CHAPTER XTo any young man his first flirtation with Literature is a heart-rending affair, although the jade takes it lightly enough.But that muse is a frivolous youngster and plagues her young lovers to the verge of distraction.And no matter how serious a new aspirant may be or how determined to remain free from self-consciousness, refrain from traditional mental attitudes and censor every impulse toward "fine writing," his frivolous muse beguiles him and flatters him, and leads him on until he has succumbed to every deadly scribbler's sin in his riotous progress of a literary rake.The only hope for him is that his muse may some day take enough interest in him to mangle his feelings and exterminate his adjectives.Every morning Jim remained for hours hunched up at his table, fondling his first-born novel. The period of weaning was harrowing. Joy, confidence, pride, excitement, moments of mental intoxication, were succeeded by every species of self-distrust, alarm, funk, slump, and most horrid depression.One day he felt himself to be easily master of the English language; another day he feared that a public school examination would reveal him as a hopeless illiterate. Like all beginners, he had swallowed the axiom that genius worked only when it had a few moments to spare from other diversions; and he tried it out. The proposition proved to be a self-evident fake.It was to his own credit that he finally discovered that inspiration comes with preparedness; that the proper place for creative inspiration was a seat at his desk with pencil and pad before him; that the pleasure of self-expression must become a habit as well as a pleasure, and not an occasional caprice to be casually gratified; and that technical excellence is acquired at the daily work-bench alone, and not among the talkers of talk.So the boy began to form his habit of work; discovered that sooner or later a receptive mind resulted; and, realizing that inspiration came when preparations for its reception had been made, gradually got over his earlier beliefs in the nonsense talked about genius and the commercializing of the same. And so he ceased getting out of bed to record a precious thought, and refrained from sitting up until two in the morning to scribble. He plugged ahead as long as he could stand it; and late in the afternoon he went out to hunt for relaxation, which, except for the creative, is the only other known species of true pleasure.Except for their conveniences as to lavatories and bars, there are very few clubs in New York worth belonging to; and only one to which it is an honour to belong.In this club Cleland Senior sat now, very often, instead of pursuing his daily course among print-shops, auction rooms, and private collections of those beautiful or rare or merely curious and interesting objects which for many years it had been his pleasure to nose out and sometimes acquire.For now that his son was busy writing for the greater portion of the day, and Stephanie had gone away to college, Cleland Senior gradually became conscious of a subtle change which was beginning within himself—a tendency to relax mentally and physically—a vague realization that his work in life had been pretty nearly accomplished and that it was almost time to rest.With this conviction came a tendency to depression, inclination for silence and retrospection, not entirely free from melancholy. Not unnoticed by his physician, either, who had arrived at his own conclusions. The medical treatment, however, continued on the same lines sketched out by the first prescriptions, except that all narcotics and stimulants were forbidden.John Cleland now made it a custom to go every day to his club, read in the great, hushed library, gossip with the older members, perhaps play a game of chess with some friend of his early youth, lunch there with ancient cronies, sometimes fall asleep in one of the great, deep chairs in the lounging hall. And, as he had always been constitutionally moderate, the physician's edict depriving him of his cigar and his claret annoyed him scarcely at all. Always he returned to the home on 80th Street, when his only son was likely to be free from work; and together they dined at home, or more rarely at Delmonico's; and sometimes they went together to some theatre or concert.For they were nearer to each other than they had ever been in their lives during those quiet autumn and winter days together; and they shared every thought—almost every thought—only Cleland had never spoken to his son about the medicine he was taking regularly, nor of that odd experience when he had found himself standing dazed and speechless by his own bed in the silence and darkness of early morning.Stephanie came back at Christmas—a lovely surprise—a supple, grey-eyed young thing, grown an inch and a half taller, flower-fresh, instinct with the intoxicating vigour and delight of mere living, and tremulous with unuttered and very youthful ideas about everything on earth.She kissed Cleland Senior, clung to him, caressed him. But for the first time her demonstration ended there; she offered her hand to Jim in flushed and slightly confused silence."What's the matter with you, Steve?" demanded the youth, half laughing, half annoyed. "You think you're too big to kiss me? By Jove, you shall kiss me——!"And he summarily saluted her.She got away from him immediately with an odd little laugh, and held tightly to Cleland Senior again."Dad darling, darling!" she murmured, "I'm glad I'm back. Areyou? Do you reallywantme? And I'm going to tell you right now, I don't wish to have you arrange parties and dinners and dances and things for me. All I want is to be with you and go to the theatre every night——""Good Lord, Steve! That's no programme for a pretty little girl!""I'mnot! Don't call me that! I've got a mind! But Ihavegot such lots to learn—so many, many things to learn! And only one life to learn them in——""Fiddle!" remarked Jim."It really isn't fiddle, Jim! I'm just crazy to learn things, and I'm not one bit interested in frivolity and ordinary things and people——""You liked people once; you liked to dance——""When I was a child, yes," she retorted scornfully. "But I realize, now, how short life is——""Fiddle," repeated Jim. "That fool college is spoiling you for fair!""Dad! He's a brute! You understand me, darling, don't you? Don't let him plague me."His arm around her slender shoulder tightened; all three were laughing."You don'thaveto dance, Steve, if you don't want to," he said. "Do you consider it frivolous to dine occasionally? Meacham has just announced the possibility of food."She nestled close to him as they went out to dinner, all three very gay and loquacious, and the two men keenly conscious of the girl's rapid development, of the serious change in her, the scarcely suppressed exuberance, the sparkling and splendid bodily vitality.As they entered the dining room:"Oh, Meacham, I'm glad to see you," she cried impulsively, taking the little withered man's hands into both of hers.There was no reply, only in the burnt-out eyes a sudden mist—the first since his mistress had passed away."Dad, do you mind if I run down a moment to see Lizzie and Janet and Amanda? Dear, I'll be right back——" She was gone, light-footed, eager, down the service stairs—a child again in the twinkling of an eye. The two men, vaguely smiling, remained standing.When she returned, Meacham seated her. She picked up the blossom beside her plate, saw the other at the unoccupied place opposite, and her eyes suddenly filled.There was a moment's silence, then she kissed the petals and placed the flower in her hair."My idea," she began, cheerfully, "is to waste no time in life! So I think I'd like to go to the theatre all the time——"The men's laughter checked her and she joined in."Youdounderstand, both of you!" she insisted. "You're tormenting me and you know it!Idon't go to the theatre to amuse myself. I go to inform myself—to learn, study, improve myself in the art of self-expression—Jim, you are a beast to grin at me!""Steve, for Heaven's sake, be a human girl for a few moments and have a good time!""That'smy way of having a good time. I wish to go to studios and see painters and sculptors at work! I wish to go to plays and concerts——""How about seeing a real author at work, Steve?""You?" she divined with a dainty sniff."Certainly. Come up any morning and watch genius work a lead-pencil. That ought to educate you and leave an evening or two for dancing——""Jim, I positively do not care for parties. I don't even desire to waste one minute of my life. Ordinary people bore me, I tell you——""Do I?""Sometimes," she retorted, with delighted malice. And turning swiftly to Cleland Senior: "As for you, darling, I could spend every minute of my whole existence with you and not be bored for one second!"The claret in John Cleland's glass—claret forbidden under Dr. Wilmer's régime—glowed like a ruby. But he could not permit Stephanie to return without that old-fashioned formality.So John Cleland rose, glass in hand, his hair and moustache very white against the ruddy skin."Steve, dear, you and Jim have never brought me anything but happiness—anything but honour to my name and to my roof. We welcome you home, dear, to your own place among your own people: Jim—we have the honour—our little Stephanie! Welcome home!"The young fellow rose, smiling, and bowed gaily to Stephanie."Welcome home," he said, "dearest of sisters and most engaging insurgent of your restless sex!"That night Stephanie seemed possessed of a gay demon of demonstrative mischief. She conversed with Jim so seriously about his authorship that at first he did not realize that he was an object of sarcastic and delighted malice. When he did comprehend that she was secretly laughing at him, he turned so red with surprise and indignation that his father and Stephanie gave way to helpless laughter. Seated there on the sofa, across the room, tense, smiling, triumphantly and delightfully dangerous, she blew an airy kiss at Jim:"Thatwill teach you to poke fun at me," she said. "You're no longer an object of fear and veneration just because you're writing a book!"The young fellow laughed."Iameasy," he admitted. "All authors are without honour in their own families. But wouldn't it surprise you, Steve, if the world took my book respectfully?""Not at all. That's one of the reasonsIdon't. The opinion of ordinary people does not concern me," she said with gay impudence, "and if your book is a best seller it ought to worry you, Jim.""You don't think," he demanded sadly, "that there's anything in me?""Oh, Jim!"—swiftly remorseful—"I was joking, of course." And, seeing by his grin that he was, too, turned up her nose, regretting too late her hasty and warm-hearted remorse."Howcommon, this fishing for praise and sympathy!" she remarked disdainfully. "Dad, does he bother you to death trying to read his immortal lines to you at inopportune moments?"Cleland Senior, in his arm-chair, white-haired, deeply ruddy, had been laughing during the bantering passage at arms between the two he loved best on earth.He seemed the ideal personification of hale and wholesome age, sound as a bell, very handsome, save that the flush on his face seemed rather heavier and deeper than the usual healthy colour."Dad," exclaimed the girl, impulsively, "you certainly are the best-looking thing in all New York! I don't think I shall permit you to go walking alone all by yourself any more. Do you hear me?"She sprang up lightly, went over and seated herself on the arm of his chair, murmuring close to his face gay little jests, odd, quaint endearments, all sorts of nonsense while she smoothed his hair to her satisfaction, re-tied his evening tie, patted his lapels, and finally kissed him lightly between his eyebrows, continuing her murmured nonsense all the while:"I won't have other women looking sideways at you—the hussies! I'm jealous. I shall hereafter walk out with you. Do you hear what I threaten?—you very flighty and deceitful man! Steve is going to chaperon you everywhere you go."John Cleland's smile altered subtly:"Noteverywhere, Steve.""Indeed, I shall! Every step you take.""No, dear.""Why not?""Because—there is one rather necessary trip I shall have to make—some day——"A moment's silence; then her arms around his neck:"Dad!" she whispered, in breathless remonstrance."Yes, dear?""Don't you—feelwell?""Perfectly.""Then," fiercely, "don't dare hint such things!""About the—journey I spoke of?" he asked, smiling."Yes! Don't say such a thing! You are not going!—until I go, too!""If I could postpone the trip on your account——""Dad! Do you want to break my heart and kill me by such jokes?""There, Steve, I was merely teasing. Men of my age have a poor way of joking sometimes.... I mean to postpone that trip. Indeed, I do, Steve. You're a handful, and I've got to keep hold of you for a long while yet."Jim overheard that much:"A handful? Rubbish!" he remarked. "Send her to bed at nine for the next few years and be careful about her diet and censor her reading matter. That's all Steve needs to become a real grown-up some day."Stephanie had risen to face the shafts of good-natured sarcasm."Suppose," she said, "that I told you I had sent a poem to a certain magazine and that it had been accepted?""I'd say very amiably that you are precocious," he replied tormentingly."Brute! Idid! I sent it!""They accepted it?""I don't know," she admitted, pink with annoyance; "but it won't surprise me very much if they accept it. Really, Jim, do you think nobody else can write anything worth considering? Do you really believe that you embody all the talent in New York?Doyou?" And, to Cleland Senior: "Oh, Dad, isn't he the horrid personification of everything irritatingly masculine? And I'll bet his old novel is perfectly commonplace. I think I'll go up to his room and take a critical glance at it——""Hold on, Steve!" he exclaimed—for she was already going. She glanced over her shoulder with a defiant smile, and he sprang up to follow and overtake her.But Stephanie's legs were long and her feet light and swift, and she was upstairs and inside his room before he caught her, reaching for the sacred manuscript."Oh, Jim," she coaxed, beguilingly, "do let me have one little peep at it, there's a dear fellow! Just one little——""Not yet, Steve. It isn't in any shape. Wait till it's typed——""I don't care. I can read your writing easily——""It's all scored and cross-written and messed up——""Please, Jim! I'm simply half dead with curiosity," she admitted. "Be an angel brother and let me sit here and hear you read the first chapter—only one little chapter. Won't you?" she pleaded with melting sweetness."I—I'd be—embarrassed——""What! To have your own sister hear what you've written?"There was a short silence. The word "sister" was meant to be reassuring to both. To use it came instinctively to her as an inspiration, partly because she had vaguely felt that some confirmation of such matter-of-fact relationship would put them a little more perfectly at their ease with each other.For they had not been entirely at their ease. Both were subtly aware of that—she had first betrayed it by her offered hand instead of the friendly and sisterly kiss which had been a matter of course until now."Come," she said, gaily, "be a good child and read the pretty story to little sister."She sat down on the edge of his bed; he, already seated at his desk, frowned at the pile of manuscript before him."I'd rather talk," he said."About what?""Anything. Honestly, Steve, I'll let you see it when it's typed. But I rather hate to show anything until it's done—I don't like to have people see the raw edges and the machinery.""I'm not 'people.' How horrid. Also, it makes a difference when a girl is not only your sister but also somebody who intends to devote her life to artistic self-expression. You can read your story to that kind of girl, I should hope!""Haven't you given that up?""Given up what?""That mania for self-expression, as you call it.""Of course not.""What do you think you want to do?" he asked uneasily."Jim, you are entirely too patronizing. I don't 'think' I want to do anything: but IknowI desire to find some medium for self-expression and embrace it as a profession."That rather crushed him for a moment. Then:"There'll be time enough to start that question when you graduate——""It isnota question. I intend to express myself some day. And you might as well reconcile yourself to that idea.""Suppose you haven't anything worth expressing?""Are you teasing?" She flushed slightly."Oh, yes, I suppose I am teasing you. But, Steve, neither father nor I want to see you enter any unconventional profession. It's no good for a girl unless she is destined for it by a talent that amounts to genius. If you have that, it ought to show by the time you graduate——""You make me simply furious, Jim," she retorted impatiently. "These few months at college have taught mesomething. And, for one thing, I've learned that a girl has exactly as much right as a man to live her own life in her own way, unfettered by worn-out conventions and unhampered by man's critical opinions concerning her behaviour."The dickens," he remarked, and whistled softly."And, further," she continued warmly, "I am astonished that in this age, when the entire world tacitly admits that woman is man's absolute equal in every respect, that you apparently still harbour old-fashioned, worn-out and silly notions. You are very far out of date, my charming brother.""What notions?" he demanded."Notions that a girl's mission is to go to parties and dance when she doesn't desire to—that a girl had better conform to the uninteresting and stilted laws of the recent past and live her life as an animated clothes-rack, mind her deportment, and do what nice girls do, and marry and become the mother of numerous offspring; which shall be taught to follow in her footsteps and do the same thing all over again, generation after generation—ad nauseam!—— Oh, Jim! I'm not going to live out my life that way and be looked after as carefully as a pedigreed Pekinese——""For Heaven's sake——""For Heaven's sake—yes!—and in God's name, Jim, it is time that a woman's mind was occupied by something beside the question of clothes and husbands and children!"The boy whistled softly, stared at her, and she looked at him unflinchingly, with her pretty, breathless smile of defiance."I want to live my own life in my own way. Can't I?" she asked."Of course——""You say that. But the instant I venture to express a desire for any outlet—for any chance to be myself, express myself, seek the artistic means for self-utterance, then you tell me I am unconventional!"He was silent."Nobody hampersyou!" she flashed out. "You are free to choose your profession.""But why doyouwant a profession, Steve?""Why? Because I feel the need of it. Because just ordinary society does not interest me. I prefer Bohemia."He said:"There's a lot of stuff talked about studios and atmosphere and 'urge' and general Bohemian irresponsibility—and a young girl is apt to get a notion that she, also, experiences the 'cosmic urge' and that 'self-expression' is her middle name.... That's all I mean, Steve. You frequently have voiced your desire for a career among the fine arts. Now and then you have condescended to sketch for me your idea of an ideal environment, which appears to be a studio in studio disorder, art produced in large chunks, and 'people worth while' loudly attacking pianos and five o'clock tea——""Jim! You are not nice to me.... If I didn't love you with all my heart——""It's because I'm fond of you, too," he explained. "I don't want my sister, all over clay or paint, sitting in a Greenwich village studio, smoking cigarettes and frying sausages for lunch! No! Or I don't want her bullied by an ignorant stage director or leered at by an animal who plays 'opposite,' or insulted by a Semitic manager. Is that very astonishing?"The girl rose, nervous, excited, but laughing:"You dear old out-of-date thing! We'll continue this discussion another time. Dad's been alone in the library altogether too long." She laughed again, a little hint of tenderness in her gaiety; and extended her hand. He took it."Without prejudice," she said. "I adore you, Jim!""And with all my heart, Steve. I just want you to do what will be best for you, little sister.""I know. Thank you, Jim. Now, we'll go and find dad."They found him. He lay on the thick Oushak rug at the foot of the chair in which he had been seated when they left him.On his lips lingered a slight smile.A physician lived across the street. When he arrived his examination was brief and perfunctory. He merely said that the stroke had come like a bolt of lightning, then turned his attention to Stephanie, who seemed to be sorely in need of it.CHAPTER XIWhen such a thing happens to young people a certain mental numbness follows the first shock, limiting the capacity for suffering, and creating its own anodyne.The mental processes resume their functions gradually, chary of arousing sensation.Grief produces a chemical reaction within the body, poisoning it. But within that daily visitor to the body, the soul, a profound spiritual reaction occurs which either cripples it or ennobles it eternally.Many people called and left cards, or sent cards and flowers. Some asked for Jim; among others, Chiltern Grismer."M-m-m'yes," he murmured, retaining the young man's hand, "—my friend of many years has left us;—m-m-m'yes, my friend of many years. I am very sorry to hear it; yes, very sorry."Jim remained passive, incurious. Grismer prowled about the darkened room, alternately pursing up and sucking in his dry and slitted lips. Finally he seated himself and gazed owlishly at the young man."And our little adopted sister? How does this deplorable affliction affect her? May I hope to offer my condolences to her also?""My sister Stephanie is utterly crushed.... Thank you.... She is very grateful to you.""M-m-m'yes. May I see her?""I am sorry. She is scarcely able to see anybody at present. Her aunt, Miss Quest, is with her.""M-m-m. After all—but let it remain unsaid—m-m-m'yes, unsaid. So her aunt is with her? M-m-m!"Jim was silent. Grismer sat immovable as a gargoyle, gazing at him out of unwinking eyes."M-m-m'yes," he said. "Grief was his due. My friend of many years was worthy of such filial demonstrations. Quite so—even though there is, in point of fact, no blood relationship between my friend of many years and your adopted sister——""My sister could not feel her loss more keenly if she and I had been born of the same mother," said the boy in a dull voice."Quite so. M-m-m'yes. Or the same father. Quite so.""I—I simply can't talk about it yet," muttered the young fellow. "If you'll excuse me——""Quiteso. Far better to talk about other things just at present, m'yes, far wiser. M-m-m—and so the young lady's aunt has arrived? Very suitable, ve-ry suitable and necessary. And doubtless Miss Quest will take up her permanent residence here, in view of the—ah—m-m-m-m'yes!—no doubt of it; no doubt.""We have not spoken of that."A moment later Miss Quest entered the room."Stephanie is awake and is asking for you," she said. As the young man rose with a murmured excuse. Miss Quest turned and looked at Chiltern Grismer."Madame," he began, rising to his gaunt height, "permit me—my name is Grismer——""Oh," she interrupted drily, "I've talked you over with the late Mr. Cleland.""My friend of many years, Madame——""We didn't discuss your friendship for each other, Mr. Grismer," she snapped out. "Our subject of conversation concerned money.""Ma'am?""An inheritance, in fact, which, I believe, you allege that youlegallyconverted to your own uses," she added, staring at him.They sustained each other's gaze in silence for a moment.Then Grismer's large, dry hand crept up over his lips and began a rhythmical massage of the grim jaw."My friend of many years and I came to an understanding in regard to the painful matter which you have mentioned," he said slowly."Yes?""Absolutely, Madame. Out of his abundance, I was given to understand, he had bountifully provided for your niece—m-m-m'yes, bounteously provided. Further, he gave me to understand that you, Madame, out of the abundant wealth with which our Lord has blessed you, had indicated your resolution to provide for the young lady."There was an uncanny gleam in Miss Quest's eyes. But she said nothing. Grismer, watching her, softly joined the tips of his horny fingers."M-m'yes. Quite so. My friend of many years voluntarily assured me that he did not contemplate reopening the unfortunate matter in question—in point of fact, Madame, he gave me his solemn promise never to initiate any such action in behalf of the young lady."Miss Quest remained mute."And John Cleland was right, Madame," continued Grismer in a gentle, persuasive voice, "because any such litigation must prove not only costly but fruitless of result. The unfortunate and undesirable publicity of such a case, if brought to trial, could not vindicate my own rectitude and the righteousness of my cause while gossip and scandal cruelly destroyed the social position which the young lady at present enjoys."After another silence:"Well?" inquired Miss Quest, "is there anything more that worries you, Mr. Grismer?""Worries me, Madame? I am not disturbed in the slightest degree.""Oh, yes you are. You are not disturbed over any possible scandal that might affect my niece, but you are horribly afraid of any disgrace to yourself. And that is why you come into this house of death while your 'friend of many years' is still lying in his coffin! That is why you come prowling to find out whether I am as much a lady in my way as he was a gentleman in his. That's all that disturbs you!""Madame——""Or, to put it plainer, you want to know whether you have to defend an action, civil perhaps, possibly criminal, charging you with mal-administration and illegal conversion of trust funds. That's all that worries you, isn't it? Well—worry then!" she added venomously."Do I understand——""No, youdon'tunderstand, Mr. Grismer. And that's another thing for you to worry over. You don't know what I'm going to do, or whether I am going to do anything at all. You may find out in a week—you may not find out for years. And it is going to worry you every minute of your life."She marched to the staircase hall:"Meacham?""Ma'am?""Mr. Grismer's hat!"Jim, seated beside the bed where Stephanie lay in the darkened room, her tear-marred face buried in her pillow, heard the front door close. Then silence reigned again in the twilight of the house of Cleland.Miss Quest peeped into the room, then withdrew. If the young fellow heard her at all he made no movement, so still, so intent had he been since his father's death in striving to visualize the familiar face. And found to his astonishment and grief that he could not mentally summon his father's image before his eyes—could not flog the shocked brain to evoke the beloved features. The very effort was becoming an agony to him.It began to rain about four o'clock. It rained hard all night long on the resounding scuttle and roof overhead. Toward dawn the rain ceased and the dark world grew noisy. There was a cat-fight on the back fence. The car wheels on Madison Avenue seemed unusually dissonant. Very far away, foggy river whistles saluted the dawn of another day.There were a great many people at the funeral. God knows the dead are indifferent to suchattroupements macabre, but it seems to satisfy some morbid requirement in the living—friends, a priest, and a passing bell.Hoc erat in more majorum: hodie tibi; cras mihi.The family—Jim, Stephanie and Miss Quest—sat together, as is customary. The church was bathed in tinted sunlight streaming through stained glass and falling over casket and flowers in glowing hues. The dyed splendour painted pew and chancel and stained Stephanie's black veil with crimson. Behind them a discreet but interminable string of many people continued.When the first creeping note of the organ, ominous and low, grew out of the silence, young Cleland felt Stephanie sway a little and remain resting against his shoulder. After a moment he realized that the girl had lost consciousness; and he quietly passed his arm around her, holding her firmly until she revived and moved again.As for himself, what was passing before him seemed like a shadow scene enacted behind darkened glass. There was nothing real about it, nothing that seemed to appertain in any way to this dead father who had been a comrade and beloved friend. He looked at the casket, at the massed flowers, at the altar, the surplices. All were foreign to the intensely human father he had loved—nothing here seemed to be in harmony with him—not the crawling vibration of the organ, not the resonant, professional droning of the clergy; not these throngs of unseen people behind his back,—not the black garments he wore; not this slender, sombre, drooping thing of crape seated here close beside him, trembling at intervals, with one black-gloved hand gripping his.A sullen hatred for it all began to possess him. All this was interrupting him—actually making it harder than ever for him to visualize his father—driving the beloved phantom out from its familiar environment in his heart into unrecognizable surroundings full of caskets, pallid, heavy-scented flowers, surpliced clergymen whose cadenced phrases were accurately timed; whose every move and gesture showed them to be quite perfect in the "business" of the act."Hell," he muttered under his breath; and became aware of Stephanie's white face and startled eyes."Nothing," he whispered; "only I can't stand this mummery! I want to get back to the library where I can be with father.... Heisn'tin that black and silver thing over there. He isn't in any orthodox paradise. He's part of the sunlight out doors—and the spring air.... He's an immortal part of everything beautiful that ever was. When these people conclude to let him alone, I'll have a chance with him.... You think I'm crazy, Steve?"Her pale lips formed "No."They remained silent after that until the end, their tense fingers interlocked. Miss Quest's head remained bowed in the folds of her crape veil.The drive from the cemetery began through the level, rosy rays of a declining sun, and ended in soft spring darkness full of the cheery noises of populous streets.Cleland had dreaded to enter the house as they drew near to it; its prospective emptiness appalled him; but old Meacham had lighted every light all over the house; and it seemed to help, somehow.Miss Quest went with Stephanie to her room, leaving Jim in the library alone.Strange, irrelevant thoughts came to the boy's mind to assail him, torment him with their futility: he remembered several things which he had forgotten to tell his father—matters of no consequence which now suddenly assumed agonizing importance.There in the solitude of the library, he remembered, among other things, that his father would never read his novel, now. Why had he waited, wishing to have it entirely finished before his father should read this first beloved product of his eager pen?Stephanie found him striding about the library, lips distorted, quivering with swelling grief."Oh, Steve," he said, seeing her in the doorway, "I am beginning to realize that I can't talk to him any more! I can't touch him—I can't talk—hear his voice—see——""Jim—don't——""The whole world is no good to me now!" cried the boy, flinging up his arms in helpless resentment toward whatever had done this thing to him.Whatever had done it offered no excuse.CHAPTER XII.The reading of John Cleland's will marked the beginning of the end of the old régime for Stephanie Quest and for James Cleland.Two short letters accompanied the legal document. All the papers were of recent date.The letter directed to Jim was almost blunt in its brevity:MY DEAR SON:I have had what I believe to have been two slight shocks of paralysis. If I am right, and another shock proves fatal, I wish you, after my death, to go abroad and travel and study for the next two years. At the end of that period you ought to know whether or not you really desire to make literature your profession. If you do, come back to your own country and go to work. Europe is a good school, but you should practise your profession in your native land.Keep straight, fit, and clean. Keep your head in adversity and in success. Find out what business in life you are fitted for, equip yourself for it, and then go into it with all your heart.I've left you some money and a good name. And my deep, abiding love. My belief is that death is merely an intermission. So your mother and I will rejoin you when the next act begins. Until then, old chap—good luck!
CHAPTER X
To any young man his first flirtation with Literature is a heart-rending affair, although the jade takes it lightly enough.
But that muse is a frivolous youngster and plagues her young lovers to the verge of distraction.
And no matter how serious a new aspirant may be or how determined to remain free from self-consciousness, refrain from traditional mental attitudes and censor every impulse toward "fine writing," his frivolous muse beguiles him and flatters him, and leads him on until he has succumbed to every deadly scribbler's sin in his riotous progress of a literary rake.
The only hope for him is that his muse may some day take enough interest in him to mangle his feelings and exterminate his adjectives.
Every morning Jim remained for hours hunched up at his table, fondling his first-born novel. The period of weaning was harrowing. Joy, confidence, pride, excitement, moments of mental intoxication, were succeeded by every species of self-distrust, alarm, funk, slump, and most horrid depression.
One day he felt himself to be easily master of the English language; another day he feared that a public school examination would reveal him as a hopeless illiterate. Like all beginners, he had swallowed the axiom that genius worked only when it had a few moments to spare from other diversions; and he tried it out. The proposition proved to be a self-evident fake.
It was to his own credit that he finally discovered that inspiration comes with preparedness; that the proper place for creative inspiration was a seat at his desk with pencil and pad before him; that the pleasure of self-expression must become a habit as well as a pleasure, and not an occasional caprice to be casually gratified; and that technical excellence is acquired at the daily work-bench alone, and not among the talkers of talk.
So the boy began to form his habit of work; discovered that sooner or later a receptive mind resulted; and, realizing that inspiration came when preparations for its reception had been made, gradually got over his earlier beliefs in the nonsense talked about genius and the commercializing of the same. And so he ceased getting out of bed to record a precious thought, and refrained from sitting up until two in the morning to scribble. He plugged ahead as long as he could stand it; and late in the afternoon he went out to hunt for relaxation, which, except for the creative, is the only other known species of true pleasure.
Except for their conveniences as to lavatories and bars, there are very few clubs in New York worth belonging to; and only one to which it is an honour to belong.
In this club Cleland Senior sat now, very often, instead of pursuing his daily course among print-shops, auction rooms, and private collections of those beautiful or rare or merely curious and interesting objects which for many years it had been his pleasure to nose out and sometimes acquire.
For now that his son was busy writing for the greater portion of the day, and Stephanie had gone away to college, Cleland Senior gradually became conscious of a subtle change which was beginning within himself—a tendency to relax mentally and physically—a vague realization that his work in life had been pretty nearly accomplished and that it was almost time to rest.
With this conviction came a tendency to depression, inclination for silence and retrospection, not entirely free from melancholy. Not unnoticed by his physician, either, who had arrived at his own conclusions. The medical treatment, however, continued on the same lines sketched out by the first prescriptions, except that all narcotics and stimulants were forbidden.
John Cleland now made it a custom to go every day to his club, read in the great, hushed library, gossip with the older members, perhaps play a game of chess with some friend of his early youth, lunch there with ancient cronies, sometimes fall asleep in one of the great, deep chairs in the lounging hall. And, as he had always been constitutionally moderate, the physician's edict depriving him of his cigar and his claret annoyed him scarcely at all. Always he returned to the home on 80th Street, when his only son was likely to be free from work; and together they dined at home, or more rarely at Delmonico's; and sometimes they went together to some theatre or concert.
For they were nearer to each other than they had ever been in their lives during those quiet autumn and winter days together; and they shared every thought—almost every thought—only Cleland had never spoken to his son about the medicine he was taking regularly, nor of that odd experience when he had found himself standing dazed and speechless by his own bed in the silence and darkness of early morning.
Stephanie came back at Christmas—a lovely surprise—a supple, grey-eyed young thing, grown an inch and a half taller, flower-fresh, instinct with the intoxicating vigour and delight of mere living, and tremulous with unuttered and very youthful ideas about everything on earth.
She kissed Cleland Senior, clung to him, caressed him. But for the first time her demonstration ended there; she offered her hand to Jim in flushed and slightly confused silence.
"What's the matter with you, Steve?" demanded the youth, half laughing, half annoyed. "You think you're too big to kiss me? By Jove, you shall kiss me——!"
And he summarily saluted her.
She got away from him immediately with an odd little laugh, and held tightly to Cleland Senior again.
"Dad darling, darling!" she murmured, "I'm glad I'm back. Areyou? Do you reallywantme? And I'm going to tell you right now, I don't wish to have you arrange parties and dinners and dances and things for me. All I want is to be with you and go to the theatre every night——"
"Good Lord, Steve! That's no programme for a pretty little girl!"
"I'mnot! Don't call me that! I've got a mind! But Ihavegot such lots to learn—so many, many things to learn! And only one life to learn them in——"
"Fiddle!" remarked Jim.
"It really isn't fiddle, Jim! I'm just crazy to learn things, and I'm not one bit interested in frivolity and ordinary things and people——"
"You liked people once; you liked to dance——"
"When I was a child, yes," she retorted scornfully. "But I realize, now, how short life is——"
"Fiddle," repeated Jim. "That fool college is spoiling you for fair!"
"Dad! He's a brute! You understand me, darling, don't you? Don't let him plague me."
His arm around her slender shoulder tightened; all three were laughing.
"You don'thaveto dance, Steve, if you don't want to," he said. "Do you consider it frivolous to dine occasionally? Meacham has just announced the possibility of food."
She nestled close to him as they went out to dinner, all three very gay and loquacious, and the two men keenly conscious of the girl's rapid development, of the serious change in her, the scarcely suppressed exuberance, the sparkling and splendid bodily vitality.
As they entered the dining room:
"Oh, Meacham, I'm glad to see you," she cried impulsively, taking the little withered man's hands into both of hers.
There was no reply, only in the burnt-out eyes a sudden mist—the first since his mistress had passed away.
"Dad, do you mind if I run down a moment to see Lizzie and Janet and Amanda? Dear, I'll be right back——" She was gone, light-footed, eager, down the service stairs—a child again in the twinkling of an eye. The two men, vaguely smiling, remained standing.
When she returned, Meacham seated her. She picked up the blossom beside her plate, saw the other at the unoccupied place opposite, and her eyes suddenly filled.
There was a moment's silence, then she kissed the petals and placed the flower in her hair.
"My idea," she began, cheerfully, "is to waste no time in life! So I think I'd like to go to the theatre all the time——"
The men's laughter checked her and she joined in.
"Youdounderstand, both of you!" she insisted. "You're tormenting me and you know it!Idon't go to the theatre to amuse myself. I go to inform myself—to learn, study, improve myself in the art of self-expression—Jim, you are a beast to grin at me!"
"Steve, for Heaven's sake, be a human girl for a few moments and have a good time!"
"That'smy way of having a good time. I wish to go to studios and see painters and sculptors at work! I wish to go to plays and concerts——"
"How about seeing a real author at work, Steve?"
"You?" she divined with a dainty sniff.
"Certainly. Come up any morning and watch genius work a lead-pencil. That ought to educate you and leave an evening or two for dancing——"
"Jim, I positively do not care for parties. I don't even desire to waste one minute of my life. Ordinary people bore me, I tell you——"
"Do I?"
"Sometimes," she retorted, with delighted malice. And turning swiftly to Cleland Senior: "As for you, darling, I could spend every minute of my whole existence with you and not be bored for one second!"
The claret in John Cleland's glass—claret forbidden under Dr. Wilmer's régime—glowed like a ruby. But he could not permit Stephanie to return without that old-fashioned formality.
So John Cleland rose, glass in hand, his hair and moustache very white against the ruddy skin.
"Steve, dear, you and Jim have never brought me anything but happiness—anything but honour to my name and to my roof. We welcome you home, dear, to your own place among your own people: Jim—we have the honour—our little Stephanie! Welcome home!"
The young fellow rose, smiling, and bowed gaily to Stephanie.
"Welcome home," he said, "dearest of sisters and most engaging insurgent of your restless sex!"
That night Stephanie seemed possessed of a gay demon of demonstrative mischief. She conversed with Jim so seriously about his authorship that at first he did not realize that he was an object of sarcastic and delighted malice. When he did comprehend that she was secretly laughing at him, he turned so red with surprise and indignation that his father and Stephanie gave way to helpless laughter. Seated there on the sofa, across the room, tense, smiling, triumphantly and delightfully dangerous, she blew an airy kiss at Jim:
"Thatwill teach you to poke fun at me," she said. "You're no longer an object of fear and veneration just because you're writing a book!"
The young fellow laughed.
"Iameasy," he admitted. "All authors are without honour in their own families. But wouldn't it surprise you, Steve, if the world took my book respectfully?"
"Not at all. That's one of the reasonsIdon't. The opinion of ordinary people does not concern me," she said with gay impudence, "and if your book is a best seller it ought to worry you, Jim."
"You don't think," he demanded sadly, "that there's anything in me?"
"Oh, Jim!"—swiftly remorseful—"I was joking, of course." And, seeing by his grin that he was, too, turned up her nose, regretting too late her hasty and warm-hearted remorse.
"Howcommon, this fishing for praise and sympathy!" she remarked disdainfully. "Dad, does he bother you to death trying to read his immortal lines to you at inopportune moments?"
Cleland Senior, in his arm-chair, white-haired, deeply ruddy, had been laughing during the bantering passage at arms between the two he loved best on earth.
He seemed the ideal personification of hale and wholesome age, sound as a bell, very handsome, save that the flush on his face seemed rather heavier and deeper than the usual healthy colour.
"Dad," exclaimed the girl, impulsively, "you certainly are the best-looking thing in all New York! I don't think I shall permit you to go walking alone all by yourself any more. Do you hear me?"
She sprang up lightly, went over and seated herself on the arm of his chair, murmuring close to his face gay little jests, odd, quaint endearments, all sorts of nonsense while she smoothed his hair to her satisfaction, re-tied his evening tie, patted his lapels, and finally kissed him lightly between his eyebrows, continuing her murmured nonsense all the while:
"I won't have other women looking sideways at you—the hussies! I'm jealous. I shall hereafter walk out with you. Do you hear what I threaten?—you very flighty and deceitful man! Steve is going to chaperon you everywhere you go."
John Cleland's smile altered subtly:
"Noteverywhere, Steve."
"Indeed, I shall! Every step you take."
"No, dear."
"Why not?"
"Because—there is one rather necessary trip I shall have to make—some day——"
A moment's silence; then her arms around his neck:
"Dad!" she whispered, in breathless remonstrance.
"Yes, dear?"
"Don't you—feelwell?"
"Perfectly."
"Then," fiercely, "don't dare hint such things!"
"About the—journey I spoke of?" he asked, smiling.
"Yes! Don't say such a thing! You are not going!—until I go, too!"
"If I could postpone the trip on your account——"
"Dad! Do you want to break my heart and kill me by such jokes?"
"There, Steve, I was merely teasing. Men of my age have a poor way of joking sometimes.... I mean to postpone that trip. Indeed, I do, Steve. You're a handful, and I've got to keep hold of you for a long while yet."
Jim overheard that much:
"A handful? Rubbish!" he remarked. "Send her to bed at nine for the next few years and be careful about her diet and censor her reading matter. That's all Steve needs to become a real grown-up some day."
Stephanie had risen to face the shafts of good-natured sarcasm.
"Suppose," she said, "that I told you I had sent a poem to a certain magazine and that it had been accepted?"
"I'd say very amiably that you are precocious," he replied tormentingly.
"Brute! Idid! I sent it!"
"They accepted it?"
"I don't know," she admitted, pink with annoyance; "but it won't surprise me very much if they accept it. Really, Jim, do you think nobody else can write anything worth considering? Do you really believe that you embody all the talent in New York?Doyou?" And, to Cleland Senior: "Oh, Dad, isn't he the horrid personification of everything irritatingly masculine? And I'll bet his old novel is perfectly commonplace. I think I'll go up to his room and take a critical glance at it——"
"Hold on, Steve!" he exclaimed—for she was already going. She glanced over her shoulder with a defiant smile, and he sprang up to follow and overtake her.
But Stephanie's legs were long and her feet light and swift, and she was upstairs and inside his room before he caught her, reaching for the sacred manuscript.
"Oh, Jim," she coaxed, beguilingly, "do let me have one little peep at it, there's a dear fellow! Just one little——"
"Not yet, Steve. It isn't in any shape. Wait till it's typed——"
"I don't care. I can read your writing easily——"
"It's all scored and cross-written and messed up——"
"Please, Jim! I'm simply half dead with curiosity," she admitted. "Be an angel brother and let me sit here and hear you read the first chapter—only one little chapter. Won't you?" she pleaded with melting sweetness.
"I—I'd be—embarrassed——"
"What! To have your own sister hear what you've written?"
There was a short silence. The word "sister" was meant to be reassuring to both. To use it came instinctively to her as an inspiration, partly because she had vaguely felt that some confirmation of such matter-of-fact relationship would put them a little more perfectly at their ease with each other.
For they had not been entirely at their ease. Both were subtly aware of that—she had first betrayed it by her offered hand instead of the friendly and sisterly kiss which had been a matter of course until now.
"Come," she said, gaily, "be a good child and read the pretty story to little sister."
She sat down on the edge of his bed; he, already seated at his desk, frowned at the pile of manuscript before him.
"I'd rather talk," he said.
"About what?"
"Anything. Honestly, Steve, I'll let you see it when it's typed. But I rather hate to show anything until it's done—I don't like to have people see the raw edges and the machinery."
"I'm not 'people.' How horrid. Also, it makes a difference when a girl is not only your sister but also somebody who intends to devote her life to artistic self-expression. You can read your story to that kind of girl, I should hope!"
"Haven't you given that up?"
"Given up what?"
"That mania for self-expression, as you call it."
"Of course not."
"What do you think you want to do?" he asked uneasily.
"Jim, you are entirely too patronizing. I don't 'think' I want to do anything: but IknowI desire to find some medium for self-expression and embrace it as a profession."
That rather crushed him for a moment. Then:
"There'll be time enough to start that question when you graduate——"
"It isnota question. I intend to express myself some day. And you might as well reconcile yourself to that idea."
"Suppose you haven't anything worth expressing?"
"Are you teasing?" She flushed slightly.
"Oh, yes, I suppose I am teasing you. But, Steve, neither father nor I want to see you enter any unconventional profession. It's no good for a girl unless she is destined for it by a talent that amounts to genius. If you have that, it ought to show by the time you graduate——"
"You make me simply furious, Jim," she retorted impatiently. "These few months at college have taught mesomething. And, for one thing, I've learned that a girl has exactly as much right as a man to live her own life in her own way, unfettered by worn-out conventions and unhampered by man's critical opinions concerning her behaviour.
"The dickens," he remarked, and whistled softly.
"And, further," she continued warmly, "I am astonished that in this age, when the entire world tacitly admits that woman is man's absolute equal in every respect, that you apparently still harbour old-fashioned, worn-out and silly notions. You are very far out of date, my charming brother."
"What notions?" he demanded.
"Notions that a girl's mission is to go to parties and dance when she doesn't desire to—that a girl had better conform to the uninteresting and stilted laws of the recent past and live her life as an animated clothes-rack, mind her deportment, and do what nice girls do, and marry and become the mother of numerous offspring; which shall be taught to follow in her footsteps and do the same thing all over again, generation after generation—ad nauseam!—— Oh, Jim! I'm not going to live out my life that way and be looked after as carefully as a pedigreed Pekinese——"
"For Heaven's sake——"
"For Heaven's sake—yes!—and in God's name, Jim, it is time that a woman's mind was occupied by something beside the question of clothes and husbands and children!"
The boy whistled softly, stared at her, and she looked at him unflinchingly, with her pretty, breathless smile of defiance.
"I want to live my own life in my own way. Can't I?" she asked.
"Of course——"
"You say that. But the instant I venture to express a desire for any outlet—for any chance to be myself, express myself, seek the artistic means for self-utterance, then you tell me I am unconventional!"
He was silent.
"Nobody hampersyou!" she flashed out. "You are free to choose your profession."
"But why doyouwant a profession, Steve?"
"Why? Because I feel the need of it. Because just ordinary society does not interest me. I prefer Bohemia."
He said:
"There's a lot of stuff talked about studios and atmosphere and 'urge' and general Bohemian irresponsibility—and a young girl is apt to get a notion that she, also, experiences the 'cosmic urge' and that 'self-expression' is her middle name.... That's all I mean, Steve. You frequently have voiced your desire for a career among the fine arts. Now and then you have condescended to sketch for me your idea of an ideal environment, which appears to be a studio in studio disorder, art produced in large chunks, and 'people worth while' loudly attacking pianos and five o'clock tea——"
"Jim! You are not nice to me.... If I didn't love you with all my heart——"
"It's because I'm fond of you, too," he explained. "I don't want my sister, all over clay or paint, sitting in a Greenwich village studio, smoking cigarettes and frying sausages for lunch! No! Or I don't want her bullied by an ignorant stage director or leered at by an animal who plays 'opposite,' or insulted by a Semitic manager. Is that very astonishing?"
The girl rose, nervous, excited, but laughing:
"You dear old out-of-date thing! We'll continue this discussion another time. Dad's been alone in the library altogether too long." She laughed again, a little hint of tenderness in her gaiety; and extended her hand. He took it.
"Without prejudice," she said. "I adore you, Jim!"
"And with all my heart, Steve. I just want you to do what will be best for you, little sister."
"I know. Thank you, Jim. Now, we'll go and find dad."
They found him. He lay on the thick Oushak rug at the foot of the chair in which he had been seated when they left him.
On his lips lingered a slight smile.
A physician lived across the street. When he arrived his examination was brief and perfunctory. He merely said that the stroke had come like a bolt of lightning, then turned his attention to Stephanie, who seemed to be sorely in need of it.
CHAPTER XI
When such a thing happens to young people a certain mental numbness follows the first shock, limiting the capacity for suffering, and creating its own anodyne.
The mental processes resume their functions gradually, chary of arousing sensation.
Grief produces a chemical reaction within the body, poisoning it. But within that daily visitor to the body, the soul, a profound spiritual reaction occurs which either cripples it or ennobles it eternally.
Many people called and left cards, or sent cards and flowers. Some asked for Jim; among others, Chiltern Grismer.
"M-m-m'yes," he murmured, retaining the young man's hand, "—my friend of many years has left us;—m-m-m'yes, my friend of many years. I am very sorry to hear it; yes, very sorry."
Jim remained passive, incurious. Grismer prowled about the darkened room, alternately pursing up and sucking in his dry and slitted lips. Finally he seated himself and gazed owlishly at the young man.
"And our little adopted sister? How does this deplorable affliction affect her? May I hope to offer my condolences to her also?"
"My sister Stephanie is utterly crushed.... Thank you.... She is very grateful to you."
"M-m-m'yes. May I see her?"
"I am sorry. She is scarcely able to see anybody at present. Her aunt, Miss Quest, is with her."
"M-m-m. After all—but let it remain unsaid—m-m-m'yes, unsaid. So her aunt is with her? M-m-m!"
Jim was silent. Grismer sat immovable as a gargoyle, gazing at him out of unwinking eyes.
"M-m-m'yes," he said. "Grief was his due. My friend of many years was worthy of such filial demonstrations. Quite so—even though there is, in point of fact, no blood relationship between my friend of many years and your adopted sister——"
"My sister could not feel her loss more keenly if she and I had been born of the same mother," said the boy in a dull voice.
"Quite so. M-m-m'yes. Or the same father. Quite so."
"I—I simply can't talk about it yet," muttered the young fellow. "If you'll excuse me——"
"Quiteso. Far better to talk about other things just at present, m'yes, far wiser. M-m-m—and so the young lady's aunt has arrived? Very suitable, ve-ry suitable and necessary. And doubtless Miss Quest will take up her permanent residence here, in view of the—ah—m-m-m-m'yes!—no doubt of it; no doubt."
"We have not spoken of that."
A moment later Miss Quest entered the room.
"Stephanie is awake and is asking for you," she said. As the young man rose with a murmured excuse. Miss Quest turned and looked at Chiltern Grismer.
"Madame," he began, rising to his gaunt height, "permit me—my name is Grismer——"
"Oh," she interrupted drily, "I've talked you over with the late Mr. Cleland."
"My friend of many years, Madame——"
"We didn't discuss your friendship for each other, Mr. Grismer," she snapped out. "Our subject of conversation concerned money."
"Ma'am?"
"An inheritance, in fact, which, I believe, you allege that youlegallyconverted to your own uses," she added, staring at him.
They sustained each other's gaze in silence for a moment.
Then Grismer's large, dry hand crept up over his lips and began a rhythmical massage of the grim jaw.
"My friend of many years and I came to an understanding in regard to the painful matter which you have mentioned," he said slowly.
"Yes?"
"Absolutely, Madame. Out of his abundance, I was given to understand, he had bountifully provided for your niece—m-m-m'yes, bounteously provided. Further, he gave me to understand that you, Madame, out of the abundant wealth with which our Lord has blessed you, had indicated your resolution to provide for the young lady."
There was an uncanny gleam in Miss Quest's eyes. But she said nothing. Grismer, watching her, softly joined the tips of his horny fingers.
"M-m'yes. Quite so. My friend of many years voluntarily assured me that he did not contemplate reopening the unfortunate matter in question—in point of fact, Madame, he gave me his solemn promise never to initiate any such action in behalf of the young lady."
Miss Quest remained mute.
"And John Cleland was right, Madame," continued Grismer in a gentle, persuasive voice, "because any such litigation must prove not only costly but fruitless of result. The unfortunate and undesirable publicity of such a case, if brought to trial, could not vindicate my own rectitude and the righteousness of my cause while gossip and scandal cruelly destroyed the social position which the young lady at present enjoys."
After another silence:
"Well?" inquired Miss Quest, "is there anything more that worries you, Mr. Grismer?"
"Worries me, Madame? I am not disturbed in the slightest degree."
"Oh, yes you are. You are not disturbed over any possible scandal that might affect my niece, but you are horribly afraid of any disgrace to yourself. And that is why you come into this house of death while your 'friend of many years' is still lying in his coffin! That is why you come prowling to find out whether I am as much a lady in my way as he was a gentleman in his. That's all that disturbs you!"
"Madame——"
"Or, to put it plainer, you want to know whether you have to defend an action, civil perhaps, possibly criminal, charging you with mal-administration and illegal conversion of trust funds. That's all that worries you, isn't it? Well—worry then!" she added venomously.
"Do I understand——"
"No, youdon'tunderstand, Mr. Grismer. And that's another thing for you to worry over. You don't know what I'm going to do, or whether I am going to do anything at all. You may find out in a week—you may not find out for years. And it is going to worry you every minute of your life."
She marched to the staircase hall:
"Meacham?"
"Ma'am?"
"Mr. Grismer's hat!"
Jim, seated beside the bed where Stephanie lay in the darkened room, her tear-marred face buried in her pillow, heard the front door close. Then silence reigned again in the twilight of the house of Cleland.
Miss Quest peeped into the room, then withdrew. If the young fellow heard her at all he made no movement, so still, so intent had he been since his father's death in striving to visualize the familiar face. And found to his astonishment and grief that he could not mentally summon his father's image before his eyes—could not flog the shocked brain to evoke the beloved features. The very effort was becoming an agony to him.
It began to rain about four o'clock. It rained hard all night long on the resounding scuttle and roof overhead. Toward dawn the rain ceased and the dark world grew noisy. There was a cat-fight on the back fence. The car wheels on Madison Avenue seemed unusually dissonant. Very far away, foggy river whistles saluted the dawn of another day.
There were a great many people at the funeral. God knows the dead are indifferent to suchattroupements macabre, but it seems to satisfy some morbid requirement in the living—friends, a priest, and a passing bell.
Hoc erat in more majorum: hodie tibi; cras mihi.
The family—Jim, Stephanie and Miss Quest—sat together, as is customary. The church was bathed in tinted sunlight streaming through stained glass and falling over casket and flowers in glowing hues. The dyed splendour painted pew and chancel and stained Stephanie's black veil with crimson. Behind them a discreet but interminable string of many people continued.
When the first creeping note of the organ, ominous and low, grew out of the silence, young Cleland felt Stephanie sway a little and remain resting against his shoulder. After a moment he realized that the girl had lost consciousness; and he quietly passed his arm around her, holding her firmly until she revived and moved again.
As for himself, what was passing before him seemed like a shadow scene enacted behind darkened glass. There was nothing real about it, nothing that seemed to appertain in any way to this dead father who had been a comrade and beloved friend. He looked at the casket, at the massed flowers, at the altar, the surplices. All were foreign to the intensely human father he had loved—nothing here seemed to be in harmony with him—not the crawling vibration of the organ, not the resonant, professional droning of the clergy; not these throngs of unseen people behind his back,—not the black garments he wore; not this slender, sombre, drooping thing of crape seated here close beside him, trembling at intervals, with one black-gloved hand gripping his.
A sullen hatred for it all began to possess him. All this was interrupting him—actually making it harder than ever for him to visualize his father—driving the beloved phantom out from its familiar environment in his heart into unrecognizable surroundings full of caskets, pallid, heavy-scented flowers, surpliced clergymen whose cadenced phrases were accurately timed; whose every move and gesture showed them to be quite perfect in the "business" of the act.
"Hell," he muttered under his breath; and became aware of Stephanie's white face and startled eyes.
"Nothing," he whispered; "only I can't stand this mummery! I want to get back to the library where I can be with father.... Heisn'tin that black and silver thing over there. He isn't in any orthodox paradise. He's part of the sunlight out doors—and the spring air.... He's an immortal part of everything beautiful that ever was. When these people conclude to let him alone, I'll have a chance with him.... You think I'm crazy, Steve?"
Her pale lips formed "No."
They remained silent after that until the end, their tense fingers interlocked. Miss Quest's head remained bowed in the folds of her crape veil.
The drive from the cemetery began through the level, rosy rays of a declining sun, and ended in soft spring darkness full of the cheery noises of populous streets.
Cleland had dreaded to enter the house as they drew near to it; its prospective emptiness appalled him; but old Meacham had lighted every light all over the house; and it seemed to help, somehow.
Miss Quest went with Stephanie to her room, leaving Jim in the library alone.
Strange, irrelevant thoughts came to the boy's mind to assail him, torment him with their futility: he remembered several things which he had forgotten to tell his father—matters of no consequence which now suddenly assumed agonizing importance.
There in the solitude of the library, he remembered, among other things, that his father would never read his novel, now. Why had he waited, wishing to have it entirely finished before his father should read this first beloved product of his eager pen?
Stephanie found him striding about the library, lips distorted, quivering with swelling grief.
"Oh, Steve," he said, seeing her in the doorway, "I am beginning to realize that I can't talk to him any more! I can't touch him—I can't talk—hear his voice—see——"
"Jim—don't——"
"The whole world is no good to me now!" cried the boy, flinging up his arms in helpless resentment toward whatever had done this thing to him.
Whatever had done it offered no excuse.
CHAPTER XII.
The reading of John Cleland's will marked the beginning of the end of the old régime for Stephanie Quest and for James Cleland.
Two short letters accompanied the legal document. All the papers were of recent date.
The letter directed to Jim was almost blunt in its brevity:
MY DEAR SON:
I have had what I believe to have been two slight shocks of paralysis. If I am right, and another shock proves fatal, I wish you, after my death, to go abroad and travel and study for the next two years. At the end of that period you ought to know whether or not you really desire to make literature your profession. If you do, come back to your own country and go to work. Europe is a good school, but you should practise your profession in your native land.
Keep straight, fit, and clean. Keep your head in adversity and in success. Find out what business in life you are fitted for, equip yourself for it, and then go into it with all your heart.
I've left you some money and a good name. And my deep, abiding love. My belief is that death is merely an intermission. So your mother and I will rejoin you when the next act begins. Until then, old chap—good luck!