“I have your photograph,” he said.
The silence lasted until he straightened up and, rubbing the fog from the window glass, looked out.
“We are in the Park,” he remarked, turning toward her.
“Yes; I did not know how long it might take to explain matters. You are free of me now whenever you wish.”
He picked up the telephone, hesitated: “Home?” he inquired with an effort. And at the forgotten word they looked at one another in stricken silence.
“Y-yes; to your home first, if you will let me drop you there—”
“Thank you; that might be imprudent.”
“No, I think not. You say you are living at the Gerards?”
“Yes, temporarily. But I’ve already taken another place.”
“Where?”
“Oh, it’s only a bachelor’s kennel — a couple of rooms—”
“Where, please?”
“Near Lexington and Sixty-sixth. I could go there; it’s only partly furnished yet—”
“Then tell Hudson to drive there.”
“Thank you, but it is not necessary—”
“Please let me; tell Hudson, or I will.”
“You are very kind,” he said; and gave the order.
Silence grew between them like a wall. She lay back in her corner, swathed to the eyes in her white furs; he in his corner sat upright, arms loosely folded, staring ahead at nothing. After a while he rubbed the moisture from the pane again.
“Still in the Park! He must have driven us nearly to Harlem Mere. It is the Mere! See the café lights yonder. It all looks rather gay through the snow.”
“Very gay,” she said, without moving. And, a moment later: “Will you tell me something? . . . You see” — with a forced laugh— “I can’t keep my mind — from it.”
“From what?” he asked.
“The — tragedy; ours.”
“It has ceased to be that; hasn’t it?”
“Has it? You said — you said that w-what I did to you was n-not as terrible as what I d-did to myself.”
“That is true,” he admitted grimly.
“Well, then, may I ask my question?”
“Ask it, child.”
“Then — are you happy?”
He did not answer.
“ — Because I desire it, Philip. I want you to be. You will be, won’t you? I did not dream that I was ruining your army career when I — went mad—”
“How did it happen, Alixe?” he asked, with a cold curiosity that chilled her. “How did it come about? — wretched as we seemed to be together — unhappy, incapable of understanding each other—”
“Phil! There were days—”
He raised his eyes.
“You speak only of the unhappy ones,” she said; “but there were moments—”
“Yes; I know it. And so I ask you, why?”
“Phil, I don’t know. There was that last bitter quarrel — the night you left for Leyte after the dance. . . . I — it all grew suddenly intolerable. You seemed so horribly unreal — everything seemed unreal in that ghastly city — you, I, our marriage of crazy impulse — the people, the sunlight, the deathly odours, the torturing, endless creak of the punkha. . . . It was not a question of — of love, of anger, of hate. I tell you I was stunned — I had no emotions concerning you or myself — after that last scene — only a stupefied, blind necessity to get away; a groping instinct to move toward home — to make my way home and be rid for ever of the dream that drugged me! . . . And then — and then—”
“He came,” said Selwyn very quietly. “Go on.”
But she had nothing more to say.
“Alixe!”
She shook her head, closing her eyes.
“Little girl! — oh, little girl!” he said softly, the old familiar phrase finding its own way to his lips — and she trembled slightly; “was there no other way but that? Had marriage made the world such a living hell for you that there was no other way but that?”
“Phil, I helped to make it a hell.”
“Yes — because I was pitiably inadequate to design anything better for us. I didn’t know how. I didn’t understand. I, the architect of our future — failed.”
“It was worse than that, Phil; we” — she looked blindly at him— “we had yet to learn what love might be. We did not know. . . . If we could have waited — only waited! — perhaps — because there were moments—” She flushed crimson.
“I could not make you love me,” he repeated; “I did not know how.”
“Because you yourself had not learned how. But — at times — now looking back to it — I think — I think we were very near to it — at moments. . . . And then that dreadful dream closed down on us again. . . . And then — the end.”
“If you could have held out,” he breathed; “if I could have helped! It was I who failed you after all!”
For a long while they sat in silence; Mrs. Ruthven’s white furs now covered her face. At last the carriage stopped.
As he sprang to the curb he became aware of another vehicle standing in front of the house — a cab — from which Mrs. Ruthven’s maid descended.
“What is she doing here?” he asked, turning in astonishment to Mrs. Ruthven.
“Phil,” she said in a low voice, “I knew you had taken this place. Gerald told me. Forgive me — but when I saw you under the awning it came to me in a flash what to do. And I’ve done it. . . . Are you sorry?”
“No. . . . Did Gerald tell you that I had taken this place?”
“Yes; I asked him.”
Selwyn looked at her gravely; and she looked him very steadily in the eyes.
“Before I go — may I say one more word?” he asked gently.
“Yes — if you please. Is it about Gerald?”
“Yes. Don’t let him gamble. . . . You saw the signature on that check?”
“Yes, Phil.”
“Then you understand. Don’t let him do it again.”
“No. And — Phil?”
“What?”
“That check is — is deposited to your credit — with the rest. I have never dreamed of using it.” Her cheeks were afire again, but with shame this time.
“You will have to accept it, Alixe.”
“I cannot.”
“You must! Don’t you see you will affront Gerald? He has repaid me; that check is not mine, nor is it his.”
“I can’t take it,” she said with a shudder. “What shall I do with it?”
“There are ways — hospitals, if you care to. . . . Good-night, child.”
She stretched out her gloved arm to him; he took her hand very gently and retained it while he spoke.
“I wish you happiness,” he said; “I ask your forgiveness.”
“Give me mine, then.”
“Yes — if there is anything to forgive. Good-night.”
“Good-night — boy,” she gasped.
He turned sharply, quivering under the familiar name. Her maid, standing in the snow, moved forward, and he motioned her to enter the brougham.
“Home,” he said unsteadily; and stood there very still for a minute or two, even after the carriage had whirled away into the storm. Then, looking up at the house, he felt for his keys; but a sudden horror of being alone arrested him, and he stepped back, calling out to his cabman, who was already turning his horse’s head, “Wait a moment; I think I’ll drive back to Mrs. Gerard’s. . . . And take your time.”
It was still early — lacking a quarter of an hour to midnight — when he arrived. Nina had retired, but Austin sat in the library, obstinately plodding through the last chapters of a brand-new novel.
“This is a wretched excuse for sitting up,” he yawned, laying the book flat on the table, but still open. “I ought never to be trusted alone with any book.” Then he removed his reading glasses, yawned again, and surveyed Selwyn from head to foot.
“Very pretty,” he said. “Well, how are the yellow ones, Phil? Or was it all débutante and sl
op-twaddle?”
“Few from the cradle, but bunches were arriving for the dance as I left.”
“Eileen went at half-past eleven.”
“I didn’t know she was going,” said Selwyn, surprised.
“She didn’t want you to. The Playful Kitten business, you know — frisks apropos of nothing to frisk about. But we all fancied you’d stay for the dance.” He yawned mightily, and gazed at Selwyn with ruddy gravity.
“Whisk?” he inquired.
“No.”
“Cigar?” — mildly urgent.
“No, thanks.”
“Bed?”
“I think so. But don’t wait for me, Austin. . . . Is that the evening paper? Where is St. Paul?”
Austin passed it across the table and sat for a moment, alternately yawning and skimming the last chapter of his novel.
“Stuff and rubbish, mush and piffle!” he muttered, closing the book and pushing it from him across the table; “love, as usual, grossly out of proportion to the ensemble. That theory of the earth’s rotation, you know; all these absurd books are built on it. Why do men read ‘em? They grin when they do it! Love is only the sixth sense — just one-sixth of a man’s existence. The other five-sixths of his time he’s using his other senses working for a living.”
Selwyn looked up over his newspaper, then lowered and folded it.
“In these novels,” continued Gerard, irritably, “five-sixths of the pages are devoted to love; everything else is subordinated to it; it controls all motives, it initiates all action, it drugs reason, it prolongs the tuppenny suspense, sustains cheap situations, and produces agonisingly profitable climaxes for the authors. . . . Does it act that way in real life?”
“Not usually,” said Selwyn.
“Nobody else thinks so, either. Why doesn’t somebody tell the truth? Why doesn’t somebody tell us how a man sees a nice girl and gradually begins to tag after her when business hours are over? A respectable man is busy from eight or nine until five or six. In the evening he’s usually at the club, or dining out, or asleep; isn’t he? Well, then, how much time does it leave for love? Do the problem yourself in any way you wish; the result is a fraction every time; and that fraction represents the proper importance of the love interest in its proper ratio to a man’s entire life.”
He sat up, greatly pleased with himself at having reduced sentiment to a fixed proportion in the ingredients of life.
“If I had time,” he said, “I could tell them how to write a book—” He paused, musing, while the confident smile spread. Selwyn stared at space.
“What does a young man know about love, anyway?” demanded his brother-in-law.
“Nothing,” replied Selwyn listlessly.
“Of course not. Look at Gerald. He sits on the stairs with a pink and white ninny; and at the next party he does it with another. That’s wholesome and natural; and that’s the way things really are. Look at Eileen. Do you suppose she has the slightest suspicion of what love is?”
“Naturally not,” said Selwyn.
“Correct. Only a fool novelist would attribute the deeper emotions to a child like that. What does she know about anything? Love isn’t a mere emotion, either — that is all fol-de-rol and fizzle! — it’s the false basis of modern romance. Love is reason — not a nervous phenomenon. Love is a sane passion, founded on a basic knowledge of good and evil. That’s what love is; the rest!” — he lifted the book, waved it contemptuously, and pushed it farther away— “the rest is neuritis; the remedy a pill. I’m going to bed; are you?”
But Selwyn had lighted a cigar, and was again unfolding his evening paper; so his brother-in-law moved ponderously away, yawning frightfully at every heavy stride, and the younger man settled back in his chair, a fragrant cigar balanced between his strong, slim fingers, one leg dropped loosely over the other. After a while the newspaper fell to the floor.
He sat there without moving for a long time; his cigar, burning close, had gone out. The reading-lamp spread a circle of soft light over the floor; on the edge of it lay Kit-Ki, placid, staring at him. After a while he noticed her. “You?” he said absently; “you hid so they couldn’t put you out.”
At the sound of his voice she began to purr.
“Oh, it’s all very well,” he nodded; “but it’s against the law. However,” he added, “I’m rather tired of rules and regulations myself. Besides, the world outside is very cold to-night. Purr away, old lady; I’m going to bed.”
But he did not stir.
A little later, the fire having burned low, he rose, laid a pair of heavy logs across the coals, dragged his chair to the hearth, and settled down in it deeply. Then he lifted the cat to his knees. Kit-Ki sang blissfully, spreading and relaxing her claws at intervals as she gazed at the mounting blaze.
“I’m going to bed, Kit-Ki,” he repeated absently, “because that’s a pretty good place for me . . . far better than sitting up here with you — and conscience.”
But he only lay back deeper in the velvet chair and lighted another cigar.
“Kit-Ki,” he said, “the words men utter count in the reckoning; but not as heavily as the words men leave unuttered; and what a man does scores deeply; but — alas for the scars of the deeds he has left undone.”
The logs were now wrapped in flame, and their low mellow roaring mingled to a monotone with the droning of the cat on his knees.
Long after his cigar burnt bitter, he sat with eyes fixed on the blaze. When the flames at last began to flicker and subside, his lids fluttered, then drooped; but he had lost all reckoning of time when he opened them again to find Miss Erroll in furs and ball-gown kneeling on the hearth and heaping kindling on the coals, and her pretty little Alsatian maid beside her, laying a log across the andirons.
“Upon my word!” he murmured, confused; then rising quickly, “Is that you, Miss Erroll? What time is it?”
“Four o’clock in the morning, Captain Selwyn,” she said, straightening up to her full height. “This room is icy; are you frozen?”
Chilled through, he stood looking about in a dazed way, incredulous of the hour and of his own slumber.
“I was conversing with Kit-Ki a moment ago,” he protested, in such a tone of deep reproach that Eileen laughed while her maid relieved her of furs and scarf.
“Susanne, just unhook those two that I can’t manage; light the fire in my bedroom; et merci bien, ma petite!”
The little maid vanished; Kit-Ki, who had been unceremoniously spilled from Selwyn’s knees, sat yawning, then rose and walked noiselessly to the hearth.
“I don’t know how I happened to do it,” he muttered, still abashed by his plight.
“We rekindled the fire for your benefit,” she said; “you had better use it before you retire.” And she seated herself in the arm-chair, stretching out her ungloved hands to the blaze — smooth, innocent hands, so soft, so amazingly fresh and white.
He moved a step forward into the warmth, stood a moment, then reached forward for a chair and drew it up beside hers.
“Do you mean to say you are not sleepy?” he asked.
“I? No, not in the least. I will be to-morrow, though.”
“Did you have a good time?”
“Yes — rather.”
“Wasn’t it gay?”
“Gay? Oh, very.”
Her replies were unusually short — almost preoccupied. She was generally more communicative.
“You danced a lot, I dare say,” he ventured.
“Yes — a lot,” studying the floor.
“Decent partners?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Who was there?”
She looked up at him. “You were not there,” she said, smiling.
“No; I cut it. But I did not know you were going; you said nothing about it.”
“Of course, you would have stayed if you had known, Captain Selwyn?” She was still smiling.
“Of course,” he replied.
“Would you really?”
&nb
sp; “Why, yes.”
There was something not perfectly familiar to him in the girl’s bright brevity, in her direct personal inquiry; for between them, hitherto, the gaily impersonal had ruled except in moments of lightest badinage.
“Was it an amusing dinner?” she asked, in her turn.
“Rather.” Then he looked up at her, but she had stretched her slim silk-shod feet to the fender, and her head was bent aside, so that he could see only the curve of the cheek and the little close-set ear under its ruddy mass of gold.
“Who was there?” she asked, too, carelessly.
For a moment he did not speak; under his bronzed cheek the flat muscles stirred. Had some meddling, malicious fool ventured to whisper an unfit jest to this young girl? Had a word — or a smile and a phrase cut in two — awakened her to a sorry wisdom at his expense? Something had happened; and the idea stirred him to wrath — as when a child is wantonly frightened or a dumb creature misused.
“What did you ask me?” he inquired gently.
“I asked you who was there, Captain Selwyn.”
He recalled some names, and laughingly mentioned his dinner partner’s preference for Harmon. She listened absently, her chin nestling in her palm, only the close-set, perfect ear turned toward him.
“Who led the cotillion?” he asked.
“Jack Ruthven — dancing with Rosamund Fane.”
She drew her feet from the fender and crossed them, still turned away from him; and so they remained in silence until again she shifted her position, almost impatiently.
“You are very tired,” he said.
“No; wide awake.”
“Don’t you think it best for you to go to bed?”
“No. But you may go.”
And, as he did not stir: “I mean that you are not to sit here because I do.” And she looked around at him.
“What has gone wrong, Eileen?” he said quietly.
He had never before used her given name, and she flushed up.
“There is nothing the matter, Captain Selwyn. Why do you ask?”
“Yes, there is,” he said.
“There is not, I tell you—”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 331