by Anthology
Chapter XIX
The Tangled Web Of Circumstance
MABEL guided Captain Hooker to the corner of the sitting-room filled by the grand piano and, seating herself at the instrument, let the fingers of her right hand wander idly over the keys while with her left she turned the pages of the music-book. The room was dark save for the flickering firelight and a single shaded electric bulb which brought out the girl's delicate profile like a rich cameo on a luminous background.
"It's supposed to represent the sea," she said, half to herself, as her fingers struck the first notes. "The adagio's the most beautiful part. It makes me think somehow of a low surf washing up on a moonlit beach, as I've often heard it on a summer's night."
The music surged and swelled under her sensitive touch, and broke with the rustle of a curling wave and died away, only to return again in a tide of wonderful harmony. It seemed to the listener that he could hear the kiss of the water as it crept up the dry sand and the noise of the little ripples, chasing each other across the surface of the spent wave before it was sucked back into the open sea again. Anon came the faint, dull rumble of large stones and pebbles, ground together by the undertow.
"This is the aria," she murmured, nodding in time to the music like a summer rose at the touch of a morning breath. "It's a sort of mermaid song, you know — something quite new in a work of this kind."
An exquisite melody trembled above the flowing accompaniment and soared joyously aloft, vibrant and free with the freedom of the limitless ocean. It told of the bright sunlight and the wide sky and the swelling winds marching masterless over the vast blue floor beneath. Then it sank again and changed to a dreamy chant like a far-away chorus, borne by the lazy night wind over the gently-heaving sea. Hooker sat entranced, his soul stirred by emotions that he himself scarcely comprehended.
"It's marvellous," he whispered, when she had finished. "What a heart and mind — to be able to write a thing like that!"
For a long while they remained silent under the spell of the music and when the sound of voices broke in upon them rudely, Mabel glanced up angrily with an exclamation of irritation upon her lips. A glass-walled porch opened off the sitting-room, one of its two doors being close to where they were seated, which in winter was transformed into a delightful sun-parlour, scented with the odour of many flowers. Neither Mabel nor Captain Hooker had noticed Evelyn and Jim Merriam pass through the sitting-room, but it was the Professor's voice which had first disturbed them, and as he caught the words, the officer sat up eagerly in his chair.
"You may have guessed it, Eve — that I've loved you ever since we were boy and girl together. Perhaps you haven't, but it's true. It always has been true and I know that it always will be."
Mabel made a hasty movement as if to rise from the piano-stool and laid her hand on Hooker's arm.
"We mustn't listen," she whispered. But the Captain's rough hand closed over hers, forcing her down again.
"I must hear this," he said tensely. "Don't move — it's important. You don't understand."
"I've thought perhaps it might be so," they heard Evelyn reply. "A woman can feel such things without being told. And I've honoured you very greatly for keeping silent, knowing how it was with me, and letting our friendship remain untroubled as I wanted you to. Why do you speak to me of it now?"
"Because I feel that now I have the right to speak. Because you need the love that I can give you — never more than at this time. You were made to be loved, Evelyn, and to love — to love a man who cares for you as I do, who understands your every thought and desire as I do — to have a home of your own and children of your own to pour out the rich wealth of your heart upon. You will starve without these things, dear girl — I know it — I have seen it all along."
"My first and greatest love I gave to Leslie," she answered quietly. "You know how much I loved him as well as I. Since he has been taken from me, I have felt that I could never love again."
"It will come again as the years pass — if I did not believe that it would, I would not have spoken. New joys and interests will wipe out the old sorrows and you will find a fuller measure of happiness than you now believe possible in living the life that you were meant to live."
"Oh, I can't — I can't! It would be a constant reproach to me if I could so easily forget in my own happiness —"
"It is what he himself would wish above all else — that you should be happy. You are wrong, dear heart, in believing that the truest way to honour his memory is to shut yourself away from the world with your own grief and make a selfish virtue of useless renunciation. You are wrong to cut yourself off from the full and useful life you might give to the world to nurse' a sorrow which will be of service to no one — least of all to yourself and to him. Oh, I know it is selfish of me, dear, but I have for many years loved you with a love such as few men have had it in their power to give and few women to receive. Is that deserving of no reward?"
She was silent for a time, and in the adjoining room the two listeners could hear the hammering of their own hearts in the dead stillness. Presently the Professor spoke again.
"I don't want to urge you, dear, if your truest feelings prompt you to refuse. I do not want to argue that you owe me any return for the love I have given you. It has meant very much to me — more than you can ever know — to have loved you as I have, and if it has sometimes brought me moments of unhappiness, it has also brought a joy that has been more than worth any suffering it may have cost. Perhaps I was wrong to speak to you while your hurt is still unhealed. But if the time ever comes when you are willing to accept my love, I want you to know that it will always be waiting for you undiminished, no matter how many years may have passed away."
"Jim," said Evelyn suddenly, "you have been, after Leslie, the man I cared the most for — whose presence in my life meant the most to me. I believe in the old days — before Leslie came — I would have married you if you had asked me, and been confident that I was giving you all the love I was capable of. But when I met him — oh, I knew then that what I had felt for you was only a shadow — a faint resemblance of the passion he inspired in me. And I believe that will be so until I die. For some people there can be only one great love in a lifetime, and I believe that I am one of these." She paused, and unconsciously Tom Hooker tightened his clasp of Mabel's hand, crushing her slender fingers into her soft palm; but she did not notice. "What I have left to give are only the poor remains of love — an affection, perhaps, but nothing more. Would you be satisfied with this?"
"I would be satisfied with anything, Evelyn — with only your friendship and regard if that was all you could give. But I am confident that after a while love would come to you once more — not perhaps as the same consuming passion you felt before, but a love that would be as deep and true and strong as that you would have given him had he lived. It is not only my own life I am pleading for, dear; it is yours as well — for the happiness and love God meant you to have and Leslie would have wished for you. I kept my secret to myself in the old days because I saw that then you did not know the meaning of love and felt no need of it. But it is different now. Love has come into your life and stirred it to its greatest depths, and you can never be the same again."
They heard the subdued rustle of her garments as she stirred, and with her free hand Mabel fumbled for her handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
"I don't want to spoil your life, Jim. The future means so little to me, and if I could give you the help and happiness you deserve, that at least would be something to live for, and by aiding you I might be of some service to the world. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps love may come in time — for your sake I hope it will. At least I could give you friendship and encouragement and perhaps make your life richer and fuller than it is now, and that would be worth something to me. It would not be a sacrifice."
"If you'd rather wait a year, Eve — two years — any number, until —"
"No," she answered wearily, "I'd rather have it settled now �
� you've waited long enough. I'll give you my answer to-morrow — and I think you may be confident that it will be yes."
They heard the scrape of her chair on the boards as she rose to her feet, and suddenly remembering himself, Hooker released the hand he held tightly in his own and fairly pushed Mabel from the piano-stool.
"Upstairs with you as quick as you can — don't make any more noise than you can help getting out of the room — be undressing when she comes. Good-night!"
She nodded and fled and the officer silently withdrew into a window-nook as Evelyn slowly entered and crossed the dimly-lighted room with lifeless step. He followed her cat-like when she had passed and standing in the hallway, listened intently until he heard the closing of a door in the regions above. Then, drawing a long breath, he shook his head soberly and filling his pipe, stepped into the library and proceeded to install himself comfortably in the largest arm-chair he could find, from the depths of which he gazed in meditative fashion at the lead-colored smoke rings drifting lazily upward from his lips. Presently a step sounded in the hallway, hesitated at the foot of the staircase, and as the Captain broke not unmusically into a whistled tune, finally came towards the door of the library.
"Hello," said the naval officer as Merriam entered; "what have you and Eve been doing all evening?"
"Oh, discussing affairs as usual," returned Jim absently. "You don't happen to have another pipeful about you anywhere, do you?"
"I have," said Tommy, producing his pouch; "if you can stand navy weed. Here!"
"Thanks — where were you and Mabs?"
"Improving our minds with melody part of the time — watching the moonlight the other part," replied Hooker with as little embarrassment as though he was confining himself unalterably to the truth. "We thought perhaps you people might be out too. It's a wonder of a night."
"Tom," said Merriam, lighting his pipe with quick, nervous puffs, "d'you realise what a lucky fellow you are?"
"As— how?"
"Oh, to have made a splendid record in your profession and come home again loaded with honours, and then to have a fine, beautiful girl all ready to practically throw herself into your arms."
Under other circumstances, the Captain would probably have objected strenuously to having Mabel dragged into the conversation in this somewhat brutal manner, but in the light of what had occurred only a short while before, he overlooked the lapse and merely said, "Well, you have the reputation started and before you get through, will make my modest exploits look like two bits. As for the other, it cometh not by fasting and prayer, as some old patriarch or other observed, and if I get her, I'll admit it's a damned sight more than most men get and I deserve. However, I haven't got her yet."
"Oh, you'll get her," returned Merriam moodily. "It's only a question of asking — as every one but yourself has seen for the past month."
In his heart of hearts, Hooker did not feel anything like so confident of success, a fact which did credit as much to his masculine lack of intuition in such matters as to his want of vanity. But he forbore to argue the point.
"Lord knows it's been long enough coming," he remarked. "I've spent a good many lonesome days while it was on the way. But I'm paid now — overpaid."
"You bet you are," replied Jim rather enviously. "Tommy, I wish to God my course in life was as plainly mapped out as yours!"
"What do you mean?" asked the officer quietly, after a short silence.
"Mean? — oh, nothing! — or I should say, everything." He roused himself with an effort. "Don't know what's got into me to-night — working too hard, I guess. When do you go back to the front again?"
"Probably never. That is to say, I expect the war'll be over before I'm fit for any real work again. I was pretty badly messed up, Jim, and it'll be months before I'm in anything like normal condition."
"I'm sorry."
"You needn't be. I'm just as glad not to see any more of it. I like a good fight as well as anybody, but at best war's a nasty performance and at worst it's just plain hell. That's not original, but it's true as gospel."
"Any plans?"
"Staff job if I can get it. If I marry, I'll want a settled abiding-place. Otherwise, I suppose I'll get a squadron command when things clear up a little. This business has made some pretty big holes in the officers' list."
"Yes, I suppose a good many have dropped out."
"Heaps of them — killed, wounded, or missing."
"Missing?"
"Just so — like Leslie Gardiner, for example."
"Oh — yes." Merriam shaded his eyes with his hand. "It's pretty generally accepted now that he died, though, isn't it?"
"It is by most people."
"Then it's— then you still believe—"
"I believe the evidence of my own eyes, at least."
For some moments Merriam regarded him with a dawning horror in his eyes.
"Great God, Tom!" he burst out; "you don't mean — you can't mean —"
"That I've seen him? — yes, I have — at the front, shortly before I was wounded. He was alive and as well as could be expected after what he'd been through."
Merriam buried his haggard face in his hands and for a long interval there was silence, while Hooker desperately wondered how best to deal with the situation he had designedly given birth to. At length Jim spoke again, without raising his head.
"Have you told — does Evelyn know this?"
"No one knows it but myself and you, now that I've told you."
"But why — he should have told her — he should have written — it was cruel to make her suffer as she has if he was still alive!"
"He had his reasons — and I won't say they weren't good ones. Personally, I think he was too hard on himself, but he was doing what he thought was right and mighty few men would have held to an ideal of conduct as he did, even if they could have conceived it in the first place."
Merriam lifted his face, an expression of bewilderment struggling with his anguish. "I don't understand," he said dully.
Then in simple, clear-cut sentences, Hooker told the story of Leslie's momentary cowardice and how, believing himself disgraced and unworthy of the great love that had been given him, he had resolved with brave and steadfast soul to renounce that love and all it meant to him and consecrate the remainder of his life to the wiping out of the stain he had placed upon his honour. And of how that resolution would have been kept and the world never have known that Leslie Gardiner still lived, had not chance thrown him into Hooker's path and his secret been wrested from him. And of how even now, after he had more than once offered his life for the cause he had betrayed and redeemed himself in overflowing measure and won the respect and admiration of his superiors, his high-strung conscience would not be satisfied nor permit him to take up once more the rich life he had put aside. But Merriam stared straight before him with burning eyes and seemed scarcely to comprehend.
"After all, he made her suffer," he said bitterly. "He had his chance — he had what would have inspired most men to dare anything — to endure anything — he threw it away."
"I thought you were his friend," said the officer quietly.
"Oh, yes— of course— I'll help to kill the fatted calf when the prodigal returns to receive his reward. What is it the Bible says about there being more joy over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons which need no repentance? It's quite typical of that inconsistent philosophy which men have been foolish enough to believe will one day redeem the world. What about the others — the ninety and nine just persons, who have fought the demons that tempted them all their lives long and followed the course that seemed right to them in silence, though they shed their heart's blood drop by drop on the way? What do they get out of it? The reward of virtue, I suppose! Bah!"
"This particular prodigal isn't coming home," replied Hooker steadily. "At least not until some one catches him and ties him up and brings him. He hasn't had a particularly easy time of it, you can take my word for it —
I've seen him. Curse the scheme of things that makes the innocent and guilty suffer alike and in the same proportion and I'll come right in with you, but at least give a really brave man his due."
Merriam was quiet for a time and the Captain drew a deep breath and filled a fresh pipe. At last the Professor arose and began to pace the room with short, nervous strides. Suddenly he stopped and looked the officer squarely in the face.
"What made you tell me all this?" he asked. "Didn't I hear you say that you promised Leslie not to repeat to any one else what he had told you?"
"I did, but circumstances alter cases. Occasionally as much harm's done by saying too little as by saying too much — though not often."
Again the Professor seemed perplexed and strove in vain to penetrate the admirable mask of indifference the other had assumed.
"What do you mean?" he asked at length, a little hoarsely.
"Nothing at all, Jim. I thought perhaps you'd better know about it — that's all."
For a while Merriam pondered the officer's words; but his confused brain could make nothing of them, and at last he sighed and mechanically knocked the ashes from his long cold pipe.
"I'm pretty tired," he said. "Guess I'll go to bed. Good-night — oh, I ought to thank you for telling me. You understand that, of course."
"I understand, old man," answered Hooker soberly. He listened to the slow footfalls ascending the stairs, shook his head, and settled himself to finish the half-consumed tobacco in his pipe. "What a hell of a tangle," he muttered to himself, — "and, my God, how unjust!"
Chapter XX
Merriam Considers The Role Of Villain
THERE were three unquiet hearts beneath the Thornton roof that night. Mabel slept peacefully, her head pillowed upon her rounded forearm, her heavy braided hair lying across her breast, and a smile on her lips like that of a happy little child. Mr. Thornton and his wife slumbered heavily, conscious of the weight of many years but untroubled by it, for those years had been well spent according to their lights, and held nothing with which they could reproach themselves. But to the others sleep did not come. Not to Tom Hooker, keeping lonely vigil in the library while his keen mind sought in vain to untangle the hideously confused web in which those he loved were caught. Not to Evelyn, lying rigidly beside her sister, staring into the blackness with wide, aching eyes and desperately trying to choose wisely between the two paths that diverged before her. Not to Jim Merriam, tossing hour after hour on his disordered bed, and fighting once again his weary battle, with all the Powers of Darkness clustering about him and whispering in his ear, "Take it — it's your last chance — you've waited long enough — take it — take it."
