110CHAPTER VIA WARNING
With a dexterity born of experience Harry Randall looked up from his labor of separating the zone of carbon from the smaller segment of chop that had escaped the ravages of a superheated frying-pan and smiled across the table at his wife.
“On the contrary,” he said, refuting a pessimistic observation previously made by the person addressed, “I think you’re doing fine. I can see a distinct improvement every month. On the whole you’re really becoming an admirable cook.”
“Undoubtedly!” The voice dripped with irony. “That very chop, for instance—”
“Is merely a case in point,” amiably. “Some people, unscientific people, might contend that it was overdone; but the initiated—that’s us—know better. Meat, particularly from the genus hog, should always be well cooked. It111obviates the possibility of trichina infection absolutely.”
“And those biscuits,” equivocally. “I’ll wager they’d sink like steel billets.”
Her husband inspected the articles designated with a judicial eye.
“Better so. We’re thus saved the temptation of eating them. All statistics prove that hot biscuits and dyspepsia—”
“The salad, then,” wearily.
“Hygienic beyond a doubt. The superabundance of seasoning to which you doubtless refer may be unusual; nevertheless, it’s a leaning in the right direction. Condiments of all kinds tend to stimulate the flow of the gastric juice; and that, you know, from your physiology, is what does the digestive business.”
Margery Randall laughed, against her will.
“And last of all the coffee,” she suggested.
“Frankly, as coffee, it is a little peculiar; but considered as hot water merely, it leaves nothing to be desired; and science teaches again that, like condiments, hot water—”
The two laughed together; temporarily the atmosphere cleared.
“Seriously, Harry,” asked the girl, “do you really think I’ll ever get so I can cook things112that aren’t an insult?” She swept the indigestible repast between them with a hopeless look. “I’m trying my best, but at times like this I get discouraged.”
“Certainly you will,” with conviction. “Now this bread, for instance,” he held up a slice to illustrate, “is as good as any one can make.”
“And unfortunately was one of the few things that I didn’t make. It’s bakery bread, of course, silly.”
Randall dropped the offending staff of life as though it were hot.
“These cookies, then.” He munched one with the pleasure of an epicure. “They’re good thoroughly.”
“Elice Gleason baked them for me to-day,” icily. “She was here all the afternoon.”
An instant of silence followed; glancing half sheepishly across the board Randall saw something that made him arise from his seat abruptly.
“Margery, little girl,” his arms were around her. “Don’t take it so seriously. It’s all a joke, honest.” With practised skill he kissed away the two big tears that were rapidly gathering. “Of course you’ll learn; every one has113to have practice; and it’s something you never did before, something entirely new.”
“That’s just the point,” repeated the girl. The suddenly aroused tears had ceased to flow, but she still looked the image of despondency. “It’s something I’ve never had to do, and I’ll never learn. I’ve been trying for practically a year now and things get worse and worse.”
“Not worse,” hopefully; “you merely think so. You’re just a bit discouraged and tired to-night—that’s all.”
“I know it and, besides, I can’t help it.” She was winking hard again against two fresh tears. “I spoiled two cakes this afternoon. Elice tried to show me how to make them; and I burned my finger”—she held up a swaddled member for inspection—“horribly. I just can’t do this housework, Harry, just simply can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” Once more the two teary recruits vanished by the former method. “You can do anything.”
The girl shook her head with a determination premeditated.
“No; I repeat that I’ve tried, and it’s been a miserable failure. I—think we’ll have to have the maid back again, for good.”
“The maid!” Randall laughed, but not so114spontaneously as was normal. “We don’t want a maid bothering around, Margery. We want to be alone.” He had a brilliant thought, speedily reduced to action. “How could I treat injured fingers like this properly if there was a maid about?”
“There wouldn’t be any burned fingers then,” refuted the girl. Intentionally avoiding the other’s look, she arose from the neglected dinner-table decisively and, the man following slowly, led the way to the living-room. “Joking aside,” she continued as she dropped into a convenient seat, “I mean it, seriously. I’ve felt this way for a long time, and to-day has been the climax. I simply won’t spend my life cooking and dusting and—and washing dishes. Life’s too short.”
From out the depths of the big davenport Harry Randall inspected steadily the rebellious little woman opposite. He did not answer at once, it was not his way; but he was thinking seriously. To say that the present moment was a surprise would be false. For long, straws had indicated the trend of the wind, and he was not blind. There was an excuse for the attitude, too. He was just enough to realize that. As she had said, she was born differently, bred115differently, educated to a life of ease. And he, Harry Randall, had known it from the first, knew it when he married her. Just now, to be sure, he was financially flat, several months ahead of his meagre salary; but that did not alter the original premise, the original obligation. He remembered this now as he looked at her, remembered and decided—the only way it seemed to him possible an honorable man could decide.
“Very well, Margery,” he said gravely, “you may have the maid back, of course, if you wish it. I had hoped we might get along for a time, while we were paying for the things in the house, anyway; but”—he looked away—“I guess we’ll manage it somehow.”
“Somehow!” Margery glanced at him with only partial comprehension. “Is it really as bad as that, as hopeless?”
Randall smiled the slow smile that made his smooth face seem fairly boyish.
“I don’t know exactly what you mean by bad, or hopeless; but it’s a fact that so far we’ve been spending a good deal more than my income.”
“I’m sorry, dear, really.” It was the contrition of one absolutely unaccustomed to consideration of ways and means, uncomprehending.116“Particularly so just now with winter coming on and—and girls, you know, have to get such a lot of things for winter.”
This time Randall did not smile; neither did he show irritation.
“What, for instance?” he inquired directly.
“Oh, a tailored suit for one thing, and a winter hat, and high shoes, and—and a lot of things.”
“Do you really need them, Margery?” It was prosaic pathos, but pathos nevertheless. “There’s coal to be bought, you know, and my life insurance comes due next month. I don’t want to seem to be stingy, you know that; but—” he halted miserably.
“Need them!” It was mild vexation. “Of course I need them, silly. A girl can’t go around when the thermometer’s below zero with net shirtwaists and open-work stockings.”
“Of course,” quickly. With an effort the smile returned. “Order what you need. I’ll take care of that too”—he was going to repeat “somehow,” then caught himself—“as soon as I can,” he substituted.
The girl looked at him smilingly.
“Poor old Harry, henpecked Harry,” she bantered gayly. Crossing over, her arms went117around his neck. “Have an awful lot of troubles, don’t you, professor man!”
The argument was irresistible and Randall capitulated.
“No, none whatever,” he answered, as he was expected to answer; and once more sweet peace rested on the house of Randall.
Back in her place opposite once more Margery looked at her husband seriously, a pucker of perplexity on her smooth face.
“By the way,” she digressed, “I’ve been wondering for some time now if anything’s wrong with Elice and Steve. Has he hinted anything to you?”
“No; why?”
“Oh, I don’t know anything definite; but he’s been here three evenings the last week, you know, Sunday evening for one at that, and it looks queer.”
“I’ve noticed it too,” admitted Randall, “and he’s coming again this evening. He asked permission and I couldn’t well refuse. Not that I don’t like to have him come,” quickly, “but it interferes with my lectures next morning.”
“And with our own evenings. I—just wish he wouldn’t come so often.”
Randall said nothing, but unconsciously he118was stroking the bald spot already appearing on the crown of his head in a way he had when worried.
“And, besides,” justified Margery, “it isn’t treating Elice right. I think it’s a shame.”
This time the man looked up.
“She didn’t say anything, intimate anything, I hope?” he hesitated.
“Of course not. It isn’t her way. She’s—queer for a woman, Elice is; she never gets confidential, no matter how good an opportunity you offer.” A pause followed that spoke volumes. “Agnes Simpson, though, says there is something the matter—with Steve at least. They’re talking about it in the department.”
“Talking about what, Margery?” soberly. “He’s a friend of ours, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” the voice was swift with a pent-up secret, “and we’ve tried hard to be nice to him; but, after all, we’re not to blame that he—drinks!”
“Margery!” It was open disapproval this time, a thing unusual for Harry Randall. “We mustn’t listen to such gossip, either of us. Steve and I have been chums for years and years and—we simply mustn’t listen to such things at all.”119
For an instant the girl was silent; then the brown head tossed rebelliously.
“Well, I can’t help it if people talk; and it isn’t fair of you to suppose that I pass it on either—except to you. You know that I—” she checked herself. “It isn’t as though Agnes was the only one either,” she defended. “I’ve heard it several times lately.” Inspiration came and she looked at her husband directly. “Honest, Harry, haven’t you heard it too?”
The man hesitated, and on the instant solid ground vanished from beneath his feet.
“Yes, I have,” he admitted weakly. “It’s a burning shame too that people will concoct—” He halted suddenly, listening. His eyes went to the clock. “I had no idea it was so late,” he digressed as the bell rang loudly. “That’s Steve now. I know his ring.”
Alone in the up-stairs study, which with its folding-bed was likewise spare sleeping-room and again smoking-room,—Margery had not yet surrendered to the indiscriminate presence of tobacco smoke,—Steve Armstrong ignored the chair Randall had proffered and remained standing, his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets, a look new to his friend—one restless, akin to reckless—on his usually good-humored face.120Contrary again to precedent his dress was noticeably untidy, an impression accentuated by a two-days’ growth of beard and by neglected linen. That something far from normal was about to transpire Randall knew at a glance, but courteously seemed not to notice. Instead, with a familiar wave, he indicated the cigar-jar he kept on purpose for visitors and took a pipe himself.
“I haven’t had my after-dinner smoke yet,” he commented. “Better light up with me. It always tastes better when one has company.”
“Thanks.” Armstrong made a selection absently and struck a match; but, the unlighted cigar in his fingers, let the match burn dead. “I don’t intend to bother you long,” he plunged without preface. “I know you want to work.” He glanced nervously at the door to see that it was closed. “I just wanted to have a little talk with you, a—little heart-to-heart talk.”
“Yes.” Randall’s face showed no surprise, but his pipe bowl was aglow and his free hand was caressing his bald spot steadily.
“Frankly, old man,” the other had fallen back into his former position, his hands concealed, his attitude stiffly erect, “I’m in the deuce of a121frame of mind to-night—and undecided.” He laughed shortly. “You’re the remedy that occurred to me.”
“Yes,” Randall repeated, this time with the slow smile, “I am a sort of remedy. Sit down and tell me about it. I’m receptive at least.”
“Sit down! I can’t, Harry.” The restless look became one of positive repugnance. “I haven’t been able to for a half-hour at a stretch for a week.”
“Try it anyway,” bluntly. “It won’t do you any harm to try.”
“Nor any good either. I know.” He threw himself into a seat with a nervous scowl upon his face. “I haven’t been able to do any real work for an age, which is worse,” he continued. “My lectures lately have been a disgrace to the college. No one knows it better than myself.”
A moment Randall hesitated, but even yet he did not put an inquiry direct.
“Yes?” he suggested again.
“I’m stale, I guess, or have lost my nerve or—or something.” Armstrong smiled,—a crooked smile that failed to extinguish the furrows on his forehead. “By the way, have you got a little superfluous nerve lying about that you could stake me with?”122
Randall echoed the laugh, because it seemed the only possible answer, but that was all.
In the silence that followed Armstrong looked at his friend opposite, the nervous furrow between his eyes deepening.
“I suppose you’re wondering,” he began at last, “just what’s the matter with me and what I want of you. Concerning the first, there’s a lot I might say, but I won’t; I’ll spare you. As to what I want to ask of you—Frankly, Harry, straight to the point and conventional reticence aside, ought I to marry or oughtn’t I?” He caught the other’s expression and answered it quickly. “I know this is a peculiar thing to ask and seems, looking at it from some angles, something I shouldn’t ask; but you know all the circumstances between Elice and me and, in a way, our positions are a good deal similar. Just what do you think? Don’t hesitate to tell me exactly.”
In his seat Randall shifted uncomfortably; to gain time he filled his pipe afresh,—a distinct dissipation for the man of routine that he was.
“Frankly, as you suggest, Steve,” he answered finally, “I’d rather not discuss the subject, rather not advise. It’s—you know why—so big and personal.”123
“I realize that and have apologized already for bringing it up; but I can’t decide myself—I’ve tried; and Elice—there are reasons why she can’t assist now either. It’s—” he made a motion to rise, but checked himself—“it’s something that has to be decided now too.”
“Has to?” Randall’s eyes behind the big lens of his glasses were suddenly keen. “Why, Steve?”
“Because it’s now or never,” swiftly. “I’ve—we’ve hesitated until we can’t delay any longer. I’m not sure that it’s not been too long already, that’s why Elice can’t figure.” He drew himself up with an effort, held himself still. “We’ve crossed the dividing line, Elice and I, and we’re drifting apart. Just how the thing has come about I don’t know; but it’s true. We’re on different roads somehow and we’re getting farther apart every month.” He sprang to his feet, his face turned away. “Soon—It’s simply hell, Harry!”
Randall sat still; recollecting, he laughed,—a laugh that he tried to make natural.
“Oh, pshaw!” He laughed again. “You’re mixing up some of the novels you’re writing with real life. This sort of thing is nonsense, pure nonsense.”124
“No, it’s so,” flatly. “I’ve tried hard enough to think it different, but I couldn’t because it is so. It’s hell, I say!”
“Don’t you love her, man?” abruptly.
“Love her!” Armstrong wheeled, his face almost fierce. “Of course I love her. A hundred times yes. I’m a cursed fool over her.”
“Sit down then and tell me just what’s on your mind. You’re magnifying a mole-hill of some kind into a snow-capped peak. Sit down, please. You—irritate me that way.”
A second Armstrong hesitated. His face a bit flushed, he obeyed.
“That’s better.” The brusqueness was deliberately intentional. “Now out with it, clear the atmosphere. I’m listening.”
Armstrong looked at his friend a bit suspiciously; but the mood was too strong upon him to cease now even if he would.
“Just what do you wish to know?” he asked in tentative prelude. “Give me a clew.”
“What you wish to tell me,” evenly. “Neither more nor less.”
“You have no curiosity?”
Randall made no comment this time, merely waited.
“Very well, then, if you have no curiosity....125I don’t know how much to tell you anyway, what you don’t already know. As I said when I first came in, I didn’t have it in mind to bore you at all, I just wanted to ask your opinion—” The speaker halted and hurriedly lit the cigar he had been holding. “To jump into the thick of it, I got a little letter from the president to-day, a little—warning.” Armstrong smoked fiercely until the flame lit up his face. “It’s the bitterest humiliation of my life, Harry, the last straw!”
126CHAPTER VIIREBELLION
For a moment Harry Randall said nothing, then deliberately he glanced up and met his friend’s eyes direct.
“Begin at the beginning and tell me the whole story,” he said soberly. “I had no idea the thing was really so serious.”
“Well, it is, take that for granted. It’s likely to be the end, so far as I am concerned.”
“Cut that out, Steve,” shortly. “It’s melodramatic and cheap. Things can’t be so bad if we look at them sanely.” He hesitated, and went on with distinct effort. “To begin with, I’m going to ask you a question. I hate it, you know that without my telling you, but things have gone too far to mince matters evidently. I’ve heard a number of times lately that you were drinking. Is it so?”
“Who told you that?” hotly.
“Never mind who. I tell you I never believed a word of it until you mentioned the president’s warning. Now—Is it so?”127
Armstrong’s face went red,—red to the roots of his hair,—then slowly shaded white until it was ghastly pale.
“Yes; it’s useless, it seems, to deny it. That others knew, were talking about it, though—It’s true, Harry. I admit it.”
Slowly, slowly, Randall knocked the ashes out of the pipe-bowl and put it away in a drawer of the table.
“Very well, Steve. I shan’t moralize. None of us men are so good we can afford to begin throwing stones.... Let’s go back a bit to the beginning. There must be one somewhere, a cause. Just what’s the trouble, old man?”
“Trouble!” It was the spark to tinder, the lead at last. “Everything, Harry, everything.” A halt for composure. “I suppose if I were to pick out one single thing, though, that was worse than another, it’s my writing. I think, I know, that’s what brought on the whole cursed mess. Until my last book failed I had hope and the sun shone. When that went down—down like a lump of lead—I haven’t been able to do a thing, care for a thing since. My brain simply quit work too. It died, and the best of me died with it.”128
“And you began to drink.”
“Yes, like a fish. Why not, since I was dead and it helped me to forget?”
“Steve! I hate to preach, it doesn’t become me; but—”
“Preach if you want to; you can’t hurt my feelings now.” Armstrong grew calm, for the first time that evening. “When a fellow has worked as I have worked for years, and hoped against hope, and still hoped on and worked on after failure and failure and failure three times repeated—No, don’t worry about hurting my feelings, Harry. Say what you please.”
“I wasn’t going to hurt your feelings,” evenly; “I was only going to preach a little. I merely wanted to take exception to that forgetting business. If you’ll just hold hard for a bit you’ll forget normally, not artificially. Another six months and you’ll be hard at another scheme, developing it; and the way you feel now—It’ll be a joke then, a sort of nightmare to laugh over.”
“Never.... Don’t get restless; I’m not irresponsible now. I’m merely telling you. I’ve been asleep and dreaming for a long time, but at last I’m awake. Come what may, and truly as I’m telling you now, I’ll never write another129novel. I couldn’t if I wanted to—I’ve tried and know; and I wouldn’t if I could. There’s a limit to everything, and the limit of my patience and endurance is reached. I’m done for now and for all time.” The voice was not excited now or unnaturally tense, but normal, almost conversational.
“For ten years I’ve fought the good fight. Every spare hour of that time that I could muster I’ve worked. I’ve lain awake night after night and night after night tossing and planning and struggling for a definite end. The thing got to be a sort of religion to me. I convinced myself that it was my work in the big scheme, my allotted task, and I tried faithfully to do it. I never spared myself. I dissected others, of course; but I dissected myself most, clear to the bone. I even took a sort of joy in it when it hurt most, for I felt it was my contribution and big. I’m not bragging now, mind. I’m merely telling you as it was. I’ve gone on doing this for ten years, I say. When I failed again I tried harder still. I still believed in myself—and others. Recognition, appreciation, might be delayed, but eventually it would come, it must; for this was my work,—to please others, to amuse them, to carry them130temporarily out of the rut of their work-a-day lives and make them forget. I believed this, I say, believed and hoped and waited and worked on until the last few months. Then—I told you what happened. Then—” For the first time the speaker paused. He shrugged characteristically. “But what’s the use of disturbing the corpse. I’ve simply misread the signs in the sky—that’s all. I couldn’t produce a better novel than I’ve written if I had the longevity of the Wandering Jew and wrote to the end—for I’ve done my best. The great public that I’ve torn myself to pieces to please has seen the offering and passed it by. They will have none of it—and they’re the arbiters.” He shrugged again, the narrow shoulders eloquent. “So be it. I accept; but I offer no more. For all time, to finality, I’m done, done!”
“Even if some of your books should win?”
“If every one of them should do so. If half a dozen publishers came to me personally and begged me to resume work. I may be a poor artist, may lack completely the artistic subservience to or superiority to discouragement, probably I do; but at least I know I’m human. I’m like a well in the desert that’s been pumped empty and left never a mark on the surrounding131sand. I couldn’t produce again if I wanted to; I’m drained dry.”
Randall said nothing. He knew this other man.
“I tell you I’m awake, Harry, at last, and see things as they are; things now so childishly obvious that it seems incredible I could have gone on so long without recognizing them. People prate about appreciation of artists of various kinds and of their work, grow maudlin over it by artificial light in the small hours of the night. And how do they demonstrate it? Once in a while, the isolated exception that proves the rule, by recognizing and rewarding the genius in his lifetime. Once in a very, very long time, I say. Mind, I don’t elevate myself as a genius. I’m merely speaking as an observer who’s awakened and knows. As a rule what do they do? Let him struggle and work and eat his heart out in obscurity and without recognition. Let him starve himself body and soul. After he’s dead, after a year or a hundred years, after there is no possibility of his receiving the reward or the inspiration, they arouse. His fame spreads. His name becomes a household word. They desecrate his grave, if they can find it, by hanging laurel on his tombstone.132They tear the wall-paper from the house where he once chanced to live into ribbons for souvenirs. If he happens to be a painter the picture that brought him enough perhaps to keep body and soul together for a month is fought for until eventually it sells for a fortune. If he was a writer they bid for a scrap of his manuscript more than he received for his whole work. There are exceptions, I say; but even exceptions only prove the rule. Think over the names of the big artists, the big geniuses. How many of them are alive or were appreciated in their own lives? How many living to-day compare in the public appreciation with those dead? None of them, practically, none. And still do you or does any other sane person fancy that human beings are degenerating every generation, that artistic genius is decadent? It’s preposterous, unthinkable! It merely points the moral that history repeats itself. Some place, somewhere, the greatest artist in the world is painting the greatest picture the world has ever known—and this same world passes him by. It must be so, for human beings advance with every generation inevitably. Some place, somewhere, the biggest writer of all time is writing the biggest book—and his neighbors smile because his133clothes are rusty. This is the reward they get in their own day and their own generation, when it would sweeten their lives, make them worth living. The fellow who invents a mouse-trap or a safety razor or devises a way of sticking two hogs where one was killed before, inherits the earth, sees his name and fame heralded in every periodical; while the other, the real man—God, it’s unbelievable, neither more nor less; and still it’s true to the last detail. Again, it’s all civilization, the civilization we brag of; magnificent twentieth century civilization!”
Still Randall said nothing, still waited.
Armstrong hesitated, drumming on the arm of his chair with his slender fingers. But the lull was only temporary, the storm not past; the end was not yet.
“I suppose,” he forged on, “the work should be its own reward, its own justification. At least would-be artists are told so repeatedly. Whenever one rebels at the injustice the world is there with this sophistry, feeds him with it as a nurse feeds pap to a crying child, until he’s full and temporarily comatose. But just suppose for an instant that the same argument were used in any other field of endeavor. Suppose, for instance, you told the prospector who’d spent134years searching for and who’d finally found a gold mine that his reward should be in the mere knowledge of having found it, the feeling of elation that he had added to the sum total of the world’s wealth, and that he should relinquish it intact as a public trust. Just preach this gospel, and how long would you escape the mad-house? Or the architect who designs and superintends the construction of a sky-scraper. Take him aside and argue with him that the artistic satisfaction of having conceived that great pile of stone and steel should repay him for his work, that to expect remuneration was sordid and disgusting. Do you think he’d sign a certificate to the effect that you were normal and sane? And still how is it with a writer in this the twentieth century,—century of enlightenment and of progress? First of all he must go through the formative period, which means years. Nothing, even genius, springs without preparation into full bloom. No matter how good the idea, how big the thought, it must be moulded by a mastery of technique and a proficiency that only experience can give. And meanwhile he must live. How? No matter. The suggestion is mundane. Let him settle that for himself. At last, perhaps, if he has135the divine spark, he gets a hearing. We’ll suppose he accomplishes his purpose,—pleases them, makes them think, or laugh, or forget temporarily, as the case may be. In a way he has made an opening and arrived. And yet, though an artist, he is, first of all, a human being, an animal. The animal part of him demands insistently the good things of life. If he is normal he wants a home and a family of his own; and wants that home as good as that of his neighbor who practises law or makes soda biscuits. With this premise what do the public, who don’t know him personally but whom he serves just the same, do? The only way they can show their appreciation tangibly is by buying his work; giving him encouragement, making it possible to live and to write more. I repeat I know this is all mundane and commonplace and unæsthetic, but it’s reality. And do they give this encouragement, buy themselves, and let him make his tiny royalty which in turn enables him to live, pass an appreciation on to their friends and induce them to buy? In a fractional proportion of times, yes. In the main, John, whom the writer has worked a year, day and night, to reach, by chance meets his friend Charley. ‘By the way,’ he remarks, ‘I picked136up that novel of Blank’s lately. It’s good, all right, all right; kept me up half the night to finish it. I want you to read it, old man. It’s just your style. No use to buy it, though,’ he adds hurriedly. ‘Drop in sometime and I’ll lend it to you.’ Of a sudden he remembers. ‘Come to think of it, though, I believe just now it’s lent to Phil—or was it Dick who took it. The story’s a corker and they’ve both had it.’ He thinks again hard and remembers. ‘I have it now. Dick gave it to Sam; he told me so. Get it from him yourself. I know you’ll like it.’ And so the lending goes on so long as the covers hold together. Meanwhile the writer, away off somewhere waiting and hoping and watching the sale, in return for the pleasure he gives John and Charley and Phil and Dick and Sam and the rest, and in consideration of that year of work and weariness and struggle, gets enough perhaps to buy a meal at a Chinese restaurant. This is appreciation, I say, enlightened twentieth century appreciation; and the beauty of it is that every one of that company who get his work for nothing feel that by their praise and by reading his work they’ve given that writer, who can’t possibly know anything about it, all that he could possibly desire.” For137the first time that evening Armstrong paused to laugh. “Oh, it’s humorous, all right, when one stops to consider and appreciate! Just suppose, though, in the name of fair play, some one had suggested to John that he throw that copy of his in the furnace where no one could possibly borrow it, and then go on telling his appreciation. Just supposing some one had suggested that! Do you fancy John would have considered that person wholly sane? And still that writer, besides being an artist, is an animal with a stomach and needs a home to live in, and maybe is human enough to have burdened himself with a wife and—and children—”
“Steve, confound it, you’ve gone on long enough.”
“I know it—too long.”
“It doesn’t do any good to rail at something you can’t help, that no one can help.”
“Admitted. I’m just talking to myself—and you. It’s all the same.”
“You’ve never starved yet or gone without clothes, so far as I know.”
“Starved, no. I had soup at my boarding-house for lunch again to-day—soup with carrots in it. Hungry—I don’t know. This is a big world we’re in and I’ve never had the138chance even to look over the horizon yet. Hungry? I’ve been hungry for—Elice for years, and I don’t dare—Hunger is awfully near to starvation sometimes, friend Harry.”
Harry Randall squirmed. He saw it coming—it!
“Oh, things will come all right if you’ll be patient,” he said—and halted himself for the trite optimism.
“Elice won’t; for she’s gone already while I’ve been patient—gone and left me hungry.”
“Nonsense. Rot, plain rot!”
“No, reality, plain reality. She probably wouldn’t admit it yet, not even to herself, maybe doesn’t know it yet herself; but I know. It’s been coming on a long time. I see it all now.”
Randall made a wry face. That was all.
“Yes, it’s true, Harry, God’s truth. I asked you a peculiar question a while ago,—asked whether I ought to marry. I didn’t mean it; I was just maudlin. I know without asking that I mustn’t. Even if Elice would consent—and I think she would consent yet, she’s game—I mustn’t. I’m waking up more all the time.”
“Steve, you’re maddening—impossible. I139tell you, Elice will never change. You know it without my telling you.”
“Yes, I know. It’s I who have changed.” He remembered suddenly. “Yes; it’s I who have changed,” he repeated slowly.
“Well, you’ll change back again then.” The effort to be severe and commonplace was becoming cumulatively difficult. “You must.”
“Must change back—and marry Elice?”
“Yes,” desperately.
“No, not if by a miracle I could change back.”
“Why? For heaven’s sake, why? Don’t be a fool, man.”
“Why?” without heat. “Do you really wish to know why?”
“Yes.”
Armstrong deliberated.
“You yourself are one reason, friend Harry.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do. I’m not without observation. You yourself wouldn’t advise me to marry now.”
“Steve!”
“You wouldn’t, and you know you wouldn’t. No offence. We’re simply looking things squarely in the eye. It’s merely the tragedy140of pennies among evolved humans who require dollars to live—and must live. Am I not right, friend of mine?”
No severity this time, no commonplace—nothing.
“I repeat, no offence; just square in the eye. Am I not right?”
“Right? I don’t know. I can’t answer.” A sudden blaze. “You have no right to suggest—”
“No. Pardon me.” Armstrong’s face worked in spite of himself. “Forget that I did suggest, Harry. It was brutal of me.”
Randall said nothing.
“But with Elice and myself it’s different. I’ve awakened in time. Providence, perhaps, sometimes when we least expect it—”
“Steve!” Randall had glanced up quickly, self for the moment in abeyance. “What do you intend doing, tell me that?”
“Doing?” It was almost surprise. “Have you any honest doubt yet, after what I’ve told you?” He halted, scrutinizing his friend’s face, and seemed satisfied. “I’m going to release her; release her unqualifiedly. I can at least be man enough to do that.”
“And if you do—what of yourself?”141
Armstrong smiled forcedly, a slow, mirthless smile. “Never mind about myself. I’ve glowed genially for a long time, tried after my own fashion to warm a hearth somewhere; but at last I’m burned out, nothing but cinders. Never mind about myself. The discussion is futile.”
Randall hesitated; then he gestured impotently.
“Elice, then—For her sake at least—”
“It’s for her sake I’ll do it, because she’ll never do it herself. I repeat, I can at least be man enough to do that much for her, make amends to that extent.” He looked straight before him, seeing nothing. “She’ll be happy yet, when I’m well out of the way.”
“Steve!” Argument would not come, rebuttal; only that cry that acknowledged its own helplessness. “I can’t bear to have things go that way. I know you both so well, like you so much.”
“I realize that,” dully; “but it’s not your fault,—not any one’s fault in particular that I can see.”
Randall did not gesture this time. Even that avenue seemed barred.
“If I could only say something to influence you, to convince you—something adequate.”142
“There’s nothing to be said that I can see, or done, for that matter. It’s like a church catechism, cut and dried generations ahead.”
It was the final word, and for a long time they sat there silent, unconscious of the passing minutes; alike gazing at the blank wall which circumstance had thrown in the way, alike looking for an opening where opening there was none. At last, when the silence had become unbearable, Randall roused, and with an effort forced a commonplace.
“Anyway, as yet you’re reckoning without your host—in this case Elice,” he formalized. “After you’ve seen her—”
“It will merely be ended then—that is all.”
“I’m not so sure, even yet.”
“I repeat that I know, know to finality. Some things one can’t question when they’re awake. Moreover, I have a reason for knowing.”
It was a new note, that last comment; a note of repression where all before had been unrepressed. Moreover, it was a lead intentionally offered.
“What is it, Steve?” asked the other simply. “There’s something yet which you haven’t told me.”
“Yes.” Once more Armstrong’s eyes were143on the wall straight before him, the wall he did not see. “I merely suggested it a bit ago. I said Elice had drifted away while I was being patient. At first that drifting was very slow, so slow that I didn’t realize it myself; during the last few months she’s been going fast.” The speaker moistened his lips unconsciously; but, watching, the other noticed. “Things seldom happen in this world without a reason, and they didn’t in this case.” Suddenly, without warning, he whirled, met the other eye to eye. “Do I need to suggest more?” he asked steadily.
“Suggest—more?” Randall’s look was blank. “I don’t believe I understand.”
“I mean concerning—the reason I mentioned. Haven’t you noticed anything yourself, had any intimation?”
“I know nothing, have noticed nothing.”
“No?” Armstrong’s scrutiny was merciless, all but incredulous. “Nothing concerning Elice and—and Darley Roberts—not a whisper?”
Against his will Randall’s eyes dropped. At last he understood.
“You have heard. I thought so.” Armstrong fumbled with his cuffs, played for time, which meant for self-control. “I’m glad. It saves my—explaining.”144
“Yes, I’ve heard.” Randall’s tongue lagged unwillingly. “I couldn’t help it; but believed, in the least, before—no. I thought he was your friend.”
“Was, yes. Now—It’s been some time since we came to an understanding; and he told me, warned me. I don’t blame him—or her. I’ve had my chance, ample chance, God knows.... It’s simply true.”
Randall looked up unbelievingly.
“And you don’t hate him, you who were his friend?”
“Hate?... I don’t know, don’t know anything these days except that I’m down—down; down in the mire, deep!” It was the end, the last crumb of confidence, and Armstrong leaped to his feet. “But what’s the use of dissecting any more, what possible use?” His hat was in his hand and he was heading for the door. “It’s all simply maddening, and I’m a fool, a visionary fool, who can’t change myself or alter events; powerless—” He halted, turned half about. Instinctive courtesy sprang to his lips. “Pardon me, Harry, for bothering you with all this when you can do nothing. I had no idea when I came of staying so long or—or of making a spectacle of myself.” He smiled,145almost his old smile. “Forgive me this time and I promise never to do it again, never.” He turned once more to the door. “Don’t get up, old man. I can find my way out. Good-night.”
“Steve! Wait!” Randall too was on his feet, a sudden premonition of things to come in his mind, a feeling, more than of pity, for the intention he read clear in the other’s face. “Don’t go yet—don’t go at all. Stay with me to-night, please.”
“Stay!” Armstrong too understood, and, understanding, smiled; a smile the other man never forgot. “Stay—to-night?... No, thank you. I appreciate your motive,” hurriedly, “don’t fancy it’s not that; but—” no questioning that preventing gesture, no combating it—“but to-night I’m going to forget.... Yes, and to-morrow night, and the next—and the next!”