VITHE GUILE OF INNOCENCE
Thefollowing morning it was not yet half past six and Chang had just reached the lake when her canoe shot round the bend. He stood a few yards from the water’s edge, observing her graceful maneuverings. She controlled that canoe as perfectly as if it had been part of her own body. He was too much the artist to be able to keep a stern countenance in face of so enchanting a spectacle. Also, her features—her yellow hair, the ever-changing, gray eyes, the mobile and rosy mouth, the delicate skin—had too much of the soft and dazzling loveliness of the morning. “If a man wished to let himself be bewitched,” thought he, “there would be an ideal enchantress.” She was one of the few women he had known who had worn well—about the only one, indeed. When he first knew her he had not thought that she was especially attractive, beyond the freshness that is the almost universal birthright of youth. But as he had studied her, as he had observed and felt her varied moods, her charm had grown. Even things about her, in themselves unattractive, werefascinating in the glow and throb of her naturally vivid personality—not an intellectual personality, not at all, but redolent of the fresh fragrance of the primal, the natural. “An ideal enchantress,” he muttered, and the lot he had sternly marked out for himself seemed bare and lonely, like a monk’s cell beside the glories of the landscape beyond its narrow window.
“How can you be out of humor on such a morning?” cried she, as the prow of her canoe slid gently out of the water and she rose to her feet.
“On the contrary, I’m in a fine humor.” And his look and voice bore him out. “Didn’t I tell you I was going to town to-day? I simply took my walk here.”
She laughed. “Neither did I expect you. I simply took my outing here.” And when he blushed in confusion and annoyance, she laughed the more gayly.
“You are so amusing,” she said tenderly.
“I’ll admit,” said he, “that I thought there was a chance you might come. And I thought, if you did, it would be the best opportunity to have a plain talk with you.”
She seated herself, or, rather, balanced herself, on the forward curve of her canoe. He occupied a big bowlder near the maple under which he always painted.“I see,” observed she, “that you are getting ready to say a lot of things you don’t mean. How you will thank me some day for having been patient with you!” He averted his eyes, muttered something incoherent, searched confusedly for his cigarettes. “You always keep the case in your lower left-hand waistcoat pocket,” said she. And sure enough, there it was—to his increased confusion. But, when their glances met, the twinkle in her gray eyes—merry as the sunbeams that were changing the yellow of her hair to the reddish yellow of the finest gold—proved irresistible.
“It’s simply impossible to be serious with you,” cried he, in what he would have liked to think a vexed tone.
“And why should you be?” inquired the girl. “You used to warn me that I took everything, myself included, far too seriously. Now, you’re getting into the habit of taking yourself, oh,sosolemnly!—which is far worse than seriously. You’re more like a dismal preacher, a man with a mission, than an artist with the joy of living laughing in his heart. You made a great hit last night.”
He, off his guard, looked as pleased as a boy that has just got a present of a gun. “Glad I didn’t disgrace you. You remember how nervous you were about it.”
“Your talk about that shirt was a little disturbing. It came out well. At least, I think it did. People don’t notice your clothes. They look atyou.”
“Now, how am I to say what I’ve got to say, if you keep on like that?” demanded he. “Oh, but you are crafty!”
“I don’t want to be lectured, Chang.”
He settled himself with an air of inflexible resolution. “I’m not going to lecture,” said he. “I’m going to deliver myself of a few words of good sense and then say good-by.”
She looked upon the ground, and her expression wrenched his tender heart. In vain he told himself that he was an egotistical fool; that the girl was probably more than half faking, to work upon him; that the other half of the feeling in her expression was the flimsiest youthful infatuation, certain to disappear in a few days, a few weeks at most. There, before him, was the look of suffering. And when she lifted her eyes for an instant they said more touchingly than her voice could have said it: “Why don’t you strike and have done with me? I am helpless.”
He got up, tossed his cigarette far into the lake. “This is too rotten!” he cried. “How in the devil did I ever get into such a mess?”
She waited, meek, silent, pathetic.
“I’ve about decided to go away—to go back to Paris,” said he.
“Maybe we can cross together,” said she. “Mother and I are going soon. She wants me to go right away—there, or anywhere, wherever I wish.”
He dropped to the bowlder again, a sense of helplessness weakening his backbone and his knees. Of what use to fly? This girl was free—had the means to travel wherever she chose, to stay as long as she liked. In his excitement he saw visions of himself being pursued round and round the earth—till his money gave out, and he, unable to fly farther, was overtaken and captured. He began to laugh—laugh until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
“What is it?” asked she. “Tell me. I want to laugh.”
“You are making me into an imbecile,” replied he. “I was laughing at myself. I’m glad I had that laugh. I think I can talk sensibly now—without making myself ridiculous.” Once more he put on a highly impressive, highly ominous air of sober resoluteness. He began: “A short time ago you did me the honor of telling me you were in love with me.”
“Yes. Do you—do you think poorly of me for having been frank?” And the gray eyes looked innocent anxiety.
“No, I don’t,” confessed he. “As a general proposition, I think I should have thought—well, queerly—of a girl who came out with such a startler on no especial provocation. But in this case the effect is puzzlingly different. Probably because I can’t in the least believe you.”
“Oh, no—that’s not the reason,” cried she. “It was only right that I should speak first. You see, when the girl’s poor, and marrying her is going to put the man to great expense—it’d be—be—downright impertinent for her to say such a thing. It’d be as if she asked him to support her for life.”
“Maybe so,” said he. “The money side of it didn’t occur to me. Naturally, you, who have much money, would think more about it than I, who have little.”
“Would you be afraid to—to marry—a woman who had a lot more money than you?”
“Not in the least,” declared he. “How ridiculous!”
A chill of suspicion crept into her face.
“I don’t want to marry, and I shan’t marry,” continued he. “But if I did want to marry, and wanted the woman, I’d not care who she was or what she was or what she had or hadn’t—so long as she was what I wanted. And I don’t think even you, crazy as you areabout money, could suspect me of having the same mania.”
His tone and his manner would have convinced anyone. They convinced her. She drew a huge sigh of relief. “I’m glad you said that—in just that way,” said she.
“I’m sure I don’t see what difference it makes,” replied he. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been suspecting me of wanting your money?”
She hung her head foolishly. “I’ve got a horrid mind,” confessed she. “It came to me that maybe you might be holding out for fear father’d cut me off.”
“Youhavegot your nerve!” ejaculated he. “I never heard of the like!—never!”
“Now you’re disgusted with me,” cried she. “I know I oughtn’t to have told you. But I can’t help telling you everything. It isn’t fair, Chang, to think I’m worse than most girls, just because I let you see into me. You know it isn’t fair.”
“You’re right, Rix,” said he impulsively; and the sense that he had wronged her pushed him on to say, “It’s your frankness and your courage that I admire so much. I wish you weren’t attractive. Then it’d be easier for me to do what I’ve got to do.”
Her face became radiant. “Then you do care for me?”
“Why, of course I do,” said he heartily—but in a tone most unsatisfactory to ears waiting to drink in what her ears longed for. “Do you suppose I could stand so much of anyone I didn’t like?”
“You aren’t frank with me!” said she a little sullenly.
“Why not?”
“You’ve some reason why you won’t let yourself say you love me. And you won’t tell me what it is.”
“How many times have I got to tell you,” cried he heatedly, “that I don’t care for you in that way—any more than you care for me?”
She was all gentleness and freedom from guile. “But every time you say that, you say it angrily—and then I know you don’t mean it.”
“But I do mean it!”
Her face looked stubbornly unconvinced.
“I tell you, I do mean it!” he repeated with angry energy.
“You are mad at yourself for liking me so much.”
He made a gesture of despair. “Well, have it your way—if it pleases you better to think so.” He rose and stood before her, his hands thrust deep into the outside pockets of his loose sack coat. “Whatever I may or may not think of you, I am not going to marry anybody. Do I make myself clear?”
“But everybody gets married,” said she innocently. “Oh, Chang, why do you want to be eccentric?” And up into his gazed the childlike eyes. “You told me yourself that eccentricity was a stupid caricature of originality.”
“Eccentric—eccentric,” he muttered, for lack of anything else to say. What an impossible creature to talk seriously with! She was always flying off at a tangent. Controlling his exasperation he said in a low, intense voice: “Eccentric or not, I am not going to marry.Doyou understand? I—am—not—going—to—marry.”
“Why do you get angry?” she pleaded sweetly. “It’s unreasonable. I can’tmakeyou marry me—can I? I don’t want to marry you if you don’t want to marry me—do I?”
He strode away, back again to where she sat in graceful ease on the end of her canoe. “I’m not so thundering sure of that!” he cried. “By Jove, you sometimes make me feel as if I had a halter round my neck. Where did you get this infernal insistence?”
“From my father,” said she, quiet and calm. “I can’t help it. When my heart gets set on a thing I hold on like grim death.”
He looked round, like a man dreaming. “Am I awake? Am I really awake?” he demanded of lake andtrees and stones. Then he addressed her, “What are you up to? I know you don’t love me. I know you don’t want to marry me. Thenwhydo you do it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just can’t help it. Sometimes when I’m alone and think over things I’ve said to you I can’t believe it was really I—or that such words really were uttered.... There can be only one explanation.”
“And what is that? For Heaven’s sake, let’s have it.”
“That I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that you love me.”
“Really!” exclaimed he, with a fantastic attempt at scornful irony; and away he strode, to halt at his former seat, the big bowlder under the tree. “Really!” he repeated.
“You must see it yourself,” urged she, serious and earnest. “Honestly, Chang, could a girl talk to you as I have—a girl as proud and as modest as I am—and with no experience—could she do it, unless she were absolutely sure she was talking to a man who loved her?”
There was something akin to terror in his eyes—the terror of a man who feels himself sinking in ocean or quicksand and looks about in vain for aid. Down he sat, to stare out over the shining, sparkling lake.
“You know I’m right,” said she with quiet conviction.
Up he started again in agitation. “I must be getting weak-minded!” he cried. “Or are you hypnotizing me?”
“If anybody’s done any hypnotizing I guess it must be you that have hypnotized me.”
“Maybe so,” said he, with a confused gesture. “Maybe so. Lord knows. I don’t.”
“And now,” pursued she, “that it’s settled that we love each other——”
“What!” he cried, with some of his former energy. But it subsided before her calm, surprised gaze. He stared stupidly at her feet, extended and crossed. “Is it settled?” he muttered. “Is it?” And then he straightened himself—a kind of rearing, insurgent gesture—the gesture of the last fierce stand in the last ditch.
“Yes, Chang, it’s settled,” said she soothingly. “You are such a big, foolish dear! But—as I was about to say—” She hesitated.
“Go on,” he urged, with a large, ironic gesture matching the boisterous irony of his tone. “Say anything you like. Only, don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Have you had your breakfast?” she asked solicitously.
“I take only coffee. I had it.”
“But that’s not enough for such a long morning as you have,” protested she.
“Isn’t it? All right. I’ll eat whatever you say—eat till you tell me to stop.”
“It really isn’t enough,” said she, refusing to relax her seriousness. “But, to go on—now that it’s settled that we love each other—the question is: What shall we do about it?”
“Yes,” said he, nodding his head in solemn mockery. “That’s it. What shall be done about it?”
“How queer your voice is, Chang,” observed she, with a look of gentle, innocent worriment. “What’s the matter?”
“I had only coffee,” said he.
“You mustn’t do that again.... Have you any suggestion to make?”
“None. Have you?”
“Chang!” she said reproachfully. “You have a suggestion.”
“Have I? What is it?”
“The only possible suggestion. You know very well that the only sensible thing to do is to get married.”
“I’m dreaming,” jeered he. “Yes, I’m dreaming.”
“You’re laughing at me, Chang!”
“Am I?”
“Oh, I don’t care. I’m so happy! The only thing that stands in the way is father.”
“Oh, father! Yes; there is father!” And he nodded ironically, repeating: “Father—there’s father.”
“But I’ll soon bring him round,” cried she. “His will’s very strong, but mine’s much stronger.”
“I believe that!” said he with energy. “You’ve got the strongest will we’ve had since Joshua ordered the sun to stand still and the sun did it.”
“You’re laughing at me again!” reproached she with an injured air.
“No, no! How could I?” protested he. “But suppose father refuses his consent. What then?”
“But he won’t,” she said with an emphatic little nod.
“But he might. He doesn’t know me as well and love me as dearly as his daughter does.”
“Chang, I feel as if you were laughing at me!”
“How can you!” said he. “But let’s go back to father and stick to him. Suppose he refuses—absolutely refuses! What then?”
“I hadn’t thought. It’s so unlikely.”
“Well—think now. You’d give up your romantic dream, wouldn’t you?”
She beamed, happy, confident. “Oh, that won’t happen. He’s sure to consent.”
“He’s surenotto consent,” said Roger, dropping his irony. “What then?”
She was silent. Her face slowly paled. A drawn look came round her eyes and mouth. He laughed—a sarcastic laugh—a sincere sound that indicated to her acute ears an end of the irony she had been pretending not to suspect. She glanced up quickly. Her eyes fell before his.
“You see,” said he, a little disdain in his jocose mockery, “I’ve shown you your own true self. Now, you will be sensible. Go back to your Peter and let the poor artist alone.” He rose, came to her, held out his hand. “Good-by, Rix. I must catch my train.”
She did not take his hand.
“Surely you’ll shake hands,” said he gently, friendlily. “I understand. I like you for what you are, not for what you ought to be. Come, give me your hand, my friend.”
She sighed, gazed up at him. “Suppose I said I’d give up everything for you. What then?” she asked.
“Why, you’d be saying what isn’t true.”
“Chang,” she said earnestly, “IthinkI’d give upeverything for you. But since it is you who ask me—you to whom I feel I must tell the exact truth—I had to be honest. And the honest truth is I don’t know. And any girl, in the same circumstances, would say precisely the same thing—if she weren’t lying—or just romancing.”
“You are a trump, Rix!” he exclaimed. There was a look in his eyes that would have thrilled her, had she seen it. But before she turned her gaze upon him again, he had controlled his impulsive self-revelation. In his usual manner he went on: “I’m proud of your friendship. It’s always good to be reminded that there are people of the right sort on earth. But you see yourself now that I was right from the beginning. We don’t belong in the same class. We couldn’t comfortably travel the same road. We——”
“Would you marry me if I gave up everything for you?” she interrupted.
“No,” was the prompt reply. “Any man who did that to your sort of girl would be a fool—and worse. But don’t forget another fact, my dear. I wouldn’t marry you in any circumstances. I’m not marrying. I’m married already, as I told you before. I don’t believe in any other kind of marriage—for my kind of man. I love my freedom. And I shall keep it.”
There was no mistaking the ring of those decisivewords. The girl shrank a little. She began in a choked, uncertain voice: “But you said——”
“Rix, my dear friend, I said nothing that contradicted what I’ve always told you—what I believe in as I believe in my work. You knew perfectly well that I was merely ironic a few minutes ago. I didn’t want to part from you with you imagining you were broken-hearted. That’s why I let you run on and on—until you came that fearful cropper. Oh,whata cropper for romantic Rix!”
She laughed with a partial return of her old gayety. “I do feel cheap,” said she—“dirt cheap.”
“Not at all. Just human. But—really I must be going,” said he briskly.
“When shall I see you again?” And she tried to speak steadily, with smiling eyes.
“Let me see. I’ll be back in two or three days. In a week or ten days I’ll have that picture about done. I suppose you’d like to see it. I’ll send your mother a note, asking her to bring you. Well—good-by, Rix.”
He took her hand, released it. She stood, paling and flushing and trembling. “Is that—all?” she murmured. “Won’t you—” Voice failed her.
He bent and kissed her hair at her temple. Suddenly she flung her arms round his neck, kissed himpassionately, her embrace tight; and a shower of tears rained upon his cheek. With a hysterical cry more like joy than like grief, yet like neither, she flung herself free, sprang into the canoe and pushed off. And she went her way and he his without either looking back.