When the carriage pulled up before Miss Lynde’s house, Westover opened the door. “You’re at home, now, Lynde. Come, let’s get out.”
Lynde did not stir. He asked Westover again who he was, and when he had made sure of him, he said, with dignity, Very well; now they must get the other fellow. Westover entreated; he even reasoned; Lynde lay back in the corner of the carriage, and seemed asleep.
Westover thought of pulling him up and getting him indoors by main force. He appealed to the coachman to know if they could not do it together.
“Why, you see, I couldn’t leave me harsses, sor,” said the coachman. “What’s he wants, sor?” He bent urbanely down from his box and listened to the explanation that Westover made him, standing in the cold on the curbstone, with one hand on the carriage door. “Then it’s no use, sor,” the man decided. “Whin he’s that way, ahl hell couldn’t stir um. Best go back, sor, and try to find the gentleman.”
This was in the end what Westover had to do, feeling all the time that a thing so frantically absurd could not be a waking act, but helpless to escape from its performance. He thought of abandoning his charge and leaving him, to his fate when he opened the carriage door before Mrs. Enderby’s house; but with the next thought he perceived that this was on all accounts impossible. He went in, and began his quest for Jeff, sending various serving men about with vague descriptions of him, and asking for him of departing guests, mostly young men he did not know, but who, he thought, might know Jeff.
He had to take off his overcoat at last, and reappear at the ball. The crowd was still great, but visibly less dense than it had been. By a sudden inspiration he made his way to the supper-room, and he found Jeff there, filling a plate, as if he were about to carry it off somewhere. He commanded Jeff’s instant presence in the carriage outside; he told him of Alan’s desire for him.
Jeff leaned back against the wall with the plate in his hand and laughed till it half slipped from his hold. When he could get his breath, he said: “I’ll be back in a few minutes; I’ve got to take this to Miss Bessie Lynde. But I’ll be right back.”
Westover hardly believed him. But when he got on his own things again, Jeff joined him in his hat and overcoat, and they went out together.
It was another carriage that stopped the way now, and once more the barker made the night ring with what Westover felt his heartless and shameless cries for Miss Lynde’s carriage. After a maddening delay, it lagged up to the curb and Jeff pulled the door open.
“Hello!” he said. “There’s nobody here!”
“Nobody there?” cried Westover, and they fell upon the coachman with wild question and reproach; the policeman had to tell him at last that the carriage must move on, to make way for others.
The coachman had no explanation to offer: he did not know how or when Mr. Alan had got away.
“But you can give a guess where he’s gone?” Jeff suggested, with a presence of mind which Westover mutely admired.
“Well, sor, I know where he do be gahn, sometimes,” the man admitted.
“Well, that will do; take me there,” said Jeff. “You go in and account for me to Miss Lynde,” he instructed Westover, across his shoulder. “I’ll get him home before morning, somehow; and I’ll send the carriage right back for the ladies, now.”
Westover had the forethought to decide that Miss Bessie should ask for Jeff if she wanted him, and this simplified matters very much. She asked nothing about him. At sight of Westover coming up to her where she sat with her aunt, she merely said: “Why, Mr. Westover! I thought you took leave of this scene of gayety long ago.”
“Did you?” Westover returned, provisionally, and she saved him from the sin of framing some deceit in final answer by her next question.
“Have you seen anything of Alan lately?” she asked, in a voice involuntarily lowered.
Westover replied in the same octave: “Yes; I saw him going a good while ago.”
“Oh!” said the girl. “Then I think my aunt and I had better go, too.”
Still she did not go, and there was an interval in which she had the air of vaguely waiting. To Westover’s vision, the young people still passing to and from the ballroom were like the painted figures of a picture quickened with sudden animation. There were scarcely any elders to be seen now, except the chaperons, who sat in their places with iron fortitude; Westover realized that he was the only man of his age left. He felt that the lights ought to have grown dim, but the place was as brilliant as ever. A window had been opened somewhere, and the cold breath of the night was drawing through the heated rooms.
He was content to have Bessie stay on, though he was almost dropping with sleep, for he was afraid that if she went at once, the carriage might not have got back, and the whole affair must somehow be given away; at last, if she were waiting, she decided to wait no longer, and then Westover did not know how to keep her. He saw her rise and stoop over her aunt, putting her mouth to the elder lady’s ear, and he heard her saying, “I am going home, Aunt Louisa.” She turned sweetly to him. “Won’t you let us set you down, Mr. Westover?”
“Why, thank you, I believe I prefer walking. But do let me have your carriage called,” and again he hurried himself into his overcoat and hat, and ran down-stairs, and the barker a third time sent forth his lamentable cries in summons of Miss Lynde’s carriage.
While he stood on the curb-stone eagerly peering up and down the street, he heard, without being able either to enjoy or resent it, one of the policemen say across him to the other, “Miss lynde seems to be doin’ a livery-stable business to-night.”
Almost at the moment a carriage drove up, and he recognized Miss Lynde’s coachman, who recognized him.
“Just got back, sor,” he whispered, and a minute later Bessie came daintily out over the carpeted way with her aunt.
“How good of you!” she said, and “Good-night, Mr. Westover,” said Miss Lynde, with an implication in her voice that virtue was peculiarly its own reward for those who performed any good office for her or hers.
Westover shut them in, the carriage rolled off, and he started on his homeward walk with a long sigh of relief.
XXXIV.
Bessie asked the sleepy man who opened her aunt’s door whether her brother had come in yet, and found that he had not. She helped her aunt off up-stairs with her maid, and when she came down again she sent the man to bed; she told him she was going to sit up and she would let her brother in. The caprices of Alan’s latch-key were known to all the servants, and the man understood what she, meant. He said he had left a light in the reception-room and there was a fire there; and Bessie tripped on down from the library floor, where she had met him. She had put off her ball dress and had slipped into the simplest and easiest of breakfast frocks, which was by no means plain. Bessie had no plain frocks for any hour of the day; her frocks all expressed in stuff and style and color, and the bravery of their flying laces and ribbons, the audacity of spirit with which she was herself chicqued together, as she said. This one she had on now was something that brightened her dull complexion, and brought out the best effect of her eyes and mouth, and seemed the effluence of her personal dash and grace. It made the most of her, and she liked it beyond all her other negligees for its complaisance.
She got a book, and sat down in a long, low chair before the fire and crossed her pretty slippers on the warm hearth. It was a quarter after three by the clock on the mantel; but she had never felt more eagerly awake. The party had not been altogether to her mind, up to midnight, but after that it had been a series of rapid and vivid emotions, which continued themselves still in the tumult of her nerves, and seemed to demand an indefinite sequence of experience. She did not know what state her brother might be in when he came home; she had not seen anything of him after she first went out to supper; till then, though, he had kept himself straight, as he needs must; but she could not tell what happened to him afterward. She hoped that he would come home able to talk, for she wished to talk. She wished t
o talk about herself; and as she had already had flattery enough, she wanted some truth about herself; she wanted Alan to say what he thought of her behavior the whole evening with that jay. He must have seen something of it in the beginning, and she should tell him all the rest. She should tell him just how often she had danced with the man, and how many dances she had sat out with him; how she had pretended once that she was engaged when another man asked her, and then danced with the jay, to whom she pretended that he had engaged her for the dance. She had wished to see how he would take it; for the same reason she had given to some one else a dance that was really his. She would tell Alan how the jay had asked her for that last dance, and then never come near her again. That would give him the whole situation, and she would know just what he thought of it.
What she thought of herself she hardly knew, or made believe she hardly knew. She prided herself upon not being a flirt; she might not be very good, as goodness went, but she was not despicable, and a flirt was despicable. She did not call the audacity of her behavior with the jay flirting; he seemed to understand it as well as she, and to meet her in her own spirit; she wondered now whether this jay was really more interesting than the other men one met, or only different; whether he was original, like Alan himself, or merely novel, and would soon wear down to the tiresomeness that seemed to underlie them all, and made one wish to do something dreadful. In the jay’s presence she had no wish to do anything dreadful. Was it because he was dreadful enough for both, all the time, without doing anything? She would like to ask Alan that, and see how he would take it. Nothing seemed to put the jay out, so far as she had tried, and she had tried some bold impertinences with him. He was very jolly through them all, and at the worst of them he laughed and asked her for that dance, which he never came to claim, though in the mean time he brought her some belated supper, and was devoted to her and her aunt, inventing services to do for them. Then suddenly he went off and did not return, and Mr. Westover mysteriously reappeared, and got their carriage.
She heard a scratching at the key-hole of the outside door; she knew it was Alan’s latch. She had left the inner door ajar that there might be no uncertainty of hearing him, and she ran out into the space between that and the outer door where the fumbling and scraping kept on.
“Is that you, Alan?” she called, softly, and if she had any doubt before, she had none when she heard her brother outside, cursing his luck with his key as usual.
She flung the door open, and confronted him with another man, who had his arms around him as if he had caught him from falling with the inward pull of the door. Alan got to his feet and grappled with the man, and insisted that he should come in and make a night of it.
Bessie saw that it was Jeff, and they stood a moment, looking at each other. Jeff tried to free himself with an appeal to Bessie: “I beg your pardon, Miss Lynde. I walked home with your brother, and I was just helping him to get in — I didn’t think that you—”
Alan said, with his measured distinctness: “Nobody cares what you think. Come in, and get something to carry you over the bridge. Cambridge cars stopped running long ago. I say you shall!” He began to raise his voice. A light flashed in a window across the way, and a sash was lifted; some one must be looking out.
“Oh, come in with him!” Bessie implored, and at a little yielding in Jeff her brother added:
“Come in, you damn jay!” He pulled at Jeff.
Jeff made haste to shut the door behind them. He was laughing; and if it was from mere brute insensibility to what would have shocked another in the situation, his frank recognition of its grotesqueness was of better effect than any hopeless effort to ignore it would have been. People adjust themselves to their trials; it is the pretence of the witness that there is no trial which hurts, and Bessie was not wounded by Jeff’s laugh.
“There’s a fire here in the reception-room,” she said. “Can you get him in?”
“I guess so.”
Jeff lifted Alan into the room and stayed him on foot there, while he took off his hat and overcoat, and then he let him sink into the low easy-chair Bessie had just risen from. All the time, Alan was bidding her ring and have some champagne and cold meat set out on the side-board, and she was lightly promising and coaxing. But he drowsed quickly in the warmth, and the last demand for supper died half uttered on his lips.
Jeff asked across him: “Can’t I get him up-stairs for you? I can carry him.”
She shook her head and whispered back, “I can leave him here,” and she looked at Jeff with a moment’s hesitation. “Did you — do you think that — any one noticed him at Mrs. Enderby’s?”
“No; they had got him in a room by himself — the caterer’s men had.”
“And you found him there?”
“Mr. Westover found him there,” Jeff answered.
“I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t he come to you after I left?”
“Yes.”
“I told him to excuse me—”
“He didn’t.”
“Well, I guess he was pretty badly rattled.” Jeff stopped himself in the vague laugh of one who remembers something ludicrous, and turned his face away.
“Tell me what it was!” she demanded, nervously.
“Mr. Westover had been home with him once, and he wouldn’t stay. He made Mr. Westover come back for me.”
“What did he want with you?”
Jeff shrugged.
“And then what?”
“We went out to the carriage, as soon as I could get away from you; but he wasn’t in it. I sent Mr. Westover back to you and set out to look for him.”
“That was very good of you. And I — thank you for your kindness to my brother. I shall not forget it. And I wish to beg your pardon.”
“What for?” asked Jeff, bluntly.
“For blaming you when you didn’t come back for the dance.”
If Bessie had meant nothing but what was fitting to the moment some inherent lightness of nature played her false. But even the histrionic touch which she could not keep out of her voice, her manner, another sort of man might have found merely pathetic.
Jeff laughed with subtle intelligence. “Were you very hard on me?”
“Very,” she answered in kind, forgetting her brother and the whole terrible situation.
“Tell me what you thought of me,” he said, and he came a little nearer to her, looking very handsome and very strong. “I should like to know.”
“I said I should never speak to you again.”
“And you kept your word,” said Jeff. “Well, that’s all right. Good-night-or good-morning, whichever it is.” He took her hand, which she could not withdraw, or feigned to herself that she could not withdraw, and looked at her with a silent laugh, and a hardy, sceptical glance that she felt take in every detail of her prettiness, her plainness. Then he turned and went out, and she ran quickly and locked the door upon him.
XXXV.
Bessie crept up to her room, where she spent the rest of the night in her chair, amid a tumult of emotion which she would have called thinking. She asked herself the most searching questions, but she got no very candid answers to them, and she decided that she must see the whole fact with some other’s eyes before she could know what she had meant or what she had done.
When she let the daylight into her room, it showed her a face in her mirror that bore no trace of conflicting anxieties. Her complexion favored this effect of inward calm; it was always thick; and her eyes seemed to her all the brighter for their vigils.
A smile, even, hovered on her mouth as she sat down at the breakfast-table, in the pretty negligee she had worn all night, and poured out Miss Lynde’s coffee for her.
“That’s always very becoming to you, Bessie,” said her aunt. “It’s the nicest breakfast gown you have.”
“Do you think so?” Bessie looked down at it, first on one side and then on the other, as a woman always does when her dress is spoken of.
“Mr. Alan s
aid he would have his breakfast in his room, miss,” murmured the butler, in husky respectfulness, as he returned to Bessie from carrying Miss Lynde’s cup to her. “He don’t want anything but a little toast and coffee.”
She perceived that the words were meant to make it easy for her to ask: “Isn’t he very well, Andrew?”
“About as usual, miss,” said Andrew, a thought more sepulchral than before. “He’s going on — about as usual.”
She knew this to mean that he was going on from bad to worse, and that his last night’s excess was the beginning of a debauch which could end only in one way. She must send for the doctor; he would decide what was best, when he saw how Alan came through the day.
Late in the afternoon she heard Mary Enderby’s voice in the reception-room, bidding the man say that if Miss Bessie were lying down she would come up to her, or would go away, just as she wished. She flew downstairs with a glad cry of “Molly! What an inspiration! I was just thinking of you, and wishing for you. But I didn’t suppose you were up yet!”
“It’s pretty early,” said Miss Enderby. “But I should have been here before if I could, for I knew I shouldn’t wake you, Bessie, with your habit of turning night into day, and getting up any time in the forenoon.”
“How dissipated you sound!”
“Yes, don’t I? But I’ve been thinking about you ever since I woke, and I had to come and find out if you were alive, anyhow.”
“Come up-stairs and see!” said Bessie, holding her friend’s hand on the sofa where they had dropped down together, and going all over the scene of last night in that place for the thousandth time.
“No, no; I really mustn’t. I hope you had a good time?”
“At your house!”
Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells Page 603
