The two men went East together.
On the way, Burr told much of his life––probably more than he had told before in years. He knew that the sympathy of Ellis was sincere, and a disinterested motive was with him a new thing, a key to confidence.
A woman was at this time, and had been for years, foremost in Burr’s mind. He was going to see her now; beyond that his plans were dim. During a career of politics, there had crept into the man’s life much that was hard and worldly; but this attachment was from ambition far apart––his most sacred thing.
She was a brilliant woman, this friend of Burr’s; one whom many sought; but it was not this which influenced him. She had been his best friend, and had taken him into her own home during the darkest hour of his life, when condemnation was everywhere. Gossip had fluttered, but to no avail. Burr never forgot a friend, and in this case it was more than friendship: it was a genuine love that lasted; for 328 years later, in his old age and hers as well, old Jumel mansion made gay at their wedding.
“What do you expect to do?” asked Burr of Ellis.
“Anything just now that will make me forget,” answered the countryman, quickly. “So there’s enough of it is all that I ask. I’m going to get a little more education first. Sometime I’ll study law––that is, if I’m here ‘sometime.’ I’ve got to be where there’s life and action. I’ll never end by being common.” He paused a moment, and on his face there formed the peculiar heavy look that had confronted Clayton; a mask that hid a determination, which nothing of earth could shake. He finished slowly: “I’ll either be something, or nothing.”
Biographers leave the impression that at this time Burr was devoid of prestige on earth. Politically, this is true; but respecting his standing with the legal fraternity, it is wholly false. He had influence, and he used it, securing the stranger a place in a New York office, where his risk depended only upon himself. More than this, he gave Ellis money. 329
“You can pay me any interest you wish,” said he when the latter protested.
Ellis had been settled a week. One evening he sat in the back room of the city office, fighting the demon of homesickness with work, and the light of an open fire. It was late, and he had studied till Nature rebelled; now he sat in his own peculiar position, gazing into the glow, motionless and wide-eyed.
He started at a tap on the door, and the past came back in a rush.
“Come in,” he called.
Burr entered, and closed the door carefully behind him. Ellis motioned to a chair.
“No, I won’t sit down,” said Burr. “I’m only going to stay a moment.”
He came over to the blaze, looking down on the other man’s head. Finally he laid a hand on Ellis’s shoulder.
“Lonesome, eh?” he inquired.
The student nodded silent assent.
“So am I,” said Burr, beginning to pace up and down the narrow room. “Do you know,” he burst out at last, “this town is like hell to me. Every hand is against me. There’s not 330 one man here, beside you, whom I can trust. I can’t stand it. I’m going to leave the country. Some day I’ll come back; but now it’s too much.” There was the accumulated bitterness of months in his voice. “My God!” he interjected, “you’d think these people never did anything wrong in their lives.” He stopped and laid his hand again on the other man’s shoulder.
“But enough of this––I didn’t come to make you more lonesome. I want you to meet my friends before I go. You’ll go out with me to-morrow afternoon?”
There was silence for a moment.
“If you wish. You know what I am,” said Ellis.
Burr’s hand rested a moment longer.
“Good-night,” he said simply.
Some eight or ten miles north of the beach, on the island of Manhattan, stood Jumel home; a fine, white house, surrounded by a splendid lawn and gardens. A generation had already passed since its erection, and the city was slowly creeping near. It was a stately specimen of Colonial domestic architecture, built on simple, restful lines, and distinguished by the noble 331 columns of its Grecian front. Destined to be diminished, the grounds had already begun to shrink; but from its commanding position it had a view that was magnificent, overlooking as it did, the Hudson, the Harlem, the East River, the Sound, and upon every side, miles upon miles of undulating land.
On the way, and again upon the grounds, Burr related the history of the old landmark, telling much with the fascination of personal knowledge. The tale of the Morrises, of Washington and of Mary Philipse was yet upon his tongue, as he led Ellis through the broad pillared entrance, into the great hall.
Things moved swiftly, very swiftly and very dreamily, to the countryman in the next few hours. Nothing but the lack of ability prevented his vanishing at the sound of approaching skirts; nothing but physical timidity prevented his answering the greeting of the hostess; nothing but conscious awkwardness prompted the crude bow that answered the courtesy of the girl with the small hands, and the dark eyes who accompanied her––the first courtesy from powdered maid of fashion that 332 he had ever known. Her name, Mary Philipse, coming so soon after Burr’s story, staggered him, and, open-mouthed, he stood looking at her. Remembrance came to Burr simultaneously, and he touched Ellis on the arm.
“Don’t worry, my friend,” he laughed; “she’s not the one.”
Ellis grew red to the ears.
“We’ll leave you to Mary,” said Burr retreating with a smile; “she’ll tell you the rest––from where I left off.”
The girl with the big brown eyes was still smiling in an amused sort of way, but Ellis showed no resentment. He knew that to her he was a strange animal––very new and very peculiar. He did not do as a lesser man would have done, pretend knowledge of things unknown, but looked the girl frankly in the eyes.
“Pardon me, but it was all rather sudden,” he explained. The red had left his face now. “I’ve only known a few women––and they were not––of your class. This is Mr. Burr’s joke, not mine.”
The smile faded from the girl’s face. She 333 met him on his own ground, and they were friends.
“Don’t take it that way,” she protested, quickly. “I see, he’s been telling you of Washington’s Mary Philipse. It merely happens that my name is the same. I’m simply a friend visiting here. Can’t I show you the house? It’s rather interesting.”
If Ellis was a novelty to the woman, she was equally so to him. Unconventionality reigned in that house, and they were together an hour. Never before in his life had Ellis learned so much, nor caught so many glimpses of things beyond, in an equal length of time. His idea of woman had been trite, a little vague. He had no ideal; he had simply accepted, without question, the one specimen he had known well.
In an uncertain sort of way he had thought of the sex as being invariably creatures of unquestioned virtue, but of mind somewhat defective; who were to be respected and protected, loved perhaps with the love animals know; but of such an one as this he had no conception.
Here was a woman, younger than he, whose unconscious familiarity with things, which to 334 him lay hidden in the dark land of ignorance, affected him like a stimulant. A woman who had read and travelled and thought and felt; whose mind met him even in the unhesitating confidence of knowledge––it is no wonder that he was in a dream. It turned his little world upside down: so brief a time had elapsed since he had cursed woman for bringing crime into his life, in the narrowness of his ignorance thinking them all alike. He was in the presence of a superior, and his own smallness came over him like a flood.
He mentally swore, then and there, with a tightening of his jaw that meant finality, that he would raise himself to her plane. The girl saw the look, and wondered at it.
That night, at parting, the eyes of the two met. A moment passed––and another, and neither spoke a word. Then a smile broke over the face of Mary Philipse, and it was answered on the face of the man. Equals had met equals. At last the girl held out her hand.
“Call again, please,” she requested. “Good-night.”
Years passed. Burr had gone and returned 335 again, and Jumel mansion had waxed festive to honor his home-coming. Then he opened an office in the city, and drab-colored routine fell upon him––to remain.
Meanwhile Time had done much for Ellis––rather, it had allowed him to do much for himself. He had passed through all the stages of transition––confusion, homesickness, despondency; but incentive to do was ever with him.
At first he had worked to forget, and, in self-defence; but Nature had been kind, and with years memory touched him softly, as though it were the past of another.
Then a new incentive came to him: an incentive more potent than the former, and which grew so slowly he did not recognize it, until he met it unmistakably face to face. Again into his life and against his will had crept a woman, and this woman’s name was Mary Philipse. He met her now on her own ground, but still, as of old, with honors even. She had changed little since he first saw her. As often as he called, he met the same frank smile, and the brown eyes still regarded him with the same old candid, unreserved interest. 336
Ellis was, as the town would have said, successful. He had risen from a man-of-all-work to the State bar, and an office of his own. He had passed the decisive line and his rise was simply a question of time. He was in a position where he could do as he chose. He appreciated that Mary Philipse was the incentive that had put him where he was. She appealed to the best there was in his nature. She caused him to do better work, to think better thoughts. He unselfishly wished her the best there was of life. Just how much more he felt he did not know––at least this was sufficient.
He would ask her to marry him. It was not the mad, dazzling passion of which poets sing; but he was wiser than of yore. Of Mary he was uncertain. That he was not the only man who went often to old Jumel mansion he was well aware, and with the determination to learn certainties, there came a tenderer regard than he had yet known.
Jumel was gay that night. There would be few more such scenes, for the owner was no longer young; but of this the throng in brocade 337 and broadcloth and powder, who filled the spacious mansion, were thoughtless. Everywhere was an atmosphere of welcome; from the steady light of lanterns festooned on facade and lawn, to the sparkle of countless candles within.
It was that night that Ellis drew Mary Philipse aside and told her the tale that grew passionate in the telling. Fortune was kind, for he told it to the soft accompaniment of wine glasses ringing, and the slow music of the stately minuet.
Mary Philipse heard him through without a word, an expression on her face he had never seen before. Then their eyes met in the same frank way they had hundreds of times before, and she gave him her answer.
“I’ve expected this, and I’ve tried to be ready; but I’m not. I can’t say no, and I can’t say yes. I wouldn’t try to explain to any one else, but I think you’ll understand. Forgive me if I analyze you a little, and don’t interrupt, please.”
She passed her hand over her face slowly, a shade wearily.
“There are times when I come near loving 338 you: for what you are, not for what you are to me. You are natural, you’re strong; but you lack something I feel to be necessary to make life completely happy––the ability to forget all and enjoy the moment. I have watched you for years. It has been so in the past, and will be so in the future. Other men who see me, men born to the plane, have the quality––call it butterfly if you will––to enjoy the ‘now.’ It appeals to me––I am of their manner born.” Their eyes met and she finished slowly, “It’s injustice to you, I know; but I can’t answer––now.”
They sat a moment side by side in silence. The dancers were moving more swiftly to the sound of the Virginia reel.
Ellis reached over and took her hand, then bent and touched it softly with his lips.
“I will wait––and abide,” he said.
In a room, half-lighted by the red rays of a harvest moon, a woman lay in the shadow; face downward, on the bed. It was not the figure of youth: the full lines of waist and hip spoke maturity. She was sobbing aloud and bitterly, so that her whole body trembled.
The clock struck the hour, the half, again the hour; and yet she lay there, but quiet, with face turned toward the window and the big, red harvest moon. It was not a handsome face; besides, now it was tear-stained and hard with the reflection of a bitter battle fought.
A light foot tapped down the hallway and stopped in front of the door. There was gentle accompaniment on the panel to the query, “Are you asleep?” 340
The woman on the bed opened her eyes wider, without a word.
The step in the hall tapped away into silence. The firm, round arm in its black elbow-sleeve setting, white, beautiful, made a motion of impatience and of weariness; then slowly, so slowly that one could scarce mark its coming, the blank stupor that comes as Nature’s panacea to those whom she has tortured to the limit, crept over the woman, and the big brown eyes closed. The moon passed over and the night-wind, murmuring lower and lower, became still. In the darkness and silence the woman sobbed as she slept.
In the lonely, uncertain time between night and morning she awoke; her face and the pillow were damp with the tears of sleep. She was numb from the drawing of tight clothing, and with a great mental pain and a confused sense of sadness, that weighed on her like a tangible thing. Her mind groped uncertainly for a moment; then, with a great rush, the past night and the things before it returned to her.
“Oh, God, Thy injustice to us women!” she moaned. 341
The words roused her; and, craving companionship, she rose and lit the gas.
Back and forth she crossed the room, avoiding the furniture as by instinct––one moment smiling, bitter; the next with face moving, uncontrollable, and eyes damp: all the moods, the passions of a woman’s soul showing here where none other might see. Tired out, at last, she stopped and disrobed, swiftly, without a glance at her own reflection, and returned to bed.
Nature will not be forced. Sleep will not come again. She can only think, and thoughts are madness. She gets up and moves to her desk. Aimlessly at first, as a respite, she begins to write. Her thoughts take words as she writes, and a great determination, an impulse of the moment, comes to her. She takes up fresh paper and writes sheet after sheet, swiftly. Passion sways the hand that writes, and shines warmly from the big, brown eyes. The first light of morning stains the east as she collects the scattered sheets, and writes a name on the envelope, a name which brings a tenderness to her eyes. Stealthily she tiptoes down the stairs and places the letter where the servant will see, 342 and mail it in the early morning. A glad light, the light of relief, is in her face as she steals back slowly and creeps into bed.
“If it is wrong I couldn’t help it,” she whispers low. She turns her face to the pillow and covers it with a soft, white arm. One ear alone shows, a rosy spot against the white.
Nine o’clock at a down-town medical office. A man who walks rapidly, but quietly, enters and takes up the morning mail. A number of business letters he finds and a dainty envelope, with writing which he knows at sight. He steps to the light and looks at the postmark.
“Good-morning,” says his partner, entering.
The man nods absently, and, tearing open the envelope, takes out this letter:
“My friend:––
“I don’t know what you will think of me after this; anyway, I cannot help telling you what to-night lies heavy on my heart and mind. I’ve tried to keep still; God knows I’ve tried, and so hard; but Nature is Nature, and I am a 343 woman. Oh, if you men only knew what that means, you’d forgive us much, and pity! You have so much in life and we so little, and you torture us so with that little, which to us is so great, our all; leading us on against our will, against our better judgment, until we love you, not realizing at first the madness of unrequited love. Oh, the cruelty of it, and but for a pastime.
“But I do not mean to charge you. You are not as other men; you are not wrong. Besides, why should I not say it? I love you. Yes, you; a man who knows not the meaning of the word; who meant to be but a friend, my best friend. Oh, you have been blind, blind all the years since first I knew you; since first you began telling me of yourself and of your hopes. You did not know what it meant to such as I to live in the ambition of another, to hope through another’s hope, to exult in another’s success. I am confessing, for the first time––and the last time. Know, man, all the time I loved you. Forgive me that I tell you. I cannot help it. I am a woman, and love in a woman’s life is 344 stronger than will, stronger than all else together.
“I ask nothing. I expect nothing. I could not keep quiet longer. It was killing me, and you never saw. I did not mean to tell you anything, till this moment––least of all, in this way. But it is done, and I’m glad––yes, happier than I have been for weeks. It is our woman’s nature; a nature we do not ourselves understand.
“My friend, I cannot see you again. Things cannot go on as they were. It was torture––you know not what torture––and life is short. If you would be kind, avoid me. The town is wide, and we have each our work. Time will pass. Remember, you have done nothing wrong. If there be one at fault it is Nature, for only half doing her work. You are good and noble. Good-bye. I trust you, for, God bless you, I love you.”
The letter dropped, and the man stood looking out with unseeing eyes, on the shifting street.
A patient came in and sat down, waiting.
He had read as in a dream. Now with a rush 345 came thought,––the past, the present, mingled; and as by a great light he saw clearly the years of comradery, thoughtless on his part, filled as his life had been with work and with thought of the future. It all came home to him now, and the coming was of brightness. The coldness melted from his face; the very squareness of the jaw seemed softer; the knowledge that is joy and that comes but once in a lifetime, swept over him, warm, and his heart beat swift. All things seemed beautiful.
Without a word he took up his hat, and walked rapidly toward the elevator. A smile was in the frank blue eyes, and to all whom he met, whether stranger or friend, he gave greeting.
The patient, waiting for his return, grew tired and left, and leaving, slammed the office door behind him.
The source of this manuscript lies in tragedy. My possession of it is purely adventitious. That I have had it long you may know, for it came to me at an inland prairie town, far removed from water or mountain, while for ten years or more my name, above the big-lettered dentist sign, has stood here on my office window in this city by the lake. I have waited, hoping some one would come as claimant; but my hair is turning white and I can wait no longer. As now I write of the past, the time of the manuscript’s coming stands clear amid a host of hazy, half-forgotten things.
It was after regular hours, of the day I write, that a man came hurriedly into my office, complaining of a fiercely aching tooth. Against my advice he insisted on an immediate extraction, and the use of an anæsthetic. I telephoned for a physician, and while awaiting his coming my patient placed in my keeping an expansible leather-covered book of a large pocket size. 348
“Should anything go wrong,” he said, “there are instructions inside.”
The request is common from those unused to an operation, and I accepted without other comment than to assure him he need fear no danger.
Upon arriving, the physician made the customary examination and proceeded to administer chloroform. The patient was visibly excited, but neither of us attached any importance to that under the circumstances. Almost before the effect of the anæsthetic was noticeable, however, there began a series of violent muscular spasms and contractions. The inhaler was removed and all restoratives known to the profession used, but without avail. He died in a few moments, and without regaining consciousness. The symptoms were suspicious, entirely foreign to any caused by the anæsthetic, and at the inquest the cause came to light. In the man’s stomach was a large quantity of strychnine. That he knew something of medicine is certain, for the action of the alkaloid varies little, and he had the timing to a nicety.
The man was, I should judge, thirty years of age, smooth of face and slightly built. Nerve 349 was in every line of face and body. He was faultlessly dressed and perfectly groomed. He wore no jewelry, not even a watch; but within the pocket of his vest was found a small jewel-case containing two beautiful white diamonds, each of more than a carat weight. One was unset, the other mounted in a lady’s ring. There was money in plenty upon his person, but not an article that would give the slightest clue to his identity.
One peculiar thing about him I noticed, and could not account for: upon the palm of each hand was a row of irregular abrasions, but slightly healed, and which looked as though made by some dull instrument.
The book with which he entrusted me had begun as a journal, but with the passage of events it had outgrown its original plan. Being expansible, fresh sheets had been added as it grew, and at the back of the book, on one of these blanks, had been hastily scratched, in pencil, the message of which he spoke:
“You will find sufficient money in my pockets to cover all expenses. Do not take my trinkets, please! Associations make them dear 350 to me. Any attempt to discover my friends will be useless.”
Notwithstanding the last sentence the body was embalmed and the death advertised; but no response came, and after three days the body and the tokens he loved were quietly buried here in the city.
Meantime I had read the book, beginning from a sense of duty that grew into a passing interest, and ended by making me unaware of both time and place. I give you the journal as it stands, word for word and date for date. Would that I could show you the handwriting in the original as well. No printed page can tell the story of mood as can the lines of this journal. There were moments of passion when words slurred and overtook each other, as thought moved more rapidly than the characters which recorded; and again, periods of uncertainty when the hand tarried and busied itself with forming meaningless figures, while the conscious mind roamed far away.
March 17. Why do I begin a journal now, a thing I have never done before? Had another 351 asked the question, I could have turned it off with a laugh, but with myself it will not do. I must answer it, and honestly. Know then, my ego who catechises, I have things to tell, feelings to describe that are new to me and which I cannot tell to another. The excuse sounds childish; but listen: I speak it softly: I love, and he who loves is ever as a child. I smile at myself for making the admission. I, a man whose hair is thinning and silvering, who has written of love all his life, and laughed at it. Oh, it’s humorous, deliciously humorous. To think that I have become, in reality, the fool I pictured others in fancy!
April 2. Gods, she was beautiful to-night!––the way she came to meet me: the long skirt that hung so gracefully, and that fluffy, white, sleeveless thing that fitted her so perfectly and showed her white arms and the curves of her throat. I forgot to rise, and I fear I stared at her. I can yet see the smile that crept through the long lashes as she looked at me, and as I stumbled an apology she was smiling all the time. How I came away I swear I don’t know. Instinct, I suppose; for now at last I 352 have an incentive. I must work mightily, and earn a name––for her.
April 4. He says it is a strong plot and that he will help me. That means the book will succeed. I wonder how a man feels who can do things, not merely dream them. I expected he would laugh when I told him the plot, especially when I told whom the woman was; but he didn’t say a word. He thinks, as I do, that it would be better to leave the story’s connection with her a surprise until the book is published. He is coming up here to work to-morrow. “Keep a plot warm,” he says: “especially one with a love in it.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye as he spoke, so peculiarly I hardly knew whether he was laughing at me or not. I suppose, just now, my state of mind is rather obvious and amusing.
May 3. As I expected, the reaction is on. What a price we have to pay for our happy moments in this world! I’m tired to-night and a little discouraged, for I worked hard all day, and did not accomplish much. “Lack of inspiration,” he said. “The heroine is becoming a 353 trifle dim. Hadn’t you better go and enthuse a little to-night?”
I was not in a mood to be chaffed; I told him shortly: “No, you had better go yourself.”
He smiled and thanked me. “With your permission,” he said, “I will.”
Nature certainly has been kind to him, for he is handsome and fascinating beyond any man I ever knew. I wanted to use him in the story, but he positively refused. He said that I would do better. So we finally compromised on a combination. “The man” has his hair and my eyes, his nose and my mouth. Over the chin we each smiled a little grimly, for it is stubborn––square, and fits us both. After all, it is not a bad ensemble. The character has his weak points, but, all in all, he is not bad to look upon.
June 10. We went driving this evening, she and I, far out into the country, going and coming slowly. The night was perfect, with a full moon and a soft south wind. Nature’s music makers were all busy. On the high places, the crickets sang loudly their lonesome song to the night, while from the distant river 354 and lowlands there came the uncertain minor of countless frogs in chorus.
For two hours I tasted happiness, divine happiness, happiness so complete that I forgot time.
I have known many beautiful women, women splendid as animals are splendid, but never before one whose intense womanliness made me forget that she was beautiful. I can’t explain; it is too subtle and holy a thing. I sat by her side, so near that we touched, and worshipped as I never worshipped at church. If but for this night alone, my life is worth the living.
June 12. It seems peculiar that he should be working with me at this story; strange that he should care to know me at all. Perhaps I stand a little in awe of the successful man; I think we all do. At least, he is the example par excellence. I have seen him go into a room filled with total strangers, and though he never spoke a word, have heard the question all about,––“Who is he?” Years ago, when he as well as I was an unknown writer, we each submitted a story to the same editor, by the same mail. Both 355 were returned. I can still see the expression on his face as he opened his envelope, and thrust the manuscript into his pocket. He did not say a word, but his manner of donning his top-coat and hat, and the crash of the front door behind him betrayed his disappointment. His work was afterwards published at his own risk. The ink on my story is fading, but I have it still.
July 2. She is going to the coast for the season, and I called to-night to say au revoir. I could see her only a few minutes as her carriage was already waiting; something, I believe, in honor of her last night in town. She was in evening dress, and beautiful––I cannot describe. Think of the most beautiful woman you have ever known, and then––but it is useless, for you have not known her.
I was intoxicated; happy as a boy; happy as a god. I filled the few moments I had, full to overflowing. I told her what every man tells some woman some time in his life. For once I felt the power of a master, and I spoke well.
She did not answer; I asked her not to. I could not tell her all, and I would have no reply 356 before. Her face was turned from me as I spoke, but her ears turned pink and her breath came quickly. I looked at her and the magnitude of my presumption held me dumb; yet a warm happy glow was upon me, and the tapping of feet on the pavement below sounded as sweetest music.
As I watched her she turned, her eyes glistening and her throat all a-tremble. She held out her hand to say good-bye. I took it in mine; and at the touch my resolution and all other things of earth were forgotten, and I did that which I had come hoping to do. Gently, I slipped a ring with a single setting over her finger, then bending low, I touched the hand with my lips––whitest, softest, dearest hand in God’s world. Then I heard her breath break in a sob, and felt upon my hair the falling of a tear.
August 5. I am homesick to-night and tired. It is ten-thirty, and, I have just gotten dinner. I forgot all about it before. The story is moving swiftly. It is nearly finished now, moreover it is good; I know it. I sent a big roll of manuscript to him to-day. He is at the coast, 357 and polishes the rough draft as fast as I send it in. He tells me he has secured a publisher, and that the book will be out in a few months. I can hardly wait to finish, for then I, too, can leave town. I will not go before; I have work to do, and can do it better here. He tells me he has seen her several times. God! a man who writes novels and can mention her incidentally, as though speaking of a dinner-party!
August 30. I finished to-day and expressed him the last scrap of copy. I wanted to sing, I was so happy. Then I bethought me, it is her birthday. I went down town and picked out a stone that pleased me. Their messenger will deliver it, and she can choose her own setting. How I’d like to carry it myself, but I have a little more work to do before I go. Only two more days, and then––
I have been counting the time since she left: almost two months; it seems incredible when I think of it.
How I have worked! Next time I write, my journal confessor, I will have something to tell: I will have seen her––she who wears my ring.... Ah! here comes my man for 358 orders. A few of my bachelor friends help me celebrate here to-night. I have not told them it is the last time.
September 5. Let me think; I am confused. This hotel is vile, abominable, but there is no other. That cursed odor of stale tobacco, and of cookery!
The landlord says they were here yesterday and went West. It’s easy to trace them––everybody notices. A tall man, dark, with a firm jaw; the most beautiful woman they have ever seen––they all say the same. My God! and I’m hung up here, inactive a whole day! But I’ll find them, they can’t escape; and then they’ll laugh at me, probably.
What can I do? I don’t know. I can’t think. I must find them first ... that cursed odor again!
Oh, what a child, a worse than fool I have been! To sit there in town pouring the best work of my life into his hands! I must have that book, I will have it. To think how I trusted her––waited until my hair began to turn––for this! 359
But I must stop. This is useless, it’s madness.
September 9. It is a beautiful night. I have just come in from a long walk, how long I don’t know. I went to the suburbs and through the parks, watching the young people sitting, two and two, in the shadow. I smiled at the sight, for in fancy I could hear what they were saying. Then I wandered over to the lakefront and stood a long time, with the waves lapping musically against the rocks below, and the moonlight glistening on a million reflectors. The great stretch of water in front, and the great city behind me sang low in concord, while the stars looked down smiling at the refrain. “Be calm, little mortal, be calm,” they said; “calm, tiny mortal, calm,” repeated endlessly, until the mood took hold of me, and in sympathy I smiled in return.
Was it yesterday? It seems a month since I found them. Was it I who was so hot and angry? I hold up my hand; it is as steady as my mother’s when, years ago, as a boy, she laid it on my forehead with her good-night. The murmur of this big hotel speaks soothingly, 360 like the voice of an old friend. The purr of the elevator is a voice I know. It all seems incredible. To-day is so commonplace and real, and yesterday so remote and fantastic.
He was lounging in the lobby, a hand in either pocket, when I touched him on the shoulder. He turned, but neither hands nor face failed him by a motion.
“I presume you would prefer to talk in private?” I said, “Will you come to my room?”
A smile formed slowly over his lips.
“I don’t wish to deprive my––” He paused, and his eyes met mine,“––my wife of a pleasant chat with an old friend. I would suggest that you come with us to our suite.”
I nodded. In silence we went up the elevator; in equal silence, he leading, we passed along the corridor over carpets that gave out no telltale sound.
She was standing by the window when we entered. Her profile stood out clear in the shaded room, and in spite of myself a great heart-throb passed over me. She did not move at first, but at last turning she saw him and me. 361 Then I could see her tremble; she started quickly to leave, but he barred the way. The smile was still upon his face.
“Pardon me, my dear,” he protested, “but certainly you recognize an old friend.”
She grew white to the lips, and her eyes blazed. Her hands pressed together so tightly that the fingers became blue at the nails. She looked at him; such scorn I had never seen before. Before it, the smile slowly left his face.
“Were you the fraction of a man,” she voiced slowly, icily, “you would have stopped short of––this.”
She made a motion of her hand, so slight one could scarce see it, and without a word he stepped aside. She turned toward me and, instinctively, I bent in courtesy, my eyes on the floor and a great tumult in my heart. She hesitated at passing me; without looking up I knew it; then, slowly, moved away down the corridor.
I advanced inside, closing the door behind me and snapping the lock. Neither of us said a word; no word was needed. The fighting-blood of each was up, and on each the square jaw that 362 marked us both was set hard. I stepped up within a yard of him and looked him square in the eye. I pray God I may never be so angry again.
“What explanation have you to offer?” I asked.
His eye never wavered, though the blood left his face and lip; even then I admired his nerve. When he spoke his voice was even and natural.
“Nothing,” he sneered. “You have lost; that’s all.”
Quick as thought, I threw back the taunt.
“Lost the woman, yes, thank God; the book, never. I came for that, not for her. I demand that you turn over the copy.”
Again the cool smile and the steady voice.
“You’re a trifle late. I haven’t a sheet; it is all gone.”
“You lie!” I flung the hot words fair in his teeth.
A smile, mocking, maddening, formed upon his face.
“I told you before you had lost. The book is copyrighted”––a pause, while the smile 363 broadened––“copyrighted in my name, and sold.”
The instinct of battle, primitive, uncontrollable, came over me and the room turned dark. I fought it, until my hands grew greasy from the wounds where the nails bit my palms, then I lost control; of what follows all is confused.
I dimly see myself leaping at him like a wild animal; I feel the tightening of the big neck muscles as my fingers closed on his throat; I feel a soft breath of night air as we neared the open window; then in my hands a sudden lightness, and in my ears a cry of terror.
I awoke at a pounding on the door. It seemed hours later, though it must have been but seconds. I arose––and was alone. The window was wide open; in the street below, a crowd was gathering on the run, while a policeman’s shrill whistle rang out on the night. A hundred faces were turned toward me as I looked down and I dimly wondered thereat.
The knocking on the door became more insistent. I turned the lock, slowly, and a woman rushed into the room. Something about her 364 seemed familiar to me. I passed my hand over my forehead––but it was useless. I bowed low and started to walk out, but she seized me by the arm, calling my name, pleadingly. Her soft brown hair was all loose and hanging, and her big eyes swimming; her whole body trembled so that she could scarcely speak.
The grip of the white hand on my arm tightened.
“Oh! You must not go,” she cried; “you cannot.”
I tried gently to shake her off, but she clung more closely than before.
“You must let me explain,” she wailed. “I call God to witness, I was not to blame.” She drew a case from the bosom of her dress.
“Here are those stones; I never wore them. I wanted to, God knows, but I couldn’t. Take them, I beg of you.” She thrust the case into my pocket. “He made me take them, you understand; made me do everything from the first. I loved him once, long ago, and since then I couldn’t get away. I can’t explain.” She was pleading as I never heard woman plead 365 before. “Forgive me––tell me you forgive me––speak to me.” The grip on my arm loosened and her voice dropped.
“Oh! God, to have brought this on you when I loved you!”
The words sounded in my ears, but made no impression. It all seemed very, very strange. Why should she say such things to me? She must be mistaken––must take me for another.
I broke away from her grasp, and groped staggeringly toward the door. A weariness intense was upon me and I wanted to be home alone. As I moved away, I heard behind me a swift step as though she would follow, and my name called softly, then another movement, away.
Mechanically I turned at the sound, and saw her profile standing clear in the open window-frame. Realization came to me with a mighty rush, and with a cry that was a great sob I sprang toward her.
Suddenly the window became clear again, and through the blackness that formed about 366 me I dimly heard a great wail of horror arise from the street below.
There was no other entry save the hasty scrawl in pencil.
“Good-night.” A lingering of finger tips that touched, as by accident; a bared head; the regular tap of shoes on cement, as a man walked down the path.
“Good-night––and God bless thee,” he repeated softly, tenderly, under his breath, that none but he might hear: words of faith spoken reverently, and by one who believes not in the God known of the herd.
“Good-night––and God bless thee,” whispered the woman slowly; and the south wind, murmuring northward, took the words and carried them gently away as sacred things.
The woman stood thinking, dreaming, her color mounting, her eyes dimming, as she read deep the mystery of her own heart.
They had sat side by side the entire evening, and had talked of life and of its hidden things; or else had remained silent in the unspoken converse that is even sweeter to those who understand each other. 368
She had said of a mutual friend: “He is a man I admire; he has an ideal.”
“A thing but few of earth possess.”
“No; I think you are wrong. I believe all people have ideals. They must; life would not be life without.”
“You mean object rather than ideal. Does not an ideal mean something beautiful––something beyond––something we’d give our all for? Not our working hours alone, but our hours of pleasure and our times of thought. An ideal is an intangible thing––having much of the supernatural in its make-up; ’tis a fetish for which we’d sacrifice life––or the strongest passion of life,––love.”
“Is this an ideal, though? Could anything be beautiful to us after we’d sacrificed much of life, and all of love in its attainment? Is not everything that is opposed to love also opposed to the ideal? Is not an ideal, when all is told, nothing but a great love––the great personal love of each individual?”
He turned to the woman, and there was that in his face which caused her eyes to drop, and her breath to come more quickly. 369
“I don’t know. I’m miserable, and lonely, and tired. I’ve thought I had an ideal, and I followed it, working for it faithfully and for it alone. I’ve shown it to myself, glowing, splendid, when I became weary and ready to yield. I’ve sacrificed, in attempting its attainment, youth and pleasure––self, continually. Still, I’m afar off––and still the light beckons me on. I work day after day, and night after night, as ever; but the faith within me is growing weaker. Might not the ideal I worshipped after all be an earth-born thing, an ambition whose brightness is not of pure gold, but of tinsel? That which I have sought, speaks always to me so loudly that there may be no mistake in hearing.
“‘I am thy god,’ it says; ‘worship me––and me alone. Sacrifice––sacrifice––sacrifice––thyself––thy love. Thus shalt thou attain me.’
“One day I stopped my work to think; hid myself solitary that I might question. ‘What shall I have when I attain thee?’ I asked.
“‘Fame––fame––the plaudits of the people––a pedestal apart.’ 370
“‘Yes,’ whispered my soul to me, ‘and a great envy always surrounding; a great fight always to hold thy small pedestal secure.’
“Of such as this are ideals made? No. ’Twas a mistake. I have sought not an ideal, but an ambition––a worthless thing. An ideal is something beautiful––a great love. ’Tis not yet too late to correct my fault; to seek this ideal––this beautiful thing––this love.”
He reached over to the woman and their fingers, as by chance, touching, lingered together. His eyes shone, and when he spoke his voice trembled.
“You know the ideal––the beautiful thing––the love I seek.”
Side by side they sat, each bosom throbbing; not with the wild passion of youth, but with the deeper, more spiritual love of middle-life. Overhead, the night wind murmured; all about, the crickets sang.
Turning, she met him face to face, frankly, earnestly.
“Let us think.”
She rose, in her eyes the look men worship and, worshipping, find oblivion. 371
A moment they stood together.
“Good-night,” she whispered.
“Good-night,” his lips silently answered, pressing upon hers.