CHAPTER XXIIICleland's unhappy interpretation of the episode was masculine and therefore erroneous—the interpretation of a very young man whose reverence for the restless sex might require revision some day or other unless he died exceedingly young. For he concluded, now, that he had thoroughly disgusted Stephanie Quest; first by his vulgar flirtation with Lady Button-eyes, then by losing his temper and admitting to her his own odious materialism; and, furthermore and flagrantly, by his hideous behaviour with a pretty girl whose name even he had not known when he entertained her at his impromptu thé-dansant.He saw himself quite ruined in the unemotional grey eyes of a girl who, herself, was so coldly aloof from the ignoble emotions lurking ever and furtively in the masculine animal.He had had little enough chance with Stephanie, even when his conduct had been exemplary. Now he was dreadfully certain that his chances were less than none at all; that he had done himself in. What had he to hope of her now?To this unconventional yet proud, pure-hearted girl had been offered the very horrid spectacle of his own bad temper and reprehensible behaviour. And, although there had been no actual harm in it,shecould never, never understand or forgive it. Never!Her virginal ears had been insulted by the cynical avowal of his own masculine materialism. Of the earth, earthy, he had vaunted himself in his momentary exasperation—"of humanity, a shamelessly human example."With her own incredulous, uncontaminated eyes she had seen him pocket Lady Button-eye's telephone number. Her shrinking ears had heard the mutilated record in his music-phone dying out in a tipsy two-step; her outraged gaze had beheld a perfectly strange young girl's gaily informal exit from his own bachelor apartment, where sherry still stood in both glasses and the rugs lay scattered in disorder against the wall. Elimination was naturally the portion he had to expect. And he gloomily schooled himself to endure annihilation.According to his philosophy there was nothing else on earth to do about it. Doubtless she'd ultimately forgive him, but her respect he couldn't hope for at present; and as for any deeper sentiment, if ever there had been any hope in his heart that he might one day awaken it, now he knew it was wriggling in its death-throes, making him, by turns, either frightfully unhappy or resentfully reckless.The hopeless part of it was that, unlike weaker men, he had no desire to drown sorrow in any irregular and unworthy fashion.Many men of many minds turn to many things seeking the anodyne in one form or another—the nepenthe of forgetfulness, rarer than the philosopher's stone.Neither wine nor the dreary quest for heart-ease among frailer companions ever appeals to any but weak minds. And the boy, not knowing what to do, turned to his work with a renewed energy resembling desperation.It is the only hope for ultimate anesthesia.Also, he took to prowling by night, being too unhappy to remain in his studio so near to Stephanie.He prowled about Broadway and Long Acre with Badger Spink, whose restless cleverness and self-absorption ended by wearying him; he prowled with Clarence Verne one night, encountering that strange sphinx by accident, and strolling with him at hazard through the purlieus of Chelsea. Both men seemed deeply preoccupied with problems of their own, and though they knew each other only slightly they maintained the reticence of intimacy—an odd assumption, as Cleland thought afterward. Yet, one of them was very sick for love, and the other very sick of it; and, besides, there roved with them a third and unseen companion, through the crooked, lamp-lit streets, whose shrouded arm was linked in Verne's. And perhaps that accounted for the sombre silence which brooded between these men in trouble.Verne said at parting—and gazing absently at nothing while he spoke:"The tragedy of civilization—of what the world calls civilization!—that is the most terrible of all, Cleland. That is the real and only hell. Not the ruthless eruptions of barbarism; not the momentary resurgence of atavistic violence—of red-blooded rapine and lust—but the ordered, lawful, stealthy, subtle horrors of civilization: they slay men's souls.""I don't get you, Verne.""No, Cleland. But somebody else will—somebody else will get me—very soon, now.... Good-bye."A few days later Cleland prowled with Harry Belter, intent upon supper somewhere in the outer marches of the town.For an episode had occurred that shook them both with the most sobering and distressing jar that youth experiences in fullest mental and physical vigour."Idon'tsee how a man can kill himself," said Cleland. "I don't see why he can't go somewhere else and cure himself of his unhappiness. Travel, change, new faces——""Perhaps he wants to be rid of faces," muttered Belter."There are wonderful wildernesses.""Perhaps he's too tired to admire 'em. Perhaps he's half dead for sleep.""You talk as though you sympathized and understood, Harry.""I do.""You! The indefatigable optimist! You, the ever-welcome, the gay consoler, the irrepressible spirit among us!""If I didn't play that rôle I'd do what Clarence Verne did!""What!""Long ago," added Belter."For God's sake, why? I never dreamed——""You were away, three years, having a good time abroad, weren't you? How should you know what happened to others?""Did something happen to you, Harry?""It did. If you wish to know exactly what, I'll tell you what happened to me was a woman. Now you know something that nobody else knows—except that demon and myself.""But such things——""No. Such things destroy, ultimately. I'll die of her, one day.""Nonsense!"But Belter, the jester, laughed a terrifying laugh and sauntered into the open door of the restaurant which they had walked a mile or two to find."It's a low pub," he remarked, "and suitable to my mind." They seated themselves at a cherry table. One or two newspaper men nodded to Belter. A confidence man, whispering to a painted mulatto girl, turned to scrutinize him; a ruffianly bar-keeper saluted him cordially.There was a grill glowing beyond the bar. A waiter, chewing a tooth-pick, came up and stood leaning on their table with both hairy hands spread flat on the polished top."Well, gents, what is it?" he asked hoarsely.They gave their order. Then Belter, leaning forward and planting both elbows on the table, said in a low voice:"They call me a caricaturist, but, by God, Cleland, I'm a realist! I've learned more about women by caricaturing them than I ever read in their smooth countenances. Theyarecaricatures, in their secret souls—every one of them; and when I exaggerate a weak point and ignore everything but the essential character lines and contours, by jingo, Cleland, I've discovered 'em—exposed 'em as they really are!—distorted caricatures of human beings."Cleland disagreed with him, gloomily, amazed at his bitterness."No," said Belter, "if you tell the mere truth about them they're a nuisance! We don't understand 'em. Why? There's very little to understand and that's all on the surface as plain as the nose on your face!—too plain for us to notice. And you writers explore and dissect 'em, seeking deeps where there are shallows, mysteries where there are facts, subtleties where everything is obvious. They haven't much mind, they have few traits because they have precious little character. They are not like humans; they resemble Fabre's insects—strange, incomprehensible Martians, doing things not from intelligence, not from reason, impulse, desire, but merely from an inherited instinct that apes intelligence, that parodies passion.""Whathavethey done to you, Harry?""Nothing, in years.... Because I won't let 'em. But the spectacle of the world suddenly crawling with women, all swarming restlessly over the face of the globe, not knowing why or whither—it appalls me, Jim. And we men continue flinging at them everything we can think of to stop them, quiet them, and keep them still—personal liberty, franchise, political opportunity, professional and industrial chances—and still they twist and wriggle and squirm and swarm over everything restlessly, slowly becoming denatured, unsexed, more sterile, more selfish, insolent, intolerable every day. They are the universal nuisance of the age; they are slowly smothering us as shifting dunes threaten the fertile plain——""For heaven's sake——""There's the unvarnished truth about woman," insisted Belter. "She's got the provocative câlinerie of a cat; the casual insouciance of a sparrow; the nesting and hatching instinct of the hen; the mindless jealousy of a Pekingese."The creative mind that marries one of 'em is doomed either to sterility or to anguish. Their jealousy and malice stultify and slay the male brain; there is no arguing with them because they have no real mind to appeal to, no logic, no reason. Like the horrible praying Mantis they suffer the embrace of the male and immediately begin to eat him, commencing with the head——"Cleland began to laugh. His mirth, unrestrained, did not disturb Belter, who continued to eat his club sandwich and wash it down with huge draughts of Pilsner."Do you think I'd marry one of 'em?" he demanded scornfully. "Do you know what really happened to Clarence Verne?""No.""Well, he married a dainty little thing and expected to continue earning two thousand dollars for every magazine cover he designed. And do you know what happened?""No, I don't.""I'll tell you. The dainty little thing turned jealous, hired a shyster who hired detectives to follow Verne about and report to her what he did inside and outside his studio. She doped his food when she thought he had a rendezvous; she had his letters stolen. In his own world, any woman he found agreeable was cut out by his wife; if, in the jolly and unconventional fellowship of Bohemia, he ever stopped on the street to chat with a pretty girl or took one, harmlessly, to lunch or supper, or offered any of 'em tea in his studio, her detectives reported it to her and she raised hell."It killed spontaneity, any gaiety of heart, any incentive in Verne. It embittered him, aged him, strangled him. Look at his work to-day! Nothing remains except the mechanical technique. Look at the man. Dead in his bathroom. Don't talk to me about women.""Why didn't he divorce her if he knew of all this she was doing?""He had a little girl to think of. After all, Verne had lived his life. Better snuff it out that way and leave the child in decent ignorance of family dissension.... And that was the matter with Clarence Verne, Cleland. And I tell you that into the heart of every man who has been fool enough to marry, some canker is eating its way. There is not one woman in a million with mind enough and humanity enough to keep her husband's love—not one who knows enough to'Let him aloneAnd he'll come home—'Not one with the brains, mental resource, wisdom, to mate without becoming a parasite. And still, all over the world the asses are solemnly asking each other, 'Is marriage a failure?' Bah! The world makes me very sick!"They went to Verne's funeral a few days later. The widow was very pretty in her deep mourning. Her little girl was with her.But the affair was not even a nine-days' gossip in the artists' world. Verne had stalked wistfully among them for a few years, but had never been of them since his marriage: he had lived at home in one of the fashionable quarters, although his studio—and his heart—were in Chelsea.So his well-known magazine covers were missed more than he was, and people soon ceased discussing him and his fate; and in a month nobody remembered whether it had been done with a razor or a revolver. And very few cared.As for Cleland, he had never known Verne well, and the damnation of his taking off affected him only superficially. Besides, busy men have little time to bother about death; and Cleland was now extremely busy with his novel, which began to take definite shape and proportion under unremitting labour.He now saw Stephanie much as usual; and the girl did not seem seriously changed toward him in behaviour. Her spirits appeared to be high always; she seemed to be always doing something interesting and delightful, dining out, going to theatres—though the choice was now limited, as many were already closed for the summer—motoring out to the country, taking her dancing and dramatic lessons, entertaining in the studio.It is true that he seldom or never saw Stephanie alone now, but that seemed accidental, because he really had been absorbed in his work and she was usually out somewhere or other during the day. But she appeared to be cordial to him—just as full of gay malice and light banter as ever—full of undisguised interest in the progress of his work and delighted with his promise to let her read the manuscript when it was typed and before he submitted it to any publisher.So all seemed to go serenely between them; he resolutely told himself that he had given her up; she did not appear to be aware of anything altered or subdued in his cordiality toward her—apparently missed nothing in his attitude that might once have been to her significant of any deeper feeling.Yet, once or twice, when a gay company filled her studio, amid the chatter and music and movement of dancers, he became aware of her level, grey eyes gravely intent on him—but always the gravity he surprised in them turned to a quick, frank smile when his gaze encountered hers, and she always made him some pretty signal of recognition across the animated scene.As for Helen, he always got on delightfully with that charming and capable girl. There was something very engaging about her, she was so wholesome, so energetic, so busy, so agreeable to look at.He had acquired a habit of dropping in on his way out to lunch to watch her working on the sketches and studies for "Aspiration;" but one day she forgot to warn him and he blundered into the courtyard where, on a white circus-horse, a lovely, slender, but rather startling figure hid its face in its hands and desperately attempted to make a garment of its loosened hair, while an elderly female holding the horse's head cried "Shoo!" and Helen hustled him out, a little perturbed and intensely amused."I ought to have told you," she said. "I wouldn't mind, but even professional models object to anybody except, occasionally, another artist.""I'm sorry," he said. "Please tell little Miss Eve that I didn't mean to scare her."They chatted for a few minutes, then Helen smilingly excused herself and went back to her work, and Cleland continued on his way to lunch, chagrined at his stupidity."I wonder," he thought, "if that was my little unknown dancing partner? Now, she will think I've 'spoiled it all.'"He was in masculine error again. Disconcerted beauty has the consolation that it is beautiful. Otherwise, it remains merely outraged modesty; and bitterness abides in its soul.Helen, laughingly mentioning the affair to Stephanie, still immensely amused at Cleland's distress and apologetic blushes, added that the model, Marie Cliff, had been sensible enough to appreciate the humour of it, too."You mean," said Stephanie, coldly, "that she didn't care." And, not smiling, went on with her sewing."She's rather a refined type," said Helen, looking curiously at the girl who, bent over her mending, was plying her needle furiously.Stephanie shrugged."Don't you think so, Steve?""No. I think her typically common.""How odd! She's quite young, and she's really very nice and modest—not the type of person you seem to imagine——""I don'tlikeher," interrupted Stephanie calmly. But her slender fingers were flying, and she had set her teeth in her under lip, which had trembled a little.Helen, chancing to mention Cleland that night as they were preparing for bed, was astonished at Stephanie's impatient comment:"Oh, Jim's quite spoiled. I'm rapidly losing interest in that young man.""Why?" asked Helen, surprised."Because he runs about with queer people. No man can do that and not show it in his own manner.""What people, Steve?""Well, with Lady Button-eyes for one. With your modest and bashful little model, for another.""Does he?" Then she began to laugh. "I'm glad he displays good taste, anyway! The little Cliff girl is charming.""Isn't that rather a horrid and cynical thing to say?" demanded Stephanie, flushing brightly."Why? I think she's quite all right. Let them play together if they like. It's none of my business. Are you, the high-priestess of tolerance, becoming intolerant?" she added laughingly."No. I don't care what he does. But I should think he'd prefer to frivol with one of his own class.""It's a matter of chance," remarked Helen, brushing out her curly brown hair. "The beggar-maid or Vere-de-Vere—it's all the same to a man if the girl is sufficiently attractive and amusing.""Amusing?" repeated Stephanie. "That is a humiliating rôle—to amuse a man.""If a girl doesn't, men soon neglect her. Men go where they are amused. Everybody does. You do. I do. Why not?"Stephanie, still hotly flushed, shook out her beautiful chestnut hair and began to comb it viciously."I don't see how a common person can amuse a well-born man," she said."It's a reflection on us if we give them the opportunity," retorted Helen, laughing. "But if we're not clever enough to hold the men of our own caste, then they'll certainly go elsewhere for their amusement.""And good riddance!""But who's to replace them?""I can get along perfectly without men.""Steve, you're talking like a child! What happens to be the matter with you? Has anything gone wrong?""Absolutely nothing——" She turned sharply; her comb caught in her hair and she jerked it free. Perhaps that accounted for the sudden glint of tears in her grey eyes.Helen slipped her arm around her, but the girl's rigid body did not yield and she kept her head obstinately averted."Are you getting tired of your idiotic bargain with Oswald?" asked Helen, gently."No, I am not!Henever bothers me—never gets on my nerves—never is unjust—unkind——""Who is?""I don't know.... Men in general—annoy me—men in—general.""None in particular?""No.... It isn't very agreeable to know that one's brother goes about with a shameless dancer from the Follies.""Are you sure he does?""Perfectly. He gives her a party in his studio, too, sometimes.""But there's no harm in——""A party fortwo! They drink—together.""Oh.""They drink and dance and eat, all by themselves! They take up the rugs and turn on the music and—and I don't know what they do!—I—d-don't know—I don't—I don't——!"Her head fell into her hands; she stood rigid, her body shaken by emotions too unhappy, too new, too vague for her youthful analysis."I—I can't bear to think of him that way——" she stammered, "—he was so straight and clean—so clean——""Some men drift a little—sometimes——""They say so.... I don't know. I am too miserable about him—too unhappy——"She choked back a sob, and the slender hands that covered her eyes slowly clenched.Helen looked at her in consternation. Girls don't usually betray so much emotion over some casual irregularity of a brother.Stephanie pressed her clenched hands mutely against her lids for a while, then, her lips still quivering, she reached for her brush and began to groom her splendid hair again.And Helen, watching her without a word, thought to self:"She behaves as though she were falling in love with him.... She'd certainly better be careful. The boy is already in love with her, no matter how he acts.... If she isn't very, very careful she'll get into trouble with him."Aloud she said cheerfully:"Steve, dear, I really think I'm clever enough to have taken the measure of your very delightful brother. And I honestly don't believe it is in him to play fast and loose with any woman ever born.""Heisdoing it!""With whom?""That—Dancing girl——""Nonsense! If it's an ephemeral romance, which I don't believe, it's a gay and harmless one. Don't worry your pretty head about it, Steve."After Stephanie was in bed she kissed her lightly, smiled reassuringly, switched off the light and went to her own room, slowly.Very gravely she braided her hair before the mirror, looking at her pale, reflected face.Yet, though pale, it was still a fresh, wholesome, beautiful face. But the brown eyes stared sadly at their twin brown images, and the girl shook her head.For the nearest that Helen Davis had ever come to falling in love was when Cleland first walked into her studio. She could have fallen in love with him then—within the minute—out of a clear sky. She realized it after he had gone—not too deeply astonished—she, who had never before been in love, recognized its possibility all in a moment.But she had learned to hold herself in check since that first, abrupt and clear-minded recognition of such a possibility.Never by a word or glance had she ever betrayed herself; yet his very nearness to her, at times, set her heart beating, set a faint thrill stealing through her. Yet her eyes always met his pleasantly, frankly, steadily; her hand lay calm and cool in his when she welcomed him or bade him good-bye. Always she schooled herself to withstand what threatened her, gave it no food for reflection, no sustenance, no status, no consideration.Love came as no friend to her. She soon realized that. And she quietly faced him and bade him keep his distance.She looked at herself again in the glass. Her brown eyes were very, very serious. Then the smile glimmered."Quand même," she murmured gaily, and switched off the light.CHAPTER XXIVIt was a warm day in early June and Cleland, working in trousers and undershirt, and driven by thirst to his tin ice-box, discovered it to be empty."Confound it," he muttered, and rang up Stephanie's studio. A maid answered, saying that Miss Quest had gone motoring and Miss Davis had not yet returned from shopping."I want to borrow a lump of ice," explained Cleland. "I'll come down for it."So he concealed his lack of apparel under a gay silk dressing gown, picked up a pan, and went down, not expecting to encounter anybody.In the kitchenette, in the rear, the obliging maid gave him a lump of ice. Carrying it in one hand, aloft, as an expert waiter carries a towering tray of dishes, and whistling a gay air with great content—for his work upstairs had gone very well that morning—he sauntered out of the culinary regions, along the alley-like passageway, into the studio.And as he started for the door which he had left ajar, a figure opened it from without and entered hurriedly—a scared, breathless little figure, bare-footed, swathed in a kimono and a shock of hair.They stared at each other, astonished. Both blushed furiously."I simply can't help it," said the girl. "I was sitting on that horse waiting for Miss Davis, when a bee or a horsefly or something stung him and he began to rear and kick all around the court, and I slid off him and ran."They both laughed. Cleland, clutching his pan of ice, said:"I seem doomed to run into you when I shouldn't. I'm terribly sorry."She blushed again and carefully swathed her waist in the obi."You didn't mean to," she said. "It was rather startling, though.""It was, indeed. And now we're having another unconventional party. Shall I leave this ice here and go out and quiet the nag?""He'll surely kick you.""I'll take a chance——" He set the pan of ice on a table, girded up his dressing-gown, and went out into the court. The horse stood quietly enough now. But Cleland soon discovered a green-eyed horsefly squatting on the wall and rubbing its forelegs together in devilish exultation."I'll fix you," he muttered, picking up a lump of wet clay and approaching with infinite caution. He was a good shot; he buried the bloodthirsty little demon under a spatter of clay. Then he went back for his ice."The deed is done," he said cheerily. "It was a horsefly, as you said.... Good-bye.... When are we going to have another dance?""We'd better not," she said smilingly. She had seated herself on the sofa and had drawn her pretty, bare feet up under her kimono."You won't let me give another party for you?" he inquired."I ought not to.""Butwillyou?""I don't know. This kimono party we're having now seems sufficient for the present; and I think you'd better go.""Anyway," he said, "when a desire for innocent revelling seizes you, you know where to go.""Yes, thank you."They laughed at each other."Good-bye, pretty stranger," he said."Good-bye, you nice boy!"So he went away upstairs with his ice, and she stole out presently and ventured into the courtyard where the placid white horse stood as calmly as a cow.And Stephanie, lying on her bed in her own room, twisted her body in anguish and, hands clenched, buried her face in her arms.Helen, returning an hour later, and glancing into Stephanie's bed-room as she passed, saw the girl lying there."I thought you were motoring!" she exclaimed."The car is laid up," said Stephanie, in a muffled voice."Oh. Don't you feel well, Steve?""N-not very.""Can I do anything? Wait a moment——" She continued on to her bed-room, unpinned her hat, drew on her working smock, and came slowly back, buttoning it."What's wrong, Steve?" she inquired."Nothing," said the girl, drearily. "I'm just—tired.""Why—you've been crying!" murmured Helen, bending over her. "What is making you so unhappy, Steve? Don't you wish to tell me?""N-no.""Shall I sit here by you, dear? I can work this afternoon——""No.... It's nothing at all—truly it isn't.""Had you rather be alone?""Yes."Helen went slowly away toward the court where her nag and its rider were ready for her. Stephanie lay motionless, dumb, wretched, her bosom throbbing with emotions too powerful for her—yet too vague, too blind, to enlighten her.Unawakened to passion, ignorant of it, regardless and disdainful of what she had never coped with, the mental and spiritual suffering was, perhaps, the keener.Humiliation and grief that she was no longer first and alone in Cleland's heart and mind had grown into a sorrow deeper than she knew, deeper than she admitted to herself. All the childish and pettier emotions attended it, mocking her with her own frailty—ignoble jealousy, hard resentment, the primitive sarcasm born of envy—the white flash of hatred for those to whom this man turned for amusement—this man whom she had adored from boyhood.Why had he cast her out of the first place in his heart and mind? He had even told her that he was in love with her. Why had he turned to this shameless dancer?And to what others did he also turn to find amusement when she did not know where he was?Had it been her fault? No. From the very first night that he had come back to her—in the very face of her happiness to have him again—he had shown her what kind of man he was—there at the Ball of All the Gods—with that dreadful Goddess of Night.She turned feverishly, tortured by her thoughts, but neither they nor the hot pillow gave her any rest. They stung her like scorpions, setting every nerve on edge with something—anger, perhaps—something unendurable there in the silence of her room.And at last she got up to make an end of it, once and for all. But the preparations took her some time—some cold water, brush and comb, and a chamois rag.Cleland, now dressed for luncheon, humming a comic song under his breath and contentedly numbering his latest pencilled pages, heard the tap at his open door, and looked up cheerfully, hoping for Marie Cliff, a pre-prandial dance, and a pretty companion at luncheon. Tragedy entered, wearing the mask of Stephanie Quest."Hello!" he cried gaily, jumping up and coming toward her. "This is too delightful. Are you coming out to lunch with me, Steve?""Sit down a moment," she said. But he continued to stand; and she came over and stood beside his desk, resting one hand on it.And, after a moment, lifting her grey eyes to his:"I have borne a great deal from you. But there is an insult which you have offered me to-day that I shall not endure in silence.""What insult?" he demanded, turning red."Making my studio a rendezvous for you and your—mistress!"He knew what she meant instantly, and his wrath blazed:"It was an accident. I don't know how you heard of it, but it was pure accident. Also, that is a rotten thing to say——""Is it! You once told me that you prefer to call a spade a spade! Oh, Jim!—you werecleanonce. What have you done!""But it's a lie—and an absurd one!""Do you think that of me, too—that I tell lies?""No. But you evidently believe one.""It is too obvious to doubt——" Her throat was dry with the fierceness of her emotions and she choked a moment."Who told you?""I was there.""Where?""In my bed-room. I had not gone out. I heard the maid tell you I was out motoring. I meant to speak to you—but you have been so—so unfriendly lately.... And then that woman came in!" ... Her grey eyes fairly blazed."Why do you do this to me?" she cried, clenching both hands. "It is wicked!—unthinkable! Why do you hold me in such contempt?"Her fierce anger silenced him, and his silence lashed her until she lost her head."Do you think you can offer me such an affront in my own studio because I am really not your sister?—because your name is Cleland and mine is not?—because I was only the wretched, starved, maltreated child of drunken parents when your father picked me out of the gutter! Is that why you feel at liberty to affront me under my own roof—show your contempt for me?Isit?""Steve, you are mad!" he said. He had turned very white."No," she said, "but I'm at the limit of endurance. I can't stand it any longer. I shall go to-night to the man I married and live with him and find a shelter there—find protection and—f-forgetfulness——" Her voice broke but her eyes were the more brilliant and dangerous for the flashing tears:"I know what you and my aunt talked over between you," she said. "You discussed the chances of my developing erratic, unscrupulous, morbid, immoral traits! You were anxious for fear I had inherited them. Probably now you think I have. Think as you please——!" she flashed out through her tears; "you have killed every bit of happiness in me. Remember it some day!"She turned to go, and he sprang forward to detain her, but she twisted herself out of his arms and reeled back against the desk.Then he had her in his arms again, and she stared at his white, tense face, all distorted by her blinding tears:"I love you, Steve! That's all the answer I give you. That's my reply to your folly. I never loved anybody else; I never shall; I never can. I am clean. I don't know how it happens, but Iam! They lie who tell you anything else. I'm like my father; I care for only one woman. I'm incapable of caring for any other."I don't know what I've done to you to make you say such things and think them. I consider you as my own kin; I respect and love you like a kinsman. But—God help me—I've gone further; I love you as a lover. I can't tear you out of my heart; I've tried because I saw no hope that you ever could fall in love with me—but I couldn't do it—I couldn't."If you go to the man you married I shall never love any other woman. That is the truth, and I know it, now!"Her body was still rigid in his arms; her tense hands lay flat on his breast as though to repulse him.But there was no strength in them and they had begun to tremble under the hard beating of his heart.Her mouth, too, was quivering; her tear-wet eyes looked mutely into his; suddenly her body relaxed, yielded; and at his fierce embrace her hot mouth melted against his."Steve," he stammered—"Steve—can you care for me—in my way——?"Under the deep-fringed lids her grey eyes looked at him vaguely; her lips were burning."Steve——" he whispered.Her slowly lifted eyes alone responded."Can you love me?"Her eyes closed again. And after a long while her lips responded delicately to his."Is it love, Steve?" he asked, trembling."I don't know.... I'm so tired—confused——"Her arms fell from his neck to his shoulders and she opened her eyes, listlessly."I think it—must be," she said.... "I'm quite sure it is!""Love?""Yes."CHAPTER XXVCleland, tremendously thrilled and excited by the first but faint response to his ardour which he had ever obtained of Stephanie, but uncertain, too, and almost incredulous as to its significance and duration, retained sufficient common sense and self-control to restrain him from pressing matters further. For Stephanie seemed so listless, so confused, so apparently unable to comprehend herself and these new and deep emotions which threatened her, that he forebore to seize what seemed to be an undue advantage.They parted very quietly at her studio door; she naïvely admitting physical fatigue, headache, and a natural desire to be down in her darkened room; he to return to his studio, too much upset to work or to eat, later, when the dinner hour drew near.However, he took his hat and stick and went down stairs. When he rang at her studio, Helen admitted him, saying that Stephanie was asleep in her room and had not desired any dinner. So they chatted for a while, and then Cleland took his departure and walked slowly up the street toward the Rochambeau. And the first person he met on University Place was Marie Cliff.Perhaps it was the instinct to make amends to her for the unjust inferences drawn to her discredit a few hours before—perhaps it was the sheer excitement and suddenly renewed hope of Stephanie that incited him. Anyway, his gay greeting and unfeigned cordiality stirred the lonely girl to response, and when they had walked as far as the Beaux Arts, they were quite in the mood to dine together.She was grateful to be with an agreeable man whom she liked and whom she could trust; his buoyant spirits and happy excitement were grateful for somebody on whom they could be vented.In that perfumed tumult of music, wine, and dancing they seated themselves, greeted cordially by Louis, the courtly and incomparable; and they dined together luxuriously, sometimes rising to dance between courses, sometimes joining laughingly in a gay chorus sustained by the orchestra, sometimes, with elbows on the cloth and heads together, chattering happily of nothing in particular.Men here and there bowed to her and to him; some women recognized and greeted them; but they were having much too good and too irresponsible a time together to join others or to invite approaches.It was all quite harmless—a few moments' pleasure without other significance than that the episode had been born of a young man's high spirits and a young girl's natural relief when her solitude was made gay for her without reproach.It was about eleven o'clock; Marie, wishing to be fresh for her posing in the morning, reminded him with frank regret that she ought to go."I wouldn't care," she said, "except that since I've left the Follies I have to depend on what I earn at Miss Davis's studio. So you don't mind, do you, Mr. Cleland?""No, of course not. It's been fine, hasn't it?""Yes. I've had such a good time!—and you are the nicest of men——"Her voice halted; Cleland, watching her with smiling eyes, saw a sudden alteration of her pretty features. Then he turned to follow her fixed gaze."Hello," he said, "there's Harry Belter. Are you looking athim?"Her face had grown very sober; she withdrew her gaze with a little shrug of indifference, now."Yes, I was looking at him," she said quietly."I didn't know you knew him.""Didn't you? ... Yes, I used to know him."He laughed:"The recollection doesn't appear to be very pleasant.""No.""Too bad. I like Belter. He and I were at school together. He's enormously clever."She remained silent."He really is. And he is an awfully good fellow at heart—a little pronounced, a trifle tumultuous sometimes, but——"She said, evenly:"I know him better than you do, Mr. Cleland.""Really!""Yes.... I married him."Cleland was thunderstruck."I was only seventeen," she said calmly. "I was on the stage at the time.""Good Lord!" he murmured, astounded."He never spoke of it to you?""Never! I never dreamed——""Idid. I dreamed." She shrugged her shoulders again, lightly. "But—I awoke very soon. My dream had ended.""What on earth was the matter?""I am afraid you had better ask him," she replied gravely."I beg your pardon; I shouldn't have asked that question at all!""I didn't mind.... It is my tragedy—still. But let a man interpret it to men. A woman would not be understood.""Are you—divorced?""No."Cleland, still deeply astonished, looked across the room at Belter. That young man, very red, sat listening to Badger Spink's interminable chatter—pretending to listen; but his disturbed gaze was turned from time to time on Marie Cliff; and became hideously stony when it shifted to Cleland at moments without a sign of recognition."Shall we go?" asked the girl in a low voice.They rose. A similar impulse seemed to seize Belter, and he got up almost blindly and strode across the floor.Cleland, suddenly confronted at the door of the cloak-room, from which Marie was just emerging, said:"Hello, Harry," in a rather embarrassed manner."Go to hell," replied the latter in a low voice of concentrated fury, and turned on his wife."Marie," he said unsteadily, "may I speak to you?""Certainly, but not now," replied the girl, who had turned white as a sheet.Cleland touched the man's arm which was trembling:"Better not interfere," he said pleasantly. "The disgrace of a row will be yours, not your wife's.""What areyoudoing with my wife!" whispered Belter, his voice shaking with rage."I'll tell you, Harry. I'm showing her all the respect and friendship and sympathy that there is in me to to show to a charming, sincere young girl.... You know the sort of man I am. You ought to know your wife but evidently you don't. Therefore, your question is superfluous."Belter drew him abruptly back to the foot of the stairs:"If you're lying I'll kill you," he said. "Do you understand?""Yes. And if you make any yellow scene here, Harry, after I've taken your wife home, I'll come back and settle you. Doyouunderstand? ... For God's sake," he added coldly, "if you've got any breeding, show it now!"The tense silence between them lasted a full minute. Then, very slowly, Belter turned toward the cloak-room where, just within the door, his wife stood looking at him.His sanguine features had lost all their colour in the greyish pallour that suddenly aged him. He went toward her; she made the slightest movement of recoil, but faced him calmly."I'm sorry," he said in a voice like a whisper. "I am—the fool that you—think me.... I'll—take myself off."He bowed to her pleasantly, turned and passed Cleland with his hat still in his hand:"I'm sorry, Jim; I know you're all right; and I'm—all wrong ... all wrong——""Come to the studio to-morrow. Will you, Harry?" whispered Cleland.But Belter shook his head, continuing on his way to the street."I'll expect you," added Cleland. "Come about noon!"The other made no sign that he had heard.
CHAPTER XXIII
Cleland's unhappy interpretation of the episode was masculine and therefore erroneous—the interpretation of a very young man whose reverence for the restless sex might require revision some day or other unless he died exceedingly young. For he concluded, now, that he had thoroughly disgusted Stephanie Quest; first by his vulgar flirtation with Lady Button-eyes, then by losing his temper and admitting to her his own odious materialism; and, furthermore and flagrantly, by his hideous behaviour with a pretty girl whose name even he had not known when he entertained her at his impromptu thé-dansant.
He saw himself quite ruined in the unemotional grey eyes of a girl who, herself, was so coldly aloof from the ignoble emotions lurking ever and furtively in the masculine animal.
He had had little enough chance with Stephanie, even when his conduct had been exemplary. Now he was dreadfully certain that his chances were less than none at all; that he had done himself in. What had he to hope of her now?
To this unconventional yet proud, pure-hearted girl had been offered the very horrid spectacle of his own bad temper and reprehensible behaviour. And, although there had been no actual harm in it,shecould never, never understand or forgive it. Never!
Her virginal ears had been insulted by the cynical avowal of his own masculine materialism. Of the earth, earthy, he had vaunted himself in his momentary exasperation—"of humanity, a shamelessly human example."
With her own incredulous, uncontaminated eyes she had seen him pocket Lady Button-eye's telephone number. Her shrinking ears had heard the mutilated record in his music-phone dying out in a tipsy two-step; her outraged gaze had beheld a perfectly strange young girl's gaily informal exit from his own bachelor apartment, where sherry still stood in both glasses and the rugs lay scattered in disorder against the wall. Elimination was naturally the portion he had to expect. And he gloomily schooled himself to endure annihilation.
According to his philosophy there was nothing else on earth to do about it. Doubtless she'd ultimately forgive him, but her respect he couldn't hope for at present; and as for any deeper sentiment, if ever there had been any hope in his heart that he might one day awaken it, now he knew it was wriggling in its death-throes, making him, by turns, either frightfully unhappy or resentfully reckless.
The hopeless part of it was that, unlike weaker men, he had no desire to drown sorrow in any irregular and unworthy fashion.
Many men of many minds turn to many things seeking the anodyne in one form or another—the nepenthe of forgetfulness, rarer than the philosopher's stone.
Neither wine nor the dreary quest for heart-ease among frailer companions ever appeals to any but weak minds. And the boy, not knowing what to do, turned to his work with a renewed energy resembling desperation.
It is the only hope for ultimate anesthesia.
Also, he took to prowling by night, being too unhappy to remain in his studio so near to Stephanie.
He prowled about Broadway and Long Acre with Badger Spink, whose restless cleverness and self-absorption ended by wearying him; he prowled with Clarence Verne one night, encountering that strange sphinx by accident, and strolling with him at hazard through the purlieus of Chelsea. Both men seemed deeply preoccupied with problems of their own, and though they knew each other only slightly they maintained the reticence of intimacy—an odd assumption, as Cleland thought afterward. Yet, one of them was very sick for love, and the other very sick of it; and, besides, there roved with them a third and unseen companion, through the crooked, lamp-lit streets, whose shrouded arm was linked in Verne's. And perhaps that accounted for the sombre silence which brooded between these men in trouble.
Verne said at parting—and gazing absently at nothing while he spoke:
"The tragedy of civilization—of what the world calls civilization!—that is the most terrible of all, Cleland. That is the real and only hell. Not the ruthless eruptions of barbarism; not the momentary resurgence of atavistic violence—of red-blooded rapine and lust—but the ordered, lawful, stealthy, subtle horrors of civilization: they slay men's souls."
"I don't get you, Verne."
"No, Cleland. But somebody else will—somebody else will get me—very soon, now.... Good-bye."
A few days later Cleland prowled with Harry Belter, intent upon supper somewhere in the outer marches of the town.
For an episode had occurred that shook them both with the most sobering and distressing jar that youth experiences in fullest mental and physical vigour.
"Idon'tsee how a man can kill himself," said Cleland. "I don't see why he can't go somewhere else and cure himself of his unhappiness. Travel, change, new faces——"
"Perhaps he wants to be rid of faces," muttered Belter.
"There are wonderful wildernesses."
"Perhaps he's too tired to admire 'em. Perhaps he's half dead for sleep."
"You talk as though you sympathized and understood, Harry."
"I do."
"You! The indefatigable optimist! You, the ever-welcome, the gay consoler, the irrepressible spirit among us!"
"If I didn't play that rôle I'd do what Clarence Verne did!"
"What!"
"Long ago," added Belter.
"For God's sake, why? I never dreamed——"
"You were away, three years, having a good time abroad, weren't you? How should you know what happened to others?"
"Did something happen to you, Harry?"
"It did. If you wish to know exactly what, I'll tell you what happened to me was a woman. Now you know something that nobody else knows—except that demon and myself."
"But such things——"
"No. Such things destroy, ultimately. I'll die of her, one day."
"Nonsense!"
But Belter, the jester, laughed a terrifying laugh and sauntered into the open door of the restaurant which they had walked a mile or two to find.
"It's a low pub," he remarked, "and suitable to my mind." They seated themselves at a cherry table. One or two newspaper men nodded to Belter. A confidence man, whispering to a painted mulatto girl, turned to scrutinize him; a ruffianly bar-keeper saluted him cordially.
There was a grill glowing beyond the bar. A waiter, chewing a tooth-pick, came up and stood leaning on their table with both hairy hands spread flat on the polished top.
"Well, gents, what is it?" he asked hoarsely.
They gave their order. Then Belter, leaning forward and planting both elbows on the table, said in a low voice:
"They call me a caricaturist, but, by God, Cleland, I'm a realist! I've learned more about women by caricaturing them than I ever read in their smooth countenances. Theyarecaricatures, in their secret souls—every one of them; and when I exaggerate a weak point and ignore everything but the essential character lines and contours, by jingo, Cleland, I've discovered 'em—exposed 'em as they really are!—distorted caricatures of human beings."
Cleland disagreed with him, gloomily, amazed at his bitterness.
"No," said Belter, "if you tell the mere truth about them they're a nuisance! We don't understand 'em. Why? There's very little to understand and that's all on the surface as plain as the nose on your face!—too plain for us to notice. And you writers explore and dissect 'em, seeking deeps where there are shallows, mysteries where there are facts, subtleties where everything is obvious. They haven't much mind, they have few traits because they have precious little character. They are not like humans; they resemble Fabre's insects—strange, incomprehensible Martians, doing things not from intelligence, not from reason, impulse, desire, but merely from an inherited instinct that apes intelligence, that parodies passion."
"Whathavethey done to you, Harry?"
"Nothing, in years.... Because I won't let 'em. But the spectacle of the world suddenly crawling with women, all swarming restlessly over the face of the globe, not knowing why or whither—it appalls me, Jim. And we men continue flinging at them everything we can think of to stop them, quiet them, and keep them still—personal liberty, franchise, political opportunity, professional and industrial chances—and still they twist and wriggle and squirm and swarm over everything restlessly, slowly becoming denatured, unsexed, more sterile, more selfish, insolent, intolerable every day. They are the universal nuisance of the age; they are slowly smothering us as shifting dunes threaten the fertile plain——"
"For heaven's sake——"
"There's the unvarnished truth about woman," insisted Belter. "She's got the provocative câlinerie of a cat; the casual insouciance of a sparrow; the nesting and hatching instinct of the hen; the mindless jealousy of a Pekingese.
"The creative mind that marries one of 'em is doomed either to sterility or to anguish. Their jealousy and malice stultify and slay the male brain; there is no arguing with them because they have no real mind to appeal to, no logic, no reason. Like the horrible praying Mantis they suffer the embrace of the male and immediately begin to eat him, commencing with the head——"
Cleland began to laugh. His mirth, unrestrained, did not disturb Belter, who continued to eat his club sandwich and wash it down with huge draughts of Pilsner.
"Do you think I'd marry one of 'em?" he demanded scornfully. "Do you know what really happened to Clarence Verne?"
"No."
"Well, he married a dainty little thing and expected to continue earning two thousand dollars for every magazine cover he designed. And do you know what happened?"
"No, I don't."
"I'll tell you. The dainty little thing turned jealous, hired a shyster who hired detectives to follow Verne about and report to her what he did inside and outside his studio. She doped his food when she thought he had a rendezvous; she had his letters stolen. In his own world, any woman he found agreeable was cut out by his wife; if, in the jolly and unconventional fellowship of Bohemia, he ever stopped on the street to chat with a pretty girl or took one, harmlessly, to lunch or supper, or offered any of 'em tea in his studio, her detectives reported it to her and she raised hell.
"It killed spontaneity, any gaiety of heart, any incentive in Verne. It embittered him, aged him, strangled him. Look at his work to-day! Nothing remains except the mechanical technique. Look at the man. Dead in his bathroom. Don't talk to me about women."
"Why didn't he divorce her if he knew of all this she was doing?"
"He had a little girl to think of. After all, Verne had lived his life. Better snuff it out that way and leave the child in decent ignorance of family dissension.... And that was the matter with Clarence Verne, Cleland. And I tell you that into the heart of every man who has been fool enough to marry, some canker is eating its way. There is not one woman in a million with mind enough and humanity enough to keep her husband's love—not one who knows enough to
'Let him aloneAnd he'll come home—'
'Let him aloneAnd he'll come home—'
'Let him alone
And he'll come home—'
Not one with the brains, mental resource, wisdom, to mate without becoming a parasite. And still, all over the world the asses are solemnly asking each other, 'Is marriage a failure?' Bah! The world makes me very sick!"
They went to Verne's funeral a few days later. The widow was very pretty in her deep mourning. Her little girl was with her.
But the affair was not even a nine-days' gossip in the artists' world. Verne had stalked wistfully among them for a few years, but had never been of them since his marriage: he had lived at home in one of the fashionable quarters, although his studio—and his heart—were in Chelsea.
So his well-known magazine covers were missed more than he was, and people soon ceased discussing him and his fate; and in a month nobody remembered whether it had been done with a razor or a revolver. And very few cared.
As for Cleland, he had never known Verne well, and the damnation of his taking off affected him only superficially. Besides, busy men have little time to bother about death; and Cleland was now extremely busy with his novel, which began to take definite shape and proportion under unremitting labour.
He now saw Stephanie much as usual; and the girl did not seem seriously changed toward him in behaviour. Her spirits appeared to be high always; she seemed to be always doing something interesting and delightful, dining out, going to theatres—though the choice was now limited, as many were already closed for the summer—motoring out to the country, taking her dancing and dramatic lessons, entertaining in the studio.
It is true that he seldom or never saw Stephanie alone now, but that seemed accidental, because he really had been absorbed in his work and she was usually out somewhere or other during the day. But she appeared to be cordial to him—just as full of gay malice and light banter as ever—full of undisguised interest in the progress of his work and delighted with his promise to let her read the manuscript when it was typed and before he submitted it to any publisher.
So all seemed to go serenely between them; he resolutely told himself that he had given her up; she did not appear to be aware of anything altered or subdued in his cordiality toward her—apparently missed nothing in his attitude that might once have been to her significant of any deeper feeling.
Yet, once or twice, when a gay company filled her studio, amid the chatter and music and movement of dancers, he became aware of her level, grey eyes gravely intent on him—but always the gravity he surprised in them turned to a quick, frank smile when his gaze encountered hers, and she always made him some pretty signal of recognition across the animated scene.
As for Helen, he always got on delightfully with that charming and capable girl. There was something very engaging about her, she was so wholesome, so energetic, so busy, so agreeable to look at.
He had acquired a habit of dropping in on his way out to lunch to watch her working on the sketches and studies for "Aspiration;" but one day she forgot to warn him and he blundered into the courtyard where, on a white circus-horse, a lovely, slender, but rather startling figure hid its face in its hands and desperately attempted to make a garment of its loosened hair, while an elderly female holding the horse's head cried "Shoo!" and Helen hustled him out, a little perturbed and intensely amused.
"I ought to have told you," she said. "I wouldn't mind, but even professional models object to anybody except, occasionally, another artist."
"I'm sorry," he said. "Please tell little Miss Eve that I didn't mean to scare her."
They chatted for a few minutes, then Helen smilingly excused herself and went back to her work, and Cleland continued on his way to lunch, chagrined at his stupidity.
"I wonder," he thought, "if that was my little unknown dancing partner? Now, she will think I've 'spoiled it all.'"
He was in masculine error again. Disconcerted beauty has the consolation that it is beautiful. Otherwise, it remains merely outraged modesty; and bitterness abides in its soul.
Helen, laughingly mentioning the affair to Stephanie, still immensely amused at Cleland's distress and apologetic blushes, added that the model, Marie Cliff, had been sensible enough to appreciate the humour of it, too.
"You mean," said Stephanie, coldly, "that she didn't care." And, not smiling, went on with her sewing.
"She's rather a refined type," said Helen, looking curiously at the girl who, bent over her mending, was plying her needle furiously.
Stephanie shrugged.
"Don't you think so, Steve?"
"No. I think her typically common."
"How odd! She's quite young, and she's really very nice and modest—not the type of person you seem to imagine——"
"I don'tlikeher," interrupted Stephanie calmly. But her slender fingers were flying, and she had set her teeth in her under lip, which had trembled a little.
Helen, chancing to mention Cleland that night as they were preparing for bed, was astonished at Stephanie's impatient comment:
"Oh, Jim's quite spoiled. I'm rapidly losing interest in that young man."
"Why?" asked Helen, surprised.
"Because he runs about with queer people. No man can do that and not show it in his own manner."
"What people, Steve?"
"Well, with Lady Button-eyes for one. With your modest and bashful little model, for another."
"Does he?" Then she began to laugh. "I'm glad he displays good taste, anyway! The little Cliff girl is charming."
"Isn't that rather a horrid and cynical thing to say?" demanded Stephanie, flushing brightly.
"Why? I think she's quite all right. Let them play together if they like. It's none of my business. Are you, the high-priestess of tolerance, becoming intolerant?" she added laughingly.
"No. I don't care what he does. But I should think he'd prefer to frivol with one of his own class."
"It's a matter of chance," remarked Helen, brushing out her curly brown hair. "The beggar-maid or Vere-de-Vere—it's all the same to a man if the girl is sufficiently attractive and amusing."
"Amusing?" repeated Stephanie. "That is a humiliating rôle—to amuse a man."
"If a girl doesn't, men soon neglect her. Men go where they are amused. Everybody does. You do. I do. Why not?"
Stephanie, still hotly flushed, shook out her beautiful chestnut hair and began to comb it viciously.
"I don't see how a common person can amuse a well-born man," she said.
"It's a reflection on us if we give them the opportunity," retorted Helen, laughing. "But if we're not clever enough to hold the men of our own caste, then they'll certainly go elsewhere for their amusement."
"And good riddance!"
"But who's to replace them?"
"I can get along perfectly without men."
"Steve, you're talking like a child! What happens to be the matter with you? Has anything gone wrong?"
"Absolutely nothing——" She turned sharply; her comb caught in her hair and she jerked it free. Perhaps that accounted for the sudden glint of tears in her grey eyes.
Helen slipped her arm around her, but the girl's rigid body did not yield and she kept her head obstinately averted.
"Are you getting tired of your idiotic bargain with Oswald?" asked Helen, gently.
"No, I am not!Henever bothers me—never gets on my nerves—never is unjust—unkind——"
"Who is?"
"I don't know.... Men in general—annoy me—men in—general."
"None in particular?"
"No.... It isn't very agreeable to know that one's brother goes about with a shameless dancer from the Follies."
"Are you sure he does?"
"Perfectly. He gives her a party in his studio, too, sometimes."
"But there's no harm in——"
"A party fortwo! They drink—together."
"Oh."
"They drink and dance and eat, all by themselves! They take up the rugs and turn on the music and—and I don't know what they do!—I—d-don't know—I don't—I don't——!"
Her head fell into her hands; she stood rigid, her body shaken by emotions too unhappy, too new, too vague for her youthful analysis.
"I—I can't bear to think of him that way——" she stammered, "—he was so straight and clean—so clean——"
"Some men drift a little—sometimes——"
"They say so.... I don't know. I am too miserable about him—too unhappy——"
She choked back a sob, and the slender hands that covered her eyes slowly clenched.
Helen looked at her in consternation. Girls don't usually betray so much emotion over some casual irregularity of a brother.
Stephanie pressed her clenched hands mutely against her lids for a while, then, her lips still quivering, she reached for her brush and began to groom her splendid hair again.
And Helen, watching her without a word, thought to self:
"She behaves as though she were falling in love with him.... She'd certainly better be careful. The boy is already in love with her, no matter how he acts.... If she isn't very, very careful she'll get into trouble with him."
Aloud she said cheerfully:
"Steve, dear, I really think I'm clever enough to have taken the measure of your very delightful brother. And I honestly don't believe it is in him to play fast and loose with any woman ever born."
"Heisdoing it!"
"With whom?"
"That—Dancing girl——"
"Nonsense! If it's an ephemeral romance, which I don't believe, it's a gay and harmless one. Don't worry your pretty head about it, Steve."
After Stephanie was in bed she kissed her lightly, smiled reassuringly, switched off the light and went to her own room, slowly.
Very gravely she braided her hair before the mirror, looking at her pale, reflected face.
Yet, though pale, it was still a fresh, wholesome, beautiful face. But the brown eyes stared sadly at their twin brown images, and the girl shook her head.
For the nearest that Helen Davis had ever come to falling in love was when Cleland first walked into her studio. She could have fallen in love with him then—within the minute—out of a clear sky. She realized it after he had gone—not too deeply astonished—she, who had never before been in love, recognized its possibility all in a moment.
But she had learned to hold herself in check since that first, abrupt and clear-minded recognition of such a possibility.
Never by a word or glance had she ever betrayed herself; yet his very nearness to her, at times, set her heart beating, set a faint thrill stealing through her. Yet her eyes always met his pleasantly, frankly, steadily; her hand lay calm and cool in his when she welcomed him or bade him good-bye. Always she schooled herself to withstand what threatened her, gave it no food for reflection, no sustenance, no status, no consideration.
Love came as no friend to her. She soon realized that. And she quietly faced him and bade him keep his distance.
She looked at herself again in the glass. Her brown eyes were very, very serious. Then the smile glimmered.
"Quand même," she murmured gaily, and switched off the light.
CHAPTER XXIV
It was a warm day in early June and Cleland, working in trousers and undershirt, and driven by thirst to his tin ice-box, discovered it to be empty.
"Confound it," he muttered, and rang up Stephanie's studio. A maid answered, saying that Miss Quest had gone motoring and Miss Davis had not yet returned from shopping.
"I want to borrow a lump of ice," explained Cleland. "I'll come down for it."
So he concealed his lack of apparel under a gay silk dressing gown, picked up a pan, and went down, not expecting to encounter anybody.
In the kitchenette, in the rear, the obliging maid gave him a lump of ice. Carrying it in one hand, aloft, as an expert waiter carries a towering tray of dishes, and whistling a gay air with great content—for his work upstairs had gone very well that morning—he sauntered out of the culinary regions, along the alley-like passageway, into the studio.
And as he started for the door which he had left ajar, a figure opened it from without and entered hurriedly—a scared, breathless little figure, bare-footed, swathed in a kimono and a shock of hair.
They stared at each other, astonished. Both blushed furiously.
"I simply can't help it," said the girl. "I was sitting on that horse waiting for Miss Davis, when a bee or a horsefly or something stung him and he began to rear and kick all around the court, and I slid off him and ran."
They both laughed. Cleland, clutching his pan of ice, said:
"I seem doomed to run into you when I shouldn't. I'm terribly sorry."
She blushed again and carefully swathed her waist in the obi.
"You didn't mean to," she said. "It was rather startling, though."
"It was, indeed. And now we're having another unconventional party. Shall I leave this ice here and go out and quiet the nag?"
"He'll surely kick you."
"I'll take a chance——" He set the pan of ice on a table, girded up his dressing-gown, and went out into the court. The horse stood quietly enough now. But Cleland soon discovered a green-eyed horsefly squatting on the wall and rubbing its forelegs together in devilish exultation.
"I'll fix you," he muttered, picking up a lump of wet clay and approaching with infinite caution. He was a good shot; he buried the bloodthirsty little demon under a spatter of clay. Then he went back for his ice.
"The deed is done," he said cheerily. "It was a horsefly, as you said.... Good-bye.... When are we going to have another dance?"
"We'd better not," she said smilingly. She had seated herself on the sofa and had drawn her pretty, bare feet up under her kimono.
"You won't let me give another party for you?" he inquired.
"I ought not to."
"Butwillyou?"
"I don't know. This kimono party we're having now seems sufficient for the present; and I think you'd better go."
"Anyway," he said, "when a desire for innocent revelling seizes you, you know where to go."
"Yes, thank you."
They laughed at each other.
"Good-bye, pretty stranger," he said.
"Good-bye, you nice boy!"
So he went away upstairs with his ice, and she stole out presently and ventured into the courtyard where the placid white horse stood as calmly as a cow.
And Stephanie, lying on her bed in her own room, twisted her body in anguish and, hands clenched, buried her face in her arms.
Helen, returning an hour later, and glancing into Stephanie's bed-room as she passed, saw the girl lying there.
"I thought you were motoring!" she exclaimed.
"The car is laid up," said Stephanie, in a muffled voice.
"Oh. Don't you feel well, Steve?"
"N-not very."
"Can I do anything? Wait a moment——" She continued on to her bed-room, unpinned her hat, drew on her working smock, and came slowly back, buttoning it.
"What's wrong, Steve?" she inquired.
"Nothing," said the girl, drearily. "I'm just—tired."
"Why—you've been crying!" murmured Helen, bending over her. "What is making you so unhappy, Steve? Don't you wish to tell me?"
"N-no."
"Shall I sit here by you, dear? I can work this afternoon——"
"No.... It's nothing at all—truly it isn't."
"Had you rather be alone?"
"Yes."
Helen went slowly away toward the court where her nag and its rider were ready for her. Stephanie lay motionless, dumb, wretched, her bosom throbbing with emotions too powerful for her—yet too vague, too blind, to enlighten her.
Unawakened to passion, ignorant of it, regardless and disdainful of what she had never coped with, the mental and spiritual suffering was, perhaps, the keener.
Humiliation and grief that she was no longer first and alone in Cleland's heart and mind had grown into a sorrow deeper than she knew, deeper than she admitted to herself. All the childish and pettier emotions attended it, mocking her with her own frailty—ignoble jealousy, hard resentment, the primitive sarcasm born of envy—the white flash of hatred for those to whom this man turned for amusement—this man whom she had adored from boyhood.
Why had he cast her out of the first place in his heart and mind? He had even told her that he was in love with her. Why had he turned to this shameless dancer?
And to what others did he also turn to find amusement when she did not know where he was?
Had it been her fault? No. From the very first night that he had come back to her—in the very face of her happiness to have him again—he had shown her what kind of man he was—there at the Ball of All the Gods—with that dreadful Goddess of Night.
She turned feverishly, tortured by her thoughts, but neither they nor the hot pillow gave her any rest. They stung her like scorpions, setting every nerve on edge with something—anger, perhaps—something unendurable there in the silence of her room.
And at last she got up to make an end of it, once and for all. But the preparations took her some time—some cold water, brush and comb, and a chamois rag.
Cleland, now dressed for luncheon, humming a comic song under his breath and contentedly numbering his latest pencilled pages, heard the tap at his open door, and looked up cheerfully, hoping for Marie Cliff, a pre-prandial dance, and a pretty companion at luncheon. Tragedy entered, wearing the mask of Stephanie Quest.
"Hello!" he cried gaily, jumping up and coming toward her. "This is too delightful. Are you coming out to lunch with me, Steve?"
"Sit down a moment," she said. But he continued to stand; and she came over and stood beside his desk, resting one hand on it.
And, after a moment, lifting her grey eyes to his:
"I have borne a great deal from you. But there is an insult which you have offered me to-day that I shall not endure in silence."
"What insult?" he demanded, turning red.
"Making my studio a rendezvous for you and your—mistress!"
He knew what she meant instantly, and his wrath blazed:
"It was an accident. I don't know how you heard of it, but it was pure accident. Also, that is a rotten thing to say——"
"Is it! You once told me that you prefer to call a spade a spade! Oh, Jim!—you werecleanonce. What have you done!"
"But it's a lie—and an absurd one!"
"Do you think that of me, too—that I tell lies?"
"No. But you evidently believe one."
"It is too obvious to doubt——" Her throat was dry with the fierceness of her emotions and she choked a moment.
"Who told you?"
"I was there."
"Where?"
"In my bed-room. I had not gone out. I heard the maid tell you I was out motoring. I meant to speak to you—but you have been so—so unfriendly lately.... And then that woman came in!" ... Her grey eyes fairly blazed.
"Why do you do this to me?" she cried, clenching both hands. "It is wicked!—unthinkable! Why do you hold me in such contempt?"
Her fierce anger silenced him, and his silence lashed her until she lost her head.
"Do you think you can offer me such an affront in my own studio because I am really not your sister?—because your name is Cleland and mine is not?—because I was only the wretched, starved, maltreated child of drunken parents when your father picked me out of the gutter! Is that why you feel at liberty to affront me under my own roof—show your contempt for me?Isit?"
"Steve, you are mad!" he said. He had turned very white.
"No," she said, "but I'm at the limit of endurance. I can't stand it any longer. I shall go to-night to the man I married and live with him and find a shelter there—find protection and—f-forgetfulness——" Her voice broke but her eyes were the more brilliant and dangerous for the flashing tears:
"I know what you and my aunt talked over between you," she said. "You discussed the chances of my developing erratic, unscrupulous, morbid, immoral traits! You were anxious for fear I had inherited them. Probably now you think I have. Think as you please——!" she flashed out through her tears; "you have killed every bit of happiness in me. Remember it some day!"
She turned to go, and he sprang forward to detain her, but she twisted herself out of his arms and reeled back against the desk.
Then he had her in his arms again, and she stared at his white, tense face, all distorted by her blinding tears:
"I love you, Steve! That's all the answer I give you. That's my reply to your folly. I never loved anybody else; I never shall; I never can. I am clean. I don't know how it happens, but Iam! They lie who tell you anything else. I'm like my father; I care for only one woman. I'm incapable of caring for any other.
"I don't know what I've done to you to make you say such things and think them. I consider you as my own kin; I respect and love you like a kinsman. But—God help me—I've gone further; I love you as a lover. I can't tear you out of my heart; I've tried because I saw no hope that you ever could fall in love with me—but I couldn't do it—I couldn't.
"If you go to the man you married I shall never love any other woman. That is the truth, and I know it, now!"
Her body was still rigid in his arms; her tense hands lay flat on his breast as though to repulse him.
But there was no strength in them and they had begun to tremble under the hard beating of his heart.
Her mouth, too, was quivering; her tear-wet eyes looked mutely into his; suddenly her body relaxed, yielded; and at his fierce embrace her hot mouth melted against his.
"Steve," he stammered—"Steve—can you care for me—in my way——?"
Under the deep-fringed lids her grey eyes looked at him vaguely; her lips were burning.
"Steve——" he whispered.
Her slowly lifted eyes alone responded.
"Can you love me?"
Her eyes closed again. And after a long while her lips responded delicately to his.
"Is it love, Steve?" he asked, trembling.
"I don't know.... I'm so tired—confused——"
Her arms fell from his neck to his shoulders and she opened her eyes, listlessly.
"I think it—must be," she said.... "I'm quite sure it is!"
"Love?"
"Yes."
CHAPTER XXV
Cleland, tremendously thrilled and excited by the first but faint response to his ardour which he had ever obtained of Stephanie, but uncertain, too, and almost incredulous as to its significance and duration, retained sufficient common sense and self-control to restrain him from pressing matters further. For Stephanie seemed so listless, so confused, so apparently unable to comprehend herself and these new and deep emotions which threatened her, that he forebore to seize what seemed to be an undue advantage.
They parted very quietly at her studio door; she naïvely admitting physical fatigue, headache, and a natural desire to be down in her darkened room; he to return to his studio, too much upset to work or to eat, later, when the dinner hour drew near.
However, he took his hat and stick and went down stairs. When he rang at her studio, Helen admitted him, saying that Stephanie was asleep in her room and had not desired any dinner. So they chatted for a while, and then Cleland took his departure and walked slowly up the street toward the Rochambeau. And the first person he met on University Place was Marie Cliff.
Perhaps it was the instinct to make amends to her for the unjust inferences drawn to her discredit a few hours before—perhaps it was the sheer excitement and suddenly renewed hope of Stephanie that incited him. Anyway, his gay greeting and unfeigned cordiality stirred the lonely girl to response, and when they had walked as far as the Beaux Arts, they were quite in the mood to dine together.
She was grateful to be with an agreeable man whom she liked and whom she could trust; his buoyant spirits and happy excitement were grateful for somebody on whom they could be vented.
In that perfumed tumult of music, wine, and dancing they seated themselves, greeted cordially by Louis, the courtly and incomparable; and they dined together luxuriously, sometimes rising to dance between courses, sometimes joining laughingly in a gay chorus sustained by the orchestra, sometimes, with elbows on the cloth and heads together, chattering happily of nothing in particular.
Men here and there bowed to her and to him; some women recognized and greeted them; but they were having much too good and too irresponsible a time together to join others or to invite approaches.
It was all quite harmless—a few moments' pleasure without other significance than that the episode had been born of a young man's high spirits and a young girl's natural relief when her solitude was made gay for her without reproach.
It was about eleven o'clock; Marie, wishing to be fresh for her posing in the morning, reminded him with frank regret that she ought to go.
"I wouldn't care," she said, "except that since I've left the Follies I have to depend on what I earn at Miss Davis's studio. So you don't mind, do you, Mr. Cleland?"
"No, of course not. It's been fine, hasn't it?"
"Yes. I've had such a good time!—and you are the nicest of men——"
Her voice halted; Cleland, watching her with smiling eyes, saw a sudden alteration of her pretty features. Then he turned to follow her fixed gaze.
"Hello," he said, "there's Harry Belter. Are you looking athim?"
Her face had grown very sober; she withdrew her gaze with a little shrug of indifference, now.
"Yes, I was looking at him," she said quietly.
"I didn't know you knew him."
"Didn't you? ... Yes, I used to know him."
He laughed:
"The recollection doesn't appear to be very pleasant."
"No."
"Too bad. I like Belter. He and I were at school together. He's enormously clever."
She remained silent.
"He really is. And he is an awfully good fellow at heart—a little pronounced, a trifle tumultuous sometimes, but——"
She said, evenly:
"I know him better than you do, Mr. Cleland."
"Really!"
"Yes.... I married him."
Cleland was thunderstruck.
"I was only seventeen," she said calmly. "I was on the stage at the time."
"Good Lord!" he murmured, astounded.
"He never spoke of it to you?"
"Never! I never dreamed——"
"Idid. I dreamed." She shrugged her shoulders again, lightly. "But—I awoke very soon. My dream had ended."
"What on earth was the matter?"
"I am afraid you had better ask him," she replied gravely.
"I beg your pardon; I shouldn't have asked that question at all!"
"I didn't mind.... It is my tragedy—still. But let a man interpret it to men. A woman would not be understood."
"Are you—divorced?"
"No."
Cleland, still deeply astonished, looked across the room at Belter. That young man, very red, sat listening to Badger Spink's interminable chatter—pretending to listen; but his disturbed gaze was turned from time to time on Marie Cliff; and became hideously stony when it shifted to Cleland at moments without a sign of recognition.
"Shall we go?" asked the girl in a low voice.
They rose. A similar impulse seemed to seize Belter, and he got up almost blindly and strode across the floor.
Cleland, suddenly confronted at the door of the cloak-room, from which Marie was just emerging, said:
"Hello, Harry," in a rather embarrassed manner.
"Go to hell," replied the latter in a low voice of concentrated fury, and turned on his wife.
"Marie," he said unsteadily, "may I speak to you?"
"Certainly, but not now," replied the girl, who had turned white as a sheet.
Cleland touched the man's arm which was trembling:
"Better not interfere," he said pleasantly. "The disgrace of a row will be yours, not your wife's."
"What areyoudoing with my wife!" whispered Belter, his voice shaking with rage.
"I'll tell you, Harry. I'm showing her all the respect and friendship and sympathy that there is in me to to show to a charming, sincere young girl.... You know the sort of man I am. You ought to know your wife but evidently you don't. Therefore, your question is superfluous."
Belter drew him abruptly back to the foot of the stairs:
"If you're lying I'll kill you," he said. "Do you understand?"
"Yes. And if you make any yellow scene here, Harry, after I've taken your wife home, I'll come back and settle you. Doyouunderstand? ... For God's sake," he added coldly, "if you've got any breeding, show it now!"
The tense silence between them lasted a full minute. Then, very slowly, Belter turned toward the cloak-room where, just within the door, his wife stood looking at him.
His sanguine features had lost all their colour in the greyish pallour that suddenly aged him. He went toward her; she made the slightest movement of recoil, but faced him calmly.
"I'm sorry," he said in a voice like a whisper. "I am—the fool that you—think me.... I'll—take myself off."
He bowed to her pleasantly, turned and passed Cleland with his hat still in his hand:
"I'm sorry, Jim; I know you're all right; and I'm—all wrong ... all wrong——"
"Come to the studio to-morrow. Will you, Harry?" whispered Cleland.
But Belter shook his head, continuing on his way to the street.
"I'll expect you," added Cleland. "Come about noon!"
The other made no sign that he had heard.