting to get out of life—the wonder is + that we find so many for staying in!” + </p> + <p> + Granice’s heart grew light. “Then you <i>do</i> believe me?” he faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Believe that you’re sick of the job? Yes. And that you haven’t the nerve + to pull the trigger? Oh, yes—that’s easy enough, too. But all that + doesn’t make you a murderer—though I don’t say it proves you could + never have been one.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>have</i> been one, Denver—I swear to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps.” He meditated. “Just tell me one or two things.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, go ahead. You won’t stump me!” Granice heard himself say with a + laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Well—how did you make all those trial trips without exciting your + sister’s curiosity? I knew your night habits pretty well at that time, + remember. You were very seldom out late. Didn’t the change in your ways + surprise her?” + </p> + <p> + “No; because she was away at the time. She went to pay several visits in + the country soon after we came back from Wrenfield, and was only in town + for a night or two before—before I did the job.” + </p> + <p> + “And that night she went to bed early with a headache?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—blinding. She didn’t know anything when she had that kind. And + her room was at the back of the flat.” + </p> + <p> + Denver again meditated. “And when you got back—she didn’t hear you? + You got in without her knowing it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I went straight to my work—took it up at the word where I’d + left off—<i>why, Denver, don’t you remember?</i>” Granice suddenly, + passionately interjected. + </p> + <p> + “Remember—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; how you found me—when you looked in that morning, between two + and three ... your usual hour ...?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” the editor nodded. + </p> + <p> + Granice gave a short laugh. “In my old coat—with my pipe: looked as + if I’d been working all night, didn’t I? Well, I hadn’t been in my chair + ten minutes!” + </p> + <p> + Denver uncrossed his legs and then crossed them again. “I didn’t know + whether <i>you</i> remembered that.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “My coming in that particular night—or morning.” + </p> + <p> + Granice swung round in his chair. “Why, man alive! That’s why I’m here + now. Because it was you who spoke for me at the inquest, when they looked + round to see what all the old man’s heirs had been doing that night—you + who testified to having dropped in and found me at my desk as usual. ... I + thought <i>that</i> would appeal to your journalistic sense if nothing + else would!” + </p> + <p> + Denver smiled. “Oh, my journalistic sense is still susceptible enough—and + the idea’s picturesque, I grant you: asking the man who proved your alibi + to establish your guilt.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it—that’s it!” Granice’s laugh had a ring of triumph. + </p> + <p> + “Well, but how about the other chap’s testimony—I mean that young + doctor: what was his name? Ned Ranney. Don’t you remember my testifying + that I’d met him at the elevated station, and told him I was on my way to + smoke a pipe with you, and his saying: ‘All right; you’ll find him in. I + passed the house two hours ago, and saw his shadow against the blind, as + usual.’ And the lady with the toothache in the flat across the way: she + corroborated his statement, you remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Simple enough. Before starting I rigged up a kind of mannikin with old + coats and a cushion—something to cast a shadow on the blind. All you + fellows were used to seeing my shadow there in the small hours—I + counted on that, and knew you’d take any vague outline as mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Simple enough, as you say. But the woman with the toothache saw the + shadow move—you remember she said she saw you sink forward, as if + you’d fallen asleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and she was right. It <i>did</i> move. I suppose some extra-heavy + dray must have jolted by the flimsy building—at any rate, something + gave my mannikin a jar, and when I came back he had sunk forward, half + over the table.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence between the two men. Granice, with a throbbing + heart, watched Denver refill his pipe. The editor, at any rate, did not + sneer and flout him. After all, journalism gave a deeper insight than the + law into the fantastic possibilities of life, prepared one better to allow + for the incalculableness of human impulses. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” Granice faltered out. + </p> + <p> + Denver stood up with a shrug. “Look here, man—what’s wrong with you? + Make a clean breast of it! Nerves gone to smash? I’d like to take you to + see a chap I know—an ex-prize-fighter—who’s a wonder at + pulling fellows in your state out of their hole—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, oh—” Granice broke in. He stood up also, and the two men eyed + each other. “You don’t believe me, then?” + </p> + <p> + “This yarn—how can I? There wasn’t a flaw in your alibi.” + </p> + <p> + “But haven’t I filled it full of them now?” + </p> + <p> + Denver shook his head. “I might think so if I hadn’t happened to know that + you <i>wanted</i> to. There’s the hitch, don’t you see?” + </p> + <p> + Granice groaned. “No, I didn’t. You mean my wanting to be found guilty—?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! If somebody else had accused you, the story might have been + worth looking into. As it is, a child could have invented it. It doesn’t + do much credit to your ingenuity.” + </p> + <p> + Granice turned sullenly toward the door. What was the use of arguing? But + on the threshold a sudden impulse drew him back. “Look here, Denver—I + daresay you’re right. But will you do just one thing to prove it? Put my + statement in the <i>Investigator</i>, just as I’ve made it. Ridicule it as + much as you like. Only give the other fellows a chance at it—men who + don’t know anything about me. Set them talking and looking about. I don’t + care a damn whether <i>you</i> believe me—what I want is to convince + the Grand Jury! I oughtn’t to have come to a man who knows me—your + cursed incredulity is infectious. I don’t put my case well, because I know + in advance it’s discredited, and I almost end by not believing it myself. + That’s why I can’t convince <i>you</i>. It’s a vicious circle.” He laid a + hand on Denver’s arm. “Send a stenographer, and put my statement in the + paper.” + </p> + <p> + But Denver did not warm to the idea. “My dear fellow, you seem to forget + that all the evidence was pretty thoroughly sifted at the time, every + possible clue followed up. The public would have been ready enough then to + believe that you murdered old Lenman—you or anybody else. All they + wanted was a murderer—the most improbable would have served. But + your alibi was too confoundedly complete. And nothing you’ve told me has + shaken it.” Denver laid his cool hand over the other’s burning fingers. + “Look here, old fellow, go home and work up a better case—then come + in and submit it to the <i>Investigator</i>.” + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + THE perspiration was rolling off Granice’s forehead. Every few minutes he + had to draw out his handkerchief and wipe the moisture from his haggard + face. + </p> + <p> + For an hour and a half he had been talking steadily, putting his case to + the District Attorney. Luckily he had a speaking acquaintance with + Allonby, and had obtained, without much difficulty, a private audience on + the very day after his talk with Robert Denver. In the interval between he + had hurried home, got out of his evening clothes, and gone forth again at + once into the dreary dawn. His fear of Ascham and the alienist made it + impossible for him to remain in his rooms. And it seemed to him that the + only way of averting that hideous peril was by establishing, in some sane + impartial mind, the proof of his guilt. Even if he had not been so + incurably sick of life, the electric chair seemed now the only alternative + to the strait-jacket. + </p> + <p> + As he paused to wipe his forehead he saw the District Attorney glance at + his watch. The gesture was significant, and Granice lifted an appealing + hand. “I don’t expect you to believe me now—but can’t you put me + under arrest, and have the thing looked into?” + </p> + <p> + Allonby smiled faintly under his heavy grayish moustache. He had a ruddy + face, full and jovial, in which his keen professional eyes seemed to keep + watch over impulses not strictly professional. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know that we need lock you up just yet. But of course I’m + bound to look into your statement—” + </p> + <p> + Granice rose with an exquisite sense of relief. Surely Allonby wouldn’t + have said that if he hadn’t believed him! + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right. Then I needn’t detain you. I can be found at any time + at my apartment.” He gave the address. + </p> + <p> + The District Attorney smiled again, more openly. “What do you say to + leaving it for an hour or two this evening? I’m giving a little supper at + Rector’s—quiet, little affair, you understand: just Miss Melrose—I + think you know her—and a friend or two; and if you’ll join us...” + </p> + <p> + Granice stumbled out of the office without knowing what reply he had made. + </p> + <p> + He waited for four days—four days of concentrated horror. During the + first twenty-four hours the fear of Ascham’s alienist dogged him; and as + that subsided, it was replaced by the exasperating sense that his avowal + had made no impression on the District Attorney. Evidently, if he had been + going to look into the case, Allonby would have been heard from before + now. ... And that mocking invitation to supper showed clearly enough how + little the story had impressed him! + </p> + <p> + Granice was overcome by the futility of any farther attempt to inculpate + himself. He was chained to life—a “prisoner of consciousness.” Where + was it he had read the phrase? Well, he was learning what it meant. In the + glaring night-hours, when his brain seemed ablaze, he was visited by a + sense of his fixed identity, of his irreducible, inexpugnable <i>selfness</i>, + keener, more insidious, more unescapable, than any sensation he had ever + known. He had not guessed that the mind was capable of such intricacies of + self-realization, of penetrating so deep into its own dark windings. Often + he woke from his brief snatches of sleep with the feeling that something + material was clinging to him, was on his hands and face, and in his throat—and + as his brain cleared he understood that it was the sense of his own + loathed personality that stuck to him like some thick viscous substance. + </p> + <p> + Then, in the first morning hours, he would rise and look out of his window + at the awakening activities of the street—at the street-cleaners, + the ash-cart drivers, and the other dingy workers flitting hurriedly by + through the sallow winter light. Oh, to be one of them—any of them—to + take his chance in any of their skins! They were the toilers—the men + whose lot was pitied—the victims wept over and ranted about by + altruists and economists; and how gladly he would have taken up the load + of any one of them, if only he might have shaken off his own! But, no—the + iron circle of consciousness held them too: each one was hand-cuffed to + his own hideous ego. Why wish to be any one man rather than another? The + only absolute good was not to be ... And Flint, coming in to draw his + bath, would ask if he preferred his eggs scrambled or poached that + morning? + </p> + <p> + On the fifth day he wrote a long urgent letter to Allonby; and for the + succeeding two days he had the occupation of waiting for an answer. He + hardly stirred from his rooms, in his fear of missing the letter by a + moment; but would the District Attorney write, or send a representative: a + policeman, a “secret agent,” or some other mysterious emissary of the law? + </p> + <p> + On the third morning Flint, stepping softly—as if, confound it! his + master were ill—entered the library where Granice sat behind an + unread newspaper, and proferred a card on a tray. + </p> + <p> + Granice read the name—J. B. Hewson—and underneath, in pencil, + “From the District Attorney’s office.” He started up with a thumping + heart, and signed an assent to the servant. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Hewson was a slight sallow nondescript man of about fifty—the + kind of man of whom one is sure to see a specimen in any crowd. “Just the + type of the successful detective,” Granice reflected as he shook hands + with his visitor. + </p> + <p> + And it was in that character that Mr. Hewson briefly introduced himself. + He had been sent by the District Attorney to have “a quiet talk” with Mr. + Granice—to ask him to repeat the statement he had made about the + Lenman murder. + </p> + <p> + His manner was so quiet, so reasonable and receptive, that Granice’s + self-confidence returned. Here was a sensible man—a man who knew his + business—it would be easy enough to make <i>him</i> see through that + ridiculous alibi! Granice offered Mr. Hewson a cigar, and lighting one + himself—to prove his coolness—began again to tell his story. + </p> + <p> + He was conscious, as he proceeded, of telling it better than ever before. + Practice helped, no doubt; and his listener’s detached, impartial attitude + helped still more. He could see that Hewson, at least, had not decided in + advance to disbelieve him, and the sense of being trusted made him more + lucid and more consecutive. Yes, this time his words would certainly carry + conviction... + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + DESPAIRINGLY, Granice gazed up and down the shabby street. Beside him + stood a young man with bright prominent eyes, a smooth but not too + smoothly-shaven face, and an Irish smile. The young man’s nimble glance + followed Granice’s. + </p> + <p> + “Sure of the number, are you?” he asked briskly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—it was 104.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, the new building has swallowed it up—that’s certain.” + </p> + <p> + He tilted his head back and surveyed the half-finished front of a brick + and limestone flat-house that reared its flimsy elegance above a row of + tottering tenements and stables. + </p> + <p> + “Dead sure?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Granice, discouraged. “And even if I hadn’t been, I know the + garage was just opposite Leffler’s over there.” He pointed across the + street to a tumble-down stable with a blotched sign on which the words + “Livery and Boarding” were still faintly discernible. + </p> + <p> + The young man dashed across to the opposite pavement. “Well, that’s + something—may get a clue there. Leffler’s—same name there, + anyhow. You remember that name?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—distinctly.” + </p> + <p> + Granice had felt a return of confidence since he had enlisted the interest + of the <i>Explorer’s</i> “smartest” reporter. If there were moments when + he hardly believed his own story, there were others when it seemed + impossible that every one should not believe it; and young Peter McCarren, + peering, listening, questioning, jotting down notes, inspired him with an + exquisite sense of security. McCarren had fastened on the case at once, + “like a leech,” as he phrased it—jumped at it, thrilled to it, and + settled down to “draw the last drop of fact from it, and had not let go + till he had.” No one else had treated Granice in that way—even + Allonby’s detective had not taken a single note. And though a week had + elapsed since the visit of that authorized official, nothing had been + heard from the District Attorney’s office: Allonby had apparently dropped + the matter again. But McCarren wasn’t going to drop it—not he! He + positively hung on Granice’s footsteps. They had spent the greater part of + the previous day together, and now they were off again, running down + clues. + </p> + <p> + But at Leffler’s they got none, after all. Leffler’s was no longer a + stable. It was condemned to demolition, and in the respite between + sentence and execution it had become a vague place of storage, a hospital + for broken-down carriages and carts, presided over by a blear-eyed old + woman who knew nothing of Flood’s garage across the way—did not even + remember what had stood there before the new flat-house began to rise. + </p> + <p> + “Well—we may run Leffler down somewhere; I’ve seen harder jobs + done,” said McCarren, cheerfully noting down the name. + </p> + <p> + As they walked back toward Sixth Avenue he added, in a less sanguine tone: + “I’d undertake now to put the thing through if you could only put me on + the track of that cyanide.” + </p> + <p> + Granice’s heart sank. Yes—there was the weak spot; he had felt it + from the first! But he still hoped to convince McCarren that his case was + strong enough without it; and he urged the reporter to come back to his + rooms and sum up the facts with him again. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, Mr. Granice, but I’m due at the office now. Besides, it’d be no + use till I get some fresh stuff to work on. Suppose I call you up tomorrow + or next day?” + </p> + <p> + He plunged into a trolley and left Granice gazing desolately after him. + </p> + <p> + Two days later he reappeared at the apartment, a shade less jaunty in + demeanor. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Granice, the stars in their courses are against you, as the + bard says. Can’t get a trace of Flood, or of Leffler either. And you say + you bought the motor through Flood, and sold it through him, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Granice wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Who bought it, do you know?” + </p> + <p> + Granice wrinkled his brows. “Why, Flood—yes, Flood himself. I sold + it back to him three months later.” + </p> + <p> + “Flood? The devil! And I’ve ransacked the town for Flood. That kind of + business disappears as if the earth had swallowed it.” + </p> + <p> + Granice, discouraged, kept silence. + </p> + <p> + “That brings us back to the poison,” McCarren continued, his note-book + out. “Just go over that again, will you?” + </p> + <p> + And Granice went over it again. It had all been so simple at the time—and + he had been so clever in covering up his traces! As soon as he decided on + poison he looked about for an acquaintance who manufactured chemicals; and + there was Jim Dawes, a Harvard classmate, in the dyeing business—just + the man. But at the last moment it occurred to him that suspicion might + turn toward so obvious an opportunity, and he decided on a more tortuous + course. Another friend, Carrick Venn, a student of medicine whom + irremediable ill-health had kept from the practice of his profession, + amused his leisure with experiments in physics, for the exercise of which + he had set up a simple laboratory. Granice had the habit of dropping in to + smoke a cigar with him on Sunday afternoons, and the friends generally sat + in Venn’s work-shop, at the back of the old family house in Stuyvesant + Square. Off this work-shop was the cupboard of supplies, with its row of + deadly bottles. Carrick Venn was an original, a man of restless curious + tastes, and his place, on a Sunday, was often full of visitors: a cheerful + crowd of journalists, scribblers, painters, experimenters in divers forms + of expression. Coming and going among so many, it was easy enough to pass + unperceived; and one afternoon Granice, arriving before Venn had returned + home, found himself alone in the work-shop, and quickly slipping into the + cupboard, transferred the drug to his pocket. + </p> + <p> + But that had happened ten years ago; and Venn, poor fellow, was long since + dead of his dragging ailment. His old father was dead, too, the house in + Stuyvesant Square had been turned into a boarding-house, and the shifting + life of New York had passed its rapid sponge over every trace of their + obscure little history. Even the optimistic McCarren seemed to acknowledge + the hopelessness of seeking for proof in that direction. + </p> + <p> + “And there’s the third door slammed in our faces.” He shut his note-book, + and throwing back his head, rested his bright inquisitive eyes on + Granice’s furrowed face. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Mr. Granice—you see the weak spot, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + The other made a despairing motion. “I see so many!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes: but the one that weakens all the others. Why the deuce do you want + this thing known? Why do you want to put your head into the noose?” + </p> + <p> + Granice looked at him hopelessly, trying to take the measure of his quick + light irreverent mind. No one so full of a cheerful animal life would + believe in the craving for death as a sufficient motive; and Granice + racked his brain for one more convincing. But suddenly he saw the + reporter’s face soften, and melt to a naive sentimentalism. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Granice—has the memory of it always haunted you?” + </p> + <p> + Granice stared a moment, and then leapt at the opening. “That’s it—the + memory of it ... always ...” + </p> + <p> + McCarren nodded vehemently. “Dogged your steps, eh? Wouldn’t let you + sleep? The time came when you <i>had</i> to make a clean breast of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I had to. Can’t you understand?” + </p> + <p> + The reporter struck his fist on the table. “God, sir! I don’t suppose + there’s a human being with a drop of warm blood in him that can’t picture + the deadly horrors of remorse—” + </p> + <p> + The Celtic imagination was aflame, and Granice mutely thanked him for the + word. What neither Ascham nor Denver would accept as a conceivable motive + the Irish reporter seized on as the most adequate; and, as he said, once + one could find a convincing motive, the difficulties of the case became so + many incentives to effort. + </p> + <p> + “Remorse—<i>remorse</i>,” he repeated, rolling the word under his + tongue with an accent that was a clue to the psychology of the popular + drama; and Granice, perversely, said to himself: “If I could only have + struck that note I should have been running in six theatres at once.” + </p> + <p> + He saw that from that moment McCarren’s professional zeal would be fanned + by emotional curiosity; and he profited by the fact to propose that they + should dine together, and go on afterward to some music-hall or theatre. + It was becoming necessary to Granice to feel himself an object of + pre-occupation, to find himself in another mind. He took a kind of gray + penumbral pleasure in riveting McCarren’s attention on his case; and to + feign the grimaces of moral anguish became a passionately engrossing game. + He had not entered a theatre for months; but he sat out the meaningless + performance in rigid tolerance, sustained by the sense of the reporter’s + observation. + </p> + <p> + Between the acts, McCarren amused him with anecdotes about the audience: + he knew every one by sight, and could lift the curtain from every + physiognomy. Granice listened indulgently. He had lost all interest in his + kind, but he knew that he was himself the real centre of McCarren’s + attention, and that every word the latter spoke had an indirect bearing on + his own problem. + </p> + <p> + “See that fellow over there—the little dried-up man in the third + row, pulling his moustache? <i>His</i> memoirs would be worth publishing,” + McCarren said suddenly in the last <i>entr’acte</i>. + </p> + <p> + Granice, following his glance, recognized the detective from Allonby’s + office. For a moment he had the thrilling sense that he was being + shadowed. + </p> + <p> + “Caesar, if <i>he</i> could talk—!” McCarren continued. “Know who he + is, of course? Dr. John B. Stell, the biggest alienist in the country—” + </p> + <p> + Granice, with a start, bent again between the heads in front of him. “<i>That</i> + man—the fourth from the aisle? You’re mistaken. That’s not Dr. + Stell.” + </p> + <p> + McCarren laughed. “Well, I guess I’ve been in court enough to know Stell + when I see him. He testifies in nearly all the big cases where they plead + insanity.” + </p> + <p> + A cold shiver ran down Granice’s spine, but he repeated obstinately: + “That’s not Dr. Stell.” + </p> + <p> + “Not Stell? Why, man, I <i>know</i> him. Look—here he comes. If it + isn’t Stell, he won’t speak to me.” + </p> + <p> + The little dried-up man was moving slowly up the aisle. As he neared + McCarren he made a slight gesture of recognition. + </p> + <p> + “How’do, Doctor Stell? Pretty slim show, ain’t it?” the reporter + cheerfully flung out at him. And Mr. J. B. Hewson, with a nod of amicable + assent, passed on. + </p> + <p> + Granice sat benumbed. He knew he had not been mistaken—the man who + had just passed was the same man whom Allonby had sent to see him: a + physician disguised as a detective. Allonby, then, had thought him insane, + like the others—had regarded his confession as the maundering of a + maniac. The discovery froze Granice with horror—he seemed to see the + mad-house gaping for him. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t there a man a good deal like him—a detective named J. B. + Hewson?” + </p> + <p> + But he knew in advance what McCarren’s answer would be. “Hewson? J. B. + Hewson? Never heard of him. But that was J. B. Stell fast enough—I + guess he can be trusted to know himself, and you saw he answered to his + name.” + </p> + <h3> + VI + </h3> + <p> + SOME days passed before Granice could obtain a word with the District + Attorney: he began to think that Allonby avoided him. + </p> + <p> + But when they were face to face Allonby’s jovial countenance showed no + sign of embarrassment. He waved his visitor to a chair, and leaned across + his desk with the encouraging smile of a consulting physician. + </p> + <p> + Granice broke out at once: “That detective you sent me the other day—” + </p> + <p> + Allonby raised a deprecating hand. + </p> + <p> + “—I know: it was Stell the alienist. Why did you do that, Allonby?” + </p> + <p> + The other’s face did not lose its composure. “Because I looked up your + story first—and there’s nothing in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing in it?” Granice furiously interposed. + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely nothing. If there is, why the deuce don’t you bring me proofs? + I know you’ve been talking to Peter Ascham, and to Denver, and to that + little ferret McCarren of the <i>Explorer</i>. Have any of them been able + to make out a case for you? No. Well, what am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + Granice’s lips began to tremble. “Why did you play me that trick?” + </p> + <p> + “About Stell? I had to, my dear fellow: it’s part of my business. Stell <i>is</i> + a detective, if you come to that—every doctor is.” + </p> + <p> + The trembling of Granice’s lips increased, communicating itself in a long + quiver to his facial muscles. He forced a laugh through his dry throat. + “Well—and what did he detect?” + </p> + <p> + “In you? Oh, he thinks it’s overwork—overwork and too much smoking. + If you look in on him some day at his office he’ll show you the record of + hundreds of cases like yours, and advise you what treatment to follow. + It’s one of the commonest forms of hallucination. Have a cigar, all the + same.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Allonby, I killed that man!” + </p> + <p> + The District Attorney’s large hand, outstretched on his desk, had an + almost imperceptible gesture, and a moment later, as if an answer to the + call of an electric bell, a clerk looked in from the outer office. + </p> + <p> + “Sorry, my dear fellow—lot of people waiting. Drop in on Stell some + morning,” Allonby said, shaking hands. + </p> + <p> + McCarren had to own himself beaten: there was absolutely no flaw in the + alibi. And since his duty to his journal obviously forbade his wasting + time on insoluble mysteries, he ceased to frequent Granice, who dropped + back into a deeper isolation. For a day or two after his visit to Allonby + he continued to live in dread of Dr. Stell. Why might not Allonby have + deceived him as to the alienist’s diagnosis? What if he were really being + shadowed, not by a police agent but by a mad-doctor? To have the truth + out, he suddenly determined to call on Dr. Stell. + </p> + <p> + The physician received him kindly, and reverted without embarrassment to + the conditions of their previous meeting. “We have to do that + occasionally, Mr. Granice; it’s one of our methods. And you had given + Allonby a fright.” + </p> + <p> + Granice was silent. He would have liked to reaffirm his guilt, to produce + the fresh arguments which had occurred to him since his last talk with the + physician; but he feared his eagerness might be taken for a symptom of + derangement, and he affected to smile away Dr. Stell’s allusion. + </p> + <p> + “You think, then, it’s a case of brain-fag—nothing more?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more. And I should advise you to knock off tobacco. You smoke a + good deal, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + He developed his treatment, recommending massage, gymnastics, travel, or + any form of diversion that did not—that in short— + </p> + <p> + Granice interrupted him impatiently. “Oh, I loathe all that—and I’m + sick of travelling.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m. Then some larger interest—politics, reform, philanthropy? + Something to take you out of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I understand,” said Granice wearily. + </p> + <p> + “Above all, don’t lose heart. I see hundreds of cases like yours,” the + doctor added cheerfully from the threshold. + </p> + <p> + On the doorstep Granice stood still and laughed. Hundreds of cases like + his—the case of a man who had committed a murder, who confessed his + guilt, and whom no one would believe! Why, there had never been a case + like it in the world. What a good figure Stell would have made in a play: + the great alienist who couldn’t read a man’s mind any better than that! + </p> + <p> + Granice saw huge comic opportunities in the type. + </p> + <p> + But as he walked away, his fears dispelled, the sense of listlessness + returned on him. For the first time since his avowal to Peter Ascham he + found himself without an occupation, and understood that he had been + carried through the past weeks only by the necessity of constant action. + Now his life had once more become a stagnant backwater, and as he stood on + the street corner watching the tides of traffic sweep by, he asked himself + despairingly how much longer he could endure to float about in the + sluggish circle of his consciousness. + </p> + <p> + The thought of self-destruction recurred to him; but again his flesh + recoiled. He yearned for death from other hands, but he could never take + it from his own. And, aside from his insuperable physical reluctance, + another motive restrained him. He was possessed by the dogged desire to + establish the truth of his story. He refused to be swept aside as an + irresponsible dreamer—even if he had to kill himself in the end, he + would not do so before proving to society that he had deserved death from + it. + </p> + <p> + He began to write long letters to the papers; but after the first had been + published and commented on, public curiosity was quelled by a brief + statement from the District Attorney’s office, and the rest of his + communications remained unprinted. Ascham came to see him, and begged him + to travel. Robert Denver dropped in, and tried to joke him out of his + delusion; till Granice, mistrustful of their motives, began to dread the + reappearance of Dr. Stell, and set a guard on his lips. But the words he + kept back engendered others and still others in his brain. His inner self + became a humming factory of arguments, and he spent long hours reciting + and writing down elaborate statements of his crime, which he constantly + retouched and developed. Then gradually his activity languished under the + lack of an audience, the sense of being buried beneath deepening drifts of + indifference. In a passion of resentment he swore that he would prove + himself a murderer, even if he had to commit another crime to do it; and + for a sleepless night or two the thought flamed red on his darkness. But + daylight dispelled it. The determining impulse was lacking and he hated + too promiscuously to choose his victim... So he was thrown back on the + unavailing struggle to impose the truth of his story. As fast as one + channel closed on him he tried to pierce another through the sliding sands + of incredulity. But every issue seemed blocked, and the whole human race + leagued together to cheat one man of the right to die. + </p> + <p> + Thus viewed, the situation became so monstrous that he lost his last shred + of self-restraint in contemplating it. What if he were really the victim + of some mocking experiment, the centre of a ring of holiday-makers jeering + at a poor creature in its blind dashes against the solid walls of + consciousness? But, no—men were not so uniformly cruel: there were + flaws in the close surface of their indifference, cracks of weakness and + pity here and there... + </p> + <p> + Granice began to think that his mistake lay in having appealed to persons + more or less familiar with his past, and to whom the visible conformities + of his life seemed a final disproof of its one fierce secret deviation. + The general tendency was to take for the whole of life the slit seen + between the blinders of habit: and in his walk down that narrow vista + Granice cut a correct enough figure. To a vision free to follow his whole + orbit his story would be more intelligible: it would be easier to convince + a chance idler in the street than the trained intelligence hampered by a + sense of his antecedents. This idea shot up in him with the tropic + luxuriance of each new seed of thought, and he began to walk the streets, + and to frequent out-of-the-way chop-houses and bars in his search for the + impartial stranger to whom he should disclose himself. + </p> + <p> + At first every face looked encouragement; but at the crucial moment he + always held back. So much was at stake, and it was so essential that his + first choice should be decisive. He dreaded stupidity, timidity, + intolerance. The imaginative eye, the furrowed brow, were what he sought. + He must reveal himself only to a heart versed in the tortuous motions of + the human will; and he began to hate the dull benevolence of the average + face. Once or twice, obscurely, allusively, he made a beginning—once + sitting down at a man’s side in a basement chop-house, another day + approaching a lounger on an east-side wharf. But in both cases the + premonition of failure checked him on the brink of avowal. His dread of + being taken for a man in the clutch of a fixed idea gave him an unnatural + keenness in reading the expression of his interlocutors, and he had + provided himself in advance with a series of verbal alternatives, + trap-doors of evasion from the first dart of ridicule or suspicion. + </p> + <p> + He passed the greater part of the day in the streets, coming home at + irregular hours, dreading the silence and orderliness of his apartment, + and the critical scrutiny of Flint. His real life was spent in a world so + remote from this familiar setting that he sometimes had the mysterious + sense of a living metempsychosis, a furtive passage from one identity to + another—yet the other as unescapably himself! + </p> + <p> + One humiliation he was spared: the desire to live never revived in him. + Not for a moment was he tempted to a shabby pact with existing conditions. + He wanted to die, wanted it with the fixed unwavering desire which alone + attains its end. And still the end eluded him! It would not always, of + course—he had full faith in the dark star of his destiny. And he + could prove it best by repeating his story, persistently and + indefatigably, pouring it into indifferent ears, hammering it into dull + brains, till at last it kindled a spark, and some one of the careless + millions paused, listened, believed... + </p> + <p> + It was a mild March day, and he had been loitering on the west-side docks, + looking at faces. He was becoming an expert in physiognomies: his + eagerness no longer made rash darts and awkward recoils. He knew now the + face he needed, as clearly as if it had come to him in a vision; and not + till he found it would he speak. As he walked eastward through the shabby + reeking streets he had a premonition that he should find it that morning. + Perhaps it was the promise of spring in the air—certainly he felt + calmer than for many days... + </p> + <p> + He turned into Washington Square, struck across it obliquely, and walked + up University Place. Its heterogeneous passers always allured him—they + were less hurried than in Broadway, less enclosed and classified than in + Fifth Avenue. He walked slowly, watching for his face. + </p> + <p> + At Union Square he felt a sudden relapse into discouragement, like a + votary who has watched too long for a sign from the altar. Perhaps, after + all, he should never find his face... The air was languid, and he felt + tired. He walked between the bald grass-plots and the twisted trees, + making for an empty seat. Presently he passed a bench on which a girl sat + alone, and something as definite as the twitch of a cord made him stop + before her. He had never dreamed of telling his story to a girl, had + hardly looked at the women’s faces as they passed. His case was man’s + work: how could a woman help him? But this girl’s face was extraordinary—quiet + and wide as a clear evening sky. It suggested a hundred images of space, + distance, mystery, like ships he had seen, as a boy, quietly berthed by a + familiar wharf, but with the breath of far seas and strange harbours in + their shrouds... Certainly this girl would understand. He went up to her + quietly, lifting his hat, observing the forms—wishing her to see at + once that he was “a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “I am a stranger to you,” he began, sitting down beside her, “but your + face is so extremely intelligent that I feel... I feel it is the face I’ve + waited for ... looked for everywhere; and I want to tell you—” + </p> + <p> + The girl’s eyes widened: she rose to her feet. She was escaping him! + </p> + <p> + In his dismay he ran a few steps after her, and caught her roughly by the + arm. + </p> + <p> + “Here—wait—listen! Oh, don’t scream, you fool!” he shouted + out. + </p> + <p> + He felt a hand on his own arm; turned and confronted a policeman. + Instantly he understood that he was being arrested, and something hard + within him was loosened and ran to tears. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you know—you <i>know</i> I’m guilty!” + </p> + <p> + He was conscious that a crowd was forming, and that the girl’s frightened + face had disappeared. But what did he care about her face? It was the + policeman who had really understood him. He turned and followed, the crowd + at his heels... + </p> + <h3> + VII + </h3> + <p> + IN the charming place in which he found himself there were so many + sympathetic faces that he felt more than ever convinced of the certainty + of making himself heard. + </p> + <p> + It was a bad blow, at first, to find that he had not been arrested for + murder; but Ascham, who had come to him at once, explained that he needed + rest, and the time to “review” his statements; it appeared that + reiteration had made them a little confused and contradictory. To this end + he had willingly acquiesced in his removal to a large quiet establishment, + with an open space and trees about it, where he had found a number of + intelligent companions, some, like himself, engaged in preparing or + reviewing statements of their cases, and others ready to lend an + interested ear to his own recital. + </p> + <p> + For a time he was content to let himself go on the tranquil current of + this existence; but although his auditors gave him for the most part an + encouraging attention, which, in some, went the length of really brilliant + and helpful suggestion, he gradually felt a recurrence of his old doubts. + Either his hearers were not sincere, or else they had less power to aid + him than they boasted. His interminable conferences resulted in nothing, + and as the benefit of the long rest made itself felt, it produced an + increased mental lucidity which rendered inaction more and more + unbearable. At length he discovered that on certain days visitors from the + outer world were admitted to his retreat; and he wrote out long and + logically constructed relations of his crime, and furtively slipped them + into the hands of these messengers of hope. + </p> + <p> + This occupation gave him a fresh lease of patience, and he now lived only + to watch for the visitors’ days, and scan the faces that swept by him like + stars seen and lost in the rifts of a hurrying sky. + </p> + <p> + Mostly, these faces were strange and less intelligent than those of his + companions. But they represented his last means of access to the world, a + kind of subterranean channel on which he could set his “statements” + afloat, like paper boats which the mysterious current might sweep out into + the open seas of life. + </p> + <p> + One day, however, his attention was arrested by a familiar contour, a pair + of bright prominent eyes, and a chin insufficiently shaved. He sprang up + and stood in the path of Peter McCarren. + </p> + <p> + The journalist looked at him doubtfully, then held out his hand with a + startled deprecating, “<i>Why—?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t know me? I’m so changed?” Granice faltered, feeling the + rebound of the other’s wonder. + </p> + <p> + “Why, no; but you’re looking quieter—smoothed out,” McCarren smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes: that’s what I’m here for—to rest. And I’ve taken the + opportunity to write out a clearer statement—” + </p> + <p> + Granice’s hand shook so that he could hardly draw the folded paper from + his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the reporter was accompanied by a + tall man with grave compassionate eyes. It came to Granice in a wild + thrill of conviction that this was the face he had waited for... + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps your friend—he <i>is</i> your friend?—would glance + over it—or I could put the case in a few words if you have time?” + Granice’s voice shook like his hand. If this chance escaped him he felt + that his last hope was gone. McCarren and the stranger looked at each + other, and the former glanced at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry we can’t stay and talk it over now, Mr. Granice; but my friend + has an engagement, and we’re rather pressed—” + </p> + <p> + Granice continued to proffer the paper. “I’m sorry—I think I could + have explained. But you’ll take this, at any rate?” + </p> + <p> + The stranger looked at him gently. “Certainly—I’ll take it.” He had + his hand out. “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” Granice echoed. + </p> + <p> + He stood watching the two men move away from him through the long light + hall; and as he watched them a tear ran down his face. But as soon as they + were out of sight he turned and walked hastily toward his room, beginning + to hope again, already planning a new statement. + </p> + <p> + Outside the building the two men stood still, and the journalist’s + companion looked up curiously at the long monotonous rows of barred + windows. + </p> + <p> + “So that was Granice?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that was Granice, poor devil,” said McCarren. + </p> + <p> + “Strange case! I suppose there’s never been one just like it? He’s still + absolutely convinced that he committed that murder?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger reflected. “And there was no conceivable ground for the idea? + No one could make out how it started? A quiet conventional sort of fellow + like that—where do you suppose he got such a delusion? Did you ever + get the least clue to it?” + </p> + <p> + McCarren stood still, his hands in his pockets, his head cocked up in + contemplation of the barred windows. Then he turned his bright hard gaze + on his companion. + </p> + <p> + “That was the queer part of it. I’ve never spoken of it—but I <i>did</i> + get a clue.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! That’s interesting. What was it?” + </p> + <p> + McCarren formed his red lips into a whistle. “Why—that it wasn’t a + delusion.” + </p> + <p> + He produced his effect—the other turned on him with a pallid stare. + </p> + <p> + “He murdered the man all right. I tumbled on the truth by the merest + accident, when I’d pretty nearly chucked the whole job.” + </p> + <p> + “He murdered him—murdered his cousin?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure as you live. Only don’t split on me. It’s about the queerest + business I ever ran into... <i>Do about it?</i> Why, what was I to do? I + couldn’t hang the poor devil, could I? Lord, but I was glad when they + collared him, and had him stowed away safe in there!” + </p> + <p> + The tall man listened with a grave face, grasping Granice’s statement in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Here—take this; it makes me sick,” he said abruptly, thrusting the + paper at the reporter; and the two men turned and walked in silence to the + gates. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HIS FATHER’S SON + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + AFTER his wife’s death Mason Grew took the momentous step of selling out + his business and moving from Wingfield, Connecticut, to Brooklyn. + </p> + <p> + For years he had secretly nursed the hope of such a change, but had never + dared to suggest it to Mrs. Grew, a woman of immutable habits. Mr. Grew + himself was attached to Wingfield, where he had grown up, prospered, and + become what the local press described as “prominent.” He was attached to + his ugly brick house with sandstone trimmings and a cast-iron area-railing + neatly sanded to match; to the similar row of houses across the street, + the “trolley” wires forming a kind of aerial pathway between, and the + sprawling vista closed by the steeple of the church which he and his wife + had always attended, and where their only child had been baptized. + </p> + <p> + It was hard to snap all these threads of association, visual and + sentimental; yet still harder, now that he was alone, to live so far from + his boy. Ronald Grew was practising law in New York, and there was no more + chance of returning to live at Wingfield than of a river’s flowing inland + from the sea. Therefore to be near him his father must move; and it was + characteristic of Mr. Grew, and of the situation generally, that the + translation, when it took place, was to Brooklyn, and not to New York. + </p> + <p> + “Why you bury yourself in that hole I can’t think,” had been Ronald’s + comment; and Mr. Grew simply replied that rents were lower in Brooklyn, + and that he had heard of a house that would suit him. In reality he had + said to himself—being the only recipient of his own confidences—that + if he went to New York he might be on the boy’s mind; whereas, if he lived + in Brooklyn, Ronald would always have a good excuse for not popping over + to see him every other day. The sociological isolation of Brooklyn, + combined with its geographical nearness, presented in fact the precise + conditions for Mr. Grew’s case. He wanted to be near enough to New York to + go there often, to feel under his feet the same pavement that Ronald trod, + to sit now and then in the same theatres, and find on his breakfast-table + the journals which, with increasing frequency, inserted Ronald’s name in + the sacred bounds of the society column. It had always been a trial to Mr. + Grew to have to wait twenty-four hours to read that “among those present + was Mr. Ronald Grew.” Now he had it with his coffee, and left it on the + breakfast-table to the perusal of a “hired girl” cosmopolitan enough to do + it justice. In such ways Brooklyn attested the advantages of its + propinquity to New York, while remaining, as regards Ronald’s duty to his + father, as remote and inaccessible as Wingfield. + </p> + <p> + It was not that Ronald shirked his filial obligations, but rather because + of his heavy sense of them, that Mr. Grew so persistently sought to + minimize and lighten them. It was he who insisted, to Ronald, on the + immense difficulty of getting from New York to Brooklyn. + </p> + <p> + “Any way you look at it, it makes a big hole in the day; and there’s not + much use in the ragged rim left. You say you’re dining out next Sunday? + Then I forbid you to come over here for lunch. Do you understand me, sir? + You disobey at the risk of your father’s malediction! Where did you say + you were dining? With the Waltham Bankshires again? Why, that’s the second + time in three weeks, ain’t it? Big blow-out, I suppose? Gold plate and + orchids—opera singers in afterward? Well, you’d be in a nice box if + there was a fog on the river, and you got hung up half-way over. That’d be + a handsome return for the attention Mrs. Bankshire has shown you—singling + out a whipper-snapper like you twice in three weeks! (What’s the + daughter’s name—Daisy?) No, <i>sir</i>—don’t you come fooling + round here next Sunday, or I’ll set the dogs on you. And you wouldn’t find + me in anyhow, come to think of it. I’m lunching out myself, as it happens—yes + sir, <i>lunching out</i>. Is there anything especially comic in my + lunching out? I don’t often do it, you say? Well, that’s no reason why I + never should. Who with? Why, with—with old Dr. Bleaker: Dr. + Eliphalet Bleaker. No, you wouldn’t know about him—he’s only an old + friend of your mother’s and mine.” + </p> + <p> + Gradually Ronald’s insistence became less difficult to overcome. With his + customary sweetness and tact (as Mr. Grew put it) he began to “take the + hint,” to give in to “the old gentleman’s” growing desire for solitude. + </p> + <p> + “I’m set in my ways, Ronny, that’s about the size of it; I like to go + tick-ticking along like a clock. I always did. And when you come bouncing + in I never feel sure there’s enough for dinner—or that I haven’t + sent Maria out for the evening. And I don’t want the neighbors to see me + opening my own door to my son. That’s the kind of cringing snob I am. + Don’t give me away, will you? I want ‘em to think I keep four or five + powdered flunkeys in the hall day and night—same as the lobby of one + of those Fifth Avenue hotels. And if you pop over when you’re not + expected, how am I going to keep up the bluff?” + </p> + <p> + Ronald yielded after the proper amount of resistance—his intuitive + sense, in every social transaction, of the proper amount of force to be + expended, was one of the qualities his father most admired in him. Mr. + Grew’s perceptions in this line were probably more acute than his son + suspected. The souls of short thick-set men, with chubby features, + mutton-chop whiskers, and pale eyes peering between folds of fat like + almond kernels in half-split shells—souls thus encased do not reveal + themselves to the casual scrutiny as delicate emotional instruments. But + in spite of the dense disguise in which he walked Mr. Grew vibrated + exquisitely in response to every imaginative appeal; and his son Ronald + was perpetually stimulating and feeding his imagination. + </p> + <p> + Ronald in fact constituted his father’s one escape from the impenetrable + element of mediocrity which had always hemmed him in. To a man so + enamoured of beauty, and so little qualified to add to its sum total, it + was a wonderful privilege to have bestowed on the world such a being. + Ronald’s resemblance to Mr. Grew’s early conception of what he himself + would have liked to look might have put new life into the discredited + theory of pre-natal influences. At any rate, if the young man owed his + beauty, his distinction and his winning manner to the dreams of one of his + parents, it was certainly to those of Mr. Grew, who, while outwardly + devoting his life to the manufacture and dissemination of Grew’s Secure + Suspender Buckle, moved in an enchanted inward world peopled with all the + figures of romance. In this high company Mr. Grew cut as brilliant a + figure as any of its noble phantoms; and to see his vision of himself + suddenly projected on the outer world in the shape of a brilliant popular + conquering son, seemed, in retrospect, to give to that image a belated + objective reality. There were even moments when, forgetting his + physiognomy, Mr. Grew said to himself that if he’d had “half a chance” he + might have done as well as Ronald; but this only fortified his resolve + that Ronald should do infinitely better. + </p> + <p> + Ronald’s ability to do well almost equalled his gift of looking well. Mr. + Grew constantly affirmed to himself that the boy was “not a genius”; but, + barring this slight deficiency, he was almost everything that a parent + could wish. Even at Harvard he had managed to be several desirable things + at once—writing poetry in the college magazine, playing delightfully + “by ear,” acquitting himself honorably in his studies, and yet holding his + own in the fashionable sporting set that formed, as it were, the gateway + of the temple of Society. Mr. Grew’s idealism did not preclude the frank + desire that his son should pass through that gateway; but the wish was not + prompted by material considerations. It was Mr. Grew’s notion that, in the + rough and hurrying current of a new civilization, the little pools of + leisure and enjoyment must nurture delicate growths, material graces as + well as moral refinements, likely to be uprooted and swept away by the + rush of the main torrent. He based his theory on the fact that he had + liked the few “society” people he had met—had found their manners + simpler, their voices more agreeable, their views more consonant with his + own, than those of the leading citizens of Wingfield. But then he had met + very few. + </p> + <p> + Ronald’s sympathies needed no urging in the same direction. He took + naturally, dauntlessly, to all the high and exceptional things about which + his father’s imagination had so long sheepishly and ineffectually hovered—from + the start he <i>was</i> what Mr. Grew had dreamed of being. And so + precise, so detailed, was Mr. Grew’s vision of his own imaginary career, + that as Ronald grew up, and began to travel in a widening orbit, his + father had an almost uncanny sense of the extent to which that career was + enacting itself before him. At Harvard, Ronald had done exactly what the + hypothetical Mason Grew would have done, had not his actual self, at the + same age, been working his way up in old Slagden’s button factory—the + institution which was later to acquire fame, and even notoriety, as the + birthplace of Grew’s Secure Suspender Buckle. Afterward, at a period when + the actual Grew had passed from the factory to the bookkeeper’s desk, his + invisible double had been reading law at Columbia—precisely again + what Ronald did! But it was when the young man left the paths laid out for + him by the parental hand, and cast himself boldly on the world, that his + adventures began to bear the most astonishing resemblance to those of the + unrealized Mason Grew. It was in New York that the scene of this + hypothetical being’s first exploits had always been laid; and it was in + New York that Ronald was to achieve his first triumph. There was nothing + small or timid about Mr. Grew’s imagination; it had never stopped at + anything between Wingfield and the metropolis. And the real Ronald had the + same cosmic vision as his parent. He brushed aside with a contemptuous + laugh his mother’s tearful entreaty that he should stay at Wingfield and + continue the dynasty of the Grew Suspender Buckle. Mr. Grew knew that in + reality Ronald winced at the Buckle, loathed it, blushed for his + connection with it. Yet it was the Buckle that had seen him through + Groton, Harvard and the Law School, and had permitted him to enter the + office of a distinguished corporation lawyer, instead of being enslaved to + some sordid business with quick returns. The Buckle had been Ronald’s + fairy godmother—yet his father did not blame him for abhorring and + disowning it. Mr. Grew himself often bitterly regretted having bestowed + his own name on the instrument of his material success, though, at the + time, his doing so had been the natural expression of his romanticism. + When he invented the Buckle, and took out his patent, he and his wife both + felt that to bestow their name on it was like naming a battle-ship or a + peak of the Andes. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Grew had never learned to know better; but Mr. Grew had discovered + his error before Ronald was out of school. He read it first in a black eye + of his boy’s. Ronald’s symmetry had been marred by the insolent fist of a + fourth former whom he had chastised for alluding to his father as “Old + Buckles;” and when Mr. Grew heard the epithet he understood in a flash + that the Buckle was a thing to blush for. It was too late then to + dissociate his name from it, or to efface from the hoardings of the entire + continent the picture of two gentlemen, one contorting himself in the + abject effort to repair a broken brace, while the careless ease of the + other’s attitude proclaimed his trust in the Secure Suspender Buckle. + These records were indelible, but Ronald could at least be spared all + direct connection with them; and from that day Mr. Grew resolved that the + boy should not return to Wingfield. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see,” he had said to Mrs. Grew, “he’ll take right hold in New + York. Ronald’s got my knack for taking hold,” he added, throwing out his + chest. + </p> + <p> + “But the way you took hold was in business,” objected Mrs. Grew, who was + large and literal. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew’s chest collapsed, and he became suddenly conscious of his comic + face in its rim of sandy whiskers. “That’s not the only way,” he said, + with a touch of wistfulness which escaped his wife’s analysis. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course you could have written beautifully,” she rejoined with + admiring eyes. + </p> + <p> + “<i> Written?</i> Me!” Mr. Grew became sardonic. + </p> + <p> + “Why, those letters—weren’t <i>they</i> beautiful, I’d like to + know?” + </p> + <p> + The couple exchanged a glance, innocently allusive and amused on the + wife’s part, and charged with a sudden tragic significance on the + husband’s. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’ve got to be going along to the office now,” he merely said, + dragging himself out of his rocking-chair. + </p> + <p> + This had happened while Ronald was still at school; and now Mrs. Grew + slept in the Wingfield cemetery, under a life-size theological virtue of + her own choosing, and Mr. Grew’s prognostications as to Ronald’s ability + to “take right hold” in New York were being more and more brilliantly + fulfilled. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + RONALD obeyed his father’s injunction not to come to luncheon on the day + of the Bankshires’ dinner; but in the middle of the following week Mr. + Grew was surprised by a telegram from his son. + </p> + <p> + “Want to see you important matter. Expect me to-morrow afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew received the telegram after breakfast. To peruse it he had lifted + his eye from a paragraph of the morning paper describing a fancy-dress + dinner which had taken place the night before at the Hamilton Gliddens’ + for the house-warming of their new Fifth Avenue palace. + </p> + <p> + “Among the couples who afterward danced in the Poets’ Quadrille were Miss + Daisy Bankshire, looking more than usually lovely as Laura, and Mr. Ronald + Grew as the young Petrarch.” + </p> + <p> + Petrarch and Laura! Well—if <i>anything</i> meant anything, Mr. Grew + supposed he knew what that meant. For weeks past he had noticed how + constantly the names of the young people appeared together in the society + notes he so insatiably devoured. Even the soulless reporter was getting + into the habit of coupling them in his lists. And this Laura and Petrarch + business was almost an announcement... + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew dropped the telegram, wiped his eye-glasses, and re-read the + paragraph. “Miss Daisy Bankshire ... more than usually lovely...” Yes; she + <i>was</i> lovely. He had often seen her photograph in the papers—seen + her represented in every conceivable attitude of the mundane game: + fondling her prize bull-dog, taking a fence on her thoroughbred, dancing a + <i>gavotte</i>, all patches and plumes, or fingering a guitar, all tulle + and lilies; and once he had caught a glimpse of her at the theatre. + Hearing that Ronald was going to a fashionable first-night with the + Bankshires, Mr. Grew had for once overcome his repugnance to following his + son’s movements, and had secured for himself, under the shadow of the + balcony, a stall whence he could observe the Bankshire box without fear of + detection. Ronald had never known of his father’s presence at the play; + and for three blessed hours Mr. Grew had watched his boy’s handsome dark + head bent above the dense fair hair and white averted shoulder that were + all he could catch of Miss Bankshire’s beauties. + </p> + <p> + He recalled the vision now; and with it came, as usual, its ghostly + double: the vision of his young self bending above such a white shoulder + and such shining hair. Needless to say that the real Mason Grew had never + found himself in so enviable a situation. The late Mrs. Grew had no more + resembled Miss Daisy Bankshire than he had looked like the happy + victorious Ronald. And the mystery was that from their dull faces, their + dull endearments, the miracle of Ronald should have sprung. It was almost—fantastically—as + if the boy had been a changeling, child of a Latmian night, whom the + divine companion of Mr. Grew’s early reveries had secretly laid in the + cradle of the Wingfield bedroom while Mr. And Mrs. Grew slept the deep + sleep of conjugal indifference. + </p> + <p> + The young Mason Grew had not at first accepted this astral episode as the + complete cancelling of his claims on romance. He too had grasped at the + high-hung glory; and, with his fatal tendency to reach too far when he + reached at all, had singled out the prettiest girl in Wingfield. When he + recalled his stammered confession of love his face still tingled under her + cool bright stare. The wonder of his audacity had struck her dumb; and + when she recovered her voice it was to fling a taunt at him. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be too discouraged, you know—have you ever thought of trying + Addie Wicks?” + </p> + <p> + All Wingfield would have understood the gibe: Addie Wicks was the dullest + girl in town. And a year later he had married Addie Wicks... + </p> + <p> + He looked up from the perusal of Ronald’s telegram with this memory in his + mind. Now at last his dream was coming true! His boy would taste of the + joys that had mocked his thwarted youth and his dull gray middle-age. And + it was fitting that they should be realized in Ronald’s destiny. Ronald + was made to take happiness boldly by the hand and lead it home like a + bridegroom. He had the carriage, the confidence, the high faith in his + fortune, that compel the wilful stars. And, thanks to the Buckle, he would + have the exceptional setting, the background of material elegance, that + became his conquering person. Since Mr. Grew had retired from business his + investments had prospered, and he had been saving up his income for just + such a contingency. His own wants were few: he had transferred the + Wingfield furniture to Brooklyn, and his sitting-room was a replica of + that in which the long years of his married life had been spent. Even the + florid carpet on which Ronald’s tottering footsteps had been taken was + carefully matched when it became too threadbare. And on the marble + centre-table, with its chenille-fringed cover and bunch of dyed pampas + grass, lay the illustrated Longfellow and the copy of Ingersoll’s lectures + which represented literature to Mr. Grew when he had led home his bride. + In the light of Ronald’s romance, Mr. Grew found himself re-living, with a + strange tremor of mingled pain and tenderness, all the poor prosaic + incidents of his own personal history. Curiously enough, with this new + splendor on them they began to emit a small faint ray of their own. His + wife’s armchair, in its usual place by the fire, recalled her placid + unperceiving presence, seated opposite to him during the long drowsy + years; and he felt her kindness, her equanimity, where formerly he had + only ached at her obtuseness. And from the chair he glanced up at the + large discolored photograph on the wall above, with a brittle brown wreath + suspended on a corner of the frame. The photograph represented a young man + with a poetic necktie and untrammelled hair, leaning negligently against a + Gothic chair-back, a roll of music in his hand; and beneath was scrawled a + bar of Chopin, with the words: “<i> Adieu, Adele</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The portrait was that of the great pianist, Fortune Dolbrowski; and its + presence on the wall of Mr. Grew’s sitting-room commemorated the only + exquisite hour of his life save that of Ronald’s birth. It was some time + before the latter memorable event, a few months only after Mr. Grew’s + marriage, that he had taken his wife to New York to hear the great + Dolbrowski. Their evening had been magically beautiful, and even Addie, + roused from her habitual inexpressiveness, had quivered into a momentary + semblance of life. “I never—I never—” she gasped out + helplessly when they had regained their hotel bedroom, and sat staring + back entranced at the evening’s evocations. Her large immovable face was + pink and tremulous, and she sat with her hands on her knees, forgetting to + roll up her bonnet-strings and prepare her curl-papers. + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to <i>write</i> him just how I felt—I wisht I knew how!” + she burst out suddenly in a final effervescence of emotion. + </p> + <p> + Her husband lifted his head and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + “Would you? I feel that way too,” he said with a sheepish laugh. And they + continued to stare at each other shyly through a transfiguring mist of + sound. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew recalled the scene as he gazed up at the pianist’s faded + photograph. “Well, I owe her that anyhow—poor Addie!” he said, with + a smile at the inconsequences of fate. With Ronald’s telegram in his hand + he was in a mood to count his mercies. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + “A CLEAR twenty-five thousand a year: that’s what you can tell ‘em with my + compliments,” said Mr. Grew, glancing complacently across the centre-table + at his boy’s charming face. + </p> + <p> + It struck him that Ronald’s gift for looking his part in life had never so + romantically expressed itself. Other young men, at such a moment, would + have been red, damp, tight about the collar; but Ronald’s cheek was only a + shade paler, and the contrast made his dark eyes more expressive. + </p> + <p> + “A clear twenty-five thousand; yes, sir—that’s what I always meant + you to have.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew leaned back, his hands thrust carelessly in his pockets, as + though to divert attention from the agitation of his features. He had + often pictured himself rolling out that phrase to Ronald, and now that it + was actually on his lips he could not control their tremor. + </p> + <p> + Ronald listened in silence, lifting a nervous hand to his slight dark + moustache, as though he, too, wished to hide some involuntary betrayal of + emotion. At first Mr. Grew took his silence for an expression of gratified + surprise; but as it prolonged itself it became less easy to interpret. + </p> + <p> + “I—see here, my boy; did you expect more? Isn’t it enough?” Mr. Grew + cleared his throat. “Do <i>they</i> expect more?” he asked nervously. He + was hardly able to face the pain of inflicting a disappointment on Ronald + at the very moment when he had counted on putting the final touch to his + felicity. + </p> + <p> + Ronald moved uneasily in his chair and his eyes wandered upward to the + laurel-wreathed photograph of the pianist above his father’s head. + </p> + <p> + “<i> Is</i> it that, Ronald? Speak out, my boy. We’ll see, we’ll look + round—I’ll manage somehow.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” the young man interrupted, abruptly raising his hand as though + to silence his father. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew recovered his cheerfulness. “Well, what’s the matter than, if <i>she’s</i> + willing?” + </p> + <p> + Ronald shifted his position again, and finally rose from his seat. + </p> + <p> + “Father—I—there’s something I’ve got to tell you. I can’t take + your money.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew sat speechless a moment, staring blankly at his son; then he + emitted a puzzled laugh. “My money? What are you talking about? What’s + this about my money? Why, it ain’t <i>mine</i>, Ronny; it’s all yours—every + cent of it!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + The young man met his tender look with a gaze of tragic rejection. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, it’s not mine—not even in the sense you mean. Not in any + sense. Can’t you understand my feeling so?” + </p> + <p> + “Feeling so? I don’t know how you’re feeling. I don’t know what you’re + talking about. Are you too proud to touch any money you haven’t earned? Is + that what you’re trying to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It’s not that. You must know—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew flushed to the rim of his bristling whiskers. “Know? Know <i>what?</i> + Can’t you speak?” + </p> + <p> + Ronald hesitated, and the two men faced each other for a long strained + moment, during which Mr. Grew’s congested countenance grew gradually pale + again. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the meaning of this? Is it because you’ve done something ... + something you’re ashamed of ... ashamed to tell me?” he suddenly gasped + out; and walking around the table he laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. + “There’s nothing you can’t tell me, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not that. Why do you make it so hard for me?” Ronald broke out with + passion. “You must have known this was sure to happen sooner or later.” + </p> + <p> + “Happen? What was sure to hap—?” Mr. Grew’s question wavered on his + lip and passed into a tremulous laugh. “Is it something <i>I’ve</i> done + that you don’t approve of? Is it—is it <i>the Buckle</i> you’re + ashamed of, Ronald Grew?” + </p> + <p> + Ronald laughed too, impatiently. “The Buckle? No, I’m not ashamed of the + Buckle; not any more than you are,” he returned with a sudden bright + flush. “But I’m ashamed of all I owe to it—all I owe to you—when—when—” + He broke off and took a few distracted steps across the room. “You might + make this easier for me,” he protested, turning back to his father. + </p> + <p> + “Make what easier? I know less and less what you’re driving at,” Mr. Grew + groaned. + </p> + <p> + Ronald’s walk had once more brought him beneath the photograph on the + wall. He lifted his head for a moment and looked at it; then he looked + again at Mr. Grew. + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose I haven’t always known?” + </p> + <p> + “Known—?” + </p> + <p> + “Even before you gave me those letters—after my mother’s death—even + before that, I suspected. I don’t know how it began ... perhaps from + little things you let drop ... you and she ... and resemblances that I + couldn’t help seeing ... in myself ... How on earth could you suppose I + shouldn’t guess? I always thought you gave me the letters as a way of + telling me—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew rose slowly from his chair. “The letters? Dolbrowski’s letters?” + </p> + <p> + Ronald nodded with white lips. “You must remember giving them to me the + day after the funeral.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew nodded back. “Of course. I wanted you to have everything your + mother valued.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—how could I help knowing after that?” + </p> + <p> + “Knowing <i>what?</i>” Mr. Grew stood staring helplessly at his son. + Suddenly his look caught at a clue that seemed to confront it with a + deeper bewilderment. “You thought—you thought those letters ... + Dolbrowski’s letters ... you thought they meant ...” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it wasn’t only the letters. There were so many other signs. My love + of music—my—all my feelings about life ... and art... And when + you gave me the letters I thought you must mean me to know.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew had grown quiet. His lips were firm, and his small eyes looked + out steadily from their creased lids. + </p> + <p> + “To know that you were Fortune Dolbrowski’s son?” + </p> + <p> + Ronald made a mute sign of assent. + </p> + <p> + “I see. And what did you mean to do?” + </p> + <p> + “I meant to wait till I could earn my living, and then repay you ... as + far as I can ever repay you... But now that there’s a chance of my + marrying ... and your generosity overwhelms me ... I’m obliged to speak.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Mr. Grew again. He let himself down into his chair, looking + steadily and not unkindly at the young man. “Sit down, Ronald. Let’s + talk.” + </p> + <p> + Ronald made a protesting movement. “Is anything to be gained by it? You + can’t change me—change what I feel. The reading of those letters + transformed my whole life—I was a boy till then: they made a man of + me. From that moment I understood myself.” He paused, and then looked up + at Mr. Grew’s face. “Don’t imagine I don’t appreciate your kindness—your + extraordinary generosity. But I can’t go through life in disguise. And I + want you to know that I have not won Daisy under false pretences—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew started up with the first expletive Ronald had ever heard on his + lips. + </p> + <p> + “You damned young fool, you, you haven’t <i>told</i> her—?” + </p> + <p> + Ronald raised his head quickly. “Oh, you don’t know her, sir! She thinks + no worse of me for knowing my secret. She is above and beyond all such + conventional prejudices. She’s <i>proud</i> of my parentage—” he + straightened his slim young shoulders—“as I’m proud of it ... yes, + sir, proud of it...” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew sank back into his seat with a dry laugh. “Well, you ought to be. + You come of good stock. And you’re father’s son, every inch of you!” He + laughed again, as though the humor of the situation grew on him with its + closer contemplation. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’ve always felt that,” Ronald murmured, flushing. + </p> + <p> + “Your father’s son, and no mistake.” Mr. Grew leaned forward. “You’re the + son of as big a fool as yourself. And here he sits, Ronald Grew.” + </p> + <p> + The young man’s flush deepened to crimson; but Mr. Grew checked his reply + with a decisive gesture. “Here he sits, with all your young nonsense still + alive in him. Don’t you see the likeness? If you don’t, I’ll tell you the + story of those letters.” + </p> + <p> + Ronald stared. “What do you mean? Don’t they tell their own story?” + </p> + <p> + “I supposed they did when I gave them to you; but you’ve given it a twist + that needs straightening out.” Mr. Grew squared his elbows on the table, + and looked at the young man across the gift-books and the dyed pampas + grass. “I wrote all the letters that Dolbrowski answered.” + </p> + <p> + Ronald gave back his look in frowning perplexity. “You wrote them? I don’t + understand. His letters are all addressed to my mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And he thought he was corresponding with her.” + </p> + <p> + “But my mother—what did she think?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew hesitated, puckering his thick lids. “Well, I guess she kinder + thought it was a joke. Your mother didn’t think about things much.” + </p> + <p> + Ronald continued to bend a puzzled frown on the question. “I don’t + understand,” he reiterated. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew cleared his throat with a nervous laugh. “Well, I don’t know as + you ever will—<i>quite</i>. But this is the way it came about. I had + a toughish time of it when I was young. Oh, I don’t mean so much the fight + I had to put up to make my way—there was always plenty of fight in + me. But inside of myself it was kinder lonesome. And the outside didn’t + attract callers.” He laughed again, with an apologetic gesture toward his + broad blinking face. “When I went round with the other young fellows I was + always the forlorn hope—the one that had to eat the drumsticks and + dance with the left-overs. As sure as there was a blighter at a picnic I + had to swing her, and feed her, and drive her home. And all the time I was + mad after all the things you’ve got—poetry and music and all the + joy-forever business. So there were the pair of us—my face and my + imagination—chained together, and fighting, and hating each other + like poison. + </p> + <p> + “Then your mother came along and took pity on me. It sets up a gawky + fellow to find a girl who ain’t ashamed to be seen walking with him + Sundays. And I was grateful to your mother, and we got along first-rate. + Only I couldn’t say things to her—and she couldn’t answer. Well—one + day, a few months after we were married, Dolbrowski came to New York, and + the whole place went wild about him. I’d never heard any good music, but + I’d always had an inkling of what it must be like, though I couldn’t tell + you to this day how I knew. Well, your mother read about him in the papers + too, and she thought it’d be the swagger thing to go to New York and hear + him play—so we went... I’ll never forget that evening. Your mother + wasn’t easily stirred up—she never seemed to need to let off steam. + But that night she seemed to understand the way I felt. And when we got + back to the hotel she said suddenly: ‘I’d like to tell him how I feel. I’d + like to sit right down and write to him.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Would you?’ I said. ‘So would I.’ + </p> + <p> + “There was paper and pens there before us, and I pulled a sheet toward me, + and began to write. ‘Is this what you’d like to say to him?’ I asked her + when the letter was done. And she got pink and said: ‘I don’t understand + it, but it’s lovely.’ And she copied it out and signed her name to it, and + sent it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew paused, and Ronald sat silent, with lowered eyes. + </p> + <p> + “That’s how it began; and that’s where I thought it would end. But it + didn’t, because Dolbrowski answered. His first letter was dated January + 10, 1872. I guess you’ll find I’m correct. Well, I went back to hear him + again, and I wrote him after the performance, and he answered again. And + after that we kept it up for six months. Your mother always copied the + letters and signed them. She seemed to think it was a kinder joke, and she + was proud of his answering my letters. But she never went back to New York + to hear him, though I saved up enough to give her the treat again. She was + too lazy, and she let me go without her. I heard him three times in New + York; and in the spring he came to Wingfield and played once at the + Academy. Your mother was sick and couldn’t go; so I went alone. After the + performance I meant to get one of the directors to take me in to see him; + but when the time came, I just went back home and wrote to him instead. + And the month after, before he went back to Europe, he sent your mother a + last little note, and that picture hanging up there...” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew paused again, and both men lifted their eyes to the photograph. + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” Ronald slowly asked. + </p> + <p> + “That’s all—every bit of it,” said Mr. Grew. + </p> + <p> + “And my mother—my mother never even spoke to Dolbrowski?” + </p> + <p> + “Never. She never even saw him but that once in New York at his concert.” + </p> + <p> + The blood crept again to Ronald’s face. “Are you sure of that, sir?” he + asked in a trembling voice. + </p> + <p> + “Sure as I am that I’m sitting here. Why, she was too lazy to look at his + letters after the first novelty wore off. She copied the answers just to + humor me—but she always said she couldn’t understand what we wrote.” + </p> + <p> + “But how could you go on with such a correspondence? It’s incredible!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew looked at his son thoughtfully. “I suppose it is, to you. You’ve + only had to put out your hand and get the things I was starving for—music, + and good talk, and ideas. Those letters gave me all that. You’ve read + them, and you know that Dolbrowski was not only a great musician but a + great man. There was nothing beautiful he didn’t see, nothing fine he + didn’t feel. For six months I breathed his air, and I’ve lived on it ever + since. Do you begin to understand a little now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—a little. But why write in my mother’s name? Why make it a + sentimental correspondence?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew reddened to his bald temples. “Why, I tell you it began that way, + as a kinder joke. And when I saw that the first letter pleased and + interested him, I was afraid to tell him—<i>I couldn’t</i> tell him. + Do you suppose he’d gone on writing if he’d ever seen me, Ronny?” + </p> + <p> + Ronald suddenly looked at him with new eyes. “But he must have thought + your letters very beautiful—to go on as he did,” he broke out. + </p> + <p> + “Well—I did my best,” said Mr. Grew modestly. + </p> + <p> + Ronald pursued his idea. “Where <i>are</i> all your letters, I wonder? + Weren’t they returned to you at his death?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew laughed. “Lord, no. I guess he had trunks and trunks full of + better ones. I guess Queens and Empresses wrote to him.” + </p> + <p> + “I should have liked to see your letters,” the young man insisted. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they weren’t bad,” said Mr. Grew drily. “But I’ll tell you one + thing, Ronny,” he added suddenly. Ronald raised his head with a quick + glance, and Mr. Grew continued: “I’ll tell you where the best of those + letters is—it’s in <i>you</i>. If it hadn’t been for that one look + at life I couldn’t have made you what you are. Oh, I know you’ve done a + good deal of your own making—but I’ve been there behind you all the + time. And you’ll never know the work I’ve spared you and the time I’ve + saved you. Fortune Dolbrowski helped me do that. I never saw things in + little again after I’d looked at ‘em with him. And I tried to give you the + big view from the stars... So that’s what became of my letters.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Grew paused, and for a long time Ronald sat motionless, his elbows on + the table, his face dropped on his hands. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Mr. Grew’s touch fell on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Look at here, Ronald Grew—do you want me to tell you how you’re + feeling at this minute? Just a mite let down, after all, at the idea that + you ain’t the romantic figure you’d got to think yourself... Well, that’s + natural enough, too; but I’ll tell you what it proves. It proves you’re my + son right enough, if any more proof was needed. For it’s just the kind of + fool nonsense I used to feel at your age—and if there’s anybody here + to laugh at it’s myself, and not you. And you can laugh at me just as much + as you like...” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DAUNT DIANA + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + “WHAT’S become of the Daunt Diana? You mean to say you never heard the + sequel?” + </p> + <p> + Ringham Finney threw himself back into his chair with the smile of the + collector who has a good thing to show. He knew he had a good listener, at + any rate. I don’t think much of Ringham’s snuff-boxes, but his anecdotes + are usually worth while. He’s a psychologist astray among <i>bibelots</i>, + and the best bits he brings back from his raids on Christie’s and the + Hotel Drouot are the fragments of human nature he picks up on those + historic battle-fields. If his <i>flair</i> in enamel had been half as + good we should have heard of the Finney collection by this time. + </p> + <p> + He really has—queer fatuous investigator!—an unusually + sensitive touch for the human texture, and the specimens he gathers into + his museum of heterogeneous memories have almost always some mark of the + rare and chosen. I felt, therefore, that I was really to be congratulated + on the fact that I didn’t know what had become of the Daunt Diana, and on + having before me a long evening in which to learn. I had just led my + friend back, after an excellent dinner at Foyot’s, to the shabby pleasant + sitting-room of my <i>rive-gauche</i> hotel; and I knew that, once I had + settled him in a good arm-chair, and put a box of cigars at his elbow, I + could trust him not to budge till I had the story. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + YOU remember old Neave, of course? Little Humphrey Neave, I mean. We used + to see him pottering about Rome years ago. He lived in two tiny rooms over + a wine shop, on polenta and lentils, and prowled among the refuse of the + Ripetta whenever he had a few <i>soldi</i> to spend. But you’ve been out + of the collector’s world for so long that you may not know what happened + to him afterward... + </p> + <p> + He was always a queer chap, Neave; years older than you and me, of course—and + even when I first knew him, in my raw Roman days, he gave me an + extraordinary sense of age and experience. I don’t think I’ve ever known + any one who was at once so intelligent and so simple. It’s the precise + combination that results in romance; and poor little Neave was romantic. + </p> + <p> + He told me once how he’d come to Rome. He was <i>originaire</i> of Mystic, + Connecticut—and he wanted to get as far away from it as possible. + Rome seemed as far as anything on the same planet could be; and after he’d + worried his way through Harvard—with shifts and shavings that you + and I can’t imagine—he contrived to get sent to Switzerland as tutor + to a chap who’d failed in his examinations. With only the Alps between, he + wasn’t likely to turn back; and he got another fellow to take his pupil + home, and struck out on foot for the seven hills. + </p> + <p> + I’m telling you these early details merely to give you a notion of the + man’s idealism. There was a cool persistency and a headlong courage in his + dash for Rome that one wouldn’t have guessed in the little pottering chap + we used to know. Once on the spot, he got more tutoring, managed to make + himself a name for coaxing balky youths to take their fences, and was + finally able to take up the more congenial task of expounding “the + antiquities” to cultured travellers. I call it more congenial—but + how it must have seared his soul! Fancy unveiling the sacred scars of Time + to ladies who murmur: “Was this <i>actually</i> the spot—?” while + they absently feel for their hatpins! He used to say that nothing kept him + at it but the exquisite thought of accumulating the <i>lire</i> for his + collection. For the Neave collection, my dear fellow, began early, began + almost with his Roman life, began in a series of little nameless odds and + ends, broken trinkets, torn embroideries, the amputated extremities of + maimed marbles: things that even the rag-picker had pitched away when he + sifted his haul. But they weren’t nameless or meaningless to Neave; his + strength lay in his instinct for identifying, putting together, seeing + significant relations. He was a regular Cuvier of bric-a-brac. And during + those early years, when he had time to brood over trifles and note + imperceptible differences, he gradually sharpened his instinct, and made + it into the delicate and redoubtable instrument it is. Before he had a + thousand francs’ worth of <i>anticaglie</i> to his name he began to be + known as an expert, and the big dealers were glad to consult him. But + we’re getting no nearer the Daunt Diana... + </p> + <p> + Well, some fifteen years ago, in London, I ran across Neave at Christie’s. + He was the same little man we’d known, effaced, bleached, indistinct, like + a poor “impression”—as unnoticeable as one of his own early finds, + yet, like them, with a <i>quality</i>, if one had an eye for it. He told + me he still lived in Rome, and had contrived, by fierce self-denial, to + get a few decent bits together—“piecemeal, little by little, with + fasting and prayer; and I mean the fasting literally!” he said. + </p> + <p> + He had run over to London for his annual “look-round”—I fancy one or + another of the big collectors usually paid his journey—and when we + met he was on his way to see the Daunt collection. You know old Daunt was + a surly brute, and the things weren’t easily seen; but he had heard Neave + was in London, and had sent—yes, actually sent!—for him to + come and give his opinion on a few bits, including the Diana. The little + man bore himself discreetly, but you can imagine his pride. In his + exultation he asked me to come with him—“Oh, I’ve the <i>grandes et + petites entrees</i>, my dear fellow: I’ve made my conditions—” and + so it happened that I saw the first meeting between Humphrey Neave and his + fate. + </p> + <p> + For that collection <i>was</i> his fate: or, one may say, it was embodied + in the Diana who was queen and goddess of the realm. Yes—I shall + always be glad I was with Neave when he had his first look at the Diana. I + see him now, blinking at her through his white lashes, and stroking his + seedy wisp of a moustache to hide a twitch of the muscles. It was all very + quiet, but it was the <i>coup de foudre</i>. I could see that by the way + his hands trembled when he turned away and began to examine the other + things. You remember Neave’s hands—thin, sallow, dry, with long + inquisitive fingers thrown out like antennae? Whatever they hold—bronze + or lace, hard enamel or brittle glass—they have an air of conforming + themselves to the texture of the thing, and sucking out of it, by every + finger-tip, the mysterious essence it has secreted. Well, that day, as he + moved about among Daunt’s treasures, the Diana followed him everywhere. He + didn’t look back at her—he gave himself to the business he was there + for—but whatever he touched, he felt her. And on the threshold he + turned and gave her his first free look—the kind of look that says: + <i>“You’re mine.”</i> + </p> + <p> + It amused me at the time—the idea of little Neave making eyes at any + of Daunt’s belongings. He might as well have coquetted with the Kohinoor. + And the same idea seemed to strike him; for as we turned away from the big + house in Belgravia he glanced up at it and said, with a bitterness I’d + never heard in him: “Good Lord! To think of that lumpy fool having those + things to handle! Did you notice his stupid stumps of fingers? I suppose + he blunted them gouging nuggets out of the gold fields. And in exchange + for the nuggets he gets all that in a year—only has to hold out his + callous palm to have that great ripe sphere of beauty drop into it! That’s + my idea of heaven—to have a great collection drop into one’s hand, + as success, or love, or any of the big shining things, drop suddenly on + some men. And I’ve had to worry along for nearly fifty years, saving and + paring, and haggling and intriguing, to get here a bit and there a bit—and + not one perfection in the lot! It’s enough to poison a man’s life.” + </p> + <p> + The outbreak was so unlike Neave that I remember every word of it: + remember, too, saying in answer: “But, look here, Neave, you wouldn’t take + Daunt’s hands for yours, I imagine?” + </p> + <p> + He stared a moment and smiled. “Have all that, and grope my way through it + like a blind cave fish? What a question! But the sense that it’s always + the blind fish that live in that kind of aquarium is what makes + anarchists, sir!” He looked back from the corner of the square, where we + had paused while he delivered himself of this remarkable metaphor. “God, + I’d like to throw a bomb at that place, and be in at the looting!” + </p> + <p> + And with that, on the way home, he unpacked his grievance—pulled the + bandage off the wound, and showed me the ugly mark it had made on his + little white soul. + </p> + <p> + It wasn’t the struggling, stinting, self-denying that galled him—it + was the inadequacy of the result. It was, in short, the old tragedy of the + discrepancy between a man’s wants and his power to gratify them. Neave’s + taste was too exquisite for his means—was like some strange, + delicate, capricious animal, that he cherished and pampered and couldn’t + satisfy. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know those little glittering lizards that die if they’re not + fed on some wonderful tropical fly? Well, my taste’s like that, with one + important difference—if it doesn’t get its fly, it simply turns and + feeds on me. Oh, it doesn’t die, my taste—worse luck! It gets larger + and stronger and more fastidious, and takes a bigger bite of me—that’s + all.” + </p> + <p> + That was all. Year by year, day by day, he had made himself into this + delicate register of perceptions and sensations—as far above the + ordinary human faculty of appreciation as some scientific registering + instrument is beyond the rough human senses—only to find that the + beauty which alone could satisfy him was unattainable—that he was + never to know the last deep identification which only possession can give. + He had trained himself in short, to feel, in the rare great thing—such + an utterance of beauty as the Daunt Diana, say—a hundred elements of + perfection, a hundred <i>reasons why</i>, imperceptible, inexplicable + even, to the average “artistic” sense; he had reached this point by a long + austere process of discrimination and rejection, the renewed great + refusals of the intelligence which perpetually asks more, which will make + no pact with its self of yesterday, and is never to be beguiled from its + purpose by the wiles of the next-best-thing. Oh, it’s a poignant case, but + not a common one; for the next-best-thing usually wins... + </p> + <p> + You see, the worst of Neave’s state was the fact of his not being a mere + collector, even the collector raised to his highest pitch of efficiency. + The whole thing was blent in him with poetry—his imagination had + romanticized the acquisitive instinct, as the religious feeling of the + Middle Ages turned passion into love. And yet his could never be the + abstract enjoyment of the philosopher who says: “This or that object is + really mine because I’m capable of appreciating it.” Neave <i>wanted</i> + what he appreciated—wanted it with his touch and his sight as well + as with his imagination. + </p> + <p> + It was hardly a year afterward that, coming back from a long tour in + India, I picked up a London paper and read the amazing headline: “Mr. + Humphrey Neave buys the Daunt collection”... I rubbed my eyes and read + again. Yes, it could only be our old friend Humphrey. “An American living + in Rome ... one of our most discerning collectors”; there was no mistaking + the description. I clapped on my hat and bolted out to see the first + dealer I could find; and there I had the incredible details. Neave had + come into a fortune—two or three million dollars, amassed by an + uncle who had a corset-factory, and who had attained wealth as the creator + of the Mystic Super-straight. (Corset-factory sounds odd, by the way, + doesn’t it? One had fancied that the corset was a personal, a highly + specialized garment, more or less shaped on the form it was to modify; + but, after all, the Tanagras were all made from two or three moulds—and + so, I suppose, are the ladies who wear the Mystic Super-straight.) + </p> + <p> + The uncle had a son, and Neave had never dreamed of seeing a penny of the + money; but the son died suddenly, and the father followed, leaving a + codicil that gave everything to our friend. Humphrey had to go out to + “realize” on the corset-factory; and his description of <i>that</i> ... + Well, he came back with his money in his pocket, and the day he landed old + Daunt went to smash. It all fitted in like a Chinese puzzle. I believe + Neave drove straight from Euston to Daunt House: at any rate, within two + months the collection was his, and at a price that made the trade sit up. + Trust old Daunt for that! + </p> + <p> + I was in Rome the following spring, and you’d better believe I looked him + up. A big porter glared at me from the door of the Palazzo Neave: I had + almost to produce my passport to get in. But that wasn’t Neave’s fault—the + poor fellow was so beset by people clamouring to see his collection that + he had to barricade himself, literally. When I had mounted the state <i>Scalone</i>, + and come on him, at the end of half a dozen echoing saloons, in the + farthest, smallest <i>reduit</i> of the vast suite, I received the same + welcome that he used to give us in his little den over the wine shop. + </p> + <p> + “Well—so you’ve got her?” I said. For I’d caught sight of the Diana + in passing, against the bluish blur of an old <i>verdure</i>—just + the background for her poised loveliness. Only I rather wondered why she + wasn’t in the room where he sat. + </p> + <p> + He smiled. “Yes, I’ve got her,” he returned, more calmly than I had + expected. + </p> + <p> + “And all the rest of the loot?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I had to buy the lump.” + </p> + <p> + “Had to? But you wanted to, didn’t you? You used to say it was your idea + of heaven—to stretch out your hand and have a great ripe sphere of + beauty drop into it. I’m quoting your own words, by the way.” + </p> + <p> + Neave blinked and stroked his seedy moustache. “Oh, yes. I remember the + phrase. It’s true—it <i>is</i> the last luxury.” He paused, as if + seeking a pretext for his lack of warmth. “The thing that bothered me was + having to move. I couldn’t cram all the stuff into my old quarters.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should say not! This is rather a better setting.” + </p> + <p> + He got up. “Come and take a look round. I want to show you two or three + things—new attributions I’ve made. I’m doing the catalogue over.” + </p> + <p> + The interest of showing me the things seemed to dispel the vague apathy I + had felt in him. He grew keen again in detailing his redistribution of + values, and above all in convicting old Daunt and his advisers of their + repeated aberrations of judgment. “The miracle is that he should have got + such things, knowing as little as he did what he was getting. And the + egregious asses who bought for him were no better, were worse in fact, + since they had all sorts of humbugging wrong reasons for admiring what old + Daunt simply coveted because it belonged to some other rich man.” + </p> + <p> + Never had Neave had so wondrous a field for the exercise of his perfected + faculty; and I saw then how in the real, the great collector’s + appreciations the keenest scientific perception is suffused with + imaginative sensibility, and how it’s to the latter undefinable quality + that in the last resort he trusts himself. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless, I still felt the shadow of that hovering apathy, and he knew + I felt it, and was always breaking off to give me reasons for it. For one + thing, he wasn’t used to his new quarters—hated their bigness and + formality; then the requests to show his things drove him mad. “The women—oh, + the women!” he wailed, and interrupted himself to describe a heavy-footed + German Princess who had marched past his treasures as if she were + inspecting a cavalry regiment, applying an unmodulated <i>Mugneeficent</i> + to everything from the engraved gems to the Hercules torso. + </p> + <p> + “Not that she was half as bad as the other kind,” he added, as if with a + last effort at optimism. “The kind who discriminate and say: ‘I’m not sure + if it’s Botticelli or Cellini I mean, but <i>one of that school</i>, at + any rate.’ And the worst of all are the ones who know—up to a + certain point: have the schools, and the dates and the jargon pat, and yet + wouldn’t know a Phidias if it stood where they hadn’t expected it.” + </p> + <p> + He had all my sympathy, poor Neave; yet these were trials inseparable from + the collector’s lot, and not always without their secret compensations. + Certainly they did not wholly explain my friend’s attitude; and for a + moment I wondered if it were due to some strange disillusionment as to the + quality of his treasures. But no! the Daunt collection was almost above + criticism; and as we passed from one object to another I saw there was no + mistaking the genuineness of Neave’s pride in his possessions. The ripe + sphere of beauty was his, and he had found no flaw in it as yet... + </p> + <p> + A year later came the amazing announcement—the Daunt collection was + for sale. At first we all supposed it was a case of weeding out (though + how old Daunt would have raged at the thought of anybody’s weeding <i>his</i> + collection!) But no—the catalogue corrected that idea. Every stick + and stone was to go under the hammer. The news ran like wildfire from Rome + to Berlin, from Paris to London and New York. Was Neave ruined, then? + Wrong again—the dealers nosed that out in no time. He was simply + selling because he chose to sell; and in due time the things came up at + Christie’s. + </p> + <p> + But you may be sure the trade had found an answer to the riddle; and the + answer was that, on close inspection, Neave had found the collection less + impeccable than he had supposed. It was a preposterous answer—but + then there was no other. Neave, by this time, was pretty generally + recognized as having the subtlest <i>flair</i> of any collector in Europe, + and if he didn’t choose to keep the Daunt collection it could be only + because he had reason to think he could do better. + </p> + <p> + In a flash this report had gone the rounds and the buyers were on their + guard. I had run over to London to see the thing through, and it was the + queerest sale I ever was at. Some of the things held their own, but a lot—and + a few of the best among them—went for half their value. You see, + they’d been locked up in old Daunt’s house for nearly twenty years, and + hardly shown to any one, so that the whole younger generation of dealers + and collectors knew of them only by hearsay. Then you know the effect of + suggestion in such cases. The undefinable sense we were speaking of is a + ticklish instrument, easily thrown out of gear by a sudden fall of + temperature; and the sharpest experts grow shy and self-distrustful when + the cold current of depreciation touches them. The sale was a slaughter—and + when I saw the Daunt Diana fall at the wink of a little third-rate <i>brocanteur</i> + from Vienna I turned sick at the folly of my kind. + </p> + <p> + For my part, I had never believed that Neave had sold the collection + because he’d “found it out”; and within a year my incredulity was + justified. As soon as the things were put in circulation they were known + for the marvels they are. There was hardly a poor bit in the lot; and my + wonder grew at Neave’s madness. All over Europe, dealers began to be + fighting for the spoils; and all kinds of stuff were palmed off on the + unsuspecting as fragments of the Daunt collection! + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, what was Neave doing? For a long time I didn’t hear, and chance + kept me from returning to Rome. But one day, in Paris, I ran across a + dealer who had captured for a song one of the best Florentine bronzes in + the Daunt collection—a marvellous <i>plaquette</i> of Donatello’s. I + asked him what had become of it, and he said with a grin: “I sold it the + other day,” naming a price that staggered me. + </p> + <p> + “Ye gods! Who paid you that for it?” + </p> + <p> + His grin broadened, and he answered: “Neave.” + </p> + <p> + “<i> Neave?</i> Humphrey Neave?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you know he was buying back his things?” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” + </p> + <p> + “He is, though. Not in his own name—but he’s doing it.” + </p> + <p> + And he <i>was</i>, do you know—and at prices that would have made a + sane man shudder! A few weeks later I ran across his tracks in London, + where he was trying to get hold of a Penicaud enamel—another of his + scattered treasures. Then I hunted him down at his hotel, and had it out + with him. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Neave, what are you up to?” + </p> + <p> + He wouldn’t tell me at first: stared and laughed and denied. But I took + him off to dine, and after dinner, while we smoked, I happened to mention + casually that I had a pull over the man who had the Penicaud—and at + that he broke down and confessed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m buying them back, Finney—it’s true.” He laughed nervously, + twitching his moustache. And then he let me have the story. + </p> + <p> + “You know how I’d hungered and thirsted for the <i>real thing</i>—you + quoted my own phrase to me once, about the ‘ripe sphere of beauty.’ So + when I got my money, and Daunt lost his, almost at the same moment, I saw + the hand of Providence in it. I knew that, even if I’d been younger, and + had more time, I could never hope, nowadays, to form such a collection as + <i>that</i>. There was the ripe sphere, within reach; and I took it. But + when I got it, and began to live with it, I found out my mistake. It was a + <i>mariage de convenance</i>—there’d been no wooing, no winning. + Each of my little old bits—the rubbish I chucked out to make room + for Daunt’s glories—had its own personal history, the drama of my + relation to it, of the discovery, the struggle, the capture, the first + divine moment of possession. There was a romantic secret between us. And + then I had absorbed its beauties one by one, they had become a part of my + imagination, they held me by a hundred threads of far-reaching + association. And suddenly I had expected to create this kind of intense + personal tie between myself and a roomful of new cold alien presences—things + staring at me vacantly from the depths of unknown pasts! Can you fancy a + more preposterous hope? Why, my other things, my <i>own</i> things, had + wooed me as passionately as I wooed them: there was a certain little + bronze, a little Venus Callipyge, who had drawn me, drawn me, drawn me, + imploring me to rescue her from her unspeakable surroundings in a vulgar + bric-a-brac shop at Biarritz, where she shrank out of sight among sham + Sevres and Dutch silver, as one has seen certain women—rare, shy, + exquisite—made almost invisible by the vulgar splendours surrounding + them. Well! that little Venus, who was just a specious seventeenth century + attempt at the ‘antique,’ but who had penetrated me with her pleading + grace, touched me by the easily guessed story of her obscure, anonymous + origin, was more to me imaginatively—yes! more than the cold bought + beauty of the Daunt Diana...” + </p> + <p> + “The Daunt Diana!” I broke in. “Hold up, Neave—<i>the Daunt Diana?</i>” + </p> + <p> + He smiled contemptuously. “A professional beauty, my dear fellow—expected + every head to be turned when she came into a room.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Neave,” I groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know. You’re thinking of what we felt that day we first saw her in + London. Many a poor devil has sold his soul as the result of such a first + sight! Well, I sold <i>her</i> instead. Do you want the truth about her? + <i>Elle etait bete a pleurer.</i>” + </p> + <p> + He laughed, and stood up with a little shrug of disenchantment. + </p> + <p> + “And so you’re impenitent?” I paused. “And yet you’re buying some of the + things back?” + </p> + <p> + Neave laughed again, ironically. “I knew you’d find me out and call me to + account. Well, yes: I’m buying back.” He stood before me half sheepish, + half defiant. “I’m buying back because there’s nothing else as good in the + market. And because I’ve a queer feeling that, this time, they’ll be <i>mine</i>. + But I’m ruining myself at the game!” he confessed. + </p> + <p> + It was true: Neave was ruining himself. And he’s gone on ruining himself + ever since, till now the job’s nearly done. Bit by bit, year by year, he + has gathered in his scattered treasures, at higher prices than the dealers + ever dreamed of getting. There are fabulous details in the story of his + quest. Now and then I ran across him, and was able to help him recover a + fragment; and it was wonderful to see his delight in the moment of + reunion. Finally, about two years ago, we met in Paris, and he told me he + had got back all the important pieces except the Diana. + </p> + <p> + “The Diana? But you told me you didn’t care for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t care?” He leaned across the restaurant table that divided us. + “Well, no, in a sense I didn’t. I wanted her to want me, you see; and she + didn’t then! Whereas now she’s crying to me to come to her. You know where + she is?” he broke off. + </p> + <p> + Yes, I knew: in the centre of Mrs. Willy P. Goldmark’s yellow and gold + drawing-room, under a thousand-candle-power chandelier, with reflectors + aimed at her from every point of the compass. I had seen her wincing and + shivering there in her outraged nudity at one of the Goldmark “crushes.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t get her, Neave,” I objected. + </p> + <p> + “No, I can’t get her,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Well, last month I was in Rome, for the first time in six or seven years, + and of course I looked about for Neave. The Palazzo Neave was let to some + rich Russians, and the splendid new porter didn’t know where the + proprietor lived. But I got on his trail easily enough, and it led me to a + strange old place in the Trastevere, an ancient crevassed black palace + turned tenement house, and fluttering with pauper clothes-lines. I found + Neave under the leads, in two or three cold rooms that smelt of the <i>cuisine</i> + of all his neighbours: a poor shrunken little figure, seedier and shabbier + than ever, yet more alive than when we had made the tour of his collection + in the Palazzo Neave. + </p> + <p> + The collection was around him again, not displayed in tall cabinets and on + marble tables, but huddled on shelves, perched on chairs, crammed in + corners, putting the gleam of bronze, the opalescence of old glass, the + pale lustre of marble, into all the angles of his low dim rooms. There + they were, the proud presences that had stared at him down the vistas of + Daunt House, and shone in cold transplanted beauty under his own painted + cornices: there they were, gathered in humble promiscuity about his bent + shabby figure, like superb wild creatures tamed to become the familiars of + some harmless old wizard. + </p> + <p> + As we went from bit to bit, as he lifted one piece after another, and held + it to the light of his low windows, I saw in his hands the same tremor of + sensation that I had noticed when he first examined the same objects at + Daunt House. All his life was in his finger-tips, and it seemed to + communicate life to the exquisite things he touched. But you’ll think me + infected by his mysticism if I tell you they gained new beauty while he + held them... + </p> + <p> + We went the rounds slowly and reverently; and then, when I supposed our + inspection was over, and was turning to take my leave, he opened a door I + had not noticed, and showed me into a slit of a room beyond. It was a mere + monastic cell, scarcely large enough for his narrow iron bed and the chest + which probably held his few clothes; but there, in a niche of the bare + wall, facing the foot of the bed—there stood the Daunt Diana. + </p> + <p> + I gasped at the sight and turned to him; and he looked back at me without + speaking. + </p> + <p> + “In the name of magic, Neave, how did you do it?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled as if from the depths of some secret rapture. “Call it magic, if + you like; but I ruined myself doing it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + I stared at him in silence, breathless with the madness and the wonder of + it; and suddenly, red to the ears, he flung out his boyish confession. “I + lied to you that day in London—the day I said I didn’t care for her. + I always cared—always worshipped—always wanted her. But she + wasn’t mine then, and I knew it, and she knew it ... and now at last we + understand each other.” He looked at me shyly, and then glanced about the + bare cold cell. “The setting isn’t worthy of her, I know; she was meant + for glories I can’t give her; but beautiful things, my dear Finney, like + beautiful spirits, live in houses not made with hands...” + </p> + <p> + His face shone with extraordinary sweetness as he spoke; and I saw he’d + got hold of the secret we’re all after. No, the setting isn’t worthy of + her, if you like. The rooms are as shabby and mean as those we used to see + him in years ago over the wine shop. I’m not sure they’re not shabbier and + meaner. But she rules there at last, she shines and hovers there above + him, and there at night, I doubt not, steals down from her cloud to give + him the Latmian kiss. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEBT + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + YOU remember—it’s not so long ago—the talk there was about + Dredge’s “Arrival of the Fittest”? The talk has subsided, but the book of + course remains: stands up, in fact, as the tallest thing of its kind since—well, + I’d almost said since “The Origin of Species.” + </p> + <p> + I’m not wrong, at any rate, in calling it the most important contribution + yet made to the development of the Darwinian theory, or rather to the + solution of the awkward problem about which that theory has had to make + such a circuit. Dredge’s hypothesis will be contested, may one day be + disproved; but at least it has swept out of the way all previous + conjectures, including of course Lanfear’s magnificent attempt; and for + our generation of scientific investigators it will serve as the first safe + bridge across a murderous black whirlpool. + </p> + <p> + It’s all very interesting—there are few things more stirring to the + imagination than that sudden projection of the new hypothesis, light as a + cobweb and strong as steel, across the intellectual abyss; but, for an + idle observer of human motives, the other, the personal, side of Dredge’s + case is even more interesting and arresting. + </p> + <p> + Personal side? You didn’t know there was one? Pictured him simply as a + thinking machine, a highly specialized instrument of precision, the result + of a long series of “adaptations,” as his own jargon would put it? Well, I + don’t wonder—if you’ve met him. He does give the impression of being + something out of his own laboratory: a delicate scientific instrument that + reveals wonders to the initiated, and is absolutely useless in an ordinary + hand. + </p> + <p> + In his youth it was just the other way. I knew him twenty years ago, as an + awkward lout whom young Archie Lanfear had picked up at college, and + brought home for a visit. I happened to be staying at the Lanfears’ when + the boys arrived, and I shall never forget Dredge’s first appearance on + the scene. You know the Lanfears always lived very simply. That summer + they had gone to Buzzard’s Bay, in order that Professor Lanfear might be + near the Biological Station at Wood’s Holl, and they were picnicking in a + kind of sketchy bungalow without any attempt at elegance. But Galen Dredge + couldn’t have been more awe-struck if he’d been suddenly plunged into a + Fifth Avenue ball-room. He nearly knocked his shock head against the low + doorway, and in dodging this peril trod heavily on Mabel Lanfear’s foot, + and became hopelessly entangled in her mother’s draperies—though how + he managed it I never knew, for Mrs. Lanfear’s dowdy muslins ran to no + excess of train. + </p> + <p> + When the Professor himself came in it was ten times worse, and I saw then + that Dredge’s emotion was a tribute to the great man’s proximity. That + made the boy interesting, and I began to watch. Archie, always + enthusiastic but vague, had said: “Oh, he’s a tremendous chap—you’ll + see—” but I hadn’t expected to see quite so clearly. Lanfear’s + vision, of course, was sharper than mine; and the next morning he had + carried Dredge off to the Biological Station. And that was the way it + began. + </p> + <p> + Dredge is the son of a Baptist minister. He comes from East Lethe, New + York State, and was working his way through college—waiting at White + Mountain hotels in summer—when Archie Lanfear ran across him. There + were eight children in the family, and the mother was an invalid. Dredge + never had a penny from his father after he was fourteen; but his mother + wanted him to be a scholar, and “kept at him,” as he put it, in the hope + of his going back to “teach school” at East Lethe. He developed slowly, as + the scientific mind generally does, and was still adrift about himself and + his tendencies when Archie took him down to Buzzard’s Bay. But he had read + Lanfear’s “Utility and Variation,” and had always been a patient and + curious observer of nature. And his first meeting with Lanfear explained + him to himself. It didn’t, however, enable him to explain himself to + others, and for a long time he remained, to all but Lanfear, an object of + incredulity and conjecture. + </p> + <p> + “<i> Why</i> my husband wants him about—” poor Mrs. Lanfear, the + kindest of women, privately lamented to her friends; for Dredge, at that + time—they kept him all summer at the bungalow—had one of the + most encumbering personalities you can imagine. He was as inexpressive as + he is to-day, and yet oddly obtrusive: one of those uncomfortable + presences whose silence is an interruption. + </p> + <p> + The poor Lanfears almost died of him that summer, and the pity of it was + that he never suspected it, but continued to lavish on them a floundering + devotion as uncomfortable as the endearments of a dripping dog—all + out of gratitude for the Professor’s kindness! He was full, in those days, + of raw enthusiasms, which he forced on any one who would listen when his + first shyness had worn off. You can’t picture him spouting sentimental + poetry, can you? Yet I’ve seen him petrify a whole group of Mrs. Lanfear’s + callers by suddenly discharging on them, in the strident drawl of Western + New York, “Barbara Frietchie” or “The Queen of the May.” His taste in + literature was uniformly bad, but very definite, and far more assertive + than his views on biological questions. In his scientific judgments he + showed, even then, a remarkable temperance, a precocious openness to the + opposite view; but in literature he was a furious propagandist, + aggressive, disputatious, and extremely sensitive to adverse opinion. + </p> + <p> + Lanfear, of course, had been struck from the first by his gift of accurate + observation, and by the fact that his eagerness to learn was offset by his + reluctance to conclude. I remember Lanfear’s telling me that he had never + known a lad of Dredge’s age who gave such promise of uniting an aptitude + for general ideas with the plodding patience of the accumulator of facts. + Of course when Lanfear talked like that of a young biologist his fate was + sealed. There could be no question of Dredge’s going back to “teach + school” at East Lethe. He must take a course in biology at Columbia, spend + his vacations at the Wood’s Holl laboratory, and then, if possible, go to + Germany for a year or two. + </p> + <p> + All this meant his virtual adoption by the Lanfears. Most of Lanfear’s + fortune went in helping young students to a start, and he devoted his + heaviest subsidies to Dredge. + </p> + <p> + “Dredge will be my biggest dividend—you’ll see!” he used to say, in + the chrysalis days when poor Galen was known to the world of science only + as a perpetual slouching presence in Mrs. Lanfear’s drawing-room. And + Dredge, it must be said, took his obligations simply, with that kind of + personal dignity, and quiet sense of his own worth, which in such cases + saves the beneficiary from abjectness. He seemed to trust himself as fully + as Lanfear trusted him. + </p> + <p> + The comic part of it was that his only idea of making what is known as “a + return” was to devote himself to the Professor’s family. When I hear + pretty women lamenting that they can’t coax Professor Dredge out of his + laboratory I remember Mabel Lanfear’s cry to me: “If Galen would only keep + away!” When Mabel fell on the ice and broke her leg, Galen walked seven + miles in a blizzard to get a surgeon; but if he did her this service one + day in the year, he bored her by being in the way for the other three + hundred and sixty-four. One would have imagined at that time that he + thought his perpetual presence the greatest gift he could bestow; for, + except on the occasion of his fetching the surgeon, I don’t remember his + taking any other way of expressing his gratitude. + </p> + <p> + In love with Mabel? Not a bit! But the queer thing was that he <i>did</i> + have a passion in those days—a blind, hopeless passion for Mrs. + Lanfear! Yes: I know what I’m saying. I mean Mrs. Lanfear, the Professor’s + wife, poor Mrs. Lanfear, with her tight hair and her loose figure, her + blameless brow and earnest eye-glasses, and her perpetual attitude of mild + misapprehension. I can see Dredge cowering, long and many-jointed, in a + diminutive drawing-room chair, one square-toed shoe coiled round an + exposed ankle, his knees clasped in a knot of red knuckles, and his + spectacles perpetually seeking Mrs. Lanfear’s eye-glasses. I never knew if + the poor lady was aware of the sentiment she inspired, but her children + observed it, and it provoked them to irreverent mirth. Galen was the + predestined butt of Mabel and Archie; and secure in their mother’s + virtuous obtuseness, and in her worshipper’s timidity, they allowed + themselves a latitude of banter that sometimes turned their audience cold. + Dredge meanwhile was going on obstinately with his work. Now and then he + had queer fits of idleness, when he lapsed into a state of sulky inertia + from which even Lanfear’s admonitions could not rouse him. Once, just + before an examination, he suddenly went off to the Maine woods for two + weeks, came back, and failed to pass. I don’t know if his benefactor ever + lost hope; but at times his confidence must have been sorely strained. The + queer part of it was that when Dredge emerged from these eclipses he + seemed keener and more active than ever. His slowly growing intelligence + probably needed its periodical pauses of assimilation; and Lanfear was + marvellously patient. + </p> + <p> + At last Dredge finished his course and went to Germany; and when he came + back he was a new man—was, in fact, the Dredge we all know. He + seemed to have shed his blundering, encumbering personality, and come to + life as a disembodied intelligence. His fidelity to the Lanfears was + unchanged; but he showed it negatively, by his discretions and + abstentions. I have an idea that Mabel was less disposed to deride him, + might even have been induced to softer sentiments; but I doubt if Dredge + even noticed the change. As for his ex-goddess, he seemed to regard her as + a motherly household divinity, the guardian genius of the darning needle; + but on Professor Lanfear he looked with a deepening reverence. If the rest + of the family had diminished in his eyes, its head had grown even greater. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + FROM that day Dredge’s progress continued steadily. If not always + perceptible to the untrained eye, in Lanfear’s sight it never deviated, + and the great man began to associate Dredge with his work, and to lean on + him more and more. Lanfear’s health was already failing, and in my + confidential talks with him I saw how he counted on Galen Dredge to + continue and amplify his doctrine. If he did not describe the young man as + his predestined Huxley, it was because any such comparison between himself + and his great predecessors would have been repugnant to his taste; but he + evidently felt that it would be Dredge’s role to reveal him to posterity. + And the young man seemed at that time to take the same view of his + calling. When he was not busy about Lanfear’s work he was recording their + conversations with the diligence of a biographer and the accuracy of a + naturalist. Any attempt to question or minimize Lanfear’s theories roused + in his disciple the only flashes of wrath I have ever seen a scientific + discussion provoke in him. In defending his master he became almost as + intemperate as in the early period of his literary passions. + </p> + <p> + Such filial dedication must have been all the more precious to Lanfear + because, about that time, it became evident that Archie would never carry + on his father’s work. He had begun brilliantly, you may remember, by a + little paper on <i>Limulus Polyphemus</i> that attracted a good deal of + notice when it appeared in the <i>Central Blatt</i>; but gradually his + zoological ardour yielded to an absorbing passion for the violin, which + was followed by a sudden plunge into physics. At present, after a + side-glance at the drama, I understand he’s devoting what is left of his + father’s money to archaeological explorations in Asia Minor. + </p> + <p> + “Archie’s got a delightful little mind,” Lanfear used to say to me, rather + wistfully, “but it’s just a highly polished surface held up to the show as + it passes. Dredge’s mind takes in only a bit at a time, but the bit stays, + and other bits are joined to it, in a hard mosaic of fact, of which + imagination weaves the pattern. I saw just how it would be years ago, when + my boy used to take my meaning in a flash, and answer me with clever + objections, while Galen disappeared into one of his fathomless silences, + and then came to the surface like a dripping retriever, a long way beyond + Archie’s objections, and with an answer to them in his mouth.” + </p> + <p> + It was about this time that the crowning satisfaction of Lanfear’s career + came to him: I mean, of course, John Weyman’s gift to Columbia of the + Lanfear Laboratory, and the founding, in connection with it, of a chair of + Experimental Evolution. Weyman had always taken an interest in Lanfear’s + work, but no one had supposed that his interest would express itself so + magnificently. The honour came to Lanfear at a time when he was fighting + an accumulation of troubles: failing health, the money difficulties + resulting from his irrepressible generosity, his disappointment about + Archie’s career, and perhaps also the persistent attacks of the new school + of German zoologists. + </p> + <p> + “If I hadn’t Galen I should feel the game was up,” he said to me once, in + a fit of half-real, half-mocking despondency. “But he’ll do what I haven’t + time to do myself, and what my boy can’t do for me.” + </p> + <p> + That meant that he would answer the critics, and triumphantly affirm + Lanfear’s theory, which had been rudely shaken, but not displaced. + </p> + <p> + “A scientific hypothesis lasts till there’s something else to put in its + place. People who want to get across a river will use the old bridge till + the new one’s built. And I don’t see any one who’s particularly anxious, + in this case, to take a contract for the new one,” Lanfear ended; and I + remember answering with a laugh: “Not while Horatius Dredge holds the + other.” + </p> + <p> + It was generally known that Lanfear had not long to live, and the + Laboratory was hardly opened before the question of his successor in the + chair of Experimental Evolution began to be a matter of public discussion. + It was conceded that whoever followed him ought to be a man of achieved + reputation, some one carrying, as the French say, a considerable + “baggage.” At the same time, even Lanfear’s critics felt that he should be + succeeded by a man who held his views and would continue his teaching. + This was not in itself a difficulty, for German criticism had so far been + mainly negative, and there were plenty of good men who, while they + questioned the permanent validity of Lanfear’s conclusions, were yet ready + to accept them for their provisional usefulness. And then there was the + added inducement of the Laboratory! The Columbia Professor of Experimental + Evolution has at his disposal the most complete instrument of biological + research that modern ingenuity has yet produced; and it’s not only in + theology or politics <i>que Paris vaut bien une messe!</i> There was no + trouble about finding a candidate; but the whole thing turned on Lanfear’s + decision, since it was tacitly understood that, by Weyman’s wish, he was + to select his successor. And what a cry there was when he selected Galen + Dredge! + </p> + <p> + Not in the scientific world, though. The specialists were beginning to + know about Dredge. His remarkable paper on Sexual Dimorphism had been + translated into several languages, and a furious polemic had broken out + over it. When a young fellow can get the big men fighting over him his + future is pretty well assured. But Dredge was only thirty-four, and some + people seemed to feel that there was a kind of deflected nepotism in + Lanfear’s choice. + </p> + <p> + “If he could choose Dredge he might as well have chosen his own son,” I’ve + heard it said; and the irony was that Archie—will you believe it?—actually + thought so himself! But Lanfear had Weyman behind him, and when the end + came the Faculty at once appointed Galen Dredge to the chair of + Experimental Evolution. + </p> + <p> + For the first two years things went quietly, along accustomed lines. + Dredge simply continued the course which Lanfear’s death had interrupted. + He lectured well even then, with a persuasive simplicity surprising in the + slow, inarticulate creature one knew him for. But haven’t you noticed that + certain personalities reveal themselves only in the more impersonal + relations of life? It’s as if they woke only to collective contacts, and + the single consciousness were an unmeaning fragment to them. + </p> + <p> + If there was anything to criticize in that first part of the course, it + was the avoidance of general ideas, of those brilliant rockets of + conjecture that Lanfear’s students were used to seeing him fling across + the darkness. I remember once saying this to Archie, who, having recovered + from his absurd disappointment, had returned to his old allegiance to + Dredge. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s Galen all over. He doesn’t want to jump into the ring till he + has a big swishing knock-down argument in his fist. He’ll wait twenty + years if he has to. That’s his strength: he’s never afraid to wait.” + </p> + <p> + I thought this shrewd of Archie, as well as generous; and I saw the wisdom + of Dredge’s course. As Lanfear himself had said, his theory was safe + enough till somebody found a more attractive one; and before that day + Dredge would probably have accumulated sufficient proof to crystallize the + fluid hypothesis. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + THE third winter I was off collecting in Central America, and didn’t get + back till Dredge’s course had been going for a couple of months. The very + day I turned up in town Archie Lanfear descended on me with a summons from + his mother. I was wanted at once at a family council. + </p> + <p> + I found the Lanfear ladies in a state of incoherent distress, which + Archie’s own indignation hardly made more intelligible. But gradually I + put together their fragmentary charges, and learned that Dredge’s lectures + were turning into an organized assault on his master’s doctrine. + </p> + <p> + “It amounts to just this,” Archie said, controlling his women with the + masterful gesture of the weak man. “Galen has simply turned round and + betrayed my father.” + </p> + <p> + “Just for a handful of silver he left us,” Mabel sobbed in parenthesis, + while Mrs. Lanfear tearfully cited Hamlet. + </p> + <p> + Archie silenced them again. “The ugly part of it is that he must have had + this up his sleeve for years. He must have known when he was asked to + succeed my father what use he meant to make of his opportunity. What he’s + doing isn’t the result of a hasty conclusion: it means years of work and + preparation.” + </p> + <p> + Archie broke off to explain himself. He had returned from Europe the week + before, and had learned on arriving that Dredge’s lectures were stirring + the world of science as nothing had stirred it since Lanfear’s “Utility + and Variation.” And the incredible outrage was that they owed their + sensational effect to the fact of being an attempted refutation of + Lanfear’s great work. + </p> + <p> + I own that I was staggered: the case looked ugly, as Archie said. And + there was a veil of reticence, of secrecy, about Dredge, that always kept + his conduct in a half-light of uncertainty. Of some men one would have + said off-hand: “It’s impossible!” But one couldn’t affirm it of him. + </p> + <p> + Archie hadn’t seen him as yet; and Mrs. Lanfear had sent for me because + she wished me to be present at the interview between the two men. The + Lanfear ladies had a touching belief in Archie’s violence: they thought + him as terrible as a natural force. My own idea was that if there were any + broken bones they wouldn’t be Dredge’s; but I was too curious as to the + outcome not to be glad to offer my services as moderator. + </p> + <p> + First, however, I wanted to hear one of the lectures; and I went the next + afternoon. The hall was jammed, and I saw, as soon as Dredge appeared, + what increased security and ease the interest of his public had given him. + He had been clear the year before, now he was also eloquent. The lecture + was a remarkable effort: you’ll find the gist of it in Chapter VII of “The + Arrival of the Fittest.” Archie sat at my side in a white rage; he was too + clever not to measure the extent of the disaster. And I was almost as + indignant as he when we went to see Dredge the next day. + </p> + <p> + I saw at a glance that the latter suspected nothing; and it was + characteristic of him that he began by questioning me about my finds, and + only afterward turned to reproach Archie for having been back a week + without notifying him. + </p> + <p> + “You know I’m up to my neck in this job. Why in the world didn’t you hunt + me up before this?” + </p> + <p> + The question was exasperating, and I could understand Archie’s stammer of + wrath. + </p> + <p> + “Hunt you up? Hunt you up? What the deuce are you made of, to ask me such + a question instead of wondering why I’m here now?” + </p> + <p> + Dredge bent his slow calm scrutiny on his friend’s quivering face; then he + turned to me. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” he said simply. + </p> + <p> + “The matter?” shrieked Archie, his clenched fist hovering excitedly above + the desk by which he stood; but Dredge, with unwonted quickness, caught + the fist as it descended. + </p> + <p> + “Careful—I’ve got a <i>Kallima</i> in that jar there.” He pushed a + chair forward, and added quietly: “Sit down.” + </p> + <p> + Archie, ignoring the gesture, towered pale and avenging in his place; and + Dredge, after a moment, took the chair himself. + </p> + <p> + “The matter?” Archie reiterated with rising passion. “Are you so lost to + all sense of decency and honour that you can put that question in good + faith? Don’t you really <i>know</i> what’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + Dredge smiled slowly. “There are so few things one <i>really knows</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, damn your scientific hair-splitting! Don’t you know you’re insulting + my father’s memory?” + </p> + <p> + Dredge stared again, turning his spectacles thoughtfully from one of us to + the other. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s it, is it? Then you’d better sit down. If you don’t see at + once it’ll take some time to make you.” + </p> + <p> + Archie burst into an ironic laugh. + </p> + <p> + “I rather think it will!” he conceded. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down, Archie,” I said, setting the example; and he obeyed, with a + gesture that made his consent a protest. + </p> + <p> + Dredge seemed to notice nothing beyond the fact that his visitors were + seated. He reached for his pipe, and filled it with the care which the + habit of delicate manipulations gave to all the motions of his long, + knotty hands. + </p> + <p> + “It’s about the lectures?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Archie’s answer was a deep scornful breath. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve only been back a week, so you’ve only heard one, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “It was not necessary to hear even that one. You must know the talk + they’re making. If notoriety is what you’re after—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m not sorry to make a noise,” said Dredge, putting a match to his + pipe. + </p> + <p> + Archie bounded in his chair. “There’s no easier way of doing it than to + attack a man who can’t answer you!” + </p> + <p> + Dredge raised a sobering hand. “Hold on. Perhaps you and I don’t mean the + same thing. Tell me first what’s in your mind.” + </p> + <p> + The request steadied Archie, who turned on Dredge a countenance really + eloquent with filial indignation. + </p> + <p> + “It’s an odd question for you to ask; it makes me wonder what’s in yours. + Not much thought of my father, at any rate, or you couldn’t stand in his + place and use the chance he’s given you to push yourself at his expense.” + </p> + <p> + Dredge received this in silence, puffing slowly at his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the way it strikes you?” he asked at length. + </p> + <p> + “God! It’s the way it would strike most men.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to me. “You too?” + </p> + <p> + “I can see how Archie feels,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “That I’m attacking his father’s memory to glorify myself?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, not precisely: I think what he really feels is that, if your + convictions didn’t permit you to continue his father’s teaching, you might + perhaps have done better to sever your connection with the Lanfear + lectureship.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you and he regard the Lanfear lectureship as having been founded to + perpetuate a dogma, not to try and get at the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not,” Archie broke in. “But there’s a question of taste, of + delicacy, involved in the case that can’t be decided on abstract + principles. We know as well as you that my father meant the laboratory and + the lectureship to serve the ends of science, at whatever cost to his own + special convictions; what we feel—and you don’t seem to—is + that you’re the last man to put them to that use; and I don’t want to + remind you why.” + </p> + <p> + A slight redness rose through Dredge’s sallow skin. “You needn’t,” he + said. “It’s because he pulled me out of my hole, woke me up, made me, + shoved me off from the shore. Because he saved me ten or twenty years of + muddled effort, and put me where I am at an age when my best working years + are still ahead of me. Every one knows that’s what your father did for me, + but I’m the only person who knows the time and trouble that it took.” + </p> + <p> + It was well said, and I glanced quickly at Archie, who was never closed to + generous emotions. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—?” he said, flushing also. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then,” Dredge continued, his voice deepening and losing its nasal + edge, “I had to pay him back, didn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + The sudden drop flung Archie back on his prepared attitude of irony. “It + would be the natural inference—with most men.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so. And I’m not so very different. I knew your father wanted a + successor—some one who’d try and tie up the loose ends. And I took + the lectureship with that object.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’re using it to tear the whole fabric to pieces!” + </p> + <p> + Dredge paused to re-light his pipe. “Looks that way,” he conceded. “This + year anyhow.” + </p> + <p> + “<i> This year</i>—?” Archie gasped at him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. When I took up the job I saw it just as your father left it. Or + rather, I didn’t see any other way of going on with it. The change came + gradually, as I worked.” + </p> + <p> + “Gradually? So that you had time to look round you, to know where you + were, to see you were fatally committed to undoing the work he had done?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes—I had time,” Dredge conceded. + </p> + <p> + “And yet you kept the chair and went on with the course?” + </p> + <p> + Dredge refilled his pipe, and then turned in his seat so that he looked + squarely at Archie. + </p> + <p> + “What would your father have done in my place?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “In your place—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes: supposing he’d found out the things I’ve found out in the last year + or two. You’ll see what they are, and how much they count, if you’ll run + over the report of the lectures. If your father’d been alive he might have + come across the same facts just as easily.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence which Archie at last broke by saying: “But he didn’t, + and you did. There’s the difference.” + </p> + <p> + “The difference? What difference? Would your father have suppressed the + facts if he’d found them? It’s <i>you</i> who insult his memory by + implying it! And if I’d brought them to him, would he have used his hold + over me to get me to suppress them?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. But can’t you see it’s his death that makes the + difference? He’s not here to defend his case.” + </p> + <p> + Dredge laughed, but not unkindly. “My dear Archie, your father wasn’t one + of the kind who bother to defend their case. Men like him are the masters, + not the servants, of their theories. They respect an idea only as long as + it’s of use to them; when it’s usefulness ends they chuck it out. And + that’s what your father would have done.” + </p> + <p> + Archie reddened. “Don’t you assume a good deal in taking it for granted + that he would have had to in this particular case?” + </p> + <p> + Dredge reflected. “Yes: I was going too far. Each of us can only answer + for himself. But to my mind your father’s theory is refuted.” + </p> + <p> + “And you don’t hesitate to be the man to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Should I have been of any use if I had? And did your father ever ask + anything of me but to be of as much use as I could?” + </p> + <p> + It was Archie’s turn to reflect. “No. That was what he always wanted, of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the way I’ve always felt. The first day he took me away from East + Lethe I knew the debt I was piling up against him, and I never had any + doubt as to how I’d pay it, or how he’d want it paid. He didn’t pick me + out and train me for any object but to carry on the light. Do you suppose + he’d have wanted me to snuff it out because it happened to light up a fact + he didn’t fancy? I’m using <i>his</i> oil to feed my torch with: yes, but + it isn’t really his torch or mine, or his oil or mine: they belong to each + of us till we drop and hand them on.” + </p> + <p> + Archie turned a sobered glance on him. “I see your point. But if the job + had to be done I don’t see that you need have done it from his chair.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s where we differ. If I did it at all I had to do it in the best + way, and with all the authority his backing gave me. If I owe your father + anything, I owe him that. It would have made him sick to see the job badly + done. And don’t you see that the way to honour him, and show what he’s + done for science, was to spare no advantage in my attack on him—that + I’m proving the strength of his position by the desperateness of my + assault?” Dredge paused and squared his lounging shoulders. “After all,” + he added, “he’s not down yet, and if I leave him standing I guess it’ll be + some time before anybody else cares to tackle him.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence between the two men; then Dredge continued in a + lighter tone: “There’s one thing, though, that we’re both in danger of + forgetting: and that is how little, in the long run, it all counts either + way.” He smiled a little at Archie’s outraged gesture. “The most we can + any of us do—even by such a magnificent effort as your father’s—is + to turn the great marching army a hair’s breadth nearer what seems to us + the right direction; if one of us drops out, here and there, the loss of + headway’s hardly perceptible. And that’s what I’m coming to now.” + </p> + <p> + He rose from his seat, and walked across to the hearth; then, cautiously + resting his shoulder-blades against the mantel-shelf jammed with + miscellaneous specimens, he bent his musing spectacles on Archie. + </p> + <p> + “Your father would have understood why I’ve done, what I’m doing; but + that’s no reason why the rest of you should. And I rather think it’s the + rest of you who’ve suffered most from me. He always knew what I was <i>there + for</i>, and that must have been some comfort even when I was most in the + way; but I was just an ordinary nuisance to you and your mother and Mabel. + You were all too kind to let me see it at the time, but I’ve seen it + since, and it makes me feel that, after all, the settling of this matter + lies with you. If it hurts you to have me go on with my examination of + your father’s theory, I’m ready to drop the lectures to-morrow, and trust + to the Lanfear Laboratory to breed up a young chap who’ll knock us both + out in time. You’ve only got to say the word.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause while Dredge turned and laid his extinguished pipe + carefully between a jar of embryo sea-urchins and a colony of regenerating + planarians. + </p> + <p> + Then Archie rose and held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said simply; “go on.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FULL CIRCLE + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + GEOFFREY BETTON woke rather late—so late that the winter sunlight + sliding across his warm red carpet struck his eyes as he turned on the + pillow. + </p> + <p> + Strett, the valet, had been in, drawn the bath in the adjoining + dressing-room, placed the crystal and silver cigarette-box at his side, + put a match to the fire, and thrown open the windows to the bright morning + air. It brought in, on the glitter of sun, all the shrill crisp morning + noises—those piercing notes of the American thoroughfare that seem + to take a sharper vibration from the clearness of the medium through which + they pass. + </p> + <p> + Betton raised himself languidly. That was the voice of Fifth Avenue below + his windows. He remembered that when he moved into his rooms eighteen + months before, the sound had been like music to him: the complex + orchestration to which the tune of his new life was set. Now it filled him + with horror and weariness, since it had become the symbol of the hurry and + noise of that new life. He had been far less hurried in the old days when + he had to be up by seven, and down at the office sharp at nine. Now that + he got up when he chose, and his life had no fixed framework of duties, + the hours hunted him like a pack of blood-hounds. + </p> + <p> + He dropped back on his pillows with a groan. Yes—not a year ago + there had been a positively sensuous joy in getting out of bed, feeling + under his bare feet the softness of the sunlit carpet, and entering the + shining tiled sanctuary where his great porcelain bath proffered its + renovating flood. But then a year ago he could still call up the horror of + the communal plunge at his earlier lodgings: the listening for other + bathers, the dodging of shrouded ladies in “crimping”-pins, the cold wait + on the landing, the reluctant descent into a blotchy tin bath, and the + effort to identify one’s soap and nail-brush among the promiscuous + implements of ablution. That memory had faded now, and Betton saw only the + dark hours to which his blue and white temple of refreshment formed a kind + of glittering antechamber. For after his bath came his breakfast, and on + the breakfast-tray his letters. His letters! + </p> + <p> + He remembered—and <i>that</i> memory had not faded!—the thrill + with which he had opened the first missive in a strange feminine hand: the + letter beginning: “I wonder if you’ll mind an unknown reader’s telling you + all that your book has been to her?” + </p> + <p> + <i> Mind?</i> Ye gods, he minded now! For more than a year after the + publication of “Diadems and Faggots” the letters, the inane indiscriminate + letters of condemnation, of criticism, of interrogation, had poured in on + him by every post. Hundreds of unknown readers had told him with unsparing + detail all that his book had been to them. And the wonder of it was, when + all was said and done, that it had really been so little—that when + their thick broth of praise was strained through the author’s anxious + vanity there remained to him so small a sediment of definite specific + understanding! No—it was always the same thing, over and over and + over again—the same vague gush of adjectives, the same incorrigible + tendency to estimate his effort according to each writer’s personal + preferences, instead of regarding it as a work of art, a thing to be + measured by objective standards! + </p> + <p> + He smiled to think how little, at first, he had felt the vanity of it all. + He had found a savour even in the grosser evidences of popularity: the + advertisements of his book, the daily shower of “clippings,” the sense + that, when he entered a restaurant or a theatre, people nudged each other + and said “That’s Betton.” Yes, the publicity had been sweet to him—at + first. He had been touched by the sympathy of his fellow-men: had thought + indulgently of the world, as a better place than the failures and the + dyspeptics would acknowledge. And then his success began to submerge him: + he gasped under the thickening shower of letters. His admirers were really + unappeasable. And they wanted him to do such preposterous things—to + give lectures, to head movements, to be tendered receptions, to speak at + banquets, to address mothers, to plead for orphans, to go up in balloons, + to lead the struggle for sterilized milk. They wanted his photograph for + literary supplements, his autograph for charity bazaars, his name on + committees, literary, educational, and social; above all, they wanted his + opinion on everything: on Christianity, Buddhism, tight lacing, the + drug-habit, democratic government, female suffrage and love. Perhaps the + chief benefit of this demand was his incidentally learning from it how few + opinions he really had: the only one that remained with him was a rooted + horror of all forms of correspondence. He had been unutterably thankful + when the letters began to fall off. + </p> + <p> + “Diadems and Faggots” was now two years old, and the moment was at hand + when its author might have counted on regaining the blessed shelter of + oblivion—if only he had not written another book! For it was the + worst part of his plight that his first success had goaded him to the + perpetration of this particular folly—that one of the incentives + (hideous thought!) to his new work had been the desire to extend and + perpetuate his popularity. And this very week the book was to come out, + and the letters, the cursed letters, would begin again! + </p> + <p> + Wistfully, almost plaintively, he contemplated the breakfast-tray with + which Strett presently appeared. It bore only two notes and the morning + journals, but he knew that within the week it would groan under its + epistolary burden. The very newspapers flung the fact at him as he opened + them. + </p> + <h3> + READY ON MONDAY. + </h3> + <h3> + GEOFFREY BETTON’S NEW NOVEL + </h3> + <h3> + ABUNDANCE. + </h3> + <h3> + BY THE AUTHOR OF “DIADEMS AND FAGGOTS.” + </h3> + <h3> + FIRST EDITION OF ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND ALREADY SOLD OUT. + </h3> + <h3> + ORDER NOW. + </h3> + <p> + A hundred and fifty thousand volumes! And an average of three readers to + each! Half a million of people would be reading him within a week, and + every one of them would write to him, and their friends and relations + would write too. He laid down the paper with a shudder. + </p> + <p> + The two notes looked harmless enough, and the calligraphy of one was + vaguely familiar. He opened the envelope and looked at the signature: <i>Duncan + Vyse</i>. He had not seen the name in years—what on earth could + Duncan Vyse have to say? He ran over the page and dropped it with a + wondering exclamation, which the watchful Strett, re-entering, met by a + tentative “Yes, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Yes—that is—” Betton picked up the note. “There’s a + gentleman, a Mr. Vyse, coming to see me at ten.” + </p> + <p> + Strett glanced at the clock. “Yes, sir. You’ll remember that ten was the + hour you appointed for the secretaries to call, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Betton nodded. “I’ll see Mr. Vyse first. My clothes, please.” + </p> + <p> + As he got into them, in the state of irritable hurry that had become + almost chronic with him, he continued to think about Duncan Vyse. They had + seen a lot of each other for the few years after both had left Harvard: + the hard happy years when Betton had been grinding at his business and + Vyse—poor devil!—trying to write. The novelist recalled his + friend’s attempts with a smile; then the memory of one small volume came + back to him. It was a novel: “The Lifted Lamp.” There was stuff in that, + certainly. He remembered Vyse’s tossing it down on his table with a + gesture of despair when it came back from the last publisher. Betton, + taking it up indifferently, had sat riveted till daylight. When he ended, + the impression was so strong that he said to himself: “I’ll tell Apthorn + about it—I’ll go and see him to-morrow.” His own secret literary + yearnings gave him a passionate desire to champion Vyse, to see him + triumph over the ignorance and timidity of the publishers. Apthorn was the + youngest of the guild, still capable of opinions and the courage of them, + a personal friend of Betton’s, and, as it happened, the man afterward to + become known as the privileged publisher of “Diadems and Faggots.” + Unluckily the next day something unexpected turned up, and Betton forgot + about Vyse and his manuscript. He continued to forget for a month, and + then came a note from Vyse, who was ill, and wrote to ask what his friend + had done. Betton did not like to say “I’ve done nothing,” so he left the + note unanswered, and vowed again: “I’ll see Apthorn.” + </p> + <p> + The following day he was called to the West on business, and was gone a + month. When he came back, there was another note from Vyse, who was still + ill, and desperately hard up. “I’ll take anything for the book, if they’ll + advance me two hundred dollars.” Betton, full of compunction, would gladly + have advanced the sum himself; but he was hard up too, and could only + swear inwardly: “I’ll write to Apthorn.” Then he glanced again at the + manuscript, and reflected: “No—there are things in it that need + explaining. I’d better see him.” + </p> + <p> + Once he went so far as to telephone Apthorn, but the publisher was out. + Then he finally and completely forgot. + </p> + <p> + One Sunday he went out of town, and on his return, rummaging among the + papers on his desk, he missed “The Lifted Lamp,” which had been gathering + dust there for half a year. What the deuce could have become of it? Betton + spent a feverish hour in vainly increasing the disorder of his documents, + and then bethought himself of calling the maid-servant, who first + indignantly denied having touched anything (“I can see that’s true from + the dust,” Betton scathingly interjected), and then mentioned with hauteur + that a young lady had called in his absence and asked to be allowed to get + a book. + </p> + <p> + “A lady? Did you let her come up?” + </p> + <p> + “She said somebody’d sent her.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse, of course—Vyse had sent her for his manuscript! He was always + mixed up with some woman, and it was just like him to send the girl of the + moment to Betton’s lodgings, with instructions to force the door in his + absence. Vyse had never been remarkable for delicacy. Betton, furious, + glanced over his table to see if any of his own effects were missing—one + couldn’t tell, with the company Vyse kept!—and then dismissed the + matter from his mind, with a vague sense of magnanimity in doing so. He + felt himself exonerated by Vyse’s conduct. + </p> + <p> + The sense of magnanimity was still uppermost when the valet opened the + door to announce “Mr. Vyse,” and Betton, a moment later, crossed the + threshold of his pleasant library. + </p> + <p> + His first thought was that the man facing him from the hearth-rug was the + very Duncan Vyse of old: small, starved, bleached-looking, with the same + sidelong movements, the same queer air of anaemic truculence. Only he had + grown shabbier, and bald. + </p> + <p> + Betton held out a hospitable hand. + </p> + <p> + “This is a good surprise! Glad you looked me up, my dear fellow.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse’s palm was damp and bony: he had always had a disagreeable hand. + </p> + <p> + “You got my note? You know what I’ve come for?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “About the secretaryship? (Sit down.) Is that really serious?” + </p> + <p> + Betton lowered himself luxuriously into one of his vast Maple arm-chairs. + He had grown stouter in the last year, and the cushion behind him fitted + comfortably into the crease of his nape. As he leaned back he caught sight + of his image in the mirror between the windows, and reflected uneasily + that Vyse would not find <i>him</i> unchanged. + </p> + <p> + “Serious?” Vyse rejoined. “Why not? Aren’t <i>you?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, perfectly.” Betton laughed apologetically. “Only—well, the fact + is, you may not understand what rubbish a secretary of mine would have to + deal with. In advertising for one I never imagined—I didn’t aspire + to any one above the ordinary hack.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m the ordinary hack,” said Vyse drily. + </p> + <p> + Betton’s affable gesture protested. “My dear fellow—. You see it’s + not business—what I’m in now,” he continued with a laugh. + </p> + <p> + Vyse’s thin lips seemed to form a noiseless “<i> Isn’t</i> it?” which they + instantly transposed into the audibly reply: “I inferred from your + advertisement that you want some one to relieve you in your literary work. + Dictation, short-hand—that kind of thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, no: not that either. I type my own things. What I’m looking for is + somebody who won’t be above tackling my correspondence.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse looked slightly surprised. “I should be glad of the job,” he then + said. + </p> + <p> + Betton began to feel a vague embarrassment. He had supposed that such a + proposal would be instantly rejected. “It would be only for an hour or two + a day—if you’re doing any writing of your own?” he threw out + interrogatively. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’ve given all that up. I’m in an office now—business. But it + doesn’t take all my time, or pay enough to keep me alive.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, my dear fellow—if you could come every morning; but + it’s mostly awful bosh, you know,” Betton again broke off, with growing + awkwardness. + </p> + <p> + Vyse glanced at him humorously. “What you want me to write?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that depends—” Betton sketched the obligatory smile. “But I + was thinking of the letters you’ll have to answer. Letters about my books, + you know—I’ve another one appearing next week. And I want to be + beforehand now—dam the flood before it swamps me. Have you any idea + of the deluge of stuff that people write to a successful novelist?” + </p> + <p> + As Betton spoke, he saw a tinge of red on Vyse’s thin cheek, and his own + reflected it in a richer glow of shame. “I mean—I mean—” he + stammered helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I haven’t,” said Vyse; “but it will be awfully jolly finding out.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, groping and desperate on Betton’s part, sardonically + calm on his visitor’s. + </p> + <p> + “You—you’ve given up writing altogether?” Betton continued. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; we’ve changed places, as it were.” Vyse paused. “But about these + letters—you dictate the answers?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord, no! That’s the reason why I said I wanted somebody—er—well + used to writing. I don’t want to have anything to do with them—not a + thing! You’ll have to answer them as if they were written to <i>you</i>—” + Betton pulled himself up again, and rising in confusion jerked open one of + the drawers of his writing-table. + </p> + <p> + “Here—this kind of rubbish,” he said, tossing a packet of letters + onto Vyse’s knee. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—you keep them, do you?” said Vyse simply. + </p> + <p> + “I—well—some of them; a few of the funniest only.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse slipped off the band and began to open the letters. While he was + glancing over them Betton again caught his own reflection in the glass, + and asked himself what impression he had made on his visitor. It occurred + to him for the first time that his high-coloured well-fed person presented + the image of commercial rather than of intellectual achievement. He did + not look like his own idea of the author of “Diadems and Faggots”—and + he wondered why. + </p> + <p> + Vyse laid the letters aside. “I think I can do it—if you’ll give me + a notion of the tone I’m to take.” + </p> + <p> + “The tone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that is, if I’m to sign your name.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course: I expect you to sign for me. As for the tone, say just + what you’d—well, say all you can without encouraging them to + answer.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse rose from his seat. “I could submit a few specimens,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as to that—you always wrote better than I do,” said Betton + handsomely. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never had this kind of thing to write. When do you wish me to + begin?” Vyse enquired, ignoring the tribute. + </p> + <p> + “The book’s out on Monday. The deluge will begin about three days after. + Will you turn up on Thursday at this hour?” Betton held his hand out with + real heartiness. “It was great luck for me, your striking that + advertisement. Don’t be too harsh with my correspondents—I owe them + something for having brought us together.” + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + THE deluge began punctually on the Thursday, and Vyse, arriving as + punctually, had an impressive pile of letters to attack. Betton, on his + way to the Park for a ride, came into the library, smoking the cigarette + of indolence, to look over his secretary’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “How many of ‘em? Twenty? Good Lord! It’s going to be worse than + ‘Diadems.’ I’ve just had my first quiet breakfast in two years—time + to read the papers and loaf. How I used to dread the sight of my + letter-box! Now I sha’n’t know I have one.” + </p> + <p> + He leaned over Vyse’s chair, and the secretary handed him a letter. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s rather an exceptional one—lady, evidently. I thought you + might want to answer it yourself—” + </p> + <p> + “Exceptional?” Betton ran over the mauve pages and tossed them down. “Why, + my dear man, I get hundreds like that. You’ll have to be pretty short with + her, or she’ll send her photograph.” + </p> + <p> + He clapped Vyse on the shoulder and turned away, humming a tune. “Stay to + luncheon,” he called back gaily from the threshold. + </p> + <p> + After luncheon Vyse insisted on showing a few of his answers to the first + batch of letters. “If I’ve struck the note I won’t bother you again,” he + urged; and Betton groaningly consented. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow, they’re beautiful—too beautiful. I’ll be let in for + a correspondence with every one of these people.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse, at this, meditated for a while above a blank sheet. “All right—how’s + this?” he said, after another interval of rapid writing. + </p> + <p> + Betton glanced over the page. “By George—by George! Won’t she <i>see</i> + it?” he exulted, between fear and rapture. + </p> + <p> + “It’s wonderful how little people see,” said Vyse reassuringly. + </p> + <p> + The letters continued to pour in for several weeks after the appearance of + “Abundance.” For five or six blissful days Betton did not even have his + mail brought to him, trusting to Vyse to single out his personal + correspondence, and to deal with the rest according to their agreement. + During those days he luxuriated in a sense of wild and lawless freedom; + then, gradually, he began to feel the need of fresh restraints to break, + and learned that the zest of liberty lies in the escape from specific + obligations. At first he was conscious only of a vague hunger, but in time + the craving resolved into a shame-faced desire to see his letters. + </p> + <p> + “After all, I hated them only because I had to answer them”; and he told + Vyse carelessly that he wished all his letters submitted to him before the + secretary answered them. + </p> + <p> + At first he pushed aside those beginning: “I have just laid down + ‘Abundance’ after a third reading,” or: “Every day for the last month I + have been telephoning my bookseller to know when your novel would be out.” + But little by little the freshness of his interest revived, and even this + stereotyped homage began to arrest his eye. At last a day came when he + read all the letters, from the first word to the last, as he had done when + “Diadems and Faggots” appeared. It was really a pleasure to read them, now + that he was relieved of the burden of replying: his new relation to his + correspondents had the glow of a love-affair unchilled by the contingency + of marriage. + </p> + <p> + One day it struck him that the letters were coming in more slowly and in + smaller numbers. Certainly there had been more of a rush when “Diadems and + Faggots” came out. Betton began to wonder if Vyse were exercising an + unauthorized discrimination, and keeping back the communications he deemed + least important. This sudden conjecture carried the novelist straight to + his library, where he found Vyse bending over the writing-table with his + usual inscrutable pale smile. But once there, Betton hardly knew how to + frame his question, and blundered into an enquiry for a missing + invitation. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a note—a personal note—I ought to have had this + morning. Sure you haven’t kept it back by mistake among the others?” + </p> + <p> + Vyse laid down his pen. “The others? But I never keep back any.” + </p> + <p> + Betton had foreseen the answer. “Not even the worst twaddle about my + book?” he suggested lightly, pushing the papers about. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I understood you wanted to go over them all first.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, perhaps it’s safer,” Betton conceded, as if the idea were new to + him. With an embarrassed hand he continued to turn over the letters at + Vyse’s elbow. + </p> + <p> + “Those are yesterday’s,” said the secretary; “here are to-day’s,” he + added, pointing to a meagre trio. + </p> + <p> + “H’m—only these?” Betton took them and looked them over lingeringly. + “I don’t see what the deuce that chap means about the first part of + ‘Abundance’ ‘certainly justifying the title’—do you?” + </p> + <p> + Vyse was silent, and the novelist continued irritably: “Damned cheek, his + writing, if he doesn’t like the book. Who cares what he thinks about it, + anyhow?” + </p> + <p> + And his morning ride was embittered by the discovery that it was + unexpectedly disagreeable to have Vyse read any letters which did not + express unqualified praise of his books. He began to fancy there was a + latent rancour, a kind of baffled sneer, under Vyse’s manner; and he + decided to return to the practice of having his mail brought straight to + his room. In that way he could edit the letters before his secretary saw + them. + </p> + <p> + Vyse made no comment on the change, and Betton was reduced to wondering + whether his imperturbable composure were the mask of complete indifference + or of a watchful jealousy. The latter view being more agreeable to his + employer’s self-esteem, the next step was to conclude that Vyse had not + forgotten the episode of “The Lifted Lamp,” and would naturally take a + vindictive joy in any unfavourable judgments passed on his rival’s work. + This did not simplify the situation, for there was no denying that + unfavourable criticisms preponderated in Betton’s correspondence. + “Abundance” was neither meeting with the unrestricted welcome of “Diadems + and Faggots,” nor enjoying the alternative of an animated controversy: it + was simply found dull, and its readers said so in language not too + tactfully tempered by regretful comparisons with its predecessor. To + withhold unfavourable comments from Vyse was, therefore, to make it appear + that correspondence about the book had died out; and its author, mindful + of his unguarded predictions, found this even more embarrassing. The + simplest solution would be to get rid of Vyse; and to this end Betton + began to address his energies. + </p> + <p> + One evening, finding himself unexpectedly disengaged, he asked Vyse to + dine; it had occurred to him that, in the course of an after-dinner chat, + he might delicately hint his feeling that the work he had offered his + friend was unworthy so accomplished a hand. + </p> + <p> + Vyse surprised him by a momentary hesitation. “I may not have time to + dress.” + </p> + <p> + Betton stared. “What’s the odds? We’ll dine here—and as late as you + like.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse thanked him, and appeared, punctually at eight, in all the shabbiness + of his daily wear. He looked paler and more shyly truculent than usual, + and Betton, from the height of his florid stature, said to himself, with + the sudden professional instinct for “type”: “He might be an agent of + something—a chap who carries deadly secrets.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse, it was to appear, did carry a deadly secret; but one less perilous + to society than to himself. He was simply poor—inexcusably, + irremediably poor. Everything failed him, had always failed him: whatever + he put his hand to went to bits. + </p> + <p> + This was the confession that, reluctantly, yet with a kind of white-lipped + bravado, he flung at Betton in answer to the latter’s tentative suggestion + that, really, the letter-answering job wasn’t worth bothering him with—a + thing that any type-writer could do. + </p> + <p> + “If you mean you’re paying me more than it’s worth, I’ll take less,” Vyse + rushed out after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear fellow—” Betton protested, flushing. + </p> + <p> + “What <i>do</i> you mean, then? Don’t I answer the letters as you want + them answered?” + </p> + <p> + Betton anxiously stroked his silken ankle. “You do it beautifully, too + beautifully. I mean what I say: the work’s not worthy of you. I’m ashamed + to ask you—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang shame,” Vyse interrupted. “Do you know why I said I shouldn’t + have time to dress to-night? Because I haven’t any evening clothes. As a + matter of fact, I haven’t much but the clothes I stand in. One thing after + another’s gone against me; all the infernal ingenuities of chance. It’s + been a slow Chinese torture, the kind where they keep you alive to have + more fun killing you.” He straightened himself with a sudden blush. “Oh, + I’m all right now—getting on capitally. But I’m still walking rather + a narrow plank; and if I do your work well enough—if I take your + idea—” + </p> + <p> + Betton stared into the fire without answering. He knew next to nothing of + Vyse’s history, of the mischance or mis-management that had brought him, + with his brains and his training, to so unlikely a pass. But a pang of + compunction shot through him as he remembered the manuscript of “The + Lifted Lamp” gathering dust on his table for half a year. + </p> + <p> + “Not that it would have made any earthly difference—since he’s + evidently never been able to get the thing published.” But this reflection + did not wholly console Betton, and he found it impossible, at the moment, + to tell Vyse that his services were not needed. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + DURING the ensuing weeks the letters grew fewer and fewer, and Betton + foresaw the approach of the fatal day when his secretary, in common + decency, would have to say: “I can’t draw my pay for doing nothing.” + </p> + <p> + What a triumph for Vyse! + </p> + <p> + The thought was intolerable, and Betton cursed his weakness in not having + dismissed the fellow before such a possibility arose. + </p> + <p> + “If I tell him I’ve no use for him now, he’ll see straight through it, of + course;—and then, hang it, he looks so poor!” + </p> + <p> + This consideration came after the other, but Betton, in rearranging them, + put it first, because he thought it looked better there, and also because + he immediately perceived its value in justifying a plan of action that was + beginning to take shape in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil, I’m damned if I don’t do it for him!” said Betton, sitting + down at his desk. + </p> + <p> + Three or four days later he sent word to Vyse that he didn’t care to go + over the letters any longer, and that they would once more be carried + directly to the library. + </p> + <p> + The next time he lounged in, on his way to his morning ride, he found his + secretary’s pen in active motion. + </p> + <p> + “A lot to-day,” Vyse told him cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + His tone irritated Betton: it had the inane optimism of the physician + reassuring a discouraged patient. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord—I thought it was almost over,” groaned the novelist. + </p> + <p> + “No: they’ve just got their second wind. Here’s one from a Chicago + publisher—never heard the name—offering you thirty per cent. + on your next novel, with an advance royalty of twenty thousand. And here’s + a chap who wants to syndicate it for a bunch of Sunday papers: big offer, + too. That’s from Ann Arbor. And this—oh, <i>this</i> one’s funny!” + </p> + <p> + He held up a small scented sheet to Betton, who made no movement to + receive it. + </p> + <p> + “Funny? Why’s it funny?” he growled. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s from a girl—a lady—and she thinks she’s the only + person who understands ‘Abundance’—has the clue to it. Says she’s + never seen a book so misrepresented by the critics—” + </p> + <p> + “Ha, ha! That <i>is</i> good!” Betton agreed with too loud a laugh. + </p> + <p> + “This one’s from a lady, too—married woman. Says she’s + misunderstood, and would like to correspond.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord,” said Betton.—“What are you looking at?” he added + sharply, as Vyse continued to bend his blinking gaze on the letters. + </p> + <p> + “I was only thinking I’d never seen such short letters from women. Neither + one fills the first page.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what of that?” queried Betton. + </p> + <p> + Vyse reflected. “I’d like to meet a woman like that,” he said wearily; and + Betton laughed again. + </p> + <p> + The letters continued to pour in, and there could be no farther question + of dispensing with Vyse’s services. But one morning, about three weeks + later, the latter asked for a word with his employer, and Betton, on + entering the library, found his secretary with half a dozen documents + spread out before him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s up?” queried Betton, with a touch of impatience. + </p> + <p> + Vyse was attentively scanning the outspread letters. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know: can’t make out.” His voice had a faint note of + embarrassment. “Do you remember a note signed <i>Hester Macklin</i> that + came three or four weeks ago? Married—misunderstood—Western + army post—wanted to correspond?” + </p> + <p> + Betton seemed to grope among his memories; then he assented vaguely. + </p> + <p> + “A short note,” Vyse went on: “the whole story in half a page. The + shortness struck me so much—and the directness—that I wrote + her: wrote in my own name, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “In your own name?” Betton stood amazed; then he broke into a groan. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, Vyse—you’re incorrigible!” + </p> + <p> + The secretary pulled his thin moustache with a nervous laugh. “If you mean + I’m an ass, you’re right. Look here.” He held out an envelope stamped with + the words: “Dead Letter Office.” “My effusion has come back to me marked + ‘unknown.’ There’s no such person at the address she gave you.” + </p> + <p> + Betton seemed for an instant to share his secretary’s embarrassment; then + he burst into an uproarious laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Hoax, was it? That’s rough on you, old fellow!” + </p> + <p> + Vyse shrugged his shoulders. “Yes; but the interesting question is—why + on earth didn’t <i>your</i> answer come back, too?” + </p> + <p> + “My answer?” + </p> + <p> + “The official one—the one I wrote in your name. If she’s unknown, + what’s become of <i>that?</i>” + </p> + <p> + Betton stared at him with eyes wrinkled by amusement. “Perhaps she hadn’t + disappeared then.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse disregarded the conjecture. “Look here—I believe <i>all</i> + these letters are a hoax,” he broke out. + </p> + <p> + Betton stared at him with a face that turned slowly red and angry. “What + are you talking about? All what letters?” + </p> + <p> + “These I’ve spread out here: I’ve been comparing them. And I believe + they’re all written by one man.” + </p> + <p> + Burton’s redness turned to a purple that made his ruddy moustache seem + pale. “What the devil are you driving at?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Well, just look at it,” Vyse persisted, still bent above the letters. + “I’ve been studying them carefully—those that have come within the + last two or three weeks—and there’s a queer likeness in the writing + of some of them. The <i>g</i>’s are all like corkscrews. And the same + phrases keep recurring—the Ann Arbor news-agent uses the same + expressions as the President of the Girls’ College at Euphorbia, Maine.” + </p> + <p> + Betton laughed. “Aren’t the critics always groaning over the shrinkage of + the national vocabulary? Of course we all use the same expressions.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Vyse obstinately. “But how about using the same <i>g</i>’s?” + </p> + <p> + Betton laughed again, but Vyse continued without heeding him: “Look here, + Betton—could Strett have written them?” + </p> + <p> + “Strett?” Betton roared. “<i> Strett?</i>” He threw himself into his + arm-chair to shake out his mirth at greater ease. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you why. Strett always posts all my answers. He comes in for + them every day before I leave. He posted the letter to the misunderstood + party—the letter from <i>you</i> that the Dead Letter Office didn’t + return. <i>I</i> posted my own letter to her; and that came back.” + </p> + <p> + A measurable silence followed the emission of this ingenious conjecture; + then Betton observed with gentle irony: “Extremely neat. And of course + it’s no business of yours to supply any valid motive for this remarkable + attention on my valet’s part.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse cast on him a slanting glance. + </p> + <p> + “If you’ve found that human conduct’s generally based on valid motives—!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, outside of mad-houses it’s supposed to be not quite incalculable.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse had an odd smile under his thin moustache. “Every house is a + mad-house at some time or another.” + </p> + <p> + Betton rose with a careless shake of the shoulders. “This one will be if I + talk to you much longer,” he said, moving away with a laugh. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + BETTON did not for a moment believe that Vyse suspected the valet of + having written the letters. + </p> + <p> + “Why the devil don’t he say out what he thinks? He was always a tortuous + chap,” he grumbled inwardly. + </p> + <p> + The sense of being held under the lens of Vyse’s mute scrutiny became more + and more exasperating. Betton, by this time, had squared his shoulders to + the fact that “Abundance” was a failure with the public: a confessed and + glaring failure. The press told him so openly, and his friends emphasized + the fact by their circumlocutions and evasions. Betton minded it a good + deal more than he had expected, but not nearly as much as he minded Vyse’s + knowing it. That remained the central twinge in his diffused discomfort. + And the problem of getting rid of his secretary once more engaged him. + </p> + <p> + He had set aside all sentimental pretexts for retaining Vyse; but a + practical argument replaced them. “If I ship him now he’ll think it’s + because I’m ashamed to have him see that I’m not getting any more + letters.” + </p> + <p> + For the letters had ceased again, almost abruptly, since Vyse had hazarded + the conjecture that they were the product of Strett’s devoted pen. Betton + had reverted only once to the subject—to ask ironically, a day or + two later: “Is Strett writing to me as much as ever?”—and, on Vyse’s + replying with a neutral head-shake, had added with a laugh: “If you + suspect <i>him</i> you might as well think I write the letters myself!” + </p> + <p> + “There are very few to-day,” said Vyse, with his irritating evasiveness; + and Betton rejoined squarely: “Oh, they’ll stop soon. The book’s a + failure.” + </p> + <p> + A few mornings later he felt a rush of shame at his own tergiversations, + and stalked into the library with Vyse’s sentence on his tongue. + </p> + <p> + Vyse started back with one of his anaemic blushes. “I was hoping you’d be + in. I wanted to speak to you. There’ve been no letters the last day or + two,” he explained. + </p> + <p> + Betton drew a quick breath of relief. The man had some sense of decency, + then! He meant to dismiss himself. + </p> + <p> + “I told you so, my dear fellow; the book’s a flat failure,” he said, + almost gaily. + </p> + <p> + Vyse made a deprecating gesture. “I don’t know that I should regard the + absence of letters as the ultimate test. But I wanted to ask you if there + isn’t something else I can do on the days when there’s no writing.” He + turned his glance toward the book-lined walls. “Don’t you want your + library catalogued?” he asked insidiously. + </p> + <p> + “Had it done last year, thanks.” Betton glanced away from Vyse’s face. It + was piteous, how he needed the job! + </p> + <p> + “I see. ... Of course this is just a temporary lull in the letters. + They’ll begin again—as they did before. The people who read + carefully read slowly—you haven’t heard yet what <i>they</i> think.” + </p> + <p> + Betton felt a rush of puerile joy at the suggestion. Actually, he hadn’t + thought of that! + </p> + <p> + “There <i>was</i> a big second crop after ‘Diadems and Faggots,’” he mused + aloud. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Wait and see,” said Vyse confidently. + </p> + <p> + The letters in fact began again—more gradually and in smaller + numbers. But their quality was different, as Vyse had predicted. And in + two cases Betton’s correspondents, not content to compress into one rapid + communication the thoughts inspired by his work, developed their views in + a succession of really remarkable letters. One of the writers was a + professor in a Western college; the other was a girl in Florida. In their + language, their point of view, their reasons for appreciating “Abundance,” + they differed almost diametrically; but this only made the unanimity of + their approval the more striking. The rush of correspondence evoked by + Betton’s earlier novel had produced nothing so personal, so exceptional as + these communications. He had gulped the praise of “Diadems and Faggots” as + undiscriminatingly as it was offered; now he knew for the first time the + subtler pleasures of the palate. He tried to feign indifference, even to + himself; and to Vyse he made no sign. But gradually he felt a desire to + know what his secretary thought of the letters, and, above all, what he + was saying in reply to them. And he resented acutely the possibility of + Vyse’s starting one of his clandestine correspondences with the girl in + Florida. Vyse’s notorious lack of delicacy had never been more vividly + present to Betton’s imagination; and he made up his mind to answer the + letters himself. + </p> + <p> + He would keep Vyse on, of course: there were other communications that the + secretary could attend to. And, if necessary, Betton would invent an + occupation: he cursed his stupidity in having betrayed the fact that his + books were already catalogued. + </p> + <p> + Vyse showed no surprise when Betton announced his intention of dealing + personally with the two correspondents who showed so flattering a + reluctance to take their leave. But Betton immediately read a criticism in + his lack of comment, and put forth, on a note of challenge: “After all, + one must be decent!” + </p> + <p> + Vyse looked at him with an evanescent smile. “You’ll have to explain that + you didn’t write the first answers.” + </p> + <p> + Betton halted. “Well—I—I more or less dictated them, didn’t + I?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, virtually, they’re yours, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “You think I can put it that way?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” The secretary absently drew an arabesque on the blotting-pad. + “Of course they’ll keep it up longer if you write yourself,” he suggested. + </p> + <p> + Betton blushed, but faced the issue. “Hang it all, I sha’n’t be sorry. + They interest me. They’re remarkable letters.” And Vyse, without + observation, returned to his writings. + </p> + <p> + The spring, that year, was delicious to Betton. His college professor + continued to address him tersely but cogently at fixed intervals, and + twice a week eight serried pages came from Florida. There were other + letters, too; he had the solace of feeling that at last “Abundance” was + making its way, was reaching the people who, as Vyse said, read slowly + because they read intelligently. But welcome as were all these proofs of + his restored authority they were but the background of his happiness. His + life revolved for the moment about the personality of his two chief + correspondents. The professor’s letters satisfied his craving for + intellectual recognition, and the satisfaction he felt in them proved how + completely he had lost faith in himself. He blushed to think that his + opinion of his work had been swayed by the shallow judgments of a public + whose taste he despised. Was it possible that he had allowed himself to + think less well of “Abundance” because it was not to the taste of the + average novel-reader? Such false humility was less excusable than the + crudest appetite for praise: it was ridiculous to try to do conscientious + work if one’s self-esteem were at the mercy of popular judgments. All this + the professor’s letters delicately and indirectly conveyed to Betton, with + the result that the author of “Abundance” began to recognize in it the + ripest flower of his genius. + </p> + <p> + But if the professor understood his book, the girl in Florida understood + <i>him;</i> and Betton was fully alive to the superior qualities of + discernment which this process implied. For his lovely correspondent his + novel was but the starting-point, the pretext of her discourse: he himself + was her real object, and he had the delicious sense, as their exchange of + thoughts proceeded, that she was interested in “Abundance” because of its + author, rather than in the author because of his book. Of course she laid + stress on the fact that his ideas were the object of her contemplation; + but Betton’s agreeable person had permitted him some insight into the + incorrigible subjectiveness of female judgments, and he was pleasantly + aware, from the lady’s tone, that she guessed him to be neither old nor + ridiculous. And suddenly he wrote to ask if he might see her. ... + </p> + <p> + The answer was long in coming. Betton fumed at the delay, watched, + wondered, fretted; then he received the one word “Impossible.” + </p> + <p> + He wrote back more urgently, and awaited the reply with increasing + eagerness. A certain shyness had kept him from once more modifying the + instructions regarding his mail, and Strett still carried the letters + directly to Vyse. The hour when he knew they were passing under the + latter’s eyes was now becoming intolerable to Betton, and it was a + profound relief when the secretary, suddenly advised of his father’s + illness, asked permission to absent himself for a fortnight. + </p> + <p> + Vyse departed just after Betton had despatched to Florida his second + missive of entreaty, and for ten days he tasted the furtive joy of a first + perusal of his letters. The answer from Florida was not among them; but + Betton said to himself “She’s thinking it over,” and delay, in that light, + seemed favourable. So charming, in fact, was this phase of sentimental + suspense that he felt a start of resentment when a telegram apprised him + one morning that Vyse would return to his post that day. + </p> + <p> + Betton had slept later than usual, and, springing out of bed with the + telegram in his hand, he learned from the clock that his secretary was due + in half an hour. He reflected that the morning’s mail must long since be + in; and, too impatient to wait for its appearance with his breakfast-tray, + he threw on a dressing-gown and went to the library. There lay the + letters, half a dozen of them: but his eye flew to one envelope, and as he + tore it open a warm wave rocked his heart. + </p> + <p> + The letter was dated a few days after its writer must have received his + own: it had all the qualities of grace and insight to which his unknown + friend had accustomed him, but it contained no allusion, however indirect, + to the special purport of his appeal. Even a vanity less ingenious than + Betton’s might have read in the lady’s silence one of the most familiar + motions of consent; but the smile provoked by this inference faded as he + turned to his other letters. For the uppermost bore the superscription + “Dead Letter Office,” and the document that fell from it was his own last + letter from Florida. + </p> + <p> + Betton studied the ironic “Unknown” for an appreciable space of time; then + he broke into a laugh. He had suddenly recalled Vyse’s similar experience + with “Hester Macklin,” and the light he was able to throw on that obscure + episode was searching enough to penetrate all the dark corners of his own + adventure. He felt a rush of heat to the ears; catching sight of himself + in the glass, he saw a red ridiculous congested countenance, and dropped + into a chair to hide it between flushed fists. He was roused by the + opening of the door, and Vyse appeared on the threshold. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I beg pardon—you’re ill?” said the secretary. + </p> + <p> + Betton’s only answer was an inarticulate murmur of derision; then he + pushed forward the letter with the imprint of the Dead Letter Office. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that,” he jeered. + </p> + <p> + Vyse peered at the envelope, and turned it over slowly in his hands. + Betton’s eyes, fixed on him, saw his face decompose like a substance + touched by some powerful acid. He clung to the envelope as if to gain + time. + </p> + <p> + “It’s from the young lady you’ve been writing to at Swazee Springs?” he + asked at length. + </p> + <p> + “It’s from the young lady I’ve been writing to at Swazee Springs.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I suppose she’s gone away,” continued Vyse, rebuilding his + countenance rapidly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and in a community numbering perhaps a hundred and seventy-five + souls, including the dogs and chickens, the local post-office is so + ignorant of her movements that my letter has to be sent to the Dead Letter + Office.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse meditated on this; then he laughed in turn. “After all, the same + thing happened to me—with ‘Hester Macklin,’ I mean,” he recalled + sheepishly. + </p> + <p> + “Just so,” said Betton, bringing down his clenched fist on the table. “<i> + Just so</i>,” he repeated, in italics. + </p> + <p> + He caught his secretary’s glance, and held it with his own for a moment. + Then he dropped it as, in pity, one releases something scared and + squirming. + </p> + <p> + “The very day my letter was returned from Swazee Springs she wrote me this + from there,” he said, holding up the last Florida missive. + </p> + <p> + “Ha! That’s funny,” said Vyse, with a damp forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s funny; it’s funny,” said Betton. He leaned back, his hands in + his pockets, staring up at the ceiling, and noticing a crack in the + cornice. Vyse, at the corner of the writing-table, waited. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I get to work?” he began, after a silence measurable by minutes. + Betton’s gaze descended from the cornice. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got your seat, haven’t I?” he said, rising and moving away from the + table. + </p> + <p> + Vyse, with a quick gleam of relief, slipped into the vacant chair, and + began to stir about vaguely among the papers. + </p> + <p> + “How’s your father?” Betton asked from the hearth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, better—better, thank you. He’ll pull out of it.” + </p> + <p> + “But you had a sharp scare for a day or two?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—it was touch and go when I got there.” + </p> + <p> + Another pause, while Vyse began to classify the letters. + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose,” Betton continued in a steady tone, “your anxiety made you + forget your usual precautions—whatever they were—about this + Florida correspondence, and before you’d had time to prevent it the Swazee + post-office blundered?” + </p> + <p> + Vyse lifted his head with a quick movement. “What do you mean?” he asked, + pushing his chair back. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that you saw I couldn’t live without flattery, and that you’ve + been ladling it out to me to earn your keep.” + </p> + <p> + Vyse sat motionless and shrunken, digging the blotting-pad with his pen. + “What on earth are you driving at?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Though why the deuce,” Betton continued in the same steady tone, “you + should need to do this kind of work when you’ve got such faculties at your + service—those letters were magnificent, my dear fellow! Why in the + world don’t you write novels, instead of writing to other people about + them?” + </p> + <p> + Vyse straightened himself with an effort. “What are you talking about, + Betton? Why the devil do you think <i>I</i> wrote those letters?” + </p> + <p> + Betton held back his answer, with a brooding face. “Because I wrote + ‘Hester Macklin’s’—to myself!” + </p> + <p> + Vyse sat stock-still, without the least outcry of wonder. “Well—?” + he finally said, in a low tone. + </p> + <p> + “And because you found me out (you see, you can’t even feign surprise!)—because + you saw through it at a glance, knew at once that the letters were faked. + And when you’d foolishly put me on my guard by pointing out to me that + they were a clumsy forgery, and had then suddenly guessed that <i>I</i> + was the forger, you drew the natural inference that I had to have popular + approval, or at least had to make <i>you</i> think I had it. You saw that, + to me, the worst thing about the failure of the book was having <i>you</i> + know it was a failure. And so you applied your superior—your + immeasurably superior—abilities to carrying on the humbug, and + deceiving me as I’d tried to deceive you. And you did it so successfully + that I don’t see why the devil you haven’t made your fortune writing + novels!” + </p> + <p> + Vyse remained silent, his head slightly bent under the mounting tide of + Betton’s denunciation. + </p> + <p> + “The way you differentiated your people—characterised them—avoided + my stupid mistake of making the women’s letters too short and logical, of + letting my different correspondents use the same expressions: the amount + of ingenuity and art you wasted on it! I swear, Vyse, I’m sorry that + damned post-office went back on you,” Betton went on, piling up the waves + of his irony. + </p> + <p> + But at this height they suddenly paused, drew back on themselves, and + began to recede before the spectacle of Vyse’s pale distress. Something + warm and emotional in Betton’s nature—a lurking kindliness, perhaps, + for any one who tried to soothe and smooth his writhing ego—softened + his eye as it rested on the drooping figure of his secretary. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Vyse—I’m not sorry—not altogether sorry this has + happened!” He moved slowly across the room, and laid a friendly palm on + Vyse’s shoulder. “In a queer illogical way it evens up things, as it were. + I did you a shabby turn once, years ago—oh, out of sheer + carelessness, of course—about that novel of yours I promised to give + to Apthorn. If I <i>had</i> given it, it might not have made any + difference—I’m not sure it wasn’t too good for success—but + anyhow, I dare say you thought my personal influence might have helped + you, might at least have got you a quicker hearing. Perhaps you thought it + was because the thing <i>was</i> so good that I kept it back, that I felt + some nasty jealousy of your superiority. I swear to you it wasn’t that—I + clean forgot it. And one day when I came home it was gone: you’d sent and + taken it. And I’ve always thought since you might have owed me a grudge—and + not unjustly; so this ... this business of the letters ... the sympathy + you’ve shown ... for I suppose it <i>is</i> sympathy ... ?” + </p> + <p> + Vyse startled and checked him by a queer crackling laugh. + </p> + <p> + “It’s <i>not</i> sympathy?” broke in Betton, the moisture drying out of + his voice. He withdrew his hand from Vyse’s shoulder. “What is it, then? + The joy of uncovering my nakedness? An eye for an eye? Is it <i>that?</i>” + </p> + <p> + Vyse rose from his seat, and with a mechanical gesture swept into a heap + all the letters he had sorted. + </p> + <p> + “I’m stone broke, and wanted to keep my job—that’s what it is,” he + said wearily ... + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LEGEND + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + ARTHUR BERNALD could never afterward recall just when the first conjecture + flashed on him: oddly enough, there was no record of it in the agitated + jottings of his diary. But, as it seemed to him in retrospect, he had + always felt that the queer man at the Wades’ must be John Pellerin, if + only for the negative reason that he couldn’t imaginably be any one else. + It was impossible, in the confused pattern of the century’s intellectual + life, to fit the stranger in anywhere, save in the big gap which, some + five and twenty years earlier, had been left by Pellerin’s unaccountable + disappearance; and conversely, such a man as the Wades’ visitor couldn’t + have lived for sixty years without filling, somewhere in space, a nearly + equivalent void. + </p> + <p> + At all events, it was certainly not to Doctor Wade or to his mother that + Bernald owed the hint: the good unconscious Wades, one of whose chief + charms in the young man’s eyes was that they remained so robustly + untainted by Pellerinism, in spite of the fact that Doctor Wade’s younger + brother, Howland, was among its most impudently flourishing high-priests. + </p> + <p> + The incident had begun by Bernald’s running across Doctor Robert Wade one + hot summer night at the University Club, and by Wade’s saying, in the tone + of unprofessional laxity which the shadowy stillness of the place invited: + “I got hold of a queer fish at St. Martin’s the other day—case of + heat-prostration picked up in Central Park. When we’d patched him up I + found he had nowhere to go, and not a dollar in his pocket, and I sent him + down to our place at Portchester to re-build.” + </p> + <p> + The opening roused his hearer’s attention. Bob Wade had an odd + unformulated sense of values that Bernald had learned to trust. + </p> + <p> + “What sort of chap? Young or old?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, every age—full of years, and yet with a lot left. He called + himself sixty on the books.” + </p> + <p> + “Sixty’s a good age for some kinds of living. And age is of course purely + subjective. How has he used his sixty years?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—part of them in educating himself, apparently. He’s a scholar—humanities, + languages, and so forth.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—decayed gentleman,” Bernald murmured, disappointed. + </p> + <p> + “Decayed? Not much!” cried the doctor with his accustomed literalness. “I + only mentioned that side of Winterman—his name’s Winterman—because + it was the side my mother noticed first. I suppose women generally do. But + it’s only a part—a small part. The man’s the big thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Really big?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—there again. ... When I took him down to the country, looking + rather like a tramp from a ‘Shelter,’ with an untrimmed beard, and a suit + of reach-me-downs he’d slept round the Park in for a week, I felt sure my + mother’d carry the silver up to her room, and send for the gardener’s dog + to sleep in the hall the first night. But she didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. ‘Women and children love him.’ Oh, Wade!” Bernald groaned. + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it! You’re out again. We don’t love him, either of us. But + we <i>feel</i> him—the air’s charged with him. You’ll see.” + </p> + <p> + And Bernald agreed that he <i>would</i> see, the following Sunday. Wade’s + inarticulate attempts to characterize the stranger had struck his friend. + The human revelation had for Bernald a poignant and ever-renewed interest, + which his trade, as the dramatic critic of a daily paper, had hitherto + failed to discourage. And he knew that Bob Wade, simple and undefiled by + literature—Bernald’s specific affliction—had a free and + personal way of judging men, and the diviner’s knack of reaching their + hidden springs. During the days that followed, the young doctor gave + Bernald farther details about John Winterman: details not of fact—for + in that respect his visitor’s reticence was baffling—but of + impression. It appeared that Winterman, while lying insensible in the + Park, had been robbed of the few dollars he possessed; and on leaving the + hospital, still weak and half-blind, he had quite simply and + unprotestingly accepted the Wades’ offer to give him shelter till such + time as he should be strong enough to go to work. + </p> + <p> + “But what’s his work?” Bernald interjected. “Hasn’t he at least told you + that?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, writing. Some kind of writing.” Doctor Bob always became vague and + clumsy when he approached the confines of literature. “He means to take it + up again as soon as his eyes get right.” + </p> + <p> + Bernald groaned. “Oh, Lord—that finishes him; and <i>me!</i> He’s + looking for a publisher, of course—he wants a ‘favourable notice.’ I + won’t come!” + </p> + <p> + “He hasn’t written a line for twenty years.” + </p> + <p> + “A line of <i>what?</i> What kind of literature can one keep corked up for + twenty years?” + </p> + <p> + Wade surprised him. “The real kind, I should say. But I don’t know + Winterman’s line,” the doctor added. “He speaks of the things he used to + write merely as ‘stuff that wouldn’t sell.’ He has a wonderfully + confidential way of <i>not</i> telling one things. But he says he’ll have + to do something for his living as soon as his eyes are patched up, and + that writing is the only trade he knows. The queer thing is that he seems + pretty sure of selling <i>now</i>. He even talked of buying the bungalow + of us, with an acre or two about it.” + </p> + <p> + “The bungalow? What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “The studio down by the shore that we built for Howland when he thought he + meant to paint.” (Howland Wade, as Bernald knew, had experienced various + “calls.”) “Since he’s taken to writing nobody’s been near it. I offered it + to Winterman, and he camps there—cooks his meals, does his own + house-keeping, and never comes up to the house except in the evenings, + when he joins us on the verandah, in the dark, and smokes while my mother + knits.” + </p> + <p> + “A discreet visitor, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “More than he need be. My mother actually wanted him to stay on in the + house—in her pink chintz room. Think of it! But he says houses + smother him. I take it he’s lived for years in the open.” + </p> + <p> + “In the open where?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t make out, except that it was somewhere in the East. ‘East of + everything—beyond the day-spring. In places not on the map.’ That’s + the way he put it; and when I said: ‘You’ve been an explorer, then?’ he + smiled in his beard, and answered: ‘Yes; that’s it—an explorer.’ Yet + he doesn’t strike me as a man of action: hasn’t the hands or the eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “What sort of hands and eyes has he?” + </p> + <p> + Wade reflected. His range of observation was not large, but within its + limits it was exact and could give an account of itself. + </p> + <p> + “He’s worked a lot with his hands, but that’s not what they were made for. + I should say they were extraordinarily delicate conductors of sensation. + And his eye—his eye too. He hasn’t used it to dominate people: he + didn’t care to. He simply looks through ‘em all like windows. Makes me + feel like the fellows who think they’re made of glass. The mitigating + circumstance is that he seems to see such a glorious landscape through + me.” Wade grinned at the thought of serving such a purpose. + </p> + <p> + “I see. I’ll come on Sunday and be looked through!” Bernald cried. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + BERNALD came on two successive Sundays; and the second time he lingered + till the Tuesday. + </p> + <p> + “Here he comes!” Wade had said, the first evening, as the two young men, + with Wade’s mother sat in the sultry dusk, with the Virginian creeper + drawing, between the verandah arches, its black arabesques against a + moon-lined sky. + </p> + <p> + In the darkness Bernald heard a step on the gravel, and saw the red flit + of a cigar through the shrubs. Then a loosely-moving figure obscured the + patch of sky between the creepers, and the red spark became the centre of + a dim bearded face, in which Bernald discerned only a broad white gleam of + forehead. + </p> + <p> + It was the young man’s subsequent impression that Winterman had not spoken + much that first evening; at any rate, Bernald himself remembered chiefly + what the Wades had said. And this was the more curious because he had come + for the purpose of studying their visitor, and because there was nothing + to divert him from that purpose in Wade’s halting communications or his + mother’s artless comments. He reflected afterward that there must have + been a mysteriously fertilizing quality in the stranger’s silence: it had + brooded over their talk like a large moist cloud above a dry country. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wade, apparently apprehensive lest her son should have given Bernald + an exaggerated notion of their visitor’s importance, had hastened to + qualify it before the latter appeared. + </p> + <p> + “He’s not what you or Howland would call intellectual—“(Bernald + writhed at the coupling of the names)—“not in the least <i>literary;</i> + though he told Bob he used to write. I don’t think, though, it could have + been what Howland would call writing.” Mrs. Wade always mentioned her + younger son with a reverential drop of the voice. She viewed literature + much as she did Providence, as an inscrutably mystery; and she spoke of + Howland as a dedicated being, set apart to perform secret rites within the + veil of the sanctuary. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t say he had a quick mind,” she continued, reverting + apologetically to Winterman. “Sometimes he hardly seems to follow what + we’re saying. But he’s got such sound ideas—when he does speak he’s + never silly. And clever people sometimes <i>are</i>, don’t you think so?” + Bernald groaned an unqualified assent. “And he’s so capable. The other day + something went wrong with the kitchen range, just as I was expecting some + friends of Bob’s for dinner; and do you know, when Mr. Winterman heard we + were in trouble, he came and took a look, and knew at once what to do? I + told him it was a dreadful pity he wasn’t married!” + </p> + <p> + Close on midnight, when the session on the verandah ended, and the two + young men were strolling down to the bungalow at Winterman’s side, + Bernald’s mind reverted to the image of the fertilizing cloud. There was + something brooding, pregnant, in the silent presence beside him: he had, + in place of any circumscribing impression of the individual, a large + hovering sense of manifold latent meanings. And he felt a distinct thrill + of relief when, half-way down the lawn, Doctor Bob was checked by a voice + that called him back to the telephone. + </p> + <p> + “Now I’ll be with him alone!” thought Bernald, with a throb like a + lover’s. + </p> + <p> + In the low-ceilinged bungalow Winterman had to grope for the lamp on his + desk, and as its light struck up into his face Bernald’s sense of the + rareness of his opportunity increased. He couldn’t have said why, for the + face, with its ridged brows, its shabby greyish beard and blunt Socratic + nose, made no direct appeal to the eye. It seemed rather like a stage on + which remarkable things might be enacted, like some shaggy moorland + landscape dependent for form and expression on the clouds rolling over it, + and the bursts of light between; and one of these flashed out in the smile + with which Winterman, as if in answer to his companion’s thought, said + simply, as he turned to fill his pipe: “Now we’ll talk.” + </p> + <p> + So he’d known all along that they hadn’t yet—and had guessed that, + with Bernald, one might! + </p> + <p> + The young man’s glow of pleasure was so intense that it left him for a + moment unable to meet the challenge; and in that moment he felt the brush + of something winged and summoning. His spirit rose to it with a rush; but + just as he felt himself poised between the ascending pinions, the door + opened and Bob Wade plunged in. + </p> + <p> + “Too bad! I’m so sorry! It was from Howland, to say he can’t come + to-morrow after all.” The doctor panted out his news with honest grief. + </p> + <p> + “I tried my best to pull it off for you; and my brother <i>wants</i> to + come—he’s keen to talk to you and see what he can do. But you see + he’s so tremendously in demand. He’ll try for another Sunday later on.” + </p> + <p> + Winterman nodded with a whimsical gesture. “Oh, he’ll find me here. I + shall work my time out slowly.” He pointed to the scattered sheets on the + kitchen table which formed his writing desk. + </p> + <p> + “Not slowly enough to suit us,” Wade answered hospitably. “Only, if + Howland could have come he might have given you a tip or two—put you + on the right track—shown you how to get in touch with the public.” + </p> + <p> + Winterman, his hands in his sagging pockets, lounged against the bare pine + walls, twisting his pipe under his beard. “Does your brother enjoy the + privilege of that contact?” he questioned gravely. + </p> + <p> + Wade stared a little. “Oh, of course Howland’s not what you’d call a <i>popular</i> + writer; he despises that kind of thing. But whatever he says goes with—well, + with the chaps that count; and every one tells me he’s written <i>the</i> + book on Pellerin. You must read it when you get back your eyes.” He + paused, as if to let the name sink in, but Winterman drew at his pipe with + a blank face. “You must have heard of Pellerin, I suppose?” the doctor + continued. “I’ve never read a word of him myself: he’s too big a + proposition for <i>me</i>. But one can’t escape the talk about him. I have + him crammed down my throat even in hospital. The internes read him at the + clinics. He tumbles out of the nurses’ pockets. The patients keep him + under their pillows. Oh, with most of them, of course, it’s just a craze, + like the last new game or puzzle: they don’t understand him in the least. + Howland says that even now, twenty-five years after his death, and with + his books in everybody’s hands, there are not twenty people who really + understand Pellerin; and Howland ought to know, if anybody does. He’s—what’s + their great word?—<i>interpreted</i> him. You must get Howland to + put you through a course of Pellerin.” + </p> + <p> + And as the young men, having taken leave of Winterman, retraced their way + across the lawn, Wade continued to develop the theme of his brother’s + accomplishments. + </p> + <p> + “I wish I <i>could</i> get Howland to take an interest in Winterman: this + is the third Sunday he’s chucked us. Of course he does get bored with + people consulting him about their writings—but I believe if he could + only talk to Winterman he’d see something in him, as we do. And it would + be such a god-send to the poor man to have some one to advise him about + his work. I’m going to make a desperate effort to get Howland here next + Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + It was then that Bernald vowed to himself that he would return the next + Sunday at all costs. He hardly knew whether he was prompted by the impulse + to shield Winterman from Howland Wade’s ineptitude, or by the desire to + see the latter abandon himself to the full shamelessness of its display; + but of one fact he was blissfully assured—and that was of the + existence in Winterman of some quality which would provoke Howland to the + amplest exercise of his fatuity. “How he’ll draw him—how he’ll draw + him!” Bernald chuckled, with a security the more unaccountable that his + one glimpse of Winterman had shown the latter only as a passive subject + for experimentation; and he felt himself avenged in advance for the injury + of Howland Wade’s existence. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + THAT this hope was to be frustrated Bernald learned from Howland Wade’s + own lips, the day before the two young men were to meet at Portchester. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t really, my dear fellow,” the Interpreter lisped, passing a + polished hand over the faded smoothness of his face. “Oh, an authentic + engagement, I assure you: otherwise, to oblige old Bob I’d submit + cheerfully to looking over his foundling’s literature. But I’m pledged + this week to the Pellerin Society of Kenosha: I had a hand in founding it, + and for two years now they’ve been patiently waiting for a word from me—the + <i>Fiat Lux</i>, so to speak. You see it’s a ministry, Bernald—I + assure you, I look upon my calling quite religiously.” + </p> + <p> + As Bernald listened, his disappointment gradually changed to relief. + Howland, on trial, always turned out to be too insufferable, and the + pleasure of watching his antics was invariably lost in the impulse to put + a sanguinary end to them. + </p> + <p> + “If he’d only keep his beastly pink hands off Pellerin,” Bernald groaned, + thinking of the thick manuscript condemned to perpetual incarceration in + his own desk by the publication of Howland’s “definitive” work on the + great man. One couldn’t, <i>after </i>Howland Wade, expose one’s self to + the derision of writing about Pellerin: the eagerness with which Wade’s + book had been devoured proved, not that the public had enough appetite for + another, but simply that, for a stomach so undiscriminating, anything + better than Wade had given it would be too good. And Bernald, in the + confidence that his own work was open to this objection, had stoically + locked it up. Yet if he had resigned his exasperated intelligence to the + fact that Wade’s book existed, and was already passing into the + immortality of perpetual republication, he could not, after repeated + trials, adjust himself to the author’s talk about Pellerin. When Wade + wrote of the great dead he was egregious, but in conversation he was + familiar and fond. It might have been supposed that one of the beauties of + Pellerin’s hidden life and mysterious taking off would have been to guard + him from the fingering of anecdote; but biographers like Howland Wade were + born to rise above such obstacles. He might be vague or inaccurate in + dealing with the few recorded events of his subject’s life; but when he + left fact for conjecture no one had a firmer footing. Whole chapters in + his volume were constructed in the conditional mood and packed with + hypothetical detail; and in talk, by the very law of the process, + hypothesis became affirmation, and he was ready to tell you confidentially + the exact circumstances of Pellerin’s death, and of the “distressing + incident” leading up to it. Bernald himself not only questioned the form + under which this incident was shaping itself before posterity, but the + mere radical fact of its occurrence: he had never been able to discover + any break in the dense cloud enveloping Pellerin’s later life and its + mysterious termination. He had gone away—that was all that any of + them knew: he who had so little, at any time, been with them or of them; + and his going had so slightly stirred the public consciousness that even + the subsequent news of his death, laconically imparted from afar, had + dropped unheeded into the universal scrap-basket, to be long afterward + fished out, with all its details missing, when some enquiring spirit first + became aware, by chance encounter with a two-penny volume in a London + book-stall, not only that such a man as John Pellerin had died, but that + he had ever lived, or written. + </p> + <p> + It need hardly be noted that Howland Wade had not been the pioneer in + question: his had been the wiser part of swelling the chorus when it rose, + and gradually drowning the other voices by his own insistent note. He had + pitched the note so screamingly, and held it so long, that he was now the + accepted authority on Pellerin, not only in the land which had given birth + to his genius but in the Europe which had first acclaimed it; and it was + the central point of pain in Bernald’s sense of the situation that a man + who had so yearned for silence as Pellerin should have his grave piped + over by such a voice as Wade’s. + </p> + <p> + Bernald’s talk with the Interpreter had revived this ache to the momentary + exclusion of other sensations; and he was still sore with it when, the + next afternoon, he arrived at Portchester for his second Sunday with the + Wades. + </p> + <p> + At the station he had the surprise of seeing Winterman’s face on the + platform, and of hearing from him that Doctor Bob had been called away to + assist at an operation in a distant town. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Wade wanted to put you off, but I believe the message came too late; + so she sent me down to break the news to you,” said Winterman, holding out + his hand. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps because they were the first conventional words that Bernald had + heard him speak, the young man was struck by the relief his intonation + gave them. + </p> + <p> + “She wanted to send a carriage,” Winterman added, “but I told her we’d + walk back through the woods.” He looked at Bernald with a sudden kindness + that flushed the young man with pleasure. + </p> + <p> + “Are you strong enough? It’s not too far?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I’m pulling myself together. Getting back to work is the slowest + part of the business: not on account of my eyes—I can use them now, + though not for reading; but some of the links between things are missing. + It’s a kind of broken spectrum ... here, that boy will look after your + bag.” + </p> + <p> + The walk through the woods remained in Bernald’s memory as an enchanted + hour. He used the word literally, as descriptive of the way in which + Winterman’s contact changed the face of things, or perhaps restored them + to their primitive meanings. And the scene they traversed—one of + those little untended woods that still, in America, fringe the tawdry + skirts of civilization—acquired, as a background to Winterman, the + hush of a spot aware of transcendent visitings. Did he talk, or did he + make Bernald talk? The young man never knew. He recalled only a sense of + lightness and liberation, as if the hard walls of individuality had + melted, and he were merged in the poet’s deeper interfusion, yet without + losing the least sharp edge of self. This general impression resolved + itself afterward into the sense of Winterman’s wide elemental range. His + thought encircled things like the horizon at sea. He didn’t, as it + happened, touch on lofty themes—Bernald was gleefully aware that, to + Howland Wade, their talk would hardly have been Talk at all—but + Winterman’s mind, applied to lowly topics, was like a powerful lens that + brought out microscopic delicacies and differences. + </p> + <p> + The lack of Sunday trains kept Doctor Bob for two days on the scene of his + surgical duties, and during those two days Bernald seized every moment of + communion with his friend’s guest. Winterman, as Wade had said, was + reticent as to his personal affairs, or rather as to the practical and + material conditions to which the term is generally applied. But it was + evident that, in Winterman’s case, the usual classification must be + reversed, and that the discussion of ideas carried one much farther into + his intimacy than any specific acquaintance with the incidents of his + life. + </p> + <p> + “That’s exactly what Howland Wade and his tribe have never understood + about Pellerin: that it’s much less important to know how, or even why, he + disapp—” + </p> + <p> + Bernald pulled himself up with a jerk, and turned to look full at his + companion. It was late on the Monday evening, and the two men, after an + hour’s chat on the verandah to the tune of Mrs. Wade’s knitting-needles, + had bidden their hostess good-night and strolled back to the bungalow + together. + </p> + <p> + “Come and have a pipe before you turn in,” Winterman had said; and they + had sat on together till midnight, with the door of the bungalow open on a + heaving moonlit bay, and summer insects bumping against the chimney of the + lamp. Winterman had just bent down to re-fill his pipe from the jar on the + table, and Bernald, jerking about to catch him in the yellow circle of + lamplight, sat speechless, staring at a fact that seemed suddenly to have + substituted itself for Winterman’s face, or rather to have taken on its + features. + </p> + <p> + “No, they never saw that Pellerin’s ideas <i>were</i> Pellerin. ...” He + continued to stare at Winterman. “Just as this man’s ideas are—why, + <i>are</i> Pellerin!” + </p> + <p> + The thought uttered itself in a kind of inner shout, and Bernald started + upright with the violent impact of his conclusion. Again and again in the + last forty-eight hours he had exclaimed to himself: “This is as good as + Pellerin.” Why hadn’t he said till now: “This <i>is</i> Pellerin”? ... + Surprising as the answer was, he had no choice but to take it. He hadn’t + said so simply because Winterman was <i>better than Pellerin</i>—that + there was so much more of him, so to speak. Yes; but—it came to + Bernald in a flash—wouldn’t there by this time have been any amount + more of Pellerin? ... The young man felt actually dizzy with the thought. + That was it—there was the solution of the haunting problem! This man + was Pellerin, and more than Pellerin! It was so fantastic and yet so + unanswerable that he burst into a sudden startled laugh. + </p> + <p> + Winterman, at the same moment, brought his palm down with a sudden crash + on the pile of manuscript covering the desk. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” Bernald gasped. + </p> + <p> + “My match wasn’t out. In another minute the destruction of the library of + Alexandria would have been a trifle compared to what you’d have seen.” + Winterman, with his large deep laugh, shook out the smouldering sheets. + “And I should have been a pensioner on Doctor Bob the Lord knows how much + longer!” + </p> + <p> + Bernald pulled himself together. “You’ve really got going again? The + thing’s actually getting into shape?” + </p> + <p> + “This particular thing <i>is</i> in shape. I drove at it hard all last + week, thinking our friend’s brother would be down on Sunday, and might + look it over.” + </p> + <p> + Bernald had to repress the tendency to another wild laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Howland—you meant to show <i>Howland</i> what you’ve done?” + </p> + <p> + Winterman, looming against the moonlight, slowly turned a dusky shaggy + head toward him. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it a good thing to do?” + </p> + <p> + Bernald wavered, torn between loyalty to his friends and the grotesqueness + of answering in the affirmative. After all, it was none of his business to + furnish Winterman with an estimate of Howland Wade. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you see, you’ve never told me what your line <i>is</i>,” he + answered, temporizing. + </p> + <p> + “No, because nobody’s ever told <i>me</i>. It’s exactly what I want to + find out,” said the other genially. + </p> + <p> + “And you expect Wade—?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I gathered from our good Doctor that it’s his trade. Doesn’t he + explain—interpret?” + </p> + <p> + “In his own domain—which is Pellerinism.” + </p> + <p> + Winterman gazed out musingly upon the moon-touched dusk of waters. “And + what <i>is</i> Pellerinism?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Bernald sprang to his feet with a cry. “Ah, I don’t know—but you’re + Pellerin!” + </p> + <p> + They stood for a minute facing each other, among the uncertain swaying + shadows of the room, with the sea breathing through it as something + immense and inarticulate breathed through young Bernald’s thoughts; then + Winterman threw up his arms with a humorous gesture. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t shoot!” he said. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + DAWN found them there, and the risen sun laid its beams on the rough floor + of the bungalow, before either of the men was conscious of the passage of + time. Bernald, vaguely trying to define his own state in retrospect, could + only phrase it: “I floated ... floated. ...” + </p> + <p> + The gist of fact at the core of the extraordinary experience was simply + that John Pellerin, twenty-five years earlier, had voluntarily + disappeared, causing the rumour of his death to be reported to an + inattentive world; and that now he had come back to see what that world + had made of him. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll hardly believe it of me; I hardly believe it of myself; but I went + away in a rage of disappointment, of wounded pride—no, vanity! I + don’t know which cut deepest—the sneers or the silence—but + between them, there wasn’t an inch of me that wasn’t raw. I had just the + one thing in me: the message, the cry, the revelation. But nobody saw and + nobody listened. Nobody wanted what I had to give. I was like a poor devil + of a tramp looking for shelter on a bitter night, in a town with every + door bolted and all the windows dark. And suddenly I felt that the easiest + thing would be to lie down and go to sleep in the snow. Perhaps I’d a + vague notion that if they found me there at daylight, frozen stiff, the + pathetic spectacle might produce a reaction, a feeling of remorse. ... So + I took care to be found! Well, a good many thousand people die every day + on the face of the globe; and I soon discovered that I was simply one of + the thousands; and when I made that discovery I really died—and + stayed dead a year or two. ... When I came to life again I was off on the + under side of the world, in regions unaware of what we know as ‘the + public.’ Have you any notion how it shifts the point of view to wake under + new constellations? I advise any who’s been in love with a woman under + Cassiopeia to go and think about her under the Southern Cross. ... It’s + the only way to tell the pivotal truths from the others. ... I didn’t + believe in my theory any less—there was my triumph and my + vindication! It held out, resisted, measured itself with the stars. But I + didn’t care a snap of my finger whether anybody else believed in it, or + even knew it had been formulated. It escaped out of my books—my poor + still-born books—like Psyche from the chrysalis and soared away into + the blue, and lived there. I knew then how it frees an idea to be ignored; + how apprehension circumscribes and deforms it. ... Once I’d learned that, + it was easy enough to turn to and shift for myself. I was sure now that my + idea would live: the good ones are self-supporting. I had to learn to be + so; and I tried my hand at a number of things ... adventurous, menial, + commercial. ... It’s not a bad thing for a man to have to live his life—and + we nearly all manage to dodge it. Our first round with the Sphinx may + strike something out of us—a book or a picture or a symphony; and + we’re amazed at our feat, and go on letting that first work breed others, + as some animal forms reproduce each other without renewed fertilization. + So there we are, committed to our first guess at the riddle; and our works + look as like as successive impressions of the same plate, each with the + lines a little fainter; whereas they ought to be—if we touch earth + between times—as different from each other as those other creatures—jellyfish, + aren’t they, of a kind?—where successive generations produce new + forms, and it takes a zoologist to see the hidden likeness. ... + </p> + <p> + “Well, I proved my first guess, off there in the wilds, and it lived, and + grew, and took care of itself. And I said ‘Some day it will make itself + heard; but by that time my atoms will have waltzed into a new pattern.’ + Then, in Cashmere one day, I met a fellow in a caravan, with a dog-eared + book in his pocket. He said he never stirred without it—wanted to + know where I’d been, never to have heard of it. It was <i>my guess</i>—in + its twentieth edition! ... The globe spun round at that, and all of a + sudden I was under the old stars. That’s the way it happens when the + ballast of vanity shifts! I’d lived a third of a life out there, + unconscious of human opinion—because I supposed it was unconscious + of <i>me</i>. But now—now! Oh, it was different. I wanted to know + what they said. ... Not exactly that, either: I wanted to know <i>what I’d + made them say</i>. There’s a difference. ... And here I am,” said John + Pellerin, with a pull at his pipe. + </p> + <p> + So much Bernald retained of his companion’s actual narrative; the rest was + swept away under the tide of wonder that rose and submerged him as + Pellerin—at some indefinitely later stage of their talk—picked + up his manuscript and began to read. Bernald sat opposite, his elbows + propped on the table, his eyes fixed on the swaying waters outside, from + which the moon gradually faded, leaving them to make a denser blackness in + the night. As Pellerin read, this density of blackness—which never + for a moment seemed inert or unalive—was attenuated by imperceptible + degrees, till a greyish pallour replaced it; then the pallour breathed and + brightened, and suddenly dawn was on the sea. + </p> + <p> + Something of the same nature went on in the young man’s mind while he + watched and listened. He was conscious of a gradually withdrawing light, + of an interval of obscurity full of the stir of invisible forces, and then + of the victorious flush of day. And as the light rose, he saw how far he + had travelled and what wonders the night had prepared. Pellerin had been + right in saying that his first idea had survived, had borne the test of + time; but he had given his hearer no hint of the extent to which it had + been enlarged and modified, of the fresh implications it now unfolded. In + a brief flash of retrospection Bernald saw the earlier books dwindle and + fall into their place as mere precursors of this fuller revelation; then, + with a leap of helpless rage, he pictured Howland Wade’s pink hands on the + new treasure, and his prophetic feet upon the lecture platform. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + “IT won’t do—oh, he let him down as gently as possible; but it + appears it simply won’t do.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Bob imparted the ineluctable fact to Bernald while the two men, + accidentally meeting at their club a few nights later, sat together over + the dinner they had immediately agreed to consume in company. + </p> + <p> + Bernald had left Portchester the morning after his strange discovery, and + he and Bob Wade had not seen each other since. And now Bernald, moved by + an irresistible instinct of postponement, had waited for his companion to + bring up Winterman’s name, and had even executed several conversational + diversions in the hope of delaying its mention. For how could one talk of + Winterman with the thought of Pellerin swelling one’s breast? + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the very day Howland got back from Kenosha I brought the manuscript + to town, and got him to read it. And yesterday evening I nailed him, and + dragged an answer out of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Then Howland hasn’t seen Winterman yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He said: ‘Before you let him loose on me I’ll go over the stuff, and + see if it’s at all worth while.’” + </p> + <p> + Bernald drew a freer breath. “And he found it wasn’t?” + </p> + <p> + “Between ourselves, he found it was of no account at all. Queer, isn’t it, + when the <i>man</i> ... but of course literature’s another proposition. + Howland says it’s one of the cases where an idea might seem original and + striking if one didn’t happen to be able to trace its descent. And this is + straight out of bosh—by Pellerin. ... Yes: Pellerin. It seems that + everything in the article that isn’t pure nonsense is just Pellerinism. + Howland thinks poor Winterman must have been tremendously struck by + Pellerin’s writings, and have lived too much out of the world to know that + they’ve become the text-books of modern thought. Otherwise, of course, + he’d have taken more trouble to disguise his plagiarisms.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” Bernald mused. “Yet you say there <i>is</i> an original element?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but unluckily it’s no good.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not—conceivably—in any sense a development of Pellerin’s + idea: a logical step farther?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Logical?</i> Howland says it’s twaddle at white heat.” + </p> + <p> + Bernald sat silent, divided between the fierce satisfaction of seeing the + Interpreter rush upon his fate, and the despair of knowing that the state + of mind he represented was indestructible. Then both emotions were swept + away on a wave of pure joy, as he reflected that now, at last, Howland + Wade had given him back John Pellerin. + </p> + <p> + The possession was one he did not mean to part with lightly; and the dread + of its being torn from him constrained him to extraordinary precautions. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve told Winterman, I suppose? How did he take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, unexpectedly, as he does most things. You can never tell which way + he’ll jump. I thought he’d take a high tone, or else laugh it off; but he + did neither. He seemed awfully cast down. I wished myself well out of the + job when I saw how cut up he was.” Bernald thrilled at the words. Pellerin + had shared his pang, then—the “old woe of the world” at the + perpetuity of human dulness! + </p> + <p> + “But what did he say to the charge of plagiarism—if you made it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I told him straight out what Howland said. I thought it fairer. And + his answer to that was the rummest part of all.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” Bernald questioned, with a tremor. + </p> + <p> + “He said: ‘That’s queer, for I’ve never read Pellerin.’” + </p> + <p> + Bernald drew a deep breath of ecstasy. “Well—and I suppose you + believed him?” + </p> + <p> + “I believed him, because I know him. But the public won’t—the + critics won’t. And if it’s a pure coincidence it’s just as bad for him as + if it were a straight steal—isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Bernald sighed his acquiescence. + </p> + <p> + “It bothers me awfully,” Wade continued, knitting his kindly brows, + “because I could see what a blow it was to him. He’s got to earn his + living, and I don’t suppose he knows how to do anything else. At his age + it’s hard to start fresh. I put that to Howland—asked him if there + wasn’t a chance he might do better if he only had a little encouragement. + I can’t help feeling he’s got the essential thing in him. But of course + I’m no judge when it comes to books. And Howland says it would be cruel to + give him any hope.” Wade paused, turned his wineglass about under a + meditative stare, and then leaned across the table toward Bernald. “Look + here—do you know what I’ve proposed to Winterman? That he should + come to town with me to-morrow and go in the evening to hear Howland + lecture to the Uplift Club. They’re to meet at Mrs. Beecher Bain’s, and + Howland is to repeat the lecture that he gave the other day before the + Pellerin Society at Kenosha. It will give Winterman a chance to get some + notion of what Pellerin <i>was:</i> he’ll get it much straighter from + Howland than if he tried to plough through Pellerin’s books. And then + afterward—as if accidentally—I thought I might bring him and + Howland together. If Howland could only see him and hear him talk, there’s + no knowing what might come of it. He couldn’t help feeling the man’s + force, as we do; and he might give him a pointer—tell him what line + to take. Anyhow, it would please Winterman, and take the edge off his + disappointment. I saw that as soon as I proposed it.” + </p> + <p> + “Some one who’s never heard of Pellerin?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Beecher Bain, large, smiling, diffuse, reached out parenthetically + from the incoming throng on her threshold to waylay Bernald with the + question as he was about to move past her in the wake of his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, keep straight on, Mr. Winterman!” she interrupted herself to call + after the latter. “Into the back drawing-room, please! And remember, + you’re to sit next to me—in the corner on the left, close under the + platform.” + </p> + <p> + She renewed her interrogative clutch on Bernald’s sleeve. “Most curious! + Doctor Wade has been telling me all about him—how remarkable you all + think him. And it’s actually true that he’s never heard of Pellerin? Of + course as soon as Doctor Wade told me <i>that</i>, I said ‘Bring him!’ It + will be so extraordinarily interesting to watch the first impression.—Yes, + do follow him, dear Mr. Bernald, and be sure that you and he secure the + seats next to me. Of course Alice Fosdick insists on being with us. She + was wild with excitement when I told her she was to meet some one who’d + never heard of Pellerin!” + </p> + <p> + On the indulgent lips of Mrs. Beecher Bain conjecture speedily passed into + affirmation; and as Bernald’s companion, broad and shaggy in his visibly + new evening clothes, moved down the length of the crowded rooms, he was + already, to the ladies drawing aside their skirts to let him pass, the + interesting Huron of the fable. + </p> + <p> + How far he was aware of the character ascribed to him it was impossible + for Bernald to discover. He was as unconscious as a tree or a cloud, and + his observer had never known any one so alive to human contacts and yet so + secure from them. But the scene was playing such a lively tune on + Bernald’s own sensibilities that for the moment he could not adjust + himself to the probable effect it produced on his companion. The young + man, of late, had made but rare appearances in the group of which Mrs. + Beecher Bain was one of the most indefatigable hostesses, and the Uplift + Club the chief medium of expression. To a critic, obliged by his trade to + cultivate convictions, it was the essence of luxury to leave them at home + in his hours of ease; and Bernald gave his preference to circles in which + less finality of judgment prevailed, and it was consequently less + embarrassing to be caught without an opinion. + </p> + <p> + But in his fresher days he had known the spell of the Uplift Club and the + thrill of moving among the Emancipated; and he felt an odd sense of + rejuvenation as he looked at the rows of faces packed about the embowered + platform from which Howland Wade was presently to hand down the eternal + verities. Many of these countenances belonged to the old days, when the + gospel of Pellerin was unknown, and it required considerable intellectual + courage to avow one’s acceptance of the very doctrines he had since + demolished. The latter moral revolution seemed to have been accepted as + submissively as a change in hair-dressing; and it even struck Bernald + that, in the case of many of the assembled ladies, their convictions were + rather newer than their clothes. + </p> + <p> + One of the most interesting examples of this facility of adaptation was + actually, in the person of Miss Alice Fosdick, brushing his elbow with + exotic amulets, and enveloping him in Arabian odours, as she leaned + forward to murmur her sympathetic sense of the situation. Miss Fosdick, + who was one of the most advanced exponents of Pellerinism, had large eyes + and a plaintive mouth, and Bernald had always fancied that she might have + been pretty if she had not been perpetually explaining things. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know—Isabella Bain told me all about him. (He can’t hear us, + can he?) And I wonder if you realize how remarkably interesting it is that + we should have such an opportunity <i>now</i>—I mean the opportunity + to see the impression of Pellerinism on a perfectly fresh mind. (You must + introduce him as soon as the lecture’s over.) I explained that to Isabella + as soon as she showed me Doctor Wade’s note. Of course you see why, don’t + you?” Bernald made a faint motion of acquiescence, which she instantly + swept aside. “At least I think I can <i>make you see why</i>. (If you’re + sure he can’t hear?) Why, it’s just this—Pellerinism is in danger of + becoming a truism. Oh, it’s an awful thing to say! But then I’m not afraid + of saying awful things! I rather believe it’s my mission. What I mean is, + that we’re getting into the way of taking Pellerin for granted—as we + do the air we breathe. We don’t sufficiently lead our <i>conscious life</i> + in him—we’re gradually letting him become subliminal.” She swayed + closer to the young man, and he saw that she was making a graceful attempt + to throw her explanatory net over his companion, who, evading Mrs. Bain’s + hospitable signal, had cautiously wedged himself into a seat between + Bernald and the wall. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Did</i> you hear what I was saying, Mr. Winterman? (Yes, I know who + you are, of course!) Oh, well, I don’t really mind if you did. I was + talking about you—about you and Pellerin. I was explaining to Mr. + Bernald that what we need at this very minute is a Pellerin revival; and + we need some one like you—to whom his message comes as a wonderful + new interpretation of life—to lead the revival, and rouse us out of + our apathy. ... + </p> + <p> + “You see,” she went on winningly, “it’s not only the big public that needs + it (of course <i>their</i> Pellerin isn’t ours!) It’s we, his disciples, + his interpreters, who discovered him and gave him to the world—we, + the Chosen People, the Custodians of the Sacred Books, as Howland Wade + calls us—it’s <i>we</i>, who are in perpetual danger of sinking back + into the old stagnant ideals, and practising the Seven Deadly Virtues; + it’s <i>we</i> who need to count our mercies, and realize anew what he’s + done for us, and what we ought to do for him! And it’s for that reason + that I urged Mr. Wade to speak here, in the very inner sanctuary of + Pellerinism, exactly as he would speak to the uninitiated—to repeat, + simply, his Kenosha lecture, ‘What Pellerinism means’; and we ought all, I + think, to listen to him with the hearts of little children—just as + <i>you</i> will, Mr. Winterman—as if he were telling us new things, + and we—” + </p> + <p> + “Alice, <i>dear</i>—” Mrs. Bain murmured with a deprecating gesture; + and Howland Wade, emerging between the palms, took the centre of the + platform. + </p> + <p> + A pang of commiseration shot through Bernald as he saw him there, so + innocent and so exposed. His plump pulpy body, which made his evening + dress fall into intimate and wrapper-like folds, was like a wide surface + spread to the shafts of irony; and the mild ripples of his voice seemed to + enlarge the vulnerable area as he leaned forward, poised on confidential + finger-tips, to say persuasively: “Let me try to tell you what Pellerinism + means.” + </p> + <p> + Bernald moved restlessly in his seat. He had the obscure sense of being a + party to something not wholly honourable. He ought not to have come; he + ought not to have let his companion come. Yet how could he have done + otherwise? John Pellerin’s secret was his own. As long as he chose to + remain John Winterman it was no one’s business to gainsay him; and + Bernald’s scruples were really justifiable only in respect of his own + presence on the scene. But even in this connection he ceased to feel them + as soon as Howland Wade began to speak. + </p> + <h3> + VI + </h3> + <p> + IT had been arranged that Pellerin, after the meeting of the Uplift Club, + should join Bernald at his rooms and spend the night there, instead of + returning to Portchester. The plan had been eagerly elaborated by the + young man, but he had been unprepared for the alacrity with which his + wonderful friend accepted it. He was beginning to see that it was a part + of Pellerin’s wonderfulness to fall in, quite simply and naturally, with + any arrangements made for his convenience, or tending to promote the + convenience of others. Bernald felt that his extreme docility in such + matters was proportioned to the force of resistance which, for nearly half + a life-time, had kept him, with his back to the wall, fighting alone + against the powers of darkness. In such a scale of values how little the + small daily alternatives must weigh! + </p> + <p> + At the close of Howland Wade’s discourse, Bernald, charged with his + prodigious secret, had felt the need to escape for an instant from the + liberated rush of talk. The interest of watching Pellerin was so + perilously great that the watcher felt it might, at any moment, betray + him. He lingered in the crowded drawing-room long enough to see his friend + enclosed in a mounting tide, above which Mrs. Beecher Bain and Miss + Fosdick actively waved their conversational tridents; then he took refuge, + at the back of the house, in a small dim library where, in his younger + days, he had discussed personal immortality and the problem of + consciousness with beautiful girls whose names he could not remember. + </p> + <p> + In this retreat he surprised Mr. Beecher Bain, a quiet man with a mild + brow, who was smoking a surreptitious cigar over the last number of the <i>Strand</i>. + Mr. Bain, at Bernald’s approach, dissembled the <i>Strand</i> under a copy + of the <i>Hibbert Journal</i>, but tendered his cigar-case with the remark + that stocks were heavy again; and Bernald blissfully abandoned himself to + this unexpected contact with reality. + </p> + <p> + On his return to the drawing-room he found that the tide had set toward + the supper-table, and when it finally carried him thither it was to land + him in the welcoming arms of Bob Wade. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, old man! Where have you been all this time?—Winterman? Oh, + <i>he’s</i> talking to Howland: yes, I managed it finally. I believe Mrs. + Bain has steered them into the library, so that they shan’t be disturbed. + I gave her an idea of the situation, and she was awfully kind. We’d better + leave them alone, don’t you think? I’m trying to get a croquette for Miss + Fosdick.” + </p> + <p> + Bernald’s secret leapt in his bosom, and he devoted himself to the task of + distributing sandwiches and champagne while his pulses danced to the tune + of the cosmic laughter. The vision of Pellerin and his Interpreter, face + to face at last, had a Cyclopean grandeur that dwarfed all other comedy. + “And I shall hear of it presently; in an hour or two he’ll be telling me + about it. And that hour will be all mine—mine and his!” The + dizziness of the thought made it difficult for Bernald to preserve the + balance of the supper-plates he was distributing. Life had for him at that + moment the completeness which seems to defy disintegration. + </p> + <p> + The throng in the dining-room was thickening, and Bernald’s efforts as + purveyor were interrupted by frequent appeals, from ladies who had reached + repleteness, that he should sit down a moment and tell them all about his + interesting friend. Winterman’s fame, trumpeted abroad by Miss Fosdick, + had reached the four corners of the Uplift Club, and Bernald found himself + fabricating <i>de toutes pieces</i> a Winterman legend which should in + some degree respond to the Club’s demand for the human document. When at + length he had acquitted himself of this obligation, and was free to work + his way back through the lessening groups into the drawing-room, he was at + last rewarded by a glimpse of his friend, who, still densely encompassed, + towered in the centre of the room in all his sovran ugliness. + </p> + <p> + Their eyes met across the crowd; but Bernald gathered only perplexity from + the encounter. What were Pellerin’s eyes saying to him? What orders, what + confidences, what indefinable apprehension did their long look impart? The + young man was still trying to decipher their complex message when he felt + a tap on the arm, and turned to encounter the rueful gaze of Bob Wade, + whose meaning lay clearly enough on the surface of his good blue stare. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it won’t work—it won’t work,” the doctor groaned. + </p> + <p> + “What won’t?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean with Howland. Winterman won’t. Howland doesn’t take to him. Says + he’s crude—frightfully crude. And you know how Howland hates + crudeness.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I know,” Bernald exulted. It was the word he had waited for—he + saw it now! Once more he was lost in wonder at Howland’s miraculous + faculty for always, as the naturalists said, being true to type. + </p> + <p> + “So I’m afraid it’s all up with his chance of writing. At least <i>I</i> + can do no more,” said Wade, discouraged. + </p> + <p> + Bernald pressed him for farther details. “Does Winterman seem to mind + much? Did you hear his version?” + </p> + <p> + “His version?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean what he said to Howland.” + </p> + <p> + “Why no. What the deuce was there for him to say?” + </p> + <p> + “What indeed? I think I’ll take him home,” said Bernald gaily. + </p> + <p> + He turned away to join the circle from which, a few minutes before, + Pellerin’s eyes had vainly and enigmatically signalled to him; but the + circle had dispersed, and Pellerin himself was not in sight. + </p> + <p> + Bernald, looking about him, saw that during his brief aside with Wade the + party had passed into the final phase of dissolution. People still + delayed, in diminishing groups, but the current had set toward the doors, + and every moment or two it bore away a few more lingerers. Bernald, from + his post, commanded the clearing perspective of the two drawing-rooms, and + a rapid survey of their length sufficed to assure him that Pellerin was + not in either. Taking leave of Wade, the young man made his way back to + the drawing-room, where only a few hardened feasters remained, and then + passed on to the library which had been the scene of the late momentous + colloquy. But the library too was empty, and drifting back uncertainly to + the inner drawing-room Bernald found Mrs. Beecher Bain domestically + putting out the wax candles on the mantel-piece. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Mr. Bernald! Do sit down and have a little chat. What a wonderful + privilege it has been! I don’t know when I’ve had such an intense + impression.” + </p> + <p> + She made way for him, hospitably, in a corner of the sofa to which she had + sunk; and he echoed her vaguely: “You <i>were</i> impressed, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t express to you how it affected me! As Alice said, it was a + resurrection—it was as if John Pellerin were actually here in the + room with us!” + </p> + <p> + Bernald turned on her with a half-audible gasp. “You felt that, dear Mrs. + Bain?” + </p> + <p> + “We all felt it—every one of us! I don’t wonder the Greeks—it + <i>was</i> the Greeks?—regarded eloquence as a supernatural power. + As Alice says, when one looked at Howland Wade one understood what they + meant by the Afflatus.” + </p> + <p> + Bernald rose and held out his hand. “Oh, I see—it was Howland who + made you feel as if Pellerin were in the room? And he made Miss Fosdick + feel so too?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course. But why are you rushing off?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I must hunt up my friend, who’s not used to such late hours.” + </p> + <p> + “Your friend?” Mrs. Bain had to collect her thoughts. “Oh, Mr. Winterman, + you mean? But he’s gone already.” + </p> + <p> + “Gone?” Bernald exclaimed, with an odd twinge of foreboding. Remembering + Pellerin’s signal across the crowd, he reproached himself for not having + answered it more promptly. Yet it was certainly strange that his friend + should have left the house without him. + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite sure?” he asked, with a startled glance at the clock. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, perfectly. He went half an hour ago. But you needn’t hurry home on + his account, for Alice Fosdick carried him off with her. I saw them leave + together.” + </p> + <p> + “Carried him off? She took him home with her, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You know what strange hours she keeps. She told me she was going to + give him a Welsh rabbit, and explain Pellerinism to him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>if</i> she’s going to explain—” Bernald murmured. But his + amazement at the news struggled with a confused impatience to reach his + rooms in time to be there for his friend’s arrival. There could be no + stranger spectacle beneath the stars than that of John Pellerin carried + off by Miss Fosdick, and listening, in the small hours, to her elucidation + of his doctrines; but Bernald knew enough of his sex to be aware that such + an experiment may present a less humorous side to its subject than to an + impartial observer. Even the Uplift Club and its connotations might + benefit by the attraction of the unknown; and it was conceivable that to a + traveller from Mesopotamia Miss Fosdick might present elements of interest + which she had lost for the frequenters of Fifth Avenue. There was, at any + rate, no denying that the affair had become unexpectedly complex, and that + its farther development promised to be rich in comedy. + </p> + <p> + In the charmed contemplation of these possibilities Bernald sat over his + fire, listening for Pellerin’s ring. He had arranged his modest quarters + with the reverent care of a celebrant awaiting the descent of his deity. + He guessed Pellerin to be unconscious of visual detail, but sensitive to + the happy blending of sensuous impressions: to the intimate spell of + lamplight on books, and of a deep chair placed where one could watch the + fire. The chair was there, and Bernald, facing it across the hearth, + already saw it filled by Pellerin’s lounging figure. The autumn dawn came + late, and even now they had before them the promise of some untroubled + hours. Bernald, sitting there alone in the warm stillness of his room, and + in the profounder hush of his expectancy, was conscious of gathering up + all his sensibilities and perceptions into one exquisitely-adjusted + instrument of notation. Until now he had tasted Pellerin’s society only in + unpremeditated snatches, and had always left him with a sense, on his own + part, of waste and shortcoming. Now, in the lull of this dedicated hour, + he felt that he should miss nothing, and forget nothing, of the initiation + that awaited him. And catching sight of Pellerin’s pipe, he rose and laid + it carefully on a table by the arm-chair. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’ve never had any news of him,” Bernald heard himself repeating. He + spoke in a low tone, and with the automatic utterance that alone made it + possible to say the words. + </p> + <p> + They were addressed to Miss Fosdick, into whose neighbourhood chance had + thrown him at a dinner, a year or so later than their encounter at the + Uplift Club. Hitherto he had successfully, and intentionally, avoided Miss + Fosdick, not from any animosity toward that unconscious instrument of + fate, but from an intense reluctance to pronounce the words which he knew + he should have to speak if they met. + </p> + <p> + Now, as it turned out, his chief surprise was that she should wait so long + to make him speak them. All through the dinner she had swept him along on + a rapid current of talk which showed no tendency to linger or turn back + upon the past. At first he ascribed her reserve to a sense of delicacy + with which he reproached himself for not having previously credited her; + then he saw that she had been carried so far beyond the point at which + they had last faced each other, that it was by the merest hazard of + associated ideas that she was now finally borne back to it. For it + appeared that the very next evening, at Mrs. Beecher Bain’s, a Hindu + Mahatma was to lecture to the Uplift Club on the Limits of the Subliminal; + and it was owing to no less a person than Howland Wade that this + exceptional privilege had been obtained. + </p> + <p> + “Of course Howland’s known all over the world as the interpreter of + Pellerinism, and the Aga Gautch, who had absolutely declined to speak + anywhere in public, wrote to Isabella that he could not refuse anything + that Mr. Wade asked. Did you know that Howland’s lecture, ‘What + Pellerinism Means,’ has been translated into twenty-two languages, and + gone into a fifth edition in Icelandic? Why, that reminds me,” Miss + Fosdick broke off—“I’ve never heard what became of your queer friend—what + was his name?—whom you and Bob Wade accused me of spiriting away + after that very lecture. And I’ve never seen <i>you</i> since you rushed + into the house the next morning, and dragged me out of bed to know what + I’d done with him!” + </p> + <p> + With a sharp effort Bernald gathered himself together to have it out. + “Well, what <i>did</i> you do with him?” he retorted. + </p> + <p> + She laughed her appreciation of his humour. “Just what I told you, of + course. I said good-bye to him on Isabella’s door-step.” + </p> + <p> + Bernald looked at her. “It’s really true, then, that he didn’t go home + with you?” + </p> + <p> + She bantered back: “Have you suspected me, all this time, of hiding his + remains in the cellar?” And with a droop of her fine lids she added: “I + wish he <i>had</i> come home with me, for he was rather interesting, and + there were things I think I could have explained to him.” + </p> + <p> + Bernald helped himself to a nectarine, and Miss Fosdick continued on a + note of amused curiosity: “So you’ve really never had any news of him + since that night?” + </p> + <p> + “No—I’ve never had any news of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Not the least little message?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the least little message.” + </p> + <p> + “Or a rumour or report of any kind?” + </p> + <p> + “Or a rumour or report of any kind.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Fosdick’s interest seemed to be revived by the strangeness of the + case. “It’s rather creepy, isn’t it? What <i>could</i> have happened? You + don’t suppose he could have been waylaid and murdered?” she asked with + brightening eyes. + </p> + <p> + Bernald shook his head serenely. “No. I’m sure he’s safe—quite + safe.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you’re sure, you must know something.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I know nothing,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + She scanned him incredulously. “But what’s your theory—for you must + have a theory? What in the world can have become of him?” + </p> + <p> + Bernald returned her look and hesitated. “Do you happen to remember the + last thing he said to you—the very last, on the door-step, when he + left you?” + </p> + <p> + “The last thing?” She poised her fork above the peach on her plate. “I + don’t think he said anything. Oh, yes—when I reminded him that he’d + solemnly promised to come back with me and have a little talk he said he + couldn’t because he was going home.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, I suppose,” said Bernald, “he went home.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at him as if suspecting a trap. “Dear me, how flat! I always + inclined to a mysterious murder. But of course you know more of him than + you say.” + </p> + <p> + She began to cut her peach, but paused above a lifted bit to ask, with a + renewal of animation in her expressive eyes: “By the way, had you heard + that Howland Wade has been gradually getting farther and farther away from + Pellerinism? It seems he’s begun to feel that there’s a Positivist element + in it which is narrowing to any one who has gone at all deeply into the + Wisdom of the East. He was intensely interesting about it the other day, + and of course I <i>do</i> see what he feels. ... Oh, it’s too long to tell + you now; but if you could manage to come in to tea some afternoon soon—any + day but Wednesday—I should so like to explain—” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EYES + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + WE had been put in the mood for ghosts, that evening, after an excellent + dinner at our old friend Culwin’s, by a tale of Fred Murchard’s—the + narrative of a strange personal visitation. + </p> + <p> + Seen through the haze of our cigars, and by the drowsy gleam of a coal + fire, Culwin’s library, with its oak walls and dark old bindings, made a + good setting for such evocations; and ghostly experiences at first hand + being, after Murchard’s brilliant opening, the only kind acceptable to us, + we proceeded to take stock of our group and tax each member for a + contribution. There were eight of us, and seven contrived, in a manner + more or less adequate, to fulfil the condition imposed. It surprised us + all to find that we could muster such a show of supernatural impressions, + for none of us, excepting Murchard himself and young Phil Frenham—whose + story was the slightest of the lot—had the habit of sending our + souls into the invisible. So that, on the whole, we had every reason to be + proud of our seven “exhibits,” and none of us would have dreamed of + expecting an eighth from our host. + </p> + <p> + Our old friend, Mr. Andrew Culwin, who had sat back in his arm-chair, + listening and blinking through the smoke circles with the cheerful + tolerance of a wise old idol, was not the kind of man likely to be + favoured with such contacts, though he had imagination enough to enjoy, + without envying, the superior privileges of his guests. By age and by + education he belonged to the stout Positivist tradition, and his habit of + thought had been formed in the days of the epic struggle between physics + and metaphysics. But he had been, then and always, essentially a + spectator, a humorous detached observer of the immense muddled variety + show of life, slipping out of his seat now and then for a brief dip into + the convivialities at the back of the house, but never, as far as one + knew, showing the least desire to jump on the stage and do a “turn.” + </p> + <p> + Among his contemporaries there lingered a vague tradition of his having, + at a remote period, and in a romantic clime, been wounded in a duel; but + this legend no more tallied with what we younger men knew of his character + than my mother’s assertion that he had once been “a charming little man + with nice eyes” corresponded to any possible reconstitution of his dry + thwarted physiognomy. + </p> + <p> + “He never can have looked like anything but a bundle of sticks,” Murchard + had once said of him. “Or a phosphorescent log, rather,” some one else + amended; and we recognized the happiness of this description of his small + squat trunk, with the red blink of the eyes in a face like mottled bark. + He had always been possessed of a leisure which he had nursed and + protected, instead of squandering it in vain activities. His carefully + guarded hours had been devoted to the cultivation of a fine intelligence + and a few judiciously chosen habits; and none of the disturbances common + to human experience seemed to have crossed his sky. Nevertheless, his + dispassionate survey of the universe had not raised his opinion of that + costly experiment, and his study of the human race seemed to have resulted + in the conclusion that all men were superfluous, and women necessary only + because some one had to do the cooking. On the importance of this point + his convictions were absolute, and gastronomy was the only science which + he revered as dogma. It must be owned that his little dinners were a + strong argument in favour of this view, besides being a reason—though + not the main one—for the fidelity of his friends. + </p> + <p> + Mentally he exercised a hospitality less seductive but no less + stimulating. His mind was like a forum, or some open meeting-place for the + exchange of ideas: somewhat cold and draughty, but light, spacious and + orderly—a kind of academic grove from which all the leaves had + fallen. In this privileged area a dozen of us were wont to stretch our + muscles and expand our lungs; and, as if to prolong as much as possible + the tradition of what we felt to be a vanishing institution, one or two + neophytes were now and then added to our band. + </p> + <p> + Young Phil Frenham was the last, and the most interesting, of these + recruits, and a good example of Murchard’s somewhat morbid assertion that + our old friend “liked ‘em juicy.” It was indeed a fact that Culwin, for + all his mental dryness, specially tasted the lyric qualities in youth. As + he was far too good an Epicurean to nip the flowers of soul which he + gathered for his garden, his friendship was not a disintegrating + influence: on the contrary, it forced the young idea to robuster bloom. + And in Phil Frenham he had a fine subject for experimentation. The boy was + really intelligent, and the soundness of his nature was like the pure + paste under a delicate glaze. Culwin had fished him out of a thick fog of + family dulness, and pulled him up to a peak in Darien; and the adventure + hadn’t hurt him a bit. Indeed, the skill with which Culwin had contrived + to stimulate his curiosities without robbing them of their young bloom of + awe seemed to me a sufficient answer to Murchard’s ogreish metaphor. There + was nothing hectic in Frenham’s efflorescence, and his old friend had not + laid even a finger-tip on the sacred stupidities. One wanted no better + proof of that than the fact that Frenham still reverenced them in Culwin. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a side of him you fellows don’t see. <i>I</i> believe that story + about the duel!” he declared; and it was of the very essence of this + belief that it should impel him—just as our little party was + dispersing—to turn back to our host with the absurd demand: “And now + you’ve got to tell us about <i>your</i> ghost!” + </p> + <p> + The outer door had closed on Murchard and the others; only Frenham and I + remained; and the vigilant servant who presided over Culwin’s destinies, + having brought a fresh supply of soda-water, had been laconically ordered + to bed. + </p> + <p> + Culwin’s sociability was a night-blooming flower, and we knew that he + expected the nucleus of his group to tighten around him after midnight. + But Frenham’s appeal seemed to disconcert him comically, and he rose from + the chair in which he had just reseated himself after his farewells in the + hall. + </p> + <p> + “<i>My</i> ghost? Do you suppose I’m fool enough to go to the expense of + keeping one of my own, when there are so many charming ones in my friends’ + closets?—Take another cigar,” he said, revolving toward me with a + laugh. + </p> + <p> + Frenham laughed too, pulling up his slender height before the + chimney-piece as he turned to face his short bristling friend. + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” he said, “you’d never be content to share if you met one you really + liked.” + </p> + <p> + Culwin had dropped back into his armchair, his shock head embedded in its + habitual hollow, his little eyes glimmering over a fresh cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Liked—<i>liked?</i> Good Lord!” he growled. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you <i>have</i>, then!” Frenham pounced on him in the same instant, + with a sidewise glance of victory at me; but Culwin cowered gnomelike + among his cushions, dissembling himself in a protective cloud of smoke. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use of denying it? You’ve seen everything, so of course you’ve + seen a ghost!” his young friend persisted, talking intrepidly into the + cloud. “Or, if you haven’t seen one, it’s only because you’ve seen two!” + </p> + <p> + The form of the challenge seemed to strike our host. He shot his head out + of the mist with a queer tortoise-like motion he sometimes had, and + blinked approvingly at Frenham. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he suddenly flung at us on a shrill jerk of laughter; “it’s only + because I’ve seen two!” + </p> + <p> + The words were so unexpected that they dropped down and down into a + fathomless silence, while we continued to stare at each other over + Culwin’s head, and Culwin stared at his ghosts. At length Frenham, without + speaking, threw himself into the chair on the other side of the hearth, + and leaned forward with his listening smile ... + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + “OH, of course they’re not show ghosts—a collector wouldn’t think + anything of them ... Don’t let me raise your hopes ... their one merit is + their numerical strength: the exceptional fact of their being <i>two</i>. + But, as against this, I’m bound to admit that at any moment I could + probably have exorcised them both by asking my doctor for a prescription, + or my oculist for a pair of spectacles. Only, as I never could make up my + mind whether to go to the doctor or the oculist—whether I was + afflicted by an optical or a digestive delusion—I left them to + pursue their interesting double life, though at times they made mine + exceedingly comfortable ... + </p> + <p> + “Yes—uncomfortable; and you know how I hate to be uncomfortable! But + it was part of my stupid pride, when the thing began, not to admit that I + could be disturbed by the trifling matter of seeing two— + </p> + <p> + “And then I’d no reason, really, to suppose I was ill. As far as I knew I + was simply bored—horribly bored. But it was part of my boredom—I + remember—that I was feeling so uncommonly well, and didn’t know how + on earth to work off my surplus energy. I had come back from a long + journey—down in South America and Mexico—and had settled down + for the winter near New York, with an old aunt who had known Washington + Irving and corresponded with N. P. Willis. She lived, not far from + Irvington, in a damp Gothic villa, overhung by Norway spruces, and looking + exactly like a memorial emblem done in hair. Her personal appearance was + in keeping with this image, and her own hair—of which there was + little left—might have been sacrificed to the manufacture of the + emblem. + </p> + <p> + “I had just reached the end of an agitated year, with considerable arrears + to make up in money and emotion; and theoretically it seemed as though my + aunt’s mild hospitality would be as beneficial to my nerves as to my + purse. But the deuce of it was that as soon as I felt myself safe and + sheltered my energy began to revive; and how was I to work it off inside + of a memorial emblem? I had, at that time, the agreeable illusion that + sustained intellectual effort could engage a man’s whole activity; and I + decided to write a great book—I forget about what. My aunt, + impressed by my plan, gave up to me her Gothic library, filled with + classics in black cloth and daguerrotypes of faded celebrities; and I sat + down at my desk to make myself a place among their number. And to + facilitate my task she lent me a cousin to copy my manuscript. + </p> + <p> + “The cousin was a nice girl, and I had an idea that a nice girl was just + what I needed to restore my faith in human nature, and principally in + myself. She was neither beautiful nor intelligent—poor Alice Nowell!—but + it interested me to see any woman content to be so uninteresting, and I + wanted to find out the secret of her content. In doing this I handled it + rather rashly, and put it out of joint—oh, just for a moment! + There’s no fatuity in telling you this, for the poor girl had never seen + any one but cousins ... + </p> + <p> + “Well, I was sorry for what I’d done, of course, and confoundedly bothered + as to how I should put it straight. She was staying in the house, and one + evening, after my aunt had gone to bed, she came down to the library to + fetch a book she’d mislaid, like any artless heroine on the shelves behind + us. She was pink-nosed and flustered, and it suddenly occurred to me that + her hair, though it was fairly thick and pretty, would look exactly like + my aunt’s when she grew older. I was glad I had noticed this, for it made + it easier for me to do what was right; and when I had found the book she + hadn’t lost I told her I was leaving for Europe that week. + </p> + <p> + “Europe was terribly far off in those days, and Alice knew at once what I + meant. She didn’t take it in the least as I’d expected—it would have + been easier if she had. She held her book very tight, and turned away a + moment to wind up the lamp on my desk—it had a ground glass shade + with vine leaves, and glass drops around the edge, I remember. Then she + came back, held out her hand, and said: ‘Good-bye.’ And as she said it she + looked straight at me and kissed me. I had never felt anything as fresh + and shy and brave as her kiss. It was worse than any reproach, and it made + me ashamed to deserve a reproach from her. I said to myself: ‘I’ll marry + her, and when my aunt dies she’ll leave us this house, and I’ll sit here + at the desk and go on with my book; and Alice will sit over there with her + embroidery and look at me as she’s looking now. And life will go on like + that for any number of years.’ The prospect frightened me a little, but at + the time it didn’t frighten me as much as doing anything to hurt her; and + ten minutes later she had my seal ring on my finger, and my promise that + when I went abroad she should go with me. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll wonder why I’m enlarging on this familiar incident. It’s because + the evening on which it took place was the very evening on which I first + saw the queer sight I’ve spoken of. Being at that time an ardent believer + in a necessary sequence between cause and effect I naturally tried to + trace some kind of link between what had just happened to me in my aunt’s + library, and what was to happen a few hours later on the same night; and + so the coincidence between the two events always remained in my mind. + </p> + <p> + “I went up to bed with rather a heavy heart, for I was bowed under the + weight of the first good action I had ever consciously committed; and + young as I was, I saw the gravity of my situation. Don’t imagine from this + that I had hitherto been an instrument of destruction. I had been merely a + harmless young man, who had followed his bent and declined all + collaboration with Providence. Now I had suddenly undertaken to promote + the moral order of the world, and I felt a good deal like the trustful + spectator who has given his gold watch to the conjurer, and doesn’t know + in what shape he’ll get it back when the trick is over ... Still, a glow + of self-righteousness tempered my fears, and I said to myself as I + undressed that when I’d got used to being good it probably wouldn’t make + me as nervous as it did at the start. And by the time I was in bed, and + had blown out my candle, I felt that I really <i>was</i> getting used to + it, and that, as far as I’d got, it was not unlike sinking down into one + of my aunt’s very softest wool mattresses. + </p> + <p> + “I closed my eyes on this image, and when I opened them it must have been + a good deal later, for my room had grown cold, and the night was intensely + still. I was waked suddenly by the feeling we all know—the feeling + that there was something near me that hadn’t been there when I fell + asleep. I sat up and strained my eyes into the darkness. The room was + pitch black, and at first I saw nothing; but gradually a vague glimmer at + the foot of the bed turned into two eyes staring back at me. I couldn’t + see the face attached to them—on account of the darkness, I imagined—but + as I looked the eyes grew more and more distinct: they gave out a light of + their own. + </p> + <p> + “The sensation of being thus gazed at was far from pleasant, and you might + suppose that my first impulse would have been to jump out of bed and hurl + myself on the invisible figure attached to the eyes. But it wasn’t—my + impulse was simply to lie still ... I can’t say whether this was due to an + immediate sense of the uncanny nature of the apparition—to the + certainty that if I did jump out of bed I should hurl myself on nothing—or + merely to the benumbing effect of the eyes themselves. They were the very + worst eyes I’ve ever seen: a man’s eyes—but what a man! My first + thought was that he must be frightfully old. The orbits were sunk, and the + thick red-lined lids hung over the eyeballs like blinds of which the cords + are broken. One lid drooped a little lower than the other, with the effect + of a crooked leer; and between these pulpy folds of flesh, with their + scant bristle of lashes, the eyes themselves, small glassy disks with an + agate-like rim about the pupils, looked like sea-pebbles in the grip of a + starfish. + </p> + <p> + “But the age of the eyes was not the most unpleasant thing about them. + What turned me sick was their expression of vicious security. I don’t know + how else to describe the fact that they seemed to belong to a man who had + done a lot of harm in his life, but had always kept just inside the danger + lines. They were not the eyes of a coward, but of some one much too clever + to take risks; and my gorge rose at their look of base astuteness. Yet + even that wasn’t the worst; for as we continued to scan each other I saw + in them a tinge of faint derision, and felt myself to be its object. + </p> + <p> + “At that I was seized by an impulse of rage that jerked me out of bed and + pitched me straight on the unseen figure at its foot. But of course there + wasn’t any figure there, and my fists struck at emptiness. Ashamed and + cold, I groped about for a match and lit the candles. The room looked just + as usual—as I had known it would; and I crawled back to bed, and + blew out the lights. + </p> + <p> + “As soon as the room was dark again the eyes reappeared; and I now applied + myself to explaining them on scientific principles. At first I thought the + illusion might have been caused by the glow of the last embers in the + chimney; but the fire-place was on the other side of my bed, and so placed + that the fire could not possibly be reflected in my toilet glass, which + was the only mirror in the room. Then it occurred to me that I might have + been tricked by the reflection of the embers in some polished bit of wood + or metal; and though I couldn’t discover any object of the sort in my line + of vision, I got up again, groped my way to the hearth, and covered what + was left of the fire. But as soon as I was back in bed the eyes were back + at its foot. + </p> + <p> + “They were an hallucination, then: that was plain. But the fact that they + were not due to any external dupery didn’t make them a bit pleasanter to + see. For if they were a projection of my inner consciousness, what the + deuce was the matter with that organ? I had gone deeply enough into the + mystery of morbid pathological states to picture the conditions under + which an exploring mind might lay itself open to such a midnight + admonition; but I couldn’t fit it to my present case. I had never felt + more normal, mentally and physically; and the only unusual fact in my + situation—that of having assured the happiness of an amiable girl—did + not seem of a kind to summon unclean spirits about my pillow. But there + were the eyes still looking at me ... + </p> + <p> + “I shut mine, and tried to evoke a vision of Alice Nowell’s. They were not + remarkable eyes, but they were as wholesome as fresh water, and if she had + had more imagination—or longer lashes—their expression might + have been interesting. As it was, they did not prove very efficacious, and + in a few moments I perceived that they had mysteriously changed into the + eyes at the foot of the bed. It exasperated me more to feel these glaring + at me through my shut lids than to see them, and I opened my eyes again + and looked straight into their hateful stare ... + </p> + <p> + “And so it went on all night. I can’t tell you what that night was, nor + how long it lasted. Have you ever lain in bed, hopelessly wide awake, and + tried to keep your eyes shut, knowing that if you opened ‘em you’d see + something you dreaded and loathed? It sounds easy, but it’s devilish hard. + Those eyes hung there and drew me. I had the <i>vertige de l’abime</i>, + and their red lids were the edge of my abyss. ... I had known nervous + hours before: hours when I’d felt the wind of danger in my neck; but never + this kind of strain. It wasn’t that the eyes were so awful; they hadn’t + the majesty of the powers of darkness. But they had—how shall I say?—a + physical effect that was the equivalent of a bad smell: their look left a + smear like a snail’s. And I didn’t see what business they had with me, + anyhow—and I stared and stared, trying to find out ... + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what effect they were trying to produce; but the effect they + <i>did</i> produce was that of making me pack my portmanteau and bolt to + town early the next morning. I left a note for my aunt, explaining that I + was ill and had gone to see my doctor; and as a matter of fact I did feel + uncommonly ill—the night seemed to have pumped all the blood out of + me. But when I reached town I didn’t go to the doctor’s. I went to a + friend’s rooms, and threw myself on a bed, and slept for ten heavenly + hours. When I woke it was the middle of the night, and I turned cold at + the thought of what might be waiting for me. I sat up, shaking, and stared + into the darkness; but there wasn’t a break in its blessed surface, and + when I saw that the eyes were not there I dropped back into another long + sleep. + </p> + <p> + “I had left no word for Alice when I fled, because I meant to go back the + next morning. But the next morning I was too exhausted to stir. As the day + went on the exhaustion increased, instead of wearing off like the + lassitude left by an ordinary night of insomnia: the effect of the eyes + seemed to be cumulative, and the thought of seeing them again grew + intolerable. For two days I struggled with my dread; but on the third + evening I pulled myself together and decided to go back the next morning. + I felt a good deal happier as soon as I’d decided, for I knew that my + abrupt disappearance, and the strangeness of my not writing, must have + been very painful for poor Alice. That night I went to bed with an easy + mind, and fell asleep at once; but in the middle of the night I woke, and + there were the eyes ... + </p> + <p> + “Well, I simply couldn’t face them; and instead of going back to my aunt’s + I bundled a few things into a trunk and jumped onto the first steamer for + England. I was so dead tired when I got on board that I crawled straight + into my berth, and slept most of the way over; and I can’t tell you the + bliss it was to wake from those long stretches of dreamless sleep and look + fearlessly into the darkness, <i>knowing</i> that I shouldn’t see the eyes + ... + </p> + <p> + “I stayed abroad for a year, and then I stayed for another; and during + that time I never had a glimpse of them. That was enough reason for + prolonging my stay if I’d been on a desert island. Another was, of course, + that I had perfectly come to see, on the voyage over, the folly, complete + impossibility, of my marrying Alice Nowell. The fact that I had been so + slow in making this discovery annoyed me, and made me want to avoid + explanations. The bliss of escaping at one stroke from the eyes, and from + this other embarrassment, gave my freedom an extraordinary zest; and the + longer I savoured it the better I liked its taste. + </p> + <p> + “The eyes had burned such a hole in my consciousness that for a long time + I went on puzzling over the nature of the apparition, and wondering + nervously if it would ever come back. But as time passed I lost this + dread, and retained only the precision of the image. Then that faded in + its turn. + </p> + <p> + “The second year found me settled in Rome, where I was planning, I + believe, to write another great book—a definitive work on Etruscan + influences in Italian art. At any rate, I’d found some pretext of the kind + for taking a sunny apartment in the Piazza di Spagna and dabbling about + indefinitely in the Forum; and there, one morning, a charming youth came + to me. As he stood there in the warm light, slender and smooth and + hyacinthine, he might have stepped from a ruined altar—one to + Antinous, say—but he’d come instead from New York, with a letter (of + all people) from Alice Nowell. The letter—the first I’d had from her + since our break—was simply a line introducing her young cousin, + Gilbert Noyes, and appealing to me to befriend him. It appeared, poor lad, + that he ‘had talent,’ and ‘wanted to write’; and, an obdurate family + having insisted that his calligraphy should take the form of double entry, + Alice had intervened to win him six months’ respite, during which he was + to travel on a meagre pittance, and somehow prove his ultimate ability to + increase it by his pen. The quaint conditions of the test struck me first: + it seemed about as conclusive as a mediaeval ‘ordeal.’ Then I was touched + by her having sent him to me. I had always wanted to do her some service, + to justify myself in my own eyes rather than hers; and here was a + beautiful embodiment of my chance. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I imagine it’s safe to lay down the general principle that + predestined geniuses don’t, as a rule, appear before one in the spring + sunshine of the Forum looking like one of its banished gods. At any rate, + poor Noyes wasn’t a predestined genius. But he <i>was</i> beautiful to + see, and charming as a comrade too. It was only when he began to talk + literature that my heart failed me. I knew all the symptoms so well—the + things he had ‘in him,’ and the things outside him that impinged! There’s + the real test, after all. It was always—punctually, inevitably, with + the inexorableness of a mechanical law—it was <i>always</i> the + wrong thing that struck him. I grew to find a certain grim fascination in + deciding in advance exactly which wrong thing he’d select; and I acquired + an astonishing skill at the game ... + </p> + <p> + “The worst of it was that his <i>betise</i> wasn’t of the too obvious + sort. Ladies who met him at picnics thought him intellectual; and even at + dinners he passed for clever. I, who had him under the microscope, fancied + now and then that he might develop some kind of a slim talent, something + that he could make ‘do’ and be happy on; and wasn’t that, after all, what + I was concerned with? He was so charming—he continued to be so + charming—that he called forth all my charity in support of this + argument; and for the first few months I really believed there was a + chance for him ... + </p> + <p> + “Those months were delightful. Noyes was constantly with me, and the more + I saw of him the better I liked him. His stupidity was a natural grace—it + was as beautiful, really, as his eye-lashes. And he was so gay, so + affectionate, and so happy with me, that telling him the truth would have + been about as pleasant as slitting the throat of some artless animal. At + first I used to wonder what had put into that radiant head the detestable + delusion that it held a brain. Then I began to see that it was simply + protective mimicry—an instinctive ruse to get away from family life + and an office desk. Not that Gilbert didn’t—dear lad!—believe + in himself. There wasn’t a trace of hypocrisy in his composition. He was + sure that his ‘call’ was irresistible, while to me it was the saving grace + of his situation that it <i>wasn’t</i>, and that a little money, a little + leisure, a little pleasure would have turned him into an inoffensive + idler. Unluckily, however, there was no hope of money, and with the grim + alternative of the office desk before him he couldn’t postpone his attempt + at literature. The stuff he turned out was deplorable, and I see now that + I knew it from the first. Still, the absurdity of deciding a man’s whole + future on a first trial seemed to justify me in withholding my verdict, + and perhaps even in encouraging him a little, on the ground that the human + plant generally needs warmth to flower. + </p> + <p> + “At any rate, I proceeded on that principle, and carried it to the point + of getting his term of probation extended. When I left Rome he went with + me, and we idled away a delicious summer between Capri and Venice. I said + to myself: ‘If he has anything in him, it will come out now; and it <i>did</i>. + He was never more enchanting and enchanted. There were moments of our + pilgrimage when beauty born of murmuring sound seemed actually to pass + into his face—but only to issue forth in a shallow flood of the + palest ink ... + </p> + <p> + “Well the time came to turn off the tap; and I knew there was no hand but + mine to do it. We were back in Rome, and I had taken him to stay with me, + not wanting him to be alone in his dismal <i>pension</i> when he had to + face the necessity of renouncing his ambition. I hadn’t, of course, relied + solely on my own judgment in deciding to advise him to drop literature. I + had sent his stuff to various people—editors and critics—and + they had always sent it back with the same chilling lack of comment. + Really there was nothing on earth to say about it— + </p> + <p> + “I confess I never felt more shabbily than I did on the day when I decided + to have it out with Gilbert. It was well enough to tell myself that it was + my duty to knock the poor boy’s hopes into splinters—but I’d like to + know what act of gratuitous cruelty hasn’t been justified on that plea? + I’ve always shrunk from usurping the functions of Providence, and when I + have to exercise them I decidedly prefer that it shouldn’t be on an errand + of destruction. Besides, in the last issue, who was I to decide, even + after a year’s trial, if poor Gilbert had it in him or not? + </p> + <p> + “The more I looked at the part I’d resolved to play, the less I liked it; + and I liked it still less when Gilbert sat opposite me, with his head + thrown back in the lamplight, just as Phil’s is now ... I’d been going + over his last manuscript, and he knew it, and he knew that his future hung + on my verdict—we’d tacitly agreed to that. The manuscript lay + between us, on my table—a novel, his first novel, if you please!—and + he reached over and laid his hand on it, and looked up at me with all his + life in the look. + </p> + <p> + “I stood up and cleared my throat, trying to keep my eyes away from his + face and on the manuscript. + </p> + <p> + “‘The fact is, my dear Gilbert,’ I began— + </p> + <p> + “I saw him turn pale, but he was up and facing me in an instant. + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, look here, don’t take on so, my dear fellow! I’m not so awfully cut + up as all that!’ His hands were on my shoulders, and he was laughing down + on me from his full height, with a kind of mortally-stricken gaiety that + drove the knife into my side. + </p> + <p> + “He was too beautifully brave for me to keep up any humbug about my duty. + And it came over me suddenly how I should hurt others in hurting him: + myself first, since sending him home meant losing him; but more + particularly poor Alice Nowell, to whom I had so uneasily longed to prove + my good faith and my immense desire to serve her. It really seemed like + failing her twice to fail Gilbert— + </p> + <p> + “But my intuition was like one of those lightning flashes that encircle + the whole horizon, and in the same instant I saw what I might be letting + myself in for if I didn’t tell the truth. I said to myself: ‘I shall have + him for life’—and I’d never yet seen any one, man or woman, whom I + was quite sure of wanting on those terms. Well, this impulse of egotism + decided me. I was ashamed of it, and to get away from it I took a leap + that landed me straight in Gilbert’s arms. + </p> + <p> + “‘The thing’s all right, and you’re all wrong!’ I shouted up at him; and + as he hugged me, and I laughed and shook in his incredulous clutch, I had + for a minute the sense of self-complacency that is supposed to attend the + footsteps of the just. Hang it all, making people happy <i>has</i> its + charms— + </p> + <p> + “Gilbert, of course, was for celebrating his emancipation in some + spectacular manner; but I sent him away alone to explode his emotions, and + went to bed to sleep off mine. As I undressed I began to wonder what their + after-taste would be—so many of the finest don’t keep! Still, I + wasn’t sorry, and I meant to empty the bottle, even if it <i>did</i> turn + a trifle flat. + </p> + <p> + “After I got into bed I lay for a long time smiling at the memory of his + eyes—his blissful eyes... Then I fell asleep, and when I woke the + room was deathly cold, and I sat up with a jerk—and there were <i>the + other eyes</i> ... + </p> + <p> + “It was three years since I’d seen them, but I’d thought of them so often + that I fancied they could never take me unawares again. Now, with their + red sneer on me, I knew that I had never really believed they would come + back, and that I was as defenceless as ever against them ... As before, it + was the insane irrelevance of their coming that made it so horrible. What + the deuce were they after, to leap out at me at such a time? I had lived + more or less carelessly in the years since I’d seen them, though my worst + indiscretions were not dark enough to invite the searchings of their + infernal glare; but at this particular moment I was really in what might + have been called a state of grace; and I can’t tell you how the fact added + to their horror ... + </p> + <p> + “But it’s not enough to say they were as bad as before: they were worse. + Worse by just so much as I’d learned of life in the interval; by all the + damnable implications my wider experience read into them. I saw now what I + hadn’t seen before: that they were eyes which had grown hideous gradually, + which had built up their baseness coral-wise, bit by bit, out of a series + of small turpitudes slowly accumulated through the industrious years. Yes—it + came to me that what made them so bad was that they’d grown bad so slowly + ... + </p> + <p> + “There they hung in the darkness, their swollen lids dropped across the + little watery bulbs rolling loose in the orbits, and the puff of fat flesh + making a muddy shadow underneath—and as their filmy stare moved with + my movements, there came over me a sense of their tacit complicity, of a + deep hidden understanding between us that was worse than the first shock + of their strangeness. Not that I understood them; but that they made it so + clear that some day I should ... Yes, that was the worst part of it, + decidedly; and it was the feeling that became stronger each time they came + back to me ... + </p> + <p> + “For they got into the damnable habit of coming back. They reminded me of + vampires with a taste for young flesh, they seemed so to gloat over the + taste of a good conscience. Every night for a month they came to claim + their morsel of mine: since I’d made Gilbert happy they simply wouldn’t + loosen their fangs. The coincidence almost made me hate him, poor lad, + fortuitous as I felt it to be. I puzzled over it a good deal, but couldn’t + find any hint of an explanation except in the chance of his association + with Alice Nowell. But then the eyes had let up on me the moment I had + abandoned her, so they could hardly be the emissaries of a woman scorned, + even if one could have pictured poor Alice charging such spirits to avenge + her. That set me thinking, and I began to wonder if they would let up on + me if I abandoned Gilbert. The temptation was insidious, and I had to + stiffen myself against it; but really, dear boy! he was too charming to be + sacrificed to such demons. And so, after all, I never found out what they + wanted ...” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + THE fire crumbled, sending up a flash which threw into relief the + narrator’s gnarled red face under its grey-black stubble. Pressed into the + hollow of the dark leather armchair, it stood out an instant like an + intaglio of yellowish red-veined stone, with spots of enamel for the eyes; + then the fire sank and in the shaded lamp-light it became once more a dim + Rembrandtish blur. + </p> + <p> + Phil Frenham, sitting in a low chair on the opposite side of the hearth, + one long arm propped on the table behind him, one hand supporting his + thrown-back head, and his eyes steadily fixed on his old friend’s face, + had not moved since the tale began. He continued to maintain his silent + immobility after Culwin had ceased to speak, and it was I who, with a + vague sense of disappointment at the sudden drop of the story, finally + asked: “But how long did you keep on seeing them?” + </p> + <p> + Culwin, so sunk into his chair that he seemed like a heap of his own empty + clothes, stirred a little, as if in surprise at my question. He appeared + to have half-forgotten what he had been telling us. + </p> + <p> + “How long? Oh, off and on all that winter. It was infernal. I never got + used to them. I grew really ill.” + </p> + <p> + Frenham shifted his attitude silently, and as he did so his elbow struck + against a small mirror in a bronze frame standing on the table behind him. + He turned and changed its angle slightly; then he resumed his former + attitude, his dark head thrown back on his lifted palm, his eyes intent on + Culwin’s face. Something in his stare embarrassed me, and as if to divert + attention from it I pressed on with another question: + </p> + <p> + “And you never tried sacrificing Noyes?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. The fact is I didn’t have to. He did it for me, poor infatuated + boy!” + </p> + <p> + “Did it for you? How do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “He wore me out—wore everybody out. He kept on pouring out his + lamentable twaddle, and hawking it up and down the place till he became a + thing of terror. I tried to wean him from writing—oh, ever so + gently, you understand, by throwing him with agreeable people, giving him + a chance to make himself felt, to come to a sense of what he <i>really</i> + had to give. I’d foreseen this solution from the beginning—felt sure + that, once the first ardour of authorship was quenched, he’d drop into his + place as a charming parasitic thing, the kind of chronic Cherubino for + whom, in old societies, there’s always a seat at table, and a shelter + behind the ladies’ skirts. I saw him take his place as ‘the poet’: the + poet who doesn’t write. One knows the type in every drawing-room. Living + in that way doesn’t cost much—I’d worked it all out in my mind, and + felt sure that, with a little help, he could manage it for the next few + years; and meanwhile he’d be sure to marry. I saw him married to a widow, + rather older, with a good cook and a well-run house. And I actually had my + eye on the widow ... Meanwhile I did everything to facilitate the + transition—lent him money to ease his conscience, introduced him to + pretty women to make him forget his vows. But nothing would do him: he had + but one idea in his beautiful obstinate head. He wanted the laurel and not + the rose, and he kept on repeating Gautier’s axiom, and battering and + filing at his limp prose till he’d spread it out over Lord knows how many + thousand sloppy pages. Now and then he would send a pailful to a + publisher, and of course it would always come back. + </p> + <p> + “At first it didn’t matter—he thought he was ‘misunderstood.’ He + took the attitudes of genius, and whenever an opus came home he wrote + another to keep it company. Then he had a reaction of despair, and accused + me of deceiving him, and Lord knows what. I got angry at that, and told + him it was he who had deceived himself. He’d come to me determined to + write, and I’d done my best to help him. That was the extent of my + offence, and I’d done it for his cousin’s sake, not his. + </p> + <p> + “That seemed to strike home, and he didn’t answer for a minute. Then he + said: ‘My time’s up and my money’s up. What do you think I’d better do?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I think you’d better not be an ass,’ I said. + </p> + <p> + “He turned red, and asked: ‘What do you mean by being an ass?’ + </p> + <p> + “I took a letter from my desk and held it out to him. + </p> + <p> + “‘I mean refusing this offer of Mrs. Ellinger’s: to be her secretary at a + salary of five thousand dollars. There may be a lot more in it than that.’ + </p> + <p> + “He flung out his hand with a violence that struck the letter from mine. + ‘Oh, I know well enough what’s in it!’ he said, scarlet to the roots of + his hair. + </p> + <p> + “‘And what’s your answer, if you know?’ I asked. + </p> + <p> + “He made none at the minute, but turned away slowly to the door. There, + with his hand on the threshold, he stopped to ask, almost under his + breath: ‘Then you really think my stuff’s no good?’ + </p> + <p> + “I was tired and exasperated, and I laughed. I don’t defend my laugh—it + was in wretched taste. But I must plead in extenuation that the boy was a + fool, and that I’d done my best for him—I really had. + </p> + <p> + “He went out of the room, shutting the door quietly after him. That + afternoon I left for Frascati, where I’d promised to spend the Sunday with + some friends. I was glad to escape from Gilbert, and by the same token, as + I learned that night, I had also escaped from the eyes. I dropped into the + same lethargic sleep that had come to me before when their visitations + ceased; and when I woke the next morning, in my peaceful painted room + above the ilexes, I felt the utter weariness and deep relief that always + followed on that repairing slumber. I put in two blessed nights at + Frascati, and when I got back to my rooms in Rome I found that Gilbert had + gone ... Oh, nothing tragic had happened—the episode never rose to + <i>that</i>. He’d simply packed his manuscripts and left for America—for + his family and the Wall Street desk. He left a decent little note to tell + me of his decision, and behaved altogether, in the circumstances, as + little like a fool as it’s possible for a fool to behave ...” + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + CULWIN paused again, and again Frenham sat motionless, the dusky contour + of his young head reflected in the mirror at his back. + </p> + <p> + “And what became of Noyes afterward?” I finally asked, still disquieted by + a sense of incompleteness, by the need of some connecting thread between + the parallel lines of the tale. + </p> + <p> + Culwin twitched his shoulders. “Oh, nothing became of him—because he + became nothing. There could be no question of ‘becoming’ about it. He + vegetated in an office, I believe, and finally got a clerkship in a + consulate, and married drearily in China. I saw him once in Hong Kong, + years afterward. He was fat and hadn’t shaved. I was told he drank. He + didn’t recognize me.” + </p> + <p> + “And the eyes?” I asked, after another pause which Frenham’s continued + silence made oppressive. + </p> + <p> + Culwin, stroking his chin, blinked at me meditatively through the shadows. + “I never saw them after my last talk with Gilbert. Put two and two + together if you can. For my part, I haven’t found the link.” + </p> + <p> + He rose stiffly, his hands in his pockets, and walked over to the table on + which reviving drinks had been set out. + </p> + <p> + “You must be parched after this dry tale. Here, help yourself, my dear + fellow. Here, Phil—” He turned back to the hearth. + </p> + <p> + Frenham still sat in his low chair, making no response to his host’s + hospitable summons. But as Culwin advanced toward him, their eyes met in a + long look; after which, to my intense surprise, the young man, turning + suddenly in his seat, flung his arms across the table, and dropped his + face upon them. + </p> + <p> + Culwin, at the unexpected gesture, stopped short, a flush on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Phil—what the deuce? Why, have the eyes scared <i>you?</i> My dear + boy—my dear fellow—I never had such a tribute to my literary + ability, never!” + </p> + <p> + He broke into a chuckle at the thought, and halted on the hearth-rug, his + hands still in his pockets, gazing down in honest perplexity at the + youth’s bowed head. Then, as Frenham still made no answer, he moved a step + or two nearer. + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up, my dear Phil! It’s years since I’ve seen them—apparently + I’ve done nothing lately bad enough to call them out of chaos. Unless my + present evocation of them has made <i>you</i> see them; which would be + their worst stroke yet!” + </p> + <p> + His bantering appeal quivered off into an uneasy laugh, and he moved still + nearer, bending over Frenham, and laying his gouty hands on the lad’s + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Phil, my dear boy, really—what’s the matter? Why don’t you answer? + <i>Have</i> you seen the eyes?” + </p> + <p> + Frenham’s face was still pressed against his arms, and from where I stood + behind Culwin I saw the latter, as if under the rebuff of this + unaccountable attitude, draw back slowly from his friend. As he did so, + the light of the lamp on the table fell full on his perplexed congested + face, and I caught its sudden reflection in the mirror behind Frenham’s + head. + </p> + <p> + Culwin saw the reflection also. He paused, his face level with the mirror, + as if scarcely recognizing the countenance in it as his own. But as he + looked his expression gradually changed, and for an appreciable space of + time he and the image in the glass confronted each other with a glare of + slowly gathering hate. Then Culwin let go of Frenham’s shoulders, and drew + back a step, covering his eyes with his hands ... + </p> + <p> + Frenham, his face still hidden, did not stir. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BLOND BEAST + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + IT had been almost too easy—that was young Millner’s first feeling, + as he stood again on the Spence door-step, the great moment of his + interview behind him, and Fifth Avenue rolling its grimy Pactolus at his + feet. + </p> + <p> + Halting there in the winter light, with the clang of the ponderous + vestibule doors in his ears, and his eyes carried down the perspective of + the packed interminable thoroughfare, he even dared to remember + Rastignac’s apostrophe to Paris, and to hazard recklessly under his small + fair moustache: “Who knows?” + </p> + <p> + He, Hugh Millner, at any rate, knew a good deal already: a good deal more + than he had imagined it possible to learn in half an hour’s talk with a + man like Orlando G. Spence; and the loud-rumouring city spread out there + before him seemed to grin like an accomplice who knew the rest. + </p> + <p> + A gust of wind, whirling down from the dizzy height of the building on the + next corner, drove sharply through his overcoat and compelled him to + clutch at his hat. It was a bitter January day, a day of fierce light and + air, when the sunshine cut like icicles and the wind sucked one into black + gulfs at the street corners. But Millner’s complacency was like a warm + lining to his shabby coat, and heaving steadied his hat he continued to + stand on the Spence threshold, lost in the vision revealed to him from the + Pisgah of its marble steps. Yes, it was wonderful what the vision showed + him. ... In his absorption he might have frozen fast to the door-step if + the Rhadamanthine portals behind him had not suddenly opened to let out a + slim fur-coated figure, the figure, as he perceived, of the youth whom he + had caught in the act of withdrawal as he entered Mr. Spence’s study, and + whom the latter, with a wave of his affable hand, had detained to + introduce as “my son Draper.” + </p> + <p> + It was characteristic of the odd friendliness of the whole scene that the + great man should have thought it worth while to call back and name his + heir to a mere humble applicant like Millner; and that the heir should + shed on him, from a pale high-browed face, a smile of such deprecating + kindness. It was characteristic, equally, of Millner, that he should at + once mark the narrowness of the shoulders sustaining this ingenuous head; + a narrowness, as he now observed, imperfectly concealed by the wide fur + collar of young Spence’s expensive and badly cut coat. But the face took + on, as the youth smiled his surprise at their second meeting, a look of + almost plaintive good-will: the kind of look that Millner scorned and yet + could never quite resist. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Millner? Are you—er—waiting?” the lad asked, with an + intention of serviceableness that was like a finer echo of his father’s + resounding cordiality. + </p> + <p> + “For my motor? No,” Millner jested in his frank free voice. “The fact is, + I was just standing here lost in the contemplation of my luck”—and + as his companion’s pale blue eyes seemed to shape a question, “my + extraordinary luck,” he explained, “in having been engaged as your + father’s secretary.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” the other rejoined, with a faint colour in his sallow cheek. “I’m so + glad,” he murmured: “but I was sure—” He stopped, and the two looked + kindly at each other. + </p> + <p> + Millner averted his gaze first, almost fearful of its betraying the added + sense of his own strength and dexterity which he drew from the contrast of + the other’s frailness. + </p> + <p> + “Sure? How could any one be sure? I don’t believe in it yet!” he laughed + out in the irony of his triumph. + </p> + <p> + The boy’s words did not sound like a mere civility—Millner felt in + them an homage to his power. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes: I was sure,” young Draper repeated. “Sure as soon as I saw you, + I mean.” + </p> + <p> + Millner tingled again with this tribute to his physical straightness and + bloom. Yes, he looked his part, hang it—he looked it! + </p> + <p> + But his companion still lingered, a shy sociability in his eye. + </p> + <p> + “If you’re walking, then, can I go along a little way?” And he nodded + southward down the shabby gaudy avenue. + </p> + <p> + That, again, was part of the high comedy of the hour—that Millner + should descend the Spence steps at young Spence’s side, and stroll down + Fifth Avenue with him at the proudest moment of the afternoon; O. G. + Spence’s secretary walking abroad with O. G. Spence’s heir! He had the + scientific detachment to pull out his watch and furtively note the hour. + Yes—it was exactly forty minutes since he had rung the Spence + door-bell and handed his card to a gelid footman, who, openly sceptical of + his claim to be received, had left him unceremoniously planted on the cold + tessellations of the vestibule. + </p> + <p> + “Some day,” Miller grinned to himself, “I think I’ll take that footman as + furnace-man—or to do the boots.” And he pictured his marble palace + rising from the earth to form the mausoleum of a footman’s pride. + </p> + <p> + Only forty minutes ago! And now he had his opportunity fast! And he never + meant to let it go! It was incredible, what had happened in the interval. + He had gone up the Spence steps an unknown young man, out of a job, and + with no substantial hope of getting into one: a needy young man with a + mother and two limp sisters to be helped, and a lengthening figure of debt + that stood by his bed through the anxious nights. And he went down the + steps with his present assured, and his future lit by the hues of the + rainbow above the pot of gold. Certainly a fellow who made his way at that + rate had it “in him,” and could afford to trust his star. + </p> + <p> + Descending from this joyous flight he stooped his ear to the discourse of + young Spence. + </p> + <p> + “My father’ll work you rather hard, you know: but you look as if you + wouldn’t mind that.” + </p> + <p> + Millner pulled up his inches with the self-consciousness of the man who + had none to waste. “Oh, no, I shan’t mind that: I don’t mind any amount of + work if it leads to something.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so,” Draper Spence assented eagerly. “That’s what I feel. And you’ll + find that whatever my father undertakes leads to such awfully fine + things.” + </p> + <p> + Millner tightened his lips on a grin. He was thinking only of where the + work would lead him, not in the least of where it might land the eminent + Orlando G. Spence. But he looked at his companion sympathetically. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a philanthropist like your father, I see?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know.” They had paused at a crossing, and young Draper, with + a dubious air, stood striking his agate-headed stick against the + curb-stone. “I believe in a purpose, don’t you?” he asked, lifting his + blue eyes suddenly to Millner’s face. + </p> + <p> + “A purpose? I should rather say so! I believe in nothing else,” cried + Millner, feeling as if his were something he could grip in his hand and + swing like a club. + </p> + <p> + Young Spence seemed relieved. “Yes—I tie up to that. There <i>is</i> + a Purpose. And so, after all, even if I don’t agree with my father on + minor points ...” He coloured quickly, and looked again at Millner. “I + should like to talk to you about this some day.” + </p> + <p> + Millner smothered another smile. “We’ll have lots of talks, I hope.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you can spare the time—!” said Draper, almost humbly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I shall be there on tap!” + </p> + <p> + “For father, not me.” Draper hesitated, with another self-confessing + smile. “Father thinks I talk too much—that I keep going in and out + of things. He doesn’t believe in analyzing: he thinks it’s destructive. + But it hasn’t destroyed my ideals.” He looked wistfully up and down the + clanging street. “And that’s the main thing, isn’t it? I mean, that one + should have an Ideal.” He turned back almost gaily to Millner. “I suspect + you’re a revolutionist too!” + </p> + <p> + “Revolutionist? Rather! I belong to the Red Syndicate and the Black Hand!” + Millner joyfully assented. + </p> + <p> + Young Draper chuckled at the enormity of the joke. “First rate! We’ll have + incendiary meetings!” He pulled an elaborately armorial watch from his + enfolding furs. “I’m so sorry, but I must say good-bye—this is my + street,” he explained. Millner, with a faint twinge of envy, glanced + across at the colonnaded marble edifice in the farther corner. “Going to + the club?” he said carelessly. + </p> + <p> + His companion looked surprised. “Oh, no: I never go <i>there</i>. It’s too + boring.” And he brought out, after one of the pauses in which he seemed + rather breathlessly to measure the chances of his listener’s indulgence: + “I’m just going over to a little Bible Class I have in Tenth Avenue.” + </p> + <p> + Millner, for a moment or two, stood watching the slim figure wind its way + through the mass of vehicles to the opposite corner; then he pursued his + own course down Fifth Avenue, measuring his steps to the rhythmic refrain: + “It’s too easy—it’s too easy—it’s too easy!” + </p> + <p> + His own destination being the small shabby flat off University Place where + three tender females awaited the result of his mission, he had time, on + the way home, after abandoning himself to a general sense of triumph, to + dwell specifically on the various aspects of his achievement. Viewed + materially and practically, it was a thing to be proud of; yet it was + chiefly on aesthetic grounds—because he had done so exactly what he + had set out to do—that he glowed with pride at the afternoon’s work. + For, after all, any young man with the proper “pull” might have applied to + Orlando G. Spence for the post of secretary, and even have penetrated as + far as the great man’s study; but that he, Hugh Millner, should not only + have forced his way to this fastness, but have established, within a short + half hour, his right to remain there permanently: well, this, if it proved + anything, proved that the first rule of success was to know how to live up + to one’s principles. + </p> + <p> + “One must have a plan—one must have a plan,” the young man murmured, + looking with pity at the vague faces which the crowd bore past him, and + feeling almost impelled to detain them and expound his doctrine. But the + planlessness of average human nature was of course the measure of his + opportunity; and he smiled to think that every purposeless face he met was + a guarantee of his own advancement, a rung in the ladder he meant to + climb. + </p> + <p> + Yes, the whole secret of success was to know what one wanted to do, and + not to be afraid to do it. His own history was proving that already. He + had not been afraid to give up his small but safe position in a + real-estate office for the precarious adventure of a private + secretaryship; and his first glimpse of his new employer had convinced him + that he had not mistaken his calling. When one has a “way” with one—as, + in all modesty, Millner knew he had—not to utilize it is a stupid + waste of force. And when he had learned that Orlando G. Spence was in + search of a private secretary who should be able to give him intelligent + assistance in the execution of his philanthropic schemes, the young man + felt that his hour had come. It was no part of his plan to associate + himself with one of the masters of finance: he had a notion that minnows + who go to a whale to learn how to grow bigger are likely to be swallowed + in the process. The opportunity of a clever young man with a cool head and + no prejudices (this again was drawn from life) lay rather in making + himself indispensable to one of the beneficent rich, and in using the + timidities and conformities of his patron as the means of his scruples + about formulating these principles to himself. It was not for nothing + that, in his college days, he had hunted the hypothetical “moral sense” to + its lair, and dragged from their concealment the various self-advancing + sentiments dissembled under its edifying guise. His strength lay in his + precocious insight into the springs of action, and in his refusal to + classify them according to the accepted moral and social sanctions. He had + to the full the courage of his lack of convictions. + </p> + <p> + To a young man so untrammelled by prejudice it was self-evident that + helpless philanthropists like Orlando G. Spence were just as much the + natural diet of the strong as the lamb is of the wolf. It was pleasanter + to eat than to be eaten, in a world where, as yet, there seemed to be no + third alternative; and any scruples one might feel as to the temporary + discomfort of one’s victim were speedily dispelled by that larger + scientific view which took into account the social destructiveness of the + benevolent. Millner was persuaded that every individual woe mitigated by + the philanthropy of Orlando G. Spence added just so much to the sum-total + of human inefficiency, and it was one of his favourite subjects of + speculation to picture the innumerable social evils that may follow upon + the rescue of one infant from Mount Taygetus. + </p> + <p> + “We’re all born to prey on each other, and pity for suffering is one of + the most elementary stages of egotism. Until one has passed beyond, and + acquired a taste for the more complex forms of the instinct—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped suddenly, checked in his advance by a sallow wisp of a dog + which had plunged through the press of vehicles to hurl itself between his + legs. Millner did not dislike animals, though he preferred that they + should be healthy and handsome. The dog under his feet was neither. Its + cringing contour showed an injudicious mingling of races, and its meagre + coat betrayed the deplorable habit of sleeping in coal-holes and + subsisting on an innutritious diet. In addition to these physical + disadvantages, its shrinking and inconsequent movements revealed a + congenital weakness of character which, even under more favourable + conditions, would hardly have qualified it to become a useful member of + society; and Millner was not sorry to notice that it moved with a limp of + the hind leg that probably doomed it to speedy extinction. + </p> + <p> + The absurdity of such an animal’s attempting to cross Fifth Avenue at the + most crowded hour of the afternoon struck him as only less great than the + irony of its having been permitted to achieve the feat; and he stood a + moment looking at it, and wondering what had moved it to the attempt. It + was really a perfect type of the human derelict which Orlando G. Spence + and his kind were devoting their millions to perpetuate, and he reflected + how much better Nature knew her business in dealing with the superfluous + quadruped. + </p> + <p> + An elderly lady advancing in the opposite direction evidently took a less + dispassionate view of the case, for she paused to remark emotionally: “Oh, + you poor thing!” while she stooped to caress the object of her sympathy. + The dog, with characteristic lack of discrimination, viewed her gesture + with suspicion, and met it with a snarl. The lady turned pale and shrank + away, a chivalrous male repelled the animal with his umbrella, and two + idle boys backed his action by a vigorous “Hi!” The object of these + hostile demonstrations, apparently attributing them not to its own + unsocial conduct, but merely to the chronic animosity of the universe, + dashed wildly around the corner into a side street, and as it did so + Millner noticed that the lame leg left a little trail of blood. + Irresistibly, he turned the corner to see what would happen next. It was + deplorably clear that the animal itself had no plan; but after several + inconsequent and contradictory movements it plunged down an area, where it + backed up against the iron gate, forlornly and foolishly at bay. + </p> + <p> + Millner, still following, looked down at it, and wondered. Then he + whistled, just to see if it would come; but this only caused it to start + up on its quivering legs, with desperate turns of the head that measured + the chances of escape. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang it, you poor devil, stay there if you like!” the young man + murmured, walking away. + </p> + <p> + A few yards off he looked back, and saw that the dog had made a rush out + of the area and was limping furtively down the street. The idle boys were + in the offing, and he disliked the thought of leaving them in control of + the situation. Softly, with infinite precautions, he began to follow the + dog. He did not know why he was doing it, but the impulse was + overmastering. For a moment he seemed to be gaining upon his quarry, but + with a cunning sense of his approach it suddenly turned and hobbled across + the frozen grass-plot adjoining a shuttered house. Against the wall at the + back of the plot it cowered down in a dirty snow-drift, as if disheartened + by the struggle. Millner stood outside the railings and looked at it. He + reflected that under the shelter of the winter dusk it might have the luck + to remain there unmolested, and that in the morning it would probably be + dead of cold. This was so obviously the best solution that he began to + move away again; but as he did so the idle boys confronted him. + </p> + <p> + “Ketch yer dog for yer, boss?” they grinned. + </p> + <p> + Millner consigned them to the devil, and stood sternly watching them till + the first stage of the journey had carried them around the nearest corner; + then, after pausing to look once more up and down the empty street, laid + his hand on the railing, and vaulted over it into the grass-plot. As he + did so, he reflected that, since pity for suffering was one of the most + elementary forms of egotism, he ought to have remembered that it was + necessarily one of the most tenacious. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + “My chief aim in life?” Orlando G. Spence repeated. He threw himself back + in his chair, straightened the tortoise-shell <i>pince-nez</i>, on his + short blunt nose, and beamed down the luncheon table at the two young men + who shared his repast. + </p> + <p> + His glance rested on his son Draper, seated opposite him behind a barrier + of Georgian silver and orchids; but his words were addressed to his + secretary who, stylograph in hand, had turned from the seductions of a + mushroom <i>souffle</i> in order to jot down, for the Sunday <i>Investigator</i>, + an outline of his employer’s views and intentions respecting the newly + endowed Orlando G. Spence College for Missionaries. It was Mr. Spence’s + practice to receive in person the journalists privileged to impart his + opinions to a waiting world; but during the last few months—and + especially since the vast project of the Missionary College had been in + process of development—the pressure of business and beneficence had + necessitated Millner’s frequent intervention, and compelled the secretary + to snatch the sense of his patron’s elucubrations between the courses of + their hasty meals. + </p> + <p> + Young Millner had a healthy appetite, and it was not one of his least + sacrifices to be so often obliged to curb it in the interest of his + advancement; but whenever he waved aside one of the triumphs of Mr. + Spence’s <i>chef</i> he was conscious of rising a step in his employer’s + favour. Mr. Spence did not despise the pleasures of the table, though he + appeared to regard them as the reward of success rather than as the + alleviation of effort; and it increased his sense of his secretary’s merit + to note how keenly the young man enjoyed the fare which he was so + frequently obliged to deny himself. Draper, having subsisted since infancy + on a diet of truffles and terrapin, consumed such delicacies with the + insensibility of a traveller swallowing a railway sandwich; but Millner + never made the mistake of concealing from Mr. Spence his sense of what he + was losing when duty constrained him to exchange the fork for the pen. + </p> + <p> + “My chief aim in life!” Mr. Spence repeated, removing his eye-glass and + swinging it thoughtfully on his finger. (“I’m sorry you should miss this + <i>souffle</i>, Millner: it’s worth while.) Why, I suppose I might say + that my chief aim in life is to leave the world better than I found it. + Yes: I don’t know that I could put it better than that. To leave the world + better than I found it. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to use that as a + head-line. <i>‘Wants to leave the world better than he found it.‘</i> It’s + exactly the point I should like to make in this talk about the College.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence paused, and his glance once more reverted to his son, who, + having pushed aside his plate, sat watching Millner with a dreamy + intensity. + </p> + <p> + “And it’s the point I want to make with you, too, Draper,” his father + continued genially, while he turned over with a critical fork the plump + and perfectly matched asparagus which a footman was presenting to his + notice. “I want to make you feel that nothing else counts in comparison + with that—no amount of literary success or intellectual celebrity.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I <i>do</i> feel that,” Draper murmured, with one of his quick + blushes, and a glance that wavered between his father and Millner. The + secretary kept his eyes on his notes, and young Spence continued, after a + pause: “Only the thing is—isn’t it?—to try and find out just + what <i>does</i> make the world better?” + </p> + <p> + “To <i>try</i> to find out?” his father echoed compassionately. “It’s not + necessary to try very hard. Goodness is what makes the world better.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, of course,” his son nervously interposed; “but the question is, + what <i>is</i> good—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence, with a darkening brow, brought his fist down emphatically on + the damask. “I’ll thank you not to blaspheme, my son!” + </p> + <p> + Draper’s head reared itself a trifle higher on his thin neck. “I was not + going to blaspheme; only there may be different ways—” + </p> + <p> + “There’s where you’re mistaken, Draper. There’s only one way: there’s my + way,” said Mr. Spence in a tone of unshaken conviction. + </p> + <p> + “I know, father; I see what you mean. But don’t you see that even your way + wouldn’t be the right way for you if you ceased to believe that it was?” + </p> + <p> + His father looked at him with mingled bewilderment and reprobation. “Do + you mean to say that the fact of goodness depends on my conception of it, + and not on God Almighty’s?” + </p> + <p> + “I do ... yes ... in a specific sense ...” young Draper falteringly + maintained; and Mr. Spence turned with a discouraged gesture toward his + secretary’s suspended pen. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand your scientific jargon, Draper; and I don’t want to.—What’s + the next point, Millner? (No; no <i>savarin</i>. Bring the fruit—and + the coffee with it.)” + </p> + <p> + Millner, keenly aware that an aromatic <i>savarin au rhum</i> was + describing an arc behind his head previous to being rushed back to the + pantry under young Draper’s indifferent eye, stiffened himself against + this last assault of the enemy, and read out firmly: “<i> What relation do + you consider that a man’s business conduct should bear to his religious + and domestic life?</i>” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence mused a moment. “Why, that’s a stupid question. It goes over + the same ground as the other one. A man ought to do good with his money—that’s + all. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + At this point the butler’s murmur in his ear caused him to push back his + chair, and to arrest Millner’s interrogatory by a rapid gesture. “Yes; I’m + coming. Hold the wire.” Mr. Spence rose and plunged into the adjoining + “office,” where a telephone and a Remington divided the attention of a + young lady in spectacles who was preparing for Zenana work in the East. + </p> + <p> + As the door closed, the butler, having placed the coffee and liqueurs on + the table, withdrew in the rear of his battalion, and the two young men + were left alone beneath the Rembrandts and Hobbemas on the dining-room + walls. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s silence between them; then young Spence, leaning + across the table, said in the lowered tone of intimacy: “Why do you + suppose he dodged that last question?” + </p> + <p> + Millner, who had rapidly taken an opulent purple fig from the fruit-dish + nearest him, paused in surprise in the act of hurrying it to his lips. + </p> + <p> + “I mean,” Draper hastened on, “the question as to the relation between + business and private morality. It’s such an interesting one, and he’s just + the person who ought to tackle it.” + </p> + <p> + Millner, despatching the fig, glanced down at his notes. “I don’t think + your father meant to dodge the question.” + </p> + <p> + Young Draper continued to look at him intently. “You think he imagined + that his answer really covers the ground?” + </p> + <p> + “As much as it needs to be covered.” + </p> + <p> + The son of the house glanced away with a sigh. “You know things about him + that I don’t,” he said wistfully, but without a tinge of resentment in his + tone. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as to that—(may I give myself some coffee?)” Millner, in his + walk around the table to fill his cup, paused a moment to lay an + affectionate hand on Draper’s shoulder. “Perhaps I know him <i>better</i>, + in a sense: outsiders often get a more accurate focus.” + </p> + <p> + Draper considered this. “And your idea is that he acts on principles he + has never thought of testing or defining?” + </p> + <p> + Millner looked up quickly, and for an instant their glances crossed. “How + do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean: that he’s an inconscient instrument of goodness, as it were? A—a + sort of blindly beneficent force?” + </p> + <p> + The other smiled. “That’s not a bad definition. I know one thing about + him, at any rate: he’s awfully upset at your having chucked your Bible + Class.” + </p> + <p> + A shadow fell on young Spence’s candid brow. “I know. But what can I do + about it? That’s what I was thinking of when I tried to show him that + goodness, in a certain sense, is purely subjective: that one can’t do good + against one’s principles.” Again his glance appealed to Millner. “<i> You</i> + understand me, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Millner stirred his coffee in a silence not unclouded by perplexity. + “Theoretically, perhaps. It’s a pretty question, certainly. But I also + understand your father’s feeling that it hasn’t much to do with real life: + especially now that he’s got to make a speech in connection with the + founding of this Missionary College. He may think that any hint of + internecine strife will weaken his prestige. Mightn’t you have waited a + little longer?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I, when I might have been expected to take a part in this + performance? To talk, and say things I didn’t mean? That was exactly what + made me decide not to wait.” + </p> + <p> + The door opened and Mr. Spence re-entered the room. As he did so his son + rose abruptly as if to leave it. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you off to, Draper?” the banker asked. + </p> + <p> + “I’m in rather a hurry, sir—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence looked at his watch. “You can’t be in more of a hurry than I + am; and I’ve got seven minutes and a half.” He seated himself behind the + coffee—tray, lit a cigar, laid his watch on the table, and signed to + Draper to resume his place. “No, Millner, don’t you go; I want you both.” + He turned to the secretary. “You know that Draper’s given up his Bible + Class? I understand it’s not from the pressure of engagements—” Mr. + Spence’s narrow lips took an ironic curve under the straight-clipped + stubble of his moustache—“it’s on principle, he tells me. He’s <i>principled</i> + against doing good!” + </p> + <p> + Draper lifted a protesting hand. “It’s not exactly that, father—” + </p> + <p> + “I know: you’ll tell me it’s some scientific quibble that I don’t + understand. I’ve never had time to go in for intellectual hair-splitting. + I’ve found too many people down in the mire who needed a hand to pull them + out. A busy man has to take his choice between helping his fellow-men and + theorizing about them. I’ve preferred to help. (You might take that down + for the <i>Investigator</i>, Millner.) And I thank God I’ve never stopped + to ask what made me want to do good. I’ve just yielded to the impulse—that’s + all.” Mr. Spence turned back to his son. “Better men than either of us + have been satisfied with that creed, my son.” + </p> + <p> + Draper was silent, and Mr. Spence once more addressed himself to his + secretary. “Millner, you’re a reader: I’ve caught you at it. And I know + this boy talks to you. What have you got to say? Do you suppose a Bible + Class ever <i>hurt</i> anybody?” + </p> + <p> + Millner paused a moment, feeling all through his nervous system the + fateful tremor of the balance. “That’s what I was just trying to tell him, + sir—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah; you were? That’s good. Then I’ll only say one thing more. Your doing + what you’ve done at this particular moment hurts me more, Draper, than + your teaching the gospel of Jesus could possibly have hurt those young men + over in Tenth Avenue.” Mr. Spence arose and restored his watch to his + pocket. “I shall want you in twenty minutes, Millner.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed on him, and for a while the two young men sat silent + behind their cigar fumes. Then Draper Spence broke out, with a catch in + his throat: “That’s what I can’t bear, Millner, what I simply can’t <i>bear:</i> + to hurt him, to hurt his faith in <i>me!</i> It’s an awful responsibility, + isn’t it, to tamper with anybody’s faith in anything?” + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + THE twenty minutes prolonged themselves to forty, the forty to fifty, and + the fifty to an hour; and still Millner waited for Mr. Spence’s summons. + </p> + <p> + During the two years of his secretaryship the young man had learned the + significance of such postponements. Mr. Spence’s days were organized like + a railway time-table, and a delay of an hour implied a casualty as + far-reaching as the breaking down of an express. Of the cause of the + present derangement Hugh Millner was ignorant; and the experience of the + last months allowed him to fluctuate between conflicting conjectures. All + were based on the indisputable fact that Mr. Spence was “bothered”—had + for some time past been “bothered.” And it was one of Millner’s + discoveries that an extremely parsimonious use of the emotions underlay + Mr. Spence’s expansive manner and fraternal phraseology, and that he did + not throw away his feelings any more than (for all his philanthropy) he + threw away his money. If he was bothered, then, it could be only because a + careful survey of his situation had forced on him some unpleasant fact + with which he was not immediately prepared to deal; and any unpreparedness + on Mr. Spence’s part was also a significant symptom. + </p> + <p> + Obviously, Millner’s original conception of his employer’s character had + suffered extensive modification; but no final outline had replaced the + first conjectural image. The two years spent in Mr. Spence’s service had + produced too many contradictory impressions to be fitted into any definite + pattern; and the chief lesson Millner had learned from them was that life + was less of an exact science, and character a more incalculable element, + than he had been taught in the schools. In the light of this revised + impression, his own footing seemed less secure than he had imagined, and + the rungs of the ladder he was climbing more slippery than they had looked + from below. He was not without the reassuring sense of having made + himself, in certain small ways, necessary to Mr. Spence; and this + conviction was confirmed by Draper’s reiterated assurance of his father’s + appreciation. But Millner had begun to suspect that one might be necessary + to Mr. Spence one day, and a superfluity, if not an obstacle, the next; + and that it would take superhuman astuteness to foresee how and when the + change would occur. Every fluctuation of the great man’s mood was + therefore anxiously noted by the young meteorologist in his service; and + this observer’s vigilance was now strained to the utmost by the little + cloud, no bigger than a man’s hand, adumbrated by the banker’s + unpunctuality. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Spence finally appeared, his aspect did not tend to dissipate the + cloud. He wore what Millner had learned to call his “back-door face”: a + blank barred countenance, in which only an occasional twitch of the lids + behind his glasses suggested that some one was on the watch. In this mood + Mr. Spence usually seemed unconscious of his secretary’s presence, or + aware of it only as an arm terminating in a pen. Millner, accustomed on + such occasions to exist merely as a function, sat waiting for the click of + the spring that should set him in action; but the pressure not being + applied, he finally hazarded: “Are we to go on with the <i>Investigator</i>, + sir?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence, who had been pacing up and down between the desk and the + fireplace, threw himself into his usual seat at Millner’s elbow. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand this new notion of Draper’s,” he said abruptly. + “Where’s he got it from? No one ever learned irreligion in my household.” + </p> + <p> + He turned his eyes on Millner, who had the sense of being scrutinized + through a ground-glass window which left him visible while it concealed + his observer. The young man let his pen describe two or three vague + patterns on the blank sheet before him. + </p> + <p> + “Draper has ideas—” he risked at last. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence looked hard at him. “That’s all right,” he said. “I want my son + to have everything. But what’s the point of mixing up ideas and + principles? I’ve seen fellows who did that, and they were generally trying + to borrow five dollars to get away from the sheriff. What’s all this talk + about goodness? Goodness isn’t an idea. It’s a fact. It’s as solid as a + business proposition. And it’s Draper’s duty, as the son of a wealthy man, + and the prospective steward of a great fortune, to elevate the standards + of other young men—of young men who haven’t had his opportunities. + The rich ought to preach contentment, and to set the example themselves. + We have our cares, but we ought to conceal them. We ought to be cheerful, + and accept things as they are—not go about sowing dissent and + restlessness. What has Draper got to give these boys in his Bible Class, + that’s so much better than what he wants to take from them? That’s the + question I’d like to have answered?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence, carried away by his own eloquence, had removed his <i>pince-nez</i> + and was twirling it about his extended fore-finger with the gesture + habitual to him when he spoke in public. After a pause, he went on, with a + drop to the level of private intercourse: “I tell you this because I know + you have a good deal of influence with Draper. He has a high opinion of + your brains. But you’re a practical fellow, and you must see what I mean. + Try to make Draper see it. Make him understand how it looks to have him + drop his Bible Class just at this particular time. It was his own choice + to take up religious teaching among young men. He began with our + office-boys, and then the work spread and was blessed. I was almost + alarmed, at one time, at the way it took hold of him: when the papers + began to talk about him as a formative influence I was afraid he’d lose + his head and go into the church. Luckily he tried University Settlement + first; but just as I thought he was settling down to that, he took to + worrying about the Higher Criticism, and saying he couldn’t go on teaching + fairy-tales as history. I can’t see that any good ever came of criticizing + what our parents believed, and it’s a queer time for Draper to criticize + <i>my</i> belief just as I’m backing it to the extent of five millions.” + </p> + <p> + Millner remained silent; and, as though his silence were an argument, Mr. + Spence continued combatively: “Draper’s always talking about some + distinction between religion and morality. I don’t understand what he + means. I got my morals out of the Bible, and I guess there’s enough left + in it for Draper. If religion won’t make a man moral, I don’t see why + irreligion should. And he talks about using his mind—well, can’t he + use that in Wall Street? A man can get a good deal farther in life + watching the market than picking holes in Genesis; and he can do more good + too. There’s a time for everything; and Draper seems to me to have mixed + up week-days with Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence replaced his eye-glasses, and stretching his hand to the silver + box at his elbow, extracted from it one of the long cigars sheathed in + gold-leaf which were reserved for his private consumption. The secretary + hastened to tender him a match, and for a moment he puffed in silence. + When he spoke again it was in a different note. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got about all the bother I can handle just now, without this + nonsense of Draper’s. That was one of the Trustees of the College with me. + It seems the <i>Flashlight</i> has been trying to stir up a fuss—” + Mr. Spence paused, and turned his <i>pince-nez</i> on his secretary. “You + haven’t heard from them?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “From the <i>Flashlight?</i> No.” Millner’s surprise was genuine. + </p> + <p> + He detected a gleam of relief behind Mr. Spence’s glasses. “It may be just + malicious talk. That’s the worst of good works; they bring out all the + meanness in human nature. And then there are always women mixed up in + them, and there never was a woman yet who understood the difference + between philanthropy and business.” He drew again at his cigar, and then, + with an unwonted movement, leaned forward and mechanically pushed the box + toward Millner. “Help yourself,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Millner, as mechanically, took one of the virginally cinctured cigars, and + began to undo its wrappings. It was the first time he had ever been + privileged to detach that golden girdle, and nothing could have given him + a better measure of the importance of the situation, and of the degree to + which he was apparently involved in it. “You remember that San Pablo + rubber business? That’s what they’ve been raking up,” said Mr. Spence + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Millner paused in the act of striking a match. Then, with an appreciable + effort of the will, he completed the gesture, applied the flame to his + cigar, and took a long inhalation. The cigar was certainly delicious. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence, drawing a little closer, leaned forward and touched him on the + arm. The touch caused Millner to turn his head, and for an instant the + glance of the two men crossed at short range. Millner was conscious, + first, of a nearer view than he had ever had of his employer’s face, and + of its vaguely suggesting a seamed sandstone head, the kind of thing that + lies in a corner in the court of a museum, and in which only the round + enamelled eyes have resisted the wear of time. His next feeling was that + he had now reached the moment to which the offer of the cigar had been a + prelude. He had always known that, sooner or later, such a moment would + come; all his life, in a sense, had been a preparation for it. But in + entering Mr. Spence’s service he had not foreseen that it would present + itself in this form. He had seen himself consciously guiding that + gentleman up to the moment, rather than being thrust into it by a stronger + hand. And his first act of reflection was the resolve that, in the end, + his hand should prove the stronger of the two. This was followed, almost + immediately, by the idea that to be stronger than Mr. Spence’s it would + have to be very strong indeed. It was odd that he should feel this, since—as + far as verbal communication went—it was Mr. Spence who was asking + for his support. In a theoretical statement of the case the banker would + have figured as being at Millner’s mercy; but one of the queerest things + about experience was the way it made light of theory. Millner felt now as + though he were being crushed by some inexorable engine of which he had + been playing with the lever. ... + </p> + <p> + He had always been intensely interested in observing his own reactions, + and had regarded this faculty of self-detachment as of immense advantage + in such a career as he had planned. He felt this still, even in the act of + noting his own bewilderment—felt it the more in contrast to the odd + unconsciousness of Mr. Spence’s attitude, of the incredible candour of his + self-abasement and self-abandonment. It was clear that Mr. Spence was not + troubled by the repercussion of his actions in the consciousness of + others; and this looked like a weakness—unless it were, instead, a + great strength. ... + </p> + <p> + Through the hum of these swarming thoughts Mr. Spence’s voice was going + on. “That’s the only rag of proof they’ve got; and they got it by one of + those nasty accidents that nobody can guard against. I don’t care how + conscientiously a man attends to business, he can’t always protect himself + against meddlesome people. I don’t pretend to know how the letter came + into their hands; but they’ve got it; and they mean to use it—and + they mean to say that you wrote it for me, and that you knew what it was + about when you wrote it. ... They’ll probably be after you tomorrow—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence, restoring his cigar to his lips, puffed at it slowly. In the + pause that followed there was an instant during which the universe seemed + to Hugh Millner like a sounding-board bent above his single consciousness. + If he spoke, what thunders would be sent back to him from that intently + listening vastness? + </p> + <p> + “You see?” said Mr. Spence. + </p> + <p> + The universal ear bent closer, as if to catch the least articulation of + Millner’s narrowed lips; but when he opened them it was merely to + re-insert his cigar, and for a short space nothing passed between the two + men but an exchange of smoke-rings. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean to do? There’s the point,” Mr. Spence at length sent + through the rings. + </p> + <p> + Oh, yes, the point was there, as distinctly before Millner as the tip of + his expensive cigar: he had seen it coming quite as soon as Mr. Spence. He + knew that fate was handing him an ultimatum; but the sense of the + formidable echo which his least answer would rouse kept him doggedly, and + almost helplessly, silent. To let Mr. Spence talk on as long as possible + was no doubt the best way of gaining time; but Millner knew that his + silence was really due to his dread of the echo. Suddenly, however, in a + reaction of impatience at his own indecision, he began to speak. + </p> + <p> + The sound of his voice cleared his mind and strengthened his resolve. It + was odd how the word seemed to shape the act, though one knew how + ancillary it really was. As he talked, it was as if the globe had swung + around, and he himself were upright on its axis, with Mr. Spence + underneath, on his head. Through the ensuing interchange of concise and + rapid speech there sounded in Millner’s ears the refrain to which he had + walked down Fifth Avenue after his first talk with Mr. Spence: “It’s too + easy—it’s too easy—it’s too easy.” Yes, it was even easier + than he had expected. His sensation was that of the skilful carver who + feels his good blade sink into a tender joint. + </p> + <p> + As he went on talking, this surprised sense of mastery was like wine in + his veins. Mr. Spence was at his mercy, after all—that was what it + came to; but this new view of the case did not lessen Millner’s sense of + Mr. Spence’s strength, it merely revealed to him his own superiority. Mr. + Spence was even stronger than he had suspected. There could be no better + proof of that than his faith in Millner’s power to grasp the situation, + and his tacit recognition of the young man’s right to make the most of it. + Millner felt that Mr. Spence would have despised him even more for not + using his advantage than for not seeing it; and this homage to his + capacity nerved him to greater alertness, and made the concluding moments + of their talk as physically exhilarating as some hotly contested game. + </p> + <p> + When the conclusion was reached, and Millner stood at the goal, the golden + trophy in his grasp, his first conscious thought was one of regret that + the struggle was over. He would have liked to prolong their talk for the + purely aesthetic pleasure of making Mr. Spence lose time, and, better + still, of making him forget that he was losing it. The sense of advantage + that the situation conferred was so great that when Mr. Spence rose it was + as if Millner were dismissing him, and when he reached his hand toward the + cigar-box it seemed to be one of Millner’s cigars that he was taking. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + THERE had been only one condition attached to the transaction: Millner was + to speak to Draper about the Bible Class. + </p> + <p> + The condition was easy to fulfil. Millner was confident of his power to + deflect his young friend’s purpose; and he knew the opportunity would be + given him before the day was over. His professional duties despatched, he + had only to go up to his room to wait. Draper nearly always looked in on + him for a moment before dinner: it was the hour most propitious to their + elliptic interchange of words and silences. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, the waiting was an occupation in itself. Millner looked about + his room with new eyes. Since the first thrill of initiation into its + complicated comforts—the shower-bath, the telephone, the + many-jointed reading-lamp and the vast mirrored presses through which he + was always hunting his scant outfit—Millner’s room had interested + him no more than a railway-carriage in which he might have been + travelling. But now it had acquired a sort of historic significance as the + witness of the astounding change in his fate. It was Corsica, it was + Brienne—it was the kind of spot that posterity might yet mark with a + tablet. Then he reflected that he should soon be leaving it, and the + lustre of its monumental mahogany was veiled in pathos. Why indeed should + he linger on in bondage? He perceived with a certain surprise that the + only thing he should regret would be leaving Draper. ... + </p> + <p> + It was odd, it was inconsequent, it was almost exasperating, that such a + regret should obscure his triumph. Why in the world should he suddenly + take to regretting Draper? If there were any logic in human likings, it + should be to Mr. Spence that he inclined. Draper, dear lad, had the + illusion of an “intellectual sympathy” between them; but that, Millner + knew, was an affair of reading and not of character. Draper’s temerities + would always be of that kind; whereas his own—well, his own, put to + the proof, had now definitely classed him with Mr. Spence rather than with + Mr. Spence’s son. It was a consequence of this new condition—of his + having thus distinctly and irrevocably classed himself—that, when + Draper at length brought upon the scene his shy shamble and his wistful + smile, Millner, for the first time, had to steel himself against them + instead of yielding to their charm. + </p> + <p> + In the new order upon which he had entered, one principle of the old + survived: the point of honour between allies. And Millner had promised Mr. + Spence to speak to Draper about his Bible Class. ... + </p> + <p> + Draper, thrown back in his chair, and swinging a loose leg across a meagre + knee, listened with his habitual gravity. His downcast eyes seemed to + pursue the vision which Millner’s words evoked; and the words, to their + speaker, took on a new sound as that candid consciousness refracted them. + </p> + <p> + “You know, dear boy, I perfectly see your father’s point. It’s naturally + distressing to him, at this particular time, to have any hint of civil war + leak out—” + </p> + <p> + Draper sat upright, laying his lank legs knee to knee. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it, then? I thought that was it!” + </p> + <p> + Millner raised a surprised glance. “<i> What’s</i> it?” + </p> + <p> + “That it should be at this particular time—” + </p> + <p> + “Why, naturally, as I say! Just as he’s making, as it were, his public + profession of faith. You know, to men like your father convictions are + irreducible elements—they can’t be split up, and differently + combined. And your exegetical scruples seem to him to strike at the very + root of his convictions.” + </p> + <p> + Draper pulled himself to his feet and shuffled across the room. Then he + turned about, and stood before his friend. + </p> + <p> + “Is it that—or is it this?” he said; and with the word he drew a + letter from his pocket and proffered it silently to Millner. + </p> + <p> + The latter, as he unfolded it, was first aware of an intense surprise at + the young man’s abruptness of tone and gesture. Usually Draper fluttered + long about his point before making it; and his sudden movement seemed as + mechanical as the impulsion conveyed by some strong spring. The spring, of + course, was in the letter; and to it Millner turned his startled glance, + feeling the while that, by some curious cleavage of perception, he was + continuing to watch Draper while he read. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the beasts!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + He and Draper were face to face across the sheet which had dropped between + them. The youth’s features were tightened by a smile that was like the + ligature of a wound. He looked white and withered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah—you knew, then?” + </p> + <p> + Millner sat still, and after a moment Draper turned from him, walked to + the hearth, and leaned against the chimney, propping his chin on his + hands. Millner, his head thrown back, stared up at the ceiling, which had + suddenly become to him the image of the universal sounding-board hanging + over his consciousness. + </p> + <p> + “You knew, then?” Draper repeated. + </p> + <p> + Millner remained silent. He had perceived, with the surprise of a + mathematician working out a new problem, that the lie which Mr. Spence had + just bought of him was exactly the one gift he could give of his own free + will to Mr. Spence’s son. This discovery gave the world a strange new + topsy-turvyness, and set Millner’s theories spinning about his brain like + the cabin furniture of a tossing ship. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>knew</i>,” said Draper, in a tone of quiet affirmation. + </p> + <p> + Millner righted himself, and grasped the arms of his chair as if that too + were reeling. “About this blackguardly charge?” + </p> + <p> + Draper was studying him intently. “What does it matter if it’s + blackguardly?” + </p> + <p> + “Matter—?” Millner stammered. + </p> + <p> + “It’s that, of course, in any case. But the point is whether it’s true or + not.” Draper bent down, and picking up the crumpled letter, smoothed it + out between his fingers. “The point, is, whether my father, when he was + publicly denouncing the peonage abuses on the San Pablo plantations over a + year ago, had actually sold out his stock, as he announced at the time; or + whether, as they say here—how do they put it?—he had simply + transferred it to a dummy till the scandal should blow over, and has + meanwhile gone on drawing his forty per cent interest on five thousand + shares? There’s the point.” + </p> + <p> + Millner had never before heard his young friend put a case with such + unadorned precision. His language was like that of Mr. Spence making a + statement to a committee meeting; and the resemblance to his father + flashed out with ironic incongruity. + </p> + <p> + “You see why I’ve brought this letter to you—I couldn’t go to <i>him</i> + with it!” Draper’s voice faltered, and the resemblance vanished as + suddenly as it had appeared. + </p> + <p> + “No; you couldn’t go to him with it,” said Millner slowly. + </p> + <p> + “And since they say here that <i>you</i> know: that they’ve got your + letter proving it—” The muscles of Draper’s face quivered as if a + blinding light had been swept over it. “For God’s sake, Millner—it’s + all right?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right,” said Millner, rising to his feet. + </p> + <p> + Draper caught him by the wrist. “You’re sure—you’re absolutely + sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure. They know they’ve got nothing to go on.” + </p> + <p> + Draper fell back a step and looked almost sternly at his friend. “You know + that’s not what I mean. I don’t care a straw what they think they’ve got + to go on. I want to know if my father’s all right. If he is, they can say + what they please.” + </p> + <p> + Millner, again, felt himself under the concentrated scrutiny of the + ceiling. “Of course, of course. I understand.” + </p> + <p> + “You understand? Then why don’t you answer?” + </p> + <p> + Millner looked compassionately at the boy’s struggling face. Decidedly, + the battle was to the strong, and he was not sorry to be on the side of + the legions. But Draper’s pain was as awkward as a material obstacle, as + something that one stumbled over in a race. + </p> + <p> + “You know what I’m driving at, Millner.” Again Mr. Spence’s + committee-meeting tone sounded oddly through his son’s strained voice. “If + my father’s so awfully upset about my giving up my Bible Class, and + letting it be known that I do so on conscientious grounds, is it because + he’s afraid it may be considered a criticism on something <i>he</i> has + done which—which won’t bear the test of the doctrines he believes + in?” + </p> + <p> + Draper, with the last question, squared himself in front of Millner, as if + suspecting that the latter meant to evade it by flight. But Millner had + never felt more disposed to stand his ground than at that moment. + </p> + <p> + “No—by Jove, no! It’s not <i>that</i>.” His relief almost escaped + him in a cry, as he lifted his head to give back Draper’s look. + </p> + <p> + “On your honour?” the other passionately pressed him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, on anybody’s you like—on <i>yours!</i>” Millner could hardly + restrain a laugh of relief. It was vertiginous to find himself spared, + after all, the need of an altruistic lie: he perceived that they were the + kind he least liked. + </p> + <p> + Draper took a deep breath. “You don’t—Millner, a lot depends on this—you + don’t really think my father has any ulterior motive?” + </p> + <p> + “I think he has none but his horror of seeing you go straight to + perdition!” + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other again, and Draper’s tension was suddenly + relieved by a free boyish laugh. “It’s his convictions—it’s just his + funny old convictions?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s that, and nothing else on earth!” + </p> + <p> + Draper turned back to the arm-chair he had left, and let his narrow figure + sink down into it as into a bath. Then he looked over at Millner with a + smile. “I can see that I’ve been worrying him horribly. So he really + thinks I’m on the road to perdition? Of course you can fancy what a sick + minute I had when I thought it might be this other reason—the + damnable insinuation in this letter.” Draper crumpled the paper in his + hand, and leaned forward to toss it into the coals of the grate. “I ought + to have known better, of course. I ought to have remembered that, as you + say, my father can’t conceive how conduct may be independent of creed. + That’s where I was stupid—and rather base. But that letter made me + dizzy—I couldn’t think. Even now I can’t very clearly. I’m not sure + what <i>my</i> convictions require of me: they seem to me so much less to + be considered than his! When I’ve done half the good to people that he + has, it will be time enough to begin attacking their beliefs. Meanwhile—meanwhile + I can’t touch his. ...” Draper leaned forward, stretching his lank arms + along his knees. His face was as clear as a spring sky. “I <i>won’t</i> + touch them, Millner—Go and tell him so. ...” + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + In the study a half hour later Mr. Spence, watch in hand, was doling out + his minutes again. The peril conjured, he had recovered his dominion over + time. He turned his commanding eye-glasses on Millner. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all settled, then? Tell Draper I’m sorry not to see him again + to-night—but I’m to speak at the dinner of the Legal Relief + Association, and I’m due there in five minutes. You and he dine alone + here, I suppose? Tell him I appreciate what he’s done. Some day he’ll see + that to leave the world better than we find it is the best we can hope to + do. (You’ve finished the notes for the <i>Investigator?</i> Be sure you + don’t forget that phrase.) Well, good evening: that’s all, I think.” + </p> + <p> + Smooth and compact in his glossy evening clothes, Mr. Spence advanced + toward the study door; but as he reached it, his secretary stood there + before him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not quite all, Mr. Spence.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence turned on him a look in which impatience was faintly tinged + with apprehension. “What else is there? It’s two and a half minutes to + eight.” + </p> + <p> + Millner stood his ground. “It won’t take longer than that. I want to tell + you that, if you can conveniently replace me, I’d like—there are + reasons why I shall have to leave you.” + </p> + <p> + Millner was conscious of reddening as he spoke. His redness deepened under + Mr. Spence’s dispassionate scrutiny. He saw at once that the banker was + not surprised at his announcement. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose that’s natural enough. You’ll want to make a start for + yourself now. Only, of course, for the sake of appearances—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly,” Millner hastily agreed. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then: is that all?” Mr. Spence repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Nearly.” Millner paused, as if in search of an appropriate formula. But + after a moment he gave up the search, and pulled from his pocket an + envelope which he held out to his employer. “I merely want to give this + back.” + </p> + <p> + The hand which Mr. Spence had extended dropped to his side, and his + sand-coloured face grew chalky. “Give it back?” His voice was as thick as + Millner’s. “What’s happened? Is the bargain off?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. I’ve given you my word.” + </p> + <p> + “Your word?” Mr. Spence lowered at him. “I’d like to know what that’s + worth!” + </p> + <p> + Millner continued to hold out the envelope. “You do know, now. It’s worth + <i>that</i>. It’s worth my place.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence, standing motionless before him, hesitated for an appreciable + space of time. His lips parted once or twice under their square-clipped + stubble, and at last emitted: “How much more do you want?” + </p> + <p> + Millner broke into a laugh. “Oh, I’ve got all I want—all and more!” + </p> + <p> + “What—from the others? Are you crazy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, you are,” said Millner with a sudden recovery of composure. “But + you’re safe—you’re as safe as you’ll ever be. Only I don’t care to + take this for making you so.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Spence slowly moistened his lips with his tongue, and removing his <i>pince-nez</i>, + took a long hard look at Millner. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand. What other guarantee have I got?” + </p> + <p> + “That I mean what I say?” Millner glanced past the banker’s figure at his + rich densely coloured background of Spanish leather and mahogany. He + remembered that it was from this very threshold that he had first seen Mr. + Spence’s son. + </p> + <p> + “What guarantee? You’ve got Draper!” he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AFTERWARD + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + “Oh, there <i>is</i> one, of course, but you’ll never know it.” + </p> + <p> + The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June + garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharp perception of its latent + significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to + be brought into the library. + </p> + <p> + The words had been spoken by their friend Alida Stair, as they sat at tea + on her lawn at Pangbourne, in reference to the very house of which the + library in question was the central, the pivotal “feature.” Mary Boyne and + her husband, in quest of a country place in one of the southern or + southwestern counties, had, on their arrival in England, carried their + problem straight to Alida Stair, who had successfully solved it in her own + case; but it was not until they had rejected, almost capriciously, several + practical and judicious suggestions that she threw it out: “Well, there’s + Lyng, in Dorsetshire. It belongs to Hugo’s cousins, and you can get it for + a song.” + </p> + <p> + The reasons she gave for its being obtainable on these terms—its + remoteness from a station, its lack of electric light, hot-water pipes, + and other vulgar necessities—were exactly those pleading in its + favor with two romantic Americans perversely in search of the economic + drawbacks which were associated, in their tradition, with unusual + architectural felicities. + </p> + <p> + “I should never believe I was living in an old house unless I was + thoroughly uncomfortable,” Ned Boyne, the more extravagant of the two, had + jocosely insisted; “the least hint of ‘convenience’ would make me think it + had been bought out of an exhibition, with the pieces numbered, and set up + again.” And they had proceeded to enumerate, with humorous precision, + their various suspicions and exactions, refusing to believe that the house + their cousin recommended was <i>really</i> Tudor till they learned it had + no heating system, or that the village church was literally in the grounds + till she assured them of the deplorable uncertainty of the water-supply. + </p> + <p> + “It’s too uncomfortable to be true!” Edward Boyne had continued to exult + as the avowal of each disadvantage was successively wrung from her; but he + had cut short his rhapsody to ask, with a sudden relapse to distrust: “And + the ghost? You’ve been concealing from us the fact that there is no + ghost!” + </p> + <p> + Mary, at the moment, had laughed with him, yet almost with her laugh, + being possessed of several sets of independent perceptions, had noted a + sudden flatness of tone in Alida’s answering hilarity. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dorsetshire’s full of ghosts, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes; but that won’t do. I don’t want to have to drive ten miles to + see somebody else’s ghost. I want one of my own on the premises. <i>Is</i> + there a ghost at Lyng?” + </p> + <p> + His rejoinder had made Alida laugh again, and it was then that she had + flung back tantalizingly: “Oh, there <i>is</i> one, of course, but you’ll + never know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Never know it?” Boyne pulled her up. “But what in the world constitutes a + ghost except the fact of its being known for one?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say. But that’s the story.” + </p> + <p> + “That there’s a ghost, but that nobody knows it’s a ghost?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—not till afterward, at any rate.” + </p> + <p> + “Till afterward?” + </p> + <p> + “Not till long, long afterward.” + </p> + <p> + “But if it’s once been identified as an unearthly visitant, why hasn’t its + <i>signalement</i> been handed down in the family? How has it managed to + preserve its incognito?” + </p> + <p> + Alida could only shake her head. “Don’t ask me. But it has.” + </p> + <p> + “And then suddenly—” Mary spoke up as if from some cavernous depth + of divination—“suddenly, long afterward, one says to one’s self, <i>‘That + was</i> it?’” + </p> + <p> + She was oddly startled at the sepulchral sound with which her question + fell on the banter of the other two, and she saw the shadow of the same + surprise flit across Alida’s clear pupils. “I suppose so. One just has to + wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hang waiting!” Ned broke in. “Life’s too short for a ghost who can + only be enjoyed in retrospect. Can’t we do better than that, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + But it turned out that in the event they were not destined to, for within + three months of their conversation with Mrs. Stair they were established + at Lyng, and the life they had yearned for to the point of planning it out + in all its daily details had actually begun for them. + </p> + <p> + It was to sit, in the thick December dusk, by just such a wide-hooded + fireplace, under just such black oak rafters, with the sense that beyond + the mullioned panes the downs were darkening to a deeper solitude: it was + for the ultimate indulgence in such sensations that Mary Boyne had endured + for nearly fourteen years the soul-deadening ugliness of the Middle West, + and that Boyne had ground on doggedly at his engineering till, with a + suddenness that still made her blink, the prodigious windfall of the Blue + Star Mine had put them at a stroke in possession of life and the leisure + to taste it. They had never for a moment meant their new state to be one + of idleness; but they meant to give themselves only to harmonious + activities. She had her vision of painting and gardening (against a + background of gray walls), he dreamed of the production of his + long-planned book on the “Economic Basis of Culture”; and with such + absorbing work ahead no existence could be too sequestered; they could not + get far enough from the world, or plunge deep enough into the past. + </p> + <p> + Dorsetshire had attracted them from the first by a semblance of remoteness + out of all proportion to its geographical position. But to the Boynes it + was one of the ever-recurring wonders of the whole incredibly compressed + island—a nest of counties, as they put it—that for the + production of its effects so little of a given quality went so far: that + so few miles made a distance, and so short a distance a difference. + </p> + <p> + “It’s that,” Ned had once enthusiastically explained, “that gives such + depth to their effects, such relief to their least contrasts. They’ve been + able to lay the butter so thick on every exquisite mouthful.” + </p> + <p> + The butter had certainly been laid on thick at Lyng: the old gray house, + hidden under a shoulder of the downs, had almost all the finer marks of + commerce with a protracted past. The mere fact that it was neither large + nor exceptional made it, to the Boynes, abound the more richly in its + special sense—the sense of having been for centuries a deep, dim + reservoir of life. The life had probably not been of the most vivid order: + for long periods, no doubt, it had fallen as noiselessly into the past as + the quiet drizzle of autumn fell, hour after hour, into the green + fish-pond between the yews; but these back-waters of existence sometimes + breed, in their sluggish depths, strange acuities of emotion, and Mary + Boyne had felt from the first the occasional brush of an intenser memory. + </p> + <p> + The feeling had never been stronger than on the December afternoon when, + waiting in the library for the belated lamps, she rose from her seat and + stood among the shadows of the hearth. Her husband had gone off, after + luncheon, for one of his long tramps on the downs. She had noticed of late + that he preferred to be unaccompanied on these occasions; and, in the + tried security of their personal relations, had been driven to conclude + that his book was bothering him, and that he needed the afternoons to turn + over in solitude the problems left from the morning’s work. Certainly the + book was not going as smoothly as she had imagined it would, and the lines + of perplexity between his eyes had never been there in his engineering + days. Then he had often looked fagged to the verge of illness, but the + native demon of “worry” had never branded his brow. Yet the few pages he + had so far read to her—the introduction, and a synopsis of the + opening chapter—gave evidences of a firm possession of his subject, + and a deepening confidence in his powers. + </p> + <p> + The fact threw her into deeper perplexity, since, now that he had done + with “business” and its disturbing contingencies, the one other possible + element of anxiety was eliminated. Unless it were his health, then? But + physically he had gained since they had come to Dorsetshire, grown + robuster, ruddier, and fresher-eyed. It was only within a week that she + had felt in him the undefinable change that made her restless in his + absence, and as tongue-tied in his presence as though it were <i>she</i> + who had a secret to keep from him! + </p> + <p> + The thought that there <i>was</i> a secret somewhere between them struck + her with a sudden smart rap of wonder, and she looked about her down the + dim, long room. + </p> + <p> + “Can it be the house?” she mused. + </p> + <p> + The room itself might have been full of secrets. They seemed to be piling + themselves up, as evening fell, like the layers and layers of velvet + shadow dropping from the low ceiling, the dusky walls of books, the + smoke-blurred sculpture of the hooded hearth. + </p> + <p> + “Why, of course—the house is haunted!” she reflected. + </p> + <p> + The ghost—Alida’s imperceptible ghost—after figuring largely + in the banter of their first month or two at Lyng, had been gradually + discarded as too ineffectual for imaginative use. Mary had, indeed, as + became the tenant of a haunted house, made the customary inquiries among + her few rural neighbors, but, beyond a vague, “They du say so, Ma’am,” the + villagers had nothing to impart. The elusive specter had apparently never + had sufficient identity for a legend to crystallize about it, and after a + time the Boynes had laughingly set the matter down to their + profit-and-loss account, agreeing that Lyng was one of the few houses good + enough in itself to dispense with supernatural enhancements. + </p> + <p> + “And I suppose, poor, ineffectual demon, that’s why it beats its beautiful + wings in vain in the void,” Mary had laughingly concluded. + </p> + <p> + “Or, rather,” Ned answered, in the same strain, “why, amid so much that’s + ghostly, it can never affirm its separate existence as <i>the</i> ghost.” + And thereupon their invisible housemate had finally dropped out of their + references, which were numerous enough to make them promptly unaware of + the loss. + </p> + <p> + Now, as she stood on the hearth, the subject of their earlier curiosity + revived in her with a new sense of its meaning—a sense gradually + acquired through close daily contact with the scene of the lurking + mystery. It was the house itself, of course, that possessed the + ghost-seeing faculty, that communed visually but secretly with its own + past; and if one could only get into close enough communion with the + house, one might surprise its secret, and acquire the ghost-sight on one’s + own account. Perhaps, in his long solitary hours in this very room, where + she never trespassed till the afternoon, her husband <i>had</i> acquired + it already, and was silently carrying the dread weight of whatever it had + revealed to him. Mary was too well-versed in the code of the spectral + world not to know that one could not talk about the ghosts one saw: to do + so was almost as great a breach of good-breeding as to name a lady in a + club. But this explanation did not really satisfy her. “What, after all, + except for the fun of the <i>frisson</i>,” she reflected, “would he really + care for any of their old ghosts?” And thence she was thrown back once + more on the fundamental dilemma: the fact that one’s greater or less + susceptibility to spectral influences had no particular bearing on the + case, since, when one <i>did</i> see a ghost at Lyng, one did not know it. + </p> + <p> + “Not till long afterward,” Alida Stair had said. Well, supposing Ned <i>had</i> + seen one when they first came, and had known only within the last week + what had happened to him? More and more under the spell of the hour, she + threw back her searching thoughts to the early days of their tenancy, but + at first only to recall a gay confusion of unpacking, settling, arranging + of books, and calling to each other from remote corners of the house as + treasure after treasure of their habitation revealed itself to them. It + was in this particular connection that she presently recalled a certain + soft afternoon of the previous October, when, passing from the first + rapturous flurry of exploration to a detailed inspection of the old house, + she had pressed (like a novel heroine) a panel that opened at her touch, + on a narrow flight of stairs leading to an unsuspected flat ledge of the + roof—the roof which, from below, seemed to slope away on all sides + too abruptly for any but practised feet to scale. + </p> + <p> + The view from this hidden coign was enchanting, and she had flown down to + snatch Ned from his papers and give him the freedom of her discovery. She + remembered still how, standing on the narrow ledge, he had passed his arm + about her while their gaze flew to the long, tossed horizon-line of the + downs, and then dropped contentedly back to trace the arabesque of yew + hedges about the fish-pond, and the shadow of the cedar on the lawn. + </p> + <p> + “And now the other way,” he had said, gently turning her about within his + arm; and closely pressed to him, she had absorbed, like some long, + satisfying draft, the picture of the gray-walled court, the squat lions on + the gates, and the lime-avenue reaching up to the highroad under the + downs. + </p> + <p> + It was just then, while they gazed and held each other, that she had felt + his arm relax, and heard a sharp “Hullo!” that made her turn to glance at + him. + </p> + <p> + Distinctly, yes, she now recalled she had seen, as she glanced, a shadow + of anxiety, of perplexity, rather, fall across his face; and, following + his eyes, had beheld the figure of a man—a man in loose, grayish + clothes, as it appeared to her—who was sauntering down the + lime-avenue to the court with the tentative gait of a stranger seeking his + way. Her short-sighted eyes had given her but a blurred impression of + slightness and grayness, with something foreign, or at least unlocal, in + the cut of the figure or its garb; but her husband had apparently seen + more—seen enough to make him push past her with a sharp “Wait!” and + dash down the twisting stairs without pausing to give her a hand for the + descent. + </p> + <p> + A slight tendency to dizziness obliged her, after a provisional clutch at + the chimney against which they had been leaning, to follow him down more + cautiously; and when she had reached the attic landing she paused again + for a less definite reason, leaning over the oak banister to strain her + eyes through the silence of the brown, sun-flecked depths below. She + lingered there till, somewhere in those depths, she heard the closing of a + door; then, mechanically impelled, she went down the shallow flights of + steps till she reached the lower hall. + </p> + <p> + The front door stood open on the mild sunlight of the court, and hall and + court were empty. The library door was open, too, and after listening in + vain for any sound of voices within, she quickly crossed the threshold, + and found her husband alone, vaguely fingering the papers on his desk. + </p> + <p> + He looked up, as if surprised at her precipitate entrance, but the shadow + of anxiety had passed from his face, leaving it even, as she fancied, a + little brighter and clearer than usual. + </p> + <p> + “What was it? Who was it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Who?” he repeated, with the surprise still all on his side. + </p> + <p> + “The man we saw coming toward the house.” Boyne shrugged his shoulders. + “So I thought; but he must have got up steam in the interval. What do you + say to our trying a scramble up Meldon Steep before sunset?” + </p> + <p> + That was all. At the time the occurrence had been less than nothing, had, + indeed, been immediately obliterated by the magic of their first vision + from Meldon Steep, a height which they had dreamed of climbing ever since + they had first seen its bare spine heaving itself above the low roof of + Lyng. Doubtless it was the mere fact of the other incident’s having + occurred on the very day of their ascent to Meldon that had kept it stored + away in the unconscious fold of association from which it now emerged; for + in itself it had no mark of the portentous. At the moment there could have + been nothing more natural than that Ned should dash himself from the roof + in the pursuit of dilatory tradesmen. It was the period when they were + always on the watch for one or the other of the specialists employed about + the place; always lying in wait for them, and dashing out at them with + questions, reproaches, or reminders. And certainly in the distance the + gray figure had looked like Peters. + </p> + <p> + Yet now, as she reviewed the rapid scene, she felt her husband’s + explanation of it to have been invalidated by the look of anxiety on his + face. Why had the familiar appearance of Peters made him anxious? Why, + above all, if it was of such prime necessity to confer with that authority + on the subject of the stable-drains, had the failure to find him produced + such a look of relief? Mary could not say that any one of these + considerations had occurred to her at the time, yet, from the promptness + with which they now marshaled themselves at her summons, she had a sudden + sense that they must all along have been there, waiting their hour. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + Weary with her thoughts, she moved toward the window. The library was now + completely dark, and she was surprised to see how much faint light the + outer world still held. + </p> + <p> + As she peered out into it across the court, a figure shaped itself in the + tapering perspective of bare lines: it looked a mere blot of deeper gray + in the grayness, and for an instant, as it moved toward her, her heart + thumped to the thought, “It’s the ghost!” + </p> + <p> + She had time, in that long instant, to feel suddenly that the man of whom, + two months earlier, she had a brief distant vision from the roof was now, + at his predestined hour, about to reveal himself as <i>not</i> having been + Peters; and her spirit sank under the impending fear of the disclosure. + But almost with the next tick of the clock the ambiguous figure, gaining + substance and character, showed itself even to her weak sight as her + husband’s; and she turned away to meet him, as he entered, with the + confession of her folly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s really too absurd,” she laughed out from the threshold, “but I never + <i>can</i> remember!” + </p> + <p> + “Remember what?” Boyne questioned as they drew together. + </p> + <p> + “That when one sees the Lyng ghost one never knows it.” + </p> + <p> + Her hand was on his sleeve, and he kept it there, but with no response in + his gesture or in the lines of his fagged, preoccupied face. + </p> + <p> + “Did you think you’d seen it?” he asked, after an appreciable interval. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I actually took <i>you</i> for it, my dear, in my mad determination + to spot it!” + </p> + <p> + “Me—just now?” His arm dropped away, and he turned from her with a + faint echo of her laugh. “Really, dearest, you’d better give it up, if + that’s the best you can do.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I give it up—I give it up. Have <i>you?”</i> she asked, + turning round on him abruptly. + </p> + <p> + The parlor-maid had entered with letters and a lamp, and the light struck + up into Boyne’s face as he bent above the tray she presented. + </p> + <p> + “Have <i>you?”</i> Mary perversely insisted, when the servant had + disappeared on her errand of illumination. + </p> + <p> + “Have I what?” he rejoined absently, the light bringing out the sharp + stamp of worry between his brows as he turned over the letters. + </p> + <p> + “I never tried,” he said, tearing open the wrapper of a newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course,” Mary persisted, “the exasperating thing is that there’s + no use trying, since one can’t be sure till so long afterward.” + </p> + <p> + He was unfolding the paper as if he had hardly heard her; but after a + pause, during which the sheets rustled spasmodically between his hands, he + lifted his head to say abruptly, “Have you any idea <i>how long?”</i> + </p> + <p> + Mary had sunk into a low chair beside the fireplace. From her seat she + looked up, startled, at her husband’s profile, which was darkly projected + against the circle of lamplight. + </p> + <p> + “No; none. Have <i>you</i>” she retorted, repeating her former phrase with + an added keenness of intention. + </p> + <p> + Boyne crumpled the paper into a bunch, and then inconsequently turned back + with it toward the lamp. + </p> + <p> + “Lord, no! I only meant,” he explained, with a faint tinge of impatience, + “is there any legend, any tradition, as to that?” + </p> + <p> + “Not that I know of,” she answered; but the impulse to add, “What makes + you ask?” was checked by the reappearance of the parlor-maid with tea and + a second lamp. + </p> + <p> + With the dispersal of shadows, and the repetition of the daily domestic + office, Mary Boyne felt herself less oppressed by that sense of something + mutely imminent which had darkened her solitary afternoon. For a few + moments she gave herself silently to the details of her task, and when she + looked up from it she was struck to the point of bewilderment by the + change in her husband’s face. He had seated himself near the farther lamp, + and was absorbed in the perusal of his letters; but was it something he + had found in them, or merely the shifting of her own point of view, that + had restored his features to their normal aspect? The longer she looked, + the more definitely the change affirmed itself. The lines of painful + tension had vanished, and such traces of fatigue as lingered were of the + kind easily attributable to steady mental effort. He glanced up, as if + drawn by her gaze, and met her eyes with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “I’m dying for my tea, you know; and here’s a letter for you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She took the letter he held out in exchange for the cup she proffered him, + and, returning to her seat, broke the seal with the languid gesture of the + reader whose interests are all inclosed in the circle of one cherished + presence. + </p> + <p> + Her next conscious motion was that of starting to her feet, the letter + falling to them as she rose, while she held out to her husband a long + newspaper clipping. + </p> + <p> + “Ned! What’s this? What does it mean?” + </p> + <p> + He had risen at the same instant, almost as if hearing her cry before she + uttered it; and for a perceptible space of time he and she studied each + other, like adversaries watching for an advantage, across the space + between her chair and his desk. + </p> + <p> + “What’s what? You fairly made me jump!” Boyne said at length, moving + toward her with a sudden, half-exasperated laugh. The shadow of + apprehension was on his face again, not now a look of fixed foreboding, + but a shifting vigilance of lips and eyes that gave her the sense of his + feeling himself invisibly surrounded. + </p> + <p> + Her hand shook so that she could hardly give him the clipping. + </p> + <p> + “This article—from the ‘Waukesha Sentinel’—that a man named + Elwell has brought suit against you—that there was something wrong + about the Blue Star Mine. I can’t understand more than half.” + </p> + <p> + They continued to face each other as she spoke, and to her astonishment, + she saw that her words had the almost immediate effect of dissipating the + strained watchfulness of his look. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>that</i>!” He glanced down the printed slip, and then folded it + with the gesture of one who handles something harmless and familiar. + “What’s the matter with you this afternoon, Mary? I thought you’d got bad + news.” + </p> + <p> + She stood before him with her undefinable terror subsiding slowly under + the reassuring touch of his composure. + </p> + <p> + “You knew about this, then—it’s all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I knew about it; and it’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + “But what <i>is</i> it? I don’t understand. What does this man accuse you + of?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, pretty nearly every crime in the calendar.” Boyne had tossed the + clipping down, and thrown himself comfortably into an arm-chair near the + fire. “Do you want to hear the story? It’s not particularly interesting—just + a squabble over interests in the Blue Star.” + </p> + <p> + “But who is this Elwell? I don’t know the name.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s a fellow I put into it—gave him a hand up. I told you all + about him at the time.” + </p> + <p> + “I daresay. I must have forgotten.” Vainly she strained back among her + memories. “But if you helped him, why does he make this return?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, probably some shyster lawyer got hold of him and talked him over. + It’s all rather technical and complicated. I thought that kind of thing + bored you.” + </p> + <p> + His wife felt a sting of compunction. Theoretically, she deprecated the + American wife’s detachment from her husband’s professional interests, but + in practice she had always found it difficult to fix her attention on + Boyne’s report of the transactions in which his varied interests involved + him. Besides, she had felt from the first that, in a community where the + amenities of living could be obtained only at the cost of efforts as + arduous as her husband’s professional labors, such brief leisure as they + could command should be used as an escape from immediate preoccupations, a + flight to the life they always dreamed of living. Once or twice, now that + this new life had actually drawn its magic circle about them, she had + asked herself if she had done right; but hitherto such conjectures had + been no more than the retrospective excursions of an active fancy. Now, + for the first time, it startled her a little to find how little she knew + of the material foundation on which her happiness was built. + </p> + <p> + She glanced again at her husband, and was reassured by the composure of + his face; yet she felt the need of more definite grounds for her + reassurance. + </p> + <p> + “But doesn’t this suit worry you? Why have you never spoken to me about + it?” + </p> + <p> + He answered both questions at once: “I didn’t speak of it at first because + it <i>did</i> worry me—annoyed me, rather. But it’s all ancient + history now. Your correspondent must have got hold of a back number of the + ‘Sentinel.’” + </p> + <p> + She felt a quick thrill of relief. “You mean it’s over? He’s lost his + case?” + </p> + <p> + There was a just perceptible delay in Boyne’s reply. “The suit’s been + withdrawn—that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + But she persisted, as if to exonerate herself from the inward charge of + being too easily put off. “Withdrawn because he saw he had no chance?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he had no chance,” Boyne answered. + </p> + <p> + She was still struggling with a dimly felt perplexity at the back of her + thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “How long ago was it withdrawn?” + </p> + <p> + He paused, as if with a slight return of his former uncertainty. “I’ve + just had the news now; but I’ve been expecting it.” + </p> + <p> + “Just now—in one of your letters?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; in one of my letters.” + </p> + <p> + She made no answer, and was aware only, after a short interval of waiting, + that he had risen, and strolling across the room, had placed himself on + the sofa at her side. She felt him, as he did so, pass an arm about her, + she felt his hand seek hers and clasp it, and turning slowly, drawn by the + warmth of his cheek, she met the smiling clearness of his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right—it’s all right?” she questioned, through the flood + of her dissolving doubts; and “I give you my word it never was righter!” + he laughed back at her, holding her close. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + One of the strangest things she was afterward to recall out of all the + next day’s incredible strangeness was the sudden and complete recovery of + her sense of security. + </p> + <p> + It was in the air when she woke in her low-ceilinged, dusky room; it + accompanied her down-stairs to the breakfast-table, flashed out at her + from the fire, and re-duplicated itself brightly from the flanks of the + urn and the sturdy flutings of the Georgian teapot. It was as if, in some + roundabout way, all her diffused apprehensions of the previous day, with + their moment of sharp concentration about the newspaper article,—as + if this dim questioning of the future, and startled return upon the past,—had + between them liquidated the arrears of some haunting moral obligation. If + she had indeed been careless of her husband’s affairs, it was, her new + state seemed to prove, because her faith in him instinctively justified + such carelessness; and his right to her faith had overwhelmingly affirmed + itself in the very face of menace and suspicion. She had never seen him + more untroubled, more naturally and unconsciously in possession of + himself, than after the cross-examination to which she had subjected him: + it was almost as if he had been aware of her lurking doubts, and had + wanted the air cleared as much as she did. + </p> + <p> + It was as clear, thank Heaven! as the bright outer light that surprised + her almost with a touch of summer when she issued from the house for her + daily round of the gardens. She had left Boyne at his desk, indulging + herself, as she passed the library door, by a last peep at his quiet face, + where he bent, pipe in his mouth, above his papers, and now she had her + own morning’s task to perform. The task involved on such charmed winter + days almost as much delighted loitering about the different quarters of + her demesne as if spring were already at work on shrubs and borders. There + were such inexhaustible possibilities still before her, such opportunities + to bring out the latent graces of the old place, without a single + irreverent touch of alteration, that the winter months were all too short + to plan what spring and autumn executed. And her recovered sense of safety + gave, on this particular morning, a peculiar zest to her progress through + the sweet, still place. She went first to the kitchen-garden, where the + espaliered pear-trees drew complicated patterns on the walls, and pigeons + were fluttering and preening about the silvery-slated roof of their cot. + There was something wrong about the piping of the hothouse, and she was + expecting an authority from Dorchester, who was to drive out between + trains and make a diagnosis of the boiler. But when she dipped into the + damp heat of the greenhouses, among the spiced scents and waxy pinks and + reds of old-fashioned exotics,—even the flora of Lyng was in the + note!—she learned that the great man had not arrived, and the day + being too rare to waste in an artificial atmosphere, she came out again + and paced slowly along the springy turf of the bowling-green to the + gardens behind the house. At their farther end rose a grass terrace, + commanding, over the fish-pond and the yew hedges, a view of the long + house-front, with its twisted chimney-stacks and the blue shadows of its + roof angles, all drenched in the pale gold moisture of the air. + </p> + <p> + Seen thus, across the level tracery of the yews, under the suffused, mild + light, it sent her, from its open windows and hospitably smoking chimneys, + the look of some warm human presence, of a mind slowly ripened on a sunny + wall of experience. She had never before had so deep a sense of her + intimacy with it, such a conviction that its secrets were all beneficent, + kept, as they said to children, “for one’s good,” so complete a trust in + its power to gather up her life and Ned’s into the harmonious pattern of + the long, long story it sat there weaving in the sun. + </p> + <p> + She heard steps behind her, and turned, expecting to see the gardener, + accompanied by the engineer from Dorchester. But only one figure was in + sight, that of a youngish, slightly built man, who, for reasons she could + not on the spot have specified, did not remotely resemble her preconceived + notion of an authority on hot-house boilers. The new-comer, on seeing her, + lifted his hat, and paused with the air of a gentleman—perhaps a + traveler—desirous of having it immediately known that his intrusion + is involuntary. The local fame of Lyng occasionally attracted the more + intelligent sight-seer, and Mary half-expected to see the stranger + dissemble a camera, or justify his presence by producing it. But he made + no gesture of any sort, and after a moment she asked, in a tone responding + to the courteous deprecation of his attitude: “Is there any one you wish + to see?” + </p> + <p> + “I came to see Mr. Boyne,” he replied. His intonation, rather than his + accent, was faintly American, and Mary, at the familiar note, looked at + him more closely. The brim of his soft felt hat cast a shade on his face, + which, thus obscured, wore to her short-sighted gaze a look of + seriousness, as of a person arriving “on business,” and civilly but firmly + aware of his rights. + </p> + <p> + Past experience had made Mary equally sensible to such claims; but she was + jealous of her husband’s morning hours, and doubtful of his having given + any one the right to intrude on them. + </p> + <p> + “Have you an appointment with Mr. Boyne?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He hesitated, as if unprepared for the question. + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly an appointment,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “Then I’m afraid, this being his working-time, that he can’t receive you + now. Will you give me a message, or come back later?” + </p> + <p> + The visitor, again lifting his hat, briefly replied that he would come + back later, and walked away, as if to regain the front of the house. As + his figure receded down the walk between the yew hedges, Mary saw him + pause and look up an instant at the peaceful house-front bathed in faint + winter sunshine; and it struck her, with a tardy touch of compunction, + that it would have been more humane to ask if he had come from a distance, + and to offer, in that case, to inquire if her husband could receive him. + But as the thought occurred to her he passed out of sight behind a + pyramidal yew, and at the same moment her attention was distracted by the + approach of the gardener, attended by the bearded pepper-and-salt figure + of the boiler-maker from Dorchester. + </p> + <p> + The encounter with this authority led to such far-reaching issues that + they resulted in his finding it expedient to ignore his train, and + beguiled Mary into spending the remainder of the morning in absorbed + confabulation among the greenhouses. She was startled to find, when the + colloquy ended, that it was nearly luncheon-time, and she half expected, + as she hurried back to the house, to see her husband coming out to meet + her. But she found no one in the court but an under-gardener raking the + gravel, and the hall, when she entered it, was so silent that she guessed + Boyne to be still at work behind the closed door of the library. + </p> + <p> + Not wishing to disturb him, she turned into the drawing-room, and there, + at her writing-table, lost herself in renewed calculations of the outlay + to which the morning’s conference had committed her. The knowledge that + she could permit herself such follies had not yet lost its novelty; and + somehow, in contrast to the vague apprehensions of the previous days, it + now seemed an element of her recovered security, of the sense that, as Ned + had said, things in general had never been “righter.” + </p> + <p> + She was still luxuriating in a lavish play of figures when the + parlor-maid, from the threshold, roused her with a dubiously worded + inquiry as to the expediency of serving luncheon. It was one of their + jokes that Trimmle announced luncheon as if she were divulging a state + secret, and Mary, intent upon her papers, merely murmured an absent-minded + assent. + </p> + <p> + She felt Trimmle wavering expressively on the threshold as if in rebuke of + such offhand acquiescence; then her retreating steps sounded down the + passage, and Mary, pushing away her papers, crossed the hall, and went to + the library door. It was still closed, and she wavered in her turn, + disliking to disturb her husband, yet anxious that he should not exceed + his normal measure of work. As she stood there, balancing her impulses, + the esoteric Trimmle returned with the announcement of luncheon, and Mary, + thus impelled, opened the door and went into the library. + </p> + <p> + Boyne was not at his desk, and she peered about her, expecting to discover + him at the book-shelves, somewhere down the length of the room; but her + call brought no response, and gradually it became clear to her that he was + not in the library. + </p> + <p> + She turned back to the parlor-maid. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Boyne must be up-stairs. Please tell him that luncheon is ready.” + </p> + <p> + The parlor-maid appeared to hesitate between the obvious duty of obeying + orders and an equally obvious conviction of the foolishness of the + injunction laid upon her. The struggle resulted in her saying doubtfully, + “If you please, Madam, Mr. Boyne’s not up-stairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in his room? Are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure, Madam.” + </p> + <p> + Mary consulted the clock. “Where is he, then?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s gone out,” Trimmle announced, with the superior air of one who has + respectfully waited for the question that a well-ordered mind would have + first propounded. + </p> + <p> + Mary’s previous conjecture had been right, then. Boyne must have gone to + the gardens to meet her, and since she had missed him, it was clear that + he had taken the shorter way by the south door, instead of going round to + the court. She crossed the hall to the glass portal opening directly on + the yew garden, but the parlor-maid, after another moment of inner + conflict, decided to bring out recklessly, “Please, Madam, Mr. Boyne + didn’t go that way.” + </p> + <p> + Mary turned back. “Where <i>did</i> he go? And when?” + </p> + <p> + “He went out of the front door, up the drive, Madam.” It was a matter of + principle with Trimmle never to answer more than one question at a time. + </p> + <p> + “Up the drive? At this hour?” Mary went to the door herself, and glanced + across the court through the long tunnel of bare limes. But its + perspective was as empty as when she had scanned it on entering the house. + </p> + <p> + “Did Mr. Boyne leave no message?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Trimmle seemed to surrender herself to a last struggle with the forces of + chaos. + </p> + <p> + “No, Madam. He just went out with the gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman? What gentleman?” Mary wheeled about, as if to front this + new factor. + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman who called, Madam,” said Trimmle, resignedly. + </p> + <p> + “When did a gentleman call? Do explain yourself, Trimmle!” + </p> + <p> + Only the fact that Mary was very hungry, and that she wanted to consult + her husband about the greenhouses, would have caused her to lay so unusual + an injunction on her attendant; and even now she was detached enough to + note in Trimmle’s eye the dawning defiance of the respectful subordinate + who has been pressed too hard. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t exactly say the hour, Madam, because I didn’t let the + gentleman in,” she replied, with the air of magnanimously ignoring the + irregularity of her mistress’s course. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t let him in?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Madam. When the bell rang I was dressing, and Agnes—” + </p> + <p> + “Go and ask Agnes, then,” Mary interjected. Trimmle still wore her look of + patient magnanimity. “Agnes would not know, Madam, for she had + unfortunately burnt her hand in trying the wick of the new lamp from town—” + Trimmle, as Mary was aware, had always been opposed to the new lamp—“and + so Mrs. Dockett sent the kitchen-maid instead.” + </p> + <p> + Mary looked again at the clock. “It’s after two! Go and ask the + kitchen-maid if Mr. Boyne left any word.” + </p> + <p> + She went into luncheon without waiting, and Trimmle presently brought her + there the kitchen-maid’s statement that the gentleman had called about one + o’clock, that Mr. Boyne had gone out with him without leaving any message. + The kitchen-maid did not even know the caller’s name, for he had written + it on a slip of paper, which he had folded and handed to her, with the + injunction to deliver it at once to Mr. Boyne. + </p> + <p> + Mary finished her luncheon, still wondering, and when it was over, and + Trimmle had brought the coffee to the drawing-room, her wonder had + deepened to a first faint tinge of disquietude. It was unlike Boyne to + absent himself without explanation at so unwonted an hour, and the + difficulty of identifying the visitor whose summons he had apparently + obeyed made his disappearance the more unaccountable. Mary Boyne’s + experience as the wife of a busy engineer, subject to sudden calls and + compelled to keep irregular hours, had trained her to the philosophic + acceptance of surprises; but since Boyne’s withdrawal from business he had + adopted a Benedictine regularity of life. As if to make up for the + dispersed and agitated years, with their “stand-up” lunches and dinners + rattled down to the joltings of the dining-car, he cultivated the last + refinements of punctuality and monotony, discouraging his wife’s fancy for + the unexpected; and declaring that to a delicate taste there were infinite + gradations of pleasure in the fixed recurrences of habit. + </p> + <p> + Still, since no life can completely defend itself from the unforeseen, it + was evident that all Boyne’s precautions would sooner or later prove + unavailable, and Mary concluded that he had cut short a tiresome visit by + walking with his caller to the station, or at least accompanying him for + part of the way. + </p> + <p> + This conclusion relieved her from farther preoccupation, and she went out + herself to take up her conference with the gardener. Thence she walked to + the village post-office, a mile or so away; and when she turned toward + home, the early twilight was setting in. + </p> + <p> + She had taken a foot-path across the downs, and as Boyne, meanwhile, had + probably returned from the station by the highroad, there was little + likelihood of their meeting on the way. She felt sure, however, of his + having reached the house before her; so sure that, when she entered it + herself, without even pausing to inquire of Trimmle, she made directly for + the library. But the library was still empty, and with an unwonted + precision of visual memory she immediately observed that the papers on her + husband’s desk lay precisely as they had lain when she had gone in to call + him to luncheon. + </p> + <p> + Then of a sudden she was seized by a vague dread of the unknown. She had + closed the door behind her on entering, and as she stood alone in the + long, silent, shadowy room, her dread seemed to take shape and sound, to + be there audibly breathing and lurking among the shadows. Her + short-sighted eyes strained through them, half-discerning an actual + presence, something aloof, that watched and knew; and in the recoil from + that intangible propinquity she threw herself suddenly on the bell-rope + and gave it a desperate pull. + </p> + <p> + The long, quavering summons brought Trimmle in precipitately with a lamp, + and Mary breathed again at this sobering reappearance of the usual. + </p> + <p> + “You may bring tea if Mr. Boyne is in,” she said, to justify her ring. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Madam. But Mr. Boyne is not in,” said Trimmle, putting down + the lamp. + </p> + <p> + “Not in? You mean he’s come back and gone out again?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Madam. He’s never been back.” + </p> + <p> + The dread stirred again, and Mary knew that now it had her fast. + </p> + <p> + “Not since he went out with—the gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “Not since he went out with the gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “But who <i>was</i> the gentleman?” Mary gasped out, with the sharp note + of some one trying to be heard through a confusion of meaningless noises. + </p> + <p> + “That I couldn’t say, Madam.” Trimmle, standing there by the lamp, seemed + suddenly to grow less round and rosy, as though eclipsed by the same + creeping shade of apprehension. + </p> + <p> + “But the kitchen-maid knows—wasn’t it the kitchen-maid who let him + in?” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t know either, Madam, for he wrote his name on a folded paper.” + </p> + <p> + Mary, through her agitation, was aware that they were both designating the + unknown visitor by a vague pronoun, instead of the conventional formula + which, till then, had kept their allusions within the bounds of custom. + And at the same moment her mind caught at the suggestion of the folded + paper. + </p> + <p> + “But he must have a name! Where is the paper?” + </p> + <p> + She moved to the desk, and began to turn over the scattered documents that + littered it. The first that caught her eye was an unfinished letter in her + husband’s hand, with his pen lying across it, as though dropped there at a + sudden summons. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Parvis,”—who was Parvis?—“I have just received your + letter announcing Elwell’s death, and while I suppose there is now no + farther risk of trouble, it might be safer—” + </p> + <p> + She tossed the sheet aside, and continued her search; but no folded paper + was discoverable among the letters and pages of manuscript which had been + swept together in a promiscuous heap, as if by a hurried or a startled + gesture. + </p> + <p> + “But the kitchen-maid <i>saw</i> him. Send her here,” she commanded, + wondering at her dullness in not thinking sooner of so simple a solution. + </p> + <p> + Trimmle, at the behest, vanished in a flash, as if thankful to be out of + the room, and when she reappeared, conducting the agitated underling, Mary + had regained her self-possession, and had her questions pat. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman was a stranger, yes—that she understood. But what had + he said? And, above all, what had he looked like? The first question was + easily enough answered, for the disconcerting reason that he had said so + little—had merely asked for Mr. Boyne, and, scribbling something on + a bit of paper, had requested that it should at once be carried in to him. + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t know what he wrote? You’re not sure it <i>was</i> his + name?” + </p> + <p> + The kitchen-maid was not sure, but supposed it was, since he had written + it in answer to her inquiry as to whom she should announce. + </p> + <p> + “And when you carried the paper in to Mr. Boyne, what did he say?” + </p> + <p> + The kitchen-maid did not think that Mr. Boyne had said anything, but she + could not be sure, for just as she had handed him the paper and he was + opening it, she had become aware that the visitor had followed her into + the library, and she had slipped out, leaving the two gentlemen together. + </p> + <p> + “But then, if you left them in the library, how do you know that they went + out of the house?” + </p> + <p> + This question plunged the witness into momentary inarticulateness, from + which she was rescued by Trimmle, who, by means of ingenious + circumlocutions, elicited the statement that before she could cross the + hall to the back passage she had heard the gentlemen behind her, and had + seen them go out of the front door together. + </p> + <p> + “Then, if you saw the gentleman twice, you must be able to tell me what he + looked like.” + </p> + <p> + But with this final challenge to her powers of expression it became clear + that the limit of the kitchen-maid’s endurance had been reached. The + obligation of going to the front door to “show in” a visitor was in itself + so subversive of the fundamental order of things that it had thrown her + faculties into hopeless disarray, and she could only stammer out, after + various panting efforts at evocation, “His hat, mum, was different-like, + as you might say—” + </p> + <p> + “Different? How different?” Mary flashed out at her, her own mind, in the + same instant, leaping back to an image left on it that morning, but + temporarily lost under layers of subsequent impressions. + </p> + <p> + “His hat had a wide brim, you mean? and his face was pale—a youngish + face?” Mary pressed her, with a white-lipped intensity of interrogation. + But if the kitchen-maid found any adequate answer to this challenge, it + was swept away for her listener down the rushing current of her own + convictions. The stranger—the stranger in the garden! Why had Mary + not thought of him before? She needed no one now to tell her that it was + he who had called for her husband and gone away with him. But who was he, + and why had Boyne obeyed his call? + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + It leaped out at her suddenly, like a grin out of the dark, that they had + often called England so little—“such a confoundedly hard place to + get lost in.” + </p> + <p> + <i>A confoundedly hard place to get lost in!</i> That had been her + husband’s phrase. And now, with the whole machinery of official + investigation sweeping its flash-lights from shore to shore, and across + the dividing straits; now, with Boyne’s name blazing from the walls of + every town and village, his portrait (how that wrung her!) hawked up and + down the country like the image of a hunted criminal; now the little + compact, populous island, so policed, surveyed, and administered, revealed + itself as a Sphinx-like guardian of abysmal mysteries, staring back into + his wife’s anguished eyes as if with the malicious joy of knowing + something they would never know! + </p> + <p> + In the fortnight since Boyne’s disappearance there had been no word of + him, no trace of his movements. Even the usual misleading reports that + raise expectancy in tortured bosoms had been few and fleeting. No one but + the bewildered kitchen-maid had seen him leave the house, and no one else + had seen “the gentleman” who accompanied him. All inquiries in the + neighborhood failed to elicit the memory of a stranger’s presence that day + in the neighborhood of Lyng. And no one had met Edward Boyne, either alone + or in company, in any of the neighboring villages, or on the road across + the downs, or at either of the local railway-stations. The sunny English + noon had swallowed him as completely as if he had gone out into Cimmerian + night. + </p> + <p> + Mary, while every external means of investigation was working at its + highest pressure, had ransacked her husband’s papers for any trace of + antecedent complications, of entanglements or obligations unknown to her, + that might throw a faint ray into the darkness. But if any such had + existed in the background of Boyne’s life, they had disappeared as + completely as the slip of paper on which the visitor had written his name. + There remained no possible thread of guidance except—if it were + indeed an exception—the letter which Boyne had apparently been in + the act of writing when he received his mysterious summons. That letter, + read and reread by his wife, and submitted by her to the police, yielded + little enough for conjecture to feed on. + </p> + <p> + “I have just heard of Elwell’s death, and while I suppose there is now no + farther risk of trouble, it might be safer—” That was all. The “risk + of trouble” was easily explained by the newspaper clipping which had + apprised Mary of the suit brought against her husband by one of his + associates in the Blue Star enterprise. The only new information conveyed + in the letter was the fact of its showing Boyne, when he wrote it, to be + still apprehensive of the results of the suit, though he had assured his + wife that it had been withdrawn, and though the letter itself declared + that the plaintiff was dead. It took several weeks of exhaustive cabling + to fix the identity of the “Parvis” to whom the fragmentary communication + was addressed, but even after these inquiries had shown him to be a + Waukesha lawyer, no new facts concerning the Elwell suit were elicited. He + appeared to have had no direct concern in it, but to have been conversant + with the facts merely as an acquaintance, and possible intermediary; and + he declared himself unable to divine with what object Boyne intended to + seek his assistance. + </p> + <p> + This negative information, sole fruit of the first fortnight’s feverish + search, was not increased by a jot during the slow weeks that followed. + Mary knew that the investigations were still being carried on, but she had + a vague sense of their gradually slackening, as the actual march of time + seemed to slacken. It was as though the days, flying horror-struck from + the shrouded image of the one inscrutable day, gained assurance as the + distance lengthened, till at last they fell back into their normal gait. + And so with the human imaginations at work on the dark event. No doubt it + occupied them still, but week by week and hour by hour it grew less + absorbing, took up less space, was slowly but inevitably crowded out of + the foreground of consciousness by the new problems perpetually bubbling + up from the vaporous caldron of human experience. + </p> + <p> + Even Mary Boyne’s consciousness gradually felt the same lowering of + velocity. It still swayed with the incessant oscillations of conjecture; + but they were slower, more rhythmical in their beat. There were moments of + overwhelming lassitude when, like the victim of some poison which leaves + the brain clear, but holds the body motionless, she saw herself + domesticated with the Horror, accepting its perpetual presence as one of + the fixed conditions of life. + </p> + <p> + These moments lengthened into hours and days, till she passed into a phase + of stolid acquiescence. She watched the familiar routine of life with the + incurious eye of a savage on whom the meaningless processes of + civilization make but the faintest impression. She had come to regard + herself as part of the routine, a spoke of the wheel, revolving with its + motion; she felt almost like the furniture of the room in which she sat, + an insensate object to be dusted and pushed about with the chairs and + tables. And this deepening apathy held her fast at Lyng, in spite of the + urgent entreaties of friends and the usual medical recommendation of + “change.” Her friends supposed that her refusal to move was inspired by + the belief that her husband would one day return to the spot from which he + had vanished, and a beautiful legend grew up about this imaginary state of + waiting. But in reality she had no such belief: the depths of anguish + inclosing her were no longer lighted by flashes of hope. She was sure that + Boyne would never come back, that he had gone out of her sight as + completely as if Death itself had waited that day on the threshold. She + had even renounced, one by one, the various theories as to his + disappearance which had been advanced by the press, the police, and her + own agonized imagination. In sheer lassitude her mind turned from these + alternatives of horror, and sank back into the blank fact that he was + gone. + </p> + <p> + No, she would never know what had become of him—no one would ever + know. But the house <i>knew</i>; the library in which she spent her long, + lonely evenings knew. For it was here that the last scene had been + enacted, here that the stranger had come, and spoken the word which had + caused Boyne to rise and follow him. The floor she trod had felt his + tread; the books on the shelves had seen his face; and there were moments + when the intense consciousness of the old, dusky walls seemed about to + break out into some audible revelation of their secret. But the revelation + never came, and she knew it would never come. Lyng was not one of the + garrulous old houses that betray the secrets intrusted to them. Its very + legend proved that it had always been the mute accomplice, the + incorruptible custodian of the mysteries it had surprised. And Mary Boyne, + sitting face to face with its portentous silence, felt the futility of + seeking to break it by any human means. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + “I don’t say it <i>wasn’t</i> straight, yet don’t say it <i>was</i> + straight. It was business.” + </p> + <p> + Mary, at the words, lifted her head with a start, and looked intently at + the speaker. + </p> + <p> + When, half an hour before, a card with “Mr. Parvis” on it had been brought + up to her, she had been immediately aware that the name had been a part of + her consciousness ever since she had read it at the head of Boyne’s + unfinished letter. In the library she had found awaiting her a small + neutral-tinted man with a bald head and gold eye-glasses, and it sent a + strange tremor through her to know that this was the person to whom her + husband’s last known thought had been directed. + </p> + <p> + Parvis, civilly, but without vain preamble,—in the manner of a man + who has his watch in his hand,—had set forth the object of his + visit. He had “run over” to England on business, and finding himself in + the neighborhood of Dorchester, had not wished to leave it without paying + his respects to Mrs. Boyne; without asking her, if the occasion offered, + what she meant to do about Bob Elwell’s family. + </p> + <p> + The words touched the spring of some obscure dread in Mary’s bosom. Did + her visitor, after all, know what Boyne had meant by his unfinished + phrase? She asked for an elucidation of his question, and noticed at once + that he seemed surprised at her continued ignorance of the subject. Was it + possible that she really knew as little as she said? + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing—you must tell me,” she faltered out; and her visitor + thereupon proceeded to unfold his story. It threw, even to her confused + perceptions, and imperfectly initiated vision, a lurid glare on the whole + hazy episode of the Blue Star Mine. Her husband had made his money in that + brilliant speculation at the cost of “getting ahead” of some one less + alert to seize the chance; the victim of his ingenuity was young Robert + Elwell, who had “put him on” to the Blue Star scheme. + </p> + <p> + Parvis, at Mary’s first startled cry, had thrown her a sobering glance + through his impartial glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Bob Elwell wasn’t smart enough, that’s all; if he had been, he might have + turned round and served Boyne the same way. It’s the kind of thing that + happens every day in business. I guess it’s what the scientists call the + survival of the fittest,” said Mr. Parvis, evidently pleased with the + aptness of his analogy. + </p> + <p> + Mary felt a physical shrinking from the next question she tried to frame; + it was as though the words on her lips had a taste that nauseated her. + </p> + <p> + “But then—you accuse my husband of doing something dishonorable?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Parvis surveyed the question dispassionately. “Oh, no, I don’t. I + don’t even say it wasn’t straight.” He glanced up and down the long lines + of books, as if one of them might have supplied him with the definition he + sought. “I don’t say it <i>wasn’t</i> straight, and yet I don’t say it <i>was</i> + straight. It was business.” After all, no definition in his category could + be more comprehensive than that. + </p> + <p> + Mary sat staring at him with a look of terror. He seemed to her like the + indifferent, implacable emissary of some dark, formless power. + </p> + <p> + “But Mr. Elwell’s lawyers apparently did not take your view, since I + suppose the suit was withdrawn by their advice.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, they knew he hadn’t a leg to stand on, technically. It was when + they advised him to withdraw the suit that he got desperate. You see, he’d + borrowed most of the money he lost in the Blue Star, and he was up a tree. + That’s why he shot himself when they told him he had no show.” + </p> + <p> + The horror was sweeping over Mary in great, deafening waves. + </p> + <p> + “He shot himself? He killed himself because of <i>that?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Well, he didn’t kill himself, exactly. He dragged on two months before he + died.” Parvis emitted the statement as unemotionally as a gramophone + grinding out its “record.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that he tried to kill himself, and failed? And tried again?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he didn’t have to try again,” said Parvis, grimly. + </p> + <p> + They sat opposite each other in silence, he swinging his eye-glass + thoughtfully about his finger, she, motionless, her arms stretched along + her knees in an attitude of rigid tension. + </p> + <p> + “But if you knew all this,” she began at length, hardly able to force her + voice above a whisper, “how is it that when I wrote you at the time of my + husband’s disappearance you said you didn’t understand his letter?” + </p> + <p> + Parvis received this without perceptible discomfiture. “Why, I didn’t + understand it—strictly speaking. And it wasn’t the time to talk + about it, if I had. The Elwell business was settled when the suit was + withdrawn. Nothing I could have told you would have helped you to find + your husband.” + </p> + <p> + Mary continued to scrutinize him. “Then why are you telling me now?” + </p> + <p> + Still Parvis did not hesitate. “Well, to begin with, I supposed you knew + more than you appear to—I mean about the circumstances of Elwell’s + death. And then people are talking of it now; the whole matter’s been + raked up again. And I thought, if you didn’t know, you ought to.” + </p> + <p> + She remained silent, and he continued: “You see, it’s only come out lately + what a bad state Elwell’s affairs were in. His wife’s a proud woman, and + she fought on as long as she could, going out to work, and taking sewing + at home, when she got too sick—something with the heart, I believe. + But she had his bedridden mother to look after, and the children, and she + broke down under it, and finally had to ask for help. That attracted + attention to the case, and the papers took it up, and a subscription was + started. Everybody out there liked Bob Elwell, and most of the prominent + names in the place are down on the list, and people began to wonder why—” + </p> + <p> + Parvis broke off to fumble in an inner pocket. “Here,” he continued, + “here’s an account of the whole thing from the ‘Sentinel’—a little + sensational, of course. But I guess you’d better look it over.” + </p> + <p> + He held out a newspaper to Mary, who unfolded it slowly, remembering, as + she did so, the evening when, in that same room, the perusal of a clipping + from the “Sentinel” had first shaken the depths of her security. + </p> + <p> + As she opened the paper, her eyes, shrinking from the glaring head-lines, + “Widow of Boyne’s Victim Forced to Appeal for Aid,” ran down the column of + text to two portraits inserted in it. The first was her husband’s, taken + from a photograph made the year they had come to England. It was the + picture of him that she liked best, the one that stood on the + writing-table up-stairs in her bedroom. As the eyes in the photograph met + hers, she felt it would be impossible to read what was said of him, and + closed her lids with the sharpness of the pain. + </p> + <p> + “I thought if you felt disposed to put your name down—” she heard + Parvis continue. + </p> + <p> + She opened her eyes with an effort, and they fell on the other portrait. + It was that of a youngish man, slightly built, in rough clothes, with + features somewhat blurred by the shadow of a projecting hat-brim. Where + had she seen that outline before? She stared at it confusedly, her heart + hammering in her throat and ears. Then she gave a cry. + </p> + <p> + “This is the man—the man who came for my husband!” + </p> + <p> + She heard Parvis start to his feet, and was dimly aware that she had + slipped backward into the corner of the sofa, and that he was bending + above her in alarm. With an intense effort she straightened herself, and + reached out for the paper, which she had dropped. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the man! I should know him anywhere!” she cried in a voice that + sounded in her own ears like a scream. + </p> + <p> + Parvis’s voice seemed to come to her from far off, down endless, + fog-muffled windings. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Boyne, you’re not very well. Shall I call somebody? Shall I get a + glass of water?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no!” She threw herself toward him, her hand frantically clenching + the newspaper. “I tell you, it’s the man! I <i>know</i> him! He spoke to + me in the garden!” + </p> + <p> + Parvis took the journal from her, directing his glasses to the portrait. + “It can’t be, Mrs. Boyne. It’s Robert Elwell.” + </p> + <p> + “Robert Elwell?” Her white stare seemed to travel into space. “Then it was + Robert Elwell who came for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Came for Boyne? The day he went away?” Parvis’s voice dropped as hers + rose. He bent over, laying a fraternal hand on her, as if to coax her + gently back into her seat. “Why, Elwell was dead! Don’t you remember?” + </p> + <p> + Mary sat with her eyes fixed on the picture, unconscious of what he was + saying. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you remember Boyne’s unfinished letter to me—the one you + found on his desk that day? It was written just after he’d heard of + Elwell’s death.” She noticed an odd shake in Parvis’s unemotional voice. + “Surely you remember that!” he urged her. + </p> + <p> + Yes, she remembered: that was the profoundest horror of it. Elwell had + died the day before her husband’s disappearance; and this was Elwell’s + portrait; and it was the portrait of the man who had spoken to her in the + garden. She lifted her head and looked slowly about the library. The + library could have borne witness that it was also the portrait of the man + who had come in that day to call Boyne from his unfinished letter. Through + the misty surgings of her brain she heard the faint boom of half-forgotten + words—words spoken by Alida Stair on the lawn at Pangbourne before + Boyne and his wife had ever seen the house at Lyng, or had imagined that + they might one day live there. + </p> + <p> + “This was the man who spoke to me,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + She looked again at Parvis. He was trying to conceal his disturbance under + what he imagined to be an expression of indulgent commiseration; but the + edges of his lips were blue. “He thinks me mad; but I’m not mad,” she + reflected; and suddenly there flashed upon her a way of justifying her + strange affirmation. + </p> + <p> + She sat quiet, controlling the quiver of her lips, and waiting till she + could trust her voice to keep its habitual level; then she said, looking + straight at Parvis: “Will you answer me one question, please? When was it + that Robert Elwell tried to kill himself?” + </p> + <p> + “When—when?” Parvis stammered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; the date. Please try to remember.” + </p> + <p> + She saw that he was growing still more afraid of her. “I have a reason,” + she insisted gently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes. Only I can’t remember. About two months before, I should say.” + </p> + <p> + “I want the date,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + Parvis picked up the newspaper. “We might see here,” he said, still + humoring her. He ran his eyes down the page. “Here it is. Last October—the—” + </p> + <p> + She caught the words from him. “The 20th, wasn’t it?” With a sharp look at + her, he verified. “Yes, the 20th. Then you <i>did</i> know?” + </p> + <p> + “I know now.” Her white stare continued to travel past him. “Sunday, the + 20th—that was the day he came first.” + </p> + <p> + Parvis’s voice was almost inaudible. “Came <i>here</i> first?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You saw him twice, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, twice.” She breathed it at him with dilated eyes. “He came first on + the 20th of October. I remember the date because it was the day we went up + Meldon Steep for the first time.” She felt a faint gasp of inward laughter + at the thought that but for that she might have forgotten. + </p> + <p> + Parvis continued to scrutinize her, as if trying to intercept her gaze. + </p> + <p> + “We saw him from the roof,” she went on. “He came down the lime-avenue + toward the house. He was dressed just as he is in that picture. My husband + saw him first. He was frightened, and ran down ahead of me; but there was + no one there. He had vanished.” + </p> + <p> + “Elwell had vanished?” Parvis faltered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Their two whispers seemed to grope for each other. “I couldn’t + think what had happened. I see now. He <i>tried</i> to come then; but he + wasn’t dead enough—he couldn’t reach us. He had to wait for two + months; and then he came back again—and Ned went with him.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded at Parvis with the look of triumph of a child who has + successfully worked out a difficult puzzle. But suddenly she lifted her + hands with a desperate gesture, pressing them to her bursting temples. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my God! I sent him to Ned—I told him where to go! I sent him to + this room!” she screamed out. + </p> + <p> + She felt the walls of the room rush toward her, like inward falling ruins; + and she heard Parvis, a long way off, as if through the ruins, crying to + her, and struggling to get at her. But she was numb to his touch, she did + not know what he was saying. Through the tumult she heard but one clear + note, the voice of Alida Stair, speaking on the lawn at Pangbourne. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t know till afterward,” it said. “You won’t know till long, long + afterward.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LETTERS + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + UP the long hill from the station at St.-Cloud, Lizzie West climbed in the + cold spring sunshine. As she breasted the incline, she noticed the first + waves of wistaria over courtyard railings and the high lights of new + foliage against the walls of ivy-matted gardens; and she thought again, as + she had thought a hundred times before, that she had never seen so + beautiful a spring. + </p> + <p> + She was on her way to the Deerings’ house, in a street near the hilltop; + and every step was dear and familiar to her. She went there five times a + week to teach little Juliet Deering, the daughter of Mr. Vincent Deering, + the distinguished American artist. Juliet had been her pupil for two + years, and day after day, during that time, Lizzie West had mounted the + hill in all weathers; sometimes with her umbrella bent against a driving + rain, sometimes with her frail cotton parasol unfurled beneath a fiery + sun, sometimes with the snow soaking through her patched boots or a bitter + wind piercing her thin jacket, sometimes with the dust whirling about her + and bleaching the flowers of the poor little hat that <i>had</i> to “carry + her through” till next summer. + </p> + <p> + At first the ascent had seemed tedious enough, as dull as the trudge to + her other lessons. Lizzie was not a heaven-sent teacher; she had no born + zeal for her calling, and though she dealt kindly and dutifully with her + pupils, she did not fly to them on winged feet. But one day something had + happened to change the face of life, and since then the climb to the + Deering house had seemed like a dream-flight up a heavenly stairway. + </p> + <p> + Her heart beat faster as she remembered it—no longer in a tumult of + fright and self-reproach, but softly, peacefully, as if brooding over a + possession that none could take from her. + </p> + <p> + It was on a day of the previous October that she had stopped, after + Juliet’s lesson, to ask if she might speak to Juliet’s papa. One had + always to apply to Mr. Deering if there was anything to be said about the + lessons. Mrs. Deering lay on her lounge up-stairs, reading greasy relays + of dog-eared novels, the choice of which she left to the cook and the + nurse, who were always fetching them for her from the <i>cabinet de + lecture;</i> and it was understood in the house that she was not to be + “bothered” about Juliet. Mr. Deering’s interest in his daughter was fitful + rather than consecutive; but at least he was approachable, and listened + sympathetically, if a little absently, stroking his long, fair mustache, + while Lizzie stated her difficulty or put in her plea for maps or + copy-books. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes—of course—whatever you think right,” he would always + assent, sometimes drawing a five-franc piece from his pocket, and laying + it carelessly on the table, or oftener saying, with his charming smile: + “Get what you please, and just put it on your account, you know.” + </p> + <p> + But this time Lizzie had not come to ask for maps or copy-books, or even + to hint, in crimson misery,—as once, poor soul! she had had to do,—that + Mr. Deering had overlooked her last little account had probably not + noticed that she had left it, some two months earlier, on a corner of his + littered writing-table. That hour had been bad enough, though he had done + his best to make it easy to carry it off gallantly and gaily; but this was + infinitely worse. For she had come to complain of her pupil; to say that, + much as she loved little Juliet, it was useless, unless Mr. Deering could + “do something,” to go on with the lessons. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn’t be honest—I should be robbing you; I’m not sure that I + haven’t already,” she half laughed, through mounting tears, as she put her + case. Little Juliet would not work, would not obey. Her poor, little, + drifting existence floated aimlessly between the kitchen and the <i>lingerie</i>, + and all the groping tendrils of her curiosity were fastened about the + doings of the backstairs. + </p> + <p> + It was the same kind of curiosity that Mrs. Deering, overhead in her + drug-scented room, lavished on her dog-eared novels and on the “society + notes” of the morning paper; but since Juliet’s horizon was not yet wide + enough to embrace these loftier objects, her interest was centered in the + anecdotes that Celeste and Suzanne brought back from the market and the + library. That these were not always of an edifying nature the child’s + artless prattle too often betrayed; but unhappily they occupied her fancy + to the complete exclusion of such nourishing items as dates and dynasties, + and the sources of the principal European rivers. + </p> + <p> + At length the crisis became so acute that poor Lizzie felt herself bound + to resign her charge or ask Mr. Deering’s intervention; and for Juliet’s + sake she chose the harder alternative. It <i>was</i> hard to speak to him + not only because one hated still more to ascribe it to such vulgar causes, + but because one blushed to bring them to the notice of a spirit engaged + with higher things. Mr. Deering was very busy at that moment: he had a new + picture “on.” And Lizzie entered the studio with the flutter of one + profanely intruding on some sacred rite; she almost heard the rustle of + retreating wings as she approached. + </p> + <p> + And then—and then—how differently it had all turned out! + Perhaps it wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t been such a goose—she who so + seldom cried, so prided herself on a stoic control of her little + twittering cageful of “feelings.” But if she had cried, it was because he + had looked at her so kindly, so softly, and because she had nevertheless + felt him so pained and shamed by what she said. The pain, of course, lay + for both in the implication behind her words—in the one word they + left unspoken. If little Juliet was as she was, it was because of the + mother up-stairs—the mother who had given her child her futile + impulses, and grudged her the care that might have guided them. The + wretched case so obviously revolved in its own vicious circle that when + Mr. Deering had murmured, “Of course if my wife were not an invalid,” they + both turned with a simultaneous spring to the flagrant “bad example” of + Celeste and Suzanne, fastening on that with a mutual insistence that ended + in his crying out, “All the more, then, how can you leave her to them?” + </p> + <p> + “But if I do her no good?” Lizzie wailed; and it was then that,—when + he took her hand and assured her gently, “But you do, you do!”—it + was then that, in the traditional phrase, she “broke down,” and her + conventional protest quivered off into tears. + </p> + <p> + “You do <i>me</i> good, at any rate—you make the house seem less + like a desert,” she heard him say; and the next moment she felt herself + drawn to him, and they kissed each other through her weeping. + </p> + <p> + They kissed each other—there was the new fact. One does not, if one + is a poor little teacher living in Mme. Clopin’s Pension Suisse at Passy, + and if one has pretty brown hair and eyes that reach out trustfully to + other eyes—one does not, under these common but defenseless + conditions, arrive at the age of twenty-five without being now and then + kissed,—waylaid once by a noisy student between two doors, surprised + once by one’s gray-bearded professor as one bent over the “theme” he was + correcting,—but these episodes, if they tarnish the surface, do not + reach the heart: it is not the kiss endured, but the kiss returned, that + lives. And Lizzie West’s first kiss was for Vincent Deering. + </p> + <p> + As she drew back from it, something new awoke in her—something + deeper than the fright and the shame, and the penitent thought of Mrs. + Deering. A sleeping germ of life thrilled and unfolded, and started out + blindly to seek the sun. + </p> + <p> + She might have felt differently, perhaps,—the shame and penitence + might have prevailed,—had she not known him so kind and tender, and + guessed him so baffled, poor, and disappointed. She knew the failure of + his married life, and she divined a corresponding failure in his artistic + career. Lizzie, who had made her own faltering snatch at the same laurels, + brought her thwarted proficiency to bear on the question of his pictures, + which she judged to be extremely brilliant, but suspected of having + somehow failed to affirm their merit publicly. She understood that he had + tasted an earlier moment of success: a mention, a medal, something + official and tangible; then the tide of publicity had somehow set the + other way, and left him stranded in a noble isolation. It was + extraordinary and unbelievable that any one so naturally eminent and + exceptional should have been subject to the same vulgar necessities that + governed her own life, should have known poverty and obscurity and + indifference. But she gathered that this had been the case, and felt that + it formed the miraculous link between them. For through what medium less + revealing than that of shared misfortune would he ever have perceived so + inconspicuous an object as herself? And she recalled now how gently his + eyes had rested on her from the first—the gray eyes that might have + seemed mocking if they had not been so gentle. + </p> + <p> + She remembered how he had met her the first day, when Mrs. Deering’s + inevitable headache had prevented her from receiving the new teacher, and + how his few questions had at once revealed his interest in the little + stranded, compatriot, doomed to earn a precarious living so far from her + native shore. Sweet as the moment of unburdening had been, she wondered + afterward what had determined it: how she, so shy and sequestered, had + found herself letting slip her whole poverty-stricken story, even to the + avowal of the ineffectual “artistic” tendencies that had drawn her to + Paris, and had then left her there to the dry task of tuition. She + wondered at first, but she understood now; she understood everything after + he had kissed her. It was simply because he was as kind as he was great. + </p> + <p> + She thought of this now as she mounted the hill in the spring sunshine, + and she thought of all that had happened since. The intervening months, as + she looked back at them, were merged in a vast golden haze, through which + here and there rose the outline of a shining island. The haze was the + general enveloping sense of his love, and the shining islands were the + days they had spent together. They had never kissed again under his own + roof. Lizzie’s professional honor had a keen edge, but she had been spared + the vulgar necessity of making him feel it. It was of the essence of her + fatality that he always “understood” when his failing to do so might have + imperiled his hold on her. + </p> + <p> + But her Thursdays and Sundays were free, and it soon became a habit to + give them to him. She knew, for her peace of mind, only too much about + pictures, and galleries and churches had been the one bright outlet from + the grayness of her personal atmosphere. For poetry, too, and the other + imaginative forms of literature, she had always felt more than she had + hitherto had occasion to betray; and now all these folded sympathies shot + out their tendrils to the light. Mr. Deering knew how to express with + unmatched clearness and competence the thoughts that trembled in her mind: + to talk with him was to soar up into the azure on the outspread wings of + his intelligence, and look down dizzily yet distinctly, on all the wonders + and glories of the world. She was a little ashamed, sometimes, to find how + few definite impressions she brought back from these flights; but that was + doubtless because her heart beat so fast when he was near, and his smile + made his words like a long quiver of light. Afterward, in quieter hours, + fragments of their talk emerged in her memory with wondrous precision, + every syllable as minutely chiseled as some of the delicate objects in + crystal or ivory that he pointed out in the museums they frequented. It + was always a puzzle to Lizzie that some of their hours should be so + blurred and others so vivid. + </p> + <p> + On the morning in question she was reliving all these memories with + unusual distinctness, for it was a fortnight since she had seen her + friend. Mrs. Deering, some six weeks previously, had gone to visit a + relation at St.-Raphael; and, after she had been a month absent, her + husband and the little girl had joined her. Lizzie’s adieux to Deering had + been made on a rainy afternoon in the damp corridors of the Aquarium at + the Trocadero. She could not receive him at her own <i>pension</i>. That a + teacher should be visited by the father of a pupil, especially when that + father was still, as Madame Clopin said, <i>si bien</i>, was against that + lady’s austere Helvetian code. From Deering’s first tentative hint of + another solution Lizzie had recoiled in a wild unreasoned flurry of all + her scruples, he took her “No, no, <i>no!</i>” as he took all her twists + and turns of conscience, with eyes half-tender and half-mocking, and an + instant acquiescence which was the finest homage to the “lady” she felt he + divined and honored in her. + </p> + <p> + So they continued to meet in museums and galleries, or to extend, on fine + days, their explorations to the suburbs, where now and then, in the + solitude of grove or garden, the kiss renewed itself, fleeting, isolated, + or prolonged in a shy, silent pressure of the hand. But on the day of his + leave-taking the rain kept them under cover; and as they threaded the + subterranean windings of the Aquarium, and Lizzie looked unseeingly at the + monstrous faces glaring at her through walls of glass, she felt like a + poor drowned wretch at the bottom of the sea, with all her glancing, + sunlit memories rolling over her like the waves of its surface. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll never see him again—never see him again,” the waves boomed + in her ears through his last words; and when she had said good-by to him + at the corner, and had scrambled, wet and shivering, into the Passy + omnibus, its great, grinding wheels took up the derisive burden—“Never + see him, never see him again.” + </p> + <p> + All that was only two weeks ago, and here she was, as happy as a lark, + mounting the hill to his door in the spring sunshine. So weak a heart did + not deserve such a radiant fate; and Lizzie said to herself that she would + never again distrust her star. + </p> + <h3> + II + </h3> + <p> + THE cracked bell tinkled sweetly through her heart as she stood listening + for the scamper of Juliet’s feet. Juliet, anticipating the laggard + Suzanne, almost always opened the door for her governess, not from any + unnatural zeal to hasten the hour of her studies, but from the + irrepressible desire to see what was going on in the street. But on this + occasion Lizzie listened vainly for a step, and at length gave the bell + another twitch. Doubtless some unusually absorbing incident had detained + the child below-stairs; thus only could her absence be explained. + </p> + <p> + A third ring produced no response, and Lizzie, full of dawning fears, drew + back to look up at the shabby, blistered house. She saw that the studio + shutters stood wide, and then noticed, without surprise, that Mrs. + Deering’s were still unopened. No doubt Mrs. Deering was resting after the + fatigue of the journey. Instinctively Lizzie’s eyes turned again to the + studio; and as she looked, she saw Deering at the window. He caught sight + of her, and an instant later came to the door. He looked paler than usual, + and she noticed that he wore a black coat. + </p> + <p> + “I rang and rang—where is Juliet?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her gravely, almost solemnly; then, without answering, he led + her down the passage to the studio, and closed the door when she had + entered. + </p> + <p> + “My wife is dead—she died suddenly ten days ago. Didn’t you see it + in the papers?” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie, with a little cry, sank down on the rickety divan. She seldom saw + a newspaper, since she could not afford one for her own perusal, and those + supplied to the Pension Clopin were usually in the hands of its more + privileged lodgers till long after the hour when she set out on her + morning round. + </p> + <p> + “No; I didn’t see it,” she stammered. + </p> + <p> + Deering was silent. He stood a little way off, twisting an unlit cigarette + in his hand, and looking down at her with a gaze that was both hesitating + and constrained. + </p> + <p> + She, too, felt the constraint of the situation, the impossibility of + finding words that, after what had passed between them, should seem + neither false nor heartless; and at last she exclaimed, standing up: “Poor + little Juliet! Can’t I go to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Juliet is not here. I left her at St.-Raphael with the relations with + whom my wife was staying.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” Lizzie murmured, feeling vaguely that this added to the difficulty + of the moment. How differently she had pictured their meeting! + </p> + <p> + “I’m so—so sorry for her!” she faltered out. + </p> + <p> + Deering made no reply, but, turning on his heel, walked the length of the + studio, and then halted vaguely before the picture on the easel. It was + the landscape he had begun the previous autumn, with the intention of + sending it to the Salon that spring. But it was still unfinished—seemed, + indeed, hardly more advanced than on the fateful October day when Lizzie, + standing before it for the first time, had confessed her inability to deal + with Juliet. Perhaps the same thought struck its creator, for he broke + into a dry laugh, and turned from the easel with a shrug. + </p> + <p> + Under his protracted silence Lizzie roused herself to the fact that, since + her pupil was absent, there was no reason for her remaining any longer; + and as Deering again moved toward her she said with an effort: “I’ll go, + then. You’ll send for me when she comes back?” + </p> + <p> + Deering still hesitated, tormenting the cigarette between his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “She’s not coming back—not at present.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie heard him with a drop of the heart. Was everything to be changed in + their lives? But of course; how could she have dreamed it would be + otherwise? She could only stupidly repeat: “Not coming back? Not this + spring?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not, since are friends are so good as to keep her. The fact is, + I’ve got to go to America. My wife left a little property, a few pennies, + that I must go and see to—for the child.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie stood before him, a cold knife in her breast. “I see—I see,” + she reiterated, feeling all the while that she strained her eyes into + impenetrable blackness. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a nuisance, having to pull up stakes,” he went on, with a fretful + glance about the studio. + </p> + <p> + She lifted her eyes slowly to his face. “Shall you be gone long?” she took + courage to ask. + </p> + <p> + “There again—I can’t tell. It’s all so frightfully mixed up.” He met + her look for an incredibly long, strange moment. “I hate to go!” he + murmured as if to himself. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie felt a rush of moisture to her lashes, and the old, familiar wave + of weakness at her heart. She raised her hand to her face with an + instinctive gesture, and as she did so he held out his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Come here, Lizzie!” he said. + </p> + <p> + And she went—went with a sweet, wild throb of liberation, with the + sense that at last the house was his, that <i>she</i> was his, if he + wanted her; that never again would that silent, rebuking presence in the + room above constrain and shame her rapture. + </p> + <p> + He pushed back her veil and covered her face with kisses. “Don’t cry, you + little goose!” he said. + </p> + <h3> + III + </h3> + <p> + THAT they must see each other again before his departure, in someplace + less exposed than their usual haunts, was as clear to Lizzie as it + appeared to be to Deering. His expressing the wish seemed, indeed, the + sweetest testimony to the quality of his feeling, since, in the first + weeks of the most perfunctory widowerhood, a man of his stamp is presumed + to abstain from light adventures. If, then, at such a moment, he wished so + much to be quietly and gravely with her, it could be only for reasons she + did not call by name, but of which she felt the sacred tremor in her + heart; and it would have seemed incredibly vain and vulgar to put forward, + at such a crisis, the conventional objections by means of which such + little-exposed existences defend the treasure of their freshness. + </p> + <p> + In such a mood as this one may descend from the Passy omnibus at the + corner of the Pont de la Concorde (she had not let him fetch her in a cab) + with a sense of dedication almost solemn, and may advance to meet one’s + fate, in the shape of a gentleman of melancholy elegance, with an + auto-taxi at his call, as one has advanced to the altar-steps in some + girlish bridal vision. + </p> + <p> + Even the experienced waiter ushering them into an upper room of the quiet + restaurant on the Seine could hardly have supposed their quest for + seclusion to be based on sentimental motives, so soberly did Deering give + his orders, while his companion sat small and grave at his side. She did + not, indeed, mean to let her private pang obscure their hour together: she + was already learning that Deering shrank from sadness. He should see that + she had courage and gaiety to face their coming separation, and yet give + herself meanwhile to this completer nearness; but she waited, as always, + for him to strike the opening note. + </p> + <p> + Looking back at it later, she wondered at the mild suavity of the hour. + Her heart was unversed in happiness, but he had found the tone to lull her + apprehensions, and make her trust her fate for any golden wonder. Deepest + of all, he gave her the sense of something tacit and confirmed between + them, as if his tenderness were a habit of the heart hardly needing the + support of outward proof. + </p> + <p> + Such proof as he offered came, therefore, as a kind of crowning luxury, + the flower of a profoundly rooted sentiment; and here again the + instinctive reserves and defenses would have seemed to vulgarize what his + trust ennobled. But if all the tender casuistries of her heart were at his + service, he took no grave advantage of them. Even when they sat alone + after dinner, with the lights of the river trembling through their one low + window, and the vast rumor of Paris inclosing them in a heart of silence, + he seemed, as much as herself, under the spell of hallowing influences. + She felt it most of all as she yielded to the arm he presently put about + her, to the long caress he laid on her lips and eyes: not a word or + gesture missed the note of quiet union, or cast a doubt, in retrospect, on + the pact they sealed with their last look. + </p> + <p> + That pact, as she reviewed it through a sleepless night, seemed to have + consisted mainly, on his part, in pleadings for full and frequent news of + her, on hers in the assurance that it should be given as often as he asked + it. She had felt an intense desire not to betray any undue eagerness, any + crude desire to affirm and define her hold on him. Her life had given her + a certain acquaintance with the arts of defense: girls in her situation + were commonly supposed to know them all, and to use them as occasion + called. But Lizzie’s very need of them had intensified her disdain. Just + because she was so poor, and had always, materially, so to count her + change and calculate her margin, she would at least know the joy of + emotional prodigality, would give her heart as recklessly as the rich + their millions. She was sure now that Deering loved her, and if he had + seized the occasion of their farewell to give her some definitely worded + sign of his feeling—if, more plainly, he had asked her to marry him,—his + doing so would have seemed less like a proof of his sincerity than of his + suspecting in her the need of a verbal warrant. That he had abstained + seemed to show that he trusted her as she trusted him, and that they were + one most of all in this deep security of understanding. + </p> + <p> + She had tried to make him divine all this in the chariness of her promise + to write. She would write; of course she would. But he would be busy, + preoccupied, on the move: it was for him to let her know when he wished a + word, to spare her the embarrassment of ill-timed intrusions. + </p> + <p> + “Intrusions?” He had smiled the word away. “You can’t well intrude, my + darling, on a heart where you’re already established, to the complete + exclusion of other lodgers.” And then, taking her hands, and looking up + from them into her happy, dizzy eyes: “You don’t know much about being in + love, do you, Lizzie?” he laughingly ended. + </p> + <p> + It seemed easy enough to reject this imputation in a kiss; but she + wondered afterward if she had not deserved it. Was she really cold and + conventional, and did other women give more richly and recklessly? She + found that it was possible to turn about every one of her reserves and + delicacies so that they looked like selfish scruples and petty pruderies, + and at this game she came in time to exhaust all the resources of an + over-abundant casuistry. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the first days after Deering’s departure wore a soft, refracted + light like the radiance lingering after sunset. <i>He</i>, at any rate, + was taxable with no reserves, no calculations, and his letters of + farewell, from train and steamer, filled her with long murmurs and echoes + of his presence. How he loved her, how he loved her—and how he knew + how to tell her so! + </p> + <p> + She was not sure of possessing the same aptitude. Unused to the expression + of personal emotion, she fluctuated between the impulse to pour out all + she felt and the fear lest her extravagance should amuse or even bore him. + She never lost the sense that what was to her the central crisis of + experience must be a mere episode in a life so predestined as his to + romantic accidents. All that she felt and said would be subjected to the + test of comparison with what others had already given him: from all + quarters of the globe she saw passionate missives winging their way toward + Deering, for whom her poor little swallow-flight of devotion could + certainly not make a summer. But such moments were succeeded by others in + which she raised her head and dared inwardly to affirm her conviction that + no woman had ever loved him just as she had, and that none, therefore, had + probably found just such things to say to him. And this conviction + strengthened the other less solidly based belief that <i>he</i> also, for + the same reason, had found new accents to express his tenderness, and that + the three letters she wore all day in her shabby blouse, and hid all night + beneath her pillow, surpassed not only in beauty, but in quality, all he + had ever penned for other eyes. + </p> + <p> + They gave her, at any rate, during the weeks that she wore them on her + heart, sensations even more complex and delicate than Deering’s actual + presence had ever occasioned. To be with him was always like breasting a + bright, rough sea, that blinded while it buoyed her: but his letters + formed a still pool of contemplation, above which she could bend, and see + the reflection of the sky, and the myriad movements of life that flitted + and gleamed below the surface. The wealth of his hidden life—that + was what most surprised her! It was incredible to her now that she had had + no inkling of it, but had kept on blindly along the narrow track of habit, + like a traveler climbing a road in a fog, who suddenly finds himself on a + sunlit crag between blue leagues of sky and dizzy depths of valley. And + the odd thing was that all the people about her—the whole world of + the Passy pension—were still plodding along the same dull path, + preoccupied with the pebbles underfoot, and unconscious of the glory + beyond the fog! + </p> + <p> + There were wild hours when she longed to cry out to them what one saw from + the summit—and hours of tremulous abasement when she asked herself + why <i>her</i> happy feet had been guided there, while others, no doubt as + worthy, stumbled and blundered in obscurity. She felt, in particular, a + sudden urgent pity for the two or three other girls at Mme. Clopin’s—girls + older, duller, less alive than she, and by that very token more + appealingly flung upon her sympathy. Would they ever know? Had they ever + known?—those were the questions that haunted her as she crossed her + companions on the stairs, faced them at the dinner-table, and listened to + their poor, pining talk in the dim-lit slippery-seated <i>salon</i>. One + of the girls was Swiss, the other English; the third, Andora Macy, was a + young lady from the Southern States who was studying French with the + ultimate object of imparting it to the inmates of a girls’ school at + Macon, Georgia. + </p> + <p> + Andora Macy was pale, faded, immature. She had a drooping Southern accent, + and a manner which fluctuated between arch audacity and fits of panicky + hauteur. She yearned to be admired, and feared to be insulted; and yet + seemed tragically conscious that she was destined to miss both these + extremes of sensation, or to enjoy them only at second hand in the + experiences of her more privileged friends. + </p> + <p> + It was perhaps for this reason that she took a wistful interest in Lizzie, + who had shrunk from her at first, as the depressing image of her own + probable future, but to whom she had now suddenly become an object of + sentimental pity. + </p> + <h3> + IV + </h3> + <p> + MISS MACY’s room was next to Miss West’s, and the Southerner’s knock often + appealed to Lizzie’s hospitality when Mme. Clopin’s early curfew had + driven her boarders from the <i>salon</i>. It sounded thus one evening + just as Lizzie, tired from an unusually long day of tuition, was in the + act of removing her dress. She was in too indulgent a mood to withhold her + “Come in,” and as Miss Macy crossed the threshold, Lizzie felt that + Vincent Deering’s first letter—the letter from the train—had + slipped from her loosened bodice to the floor. + </p> + <p> + Miss Macy, as promptly noting the fact, darted forward to recover the + letter. Lizzie stooped also, fiercely jealous of her touch; but the other + reached the precious paper first, and as she seized it, Lizzie knew that + she had seen whence it fell, and was weaving round the incident a rapid + web of romance. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie blushed with annoyance. “It’s too stupid, having no pockets! If one + gets a letter as she is going out in the morning, she has to carry it in + her blouse all day.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Macy looked at her with swimming eyes. “It’s warm from your heart!” + she breathed, reluctantly yielding up the missive. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie laughed, for she knew better: she knew it was the letter that had + warmed her heart. Poor Andora Macy! <i>She</i> would never know. Her bleak + bosom would never take fire from such a contact. Lizzie looked at her with + kind eyes, secretly chafing at the injustice of fate. + </p> + <p> + The next evening, on her return home, she found Andora hovering in the + entrance hall. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you’d like me to put this in your own hand,” Miss Macy + whispered significantly, pressing a letter upon Lizzie. “I couldn’t <i>bear</i> + to see it lying on the table with the others.” + </p> + <p> + It was Deering’s letter from the steamer. Lizzie blushed to the forehead, + but without resenting Andora’s divination. She could not have breathed a + word of her bliss, but she was not altogether sorry to have it guessed, + and pity for Andora’s destitution yielded to the pleasure of using it as a + mirror for her own abundance. DEERING wrote again on reaching New York, a + long, fond, dissatisfied letter, vague in its indication of his own + projects, specific in the expression of his love. Lizzie brooded over + every syllable of it till they formed the undercurrent of all her waking + thoughts, and murmured through her midnight dreams; but she would have + been happier if they had shed some definite light on the future. + </p> + <p> + That would come, no doubt, when he had had time to look about and get his + bearings. She counted up the days that must elapse before she received his + next letter, and stole down early to peep at the papers, and learn when + the next American mail was due. At length the happy date arrived, and she + hurried distractedly through the day’s work, trying to conceal her + impatience by the endearments she bestowed upon her pupils. It was easier, + in her present mood, to kiss them than to keep them at their grammars. + </p> + <p> + That evening, on Mme. Clopin’s threshold, her heart beat so wildly that + she had to lean a moment against the door-post before entering. But on the + hall table, where the letters lay, there was none for her. + </p> + <p> + She went over them with a feverish hand, her heart dropping down and down, + as she had sometimes fallen down an endless stairway in a dream—the + very same stairway up which she had seemed to fly when she climbed the + long hill to Deering’s door. Then it suddenly struck her that Andora might + have found and secreted her letter, and with a spring she was on the + actual stairs and rattling Miss Macy’s door-handle. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve a letter for me, haven’t you?” she panted. + </p> + <p> + Miss Macy, turning from the toilet-table, inclosed her in attenuated arms. + “Oh, darling, did you expect one to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Do give it to me!” Lizzie pleaded with burning eyes. + </p> + <p> + “But I haven’t any! There hasn’t been a sign of a letter for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I know there is. There <i>must</i> be,” Lizzie persisted, stamping her + foot. + </p> + <p> + “But, dearest, I’ve <i>watched</i> for you, and there’s been nothing, + absolutely nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Day after day, for the ensuing weeks, the same scene reenacted itself with + endless variations. Lizzie, after the first sharp spasm of disappointment, + made no effort to conceal her anxiety from Miss Macy, and the fond Andora + was charged to keep a vigilant eye upon the postman’s coming, and to spy + on the <i>bonne</i> for possible negligence or perfidy. But these + elaborate precautions remained fruitless, and no letter from Deering came. + </p> + <p> + During the first fortnight of silence Lizzie exhausted all the ingenuities + of explanation. She marveled afterward at the reasons she had found for + Deering’s silence: there were moments when she almost argued herself into + thinking it more natural than his continuing to write. There was only one + reason which her intelligence consistently rejected, and that was the + possibility that he had forgotten her, that the whole episode had faded + from his mind like a breath from a mirror. From that she resolutely turned + her thoughts, aware that if she suffered herself to contemplate it, the + motive power of life would fail, and she would no longer understand why + she rose up in the morning and laydown at night. + </p> + <p> + If she had had leisure to indulge her anguish she might have been unable + to keep such speculations at bay. But she had to be up and working: the <i>blanchisseuse</i> + had to be paid, and Mme. Clopin’s weekly bill, and all the little “extras” + that even her frugal habits had to reckon with. And in the depths of her + thought dwelt the dogging fear of illness and incapacity, goading her to + work while she could. She hardly remembered the time when she had been + without that fear; it was second nature now, and it kept her on her feet + when other incentives might have failed. In the blankness of her misery + she felt no dread of death; but the horror of being ill and “dependent” + was in her blood. + </p> + <p> + In the first weeks of silence she wrote again and again to Deering, + entreating him for a word, for a mere sign of life. From the first she had + shrunk from seeming to assert any claim on his future, yet in her aching + bewilderment she now charged herself with having been too possessive, too + exacting in her tone. She told herself that his fastidiousness shrank from + any but a “light touch,” and that hers had not been light enough. She + should have kept to the character of the “little friend,” the artless + consciousness in which tormented genius may find an escape from its + complexities; and instead, she had dramatized their relation, exaggerated + her own part in it, presumed, forsooth, to share the front of the stage + with him, instead of being content to serve as scenery or chorus. + </p> + <p> + But though to herself she admitted, and even insisted on, the episodical + nature of the experience, on the fact that for Deering it could be no more + than an incident, she was still convinced that his sentiment for her, + however fugitive, had been genuine. + </p> + <p> + His had not been the attitude of the unscrupulous male seeking a vulgar + “advantage.” For a moment he had really needed her, and if he was silent + now, it was perhaps because he feared that she had mistaken the nature of + the need and built vain hopes on its possible duration. + </p> + <p> + It was of the very essence of Lizzie’s devotion that it sought + instinctively the larger freedom of its object; she could not conceive of + love under any form of exaction or compulsion. To make this clear to + Deering became an overwhelming need, and in a last short letter she + explicitly freed him from whatever sentimental obligation its predecessors + might have seemed to impose. In this studied communication she playfully + accused herself of having unwittingly sentimentalized their relation, + affirming, in self-defense, a retrospective astuteness, a sense of the + impermanence of the tenderer sentiments, that almost put Deering in the + fatuous position of having mistaken coquetry for surrender. And she ended + gracefully with a plea for the continuance of the friendly regard which + she had “always understood” to be the basis of their sympathy. The + document, when completed, seemed to her worthy of what she conceived to be + Deering’s conception of a woman of the world, and she found a spectral + satisfaction in the thought of making her final appearance before him in + that distinguished character. But she was never destined to learn what + effect the appearance produced; for the letter, like those it sought to + excuse, remained unanswered. + </p> + <h3> + V + </h3> + <p> + THE fresh spring sunshine which had so often attended Lizzie Weston her + dusty climb up the hill of St.-Cloud beamed on her, some two years later, + in a scene and a situation of altered import. + </p> + <p> + The horse-chestnuts of the Champs-Elysees filtered its rays through the + symmetrical umbrage inclosing the graveled space about Daurent’s + restaurant, and Miss West, seated at a table within that privileged + circle, presented to the light a hat much better able to sustain its + scrutiny than those which had sheltered the brow of Juliet Deering’s + instructress. + </p> + <p> + Her dress was in keeping with the hat, and both belonged to a situation + rich in such possibilities as the act of a leisurely luncheon at Daurent’s + in the opening week of the Salon. Her companions, of both sexes, confirmed + and emphasized this impression by an elaborateness of garb and an ease of + attitude implying the largest range of selection between the forms of + Parisian idleness; and even Andora Macy, seated opposite, as in the place + of co-hostess or companion, reflected, in coy grays and mauves, the festal + note of the occasion. + </p> + <p> + This note reverberated persistently in the ears of a solitary gentleman + straining for glimpses of the group from a table wedged in the remotest + corner of the garden; but to Miss West herself the occurrence did not rise + above the usual. For nearly a year she had been acquiring the habit of + such situations, and the act of offering a luncheon at Daurent’s to her + cousins, the Harvey Mearses of Providence, and their friend Mr. Jackson + Benn, produced in her no emotion beyond the languid glow which Mr. Benn’s + presence was beginning to impart to such scenes. + </p> + <p> + “It’s frightful, the way you’ve got used to it,” Andora Macy had wailed in + the first days of her friend’s transfigured fortune, when Lizzie West had + waked one morning to find herself among the heirs of an old and miserly + cousin whose testamentary dispositions had formed, since her earliest + childhood, the subject of pleasantry and conjecture in her own improvident + family. Old Hezron Mears had never given any sign of life to the luckless + Wests; had perhaps hardly been conscious of including them in the + carefully drawn will which, following the old American convention, + scrupulously divided his hoarded millions among his kin. It was by a mere + genealogical accident that Lizzie, falling just within the golden circle, + found herself possessed of a pittance sufficient to release her from the + prospect of a long gray future in Mme. Clopin’s pension. + </p> + <p> + The release had seemed wonderful at first; yet she presently found that it + had destroyed her former world without giving her anew one. On the ruins + of the old pension life bloomed the only flower that had ever sweetened + her path; and beyond the sense of present ease, and the removal of anxiety + for the future, her reconstructed existence blossomed with no compensating + joys. She had hoped great things from the opportunity to rest, to travel, + to look about her, above all, in various artful feminine ways, to be + “nice” to the companions of her less privileged state; but such widenings + of scope left her, as it were, but the more conscious of the empty margin + of personal life beyond them. It was not till she woke to the leisure of + her new days that she had the full sense of what was gone from them. + </p> + <p> + Their very emptiness made her strain to pack them with transient + sensations: she was like the possessor of an unfurnished house, with + random furniture and bric-a-brac perpetually pouring in “on approval.” It + was in this experimental character that Mr. Jackson Benn had fixed her + attention, and the languid effort of her imagination to adjust him to her + requirements was seconded by the fond complicity of Andora and the smiling + approval of her cousins. Lizzie did not discourage these demonstrations: + she suffered serenely Andora’s allusions to Mr. Benn’s infatuation, and + Mrs. Mears’s casual boast of his business standing. All the better if they + could drape his narrow square-shouldered frame and round unwinking + countenance in the trailing mists of sentiment: Lizzie looked and + listened, not unhopeful of the miracle. + </p> + <p> + “I never saw anything like the way these Frenchmen stare! Doesn’t it make + you nervous, Lizzie?” Mrs. Mears broke out suddenly, ruffling her feather + boa about an outraged bosom. Mrs. Mears was still in that stage of + development when her countrywomen taste to the full the peril of being + exposed to the gaze of the licentious Gaul. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie roused herself from the contemplation of Mr. Benn’s round baby + cheeks and the square blue jaw resting on his perpendicular collar. “Is + some one staring at me?” she asked with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t turn round, whatever you do! There—just over there, between + the rhododendrons—the tall fair man alone at that table. Really, + Harvey, I think you ought to speak to the head-waiter, or something; + though I suppose in one of these places they’d only laugh at you,” Mrs. + Mears shudderingly concluded. + </p> + <p> + Her husband, as if inclining to this probability, continued the + undisturbed dissection of his chicken wing; but Mr. Benn, perhaps aware + that his situation demanded a more punctilious attitude, sternly revolved + upon the parapet of his high collar in the direction of Mrs. Mears’s + glance. + </p> + <p> + “What, that fellow all alone over there? Why, <i>he’s</i> not French; he’s + an American,” he then proclaimed with a perceptible relaxing of the facial + muscles. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” murmured Mrs. Mears, as perceptibly disappointed, and Mr. Benn + continued carelessly: “He came over on the steamer with me. He’s some kind + of an artist—a fellow named Deering. He was staring at <i>me</i>, I + guess: wondering whether I was going to remember him. Why, how d’ ‘e do? + How are you? Why, yes, of course; with pleasure—my friends, Mrs. + Harvey Mears—Mr. Mears; my friends Miss Macy and Miss West.” + </p> + <p> + “I have the pleasure of knowing Miss West,” said Vincent Deering with a + smile. + </p> + <h3> + VI + </h3> + <p> + EVEN through his smile Lizzie had seen, in the first moment, how changed + he was; and the impression of the change deepened to the point of pain + when, a few days later, in reply to his brief note, she accorded him a + private hour. + </p> + <p> + That the first sight of his writing—the first answer to his letters—should + have come, after three long years, in the shape of this impersonal line, + too curt to be called humble, yet confessing to a consciousness of the + past by the studied avoidance of its language! As she read, her mind + flashed back over what she had dreamed his letters would be, over the + exquisite answers she had composed above his name. There was nothing + exquisite in the conventional lines before her; but dormant nerves began + to throb again at the mere touch of the paper he had touched, and she + threw the little note into the fire before she dared to reply to it. + </p> + <p> + Now that he was actually before her again, he became, as usual, the one + live spot in her consciousness. Once more her tormented throbbing self + sank back passive and numb, but now with all its power of suffering + mysteriously transferred to the presence, so known, yet so unknown, at the + opposite corner of her hearth. She was still Lizzie West, and he was still + Vincent Deering; but the Styx rolled between them, and she saw his face + through its fog. It was his face, really, rather than his words, that told + her, as she furtively studied it, the tale of failure and slow + discouragement which had so blurred its handsome lines. She kept afterward + no precise memory of the actual details of his narrative: the pain it + evidently cost him to impart it was so much the sharpest fact in her new + vision of him. Confusedly, however, she gathered that on reaching America + he had found his wife’s small property gravely impaired; and that, while + lingering on to secure what remained of it, he had contrived to sell a + picture or two, and had even known a brief moment of success, during which + he received orders and set up a studio. But inexplicably the tide had + ebbed, his work remained on his hands, and a tedious illness, with its + miserable sequel of debt, soon wiped out his small advantage. There + followed a period of eclipse, still more vaguely pictured, during which + she was allowed to infer that he had tried his hand at divers means of + livelihood, accepting employment from a fashionable house-decorator, + designing wall-papers, illustrating magazine articles, and acting for a + time, she dimly understood, as the social tout of a new hotel desirous of + advertising its restaurant. These disjointed facts were strung on a + slender thread of personal allusions—references to friends who had + been kind (jealously, she guessed them to be women), and to enemies who + had darkly schemed against him. But, true to his tradition of + “correctness,” he carefully avoided the mention of names, and left her + trembling conjectures to grope dimly through an alien crowded world in + which there seemed little room for her small shy presence. + </p> + <p> + As she listened, her private pang was merged in the intolerable sense of + his unhappiness. Nothing he had said explained or excused his conduct to + her; but he had suffered, he had been lonely, had been humiliated, and she + suddenly felt, with a fierce maternal rage, that there was no conceivable + justification for any scheme of things in which such facts were possible. + She could not have said why: she simply knew that it hurt too much to see + him hurt. + </p> + <p> + Gradually it came to her that her unconsciousness of any personal + grievance was due to her having so definitely determined her own future. + She was glad she had decided, as she now felt she had, to marry Jackson + Benn, if only for the sense of detachment it gave her in dealing with the + case of Vincent Deering. Her personal safety insured her the requisite + impartiality, and justified her in dwelling as long as she chose on the + last lines of a chapter to which her own act had deliberately fixed the + close. Any lingering hesitations as to the finality of her decision were + dispelled by the imminent need of making it known to Deering; and when her + visitor paused in his reminiscences to say, with a sigh, “But many things + have happened to you too,” his words did not so much evoke the sense of + her altered fortunes as the image of the protector to whom she was about + to intrust them. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, many things; it’s three years,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Deering sat leaning forward, in his sad exiled elegance, his eyes gently + bent on hers; and at his side she saw the solid form of Mr. Jackson Benn, + with shoulders preternaturally squared by the cut of his tight black coat, + and a tall shiny collar sustaining his baby cheeks and hard blue chin. + Then the vision faded as Deering began to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Three years,” he repeated, musingly taking up her words. “I’ve so often + wondered what they’d brought you.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her head with a quick blush, and the terrified wish that he + should not, at the cost of all his notions of correctness, lapse into the + blunder of becoming “personal.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve wondered?” She smiled back bravely. + </p> + <p> + “Do you suppose I haven’t?” His look dwelt on her. “Yes, I daresay that <i>was</i> + what you thought of me.” + </p> + <p> + She had her answer pat—“Why, frankly, you know, I <i>didn’t</i> + think of you.” But the mounting tide of her poor dishonored memories swept + it indignantly away. If it was his correctness to ignore, it could never + be hers to disavow. + </p> + <p> + “<i> Was</i> that what you thought of me?” she heard him repeat in a tone + of sad insistence; and at that, with a quick lift of her head, she + resolutely answered: “How could I know what to think? I had no word from + you.” + </p> + <p> + If she had expected, and perhaps almost hoped, that this answer would + create a difficulty for him, the gaze of quiet fortitude with which he met + it proved that she had underestimated his resources. + </p> + <p> + “No, you had no word. I kept my vow,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Your vow?” + </p> + <p> + “That you <i>shouldn’t</i> have a word—not a syllable. Oh, I kept it + through everything!” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie’s heart was sounding in her ears the old confused rumor of the sea + of life, but through it she desperately tried to distinguish the still + small voice of reason. + </p> + <p> + “What <i>was</i> your vow? Why shouldn’t I have had a syllable from you?” + </p> + <p> + He sat motionless, still holding her with a look so gentle that it almost + seemed forgiving. + </p> + <p> + Then abruptly he rose, and crossing the space between them, sat down in a + chair at her side. The deliberation of his movement might have implied a + forgetfulness of changed conditions, and Lizzie, as if thus viewing it, + drew slightly back; but he appeared not to notice her recoil, and his + eyes, at last leaving her face, slowly and approvingly made the round of + the small bright drawing-room. “This is charming. Yes, things <i>have</i> + changed for you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + A moment before she had prayed that he might be spared the error of a vain + return upon the past. It was as if all her retrospective tenderness, + dreading to see him at such a disadvantage, rose up to protect him from + it. But his evasiveness exasperated her, and suddenly she felt the + inconsistent desire to hold him fast, face to face with his own words. + </p> + <p> + Before she could reiterate her question, however, he had met her with + another. + </p> + <p> + “You <i>did</i> think of me, then? Why are you afraid to tell me that you + did?” + </p> + <p> + The unexpectedness of the challenge wrung an indignant cry from her. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t my letters tell you so enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, your letters!” Keeping her gaze on his in a passion of unrelenting + fixity, she could detect in him no confusion, not the least quiver of a + sensitive nerve. He only gazed back at her more sadly. + </p> + <p> + “They went everywhere with me—your letters,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yet you never answered them.” At last the accusation trembled to her + lips. + </p> + <p> + “Yet I never answered them.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever so much as read them, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + All the demons of self-torture were up in her now, and she loosed them on + him, as if to escape from their rage. + </p> + <p> + Deering hardly seemed to hear her question. He merely shifted his + attitude, leaning a little nearer to her, but without attempting, by the + least gesture, to remind her of the privileges which such nearness had + once implied. + </p> + <p> + “There were beautiful, wonderful things in them,” he said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + She felt herself stiffen under his smile. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve waited three years to tell me so!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with grave surprise. “And do you resent my telling you + even now?” + </p> + <p> + His parries were incredible. They left her with a breathless sense of + thrusting at emptiness, and a desperate, almost vindictive desire to drive + him against the wall and pin him there. + </p> + <p> + “No. Only I wonder you should take the trouble to tell me, when at the + time—” + </p> + <p> + And now, with a sudden turn, he gave her the final surprise of meeting her + squarely on her own ground. + </p> + <p> + “When at the time I didn’t? But how <i>could</i> I—at the time?” + </p> + <p> + “Why couldn’t you? You’ve not yet told me?” + </p> + <p> + He gave her again his look of disarming patience. “Do I need to? Hasn’t my + whole wretched story told you?” + </p> + <p> + “Told me why you never answered my letters?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, since I could only answer them in one way—by protesting my + love and my longing.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause of resigned expectancy on his part, on hers, of a + wild confused reconstruction of her shattered past. “You mean, then, that + you didn’t write because—” + </p> + <p> + “Because I found, when I reached America, that I was a pauper; that my + wife’s money was gone, and that what I could earn—I’ve so little + gift that way!—was barely enough to keep Juliet clothed and + educated. It was as if an iron door had been suddenly locked and barred + between us.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie felt herself driven back, panting upon the last defenses of her + incredulity. “You might at least have told me—have explained. Do you + think I shouldn’t have understood?” + </p> + <p> + He did not hesitate. “You would have understood. It wasn’t that.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it then?” she quavered. + </p> + <p> + “It’s wonderful you shouldn’t see! Simply that I couldn’t write you <i>that</i>. + Anything else—not <i>that!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “And so you preferred to let me suffer?” + </p> + <p> + There was a shade of reproach in his eyes. “I suffered too,” he said. + </p> + <p> + It was his first direct appeal to her compassion, and for a moment it + nearly unsettled the delicate poise of her sympathies, and sent them + trembling in the direction of scorn and irony. But even as the impulse + rose, it was stayed by another sensation. Once again, as so often in the + past, she became aware of a fact which, in his absence, she always failed + to reckon with—the fact of the deep irreducible difference between + his image in her mind and his actual self, the mysterious alteration in + her judgment produced by the inflections of his voice, the look of his + eyes, the whole complex pressure of his personality. She had phrased it + once self-reproachfully by saying to herself that she “never could + remember him,” so completely did the sight of him supersede the + counterfeit about which her fancy wove its perpetual wonders. Bright and + breathing as that counterfeit was, it became a gray figment of the mind at + the touch of his presence; and on this occasion the immediate result was + to cause her to feel his possible unhappiness with an intensity beside + which her private injury paled. + </p> + <p> + “I suffered horribly,” he repeated, “and all the more that I couldn’t make + a sign, couldn’t cry out my misery. There was only one escape from it all—to + hold my tongue, and pray that you might hate me.” + </p> + <p> + The blood rushed to Lizzie’s forehead. “Hate you—you prayed that I + might hate you?” + </p> + <p> + He rose from his seat, and moving closer, lifted her hand gently in his. + “Yes; because your letters showed me that, if you didn’t, you’d be + unhappier still.” + </p> + <p> + Her hand lay motionless, with the warmth of his flowing through it, and + her thoughts, too—her poor fluttering stormy thoughts—felt + themselves suddenly penetrated by the same soft current of communion. + </p> + <p> + “And I meant to keep my resolve,” he went on, slowly releasing his clasp. + “I meant to keep it even after the random stream of things swept me back + here in your way; but when I saw you the other day, I felt that what had + been possible at a distance was impossible now that we were near each + other. How was it possible to see you and want you to hate me?” + </p> + <p> + He had moved away, but not to resume his seat. He merely paused at a + little distance, his hand resting on a chair-back, in the transient + attitude that precedes departure. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie’s heart contracted. He was going, then, and this was his farewell. + He was going, and she could find no word to detain him but the senseless + stammer “I never hated you.” + </p> + <p> + He considered her with his faint grave smile. “It’s not necessary, at any + rate, that you should do so now. Time and circumstances have made me so + harmless—that’s exactly why I’ve dared to venture back. And I wanted + to tell you how I rejoice in your good fortune. It’s the only obstacle + between us that I can’t bring myself to wish away.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie sat silent, spellbound, as she listened, by the sudden evocation of + Mr. Jackson Benn. He stood there again, between herself and Deering, + perpendicular and reproachful, but less solid and sharply outlined than + before, with a look in his small hard eyes that desperately wailed for + reembodiment. + </p> + <p> + Deering was continuing his farewell speech. “You’re rich now, you’re free. + You will marry.” She vaguely saw him holding out his hand. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not true that I’m engaged!” she broke out. They were the last words + she had meant to utter; they were hardly related to her conscious + thoughts; but she felt her whole will suddenly gathered up in the + irrepressible impulse to repudiate and fling away from her forever the + spectral claim of Mr. Jackson Benn. + </p> + <h3> + VII + </h3> + <p> + IT was the firm conviction of Andora Macy that every object in the Vincent + Deerings’ charming little house at Neuilly had been expressly designed for + the Deerings’ son to play with. + </p> + <p> + The house was full of pretty things, some not obviously applicable to the + purpose; but Miss Macy’s casuistry was equal tothe baby’s appetite, and + the baby’s mother was no match for them in the art of defending her + possessions. There were moments, in fact, when Lizzie almost fell in with + Andora’s summary division of her works of art into articles safe or unsafe + for the baby to lick, or resisted it only to the extent of occasionally + substituting some less precious or less perishable object for the + particular fragility on which her son’s desire was fixed. And it was with + this intention that, on a certain fair spring morning—which wore the + added luster of being the baby’s second birthday—she had murmured, + with her mouth in his curls, and one hand holding a bit of Chelsea above + his dangerous clutch: “Wouldn’t he rather have that beautiful shiny thing + over there in Aunt Andorra’s hand?” + </p> + <p> + The two friends were together in Lizzie’s little morning-room—the + room she had chosen, on acquiring the house, because, when she sat there, + she could hear Deering’s step as he paced up and down before his easel in + the studio she had built for him. His step had been less regularly audible + than she had hoped, for, after three years of wedded bliss, he had somehow + failed to settle down to the great work which was to result from that + privileged state; but even when she did not hear him she knew that he was + there, above her head, stretched out on the old divan from Passy, and + smoking endless cigarettes while he skimmed the morning papers; and the + sense of his nearness had not yet lost its first keen edge of bliss. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie herself, on the day in question, was engaged in a more arduous task + than the study of the morning’s news. She had never unlearned the habit of + orderly activity, and the trait she least understood in her husband’s + character was his way of letting the loose ends of life hang as they + would. She had been disposed at first to ascribe this to the chronic + incoherence of his first <i>menage;</i> but now she knew that, though he + basked under the rule of her beneficent hand, he would never feel any + active impulse to further its work. He liked to see things fall into place + about him at a wave of her wand; but his enjoyment of her household magic + in no way diminished his smiling irresponsibility, and it was with one of + its least amiable consequences that his wife and her friend were now + dealing. + </p> + <p> + Before them stood two travel-worn trunks and a distended portmanteau, + which had shed their contents in heterogeneous heaps over Lizzie’s rosy + carpet. They represented the hostages left by her husband on his somewhat + precipitate departure from a New York boarding-house, and indignantly + redeemed by her on her learning, in a curt letter from his landlady, that + the latter was not disposed to regard them as an equivalent for the + arrears of Deering’s board. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie had not been shocked by the discovery that her husband had left + America in debt. She had too sad an acquaintance with the economic strain + to see any humiliation in such accidents; but it offended her sense of + order that he should not have liquidated his obligation in the three years + since their marriage. He took her remonstrance with his usual disarming + grace, and left her to forward the liberating draft, though her delicacy + had provided him with a bank-account which assured his personal + independence. Lizzie had discharged the duty without repugnance, since she + knew that his delegating it to her was the result of his good-humored + indolence and not of any design on her exchequer. Deering was not dazzled + by money; his altered fortunes had tempted him to no excesses: he was + simply too lazy to draw the check, as he had been too lazy to remember the + debt it canceled. + </p> + <p> + “No, dear! No!” Lizzie lifted the Chelsea figure higher. “Can’t you find + something for him, Andora, among that rubbish over there? Where’s the + beaded bag you had in your hand just now? I don’t think it could hurt him + to lick that.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Macy, bag in hand, rose from her knees, and stumbled through the + slough of frayed garments and old studio properties. Before the group of + mother and son she fell into a raptured attitude. + </p> + <p> + “Do look at him reach for it, the tyrant! Isn’t he just like the young + Napoleon?” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie laughed and swung her son in air. “Dangle it before him, Andora. If + you let him have it too quickly, he won’t care for it. He’s just like any + man, I think.” + </p> + <p> + Andora slowly lowered the shining bag till the heir of the Deerings closed + his masterful fist upon it. “There—my Chelsea’s safe!” Lizzie + smiled, setting her boy on the floor, and watching him stagger away with + his booty. + </p> + <p> + Andora stood beside her, watching too. “Have you any idea where that bag + came from, Lizzie?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Deering, bent above a pile of dis-collared shirts, shook an + inattentive head. “I never saw such wicked washing! There isn’t one that’s + fit to mend. The bag? No; I’ve not the least idea.” + </p> + <p> + Andora surveyed her dramatically. “Doesn’t it make you utterly miserable + to think that some woman may have made it for him?” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie, bowed in anxious scrutiny above the shirts, broke into an + unruffled laugh. “Really, Andora, really—six, seven, nine; no, there + isn’t even a dozen. There isn’t a whole dozen of <i>anything</i>. I don’t + see how men live alone!” + </p> + <p> + Andora broodingly pursued her theme. “Do you mean to tell me it doesn’t + make you jealous to handle these things of his that other women may have + given him?” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie shook her head again, and, straightening herself with a smile, + tossed a bundle in her friend’s direction. “No, it doesn’t make me the + least bit jealous. Here, count these socks for me, like a darling.” + </p> + <p> + Andora moaned, “Don’t you feel <i>anything at all?</i>” as the socks + landed in her hollow bosom; but Lizzie, intent upon her task, tranquilly + continued to unfold and sort. She felt a great deal as she did so, but her + feelings were too deep and delicate for the simplifying process of speech. + She only knew that each article she drew from the trunks sent through her + the long tremor of Deering’s touch. It was part of her wonderful new life + that everything belonging to him contained an infinitesimal fraction of + himself—a fraction becoming visible in the warmth of her love as + certain secret elements become visible in rare intensities of temperature. + And in the case of the objects before her, poor shabby witnesses of his + days of failure, what they gave out acquired a special poignancy from its + contrast to his present cherished state. His shirts were all in round + dozens now, and washed as carefully as old lace. As for his socks, she + knew the pattern of every pair, and would have liked to see the + washerwoman who dared to mislay one, or bring it home with the colors + “run”! And in these homely tokens of his well-being she saw the symbol of + what her tenderness had brought him. He was safe in it, encompassed by it, + morally and materially, and she defied the embattled powers of malice to + reach him through the armor of her love. Such feelings, however, were not + communicable, even had one desired to express them: they were no more to + be distinguished from the sense of life itself than bees from the + lime-blossoms in which they murmur. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, do <i>look</i> at him, Lizzie! He’s found out how to open the bag!” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie lifted her head to smile a moment at her son, who sat throned on a + heap of studio rubbish, with Andora before him on adoring knees. She + thought vaguely, “Poor Andora!” and then resumed the discouraged + inspection of a buttonless white waistcoat. The next sound she was aware + of was a fluttered exclamation from her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Lizzie, do you know what he used the bag for? To keep your letters + in!” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie looked up more quickly. She was aware that Andora’s pronoun had + changed its object, and was now applied to Deering. And it struck her as + odd, and slightly disagreeable, that a letter of hers should be found + among the rubbish abandoned in her husband’s New York lodgings. + </p> + <p> + “How funny! Give it to me, please.” + </p> + <p> + “Give the bag to Aunt Andora, darling! Here—look inside, and see + what else a big big boy can find there! Yes, here’s another! Why, why—” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie rose with a shade of impatience and crossed the floor to the + romping group beside the other trunk. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Give me the letters, please.” As she spoke, she suddenly + recalled the day when, in Mme. Clopin’s <i>pension</i>, she had addressed + a similar behest to Andora Macy. + </p> + <p> + Andora had lifted a look of startled conjecture. “Why, this one’s never + been opened! Do you suppose that awful woman could have kept it from him?” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie laughed. Andora’s imaginings were really puerile. “What awful + woman? His landlady? Don’t be such a goose, Andora. How can it have been + kept back from him, when we’ve found it here among his things?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but then why was it never opened?” + </p> + <p> + Andora held out the letter, and Lizzie took it. The writing was hers; the + envelop bore the Passy postmark; and it was unopened. She stood looking at + it with a sudden sharp drop of the heart. + </p> + <p> + “Why, so are the others—all unopened!” Andora threw out on a rising + note; but Lizzie, stooping over, stretched out her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Give them to me, please.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie—” Andora, still on her knees, continued to hold + back the packet, her pale face paler with anger and compassion. “Lizzie, + they’re the letters I used to post for you—<i>the letters he never + answered!</i> Look!” + </p> + <p> + “Give them back to me, please.” + </p> + <p> + The two women faced each other, Andora kneeling, Lizzie motionless before + her, the letters in her hand. The blood had rushed to her face, humming in + her ears, and forcing itself into the veins of her temples like hot lead. + Then it ebbed, and she felt cold and weak. + </p> + <p> + “It must have been some plot—some conspiracy!” Andora cried, so + fired by the ecstasy of invention that for the moment she seemed lost to + all but the esthetic aspect of the case. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie turned away her eyes with an effort, and they rested on the boy, + who sat at her feet placidly sucking the tassels of the bag. His mother + stooped and extracted them from his rosy mouth, which a cry of wrath + immediately filled. She lifted him in her arms, and for the first time no + current of life ran from his body into hers. He felt heavy and clumsy, + like some one else’s child; and his screams annoyed her. + </p> + <p> + “Take him away, please, Andora.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!” Andora wailed. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie held out the child, and Andora, struggling to her feet, received + him. + </p> + <p> + “I know just how you feel,” she gasped out above the baby’s head. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie, in some dark hollow of herself, heard the echo of a laugh. Andora + always thought she knew how people felt! + </p> + <p> + “Tell Marthe to take him with her when she fetches Juliet home from + school.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes.” Andora gloated over her. “If you’d only give way, my darling!” + </p> + <p> + The baby, howling, dived over Andora’s shoulder for the bag. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, <i>take</i> him!” his mother ordered. + </p> + <p> + Andora, from the door, cried out: “I’ll be back at once. Remember, love, + you’re not alone!” + </p> + <p> + But Lizzie insisted, “Go with them—I wish you to go with them,” in + the tone to which Miss Macy had never learned the answer. + </p> + <p> + The door closed on her outraged back, and Lizzie stood alone. She looked + about the disordered room, which offered a dreary image of the havoc of + her life. An hour or two ago everything about her had been so exquisitely + ordered, without and within; her thoughts and emotions had lain outspread + before her like delicate jewels laid away symmetrically in a collector’s + cabinet. Now they had been tossed down helter-skelter among the rubbish + there on the floor, and had themselves turned to rubbish like the rest. + Yes, there lay her life at her feet, among all that tarnished trash. + </p> + <p> + She knelt and picked up her letters, ten in all, and examined the flaps of + the envelops. Not one had been opened—not one. As she looked, every + word she had written fluttered to life, and every feeling prompting it + sent a tremor through her. With vertiginous speed and microscopic vision + she was reliving that whole period of her life, stripping bare again the + black ruin over which the drift of three happy years had fallen. + </p> + <p> + She laughed at Andora’s notion of a conspiracy—of the letters having + been “kept back.” She required no extraneous aid in deciphering the + mystery: her three years’ experience of Deering shed on it all the light + she needed. And yet a moment before she had believed herself to be + perfectly happy! Now it was the worst part of her anguish that it did not + really surprise her. + </p> + <p> + She knew so well how it must have happened. The letters had reached him + when he was busy, occupied with something else, and had been put aside to + be read at some future time—a time which never came. Perhaps on his + way to America, on the steamer, even, he had met “some one else”—the + “some one” who lurks, veiled and ominous, in the background of every + woman’s thoughts about her lover. Or perhaps he had been merely forgetful. + She had learned from experience that the sensations which he seemed to + feel with the most exquisite intensity left no reverberations in his mind—that + he did not relive either his pleasures or his pains. She needed no better + proof of that than the lightness of his conduct toward his daughter. He + seemed to have taken it for granted that Juliet would remain indefinitely + with the friends who had received her after her mother’s death, and it was + at Lizzie’s suggestion that the little girl was brought home and that they + had established themselves at Neuilly to be near her school. But Juliet + once with them, he became the model of a tender father, and Lizzie + wondered that he had not felt the child’s absence, since he seemed so + affectionately aware of her presence. + </p> + <p> + Lizzie had noted all this in Juliet’s case, but had taken for granted that + her own was different; that she formed, for Deering, the exception which + every woman secretly supposes herself to form in the experience of the man + she loves. Certainly, she had learned by this time that she could not + modify his habits, but she imagined that she had deepened his + sensibilities, had furnished him with an “ideal”—angelic function! + And she now saw that the fact of her letters—her unanswered letters—having, + on his own assurance, “meant so much” to him, had been the basis on which + this beautiful fabric was reared. + </p> + <p> + There they lay now, the letters, precisely as when they had left her + hands. He had not had time to read them; and there had been a moment in + her past when that discovery would have been the sharpest pang imaginable + to her heart. She had traveled far beyond that point. She could have + forgiven him now for having forgotten her; but she could never forgive him + for having deceived her. + </p> + <p> + She sat down, and looked again vaguely about the room. Suddenly she heard + his step overhead, and her heart contracted. She was afraid he was coming + down to her. She sprang up and bolted the door; then she dropped into the + nearest chair, tremulous and exhausted, as if the pushing of the bolt had + required an immense muscular effort. A moment later she heard him on the + stairs, and her tremor broke into a cold fit of shaking. “I loathe you—I + loathe you!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + She listened apprehensively for his touch on the handle of the door. He + would come in, humming a tune, to ask some idle question and lay a caress + on her hair. But no, the door was bolted; she was safe. She continued to + listen, and the step passed on. He had not been coming to her, then. He + must have gone down-stairs to fetch something—another newspaper, + perhaps. He seemed to read little else, and she sometimes wondered when he + had found time to store the material that used to serve for their famous + “literary” talks. The wonder shot through her again, barbed with a sneer. + At that moment it seemed to her that everything he had ever done and been + was a lie. + </p> + <p> + She heard the house-door close, and started up. Was he going out? It was + not his habit to leave the house in the morning. + </p> + <p> + She crossed the room to the window, and saw him walking, with a quick + decided step, between the budding lilacs to the gate. What could have + called him forth at that unwonted hour? It was odd that he should not have + told her. The fact that she thought it odd suddenly showed her how closely + their lives were interwoven. She had become a habit to him, and he was + fond of his habits. But to her it was as if a stranger had opened the gate + and gone out. She wondered what he would feel if he knew that she felt <i>that</i>. + </p> + <p> + “In an hour he will know,” she said to herself, with a kind of fierce + exultation; and immediately she began to dramatize the scene. As soon as + he came in she meant to call him up to her room and hand him the letters + without a word. For a moment she gloated on the picture; then her + imagination recoiled from it. She was humiliated by the thought of + humiliating him. She wanted to keep his image intact; she would not see + him. + </p> + <p> + He had lied to her about her letters—had lied to her when he found + it to his interest to regain her favor. Yes, there was the point to hold + fast. He had sought her out when he learned that she was rich. Perhaps he + had come back from America on purpose to marry her; no doubt he had come + back on purpose. It was incredible that she had not seen this at the time. + She turned sick at the thought of her fatuity and of the grossness of his + arts. Well, the event proved that they were all he needed. But why had he + gone out at such an hour? She was irritated to find herself still + preoccupied by his comings and goings. + </p> + <p> + Turning from the window, she sat down again. She wondered what she meant + to do next. No, she would not show him the letters; she would simply leave + them on his table and go away. She would leave the house with her boy and + Andora. It was a relief to feel a definite plan forming itself in her mind—something + that her uprooted thoughts could fasten on. She would go away, of course; + and meanwhile, in order not to see him, she would feign a headache, and + remain in her room till after luncheon. Then she and Andora would pack a + few things, and fly with the child while he was dawdling about up-stairs + in the studio. When one’s house fell, one fled from the ruins: nothing + could be simpler, more inevitable. + </p> + <p> + Her thoughts were checked by the impossibility of picturing what would + happen next. Try as she would, she could not see herself and the child + away from Deering. But that, of course, was because of her nervous + weakness. She had youth, money, energy: all the trumps were on her side. + It was much more difficult to imagine what would become of Deering. He was + so dependent on her, and they had been so happy together! The fact struck + her as illogical, and even immoral, and yet she knew he had been happy + with her. It never happened like that in novels: happiness “built on a + lie” always crumbled, and buried the presumptuous architect beneath the + ruins. According to the laws of every novel she had ever read, Deering, + having deceived her once, would inevitably have gone on deceiving her. Yet + she knew he had not gone on deceiving her. + </p> + <p> + She tried again to picture her new life. Her friends, of course, would + rally about her. But the prospect left her cold; she did not want them to + rally. She wanted only one thing—the life she had been living before + she had given her baby the embroidered bag to play with. Oh, why had she + given him the bag? She had been so happy, they had all been so happy! + Every nerve in her clamored for her lost happiness, angrily, unreasonably, + as the boy had clamored for his bag! It was horrible to know too much; + there was always blood in the foundations. Parents “kept things” from + children—protected them from all the dark secrets of pain and evil. + And was any life livable unless it were thus protected? Could any one look + in the Medusa’s face and live? + </p> + <p> + But why should she leave the house, since it was hers? Here, with her boy + and Andora, she could still make for herself the semblance of a life. It + was Deering who would have to go; he would understand that as soon as he + saw the letters. + </p> + <p> + She pictured him in the act of going—leaving the house as he had + left it just now. She saw the gate closing on him for the last time. Now + her vision was acute enough: she saw him as distinctly as if he were in + the room. Ah, he would not like returning to the old life of privations + and expedients! And yet she knew he would not plead with her. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a new thought rushed through her mind. What if Andora had rushed + to him with the tale of the discovery of the letters—with the “Fly, + you are discovered!” of romantic fiction? What if he <i>had</i> left her + for good? It would not be unlike him, after all. Under his wonderful + gentleness he was always evasive and inscrutable. He might have said to + himself that he would forestall her action, and place himself at once on + the defensive. It might be that she <i>had</i> seen him go out of the gate + for the last time. + </p> + <p> + She looked about the room again, as if this thought had given it a new + aspect. Yes, this alone could explain her husband’s going out. It was past + twelve o’clock, their usual luncheon hour, and he was scrupulously + punctual at meals, and gently reproachful if she kept him waiting. Only + some unwonted event could have caused him to leave the house at such an + hour and with such marks of haste. Well, perhaps it was better that Andora + should have spoken. She mistrusted her own courage; she almost hoped the + deed had been done for her. Yet her next sensation was one of confused + resentment. She said to herself, “Why has Andora interfered?” She felt + baffled and angry, as though her prey had escaped her. If Deering had been + in the house, she would have gone to him instantly and overwhelmed him + with her scorn. But he had gone out, and she did not know where he had + gone, and oddly mingled with her anger against him was the latent instinct + of vigilance, the solicitude of the woman accustomed to watch over the man + she loves. It would be strange never to feel that solicitude again, never + to hear him say, with his hand on her hair: “Why, you foolish child, were + you worried? Am I late?” + </p> + <p> + The sense of his touch was so real that she stiffened herself against it, + flinging back her head as if to throw off his hand. The mere thought of + his caress was hateful; yet she felt it in all her traitorous veins. Yes, + she felt it, but with horror and repugnance. It was something she wanted + to escape from, and the fact of struggling against it was what made its + hold so strong. It was as though her mind were sounding her body to make + sure of its allegiance, spying on it for any secret movement of revolt. + </p> + <p> + To escape from the sensation, she rose and went again to the window. No + one was in sight. But presently the gate began to swing back, and her + heart gave a leap—she knew not whether up or down. A moment later + the gate opened slowly to admit a perambulator, propelled by the nurse and + flanked by Juliet and Andora. Lizzie’s eyes rested on the familiar group + as if she had never seen it before, and she stood motionless, instead of + flying down to meet the children. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly there was a step on the stairs, and she heard Andora’s agitated + knock. She unbolted the door, and was strained to her friend’s emaciated + bosom. + </p> + <p> + “My darling!” Miss Macy cried. “Remember you have your child—and + me!” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie loosened herself gently. She looked at Andora with a feeling of + estrangement which she could not explain. + </p> + <p> + “Have you spoken to my husband?” she asked, drawing coldly back. + </p> + <p> + “Spoken to him? No.” Andora stared at her in genuine wonder. + </p> + <p> + “Then you haven’t met him since he left me?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my love. Is he out? I haven’t met him.” + </p> + <p> + Lizzie sat down with a confused sense of relief, which welled up to her + throat and made speech difficult. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly light came to Andora. “I understand, dearest. You don’t feel able + to see him yourself. You want me to go to him for you.” She looked about + her, scenting the battle. “You’re right, darling. As soon as he comes in + I’ll go to him. The sooner we get it over the better.” + </p> + <p> + She followed Lizzie, who without answering her had turned mechanically + back to the window. As they stood there, the gate moved again, and Deering + entered the garden. + </p> + <p> + “There he is now!” Lizzie felt Andora’s fervent clutch upon her arm. + “Where are the letters? I will go down at once. You allow me to speak for + you? You trust my woman’s heart? Oh, believe me, darling,” Miss Macy + panted, “I shall know just what to say to him!” + </p> + <p> + “What to say to him?” Lizzie absently repeated. + </p> + <p> + As her husband advanced up the path she had a sudden trembling vision of + their three years together. Those years were her whole life; everything + before them had been colorless and unconscious, like the blind life of the + plant before it reaches the surface of the soil. They had not been exactly + what she dreamed; but if they had taken away certain illusions, they had + left richer realities in their stead. She understood now that she had + gradually adjusted herself to the new image of her husband as he was, as + he would always be. He was not the hero of her dream, but he was the man + she loved, and who had loved her. For she saw now, in this last wide flash + of pity and initiation, that, as a solid marble may be made out of + worthless scraps of mortar, glass and pebbles, so out of mean mixed + substances may be fashioned a love that will bear the stress of life. + </p> + <p> + More urgently, she felt the pressure of Miss Macy’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “I shall hand him the letters without a word. You may rely, love, on my + sense of dignity. I know everything you’re feeling at this moment!” + </p> + <p> + Deering had reached the door-step. Lizzie continued to watch him in + silence till he disappeared under the glazed roof of the porch below the + window; then she turned and looked almost compassionately at her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, poor Andora, you don’t know anything—you don’t know anything at + all!” she said. + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Tales Of Men And Ghosts, by Edith Wharton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF MEN AND GHOSTS *** + +***** This file should be named 4514-h.htm or 4514-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/5/1/4514/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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