by George Gibbs
*CHAPTER XIII*
*GOOD FISHING*
A clock struck the hour of nine. Mrs. Cheyne lowered the volume ofShaw's plays, the pages of which she had made a pretence of reading, andfrowned at the corner of the rug. She now wore a house gown of clingingmaterial whose colors changed from bronze to purple in the shadow of thelamps. It fitted her slim figure closely like chain-mail and shimmeredsoftly like the skin of a dusky chameleon. Mrs. Cheyne was fond ofuncertain colors in a low key, and her hour was in the dim of twilight,which lent illusions, stimulated the imagination to a perception of themeaning of shadows--softened shadows which hung around her eyes andmouth, which by day were merely lines--a little bitter, a little hard, alittle cynical. Mrs. Cheyne's effects were all planned with exquisitecare; the amber-colored shades, the warmish rug and scarlet table cover,the Chinese mandarin's robe on her piano, the azaleas in the yellowpots, all were a part of a color scheme upon which she had spent muchthought. Her great wealth had not spoiled her taste for simplicity.The objects upon her table and mantel-shelf were few but choice, andtheir arrangement, each with reference to the other, showed an artistrywhich had learned something from Japan. She hated ugliness. Beauty washer fetich. The one great sorrow of her life was the knowledge that herown face was merely pretty; but the slight irregularity of her featuressomewhat condoned for this misfortune, and she had at last succeeded inconvincing herself that the essence of beauty lies rather in what itsuggests than in what it reveals. Nature, by way of atoning for notmaking each feature perfect, had endowed them all with a kind of Proteanmobility, and her mind with a genius for suggestion, which she hadbrought to a high degree of usefulness. Without, therefore, beingbeautiful at all, she gave the impression of beauty, and she rejoiced inthe reputation which she possessed of being marked "Dangerous."
She had rejoiced in it, moreover, because she had been aware that, nomatter how dangerous she might prove to be with others, with herself shehad not been dangerous. The kind of romance, the kind of sentiment, inwhich she indulged she had come to regard as highly specialized art inwhich she was Past Grand Mistress. She loved them for their own sake.She was a fisher of men, but fished only for the love of fishing, and itwas her pleasure while her victims still writhed to unhook them astenderly as might be and let them flap ungracefully back into their ownelement. Her fly-book was a curiosity and of infinite variety. IzaakWalton advances the suggestion that trout bite "not for hunger, butwantonness." Rita Cheyne was of the opinion that men bit for a similarreason; and so she whipped the social streams ruthlessly for the merejoy of the game, matching her skill to the indifference of her quarry,her artistry to their vehemence.
And now she suddenly discovered that she must throw her fly-bookaway--she had tried them all--the "silver-doctor," the "white moth," the"brown hackle"--and all to no purpose. Her fish had risen, but he wouldnot bite. She was fishing in unfamiliar waters, deeper waters, wherethere were hidden currents she could not understand. The tackle she hadused when fishing for others would not serve for Jeff Wray.
It provoked her that her subtlety was of no avail, for she had the truefisher's contempt for heavy tackle. And yet she realized that it wasonly heavy tackle which would land him. He was the only man who hadreally interested her in years, and his conquest was a matter of pridewith her. She had other reasons, too. His wife was beautiful. RitaCheyne was merely artistic. Victory meant that Beauty was only anincident--that Art, after all, was immortal. The theory of a wholelifetime needed vindication.
When Wray entered she was deep in "You Never Can Tell," but looked up ather visitor slowly and extended a languid hand.
"Aren't you early?" she asked, slipping a marker in the pages of herbook and closing it slowly.
"No, I don't think so. I thought I was late. I was detained."
She held up a hand in protest.
"I was really hoping you might not come. I've been really soamused--and when one is really amused nowadays one should expect nothingmore of the gods."
Wray got up hurriedly. "I won't 'butt in' then. I don't want todisturb----"
"Oh, sit down--do. You make me nervous. Have a cigarette--I'll takeone, too. Now tell me what on earth is the matter with you."
"The matter? Nothing. I'm all right."
"You've changed somehow. When I met you at the Bents' I thought you themost wonderful person I had ever met--with great--very greatpossibilities. Even at the Janneys' the illusion still remained.Something has happened to change you. You do nothing but scowl and saythe wrong thing. There's no excuse for any man to do that."
"I'm worried. There's been a slight tangle in my plans. I--but I'm notgoing to trouble you with----"
"I want to hear--of course. You went to Washington?"
"Yes--to see some of our congressmen. I have the law on my side in thisfight, and I'm trying to make things copperlined--so there can't be aleak anywhere. Those fellows down there are afraid of their own lives.They act as though they were on the lookout for somebody to stab them inthe back. Washington is too near New York. A fellow goes there from theWest and in about six months he's a changed man. He forgets that heever came from God's country, and learns to bow and scrape and lickboots. I reckon that's the way to get what you want here in theEast--but it goes against my grain."
"Weren't you successful?"
"Oh, yes, I found out what I wanted to know. It's only a question ofmoney. They'll fall in line when I'm ready. But it's going to takecash--more than I thought it would."
"Are you going to have enough?"
"My credit's good, and I'm paying eight per cent."
"Eight? Why, I only get four!"
"I know. Eight is the legal rate in my state. Business is done on thatbasis."
"I wish I could help. You know I'm horribly rich. I'd like to look intothe matter. Will you let me?"
"Yes, but there's a risk--you see, I'm honest with you. I'll give stockas security and a share in the profits--but my stock isn't exactly likegovernment bonds. Who is your lawyer? I'll put it up to him if youlike."
"Stephen Gillis. But he'll do what I say."
"I'd rather you consulted him."
"Oh, yes, I shall. But I have faith in you, Jeff Wray. It seems like agood speculation. I'd like you to send me all the data. I'll reallylook into it seriously." She stopped and examined his face in someconcern. In the lamplight she saw the lines that worry had drawn there."But not to-night. You've had enough of business. You're tired--in yourmind"--she paused again that he might the better understand hermeaning--"but you're more tired in your heart. Business is the least ofyour worries. Am I right?"
"Yes," he said sullenly.
"I'm very sorry. Is there any way in which I can help?"
"No."
The decision in his tone was not encouraging, but she persevered.
"You don't want help?"
"It isn't a matter I can speak about."
"Oh!"
Her big fish was sulking in the deeps? It was a case for shark-bait anda "dipsy" lead.
"You won't tell me? Very well. Frankness is a privilege of friendship.I'll use it. Your wife is in love with my cousin Cortland."
Wray started violently.
"How do you know?"
She smiled. "Oh, I don't know. I guessed. It's true, though." Shepaused and examined him curiously. He had subsided in his chair, hishead on his breast, his brows lowering.
"Are you unhappy?" she asked.
"No," he muttered at last. "It's time we understood each other."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Do? Nothing," he said with a short laugh. "There's nothing to do. I'ma good deal of a fool, but I know that putting trouble in a woman's waynever made her quit going after what she'd set her mind on. If I lickedCort Bent she'd make me out a brute; if I shot him, she'd make _him_ outa martyr. Any way, I'm a loser. I'm going my own way and she----" Hegot up
and strode the length of the room and back, and then spokeconstrainedly: "I'm not going to speak of this matter to you or to anyone else."
He dropped into his chair beside her again and glared at the windowcurtain. Mrs. Cheyne leaned one elbow on the arm of her chair which wasnearest him and sighed deeply.
"Why is it that we always marry the wrong people? If life wasn't somuch of a joke, I'd be tempted to cry over the fallibility of humannature. The love of one's teens is the only love that is undiluted withother motives--the only love that's really what love was meant to be.It's perfectly heavenly, but of course it's entirely unpractical.Marrying one's first love is iconoclasm--it's a sacrilege--aprofanation--and ought to be prohibited by law. First love was meantfor memory only--to sweeten other memories later on--but it was nevermeant for domestication. Rose petals amid cabbage leaves! Incense amidthe smells of an apartment kitchen!"
She sank back in her chair again and mused dreamily, her eyes on theopen fire.
"It's a pretty madness," she sighed. "Romance thrives on unrealities.What has it in common with the butcher? You know"--she paused and gavea quick little laugh--"you know, Cheyne and I fell in love at firstsight. He was an adorable boy and he made love like an angel. He had alot of money, too--almost as much as I had--but he didn't let that spoilhim--not then. He used to work quite hard before we were married, andwas really a useful citizen.
"Matrimony ruined him. It does some men. He got to be so comfortableand contented in his new condition that he forgot that there wasanything else in the world but comfort and content--even me. He beganto get fat and bald. Don't you hate bald-headed men with beards? Hewas so sleek, shiny, and respectable that he got on my nerves. Hedidn't want to go anywhere but to symphony concerts and the opera.Sometimes he played quite dolefully on the 'cello--even insisted ondoing so when we had people in to dinner. It was really veryinconsiderate of him when every one wanted to be jolly. He began makinga collection of 'cellos, too, which stood around the walls of the musicroom in black cases like coffins. Imagine a taste like that! The thingI had once mistaken for poetry, for sentiment, had degenerated into akind of flabby sentimentality which extended to all of the commonplacesof existence. I found that it wasn't really me that he loved at all.It was _love_ that he loved. I had made a similar mistake. Wediscovered it quite casually one evening after dinner."
She broke off with a sigh. "What's the use? I suppose you'll think I'mselfish--talking of myself. Mine is an old story. Time has mellowed itagreeably. Yours is newer----"
"I'm very sorry for you. But you know that I'm sorry. I've told you sobefore. I think I understand you better now."
"And I you," and then softly, "Mrs. Wray was your first love?"
"No," he muttered, "she was my last."
Mrs. Cheyne's lids dropped, and she looked away from him. Had Wray beenwatching her he would have discovered that the ends of her lips wereflickering on the verge of a smile, but Wray's gaze was on the andirons.
They sat there in silence for some moments, but Wray, who first spoke,restored her self-complacency.
"You're very kind to me," he said slowly. "You say you like me becauseI'm different from other fellows here. I suppose I am. I was borndifferent and I guess I grew up different. If you think I'm worthwhile, then I'm glad I grew up the way I did." He got up and walkedslowly the length of the room. She watched him doubtfully, wonderingwhat was passing in his mind. She learned in a moment; for when heapproached her again he leaned over her chair and, without the slightestwarning, had put his arms around her and kissed her again and again onthe lips.
She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible to do so, and shewas too bewildered for a moment to do anything but sit and stare blanklybefore her. He was a strange fish--a most extraordinary fish which roseonly when one had stopped fishing. It was the way he did it thatappalled her--he was so brutal, so cold-blooded. When he released hershe rose abruptly, her face pale and her lips trembling.
"She did not struggle or resist. It seemed impossible todo so."]
"How could you?" she said. "How could you?" And then, with morecomposure, she turned and pointed toward the door.
"I wish you'd please go--at once."
But as he stood staring at her she was obliged to repeat: "Don't youhear me? I want you to go and not to come back. Isn't that plain? Orwould you prefer to have me ring for a servant?"
"No, I don't prefer either," he said with a smile; "I don't want to go.I want to stay here with you. That's what I came for."
She walked over to the door and stood by the bell. "Do you wish me toring?"
"Of course not."
"Will you go?"
"No."
She raised her hand toward the bell, but halted it in midair. Wraynoticed her hesitation.
"Wait a moment. Don't be foolish, Rita. I have something to say toyou. It wouldn't reflect much credit on either of us for you to send meout. I thought we understood each other. I'm sorry. You said once thatyou liked me because I was plain-spoken and because I said and did justwhat came into my head, but you haven't been fair with me."
"What do you mean?"
"Just this: You and I were to speak to each other freely of ourselvesand of each other. You said you needed me, and I knew I needed you. Wedecided it was good to be friends. That was our agreement. You brokeit wilfully. You have acted with me precisely as you have acted with adozen other men. It was lucky I discovered my danger in time. I don'tthink any woman in the world could do as much with me as you could--ifyou wanted to. When I like anybody I try to show them that I do. Ifyou were a man I'd give you my hand, or loan you money, or help you inbusiness. I can't do that with you. You're a woman and meant to bekissed. So I kissed you."
She dropped her hands. "Yes, you kissed me, brutally, shamelessly----"
"Shamelessly?"
"You've insulted me. I'll never forgive you. Don't you think a womancan tell? There are other ways of judging a man. I've interested you,yes, because you've never known any real woman before," contemptuously."I suppose you're interested still. You ought to be. But you can nevercare for any woman until you forget to be interested in yourself. Foryou the sun rises and sets in Jeff Wray, and you want other people tothink so, too."
"I'm sorry you think so badly of me."
"Oh, no, I don't think badly of you. From the present moment I sha'n'tthink of you at all. I--I dislike you--intensely. I want to be alone.Will you please go?"
Wray gave her his blandest stare, and then shrugged his shoulders andturned toward the door.
"You're willing to have me go like this?"
"Yes."
"I'm going West to-morrow."
"It makes no difference to me where you are going."
"Won't you forgive me?"
"No."
As he passed her, he offered his hand in one last appeal, but she turnedaway from him, her hands behind her, and in a moment he was gone.
Rita Cheyne heard the hall door close behind him and then sank into thechair before the open fire, her eyes staring before her at the tinyflame which still played fitfully above the gray log. Her fish hadrisen at last with such wanton viciousness that he had taken hook, line,reel, and rod. Only her creel remained to her--her empty creel.