he sat with his mother’s letter in his hand—the same kind of letter that years ago mrs. sheerug must have penned to hal. if hal had preserved them, there must be stacks of them stowed away in the garrets at orchid lodge. how selfish lovers were in the price they made others pay! what dearly purchased happiness!
and he was becoming like hal. he resented the comparison; but he was. fame and opportunity were knocking at his door. instead of opening to them, he sat weakly waiting for a girl who didn’t seem to care. one day fame and opportunity would go away; when they were gone, he would have lost his only chance of making the girl respond. if he became great—really great—she might appreciate him.
for the first time in his dealings with desire strategy suggested itself. not until fluffy had lost horace had she discovered that she had a heart. if he were to leave desire—— fear gripped him lest, while he was gone, some one else might claim her. the loneliness of what he would have to face appalled him. it was a loneliness which she would share at least in part; the habits formed from having been loved, even though she had not loved in return, might lead her into another man’s arms.
and yet, strategy or no strategy, he would have to leave new york; he couldn’t keep up the pace. the three hundred pounds per annum which had come to him from beauty incorporated hadn’t been much; but, while it lasted, it had seemed certain. it had been something to fall back on. it had stood between him and poverty. his nerve was shaken. what if his vein of fancy should run dry?
his habits of industry were already lost. he would have to go into retreat to re-find them—go somewhere where people believed in him; then he might retrieve his confidence. the yearning to be mothered, which the strongest men feel at times, swept over him like a tide. he wanted to hear himself called teddy, as though his name was not absurd or disgraceful—a name to be avoided with a nickname.
if he appealed to desire one last time, would she understand—would she be kind to him as she had been to fluffy? he wondered—and he doubted. if he told her of the loss of the three hundred pounds his trouble would sound paltry. it might sound to her as though he were asking her to restore to him the watch-bracelet. it was in her company that he had spent so riotously; she might think that he was accusing her of having been mercenary. she had never been that; she had given him far more in happiness than the means of happiness had cost but he couldn’t conceive of being in her company and refraining from extravagance. her personality made recklessness contagious; it acted like strong wine, diminishing both the future and the past, till the present became of total importance.
there was a phrase in his mother’s letter which brought an unreasonable warmth to his heart: “come back to where we feel so proud of you.” it was a long while since any one had felt proud of him. but how had she guessed that? he had poured out his admiration. he had been so selfless in his adoration that he had sometimes fancied that he had been despised for it. he had almost come to believe that there was an unpleasantness in his appearance or a taint in his character which the love-blind eyes of eden row had failed to discover. desire seemed most conscious of it when he stood in the light. it was only in the dusk of cabs and taxis that she almost forgot it. sometimes she seemed morbidly aware of this defect; then she would say in a weary little voice, “i don’t feel like kissing to-night.”
humiliation was enervating his talent. he was losing faith in his own worth—the faith so necessary to an artist. desire said that it was “soft” of him to want her to be proud of him. perhaps it was. but if she ought not to be proud of him, who ought?
he would have been content with much less than her pride—if only, when others were present, she had not ignored him. her friends unconsciously imitated her example. they passed him over and chattered about trifles. their conversations were a shallow exchange of words in which, when every nerve in his body was emotionalized, it was impossible for him to take part. he showed continually at a disadvantage. they none of them had the curiosity to inquire why he was there or who he was. he felt that behind his back they must smile at desire’s treatment of him.
it would be good to get back to people who frankly reciprocated his pride—to artist father with his lofty ideals, who went marching through life with all his bands playing, never halting for spurious success to overtake him. it would be good to get back, and yet——
she had worked herself into his blood. she was a disease for which she herself was the only cure. without the hope of seeing her his future would lose its sight. up till now the short nightly partings had been agonies, which called for many kisses to dull their pain. when absent from her, he had made haste to sleep, that oblivion might bridge the gulf of separation. to have to face interminable days which would bring no promise of her girlish presence, seemed worse than death. if he returned to england, what certainty would he have that they would ever meet again?
he stung himself into shame by remembering what weakness had done for hal. hal would form a link between them, when every other means of communication had failed.
the wildness of his panic abated. he urged himself to be strong. if he went on as he was going now, he would bankrupt his life. to-morrow he would plead with her.
if she still procrastinated, then the only way to draw her nearer would be to go from her. the horror of parting confronted him again. he closed his eyes to shut it out. he would decide nothing to-night.
next morning he phoned her at the usual time. she was still sleeping; he left a request that she should call him. he waited till twelve. at last he grew impatient and phoned her again. he was told that she had gone out with fluffy, leaving word that he would hear from her later. by three o’clock he had not heard. all day he had been kept at high tension on the listen. the cavalierness of her conduct roused his indignation. her punishment was out of all proportion to his offense, especially after the way in which she had received the watch-bracelet a month ago he would have hurried out to send her a peace-offering of flowers. to-day he hurried out on a different errand.
jumping on a bus, he rode up fifth avenue and alighted at the international sleeping car company. entering swiftly, for fear his resolution should forsake him, he booked a berth on the mauretania, sailing on christmas eve, the next night. he hesitated as to whether he should send his mother a cable; he determined to postpone that final step. he had booked and canceled a berth before. he tried to believe that he was no more serious now than on that occasion. he was only proving to himself and to her his supreme earnestness. ‘if she gave him any encouragement, even though she didn’t definitely promise to marry him, he would postpone his sailing.
he wandered out into the streets. floating like gold and silver tulips on the dusk, lights had sprung up. crowds surged by merrily; all their talk was of christmas. the look of christmas was in their faces. girls hung on the arms of men. everywhere he saw lovers: they swayed along the pavement as though they were one; they snuggled in hansoms, sitting close together; they fled by in taxis, wraithlike in the darkness, fleeting as the emotion they expressed. he knew all their secrets, all their thoughts: how men’s hands groped into muffs to squeeze slender fingers; how the fingers lay quiet, pretending they were numb; how speech became incoherent, and faces drooped together. he listened to the lisp of footsteps—all going somewhere to sorrow or happiness. how many lovers would meet in new york to-night! he felt stunned. his heart ached intolerably.
in sheer aimlessness he strolled into the waldorf and hovered by the pillar from which he had so often watched to see her come. to see her approaching now he would give a year of his life. she would be wearing her white-fox furs and the little tweed suit he had given her. the fur rubbed off on his sleeves; it told many tales.
his resolution was weakening every minute; soon it would be impossible to leave her—even to pretend he had thought of leaving her.
he must keep his mind occupied; must go to some place which held no associations. sauntering along thirty-fourth street, he passed by the beauty parlor where she went, as she said, “to be glorified.” he passed the shop to which he had gone with her to buy the earliest of his more personal gifts, the dozen silk stockings. foolish recollections, full of poignancy! he crossed broadway beneath the crashing elevated. gimbel’s at least would leave him unreminded; she despised any store which was not on fifth avenue. he had drifted through several departments, when he was startled by a voice. he turned as though he had been struck. a salesman, demonstrating a gramophone, had chosen the record of absent for the purpose. he stood tensely, listening to the tenor wail that came from the impersonal instrument:
“thinking i see you—thinking i see you smile.”
it was the last straw. his pride was broken. what did it matter whether she cared? the terrible reality was his need of her. he made a dash for the nearest pay-station and rang her up.
a man answered. he wasn’t mr. dak. “who? mr. gurney? hold the line. i’ll call her.—— little d., here’s your latest. hurry!”
he heard desire’s tripping footsteps in the passage and her reproving whisper to her companion, “you had no right to do that.” then her clear voice, thrilling him even at that distance: “hulloa, bright eyes! i’ve just this minute got home. did you get my wire?—you didn’t! but you must have. i sent it after you left last night.—humph! that’s what comes of staying at these cheap hotels. you’d better ask the clerk at the desk.—oh, you’re not at the brevoort. at gimbel’s! what are you doing there? buying me another watch-bracelet? never mind, tell me presently.—no, i’m not going to tell you what was in the telegram.—what’s that?”
he had asked who was with her.
“naturally i can’t answer,” she said; “not now—later. you understand why.—of course you can come. hurry! i’m dying to see you. by-by.”
he had been conscious, while she was speaking, that her conversation was framed quite as much for the other man’s mystification as for his own. there had been a tantalizing remoteness in her tones. but what man had the privilege to call her “little d.”? he remembered now that, when he had done it, an annoyed look of remembrance had crept into her eyes.
life had become worth living again. the madness was on him to spend, to be gay, to atone. on his way uptown he went into maillard’s to buy her a box of her favorite caramels. he stopped at thorley’s and purchased a corsage of orchids. he was allowing her to twist him round her little finger. he confessed it. but what did anything matter? he was going to her. life had become radiantly happy. he no longer had to eye passing lovers with envy. he was of their company and glorified.
when he had pressed the button of the apartment, he was kept waiting—kept waiting so long that he rang twice. on the other side twinkles was barking furiously; then he heard the soft swish of approaching garments. the door opened. through the crack he could just make out her face.
“don’t come in till i hide,” she warned him in a whisper. “every one’s out, except me and twinkles. i’m halfway through dressing.” she retreated, leaving the door ajar. when she had fled across the hall into the passage, she called to him, “you may enter.”
he closed the door and listened in the discreet silence. she was in her bedroom. she had made a great secret of her little nest. she had told him about the pictures on the walls, the japanese garden in the window, and the queer things she saw from the window when she spied across the air-shaft on her neighbors. she had a child’s genius for disguising the commonplace with glamour. of this the name she had given him, which was known to no one but her and himself, was an example. she made every hour that he had not shared with her bristle with mysteries by sly allusions to what had happened in it her bedroom was a forbidden spot; she deigned to describe it to him and left his imagination to do the rest. in his lover’s craving to picture her in all her environments—to be in ignorance of nothing that concerned her—he had often begged her to let him peep across the threshold. she had invariably denied him, putting on her most shocked expression.
he walked into the front-room; it was littered with presents, received and to be given, and their torn wrappings.
she heard him. “you mustn’t go in there,” she called.
“then where am i to go?”
“bother. i don’t know. you can stand in the passage and talk to me if you like.”
for a quarter of an hour he leant against the wall, facing her closed door. while they exchanged remarks he judged her progress by sounds. sometimes she informed him as to their meaning. “it’s my powder-box that i’m opening now.—what you heard then was the stopper of my mary garden bottle.—shan’t be long. why don’t you smoke?”
he didn’t want to smoke, but when she asked him a second time, her question had become an imperative.
her voice reached him muffled; by the rustling she must be slipping on her skirt. “i’m keeping you an awfully long while, meester deek; you’re very patient.” there was a lengthy pause. then: “of course it isn’t done in the best families, but we’re different and, anyhow, nobody’ll know. i’ve drawn down the shades.—if you promise to be good, you can come inside.”
she was seated at her dressing-table before the mirror, adjusting her broad-brimmed velvet hat.
“hulloa!” she did not turn, but let her reflection do the welcoming. “i haven’t allowed many gentlemen to come in here.” she seemed to be saying it lest he should think himself too highly flattered.
he bent across her shoulder, asking permission by his silence.
“you may take a nice christmas kiss, if that’s what you’re after. just one.”
he brushed her cool cheek, the unresponsive cheek of an obedient child. her arms curved up to her head like the fine handles of a fragile vase. she proceeded quietly with the pinning of her hat. his arms went about her passionately. his action was unplanned. he was on his knees beside her, clutching her to him and kissing the hands which strove to push him from her. when his lips sought hers, she turned her face aside so that he could only reach the merest corner of her mouth. so she lay for some seconds, her face averted, till her motionlessness had quelled his emotion.
she laughed, freeing herself from his embrace. “oh, meester deek,” she whispered softly, “and when i wasn’t wearing any corsets! now let me go on with the pinning of my hat.”
he filled in the awkward silence by placing the corsage of orchids in her lap. before she thanked him, she tried them at various angles against her breast, studying their effect in the mirror. then she whispered reproachfully:
“aren’t you extravagant? money does burn holes in your pocket. you ought to give it to some one to take care of for you.”
there was no free chair. the room was strewn with odds and ends of clothing as though a cyclone had blown through it he seated himself on the edge of the white bed and glanced about him. on the dressing-table in a silver frame was a photograph of tom. on the wall, in a line above the bed, were four more of him. vaguely he began to guess why she had made such a secret of her bedroom, and why she had let him see it at this stage in his courtship. jealousy smoldered like a sullen spark; it sprang into a flame which tortured and consumed him.
what right had this man to watch her? why should she wish to have him watch?
he threw contempt on his jealousy. it made him feel brutal. but it had burnt long enough to harden his resolve.
she rose and picked up her jacket. “d’you want to help me?”
he took it from her without alacrity. as he guided her arms into the sleeves, she murmured: “why were you so naughty last night, meester deek? you almost made me cross, i was so upset and tired. you weren’t kind.” then, with a flickering uplifting of her lashes, “but i’m not tired any longer.”
she waited expectant. nothing happened. she picked up a hand-mirror, surveying the back of her neck and giving her rebellious little curl a final pat, as though bidding it be careful of its manners. in laying it down she contrived to hold the glass so as to get a glimpse of his face across her shoulder. her expression stiffened. as if he were not there, she swept over to the door, switched off the light and left him to follow.
he found her in the front-room. she had unwrapped a pot of azaleas and was clearing a space to set it on the table.
“tom brought me this,” she explained in a preoccupied tone. “he was waiting for me when i got back. it was tom who answered the phone when you called me. kind of him to remember me, wasn’t it?”
“very kind.”
“you don’t need to agree if you don’t really think so.” she spoke petulantly, with her back toward him. “even a plant means a lot to some people. tom’s only an actor. he’s not a rich author to whom money means nothing.”
“and i’m not.”
“well, you act like it.”
she had found that the bottom of the pot was wet and walked out of the room to fetch a plate before setting it on the table. while she was gone, he groped after the deep-down cause of her annoyance.
“did you really send me a telegram?” he asked the moment she reentered.
“you’ve never caught me fibbing yet. i’ve been careful. why d’you doubt it?”
“i thought you might have said it—well, just for something to say. perhaps because you were embarrassed, or to make tom jealous.”
“embarrassed! why embarrassed? tom’s an old friend. i must say you have a high opinion of me. it strikes me mrs. theodore gurney’s going to have a rough time.”
there was a dead silence. she pivoted slowly and captured both his hands. dragging him to the couch, she made him sit beside her. in the sudden transition of her moods, her face had become as young and mischievous with smiles as before it had been elderly and cross.
“well, meester deek, haven’t you anything to say? don’t you like me better now?” she dived to within an inch of his face as though she were about to kiss him, and there stopped short, laughing into his eyes. when he made no response, she became tensely grave. “i can be a little cat sometimes, and yet you want to live with me all your life. i should think you’d get sick of me. i’m very honest to let you see what i really am.” she said this with a wise shake of her head and an air of self-congratulation. “but you’re a beast, too, when you’re offended.” she stooped and kissed his hand. “the first time i’ve ever done that,” she murmured, “to you or any man. haven’t we gone far enough with our quarreling?”
“i think we have.”
“but you’ve not forgiven me?—well, i’ll tell you, and then you’ll ask my pardon.” she moved away from him to the other end of the couch. “i’ve really been very sweet to you all the time and you haven’t known it. last night we were both stupid; i was upset. i don’t know which of us was the worst. but after you’d gone i was sorry, and i dressed, and i went out all alone at midnight to send you a telegram so you’d know that i was sorry directly you woke in the morning. it wasn’t my fault that you didn’t get it. and then about to-day—you’re angry because i didn’t call you up. it was because i was looking after your christmas present. and when you came here all glum and sulky i let you see my bedroom. and now i’ve kissed your hand. isn’t that enough?”
she was turning all the tables on him. “let’s be friends,” he said. when he slipped his arm about her, she flinched. “mind my flowers. don’t crush them. you must first say that you’re sorry.”
“i’m sorry. terribly sorry.”
“all right, then. but you did hurt me last night when—when you went away like that.”
“but you often let me go away like that.”
she held up a finger. “you’re starting again.”
she rose and walked over to a pile of parcels which were lying on the piano. as he watched her, the thought of tom came back. she hadn’t explained those photographs; his pride wouldn’t permit him to ask her.
“you’re not very curious, meester deek. why d’you think i kept you waiting in the passage and wouldn’t let you come in here? i was afraid you might see something. i’ll let you see it now.”
she was leaning against the piano. he went and stood beside her. she moved nearer so that her hair swept his cheek like a caress. “do you like it?” she placed a miniature of herself done on ivory in his hand. “better than the poor little tin-type portrait that faded!”
“for me?” he asked incredulously.
“who else? no, listen before you thank me. i thought they’d never get it done. they’ve been weeks over it. all day i’ve been hurrying them. now, won’t you own that you have been misunderstanding?”
“i’ve been an unjust idiot.”
“not so bad as that. and i’m not so bad, either, if you only knew—— now i’ll put on your bracelet did you notice that i wasn’t wearing it?”
“why weren’t you?”
the babies came into her eyes. “you’ve had a narrow escape. if you hadn’t been nice, i was going to have given it back to you. let’s fetch it. you can fasten it on for me.”
from the steps of the apartment-house they hailed a hansom, and drove through the winking night to the claremont. “‘so, honey, jest play in your own backyard,” she sang. when she found that she couldn’t intimidate him, she started on another fragment, filling in the gaps with humming when she forgot the words:
“oh, you beautiful girl,
what a beautiful girl you are!
you’ve made my dreams come true to me——”
“sounds as though i were praising myself, doesn’t it? don’t come so near, meester deek; every time you hug me you carry away so much of my little white foxes. ‘beware of the foxes, the little foxes that spoil the something or other.’ didn’t some one once say that? i wish you’d beware; soon there won’t be any fur left.”
while she went to the lady’s room to see whether her appearance had suffered under his kisses, he engaged a table in a corner, overlooking the hudson.
towards the end of the meal, when she was finishing an ice and he was lighting a cigar, a silence fell between them. she sat back with her eyes partly closed and her body relaxed. up to that moment she had been daringly vivacious. he had learnt to fear her high spirits and fits of niceness. they came in gusts; they always had to be paid for with periods of languor.
“what are you thinking?” he asked. “something sad, i’ll warrant.”
“fluffy.” she glanced across at him, appealing for his patience.
“how is she?” he tried to humor her with a display of interest
“she’s broken up. she’s been speaking to simon freelevy. she absolutely refuses to go on playing in new york; it’s too full of memories. so it’s all arranged; she’s going to california in the new year with a road-company.”
he understood her depression now. if fluffy was leaving new york, this was his chance. somehow or other he must manage to hang on. he was glad he had not sent that cable to his mother.
“that’s hard lines on you.” he sank his voice sympathetically. “you’ll miss her awfully.”
desire woke up and became busy with what remained of her ice. “i shan’t. she wants me to go with her. it’ll do me good.” then coaxingly, as though she were asking his permission, “i’ve never been to california.”
the heat drained from him. he paused, giving himself time to grow steady. if he counted for so little, she shouldn’t guess his bitter disappointment. “but will you leave your mother? i should think she’ll be frightfully lonely.”
“my beautiful mother’s so unselfish.”
“but——”
“well?”
they gazed at each other. he wondered whether she was only playing with him—whether she had only said it that he might amuse her with a storm of protests.
“you were going to ask about yourself?” she suggested. “i’ve thought all that out. you and mother can come and join us somewhere. there’s splendid riding out west. i’ve always wanted to ride. it would be fine to go flying along together if—if you were there.”
he didn’t understand this girl, who could give him ivory miniatures one minute and propose to go away for months the next—who, while she refused to become anything to him, undertook to arrange his life.
he laughed tolerantly. “i’m afraid that can’t be. i shouldn’t accomplish much by tagging after a road-company all across a continent. you don’t seem to realize that i have a living to earn.”
“that was a nasty laugh,” she pouted; “i didn’t like it one little bit.”
she played with his fingers idly, lifting them up and letting them fall, like soldiers marking time. “you manicure them now. you’ve learnt something by coming to america—— your living!” she smiled. “it seems to come easily enough. i hear you talk about it, but i never see you working.”
here was the opening for which he had been waiting. “you’re right. i’ve hardly done a stroke since i landed. winning you has taken all my time.”
“has it?” she glanced round the room dreamily, making confidences impossible by her lack of enthusiasm.
he got up. “shall we go back to the apartment? we can talk better there.”
she lounged to her feet. “if you’ll promise not to worry me. i’ve gone through too much to-day already.”
he knew the meaning of her fatigue; once more she was barricading herself. he was doubly sure of it when he saw her open her vanity-case and produce a veil. a veil was a means of protection which, above all others, he detested. “don’t put that thing on.”
“i must. it’ll keep the wind off. i don’t like getting chapped.”
on the drive back she sat rigid with her hand before her eyes, as though she slept. it seemed to him that he had not advanced a pace since the ride to long beach; the only difference was that his arm encircled her. she paid so little heed to it that he withdrew it. she gave no sign that she noticed its withdrawal. it was only when they were halting that she came to herself with a drowsy yawn. leaning against his shoulder for a second, she peered up at him with mock regret: “and to think that my head might have been resting there all the time!”
it was plain that she didn’t want him to come up. in the foyer she held out her hand. when he did not take it, she lowered her eyes: “i’m sorry. i thought you were going.”
after the elevator had left them, she stood outside the door and carefully removed her veil. it was a frank invitation to him to kiss her and say good-by. he did neither. she drew the palms of her hands across her eyes. “i ought to go to bed.—you are a sticker. well, if you won’t go, just for a little while.”
she produced the key from her vanity-case. he took it from her and slipped it into the latch. only twinkles was at home. for twinkles she mustered the energy for a display of fun-making. romping with the dog revived her.
“take the nice gentleman in there,” she said, “while mistress makes herself beautiful. mistress can’t allow the same gentleman, however pleasant, to come into her bedroom twice.”
he didn’t feel flippant. he was quivering with earnestness. while he waited among the litter of presents and paper he tried to master his emotion. he knew that if he once got to touching and kissing her, he would go out of the door with matters as undecided as when he had entered.
she drifted into the room rubbing her hands. “been putting scent on them,” she explained, holding out to him her smooth little palms. “don’t they smell nice?”
he didn’t kiss them. he didn’t dare. she gave him a puzzled look of inquiry; then showed him her back and became absorbed in gathering up the scattered papers. when several minutes of silence had elapsed, she turned.
“i’m not going to quarrel with you, if that’s what you want you’d have been wise to have said good-night to me downstairs. if you’ve really got something on your mind, for heaven’s sake get it off.”
“it’s difficult and you don’t help me.”
she tossed her head impatiently. “you make me tired. it isn’t a girl’s place to help.”
seating herself on the floor, with her legs curled about her and her ankles peeping out from under her skirt, she began to wrap up presents. “please be nice,” she implored him in a little voice, “because i really do like you. sit down here beside me and put your finger on the knots, so that i can tie them.”
he sat down opposite to her. that wasn’t quite what she had intended. she made a mischievous face at him.
“it isn’t a question of being nice,” he said quietly; “it’s a question of being honest. i’ve booked my berth on the mauretania for to-morrow night.”
she gave a scarcely perceptible start. when she spoke, it was without raising her eyes. “you did that once before. you can’t play the same trick twice.”
“it isn’t a trick this time.”
she eyed him cloudily, still persuaded that it was. “are you saying that because of what i told you about going to california? i thought you were too big and splendid to return tit for tat.”
“it isn’t tit for tat i booked this afternoon, before i knew about california.”
she gave her shoulders a shrug of annoyance. “well, you know your business best.”
“i don’t; that’s why i’m telling you. i’m not being unkind. my business may be yours.”
at last she took him seriously. “i don’t see how it can be; you’d better explain. but first tell me: are you trying to imitate horace? because if you are, it won’t work.”
“i’m not.”
“then light me a cigarette and let’s be sensible.”
seated on the floor in the dim-lit room, with the christmas presents strewn around, he told her. the first part was the old story of how he had dreamt about her from a child.
“you know that’s true, princess?”
“and i’ve dreamt about you,” she nodded. “you were my faery-story.”
“then why——”
“you tell me first.”
so he told her: told her how she had pained him in england by her silence; told her what her words “come to america” had implied; described to her the expectations with which he had set sail; the disappointment when on landing he had found that she was absent; and then the growing heartache that had come to him while she trifled with him. he spared her nothing. “and you act as if my loving bored you,” he said; “and yet, if i take you at your word, you’re petulant may i speak about money now? i know how you hate me to talk of it—— and you won’t misunderstand?”
she gave her silent consent.
“i can’t afford to live in new york any longer. last night there was a letter waiting for me. it told me that my only certain source of income was lost. it told me a whole lot besides; they’re lonely and promise to postpone christmas if i’ll cable them that i’m coming.”
“have you cabled?”
he shook his head.
“you must. your poor little mother,” she murmured.
“you’d love my mother,” he said eagerly, “and my father, too. the moment he clapped eyes on you he’d want to paint you.”
“would he? and after i’d taken you from him?” she screwed up her mouth in denial and crushed out the stub of her cigarette against her heel. it seemed the symbol of things ended. “you were telling me about the letter. what else?”
“that’s all. but you see, i’ve got nothing now except what i earn. and when my mind’s distracted—— it’s—— you don’t mind my saying it, do you? it’s waiting for you that’s done it. my power seems gone. if only i were sure of you and that you’d be to me always as you are now, i’d be strong to do anything.”
she had been fidgeting with her bracelet. when he had ended, she commenced to slip it off. “and it was the day that you lost everything that you were most generous. and i didn’t thank you properly, like the little pig i am. teddy, please don’t be offended, but i’d so much rather you——”
he pressed his lips against the slim wrist that she held out. “please don’t. it would hurt me most awfully.”
“and it makes me feel guilty to keep it,” she pouted.
they sat holding hands, gazing at each other. in the silence, without the fever of caresses, he had come nearer to her than at any previous moment. they were two children who had experimented with things they did not understand, and were a little frightened at what had happened and a little glad.
“you called me teddy just now,” he whispered. “it’s the third time.”
she smiled at him with a flicker of her old wickedness. “i didn’t intend to. it slipped out because—because i was so unhappy.”
“but you needn’t be unhappy. neither of us need be unhappy. everything’s in our own hands. i’d work for you, desire. i’d become famous for you. we’d live life splendidly. the way we’ve been living is stupid and wasteful; it doesn’t lead anywhere. if you’d marry me and come back with me——”
“to-morrow?” she questioned. “meester deek, you didn’t go and book two berths? you weren’t as foolish as that?”
he sought her lips. she turned her face ever so slightly, as though apologizing for a necessary unkindness! his look of disappointment brought tears to her eyes. she stroked his cheek gently in atonement.
“you weren’t as foolish as that?”
he hung his head. “no, i wasn’t: i wish i had been, and i would be if you——”
she stared beyond him, watching pictures form and dissolve before her inward eyes.
“we could sail to-morrow,” he urged her; “or wait till after christmas. i’d wait for you for years if you’d only say that some day—— can’t we at least be engaged?”
“don’t wait,” she whispered.
“but i shall wait always—always. i shall never love any one but you.”
“they all say that.”
a key grated in the latch. she didn’t snatch away her hand the way she would have done formerly. she sat motionless, courting discovery. they heard vashti’s voice, bidding some man good-night. the door shut. glancing in on them in passing, she pretended to be unaware of what was happening. “i’m going straight to bed. you don’t mind if i don’t stay to talk with you? i’m tired.”
the quiet settled down. desire crept closer. they had been sitting facing. “i guess you’re badly hurt. you thought that all girls wanted to get married, and to have little babies and a kind man to take care of them.” when he tried to answer her, she placed her hand upon his mouth. he held it there with his own, as though it had been a flower.
“i’m glad we got mad,” she whispered; “it’s made us real. it’s nice to be real sometimes. but i don’t know what to say to you—what to do to you. i haven’t played fair. at first i thought you were like all the rest. i know i’m responsible.”
she snuggled up to him like a weary child. “i’m at the cross-roads.—don’t kiss me—you put me out when you do that. just put your arms about me so that i feel safe. i—i want to tell you.”
“then tell me, princess.”
“i’m two persons. there’s the me that i am now, and the other me that’s horrid.”
“i love them both.”
“you don’t. the me that’s horrid is a spiteful little cat, and i may become the horrid me at any moment meester d猫ek, you’d have to marry us both. i’m not a restful person at the best. i can never say the kind things that i feel. most of the time i ought to be whipped and shaken. i suppose if i fell really in love it might be different.”
“then fall really in love.”
she seemed to ponder his advice. “my love’s such a feeble little trickle. yours is so deep and wide; mine would be lost in it and yet i do like you. i speak to you the way i speak to no other man. i could go on speaking to you forever. if i’d seen as much of any other man, he’d have bored me long ago.”
“and isn’t that just saying that you do love me?”
“perhaps.” her head stirred against his shoulder. then: “no. that’s only saying that you’ve not found fault with me and that you’ve let me be selfish. you need some one who’ll be to you what your mother has been to your father. i’ll hate her when you find her; but, oh, meester deek, there are heaps of better girls in the world. i can’t cook, can’t sew, can’t even be agreeable very often. i want to live, and make mistakes, and then experiment afresh.—perhaps i don’t know what i want. i feel more than friendship for you, but much less than love, because if it were love, it would stop at nothing. oh, i know, though you don’t think it. perhaps one day, when i’m older and wiser, i’ll look back and regret to-night. but i’m not going to let you spoil your life.”
“you’d make it.”
“spoil it.”
she released herself from him. he helped her to rise.
“i’ve at least been an education for your soul. do say it. i haven’t done you nothing but harm, have i?”
his emotion choked him.
she came and leant her forehead against his shoulder. “do say it. have i?”
“you darling kiddy, you’ve been the best thing that ever happened to me.”
“i have my own little religion,” she whispered. “i shall say a prayer for you to-night.”
“will you pray that one day you may be my wife?”
she was silent. they moved together as in a trance towards the door. he was remembering what she had said it would mean if she kissed him without his asking. he was hoping. she accompanied him to the head of the stairs. suddenly his will-power gave way. “i’m not going. you don’t think i’m going after to-night? you’ve shown me so much that—— desire, i can’t live without you.”
she took his face between her hands. “you must go. if you don’t, it’ll be all the same. you’ve told me things, too. i’m hindering your work. after what you’ve told me, i would refuse to see you if you stayed. perhaps it’s only for a little while. i may marry you some day. who knows? and i wouldn’t want your mother to hate me.”
they clung together in silence.
“we’ll write often?”
“yes, often.”
“and to-morrow?”
“phone me in the morning.”
he thought she had repeated the phrase from habit. “my last day,” he pleaded.
“phone me in the morning,” she reiterated.
he had said good-by; she was waving to him across the rail. he was nearly out of sight. he turned and came bounding back.
“what is it? i can’t keep brave if you make me go through it twice.”
he caught her to him. “give me your lips,” he panted.
she averted her face.
his arms fell from her. “i thought not,” he whispered brokenly.
he had begun to descend. at the last moment she stooped. her lips fluttered against his own; they neither kissed nor returned his pressure. she fled from him trembling across the threshold. the door shut with a bang. he waited to see her come stealing out. he was left alone with her memory.
on returning to the brevoort he inquired for her telegram. at first he was told that none had arrived. he insisted. after a search it was discovered tucked away in the wrong pigeon-hole. paying no heed to the clerk’s apologies, he slit the envelope and read:
“forgive me. i’m sorry. desire”
if only he had received it earlier! if only it had been brought to his bedside in the morning, what a difference it would have made! she would never have known that he had thought of going. she would have heard nothing about her hindering his work. she would have been ignorant of his money embarrassments. he couldn’t unsay anything now. it was as though a force, stronger than himself, had conspired to drive him to this crisis. he saw her in his mind’s eye, slipping out at midnight to send him that message. his tenderness magnified her kindness and clothed her with pathos. the unkindness of the thoughts he had had of her that day rose up like conscience to reproach him. from the first he had misjudged her. he had always misjudged her. he forgot all her omissions, remembering only her periods of graciousness.
he didn’t send the cable to his mother. he went upstairs and commenced packing. it was only a precaution, he told himself; he wasn’t really going. to-morrow they would cease to be serious and would laugh about to-night.
when to-morrow came, he phoned her. vashti answered. “she didn’t sleep here, teddy. she left half-an-hour after you left; she made me promise not to tell you where she was going.—she was crying. she said she was sure you hated her or that you would hate her one day.—what’s that? no. i think you’re doing right i should advise you to sail. it’ll do her good to miss you.—yes, if she comes in, i’ll tell her.”
when he had seen his boxes put on the express-wagon, it began to dawn on him that he was doing things for the last time. he still told himself that he wasn’t going. he still procrastinated over sending the cable. yet he proceeded mechanically with preparations for departure. he saw his publisher. he interviewed magazine-editors. he promised to execute work in the near future. he lunched at the astor by himself, at a table across which he had often faced her. the waiter showed concern at seeing him alone and made discreet inquiries after “madame.” wherever he turned he saw girls with young men. the orchestra played rag-time tunes that they had hummed together. every sight and sound was a reminder. the gayety burlesqued his unhappiness.
after lunch he had an inspiration: of course she was at fluffy’s. he felt certain that he had only to talk with her to put matters right.
fluffy was out. it was her maid’s voice that answered; she professed to know nothing of the movements of miss jodrell.
night gathered—the night before christmas with its intangible atmosphere of legendary excitements. all the world over stockings were being hung at the ends of beds and children were listening for santa claus’s reindeers. caf茅s and restaurants were thronged with men and women in evening-dress. taxis purred up before flashing doorways and girls stepped out daintily. orchestras were crashing out syncopated music. in cleared spaces, between tables, dancers glided. if he hadn’t been so wise, he might have been one of them.
slowly, like pirouetting faeries, snowflakes drifted gleaming down the dusk. it was the first snow since that memorable flight to the country.
the pain of his loneliness was more than he could bear. there was no use in telephoning. perhaps she had been at home all the time and had given orders that people should say she was out. quite likely! but why? why should she avoid him? she seemed to have been so near to loving him last night. what had she meant by telling her mother that he hated her or would hate her one day? he had said and done nothing that would hint at that the idea that he should ever hate her was absurd. perhaps the “horrid me” had got the upper-hand—that would account for it.
eight o’clock! four more hours! at midnight the ship sailed.
he hurried to the apartment in riverside drive. the elevator-boys told him that the ladies were out. he refused to believe them and insisted on being taken up. he knocked at the door and pressed the button. dead silence. even twinkles didn’t answer.
he was seized with panic. they might have gone to the brevoort, expecting to say good-by to him there. he rushed back.. no one had inquired for him. the laughter of merry-makers in the white-mirrored dining-room was a mockery. he hid himself in his room upstairs—his room which would be a stranger’s to-morrow.
nine! ten! he sat with his head between his hands. he kept counting from one to a hundred, encouraging himself that the telephone would tinkle before he had completed the century. it did once—a wrong number. he attempted to get on to both the apartment and fluffy’s a score of times. “they’re out—out—out.” the answer came back with maddening regularity. the telephone operators recognized his anxious voice; they cut him off, as though he were a troublesome child, before he had completed his question.
he grew ashamed. at last he grew angry. it wasn’t decent of desire. he had given her no excuse for the way she was acting.
he pulled out his watch. nearly eleven! slipping into his coat and picking up his bag, he glanced round the room for the last time. what interminable hours he had wasted there—waiting for her, finding explanations for her, cutting cards to discover by necromancy whether she would marry him! with a sigh that was almost of relief, he opened the door and switched off the light.
while his bill was being receipted at the desk, he wrote out a cable to his mother:
“sailing christmas eve. ’mauretania”
it would reach them as they were sitting down to breakfast to-morrow—a kind of christmas present.
at last he had made the step final. he wondered how far he had paralleled hal. the comparison should end at this point; he had better things to do than to mope away his life.
on arriving at the dock he inquired for letters. he was informed that he would find them on board at the purser’s office. a long queue of people was drawn up. he took his place impatiently at the end. he told himself that this episode was ended; that from first to last his share had been undignified. doubtless he would marry her some day; but until she was ready, he would not think about her. he thought of nothing else. each time the line moved up his heart gave a thump. there might be one from her. he became sure there was one from her. a man named godfrey, two places ahead, was being served. as the g’s were sorted, he watched sharply; he made certain he had seen a letter in her hand.
at last it was his turn.
“you have a letter for me. theodore gurney.”
a minute’s silence.
“nothing, sir.”
“but are you sure? i thought i saw one.”
“i’ll look again if you like.—nothing.”
he staggered as he walked away. his face was set and white. an old lady touched him gently. “is the news so bad?”
he shook off her kindness and laughed throatily. “news i no, it’s nothing.”
he felt ill and unmanned. tears tingled behind his eyes. he refused to shed them. they seemed to scald his brain. he didn’t care whether he lived or died. he’d given so much; he’d planned such kindness; he’d dreamed with such persistent courage. the thanks he had received was “nothing.”
he found his way out on deck and leant across the rail. a gang-plank had been lowered to his right. passengers came swarming up it, laughing with their friends—diners from broadway who were speeding the parting guest. some of them seemed to be dancing; the rhythm of the rag-time was in their steps. for the most part they were in evening-dress. the opera-cloaks and wraps of women flew back, exposing their throats and breasts. he twisted his mouth into a bitter smile. they employed their breasts for ornament, not for motherhood. they were all alike.
he had lost count of time while standing there. his eyes brooded sullenly through the drifting snow on the sullen water and the broken lights. shouted warnings that the ship was about to sail were growing rare. the tardiest of the visitors were being hurried down the gang-plank. sailors stood ready to cast away and put up the rail.
there was a commotion. hazily he became aware of it a girl had become hysterical. she seemed alone; which was odd, for she was in evening-dress. she was explaining, almost crying, and wringing her hands. she was doing her best to force her way on deck; a steward and a man in uniform were turning her back.
suddenly he realized. he was fighting towards her through the crowd. he had his hand on the steward’s shoulder. “damn you. don’t touch her.”
the ship’s eyes were on them. his arms went about her.
“i couldn’t stop away,” she whispered. “i had to come at the last moment. i was almost too late. i’ve been a little beast all day. i want to hear you say you forgive me, teddy.”
he was thinking quickly.
“you’ve come by yourself?”
“i slipped away from a party. nobody knows.”
“you can’t go back alone. i’ll come with you. i’m not sailing.”
she laughed breathlessly. “but your luggage!”
“hang my luggage.”
she took his face between her hands as though no one was watching. “meester deek, i shouldn’t have come if i’d thought it would make you a coward.”
“a coward, but———”
she rested her cheek against his face. “your mother’s expecting you. and—and we’ll meet so very soon.”
“give me something,” he implored her; “something for remembrance.”
she looked down at herself. what could she give him? “your little curl.”
“but it’s false.”
“but it’s dear,” he murmured.
an officer touched him. he glanced across his shoulder and nodded. this, then, was the end.
he drew her closer. “i can’t tell you. i never have told you. in all these months i’ve told you nothing.—i love you. i love you.—your lips just once, princess.”
her obedient mouth lay against his own. her lips were motionless. she slipped from him.
waving and waving, he watched her from the deck. now he lost her; again he saw her where raised screens in the sheds made golden port-holes. she raced along the dock, as with bands playing the christmas ship stole out. now that it was too late, she hoarded every moment. beneath a lamp, leaning out through the drift of snowflakes, she fluttered a scarf that she had torn from her throat it was the last glimpse he had of her. a goddess of liberty she seemed to him; a slave of freedom, horace would have said.
