The men stood grouped in the snow near the sleigh, waiting; and presently Rosalie came out on the terrace with Kathleen and Delancy Grandcourt. Her colour was very bad and there were heavy circles under her eyes, but she spoke with perfect self-possession, made her adieux quietly, kissed Kathleen twice, and suffered Grandcourt to help her into the sleigh.
Then Grandcourt got in beside her, the two doctors swung aboard in front, bells jingled, and they whirled away over the snow.
Kathleen, with Scott and Duane on either side of her, walked back to the house.
“Well,” said Scott, his voice betraying nervous reaction, “we’ll resume life where we left off when Geraldine did. Don’t tell her anything about Dysart yet. Suppose we go and cheer her up!”
Geraldine lay on the pillows, rather pallid under the dark masses of hair clustering around and framing her face. She unclosed her eyes when Kathleen opened the door for a preliminary survey, and the others filed solemnly in.
“Hello,” she said faintly, and smiled at Duane.
“How goes it, Sis?” asked her brother affectionately, shouldering Duane aside.
“A little sleepy, but all right. Why on earth did you send for Dr. Bailey? It was horribly expensive.”
“Duane did,” said her brother briefly. “He was scared blue.”
Her eyes rested on her lover, indulgent, dreamily humorous.
“Such expensive habits,” she murmured, “when everybody is economising. Kathleen, dear, he needs schooling. You and Mr. Tappan ought to take him in hand and cultiwate him good and hard!”
Scott, who had been wandering around his sister’s room with innate masculine curiosity concerning the mysteries of intimate femininity, came upon a sketch of Duane’s — the colour not entirely dry yet.
“It’s Sis!” he exclaimed in unfeigned approval. “Lord, but you’ve made her a good-looker, Duane. Does she really appear like that to you?”
“And then some,” said Duane. “Keep your fingers off it.”
Scott admired in silence for a while, then: “You certainly are a shark at it, Duane.... You’ve struck your gait all right.... I wish I had.... This Rose-beetle business doesn’t promise very well.”
“You write most interestingly about it,” said Kathleen warmly.
“Yes, I can write.... I believe journalism would suit me.”
“The funny column?” suggested Geraldine.
“Yes, or the birth, marriage, and death column. I could head it, ‘Hatched, Matched, and Snatched’ — —”
“That is perfectly horrid, Scott,” protested his sister; “why do you let him say such rowdy things, Kathleen?”
“I can’t help it,” sighed Kathleen; “I haven’t the slightest influence with him. Look at him now!” — as he laughingly passed his arm around her and made her two-step around the room, protesting, rosy, deliciously helpless in the arms of this tall young fellow who held her inflexibly but with a tenderness surprising.
Duane smiled and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
“You plucky little thing,” he said, “were you perfectly mad to try to block that boar in the scrub? You won’t ever try such a thing again, will you, dear?”
“I was so excited, Duane; I never thought there was any danger — —”
“You didn’t think whether there was or not. You didn’t care.”
She laughed, wincing under his accusing gaze.
“You must care, dear.”
“I do,” she said, serious when he became so grave. “Tell me again exactly what happened.”
He said: “I don’t think the brute saw you; he was hard hit and was going blind, and he side-swiped you and sent you flying into the air among those icy rocks.” He drew a long breath, managed to smile in response to her light touch on his hand. “And that’s how it was, dear. He crashed headlong into a tree; your last shot did it. But Miller and I thought he’d got you. We carried you in — —”
“You did?” she whispered.
“Yes. I never was so thoroughly scared in all my life.”
“You poor boy. Are the rifles safe? And did Miller save the head?”
“He did,” said Duane grimly, “and your precious rifles are intact.”
“Lean down, close,” she said; “closer. There’s more than the rifles intact, dear.”
“Not your poor bruised body!”
“My self-respect,” she whispered, the pink colour stealing into her cheeks. “I’ve won it back. Do you understand? I’ve gone after my other self and got her back. I’m mistress of myself, Duane; I’m in full control, first in command. Do you know what that means?”
“Does it mean — me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“When you will.”
He leaned above her, looking down into her eyes. Their fearless sweetness set him trembling.
On the floor below Kathleen, at the piano, was playing the Menuet d’Exaudet. When she ended, Scott, cheerily busy with his infant Rose-beetles, went about his affairs whistling the air.
“Our betrothal dance; do you remember?” murmured Geraldine. “Do you love me, Duane? Tell me so; I need it.”
“I love you,” he said.
She lay looking at him a moment, her head cradled in her dark hair. Then, moving slowly, and smiling at the pain it gave her, she put both bare arms around his neck, and lifted her lips to his.
It was the end of the prologue; the curtain trembled on the rise; the story of Fate was beginning. But they had no eyes except for each other, paid no heed save to each other.
And, unobserved by them, the vast curtain rose in silence, beginning the strange drama which neither time nor death, perhaps, has power to end.
THE END
THE GREEN MOUSE
CONTENTS
PREFACE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
TO
MY FRIEND
JOHN CORBIN
Folly and Wisdom, Heavenly twins,
Sons of the god Imagination,
Heirs of the Virtues — which were Sins
Till Transcendental Contemplation
Transmogrified their outer skins —
Friend, do you follow me? For I
Have lost myself, I don’t know why.
Resuming, then, this erudite
And decorative Dedication, —
Accept it, John, with all your might
In Cinquecentic resignation.
You may not understand it, quite,
But if you’ve followed me all through,
You’ve done far more than I could do.
PREFACE
To the literary, literal, and scientific mind purposeless fiction is abhorrent. Fortunately we all are literally and scientifically inclined; the doom of purposeless fiction is sounded; and it is a great comfort to believe that, in the near future, only literary and scientific works suitable for man, woman, child, and suffragette, are to adorn the lingerie-laden counters in our great department shops.
It is, then, with animation and confidence that the author politely offers to a regenerated nation this modern, moral, literary, and highly scientific work, thinly but ineffectually disguised as fiction, in deference to the prejudices of a few old-fashioned story-readers who still survive among us.
R. W. C.
I
AN IDYL OF THE IDYL
In Which a Young Man Arrives at His Last Ditch and a Young Girl Jumps Over It
Utterly unequipped for anything except to ornament his environment, the crash in Steel stunned him. Dazed but polite, he remained a passive observer of the sale which followed and which apparently realized sufficient to satisfy every creditor, but not enough for an income to continue a harmlessly
idle career which he had supposed was to continue indefinitely.
He had never earned a penny; he had not the vaguest idea of how people made money. To do something, however, was absolutely necessary.
He wasted some time in finding out just how much aid he might expect from his late father’s friends, but when he understood the attitude of society toward a knocked-out gentleman he wisely ceased to annoy society, and turned to the business world.
Here he wasted some more time. Perhaps the time was not absolutely wasted, for during that period he learned that he could use nobody who could not use him; and as he appeared to be perfectly useless, except for ornament, and as a business house is not a kindergarten, and furthermore, as he had neither time nor money to attend any school where anybody could teach him anything, it occurred to him to take a day off for minute and thorough self-examination concerning his qualifications and even his right to occupy a few feet of space upon the earth’s surface.
Four years at Harvard, two more in postgraduate courses, two more in Europe to perfect himself in electrical engineering, and a year at home attempting to invent a wireless apparatus for intercepting and transmitting psychical waves had left him pitifully unfit for wage earning.
There remained his accomplishments; but the market was overstocked with assorted time-killers.
His last asset was a trivial though unusual talent — a natural manual dexterity cultivated since childhood to amuse himself — something he never took seriously. This, and a curious control over animals, had, as the pleasant years flowed by, become an astonishing skill which was much more than sleight of hand; and he, always as good-humored as well-bred, had never refused to amuse the frivolous, of which he was also one, by picking silver dollars out of space and causing the proper card to fall fluttering from the ceiling.
Day by day, as the little money left him melted away, he continued his vigorous mental examination, until the alarming shrinkage in his funds left him staring fixedly at his last asset. Could he use it? Was it an asset, after all? How clever was he? Could he face an audience and perform the usual magician tricks without bungling? A slip by a careless, laughing, fashionable young amateur amusing his social equals at a house party is excusable; a bungle by a hired professional meant an end to hope in that direction.
So he rented a suite of two rooms on Central Park West, furnished them with what remained from better days, bought the necessary paraphernalia of his profession, and immured himself for practice before entering upon his contemplated invasion of Newport, Lenox, and Bar Harbor. And one very lovely afternoon in May, when the Park from his windows looked like a green forest, and puff on puff of perfumed air fluttered the curtains at his opened windows, he picked up his gloves and stick, put on his hat, and went out to walk in the Park; and when he had walked sufficiently he sat down on a bench in a flowery, bushy nook on the edge of a bridle path.
Few people disturbed the leafy privacy; a policeman sauntering southward noted him, perhaps for future identification. The spectacle of a well-built, well-groomed, and fashionable young man sitting moodily upon a park bench was certainly to be noted. It is not the fashion for fashionable people to sit on park benches unless they contemplate self, as well as social, destruction.
So the policeman lingered for a while in the vicinity, but not hearing any revolver shot, presently sauntered on, buck-skinned fist clasped behind his broad back, squinting at a distant social gathering composed entirely of the most exclusive nursemaids.
The young man looked up into the pleasant blue above, then his preoccupied gaze wandered from woodland to thicket, where the scarlet glow of Japanese quince mocked the colors of the fluttering scarlet tanagers; where orange-tinted orioles flashed amid tangles of golden Forsythia; and past the shrubbery to an azure corner of water, shimmering under the wooded slope below.
That sense of languor and unrest, of despondency threaded by hope which fair skies and sunshine and new leaves bring with the young year to the young, he felt. Yet there was no bitterness in his brooding, for he was a singularly generous young man, and there was no vindictiveness mixed with the memories of his failures among those whose cordial respect for his father had been balanced between that blameless gentleman’s wealth and position.
A gray squirrel came crawling and nosing through the fresh grass; he caught its eyes, and, though the little animal was plainly bound elsewhere on important business, the young man soon had it curled up on his knee, asleep.
For a while he amused himself by using his curious power, alternately waking the squirrel and allowing it to bound off, tail twitching, and then calling it back, slowly but inexorably to climb his trousers and curl up on his knee and sleep an uncanny and deep sleep which might end only at the young man’s pleasure.
He, too, began to feel the subtle stillness of the drowsing woodland; musing there, caressing his short, crisp mustache, he watched the purple grackle walking about in iridescent solitude, the sun spots waning and glowing on the grass; he heard the soft, garrulous whimper of waterfowl along the water’s edge, the stir of leaves above.
He thought of various personal matters: his poverty, the low ebb of his balance at the bank, his present profession, his approaching début as an entertainer, the chances of his failure. He thought, too, of the astounding change in his life, the future, vacant of promise, devoid of meaning, a future so utterly new and blank that he could find in it nothing to speculate upon. He thought also, and perfectly impersonally, of a girl whom he had met now and then upon the stairs of the apartment house which he now inhabited.
Evidently there had been an ebb in her prosperity; the tumble of a New Yorker’s fortune leads from the Avenue to the Eighties, from thence through Morristown, Staten Island, to the West Side. Besides, she painted pictures; he knew the aroma of fixitive, siccative, and burnt sienna; and her studio adjoined his sky drawing-room.
He thought of this girl quite impersonally; she resembled a youthful beauty he had known — might still know if he chose; for a man who can pay for his evening clothes need never deny himself the society he was bred to.
She certainly did resemble that girl — she had the same bluish violet eyes, the same white and deeply fringed lids, the same free grace of carriage, a trifle too boyish at times — the same firmly rounded, yet slender, figure.
“Now, as a matter of fact,” he mused aloud, stroking the sleeping squirrel on his knee, “I could have fallen in love with either of those girls — before Copper blew up.”
Pursuing his innocuous meditation he nodded to himself: “I rather like the poor one better than any girl I ever saw. Doubtless she paints portraits over solar prints. That’s all right; she’s doing more than I have done yet.... I approve of those eyes of hers; they’re like the eyes of that waking Aphrodite in the Luxembourg. If she would only just look at me once instead of looking through me when we pass one another in the hall — —”
The deadened gallop of a horse on the bridle path caught his ear. The horse was coming fast — almost too fast. He laid the sleeping squirrel on the bench, listened, then instinctively stood up and walked to the thicket’s edge.
What happened was too quick for him to comprehend; he had a vision of a big black horse, mane and tail in the wind, tearing madly, straight at him — a glimpse of a white face, desperate and set, a flutter of loosened hair; then a storm of wind and sand roared in his ears; he was hurled, jerked, and flung forward, dragged, shaken, and left half senseless, hanging to nose and bit of a horse whose rider was picking herself out of a bush covered with white flowers.
Half senseless still, he tightened his grip on the bit, released the grasp on the creature’s nose, and, laying his hand full on the forelock, brought it down twice and twice across the eyes, talking to the horse in halting, broken whispers.
When he had the trembling animal under control he looked around; the girl stood on the grass, dusty, dirty, disheveled, bleeding from a cut on the cheek bone; the most bewildered and astonished creature he had ever
looked upon.
“It will be all right in a few minutes,” he said, motioning her to the bench on the asphalt walk. She nodded, turned, picked up his hat, and, seating herself, began to smooth the furred nap with her sleeve, watching him intently all the while. That he already had the confidence of a horse that he had never before seen was perfectly apparent. Little by little the sweating, quivering limbs were stilled, the tense muscles in the neck relaxed, the head sank, dusty velvet lips nibbled at his hand, his shoulder; the heaving, sunken flanks filled and grew quiet.
Bareheaded, his attire in disorder and covered with slaver and sand, the young man laid the bridle on the horse’s neck, held out his hand, and, saying “Come,” turned his back and walked down the bridle path. The horse stretched a sweating neck, sniffed, pricked forward both small ears, and slowly followed, turning as the man turned, up and down, crowding at heel like a trained dog, finally stopping on the edge of the walk.
The young man looped the bridle over a low maple limb, and leaving the horse standing sauntered over to the bench.
“That horse,” he said pleasantly, “is all right now; but the question is, are you all right?”
She rose, handing him his hat, and began to twist up her bright hair. For a few moments’ silence they were frankly occupied in restoring order to raiment, dusting off gravel and examining rents.
“I’m tremendously grateful,” she said abruptly.
“I am, too,” he said in that attractive manner which sets people of similar caste at ease with one another.
“Thank you; it’s a generous compliment, considering your hat and clothing.”
He looked up; she stood twisting her hair and doing her best with the few remaining hair pegs.
“I’m a sight for little fishes,” she said, coloring. “Did that wretched beast bruise you?”
“Oh, no — —”
“You limped!”
“Did I?” he said vaguely. “How do you feel?”
“There is,” she said, “a curious, breathless flutter all over me; if that is fright, I suppose I’m frightened, but I don’t mind mounting at once — if you would put me up — —”
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