XIV
Not nearly enough admiration has been granted by the male human to themost remarkable quality possessed by the human female--her ability torecuperate. Man worships the heroic virtues in man. But in woman heworships the intangible thing called charm, the fleeting thing calledbeauty. Man hates to concede that woman is his superior in anything,wherefore even that well-known ability of hers to endure suffering hebrushes aside as inconsequential, giving credit to Mother Nature.Possibly Mother Nature does deserve the credit. Still, man has noquality that he has bestowed upon himself. Yet that does not prevent himfrom being proud of the physique that he inherited from his grandfather,the brain that he inherited from his father, or the wit that descendedto him from some other ancestor.
So may women justly be proud of their recuperative powers. For thesepowers are more than physical. Thousands of years of child-bearing, ofundergoing an agony that in each successive generation, because ofcorsets, because of silly notions of living, of too much work or toolittle work, has become more poignant, have had their effect upon thefemale character.
If the baby dies, father is prostrated. It is mother who attends to allthe needful details, although her own sense of loss, of unbearablegrief, is greater, perhaps, than her husband's. If father loses hisjob, he mopes in despair; it is mother who encourages him, who wears asmiling face, even though the problem of existence seems more unsolvableto her than to him.
It does not do to attribute this quality to women's histrionic ability.For the histrionism is due to the quality, not the obverse. It was notacting that made Clancy smile coquettishly up into Randall's loweringvisage as he swept her away from Vandervent. It was courage--thesheerest sort of courage.
In the moment that Randall had come to claim her, her feet had suddenlybecome leaden, her eyes had been shifting, frightened. Yet they had nottaken half a dozen steps before she was again the laughing heroine ofthe party. For that she had been! Even a novice such as Clancy Deaneknew that more than courtesy to a hostess' _protegee_ was behind theattentions of Judge Walbrough. And she was versed enough in masculineadmiration to realize that Vandervent's interest had been genuinelyroused. Flattery, success had made her eyes brilliant, her lips andcheeks redder, her step lighter. Danger threatened her, but cringingwould not make the danger any less real. Therefore, why cringe? This,though she did not express it, even to herself, inspired her gayety.
The fact that Randall's brows were gathered together in a frown made herexcitement--her pleasurable excitement--greater. Knowing that he hadconceived a quick jealousy for Vandervent, she could not forbear asking,after the immemorial fashion of women who know what is the matter,
"What's the matter?"
And Randall, like a million or so youths before him, who have known thatthe questioner was well aware of the answer, said,
"You know well enough."
"No, I don't," said Clancy.
"Yes, you do, too," asserted Randall.
"Why"--and Clancy was wide-eyed--"how could I?"
Randall stared down at her. He had made a great discovery.
"You're a flirt," he declared bitterly.
He could feel Clancy stiffen in his arms. Her face, quickly averted,seemed to radiate chill, as an iceberg, though invisible, casts its coldatmosphere ahead. He had offended beyond hope of forgiveness. Wherefore,like the criminal who might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb,he plunged into newer and greater offenses.
"Well, of course I'm not a multimillionaire, and I don't keep apress-agent to tell the world what a great man I am, like Vandervent,but still--" He paused, as though confronted by thoughts too terriblefor utterance. Clancy sniffed.
"Running other men down doesn't run you up, Mr. Randall."
She felt, as soon as she had uttered the words, that they were unworthyof her. And because she felt that she had spoken in a common fashion,she became angry at Randall, who had led her to this--well,indiscretion.
"I didn't mean to do that, Miss Deane," he said hastily; "only, I--I'msorry I spoke that way. Vandervent doesn't hire a press-agent--so faras I know. And he's a good citizen and an able man. I'm sorry, MissDeane. I'm jealous!" he blurted.
Clancy grinned. She twisted her head until she met Randall's eyes again.For the moment, she had completely forgotten the deadly thoughunconscious threat behind Vandervent's words of a few moments ago.
"You mustn't be absurd, Mr. Randall," she said, with great severity.
"I don't mean to be," he answered, "but I can't help it. You promised mea _tete-a-tete_," he said plaintively.
"Did I?" She laughed. Randall reversed as she spoke, and she faced thedoor. Vandervent was eyeing her. Although his eyes were friendly, eager,she saw him, not as a partner in flirtation but as an officer of thelaw. Half a minute ago, engrossed in teasing Randall, she'd almostforgotten him. Back and forth, up and down--thus the Clancy spirits. Shewas, in certain emotional respects, far more Irish than American. Shepressed Randall's left hand.
"Let's go down-stairs," she suggested.
She caught the look of disappointment in Vandervent's eyes as she passedhim. For a moment, she hesitated. How simple it would be to exchange_tete-a-tete_ partners, take Vandervent down-stairs, and, from the verybeginning, tell him the amazing history of her half-week in New York! He_liked_ her. Possibly his feeling toward her might grow into somethingwarmer. Certainly, even though it remained merely liking, that was anemotion strong enough to justify her in throwing herself upon his mercy.And, of course, he'd _believe_ her.
She wondered. She realized, as she had realized many times before in thepast few days, and would realize again in the days to come, that thelonger one delays in the frank course, the more difficult franknessbecomes. Even if Vandervent did believe her, think of the position inwhich she would find herself! It came home to her that she liked theaffair that she was attending to-night. It was more fun than any kind ofwork, she imagined--playing round with successful, fashionable, wealthypeople. Scandal, if she emerged from it with her innocence proved, mightnot hurt her upon the stage or in the moving pictures, or even in SallyHenderson's esteem. But it would ruin her socially.
"A husband with the kale." That was what Fanchon DeLisle had said. Nosuch husband could be won by a girl who had been the central figure of amurder trial. Clancy was the born gambler. It had taken the temperamentof a gambler to leave Zenith; it had taken the temperament of a gamblerto escape from the room that contained Beiner's dead body; it had takenthe temperament of a gambler to decide, with less than seven dollars inthe world, to brave the pursuit of the police, the wrath of Zenda, theloneliness of New York, rather than surrender to the police, consciousof her innocence.
A gambler! A chance-taker! Thus she had been created, and thus, in thefulfilment of her destiny, she would always be. The impulse tosurrender, to throw herself upon Vandervent's mercy, passed as instantlyas it had come. Yet, once out of the studio, she leaned heavily uponRandall's arm.
In the drawing-room, on the ground floor, Randall paused. Clancywithdrew her hand from his arm. They faced each other a bit awkwardly.Clancy always had courage when there were others present, but, whenalone with a man, a certain shyness became visible. Also, although therehad been boys in Zenith who had fancied themselves in love with her, shehad always held herself high. She had not encouraged their attentions.
Randall was different. He was a grown man. And, after his confession ofjealousy, it was silly for her not to take him seriously. He was not theflirtatious kind. He frightened her.
"You're worried," he stated surprisingly.
"'Worried?'" She tried to laugh, but something inside her seemed to warnher to beware.
"Yes--worried," repeated Randall. He came close to her. "Has Vanderventannoyed you? You were happy--you seemed to be--until you danced withhim. Then----"
"Mr. Randall, you talk like a little boy," she said. "First, you want_tete-a-tetes_; then you are jealous; then you are sure that some one isannoying me----"
"You _are_ worried," he ch
arged.
He did not make the iteration stubbornly. He made it as one who wascertain of what he said. Also, there was a patience in his tone, asthough he were prepared for denial, and had discounted it in advance andhad no intention of changing his belief.
For a moment, Clancy wavered. He was big and strong andcompetent-seeming. He looked the sort of man who would understand. Thereare some men who one knows will always be faithful to any trust imposedin them, who can be counted upon always. Randall had the fortunate giftof rousing this impression. He was, perhaps, not overbrilliant--not, atleast, in the social way; but he was the sort that always inspires, frommen and women both, not merely confidence but confidences. Had he notbeen making love to her, Clancy would perhaps have confided in him. Buta lover is different from a friend. One hides from a lover the thingsthat one entrusts to a friend. It is not until people have been marriedlong enough to inspire faith that confidences result. Whoever heard of abride telling important secrets to her husband?
Clancy's wavering stopped. Possible husbands could not be entrusted withknowledge prejudicial to her chances as a possible wife.
"If you're going to continue absurd, we'll go up-stairs again," sheannounced.
Her chin came slightly forward. Randall looked at her doubtfully, but hewas too full of himself, as all lovers are, to press the subject ofClancy's worriment. He was tactful enough, after all. And he told her ofhis boyhood in Ohio, of his decision to come to New York, of theaccident that had caused him to leave the bank which, on the strength ofhis father's Congressional career, had offered him an opening. It had todo with the discontinuance of the account of an apparently valuablecustomer. Randall, acting temporarily as cashier, had, on his ownresponsibility, refused further credit to the customer. He had done sobecause a study of the man's market operations had convinced him that acorner, which would send the customer into involuntary bankruptcy, hadbeen effected. There had ensued a week of disgrace; his job had hung inthe balance. Then the customer's firm suspended; the receiver steppedin, and Randall had been offered a raise in salary because of themoney--from the refusal of worthless paper offered as security by thebankrupt--that the bank had been saved.
He had refused the increase in salary and left the bank, convinced--andhaving convinced certain financiers--that his judgment of thestock-market was worth something. His success had been achieved only inthe past two years, but he was worth some hundreds of thousands ofdollars, with every prospect, Clancy gathered, of entering themillionaire class before he was much over thirty.
He went farther back. Despite his apparently glowing health, he'dsuffered a bad knee at football. The army had rejected him in 1917.Later on, when the need for men had forced the examiners to be lessstringent, he had been accepted, and had been detailed to atraining-camp. But he had won no glory, achieving a sergeancy shortlybefore the armistice. He had not gone abroad. He was a graduate of theUniversity of Illinois, knew enough about farming to maintain a sort of"ranch" in Connecticut, and was enthusiastic about motor-cars.
This was about as far as he got when he insisted that Clancy supplementhis slight knowledge of her. She told him of the Zenith normal school,which she had attended for two years, of the summer residents of Zenith,of the fishing-weirs, of the stage that brought the mail from Bucksport,of the baseball games played within the fort of Revolutionary times onthe top of the hill on which the town of Zenith was built. And this wasas far as she had reached when Vandervent found them.
He was extremely polite, but extremely insistent in a way that admittedof no refusal.
"I say, Randall, you mustn't monopolize Miss Deane. It's not generous,you know. You've been lucky enough. This is my dance."
Clancy didn't remember the fact, but while she and Randall had rambledon, she had been doing some close thinking. She couldn't confess toVandervent that she was Florine Ladue, but she could utilize theheaven-sent opportunity to fascinate the man who might, withintwenty-four hours, hold her life in his hand--although it couldn't be asserious as that, she insisted to herself. But, in the next breath, shedecided that it could easily be as serious as that, and even moreserious. Yet, with all her worry, she could repress a smile at Randall'sstiff courtesy to his rival. Clancy was young, and life was thrilling.
But she had no chance to "vamp" Vandervent. A Paul Jones was in fullswing as they reached the studio, and Judge Walbrough took her fromVandervent after a half-dozen bars had been played. From him she went toMortimer, the illustrator, and from him to Darnleigh, the poet, and fromhim to Cavanagh, the millionaire oil-man, the richest bachelor in theworld, Judge Walbrough informed her, in a hoarse whisper meant to reachthe ears of Cavanagh.
And then Mrs. Carey announced that the storm was increasing so savagelythat she feared to detain her guests any longer lest they be unable toreach their homes. There was much excitement, and several offers to takeClancy home. But Mrs. Carey came to her.
"I want you to stay with me, Miss Deane. Please!" she added, in awhisper. Clancy thought there was appeal in her voice. She said that shewould. Whereas Randall looked savage, and Vandervent downcast. Whichlooks made Clancy's heart sing. In this laughing crowd, under theselights, with the jazz band only a moment stilled, it was absurd tosuppose that she was really in danger from Vandervent or any one else.Wasn't she innocent of any wrong-doing?
Up and down, down and up! The Clancys of this world are always so. Whichis why they are the best beloved and the happiest, all thingsconsidered.
She was properly remote and cool to both her suitors, as she called themto herself. Modesty was not her failing.
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