"'You who look forward through the shining tearsOf April's showersInto the sunrise of the coming yearsGolden with unborn flowers—I who look backward where the sunset lowersCounting November's hours!'
"'You who look forward through the shining tearsOf April's showersInto the sunrise of the coming yearsGolden with unborn flowers—I who look backward where the sunset lowersCounting November's hours!'
"But—Idon'tcare. I care no longer, Quarren."
"That'slosing your grip."
He raised his ashy visage: "I'mtryingto let go.... But it's slow—very slow—with a little pleasure—hell's own pleasure—" He turned his shoulder, fished something out of his pocket, and pulling back his cuff, bent over. After a few moments he turned around, calmly:
"You've seen that on the stage I fancy."
"Otherwise, also."
"Quite likely. I've known a pretty woman—" Heended with a weary gesture and dropped his head between his hands.
"Quarren," he said, "there's only one hurt left in it all. I have two little children."
Quarren was silent.
"I suppose—it won't last—that hurt. They're with my mother. It was agreed that they should remain with her.... But it's the only hurt I feel at all now—except—rarely—when those damned June roses are in bloom.... She wore them a good deal.... Quarren, I'm glad it came early to me if it had to come.... Like yellow dogs unsuccessful men are the fastest breeders. The man in permanent hard luck is always the most prolific.... I'm glad there are no more children."
His sunken eyes fell to the book, and, thinking of his wife, he read what was not written there—
"Her loveliness with shame and with surpriseFroze my swift speech; she turning on my faceThe star-like sorrows of immortal eyes,Spoke slowly."'I had great beauty; ask thou not my name;No one can be more wise than destiny.Many drew swords and died. Where'er I cameI brought calamity.'"
"Her loveliness with shame and with surpriseFroze my swift speech; she turning on my faceThe star-like sorrows of immortal eyes,Spoke slowly.
"'I had great beauty; ask thou not my name;No one can be more wise than destiny.Many drew swords and died. Where'er I cameI brought calamity.'"
Quarren bit his lip and looked down at the sunlit brook dancing by under the bridge in amber beauty.
Ledwith said musingly: "I don't know who it might have been if it had not been Sprowl. It would have beensomebody!... The decree has been made absolute."
Quarren looked up.
"She's coming back here soon, now. I've had the place put in shape for her."
After a silence Quarren rose and offered his hand.
Ledwith took it: "I suppose I shall not see you again?"
"I'm going to town this afternoon. Good-bye."
Looking back at the turn of the path he saw Ledwith, bent nearly double, terribly intent on his half-bared arm.
Returning in time for luncheon he encountered Sir Charles fresh from the river, and Chrysos prettily sun-burned, just entering the house.
"We broke down," said the girl; "I thought we'd never get back, but Sir Charles is quite wonderful and he mended that very horrid machinery with the point of a file. Think of it, Ricky!—the point of a file!"
Sir Charles laughed and explained the simplicity of the repairs; and Chrysos, not a whit less impressed, stared at him out of her pretty golden eyes with a gaze perilously resembling adoration.
Afterward, by the bay-window upstairs, Quarren said lightly to Molly:
"How about the little Lacy girl and the Baronet?"
"She's an idiot," said Molly, shortly.
"I'm afraid she is."
"Of course she is. I wish I hadn't asked her. Why, she goes about like a creature in a trance when Sir Charles is away.... I don't know whether to say anything to her or whether to write to her mother. She's slated for Roger O'Hara."
"I don't suppose her parents would object to Sir Charles," said Quarren, smiling.
"That's why I hesitate to write. Sir Charles is in love with Strelsa; anybody can see that and everybody knows it. And it isn't likely that a child like Chrysos could swerve him."
"Then you'd better send him or her away, hadn't you?"
"I don't know what to do," said Molly, vexed. "June is to be quiet and peaceful at Witch-Hollow, and Sir Charles wanted to be here and Mrs. Lacy asked me to have Chrysos because she needed the quiet and calm. Andlookwhat she's done!"
"It's probably only a young girl's fancy."
"Then it ought to be nipped in the bud. But her mother wants her here and Sir Charles wants to be here and if I write to her mother she'll let her remain anyway. I'm cross, Ricky. I'm tired, too—having dictated letters and signed checks until my head aches. Where have you been?"
"Prowling."
"Well, luncheon is nearly ready, and Strelsa isn't back. Are you going to New York this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Please don't."
"I think it's better," he said lightly.
"All right. Run away if you want to. Don't say another word to me; I'm irritated."
Luncheon was not very gay; Chrysos adored Sir Charles in silence, but so sweetly and unobtrusively that the Baronet was totally unaware of it. Molly, frankly out of temper, made no effort of any sort; her husband in his usual rude health and spirits talked about the Stinger to everybody. Strelsa, who had arrived late, and whose toilet made her later still, seemed inclinedto be rather cheerful and animated, but received little encouragement from Molly.
However, she chatted gaily with Sir Charles and with Quarren, and after luncheon invited Sir Charles to read to her and Chrysos, which the grave and handsome Englishman did while they swung in old-fashioned hammocks under the maple trees, enjoying the rare treat of hearing their own language properly spoken.
Molly had a book to herself on the veranda—the newest and wickedest of French yellow-covered fiction; her husband returned to the Stinger; Quarren listened to Sir Charles for a while, then without disturbing the reading, slipped quietly off and wandered toward the kennels.
Here for a while he caressed the nervous, silky Blue Beltons, then strolled on toward the hemlock woods, a morning paper, still unread, sticking out of his pocket.
When he came to the rustic seat which was his objective, he lighted his pipe, unfolded the paper, and forced his attention on the first column.
How long he had been studying the print he did not know when, glancing up at the sound of footsteps on the dry leaves, he saw Strelsa coming in his direction. He could see her very plainly through the hemlocks from where he sat but she could not as yet see him. Then the fat waddling dog ahead of her, barked; and he saw the girl stop short, probably divining that the rustic seat was occupied.
For a few moments she stood there, perhaps waiting for her dog to return; but that fat sybarite had his chin on Quarren's knees; and, presently, Strelsa moved forward, slowly, already certain who it was ahead of her.
Quarren rose as she came around the curve in the path:
"If you don't want me here I'm quite willing to retire," he said, pleasantly.
"That is a ridiculous thing to say," she commented. Then she seated herself and motioned him to resume his place.
"I was rather wondering," she continued, "whether I'd see you before you leave."
"Oh, are you driving this afternoon?"
"No."
"Then I should certainly have looked for you and made my adieux."
"Would you have remembered to do it?"
He laughed:
"What a question! I might possibly forget my own name, but not anything concerning you."
She looked down at the paper lying between them on the bench, and, still looking down, said slowly:
"I am sorry for what Langly did this morning.... He has expressed his contrition to me——"
"Thatis all right as long as he doesn't express it to me," interrupted Quarren, bluntly.
"He means to speak to you——"
"Please say to him that your report of his mental anguish is sufficient."
"Areyou vindictive, Mr. Quarren?" she asked, reddening.
"Not permanently. But I either like or I dislike. So let the incident close quietly."
"Very well—if you care to humiliate me—him——"
"Dear Mrs. Leeds, he isn't going to be humiliated,because he doesn't care. And you know I wouldn't humiliate you for all the world——"
"You will unless you let Langly express his formal regrets to you——"
He looked up at her:
"Wouldthatmake it easier for you?"
"I—perhaps—please do as you see fit, Mr. Quarren."
"Very well," he said quietly.
He caressed the dog's head where it lay across his knees, and looked out over the water. Breezes crinkled the surface in every direction and wind-blown dragon-flies glittered like swift meteors darting athwart the sun.
She said in a low voice: "I hope your new business venture will be successful."
"I know you do. It is very sweet of you to care."
"I care—greatly.... As much as I—dare."
He laughed: "Don't you dare care about me?"
She bit her lip: "I have found it slightly venturesome on one or two occasions."
"So you don't really dare express your kindly regard for me fearing I might again mistake it for something deeper." He was still laughing, and she lifted her gray eyes in silence for a moment, then:
"There is nothing in the world deeper than my regard for you—if you will let it be what it is, and seek to make nothing less spiritual out of it."
"Do you mean that?" he asked, his face altering.
"Mean it? Why of course I do, Mr. Quarren."
"I thought I spoiled that for both of us," he said.
"I didn't say so. I told you that I didn't knowwhat you had done. I've had time to reflect. It—our friendship isn't spoiled—if you still value it."
"I value it above everything in the world, Strelsa."
There was a silence. The emotion in his face and voice was faintly reflected in hers.
"Then let us have peace," she said unsteadily. "I have—been—not very happy since you—since we——"
"I know. I've been utterly miserable, too." He lifted one of her hands and kissed it, and she changed colour but left her hand lying inert in his.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
"N-no."
He laid his lips to her fingers again; she stirred uneasily, then rested her other arm on the back of the seat and shaded her eyes.
"I think—you had better not—touch me—any more—" she said faintly.
"Is it disagreeable?"
"Yes—n-no.... It is—it has nothing to do with friendship—" she looked up, flushed, curious: "Why do you always want to touch me, Mr. Quarren?"
"Did you never caress a flower?"
"Rix!"—she caught her breath as his name escaped her for the first time, and he saw her face surging in the loveliest colour. "It was your nonsensical answer!—I—it took me by surprise ... and I ask your pardon for being stupid.... And—may I have my hand? I use it occasionally."
He quietly reversed it, laid his lips to the palm, and released her fingers.
"Strelsa," he said, "I'm coming back into the battle again."
"Then I am sorry I forgave you."
"Areyou?"
"Yes, I am. Yes, yes, yes! Why can't you be to me what I wish to be to you? Why can't you be what I want—what I need——"
"Do you know what you need?"
"Yes, I——"
"No, you don't. You need to love—and to be loved. You don't know it, but you do!"
"That is a—a perfectly brutal thing to say——"
"Does it sound so to you?"
"Yes, it does! It is brutal—common, unworthy of you and of me——"
He took both her hands in a grip that almost hurt her:
"Can'tyou have any understanding, any sympathy with human love? Can't you? Doesn't a man's love mean anything to you but words? Is there anything to be ashamed of in it?—merely because nothing has ever yet awakenedyouto it?"
"Nothing ever will," she said steadily. "The friendship you can have of me is more than love—cleaner, better, stronger——"
"It isn't strong enough to make you renounce what you are planning to do!"
"No."
"Yet love would be strong enough to make you renounce anything!"
She said calmly: "Call it by its right name. Yes, they say its slaves become irresponsible. I know nothing about it—I could not—I will not! I loathe and detest any hint of it—to me it is degrading—contemptible——"
"What are you saying?"
"I am telling you the truth," she retorted, pale, and breathing faster. "I'm telling you what I know—what I have learned in a bitter school—during two dreadful years——"
"That!"
"Yes, that! Now you know! Now perhaps you can understand why I crave friendship and hold anything less in horror! Why can't you be kind to me? You are the one man I could ask it of—the only man I ever saw who seemed fitted to give me what I want and need, and to whom I could return what he gave me with all my heart—all my heart——"
She bowed her face over the hands which he still held; suddenly he drew her close into his arms; and she rested so, her head against his shoulder.
"I won'ttalkto you of love any more," he whispered. "You poor little girl—you poor little thing. I didn't realise—I don't want to think about it——"
"I don't either," she said. "You will be kind to me, won't you?"
"Of course—of course—you little, little girl. Nobody is going to find fault with you, nobody is going to blame you or be unkind or hurt you or demand anything at all of you or tell you that you make mistakes. People are just going to like you, Strelsa, and you needn't love them if you don't want to. You shall feel about everything exactly as you please—about Tom, Dick, and Harry and about me, too."
Her hot face against his shoulder was quivering.
"There," he whispered—"there, there—you little, little girl. That's all I want of you after all—only what you want of me. I don't wish to marry you if you don't wish it; I won't—I perhaps couldn't really loveyou very deeply if you didn't respond. I shall not bother you any more—or worry or nag or insist. What you do is right as far as I am concerned; what you offer I take; and whenever you find yourself unable to respond to anything I offer, say so fearlessly—look so, even, and I'll understand. Is all well between us now, Strelsa?"
"Yes.... You are so good.... I wanted this.... You don't mean anything, do you by—by your arm around me——"
"No more than your face against my shoulder means." He smiled—"Which I suppose signifies merely that you feel very secure with me."
"I—begin to.... Will you let me?"
"Yes.... Do you feel restless? Do you want to lift your head?"
She moved a little but made no reply. He could see only the full, smooth curve of her cheek against his shoulder. It was rather colourless.
"I believe you are worn out," he said.
"I have not rested for weeks."
"On account of that Trust business?"
"Yes.... But I was tired before that—I had done too much—lived too much—and I've felt as though I were being hunted for so long.... And then—I was unhappy about you."
"Because I had joined in the hunt," he said.
"You were different, but—you made me feel that way, too—a little——"
"I understand now."
"Do you really?"
"Yes. It's been a case of men following, crowding after you, urging, importuning you to consider theirdesires—to care for them in their own way—all sorts I suppose, sad and sentimental, eager and exacting, head-long and boisterous—all at you constantly to give them what is not in you to give—what has never been awakened—what lies stunned, crippled, perhaps mangled in its sleep——"
"Killed," she whispered.
"Perhaps." He raised his eyes and looked absently out across the sparkling water. Sunlight slanted on his shoulder and her hair, gilding the nape of her white neck where the hair grew blond and fine as a child's. And like a child, still confused by memories of past terror, partly quieted yet still sensitive to every sound or movement, Strelsa lay close to the arm that sheltered her, thinking, wondering that she could endure it, and all the while conscious that the old fear of him was no longer there.
"Do you—know about me?" she asked in a still, low voice.
"About the past?"
"About my marriage."
"Yes."
"Everything?"
"Some things."
"You know what the papers said?"
"Yes.... Don't speak of it—unless you care to, Strelsa."
"I want to.... Do you know this is the first time?"
"Is it?"
"The first time I have ever spoken of it to anybody.... As long as my mother lived I did not once speak of it to her."
She rested in silence for a while, then:
"Could I tell you?"
"My dear, my dear!—of course you can."
"I—it's been unsaid so long—there was nobody to tell it to. I've done my best to forget it—and for days I seem to forget it. But sometimes when I wake at night it is there—the horror of it—the terror sinking deeper into my breast.... I was very young. You knew that?"
"Yes."
"You knew my mother had very slender means?"
"Yes."
"I wouldn't have cared; I was an imaginative child—and could have lived quite happy with my fancies on very, very little.... I was a sensitive and affectionate child—inclined to be demonstrative. You wouldn't believe it, would you?"
"I can understand it."
"Can you? It's odd because I have changed so.... I was quite romantic about my mother—madly in love with her.... There is nothing more to say.... In boarding-school I was perfectly aware that I was being given the best grooming that we could afford. Even then romance persisted. I had the ideas of a coloured picture-book concerning men and love and marriage. I remember, as a very little child, that I had a picture-book showing Cinderella's wedding. It was a very golden sort of picture. It coloured my ideas long after I was grown up."
She moved her head a little, looked up for an instant and smiled; but at his answering smile she turned her cheek to his shoulder, hastily, and lay silent for a while. Presently she continued in a low voice:
"It was when we were returning for the April vacation—and the platform was crowded and some of the girls' brothers were there. There were two trains in—and much confusion—I don't know how I became separated from Miss Buckley and my schoolmates—I don't know to this day how I found myself on the Baltimore train, and Gladys Leeds's brother laughing and talking and the train moving faster and faster.... There is no use saying any more. I was as ignorant as I was innocent—a perfect little fool, frightened, excited, even amused by turns.... He had been attentive to me. We both were fools. Only finally I became badly scared and he talked such nonsense—and I managed to slip away from him and board the train at Baltimore as soon as we arrived there.... If he hadn't found me and returned to New York with me, it might not have been known. But we were recognised on the train and—it was a dreadful thing for me when I arrived home after midnight...."
She fell silent; once or twice he looked down at her and saw that her eyes were closed. Then, with a quick, uneven breath:
"I think you know the rest, don't you?"
"I think so."
But she went on in a low, emotionless voice: "I was treated like a damaged gown—for which depreciation in value somebody was to be made responsible. I suffered; days and nights seemed unreal. There were lawyers; did you know it?"
"No."
"Yes," she said wearily, "it was a bad dream—my mother, others—hisfamily—many people strange and familiar passed through it. Then we travelled; I sawnothing, feeling half dead.... We were married in the Hawaiian Islands."
"I know."
"Then—the two years began."
After a long while she said again: "That was the real nightmare. I passed through the depths as in a trance. There was nothing lower, not even hell.... We travelled in Europe, Africa, and India for two years.... I scarcely remember a soul I saw or one single object. And then—thathappened."
"I know, dear."
A slight shudder passed over her:
"I've told you," she whispered—"I've told you at last. Shall I tell you more?"
"Not unless——"
"I don't know whether I want to—about the gendarmes—and that terrible woman who screamed when they touched her with the handcuffs—and how ill I was——"
She had begun to tremble so perceptibly that Quarren's arm tightened around her; and presently she became limp and motionless.
"This—what I have told you—is a very close bond between us, isn't it?" she said.
"Very close, Strelsa."
"Was I much to blame?"
"No."
"How much?"
"You should have left him long before."
"Why, he was my husband! I had made a contract; I had to keep it and make the best of it."
"Is that your idea?"
"That was all I could see to do about it."
"Don't you believe in divorce?"
"Yes; but I thought he'd be killed; I thought he was a little insane. If he'd been well mentally and merely cruel and brutal I would have left him. But one can't abandon a helpless person."
"Every word you utter," he said, "forges a new link in my love for you."
"You don't mean—love?"
"We mean the same I think—differing only in degree."
"Thank you. That is nice of you."
He nodded, smiling to himself; then, graver:
"Is your little fortune quite gone, Strelsa?"
"All gone—all of it."
"I see.... And something has got to be done."
"You know it has.... And I'm old before my time—tired, worn out. I can't work—I have no heart, no courage. My heart and strength were burnt out; I haven't the will to struggle; I have no capacity to endure. What am I to do?"
"Not what you plan to do."
"Why not? As long as I need help—and the best is offered——"
"Wouldn't you take less—and me?"
"Oh, Rix! I couldn'tuse you!"
She turned and looked up at him, blushed, and dis-engaged herself from his arm.
"I—I—you are myfriend. I couldn't do that. I have nothing to give anybody—not even you." She smiled, tremulously—"And I suspect that as far as your fortune is concerned, you can offer me little more.... But it's sweet of you. Youaregenerous, having so little and wishing to share it with me——"
"Could you wait for me, Strelsa?"
"Wait? You mean until you become wealthy? Why, you dear boy, how can I?—even if it were a certainty."
"Can't you hold on for a couple of years?"
"Please tell me how? Why, I can't even pay my attorneys until I sell my house."
He bit his lip and frowned at the sunlit water.
"Besides," she said, "I haven't anything to offer you that I haven't already given you——"
"I ask no more."
"Oh, but youdo!"
"No, I want only what you want, Strelsa—only what you have to offer of your own accord."
They fell silent, leaning forward on their knees, eyes absent, remote.
"I don't see how it can be done; do you?" she said.
"If you could wait——"
"But Rix; I've told him that I would marry him."
"Does that count?"
"Yes—I don't know. I don't know how dishonest I might be.... I don't know what is going to happen. I'm so poor, Rix—you don't realise—and I'm tired and sad—old before my time—perplexed, burnt out——"
She rested her head on one slender curved hand and closed her eyes. After a while she opened them with a weary smile.
"I'll try to think—after you are gone.... What time does your train leave?"
He glanced at his watch and rose; and she sprang up, too:
"HaveI kept you too long?"
"No; I can make it. We'll have to walk rather fast——"
"I'd rather you left me here."
"Would you? Then—good-bye——"
"Good-bye.... Will you come up again?"
"I'll try."
"Shall we write?"
"Will you?"
"Yes. I have so much to say, now that you are going. I am glad you came. I am glad I told you everything. Please believe that my heart is enlisted in your new enterprise; that I pray for your success and welfare and happiness. Will you always remember that?"
"Yes, dear."
"Then—I mustn't keep you a moment longer. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
They stood a moment, neither stirring; then he put his arms around her; she touched his shoulder once more, lightly with her cheek—a second's contact; then he kissed her clasped hands and was gone.
Quarren arrived in town about twilight. Taxis were no longer for him nor he for them. Suit-case and walking-stick in hand, he started up Lexington Avenue still excited and exhilarated from his leave-taking with Strelsa. An almost imperceptible fragrance seemed to accompany him, freshening the air around him in the shabby streets of Ascalon; the heat-cursed city grew cooler, sweeter for her memory. Through the avenue's lamp-lit dusk passed the pale ghosts of Gath and the phantoms of the Philistines, and he thought their shadowy forms moved less wearily; and that strange faces looked less wanly at him as they grew out of the night—"clothed in scarlet and ornaments of gold"—and dissolved again into darkness.
Still thrilled, almost buoyant, he walked on, passing the high-piled masonry of the branch Post-Office and the Central Palace on his left. Against high stars the twin Power-House chimneys stood outlined in steel; on the right endless blocks of brown-stone dwellings stretched northward, some already converted into shops where print-sellers, dealers in old books, and here and there antiquaries, had constructed show-windows.
Firemen lounged outside the Eighth Battalion quarters; here and there a grocer's or wine-seller's windows remained illuminated where those who were neither well-to-do nor very poor passed to and fro with little packages which seemed a burden under the sultry skies.
At last, ahead, the pseudo-oriental towers of a synagogue varied the flat skyline, and a moment later he could see the New Thought Laundry, the Tonsorial Drawing Rooms, the Undertaker's discreetly illuminated windows, and finally the bay-window of his own recent Real-Estate office, now transmogrified into the Dankmere Galleries of Old Masters, Fayre and Quarren, proprietors.
The window appeared to be brilliantly illuminated behind the drawn curtains; and Quarren, surprised and vexed, concluded that the little Englishman was again entertaining. So it perplexed and astonished him to find the Earl sitting on the front steps, his straw hat on the back of his head, smoking. At the same moment from within the house a confused and indescribable murmur was wafted to his ears as though many people were applauding.
"What on earth is going on inside?" he asked, bewildered.
"You told me over the telephone that Karl Westguard might have the gallery for this evening," said the Englishman calmly. "So I let him have it."
"What did he want of it? Who has he got in there?"—demanded Quarren as another ripple of applause sounded from within.
Dankmere thought a moment: "I really don't know the audience, Quarren—they're not a very fragrant lot."
"What audience? Who are they?"
"You Americans would call them a 'tough-lookingbunch—except Westguard and Bleecker De Groot and Mrs. Caldera——"
"Cyrille Caldera and De Groot! What's that silly old Dandy doing down here?"
"Diffusing sweetness and light among the unwashed; telling them that there are no such things as classes, that wealth is no barrier to brotherhood, that the heart of Fifth Avenue beats as warmly and guilelessly as the heart of Essex Street, and that its wealth-burdened inhabitants have long desired to fraternise with the benchers in Paradise Park."
"Who put Westguard up to this?" asked Quarren, aghast.
"De Groot. Karl is writing a levelling novel calculated to annihilate caste. The Undertaker next door furnished the camp-chairs; the corner grocer the collation; Westguard, Mrs. Caldera, and Bleecker De Groot the mind-food. Go in and look 'em over."
The front door was standing partly open; the notes of a piano floated through; a high and soulful tenor voice was singing "Perfumes of Araby," but Quarren did not notice any as he stepped inside.
"A high and soulful tenor was singing 'Perfumes of Araby.'""A high and soulful tenor was singing 'Perfumes of Araby.'"
Not daring to leave his suit-case in the hallway he kept on along the passage to the extension where the folding doors were locked. Here he deposited his luggage, locked the door, then walked back to the front parlour and, unobserved, slipped in, seating himself among the battered derelicts of the rear row.
A thin, hirsute young man had just finished scattering the perfumes of Araby; other perfumes nearly finished Quarren; but he held his ground and gazed grimly at an improvised platform where sat in a half-circle and in full evening dress, Karl Westguard, Cyrille Calderaand Bleecker De Groot. Also there was a table supporting a Calla lily.
Westguard was saying very earnestly: "The world calls me a novelist. I am not! Thank Heaven, I aspire to something loftier. I am not a mere scribbler of fiction; I am a man with a message—a plain, simple, earnest, warm-hearted humanitarian who has been roused to righteous indignation by the terrible contrast in this miserable city between wealth and poverty——"
"That's right," interrupted a hoarse voice; "it's all a con game, an' the perlice is into it, too!"
"T'hell wit te bulls! Croak 'em!" observed another gentleman thickly.
Westguard, slightly discountenanced by the significant cheers which greeted this sentiment, introduced Bleecker De Groot; and the rotund old Beau came jauntily forward, holding out both immaculate hands with an artlessly comprehensive gesture calculated to make the entire East Side feel that it was reposing upon his beautifully laundered bosom.
"Ah, my friends!" cried De Groot, "if you could only realise how great is the love for humanity within my breast!—If you could only know of the hours and days and even weeks that I have devoted to solving the problems of the poor!
"And Ihavesolved them—every one. Andthisis the answer!"—grasping dauntlessly at a dirty hand and shaking it—"this!" seizing another—"and this, and this! And now I ask you,whatis this mute answer which I have given you?"
"De merry mitt," said a voice, promptly. Mr. De Groot smiled with sweetness and indulgence.
"I apprehend your quaint and trenchant vernacular," he said. "Itisthe 'merry mitt'—the 'glad glove,' the 'happy hand'! Fifth Avenue clasps palms with Doyers Street——"
"Ding!" said a weary voice, "yer in wrong, boss. It's nix f'r the Tongs wit us gents. We transfer to Avenue A."
Mr. De Groot merely smiled indulgently. "The rich," he said, "are not really happy." His plump, highly coloured features altered; presently a priceless tear glimmered in his monocle eye; and he brushed it away with a kind of noble pity for his own weakness.
"Dear, dear friends," he said tremulously, "believe me—oh, believe me that the rich are not happy! Only the perspiring labourer knows what is true contentment. The question of poverty is a great social question. With me it is a religion. Oh, I could go on forever on this subject, dear friends, and talk on and on and on——"
Emotion again checked him—or perhaps he had lost the thread of his discourse—or possibly he had attained its limit—but he filled it out by coming down from the platform and shaking hands so vigorously that the gardenia in his lapel presently fell out.
Cyrille Caldera rose, fresh and dainty and smiling, and discoursed single-tax and duplex tenements, getting the two subjects mixed but not minding that. Also she pointed at the Calla lily and explained that the lily was the emblem of purity. Which may have had something to do with something or other.
Then Westguard arose once more and told them all about the higher type of novel he was writing for humanity's sake, and became so interested and absorbed inhis own business that the impatient shuffling of shabby feet on the floor alone interrupted him.
"Has anybody," inquired De Groot, sweetly, "any vital question to ask—any burning inquiry of deeper, loftier import, which has perhaps long remained unanswered in his heart?"
A gentleman known usually as "Mike the Mink" arose and indicated with derisive thumb a picture among the Dankmere collection, optimistically attributed to Correggio:
"Is that Salome, mister?" he inquired with a leer.
De Groot looked at the canvas, slightly startled.
"No, my dear friend; that is a picture painted hundreds of years ago by a great Italian master. It is called 'Danaë.' Jupiter, you know, came to her in a shower of gold——"
"They all have to come across with it," remarked the Mink.
Somebody observed that if the police caught the dago who painted it they'd pinch him.
To make a diversion, and with her own fair hands, Cyrille Caldera summoned the derelicts to sandwiches and ginger-ale; and De Groot, dashing more unmanly moisture from his monocle, went about resolutely shaking hands, while Westguard and the hirsute young man sang "Comrades" with much feeling.
Quarren, still unrecognised, edged his way out and rejoined Dankmere on the front stoop. Neither made any comment on the proceedings.
Later the derelicts, moodily replete, shuffled forth into the night, herded lovingly by De Groot, still shaking hands.
From the corner of the street opposite, Quarren andDankmere observed their departure, and, later, they beheld De Groot and Mrs. Caldera slip around the block and discreetly disappear into a 1912 touring-car with silver mountings and two men in livery on the box.
Westguard, truer to his principles, took a tram and Quarren and the Earl returned to their gallery with mixed emotions, and opened every window top and bottom.
"It's all right in its way, I suppose," said Quarren. "Probably De Groot means well, but there's no conversation possible between a man who has just dined rather heavily, and a man who has no chance of dining at all."
"Like preaching Christ to the poor from a Fifth Avenue pulpit," said Dankmere, vaguely.
"How do you mean?"
"A church on a side street would seem to serve the purpose. And the poor need the difference."
"I don't know about those matters."
"No; I don't either. It's easy, cheap, and popular to knock the clergy.... Still, somehow or other, I can't seem to forget that the disciples were poor—and it bothers me a lot, Quarren."
Quarren said: "Haven't you and I enough to worry us concerning our own morals?"
Dankmere, who had been closing up and piling together the Undertaker's camp-chairs, looked around at the younger man.
"What did you say?" he asked.
"I said that probably you and I would find no time left to criticise either De Groot or the clergy, if we used our leisure in self-examination."
His lordship went on piling up chairs. When he finished he started wandering around, hands in his pockets. Then he turned out all the electric lamps, drew the bay-window curtains wide so that the silvery radiance from the arc-light opposite made the darkness dimly lustrous.
A little breeze stirred the hair on Quarren's forehead; Dankmere dropped into the depths of an armchair near him. For a while they sat together in darkness and silence, then the Englishman said abruptly:
"You've been very kind to me."
Quarren glanced up surprised.
"Why not?"
"Because nobody else has any decent words to say to me or of me."
Quarren, amused, said: "How do you know that I have, Dankmere?"
"A man knows some things. For example, most people take me for an ass—they don't tell me so but I know it. And if they don't take me for an ass they assume that I'm something worse—because I have a title of sorts, no money, an inclination for the stage and the people who make a living out of it."
"Also," Quarren reminded him, "you are looking for a wealthy wife."
"God bless my soul! Am I the only chap in America who happens to be doing that?"
"No; but you're doing it conspicuously."
"You mean I'm honest about it?"
Quarren laughed: "Anyway perhaps that's one reason why I like you. At first I also thought it was merely stupidity."
Dankmere crossed his short legs and lighted his pipe:
"The majority of your better people have managednot to know me. I've met a lot of men of sorts, but they draw the line across their home thresholds—most of them. Is it the taint of vaudeville that their wives sniff at, or my rather celebrated indigence?"
"Both, Dankmere—and then some."
"Oh, I see. Many thanks for telling me. I take it you mean that it was my first wife they shy at."
Quarren remained silent.
"She was a bar-maid," remarked the Earl. "We were quite happy—until she died."
Quarren made a slight motion of comprehension.
"Of course my marrying her damned us both," observed the Earl.
"Of course."
"Quite so. People would have stood for anything else.... But she wouldn't—you may think it odd.... And I was in love—so there you are."
For a while they smoked in the semi-darkness without exchanging further speech; and finally Dankmere knocked out his pipe, pocketed it, and put on his hat.
"You know," he said, "I'm not really an ass. My tastes and my caste don't happen to coincide—that's all, Quarren."
They walked together to the front stoop.
"When do we open shop?" asked the Earl, briskly.
"As soon as I get the reports from our experts."
"Won't business be dead all summer?"
"We may do some business with agents and dealers."
"I see. You and I are to alternate as salesmen?"
"For a while. When things start I want to rent the basement and open a department for repairing, reliningand cleaning; and I'd like to be able to do some of the work myself."
"You?"
"Surely. It interests me immensely."
"You're welcome I'm sure," said Dankmere drily. "But who's to keep the books and attend to correspondence?"
"We'll get somebody. A young woman, who says she is well recommended, advertised in Thursday's papers, and I wrote her from Witch-Hollow to come around Sunday morning."
"That's to-morrow."
Quarren nodded.
So Dankmere trotted jauntily away into the night, and Quarren locked the gallery and went to bed, certain that he was destined to dream of Strelsa. But the sleek, narrow head and slightly protruding eyes of Langly Sprowl was the only vision that peered cautiously at him through his sleep.
The heated silence of a Sunday morning in June awoke him from a somewhat restless night. Bathed and shaved, he crept forth limply to breakfast at the Founders' Club where he still retained a membership. There was not a soul there excepting himself and the servants—scarcely a person on the avenues and cross-streets which he traversed going and coming, only one or two old men selling Sunday papers at street-stands, an old hag gleaning in the gutters, and the sparrows.
Clothing was a burden. He had some pongee garments which he put on, installed himself in the gallery with a Sunday paper, an iced lime julep, and a cigarette, and awaited the event of the young lady who hadadvertised that she knew all about book-keeping, stenography, and typewriting, and could prove it.