XIPETER VISITS THE PRISON
Wemay hesitate, back and fill, creep forward with trembling caution, in matters affecting our own affairs. But we show no such nervousness when it comes to interfering in the affairs of another. There we are swift and sure. We give advice freely; we say “ought” in authoritative tones; we even enforce judgment if we have the power. Why not? If matters do not turn out well the fault will lie not upon our advice, but upon the blundering way our advice was executed. Besides, we shall not be called on to pay the bill; destiny never settles its accounts in consequences vicariously. Richmond had given far less thought to his daughter’s affairs than he habitually bestowed upon the small details of a small business deal. He felt he did not need to think about them; he knew what was good for her. Was he not her father?—and was it not a father’s duty and privilege to know what was best for a daughter? So, the obstacle to the fulfillment of the destiny he had ordained for her must be swept away.
He was a man who looked at ends, not at means.Taking all the circumstances into account, he was rather inclined to believe that his daughter was right about Roger Wade’s not wishing to marry her; that for some mysterious reason the poor artist was firmly set against marrying her—perhaps was in love with some other woman, perhaps had a wife hidden away somewhere. But Roger’s innocence or guilt was aside from the point—the said point being that his daughter must marry Vanderkief and so contribute her share toward broad and solid foundations for the family he was building. Thus, guilty or innocent, this artist who had had the misfortune to cross his path must be sacrificed if necessary.
He felt neither pity nor hatred for Roger Wade as he contemplated the possibility of having to ruin him. Richmond was as impersonal as are all the large forces of destiny, self-appointed or impressed—cholera germs or conquerors, cyclones or captains of industry. When he raised or lowered the price of a stock or of a necessity of life, destroyed an industry or annexed a railway, he looked on it as a destiny-ordained transaction; effects upon the happiness or misery of unknown fellow-beings did not enter his head. The suicides that followed his wrecking and looting of the M. M. & G. made no impression on him. If a man of action paused for such refinements of sensibility as incidentalevil effects from his great designs there would be no action. If the Almighty were a sentimentalist how long would chaos be postponed? “The larger good” was Richmond’s motto, and those who attacked his right to set himself up as judge in so high and difficult a matter were silenced by his pointing to his triumphant success in establishing and maintaining himself in destiny’s American board of directors.
Beatrice, observing this relentlessness of his in a romantic, impersonal way, and thinking only about his exhibition of power and about the glories of victory, had often admired, had been filled with pride. But now that she had personal illustration of the meaning of that sonorous word, relentless, she was feeling rather differently. And hand in hand with horror of her father there entered her heart a great fear of him. She had fancied herself free! She had gone haughtily away, had stepped proudly about, had admired herself for superior strength and courage. Here she was, back at Red Hill, as much in chains as her mother and her brothers and Rhoda, Countess of Broadstairs. Through and through she was afraid of this man who would stop at nothing—and whom nothing could stop. Bitterly and vividly and in self-scorn she was realizing the truth so compactly presented by Montaigne where he reminds us that the pedestal is not part of the bust.
But, although she could not lie to herself about her fear, she resolutely hid it. Her front was calm and undaunted. She accepted her check like her father’s own daughter—with neither whimper nor frown. She was chattering gayly all the way down on the train. She greeted her mother as if she had merely been away for a day’s shopping. She was the life of the dinner table, played bridge afterwards with her old-time skill—and that meant undivided attention upon the game.
Her father was puzzled. Did this cheerfulness indicate a plot to escape? Or, was Beatrice secretly delighted at being able to extricate herself from a situation extremely distasteful to her sober sense, without being forced to the mortification of having to confess her folly? Or, was it simply the natural and incurable frivolity of womankind? Richmond hoped and half believed that the last two guesses contained the truth; but he did not on that account relax his vigilance. It was his fixed policy to leave no point in his line uncovered, and to cover with the greatest care those points where danger seemed least likely. Thenceforth Beatrice should make no move without his knowledge. She was never alone except when shut up in her own apartment—and he had the telephone there disconnected. He was careful not to make his espionage irritating; it would not definitely disclose itself to her unlessshe tried to do something out of the ordinary. So far as he could judge, she did not realize that it existed.
A few days and Peter came down, to be received by her with a friendliness that delighted him, and Richmond no less.
Perhaps had Peter been born to make his own way in the world he would have developed a good mind and enough character to have enabled him to acquit himself creditably. As it was, however, his thinking had always been hired out and his character had remained almost rudimentary, except that he had been taught to resist any and all attempts to get money out of him—had been taught in much the same way that Nature teaches the oyster to close its shell when anything disagreeable tries to enter, teaches the worm to squirm out of the way when it feels a touch.
Unlike his mind and most of the rest of his character, Peter’s vanity was far from rudimentary. Those born to wealth or position get a quaintly false notion of their own intrinsic importance—just as a prize milcher probably mistakes the reason for the assiduous attention of which she is the subject—the care with which she is washed and curried and fed, humored and petted, ever spoken to caressingly and considerately. Peter’s vanity was as highly sensitized as the sole ofthe foot. He was constantly alternating between ecstasy and torment, according as he interpreted the actions of those about him—for he assumed that everyone was thinking of him all the time, that whatever was said was a compliment for him or an envious fling at him. Otherwise, one might travel far and search diligently without finding so amiable, so kindly a fellow as he. His extreme caution with money—except in self-indulgence, of course—did not produce any disagreeable effect upon his associates; they either were rich, young men, trained like himself to suspect everyone of trying to “trim” them, or were parasites upon the rich, accustomed to the penurious ways of the rich and rather admiring stinginess as evidence of strength of character. And it certainly was evidence of admirable prudence; for the merely rich man shorn of his riches is in much the same plight as a dog with its tail cut off close behind its ears.
When Peter and Beatrice went for a walk, Peter after a while noted the retainer of Richmond’s personal staff lingering with unobtrusive persistence in the offing. “Why’s that fellow skulking after us?” inquired he.
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, father’s nerves.”
“About cranks and anarchists and socialists—eh? Well, I don’t wonder. The lower classes are gettingdamned impertinent in this country. I’m strongly tempted to go to England to live. There’s the only place on earth where a gentleman can count on being treated like one all the time.”
“Yes, it is comfortable,” said the girl. “Except the climate!”
“That is rotten—isn’t it?... I wish the fellow would drop us.” Peter halted, frowning at the distant figure. “I think I’ll call out to him.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” said Beatrice. “He’s doing no harm.”
“But I feel as if we were being spied on.”
“What of it?” cried she with a radiant smile. “We’re not going to do anything that anybody mightn’t see.”
“But I’ve got some things to say to you—came down especially to say ’em.”
“Are they things that have to be shouted?”
“No—but—he makes me uneasy—and there’s you. You’ve got a way of looking and talking—as if you weren’t taking anything seriously.”
She was smiling as he spoke. But if he had been a close observer he might have seen an expression of a quite different character veiled by the laughter of lips and eyes.
“I came down to say some pretty sharp things toyou,” he went on. “But, now that I’m with you, I don’t seem able to get them out. But they’re there all the same, Beatrice, and I’ll act on ’em when I get away. I’m sure I will.”
“Well?” said she. An expert in woman’s ways would have gathered from the accent she put into the word and from her accompanying manner that this young woman had decided the time had come to make it easy for Hanky to unburden himself.
“You’re not treating me right,” he burst out. “You don’t give me the—the respect that everybody else does; the—the consideration that I’ve been used to.”
“For instance?”
Peter walked in silence beside her for some distance; these matters of which his sense of personal dignity was compelling him to complain were difficult to put into words that would not sound priggish and conceited. Finally, he made a beginning: “Of course, you’re a splendid girl—the best I know—and that’s the reason I want you. There isn’t anybody else who combines all the advantages as you do. But—honestly, Beatrice, isn’t the same thing true of me?”
He looked at her, with his mind and his face ready to resent evidences of her familiar mockery. But she was gazing ahead, eyes serious and sweet mouth freefrom any hint of a smile. “Go on, Hanky,” said she encouragingly.
Peter felt that at last he was coming into his own. With a great deal more confidence he proceeded: “You make me feel as if—as if I were cheapening myself—hanging after you this way, taking things off you I wouldn’t take off anybody else on earth.”
“For instance?”
“Why, this engagement. There’s hardly a girl in New York—in our set—who wouldn’t jump at the chance. That isn’t conceit. It’s fact.”
“It’s both, Hanky,” conceded the girl, without reserve. She looked at him, asked gravely: “Do you really want to marry me?”
“Haven’t I told you?”
“When I don’t love you?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Peter, with a notable air of experienced man of the world. “And it seems to me you’re only showing what a fine girl you are. I’d be inclined to shy off from a girl who loved me before we were married. I like delicacy—and—and reserve—and purity—in a—alady. By Jove, it seems to me there’s something kind of—of brazen and forward in a girl’s giving way to her feelings—when—when—she’s not supposed to know about that kind of thing. It’s—it’s—well, it smacks of the lowerclasses. They go in for that sort of thing—they and the sort of women one doesn’t talk about.”
A long silence followed this outburst of upper-class philosophy. Peter was revolving what he had said, with increasing admiration for his own acumen. As for Beatrice, after a fleeting smile of derision which he did not see, she resumed her own distinct line of thought. She looked at him several times—a scrutinizing look—a look of appeal—a look of doubt. Finally she said with some effort: “Peter—suppose I told you I loved another man?”
He shook his head incredulously. “You wouldn’t love any man till you had the right to. Besides, where is there another man who’s so exactly what you want in every way? You know we’re exactly suited to each other, Beatrice. It’s—it’s like predestination. You’d hate to give me up as much as I’d hate to give you up.”
Centered though her mind was on whether she could venture to make a confidant of him, she began to wonder at him. True, she had permitted him to speak frankly. True, their intimate acquaintance from childhood made him feel free to exhibit his innermost self without any especial nervousness or reserve. But there still remained something unaccounted for. Where had he got the courage to face her thus aggressively? How came he to be infatuated with himself so far beyondthe loftiest soarings of his most self-satisfied mood theretofore? It was not long before her feminine shrewdness pointed her to the cause. “Some woman’s been at him—been trying to get him away from me.” In ordinary circumstances this would have pleased her no better than it would please the next woman. But just then she sincerely hoped her underminer had been successful.
“Peter,” said she thoughtfully, “have you been considering giving me up?”
Peter looked flustered. But he did not hem and haw; he came straight back at her. “I haven’t liked the way you’ve kept me on the string,” confessed he.
“Is there some other girl?” inquired she eagerly.
“I’ve seen quite a lot of Allie lately,” admitted Peter, and his manner let her know that he had been giving a large amount of thought to the advantages of making her jealous. “And I’m sure if I’d been to Allie what I’ve been to you she’d not treat me as you have.”
Allie! Then it was all right. “DearAllie” had been working in the interests of her friend. Beatrice sent a loving thought to her.
“And you must admit Allie has a lot of good points,” pursued Peter, calculating that his judicial manner would set the jealous flame to spreading and mounting.
“She’s much nearer your ideal of what a girl should be than I am,” said Beatrice with discouraging enthusiasm. “She’s fond of the same kind of life that you are. Peter—why don’t you love her?”
Peter stared gloomily at the ground, then fell to switching off leaves with his stick. Was Beatrice jealous and taking this method of hiding it? Or was she really indifferent to the danger of losing one of the few first-class catches in America? The fear that the latter might be the case made him so miserable that he could not keep up the pretense about Allie.
Beatrice, desperate, hesitated no longer. “But first, Hanky, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to pretend that we are to be married and that it’s to be in—say—in three months. Allie will understand. I’ll explain it all to her.”
Peter began to bristle. “Pretend to whom?” said he sourly.
“To father. And you must say you simply can’t marry for three months. I must have time to— No matter. I hope—in fact I’m sure that I’ll be able to let you off in a month.”
“And have everybody say you chucked me? I like that—I do!”
“You know, Hanky, no one would believe for a minute that any girl would chuckyou.”
“But—but you’d be doing it, just the same,” he exploded. “And—Iwantto marry you.”
“Now, Peter, you know perfectly well you like Allie better.”
“Yes, I dolikeher better. Sometimes I don’t likeyouat all. But I alwaysloveyou.”
“Habit—simply habit,” Beatrice assured him airily. “You’ll do it, won’t you?”
“No!” cried Peter, stopping short. “No, I’ll not do it. I’ve made up my mind to marry you. And I will.”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, Hanky Vanderkief?” cried Beatrice. “Why, I always thought you were a gentleman.”
“Oh, when we’re married you’ll be all right—mighty glad you did. A girl doesn’t know her own mind.”
“Shame on you! Trying to take advantage of the fact that my father’s got me in his power.”
This admission delighted Peter. “He’s set on your marrying me?” he inquired.
“That’s why I want you to help me.”
“Then that settles it!” exclaimed Peter triumphantly. “We’ll be married.”
“You—side with him—againstme!” Beatrice’s scorn was superb. “Oh, I wish I could marry you—just to punish you for that!”
Peter looked uncomfortable but dogged. “I’d not dare offend your father, anyhow. It’d cost me a pot of money. He’s got me up to my eyes in a lot of his deals. And if he turned against me—gad, I’d look like a sheep just after shearing. Beatrice, don’t you see it? There’s no escape for us. We ought to marry. We want to marry. We’vegotto marry.”
Beatrice’s answer was a glance of contempt. “I understand now,” said she bitterly. “You’d marry Allie Kinnear, if you dared. But you don’t dare because you’re afraid it’d cost you a little money.”
“A little!” cried Peter. “About a third of all I’ve got.”
“And you’ve got about five times as much as you could possibly spend. Oh, I had no idea you were so contemptible. You’d marry me against my will—against your own heart—for fear and for money.”
“I say, now!” protested Vanderkief. “That ain’t fair, Beatrice.”
“Willyou help me?” demanded she.
“I can’t—and I won’t,” replied he unhesitatingly. “And, furthermore, I’m going to put it up to you and your father that if you don’t marry me next month I’ll not marry you at all.” And Peter drew himself to his full height and swelled himself to his excellent full figure and looked fiercely resolved.
Beatrice stood motionless, her gaze fixed upon a worn place in the grass just across the lake and not far from the cascade.
“What do you say, Beatrice?” he asked rather uneasily.
“You meant that?”
He nodded emphatically. “I did. I do.”
“You’d speak to father?”
His eyes shifted. “If you compelled me to.”
“Look at me, Peter.”
With considerable difficulty he forced his eyes to meet hers. All the latent selfishness and pettiness in his nature seemed to her to be flaunting from them. “I’m doing what’s best foryou,” said he sullenly.
She gave that short, nasty Dan Richmond laugh of hers—and his own face certainly did not suggest the sunny and generous side of his character. “Very well, dear Peter,” said she. “We’re engaged.”
“And the marriage is next month, remember,” he insisted. “We want to get to London before the end of the season.”
“The thirty-first of next month.” She was still looking at him with eyes full of sardonic—one might say, satanic—mirth. “Poor Peter!” she said.
“I can take care of myself,” retorted he jauntily. “And of you, too. Your father understands you.He’ll see to it that you don’t have the chance to make a fool of yourself and spoil your life after you’re married.”
Beatrice burst into a laugh full of pure mirth. “Youarea joke!” she cried. “Poor Peter!”
“Let’s go back to the house,” said he angrily.
“Yes—to tell the glad news.”
“Now, don’t put on with me, Beatrice. Do you think I haven’t got good sense? I know that in reality you are delighted. You seem to have a prejudice against doing anything in the ordinary way. You want to make me feel in the wrong—to get an advantage over me from the start. But I’m on to you. So—come along!”
Beatrice laughed again. And again she said, “Poor Peter!”