XXVI
THE next day he didn't appear, but a letter did.
"I merely lied to you," he wrote. "All gamblers are liars. You shouldhave passed by on the other side."
Yes, that is what she should have done; she realised it now alone therein the sunny parlour with his letter.
There was no chance for him; or, if there was, she had not been chosen asthe instrument of his salvation.
Slowly she turned her head and looked around her at her preparations--thepitiful little preparations for him--the childish stage setting for thescene of his salvation.
The spotless parlour had been re-dusted, cleaned, rubbed to its old-timepolish. Bible and prayer-book on the mahogany centre-table had beenarranged and re-arranged so many times that she no longer knew whether ornot her art concealed art, and was innocently fearful that he mightsuspect the mise-en-scene and fight shy of her preparations for hisregeneration.
Again and again she had re-arranged the flowers and books and rumpled theun-read morning newspaper to give to the scene a careless and casualevery-day allure; again and again she had straightened the rugs, thentried them in less symmetrical fashion. She let the kitten in to give amore home-like air to the room, but it squalled to go out, and she had torelease it.
Also, from the best spare room she had brought Holman Hunt's "Shadow ofthe Cross"--and it had taxed her slender strength to hang it in place ofthe old French mezzotint of Bacchus and Ariadne.
But the most difficult task was to disseminate among the stiff pieces offurniture and the four duplicate sofa cushions an atmosphere of pleasantand casual disorder--as though guests had left them where they were--asthough the rigid chairs were accustomed to much and intimate usage.
But the effect troubled her; every formal bit of furniture seemed to bearranged as for an ambuscade; the cushions on the carved sofa sat in arow, like dwarfs waiting; the secretary watched, every diamond pane aglittering eye. And on the wall the four portraits of her parents andgrand-parents were behaving strangely, for she seemed never to be out ofrange of their unwinking painted eyes.
From other rooms she had brought in ornaments, books, little odds andends--and the unaccustomed concentration of household gods caused hermuch doubt and uncertainty, so fearful was she that his wise dark eyesmight smilingly detect her effort.
There had been much to do in the short time pending his arrival--thegravel path to be raked, the lawn to be rolled and cut, the carefullyweeded flower beds to be searched for the tiniest spear of green whichdid not belong there, the veranda to be swept again, and all the pottedplants to be re-arranged and the dead leaves and blossoms to be removed.
Then there were great sheafs of iris to gather; and that, and the cuttingof peonies and June roses, were matters to go about with thought anddiscretion, so that no unsightly spaces in bloom and foliage should beapparent to those dark, wise eyes of his that had looked on so manythings in life--so many, many things of which she knew nothing.
Also she was to offer him tea; and the baking of old-fashioned biscuitsand sweets was a matter for prayerful consideration. And Hetty, the hiredgirl, had spent all the morning on her grand-mother's silver, and WilliamPillsbury, executor of chores, had washed the doorstep and polished thewindows and swept the maple-pods and poplar silk from the roof-gutters,and was now down on his knees with shears, trimming the grass under thepicket-fence.
And _he_ was not coming after all. He was never coming.
For a little while she failed to realise it; there was a numb sensationin her breast, a dull confusion in her mind. She sat alone in theparlour, in her pretty new gown, looking straight ahead of her, seeingnothing--not even his letter in her hand.
And she sat there for a long while; the numbness became painful; thetension a dull endurance. Fatigue came, too; she rested her head wearilyon the back of the chair and closed her eyes. But the tall clocks tickingslowly became unendurable--and the odour of the roses hurt her.
Suddenly, through and through her shot a pang of fright; she had justremembered that she had given him back his pistol.
On her feet now, startled as though listening, she stood, lips slightlyparted, and the soft colour gone from them. Then she went to the windowand looked down the road; and came back to stand by the centre-table, herclasped hands resting on the Bible.
For a while fear had its way with her; the silent shock of it whitenedher face and left her with fair head bowed above her clasped hands.
Once or twice she opened the Bible and tried to understand, choosing whatshe cared for most--reading of Lazarus, too. And she read aboutmiracles--those symbolic superfluities attributed to a life which initself was the greatest of all miracles.
And ever through the word of God glittered the memory of the pistol tillfear made her faint, and she rose, her hands against her breast, andwalked unsteadily out under the trees.
A bird or two had begun its sunset carol; the tree-trunks were stainedwith the level crimson light. Far away her gaze rested on the blue hills.Beyond them lay the accursed city.
The dull reiteration in her brain throbbed on unceasingly; she had givenhim his pistol; he had lied to her; she had trusted him; he had lied; andthe accursed city lay beyond those hills--and he was there--with hispistol; and he had lied to her--lied! lied! God help them both!
Across her clover fields the ruddy sunlight lay in broad undulatingbands, gilding blossom and curling trefoil. On every side of her the farmstretched away over a rolling country set with woods; sweet came thefreshening air from the hills; she heard her collie barking at thecattle along the pasture brook; a robin carolled loudly from theorchard; orioles answered; gusts of twittering martins swept and soaredand circled the chimneys.
Erect, anguished hands clenched, she stood there, wide eyes seeingnothing, and in her shrinking ears only the terrible reiteration of hergrowing fears.
Then the level sun struck her body with a bar of light; all the worldaround her smouldered rose and crimson. But after a little the shadowsfell through the fading light; and she turned her head, shivering, andwent back to the house--back to the room she had prepared for him, andsat there watching the shapes of dusk invade it; the vague grey ghoststhat came crawling from corners and alcoves to gather at her feet andwait and wait there with her for him who would never come into her lifeagain.
XXVII
"MISS LILY?"
She lifted her head from the sofa cushion in the dark, dazzled by thesudden lamp-light.
"What is it?" she asked, averting her face.
"There's a gentleman says he'd like to see you----"
The girl turned, still dully confused; then, rigid, sat bolt upright.
"_Who?_"
"A gentleman--said you don't know his name. Shall I show him in?"
She managed to nod; her heart was beating so violently that she pressedher hand over it.
He saw her sitting that way when he entered.
She did not rise; pain and happiness, mingled, confusing her for amoment; and he was already seated near her, looking at her with anintentness almost expressionless.
"You see," he said, "what the honour of a gambler is worth. I have liedto you twice already."
His words brought her to her senses. She rose with an effort and, as hestood up, she gave him her hand.
"Don't think me rude," she said. "I was resting--not expecting you--andthe lamp and--your coming--confused me."
"You were not expecting me," he said, retaining her hand an instant. Thenshe withdrew it; they seated themselves.
"I don't know," she said, "perhaps I was expecting you--and didn'trealise it."
"Had you thought--much about it?"
"Yes," she said.
Then it seemed as though something sealed her lips, and that nothingcould ever again unseal them. All that she had to say to him vanishedfrom her mind; she could not recall a single phrase she had prepared tolead up to all she must somehow say to him.
He talked quietly to her for a while about nothing in particular. Onc
eshe saw him turn and look around the room; and a moment afterward hespoke of the old-time charm of the place and the pretty setting such aroom made for the old-fashioned flowers.
He spoke about gardens as though he had known many; he spoke of trees andof land and of stock; and, as he spoke in his pleasant, grave youngvoice, he noticed the portraits on the wall; and he spoke of pictures asthough he had known many, and he spoke of foreign cities, and ofold-world scenes. And she listened in silence and in such content thatthe happiness of it seemed to invade her utterly and leave her physicallynumb.
From time to time his dark eyes wandered from her to the objects in theroom; they rested for a moment on the centre-table with its Book,lingered, passed on. For a little while he did not look at her--as thoughfirst it were necessary to come to a conclusion. Whatever the conclusionmight have been, it seemed to make his eyes and mouth alternately graveand amused--but only very faintly amused--as though the subject he wasconsidering held him closely attentive.
And at last he looked up at her, gently, not all the curiosity yetquenched.
"You are kind enough to wish to know about me; and too well bred toask--now that the time is come. Shall I speak of myself?"
Her voiceless lips found a word.
"Then--_It_ began in college--after my uncle died and left nothing for meto go on with. . . . I worked my way through--by my wits. . . . Up tothat time it was only luck and card-sense--and luck again--the ability tohold the best cards at the best time--hold them honestly, I mean. Ithappens--I don't know why or what laws govern it. Some men holdthem--always hold them--with intervals of bad fortune--but onlyintervals."
He gazed thoughtfully at the rag carpet, passed a well-shaped hand overhis forehead.
"Yes, it is the truth. . . . And so, Fortune linked arms with me . . .and I drifted into it--gradually--not all at once . . . lower--always alittle lower--until--what _you_ saw occurred."
She would not meet his eyes, perhaps with an idea of sparing him.
He said: "You know nothing of such things, of course. . . . I am--on acommission basis for doing what--they threw me out of that hotel fordoing. . . . Of course, a man can fall lower--but not much lower. . . .The business from which I receive commissions is not honest--a squaregame, as they say. Some games may be square for a while; no games areperfectly square all the time. . . . I have heard of honest gamblers; Inever saw one. . . . There may be some; but I'm afraid they're like goodIndians. . . . And that is the way in which Life and I are situated."
After a while she managed to look at him.
"Could you tell me--are you--your circumstances----"
"I am not in want," he said gently.
"Then it is not--not necessity----"
"No. It is easier and more interesting than for me to earn a decentliving."
"Is that the only reason?"
"Yes, I think so."
"Have you no--regrets?"
"Sometimes. . . . I am not immune to shame. . . . I wonder whether youknow what it cost me to come here."
A dull flush mounted to his forehead, but he faced her steadily enough.
"You saw me kicked out of a hotel by an Irish servant because I was notfit to be tolerated among reputable people. . . . And you did not pass byon the other side. . . . Under your clear eyes my spirit died a thousandshameful deaths while I went with you to your destination. . . . Thecontempt of the whole world burnt me; and your compassion drove everyflame into me----" He checked himself, swallowed, forced a smile, andwent on in his low, pleasant voice: "I am afraid I have been dramatic. .. . All I meant to say is that my humiliation, witnessed by you, is aheavier price to pay--a more painful reckoning with Fate, than I hadreally ever looked for."
"I--I had no contempt for you," she faltered.
"You could not escape it; but it is kind of you to say that."
"You don't understand. I had no contempt. I was--it--the dread of harm toyou--frightened me. . . . And afterward I was only so sorry for you--andwanted to--to help----"
He nodded. "The larger charity," he said. "You may read all about itthere in that Bible, but--the world takes it out in reading about it. . .. I do not mean to speak bitterly. . . . There is nothing wrong with meas far as the world goes--I mean _my_ world. . . . Only--in the other andreal world there is--you. . . . You, who did not pass by on the otherside; and to whom the Scriptures there are merely the manual which youpractice--for the sake of Christ."
"You think me better--far better than I am."
"I know what you are. I know what it cost you to even let me lean on you,there in the glare of the electric light--there where men stood leeringand sneering and misjudging you!--and my blood on your pretty gown----"
"Oh--I did not think--care about that--or the men----"
"You cared about them. It is a growing torture to you. Even in thegenerous flush of mercy you thought of it; you said you would never goback to that hotel. I knew why you said it. I knew what, even then, yousuffered--what of fear and shame and outraged modesty. I know what youstood for, there in the street with a half-senseless crook hanging toyour arm--tugging for a weapon which would have sent two more mongrels tohell----"
"You shall not say that!" she cried, white and trembling. "You did notknow what you were doing----"
He interrupted: "'For they know not what they do.' . . . You are right. .. . We don't really know, any of us. But few, except such as you, believeit--few except such as you--and the Master who taught you. . . . And thatis all, I think. . . . I can't thank you; I can't even try. . . . It istoo close to melodrama now--not on your side, dear little lady!"
He rose.
"Are you--going?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
He turned unconsciously and looked through the windows into the southerndarkness.
"I--want you to stay," she said.
He turned and bent toward her with his youthful and engaging manner.
"It is sweet and good of you; but you know it is best that I go."
"Why?"
"Because--it might be that some of your friends would know me. . . . Itis for your sake I am going."
"I wish you to stay."
"I know it. It makes me wonderfully happy."
"_Won't_ you?"
"I must not."
"What are you going to do in the city?"
There was a silence; then: "The _same_?" she faltered.
"I am afraid so."
"Why?"
"What else is there?"
"Everything. . . . And I--ask it of you."
He looked at her with troubled eyes.
"I'm afraid you don't know what you are asking----"
"I do know! I ask--your soul of God!"
For a long while he stood there as though turned to stone. Then, asthough rousing from a dream, he walked slowly to the window, looked longinto the south. At last he turned.
She sat on the edge of the sofa, her face in her hands, deathly silent,waiting.
"Tell me," she whispered, not looking up as he bent over her.
"About that matter of a stray soul?" he said pleasantly. "It's allright--if you care to--bother with it. . . ."
Her hands dropped, and when she looked up he saw the tears standing inher grey eyes.
"Do you mean it?" she asked, trembling.
"God knows what I mean," he said unsteadily; "and I shall never knowunless you tell me."
And he sat down beside her, resting his elbows on his knees and his headbetween his hands, wondering what he could do with life and with theyoung soul already in his dark keeping. And, after a while, the anxietyof responsibility, being totally new, wearied him; perplexed, he liftedhis head, seeking her eyes; and saw the compassion in her face and theslow smile trembling on her lips. And suddenly he understood which ofthem was better fitted for a keeper of souls.
"Will you be patient?" he said.
"Can you ask?"
He shook his head, looking vacantly at the lamp-light.
"Because I've gone all w
rong somehow . . . since I was a boy. . . . You_will_ be patient with me--won't you?"
"Yes," she said.
ENVOI
_In all Romances And poet's fancies Where Cupid prances, Embowered in flowers, The tale advances 'Mid circumstances That check love's chances Through tragic hours._
_The reader's doleful now, The lover's soulful now, At least a bowlful now Of tears are poured. The villain makes a hit, The reader throws a fit, The author grins a bit And draws his sword!_
_Strikes down Fate's lances, Avoids mischances, And deftly cans his Loquacious lore 'Mid ardent glances And lover's trances And wedding dances Forevermore._
The Gay Rebellion Page 27
