by Owen Johnson
*CHAPTER XII*
He had completely forgotten, in the press of dramatic events, thedisturbing fact of Nan Charters' return the night of the theft. Heremembered it suddenly, as one remembers sorrow after a profound sleep.But the recalling of it affected him differently. The revelation ofMrs. Bloodgood's hidden life had left him in a dangerous and vulnerablemood--a mood of quickened compassion and outgoing sympathy. He wasstill determined to force a direct answer from Miss Charters, butalready he had formed that answer in his heart, as he for the hour feltno longer the selfish combat of vanity, but the need of charity andgentleness.
In one of the profound moods which color the visible world, he stood atthe window of the little sitting-room, awaiting her arrival, looking outon the serried flight of unutterably commonplace roofs, gray and drabwith the gray of the turning day. And it seemed to him that thistwilight was different from other twilights, heavily weighted down withmore of the sadness of inexplicable lives. One tragedy seemed to invokea thousand tragedies, in the cramped immobility of these inscrutablewindows which had not yet begun to warm with the flicker of human cheer.He saw only the brutal struggle to live, and felt only the mystery ofsuffering, which was still a thing apart from his life. Standingreverently thus, he asked himself two questions which, sooner or later,each man of heart and sensibility puts to himself in the awakening toconscious existence:
"Why do they go on?"
"What is my justification?"
And in his heart, still young and stirred to sympathy, he felt thebeginning of a revolt at what he had been, at his inability to find asatisfying answer to that second question. He no longer awaited theinterview in the spirit of strife, but with a sudden feeling ofimpulsive friendliness which, had he been an older man, might havealarmed him with its dangers. The profound melancholy of youth, violentbecause unconquered and strange, had him still in its grip when, all atonce, he felt an emotion of well-being and returning comfort.
She came into the room and without formal greeting gave him her handwith a welcome in her eyes, as though their friendship were of suchstrong duration that formalities were out of place.
"Draw the curtains," she said, going to the electric lamp on the table,which woke like a golden sun from the shadows. "It's cozier. Shall welight the fire? Yes, it's more cheery."
"Let me," he said hastily.
"Quite unnecessary."
He watched her sudden stooping movement, that brought the loose,intricate tea-gown about her agile body, outlining the limbs, which hadthe quick animal grace that is peculiar to the unconquered maiden. Herpose, strong and alive with power and self-reliance, recalled to himsharply the sense of opposition. He was annoyed that she should havedone so naturally what he should have done, feeling in her too muchself-reliance.
She rose, looking down with a childish delight at the sudden burst androar of the flame. Then she turned, studying his face. The artist inher made her quickly aware of the remnants of the emotion which hadstirred him.
"What is it?" she said, with the gentleness that was tantalizing to him."You have a strange look."
"Yes," he answered; "I have been behind the scenes."
"What do you mean?"
"I have been with Mrs. Bloodgood all the afternoon--found her at thestation as she was leaving."
"Mrs. Bloodgood was running away," she said, puzzled, but with a fear inher eyes that did not escape him.
"What--you did not know!" he exclaimed. "Majendie killed himself thisafternoon at two o'clock."
"Majendie--Mrs. Bloodgood!"
She looked at him a moment with a face struck with horror, and then fellback into a chair, seized with the suddenness of the climax.
"I beg your pardon; I thought you knew," he blurted out.
"No, no--nothing. Tell me--tell me all," she said; and he saw that backof her alarm was a significance to her that heightened the effect of thetragedy.
He told her first the bare details of the suicide as he knew them; andthen, in response to her hurried questions, began to retell theafternoon. He spoke impulsively, almost as an echo of the drama he hadwitnessed. Occasionally she stopped him with a more detailed question.Moved out of his self-consciousness, he described, more eloquently thanhe knew, the conflict between the two women at Mrs. Kildair's, and theemotions which had suddenly brought him wide-eyed to the spectacle ofthe black, turbulent river of despair.
"I can't forget it--it haunts me now," he said, when he had ended withMrs. Bloodgood's return into the home of her husband. "It makes me seesomething in life I didn't understand--that I am just beginning to see."
He looked at her. Her face was wet with tears. All at once, astonished,he recalled what he had told.
"What have I done?" he cried, aghast. "I had no right to repeat it. Ididn't realize what I was saying!"
"Don't fear," she said, shuddering, and she extended her hands to thefire, as though the recital had frozen her body. "Poor woman--poor,lonely woman!"
He sat down near her, close to the fire, and, stretching out his hand,touched her arm.
"Listen, Nan," he said, so profoundly that she could not mistake theemotion. "It has made a great difference in me. It may be a mood--itmay pass; but I hope it won't. It makes me dissatisfied. Look here--Idon't want to go on as we have, thrusting and parrying. I don't want itto be just a game. The real feeling in me toward a woman isdifferent--it's one of chivalry, I know. Let's drop all artifices.Let's be honest with each other--good friends, or something else, as itmay come."
She considered the depths of the fire a moment, and turned, looking athim dreamily, feeling how much older she was in the knowledge of thedoubts of the world than the young, impulsive nature that looked out ather from such honest eyes.
"Will you?" he asked, as she looked away again.
She shook her head, in doubt as to an answer; but the good in herstirred by the good in him expressed itself in the quick pressure ofthanks which her hand conveyed to him.
"I am not the least in love," he said quickly. "What I say I saybecause--oh, I don't know! I'm dissatisfied with myself. This thing hasgotten below my skin. Life's too rotten. I want you to believe inme--in my strength. You are sympathetic--_multa sympatica_. I don'tknow; I hate to think of your fighting alone such a rotten hard fight."
She nodded slowly, understanding perhaps better than he his thought, yethalf won to his appeal already.
She took his hand in both of hers, pressing it in emphasis from time totime, not looking at him, staring at something that formed before hereyes.
"No one has ever spoken to me just like this," she said gently. "Onething I would never want to happen, Teddy--I would never want to hurtyou! That is why I hesitate--why I am afraid. You are only a great bigboy. You won't understand me. I am very selfish--very worldly."
"You are nothing of the sort," he said furiously, withdrawing his hand."You may think so, but I know you better."
She turned, amused; but her smile left her as she looked into his eyes.To her surprise, a feeling of unease came to her; she felt a newlonging--to be for a moment quite childlike and helpless.
"Don't blunder into anything, Teddy," she answered, shaking her head,herself a little disturbed. "With some men I would not care. Withyou--yes, it would make me feel like a criminal to hurt you."
He understood that she was warning him of the futility of expecting tofind in her a woman. But if she had calculated, which she had not, onany move surer to arouse him, she could have found no better expedient.The impossibility implied, coupled with the impulsive generosity in hervoice, made her a thousand times more desirable. He rose brusquely,and, standing with his back to the fire, looked down at the dramaticface, which the flames lighted with the flare of footlights.
"There are certain things that we must understand together," he saidwith authority, obeying the instinct which told him that to succeed hemust take the upper hand.
Her eyebrows came together in a straight fli
ght.
"I have not hesitated to trust in you--you must in me. Tell me. Youhave reason to suspect that Mrs. Bloodgood took the ring--at least, thefirst time?"
"'I have not hesitated to trust in you--you must in me'"]
She shook her head, but without anger.
"Don't you understand," he said quickly, "that I must know why you actedas you did?"
Still her only answer was a deep-taken breath.
"I swear to you, if Mrs. Bloodgood did take it," he said, "I would notcondemn her. On the contrary, I would pity her."
"Why should Mrs. Bloodgood, who has millions, do such a thing?" she saidquietly.
"Because, from what I know, Mrs. Bloodgood, who has millions, as thewife of Enos Bloodgood, has not as much money in her pocket as you orI." He stopped. "She took it to have some means of escape, didn'tshe?"
"No, she did not take it," she answered, but in a tone that brought noconviction.
"You see, I know that you returned to Mrs. Kildair's that night," hesaid, irritated.
"How did you know?" she said quickly.
"Mrs. Kildair told me--no, that's not true; some one else did."
"Mrs. Kildair herself called me on the telephone and asked me to come,"she said slowly.
"And questioned you?"
"Yes."
"As to what you had seen?" he said, with a great feeling of relief thatshould have warned him of his true interest.
"Yes."
"What did you answer?"
She rose and approached him, looking at him with only friendliness.
"If the ring is not restored in two weeks," she said, "then I will tellyou what you wish to know."
"You think that, if Mrs. Bloodgood took it, she will now have no use forit," he persisted, seizing the idea.
"I know nothing at all," she answered, emphasizing the "know." "Thispromise must satisfy you. I only have a suspicion, and I don't want todo an injustice to another--remember that. I have never said it wasMrs. Bloodgood I suspected. Now I want to talk to you about my ownaffairs."
He was covered with contrition that he should have forgotten herdifficulties.
"Good heavens!" he said hastily. "What have I been thinking of? Pleasedon't think I don't care; I've been in such a whirl--"
She checked him with a gesture and a smile, motioning him to sit downagain.
"Have you had any word?"
She shook her head.
"Of course, it's a terrible day on the Street," he hastened to reply."Everything's up in the air--they're like a lot of lunatics. Garraboyhasn't had time to think. That oughtn't to alarm you."
"But I left word at his office for him to telephone me, and it is now,"she said, glancing at the clock, "an hour and a half since the close."
"There are probably a hundred inquiries of the same sort awaiting him,"he said to reassure her. "What are you afraid of?"
"I don't know--and yet I am a little anxious. Suppose he has used mystocks? Such things happen every day."
"The best thing is to find out at once how Garraboy stands--if he's beencaught in the drop or not. Then we can take our measures."
"How'll you do that?"
"Call up Bruce Gunther and get him on the trail. May I telephone?"
"Do so."
"He's probably at the club now," he said, taking up the receiver andgiving a number. "Yes, he's in. That's lucky. I'll get him in amoment." Then he added irritably: "How the deuce did you ever come todeal with Garraboy?"
"Why, I've known him ever since I came to New York. I wanted to investsome money--I didn't know any one else; and then, he was very--friendly;wanted to make some money for me. That's how it was."
"Hello," said Beecher. "Is that you, Bruce? It's I--Ted."
"Where the deuce have you been?" said the voice at the other end. "I'vebeen trying to get you all over town."
"You have?"
"You bet I have; McKenna's turned up a real clue--wants to see you atonce. Pick me up here at the club, will you?"
"All right. But say, Bruce, I want you to do something for me. Findout all you can about Garraboy--you know, the fellow we spoke about. Hashe been on the wrong side of the market or not? Understand? It'simportant."
"I'll do it. Anything else?"
"Yes. A friend of mine has some stocks with him, about twenty thousandworth--you see the situation--and she's a little bit worried. Can't getany satisfaction."
"Wants 'em back?"
"Yes. What's the best way to do?"
"Um! Get a transfer to you and call for them tomorrow."
"Of course; see you later."
He put down the telephone and turned gaily to his companion, who waswaiting with anxiety.
"That's all right. Bruce will get the information and I'll telephoneyou this evening. Now, the best way to operate is this." He took outhis check-book and wrote a check for twenty thousand dollars to hername. "I'll buy those stocks. Here's my check; give me anacknowledgment for the shares, with an order on Garraboy to deliver."
She looked at him doubtfully, holding the check gingerly in her fingers.
"What's the matter?" he said. "If there's any little difference one wayor the other, we can arrange that later."
"Supposing Garraboy has failed and sold my stocks?"
"He hasn't."
"But if he has?"
"That's my risk," he started to say, but checked himself. "Why, ofcourse, then it's off. This is just to give me the power to get themaway at once. A man can do what a woman can't."
She was grateful to him for his perception of delicacy.
"On that basis, yes," she said. Then she stopped and looked at him witha whimsical but favoring smile. "As it is, Teddy, what do you know ofme to take even this chance?"
The opening was too direct. She saw it at once, and, to forestall hisanswer, said more lightly:
"It is a great service. Tell me what to write."
As she was drawing up the paper under his directions, a placid,emotionless woman of forty entered from the rear.
"That Mr. Hargrave is here, Nan dear," she said. "You gave him anappointment, you know."
"Mrs. Tilbury, my companion," said Miss Charters. "Very well; in amoment."
Mrs. Tilbury passed patiently out to deliver the message. Beecher wasdelighted with the correctness and cold respectability of such achaperon.
"Mr. Hargrave is a young dramatist," said Miss Charters, finishing thedocument. "He's coming to read some masterpiece to me. He wrote aone-act piece three years ago that was very clever, and now, of course,I can't risk refusing to hear him--he might have a work of genius atlast. This is my fourth trial." She put the paper from herimpatiently. "I'm sorry."
He was displeased also at this sudden recall of the other life in her,the world of the theater, which crowded the walls with its signedphotographs.
"I'll telephone as soon as I know," he said, dissembling his irritation.
She went to the door with him, annoyed also at the interruption.
"I'm coming tomorrow," he said, and he held out his hand with a littledefiance.
She did not resent the assumption of right, still introspectivelypuzzled at the new moods into which she had fallen. And, still pensive,she said:
"Come."
Below, in the anteroom, he sent a look of antagonism and scorn at ayoung man, a little extravagantly dressed, who carried a portfolio underhis arm with a sense, too, of irritation and pride.
