VI
A BRAVE GENTLEMAN RECEIVES A HURT, BUT VOLUNTEERS IN A GOOD CAUSE
When Ste. Marie had gone, Miss Benham sat alone in the drawing-room foralmost an hour. She had been stirred that afternoon more deeply than shethought she had ever been stirred before, and she needed time to regainthat cool poise, that mental equilibrium, which was normal to her andnecessary for coherent thought.
She was still in a sort of fever of bewilderment and exaltation, stillall aglow with the man's own high fervor; but the second self which sooften sat apart from her, and looked on with critical, mocking eyes,whispered that to-morrow, the fever past, the fervor cooled, she mustsee the thing in its true light--a glorious lunacy born of a moment ofenthusiasm. It was finely romantic of him, this mocking second selfwhispered to her--picturesque beyond criticism--but, setting aside thepractical folly of it, could even the mood last?
The girl rose to her feet with an angry exclamation. She found herselfintolerable at such times as this.
"If there's a heaven," she cried out, "and by chance I ever go there, Isuppose I shall walk sneering through the streets and saying to myself:'Oh yes, it's pretty enough, but how absurd and unpractical!'"
She passed before one of the small, narrow mirrors which were let intothe walls of the room in gilt Louis Seize frames with candles besidethem, and she turned and stared at her very beautiful reflection with aresentful wonder.
"Shall I always drag along so far behind him?" she said. "Shall I neverrise to him, save in the moods of an hour?"
She began suddenly to realize what the man's going away meant--that shemight not see him again for weeks, months, even a year. For was it atall likely that he could succeed in what he had undertaken?
"Why did I let him go?" she cried. "Oh, fool, fool, to let him go!" Buteven as she said it she knew that she could not have held him back.
She began to be afraid, not for him, but of herself. He had taught herwhat it might be to love. For the first time love's premonitorythrill--promise of unspeakable, uncomprehended mysteries--had wrung her,and the echo of that thrill stirred in her yet; but what might nothappen in his long absence? She was afraid of that critical andanalyzing power of mind which she had so long trained to attack all thatcame to her. What might it not work with the new thing that had come? Towhat pitiful shreds might it not be rent while he who only could renewit was away? She looked ahead at the weeks and months to come, and shewas terribly afraid.
She went out of the room and up to her grandfather's chamber and knockedthere. The admirable Peters, who opened to her, said that his master hadnot been very well, and was just then asleep, but as they spoke togetherin low tones the old gentleman cried, testily, from within:
"Well? Well? Who's there? Who wants to see me? Who is it?"
Miss Benham went into the dim, shaded room, and when old David saw whoit was he sank back upon his pillows with a pacified growl. He certainlylooked ill, and he had grown thinner and whiter within the past month,and the lines in his waxlike face seemed to be deeper scored.
The girl went up beside the bed and stood there a moment, after she hadbent over and kissed her grandfather's cheek, stroking with her hand theabsurdly gorgeous mandarin's jacket--an imperial yellow one this time.
"Isn't this new?" she asked. "I seem never to have seen this one before.It's quite wonderful."
The old gentleman looked down at it with the pride of a little girl overher first party frock. He came as near simpering as a fierce person ofeighty-six, with a square white beard, can come.
"Rather good--what? What?" said he. "Yes, it's new. De Vries sent it me.It is my best one. Imperial yellow. Did you notice the little Showmedallions with the swastika? Young Ste. Marie was here this afternoon."He introduced the name with no pause or change of expression, as if Ste.Marie were a part of the decoration of the mandarin's jacket. "I toldhim he was a damned fool."
"Yes," said Miss Benham, "I know. He said you did. I suppose," she said,"that in a sort of very informal fashion I am engaged to him. Well, no,perhaps not quite that; but he seems to consider himself engaged to me,and when he has finished something very important that he has undertakento do he is coming to ask me definitely to marry him. No, I suppose wearen't engaged yet; at least, I'm not. But it's almost the same, becauseI suppose I shall accept him whether he fails or succeeds in what he isdoing."
"If he fails in it, whatever it may be," said old David, "he won't giveyou a chance to accept him; he won't come back. I know him well enoughfor that. He's a romantic fool, but he's a thoroughgoing fool. He playsthe game." The old man looked up to his granddaughter, scowling alittle. "You two are absurdly unsuited to each other," said he, "and Itold Ste. Marie so. I suppose you think you're in love with him."
"Yes," said the girl, "I suppose I do."
"Idleness and all? You were rather severe on idleness at one time."
"He isn't idle any more," said she. "He has undertaken--of his ownaccord--to find Arthur. He has some theory about it; and he is not goingto see me again until he has succeeded--or until a year is past. If hefails, I fancy he won't come back."
Old David gave a sudden hoarse exclamation, and his withered hands shookand stirred before him. Afterward he fell to half-inarticulatemuttering.
"The young romantic fool!--Don Quixote--like all the rest of them--thoseSte. Maries. The fool and the angels. The angels and the fool."
The girl distinguished words from time to time. For the most part, hemumbled under his breath. But when he had been silent a long time, hesaid, suddenly:
"It would be ridiculously like him to succeed."
The girl gave a little sigh.
"I wish I dared hope for it," said she. "I wish I dared hope for it."
She had left a book that she wanted in the drawing-room, and, whenpresently her grandfather fell asleep in his fitful manner, she wentdown after it. In crossing the hall she came upon Captain Stewart, whowas dressed for the street and had his hat and stick in his hands. Hedid not live in his father's house, for he had a little flat in the ruedu Faubourg St. Honore, but he was in and out a good deal. He pausedwhen he saw his niece, and smiled upon her a benignant smile which sherather disliked, because she disliked benignant people. The two reallysaw very little of each other, though Captain Stewart often sat forhours together with his sister, up in a little boudoir which she hadfurnished in the execrable taste which to her meant comfort, while thattimid and colorless lady embroidered strange tea cloths with strangerflora, and prattled about the heathen, in whom she had an academicinterest.
He said: "Ah, my dear! It's you?"
Indisputably it was, and there seemed to be no use of denying it, soMiss Benham said nothing, but waited for the man to go on if he had moreto say.
"I dropped in," he continued, "to see my father, but they told me he wasasleep, and so I didn't disturb him. I talked a little while with yourmother instead."
"I have just come from him," said Miss Benham. "He dozed off again as Ileft. Still, if you had anything in particular to tell him, he'd be gladto be wakened, I fancy. There's no news?"
"No," said Captain Stewart, sadly--"no, nothing. I do not give up hope,but I am, I confess, a little discouraged."
"We are all that, I should think," said Miss Benham, briefly.
She gave him a little nod and turned away into the drawing-room. Heruncle's peculiar dry manner irritated her at times beyond bearing, andshe felt that this was one of the times. She had never had any reasonfor doubting that he Was a good and kindly soul, but she disliked himbecause he bored her. Her mother bored her, too--the poor woman boredeverybody--but the sense of filial obligation was strong enough in thegirl to prevent her from acknowledging this even to herself. In regardto her uncle she had no sense of obligation whatever, except to be ascivil to him as possible, and so she kept out of his way. She heard theheavy front door close, and gave a little sigh of relief.
"If he had come in here and tried to talk to me," she said, "I shouldhave screamed."
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Meanwhile Ste. Marie, a man moving in a dream, uplifted,cloud-enwrapped, made his way homeward. He walked all the longdistance--that is, looking backward upon it, later, he thought he musthave walked, but the half-hour was a blank to him, an indeterminate, achaotic whirl of things and emotions.
In the little flat in the rue d'Assas he came upon Richard Hartley, who,having found the door unlocked and the master of the place absent, hadsat comfortably down, with a pipe and a stack of _Couriers Francais_, towait. Ste. Marie burst into the doorway of the room where his friend satat ease. Hat, gloves, and stick fell away from him in a sort of shower.He extended his arms high in the air. His face was, as it were,luminous. The Englishman regarded him morosely. He said:
"You look as if somebody had died and left you money. What the devil youlooking like that for?"
"He!" cried Ste. Marie, in a great voice. "He, the world is mine!Embrace me, my infant! Sacred name of a pig, why do you sit there?Embrace me!"
He began to stride about the room, his head between his hands. Speechlofty and ridiculous burst from him in a sort of splutter of fireworks,but the Englishman sat still in his chair, and a gray, bleak look cameupon him, for he began to understand. He was more or less used to theseoutbursts, and he bore them as patiently as he could, but though seventimes out of the ten they were no more than spasms of pure joy ofliving, and meant, "It's a fine spring day," or "I've just seen twobeautiful princesses of milliners in the street," an inner voice toldhim that this time it meant another thing. Quite suddenly he realizedthat he had been waiting for this--bracing himself against itsonslaught. He had not been altogether blind through the past month. Ste.Marie seized him and dragged him from his chair.
"Dance, lump of flesh! Dance, sacred English rosbif that you are! Sing,gros polisson! Sing!" Abruptly, as usual, the mania departed from him,but not the glory; his eyes shone bright and triumphant. "Ah, my old,"said he, "I am near the stars at last. My feet are on the top rungs ofthe ladder. Tell me that you are glad!"
The Englishman drew a long breath.
"I take it," said he, "that means that you're--that she has acceptedyou, eh?" He held out his hand. He was a brave and honest man. Even inpain he was incapable of jealousy. He said: "I ought to want to murderyou, but I don't. I congratulate you. You're an undeserving beggar, butso were the rest of us. It was an open field, and you've won quitehonestly. My best wishes!"
Then at last Ste. Marie understood, and in a flash the glory went out ofhis face. He cried: "Ah, mon cher ami! Pig that I am to forget. Pig!Pig! Animal!"
The other man saw that tears had sprung to his eyes, and was horriblyembarrassed to the very bottom of his good British soul.
"Yes! Yes!" he said, gruffly. "Quite so, quite so! No consequence!" Hedragged his hands away from Ste. Marie's grasp, stuck them in hispockets, and turned to the window beside which he had been sitting. Itlooked out over the sweet green peace of the Luxembourg Gardens, withtheir winding paths and their clumps of trees and shrubbery, theirflaming flower-beds, their groups of weather-stained sculpture. A youthin laborer's corduroys and an unclean beret strolled along under thehigh palings; one arm was about the ample waist of a woman somewhat theyouth's senior, but, as ever, love was blind. The youth carolled in ahigh, clear voice, "Vous etes si jolie," a song of abundant sentiment,and the woman put up one hand and patted his cheek. So they strolled onand turned up into the rue Vavin.
Ste. Marie, across the room, looked at his friend's square back, andknew that in his silent way the man was suffering. A great sadness, therecoil from his trembling heights of bliss, came upon him and envelopedhim. Was it true that one man's joy must inevitably be another's pain?He tried to imagine himself in Hartley's place, Hartley in his, and hegave a little shiver. He knew that if that bouleversement were actuallyto take place he would be as glad for his friend's sake as poor Hartleywas now for his, but he knew also that the smile of congratulation wouldbe a grimace of almost intolerable pain, and so he knew what Hartley'sblack hour must be like.
"You must forgive me," he said. "I had forgotten. I don't know why.Well, yes, happiness is a very selfish state of mind, I suppose. Onethinks of nothing but one's self--and one other. I--during this pastmonth I've been in the clouds. You must forgive me."
The Englishman turned back into the room. Ste. Marie saw that his facewas as completely devoid of expression as it usually was, that hishands, when he chose and lighted a cigarette, were quite steady, and hemarvelled. That would have been impossible for him under suchcircumstances.
"She has accepted you, I take it?" said Hartley again.
"Not quite that," said he. "Sit down and I'll tell you about it." So hetold him about his hour with Miss Benham, and about what had been agreedupon between them, and about what he had undertaken to do. "Apart fromwishing to do everything in this world that I can do to make her happy,"he said--"and she will never be at peace again until she knows the truthabout her brother--apart from that, I'm purely selfish in the thing.I've got to win her respect, as well as--the rest. I want her to respectme, and she has never quite done that. I'm an idler. So are you, but youhave a perfectly good excuse. I have not. I've been an idler because itsuited me, because nothing turned up, and because I have enough to eatwithout working for my living. I know how she has felt about all that.Well, she shall feel it no longer."
"You're taking on a big order," said the other man.
"The bigger the better," said Ste. Marie. "And I shall succeed in it ornever see her again. I've sworn that."
The odd look of exaltation that Miss Benham had seen in his face, thelook of knightly fervor, came there again, and Hartley saw it, and knewthat the man was stirred by no transient whim. Oddly enough he thought,as had the girl earlier in the day, of those elder Ste. Maries, who hadtaken sword and lance and gone out into a strange world--a place ofunknown terrors--afire for the Great Adventure. And this was one oftheir blood.
"I'm afraid you don't realize," he went on, "the difficulties you've gotto face. Better men than you have failed over this thing, you know."
"A worse might nevertheless succeed," said Ste. Marie. And the othersaid:
"Yes. Oh yes. And there's always luck to be considered, of course. Youmight stumble on some trace." He threw away his cigarette and lightedanother, and he smoked it down almost to the end before he spoke. Atlast he said: "I want to tell you something. The reason why I want totell it comes a little later. A few weeks before you returned to Paris Iasked Miss Benham to marry me."
Ste. Marie looked up with a quick sympathy. "Ah," said he. "I havesometimes thought--wondered. I have wondered if it went as far as that.Of course, I could see that you had known her well, though you seldom gothere nowadays."
"Yes," said Hartley, "it went as far as that, but no farther. She--well,she didn't care for me--not in that way. So I stiffened my back and shutmy mouth, and got used to the fact that what I'd hoped for wasimpossible. And now comes the reason for telling you what I've told. Iwant you to let me help you in what you're going to do--if you think youcan, that is. Remember, I--cared for her, too. I'd like to do somethingfor her. It would never have occurred to me to do this until you thoughtof it, but I should like very much to lend a hand--do some of the work.D'you think you could let me in?"
Ste. Marie stared at him in open astonishment, and, for an instant,something like dismay.
"Yes, yes! I know what you're thinking," said the Englishman. "You'dhoped to do it all yourself. It's _your_ game. I know. Well, it's yourgame even if you let me come in. I'm just a helper. Some one to runerrands. Some one, perhaps, to take counsel with now and then. Look atit on the practical side. Two heads are certainly better than one.Certainly I could be of use to you. And besides--well, I want to dosomething for her. I--cared, too, you see. D'you think you could take mein?"
It was the man's love that made his appeal irresistible. No one couldappeal to Ste. Marie on that score in vain. It was true that he hadhoped to work alone--to win or lose
alone; to stand, in this matter,quite on his own feet; but he could not deny the man who had loved herand lost her. Ste. Marie thrust out his hand.
"You love her, too!" he said. "That is enough. We work together. I havea possibly foolish idea that if we can find a certain man we will learnsomething about Arthur Benham. I'll tell you about it."
But before he could begin the door-bell jangled.
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Jason: A Romance Page 6
