“Funny sort of chap,” Phil said. He was disappointed, half expecting that the man would at least make an offer on a painting, but he was accustomed to curious people who could not understand what he was attempting to do with his painting. “I don’t blame him much.” He looked at the painting of the woman feeding the cat, and said, “I’d trade you right now for a good suit of clothes.”
“Who was it who said, ‘Don’t give up the ship’? Well, that’s what I’m telling you, my friend. Never give up.”
Phil reached over and clapped George Maxim on the shoulder. “If everybody in the world were as nice a guy as you, Max, it would be a good world,” he said softly, then turned and left the studio.
Phil’s shoulders, Maxim saw, were drooping, and the excitement that had always been part of his personality had gone. “Poor fellow. He’s not going to make it unless something happens pretty soon.”
As soon as Peter entered the library, Avis Warwick knew something was different. Usually he came in with the express purpose of cheering her up. She knew that, and more than once had said, “You don’t have to entertain me, Peter.” Now, however, there was a determined look in his eye, and his chin was lifted high. He had the look of a man who had decided to perform a chore, no matter how difficult it was going to be.
“Hello, Peter. Sit down.” Avis waited until he was seated, then began to talk of the latest Dickens book they had been reading. She could tell that he was only waiting to tell her something, and finally she put the book aside and asked, “What’s the matter? Trouble with the car?”
“No. It’s not that. The car’s going very well.” Peter had been apprehensive when he had first told Avis that he had gotten another car and intended to race again soon. He was afraid that the mention of racing would bring back the bitterness that had overwhelmed Avis after the accident. He was fairly certain it had bothered her some when he had told her, but she handled it better than he expected, and then she had actually shown some interest. Right now, though, he could see that she was simply aware of his tension.
“Avis, I want to talk to you.”
Avis waited, and then when he hesitated, she said, “Well, if it’s not the car, what is it? Something’s wrong with you.”
“Avis, I want you to marry me.”
For a moment Avis could not believe she had heard correctly. She had put thoughts of a normal life out of her mind, and now as she stared at Peter, whose face was set and fixed, she could not for the life of her come up with a suitable reply.
Finally he said, “Did you hear me, Avis? I want you to marry me. I care for you very much.”
“Peter—” For a moment Avis could not frame the words, and then she said, “I could never marry you. You need a young woman who . . . one who can be a proper wife to you.”
“You’re a young woman,” Peter said. He had made a speech up in his mind and had risen with determination. He had wrecked her life, and now he felt it was essential to do all he could to make amends. He began to speak quickly. “In the first place, I believe you’re going to be healed someday. You may not believe that, but I do and Jolie does.”
“I know. She’s always telling me that God’s promised her I’m going to be healed—but I can’t quite believe that.”
“Well, I believe it and she believes it.”
“That’s not all there is to it, Peter, even if I were able to walk again. If God were to do this miracle—which I can’t quite make myself accept—I still couldn’t be a proper wife to you. We’re too different.”
“I don’t think that’s always bad. Two people that are just alike, Avis, would make a very boring marriage.” He reached over, took her hand, and said, “I know we’re different. I think you need God in your life, and I think I could help you with that.”
For a long time Avis struggled against Peter’s request for marriage. In truth she knew he did not love her as a man should love a wife. And she did not feel that, as a paralytic, she could give him the love a husband needed. Still, he continued to plead his case ardently, until she finally said, “Peter, it would be good for me and bad for you.”
He suddenly leaned over and took her in his arms. Kneeling beside the wheelchair, he kissed her and said, “We’ll have a good life.”
Avis was more moved than she had ever been in her life. She had been aware that Peter felt responsible for her accident. She also knew he was asking her this out of a sense of guilt, but still, with his arms around her, she felt a security she had never expected to have. She put her arms around him and held him tightly, and in her heart she was saying, He doesn’t love me and I don’t love him as a woman should love a man, but I have money. He could have anything he wants. He could buy any race car he wants. I’ll help him. She pushed him back gently and said, “Is this what you truly want, Peter?”
“Yes, it’s what I want.”
“Then let’s begin honestly. You don’t really love me, and I don’t think I’ve ever been able to love a man as a woman should, but we do have something. And I promise you this. I have more money than I could ever spend. You can go to the very top in your profession. You won’t have to try to put a junk car together. You can have the very best, and I’ll help you do it, Peter.”
Peter knew exactly what he was doing. He had weighed all these things in the balance, and he knew what Avis said was true. They did not love each other with a grand passion. Nevertheless, the accident had made him responsible for her, and he could only fulfill that responsibility if they were married. What she said about money meant nothing to him, but he did not say this to her. It was all she had to give, and he whispered, “We’ll make a great team, Avis,” and he kissed her again.
“Look at all those stars, Peter. Aren’t they glorious?”
Jolie waved her hand up toward the sky at the brilliance of the night’s display. Against the black curtain above, millions of tiny diamond-hard points of light glittered. It was as if the sky were alive, and the stars seemed close enough to reach up and touch.
Glancing up, Peter answered, “Yes, I read the Scripture the other night that God named all the stars—or did I read that in some book?”
Peter had come to have supper with Avis, and afterward they had talked for a long time. Avis had gone to bed early, and Jolie had been surprised to find Peter still there. He had asked her out for a walk, and now, as they strolled along Seventeenth Street, the air felt pleasantly cool after the July heat that had blanketed New York all day.
Jolie noticed that Peter was more thoughtful than usual. She knew him very well, and when such silences came on him, she was sure he was trying to frame some important thought in the right words before he spoke. She did not rush him but walked quietly along beside him until he was ready.
“Jolie . . .” He hesitated, then stopped and turned her around. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“What is it, Peter?”
“I’ve asked Avis to marry me.”
A shock ran through Jolie, for although she had considered this a possibility, it had been far from her mind tonight. She could only say, “Have you, Peter?”
“Yes.” He began to speak quickly, telling her of how it would be, and when he was through he said almost in desperation, “I’ve got to do it. I owe it to her.”
Jolie Devorak put away her dreams. “All right, Peter,” she said, “if that’s what you must do, then you must do it.” The two turned and walked back, and both felt they had lost something important—something that could never be found again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Choice
“Good afternoon, Mr. Lanier.”
“Good day, Edward. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Oliver Lanier took his hat off of the shelf, settled it firmly on his head, then picked up his walking stick. He had been having some sort of knee trouble, which his wife called rheumatism and which he called nonsense. Nevertheless, it had grown so severe that he had bought the walking stick and now leaned on it heavily. As he left the build
ing and waved over a passing hansom cab, he was thinking of how age crept up on a man. Giving his home address, he settled himself into the cab and gave a disdainful look at the automobiles that were beginning to replace many of the horse-drawn vehicles. He hated them, but being an astute man, he knew now that the future lay with them and not with the horse.
Something soothing in the sound of the horses’ hooves as the hansom moved along the street caused him to take off his hat and place it on the seat beside him. Leaning back, he clasped his hands together and tried to put the pain of his knee out of his mind. It’s no fun growing old, he thought. Nothing but aches and pains, and nothing to look forward to. Such a thought was new to Oliver Lanier, for he had been a man of such driving ambition that he had no time to think of old age. In recent months he suddenly had become aware that those days were now upon him. This realization had come to him with a rush one morning when he was shaving. He had stared at his white hair and streaked beard in the mirror, startled, yet knowing they had not grown white overnight. Since that morning he had been thinking about his life.
Now he thought of the office he had just left and felt distressed. Until Clinton had walked out, he had not realized how much he depended on him. He also had not realized how much life his son put into the business and what an integral part he played in its day-to-day operations. It was not a humorous sort of business at best, and Clinton, despite the fact that he did not care greatly for it, had brought some humor and youthful vigor into everyday affairs. Oliver had sniffed at this, but the employees had said more than once in his hearing, “The place isn’t the same since Clinton left. No fun at all anymore.”
The whole incident of Clinton’s leaving grieved him, and as he had so often done to console himself, Oliver thought back to the days when he and Clinton had gone places together, when he had been in the first delights of his successful business career. Back then he had enjoyed taking his young children out, enjoying time together. He suddenly recalled when he had taken them to see a vaudeville performance. Clinton was no more than eight years old. The acrobats, the jugglers, and the singers had all delighted the boy. Then he thought again of the circus that Clinton had so enjoyed. “Why didn’t I take him back?” Oliver murmured, then shook his head. “Too late for that now,” he said gloomily.
Then he found himself thinking of Mary Ann and her determination to marry George Camrose. Here I’m right, he thought. It would be terrible for her to languish away in some obscure African village. Still, he had seen her determination. And that made him think of Cara, about whom he was most concerned. He thought he understood Cara, but now he was slowly discovering that his judgment was not as sound as he had supposed.
Lanier was startled when the carriage stopped and he looked up to see he was in front of his home. Getting out, he balanced on the cane and his good leg while he fished for the money to pay the driver. Handing it up, he nodded briefly at the driver’s thanks and then moved painfully up the walk and climbed the steps. Stepping inside, he was greeted by Alice, who said with concern, “You’re having more trouble with your knee, aren’t you, Oliver?”
“It will pass.”
“Come in and sit down. I think we ought to have Doctor McKenzie in to take a look at it.”
“He can’t make a new knee,” Lanier said, but he followed her into the larger of the two parlors. He sank down with relief into a Morris chair, and Alice moved a hassock over and helped him to stretch his leg out. She fussed over him, bringing him a cup of tea, and insisting all the time that the doctor be called to examine his knee.
“Oliver, I’ve got to talk to you about something you may not like,” she said finally. She pulled up a chair and sat down across from him, leaning forward and lacing her fingers together over her knees. As she took a deep breath, she looked anxious but determined. “It’s about Bess’s birthday party.”
“I thought you had already made all the plans for that. It’s tomorrow night, right?”
“Yes, but I’ve got to tell you one thing about the guests.” She hesitated, then held herself straighter. “I’m going to insist on having Clinton—and George Camrose.”
Shocked by her bold announcement, Oliver shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. It would be bad for Mary Ann to be exposed to that young man, and as for Clinton, he knows he can come home anytime he pleases. All he has to do is agree to my terms.”
Alice Lanier stared at her husband for a moment, then said quietly, “Oliver, Clinton and George are coming to the party, whatever you say. You’re welcome to come, and I hope you will, but it wouldn’t be fair to exclude Clinton. He’s been at every birthday party Bess has ever had. You know how close they are. So, I’m sorry I have to speak to you like this, but that’s the way it’s going to be.”
Blank astonishment filled Oliver’s face, and he stared at his wife as if she had announced that she was going to move to India. “Why, Alice, I’ve never heard you speak like this!”
“I had hoped that I would never have to contradict you, but you’re wrong about Clinton, and you’re also terribly wrong about Mary Ann and George. I hope you’ll change your mind, but if you don’t, it will just have to be my way this time.” Alice rose, gave her husband a last firm look, then turned without a word and walked out of the room. Oliver stared after her, absolutely amazed and at a loss for words.
“No point arguing about it, Clinton, you’re going to the party!” George Camrose had appeared at Mrs. Mason’s boardinghouse just after Clinton had returned from work. Camrose stood in the middle of the floor with a determined light in his eye. Clinton had said he did not feel free to go to his home since he and his father had had an altercation, but Camrose had stood his ground. “You can argue all you want to, Clinton, but you’re going to that party. I know you and your father are upset with each other, but your mother sent word to me that I was to bring you, and I suppose you got a note, too.”
“Yes, I did, but I just didn’t think it would be right. After all, Father’s forbidden me to come home until I agree to his terms. And I can’t.”
“Well, your mother hasn’t forbidden you to come home. Besides, it’s important for Bess, so get dressed. We’re going.”
Clinton tried to resist, but he finally just had to laugh. “I never knew a preacher could be so pesky. All right. Let me change and I’ll go.” Quickly he put on a light brown suit and slipped his feet into a pair of brown high-topped shoes and laced them up. As he did so, he noticed his fingernails. “Look at this. I couldn’t get them clean no matter how hard I tried.”
Camrose stared at the fingernails that were broken and had grease under them and grinned. “First time you ever got your hands dirty, but I don’t think you’re sorry, are you?”
“No, I’m not. Not about leaving home, at least. I’m sorry Father and I see things differently.” He rose and the two left the house. They arrived just before seven. Bess was almost beside herself. When Clinton walked in, she threw herself into his arms, and he spun her around, saying, “Happy Birthday!”
“Did you bring me a present?”
“What makes you think that?”
“You always give me a nice present on my birthday. What is it, Clinton?”
“You can open it with the rest of your presents. Come along.”
“All right, come on. Everybody’s already in the dining room. We’re going to open my presents in the parlor after dinner.”
Clinton gave George a despairing look, then shrugged. Camrose came closer as they moved toward the dining room, saying, “It’ll be all right. Don’t worry.”
When they entered the room, George immediately headed toward Mary Ann, who came to meet him halfway. “I’m so glad you brought him,” Mary Ann whispered. “Mother was afraid you wouldn’t be able to persuade him.”
“He’s a stubborn fellow, but I’m worse. You’ll find out about that soon enough.”
Everyone watched then as Clinton stood still, turning his glance toward his father. Oliver was seated at the table, hi
s cane beside his chair. He had said almost nothing, and everyone was wondering exactly how he would greet Clinton. Mary Ann had said to her mother, “Father’s never changed his mind that I know of. I think he’ll give Clinton a hard time.”
Alice had said with determination, “No, I don’t think so. Not this time.”
As for Oliver, he felt the weight of all eyes in the room on him. His gaze shifted to meet those of his wife, who was sitting at his right hand. She smiled at him and put her hand on his, saying nothing, but he knew what was on her heart. Looking up, he said, “Come in, Clinton, and you, too, Reverend Camrose. We’ve been waiting for you.”
A great relief rushed through Clinton. He had half expected to be ordered out of the house, but to his surprise, he sensed something different in his father. He went forward at once and put his hand out, saying, “Thank you, Father. It’s good to see you.”
“Why . . . it’s good to see you, too, Clinton.” There was a moment’s hesitation, and he said, “It’s very good.”
A great relief seemed to settle in the room as Clinton looked at his mother, who gave him a smile. They were soon seated and talking in a more relaxed manner than ever before. The party went on with great success. The dinner was excellent, as always, consisting of a rack of lamb with mint sauce, parslied potatoes, buttered peas, fresh baked bread, and salad. After a maid had removed the dinner dishes, a large cake with pink icing and white candles was ceremoniously carried in, along with homemade ice cream for a real birthday treat. Everyone clapped when Bess blew out every candle with one tremendous puff and then, relaxed and enjoying their Bess’s special night, waited to be served their desserts.
After dinner was over, everyone moved to the parlor for the opening of presents. Bess, of course, received a great many. As everyone was finding a seat, she leaned over to her mother and whispered, “I’ve never seen Clinton look so well.”
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