XVIPETER CALLS ON ROGER
Beatricehad carefully avoided learning anything at all about the Wauchong Railway before investing nearly half her fortune in its bonds. She wished to spare herself the temptation to hesitate; and she was too fond of money as a means, too alive to its value, too well trained in the matter of foolish investments, to trust her newly developed virtue far. But now that the thing was done she made thorough inquiry into the affairs of the railway. It did a losing passenger business; it had made its money—very satisfactory earnings—by reason of its northern terminal being in a group of rich coal mines. Her father ruined the road by so juggling traffic agreements with the coal companies that the Wauchong’s whole paying freight business was at a stroke transferred to another road. The bonds were next to worthless. On the face of the facts she had spent forty-one thousand dollars for a few ounces of waste paper.
She was glad to find, on searching her heart, that she had not the faintest feeling of regret for her action.It gave her a gratifying opinion of herself to discover that, on the contrary, she regarded her investment with satisfaction and pride. But these emotions did not clash with a strong desire to recover the lost forty-one thousand, if that could be brought about. She gave the matter anxious and intelligent thought. The only plan that came to her and seemed at all practicable was to let it leak out in Wall Street that a big block of the bonds had been taken at more than par by Daniel Richmond’s daughterafterthe wiping out of the road’s revenues. This news would probably boom the bonds and stocks if sent out adroitly. But Beatrice decided against the scheme; she could not forget the losses to the innocent it would involve. Perhaps the time had been—and not so very long ago, either—when this view of the affair would not have occurred to her. But since then she had experienced, had suffered, had learned. With a sigh she put the bundle of bonds away in her safety-deposit box and entered their cost to profit and loss. Her total income was now reduced to just under twenty-seven hundred a year. “And I need at least that many thousand,” thought she. “Let us see what this dressmaking scheme has in it.”
And she proceeded to revolve Valentine’s project with a deliberate, pessimistic, flaw-seeing scrutiny that would have commanded the admiration of her fatherand would have increased his amazement how one so strong in the head could be so weak in the heart. She questioned and cross-questioned Valentine, who, for all her cleverness, had far too much of the optimist in her composition. Beatrice had learned from her father that hope, an invaluable ally when the struggle is on, is an enemy, the worst of enemies—a traitor and a destroyer—if admitted to the counsels when the struggle is planning. So, she took the worst possible view of every phase of the proposed enterprise, and insisted that all calculation be based upon the theory that they would lose money from the start, would lose heavily, must prepare themselves to hold out for the longest possible period against not only bad business, but also bad luck.
Meanwhile, Peter was engaged in strenuous combat with a generous impulse which seemed to him as out of place in his mind as an eaglet in the brood of a hen. But the impulse would not expel; it lingered obstinately, fascinating him as the idea of doing something unconventional sometimes seizes upon and obsesses a primly conventional woman. Finally, it fairly dragged him into a kind of rake’s progress of generosity—for good has its rapid road no less than evil. It put him alone in his speediest auto and, in the teeth of his dread of being seen by Richmond or by some one who wouldtell Richmond, drove him along the dusty highways of Northern New Jersey until he came to Deer Spring—to a charming old farmhouse in its farthermost outskirts.
He went up the flowery lane to the old-fashioned porch, so cool, so quiet, so restful, behind its odorous veils of blooming creepers. A little exercise with the big brass dragon’s head that had served as knocker for the best part of a century, and a pleasant-looking old woman came round the corner of the house, wiping her hands on her kitchen apron. Said Peter:
“Is Mr. Wade at home?”
“Not just now,” replied she, her head thrown far back that she might inspect him through the spectacles on the end of her long, thin nose. “I reckon most likely he’s up to the studio.”
“Where is it?”
“You follow the path back of the house—through the woods and the hollow, then up the round-top hill. You’ll have to walk. It’s a right smart piece—about a mile and a half.”
“Is there any place where I could”—Peter stopped and blushed; he had caught himself just in time to prevent the word “hide” from slipping out—“where I could put my machine?”
“There’s the shed behind the house.”
“Thank you.” And he sprang away to get the auto tucked out of sight.
When this was accomplished his mind became somewhat easier and he set out for the studio. He got on fairly well with himself—until he stood face to face with the big artist. Wade regarded him inscrutably: Peter regarded Wade with an expression which, in a woman, would have betokened an impending fit of hysteria.
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Wade?” said he.
“I remember you perfectly,” Roger replied.
“I—I called on a matter of—that is, not exactly of—well—a matter.”
“Will you come in?” said Roger, standing aside.
“Thank you—I’ll be glad to,” was Peter’s eager reply.
Within, his eyes made for a covered canvas on an easel in the middle of the big room. “Is that by any chance Mr. Richmond’s picture?” asked he.
“Mr. Richmond’s picture?” said Roger. “I know nothing of any picture of Mr. Richmond.”
“ForMr. Richmond.”
“Neither of nor for.”
“I beg your pardon,” stammered Peter. “I rather hoped you’d let me have a look at it. You know, I was engaged to Miss Richmond.”
Roger continued in his waiting attitude. Peter felt himself dwindling before this large, dark calm. He shifted uneasily from leg to leg, opened and shut his mouth several times, finally burst out: “I say, what an ass you must think me.” And he gave Roger an honest, pathetic look of appeal—an ingenuous plea for mercy.
The large, dark calm was rippled by a smile—a very human smile. It made young Peter instantly feel that he was talking with a young human being just like himself.
“I did want to look at the picture,” said he. “You know the one I mean—the picture ofher.”
Roger’s gaze wavered a little, steadied. “I’m sorry—but it’s not finished,” said he.
“Oh—I see. And, naturally, you do not want anybody to look at it. Well—I’ll come another time—if I may.”
Roger bowed.
Peter was desperate. He puffed furiously at his cigarette, finally burst out: “Did you know that Miss Richmond and her father had quarreled?”
“Really?” said Roger politely, and so far as Peter could judge the news interested him only to the degree more discouraging than no interest at all.
“Yes—they’ve quarreled—and she’s left home—isliving alone at a hotel in New York—says she’s never going back.”
Peter was not sure, but he thought he saw a something or other flash across the artist’s face, like a huge, swift-swimming fish near the surface of opaque water. He felt encouraged to go on.
“I think I ought to tell you. Miss Richmond and Iwereengaged. It’s been broken off. Her father is furious. She’s in love with another man.” Peter glanced at Roger’s inscrutable eyes, blushed, glanced down again. “She has sacrificed everything for this other man. It’s really stunning, the way she did it—and a lot more I can’t tell you. And I do believe she’ll stick—will not go back—though she’s got next to nothing. You know her—know what a fine girl she is.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Roger cordially.
“She’s at the Wolcott—if you care to call. I guess she’s rather lonely, as all her old pals are shying off. You see, her father’s a deadly dangerous sort—liable to do up anybody who sided with her.”
Roger, his gaze upon a far, unseen country, was pale and somber.
“I do hope you’ll look in on her, Wade,” said Peter. “She’d appreciate it.”
Wade’s eyes slowly turned with his returning thoughts until they centered upon the eyes of youngVanderkief. Suddenly Roger’s face was illuminated by that splendid smile of his. He grasped Peter by the hand. “I’m glad to know you,” said he. “And—I beg your pardon—for things I’ve thought about you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” cried Peter. “I’m not a dog in the manger, you know. And I tell you she’s got a stiff stretch ahead of her—downright rough. Of course she’s no fool. Still, it wouldn’t be possible for any woman of her age and her bringing up to realize what she was bumping into, dropping out of her class, sacking her father and trying to scratch along on worse than nothing. When you’ve got tastes a little money’s only an aggravation. Especially for her sort of woman. Won’t you try one of my cigarettes?”
“Delighted,” said Roger, taking one.
“Well, I must move on,” proceeded Peter. “You don’t mind my butting in?”
“Not in the least. It was a fine friendly—decent thing to do.... Would you like to see the picture?”
And without giving Peter time to reply, or himself a chance to repent the impulse, he flung aside the drapery over the easel in the middle of the room. He and Peter gazed in silence. It was a glorious vision of morning in the springtime. Upon lake and cataract, upon tree and bush and stone, sparkled the radianceof the birthday of summer. That radiance seemed to come from the figure of a young girl in a canoe, her paddle poised for the stroke—an attitude of exquisite grace, a figure alive in every line of flesh and drapery—a face shedding the soft luster of the bright hopes and dreams and joys that are summed up in the thrilling word, youth. Roger was right in thinking it his best work, his best expression of that intense joy of life which he was ever striving to put upon canvas.
Peter gave a long, furtive sigh. “Yes,” he muttered, “she can look like that.” He had seen her look just so once—when she told him she loved the artist and would never change. Queer, how anyone could so love that she got happiness out of giving love, even though it was unreturned. Queer—yet, there it was. Roger, with a sudden gesture, recovered the canvas. Peter stood motionless, staring at where the picture had been—it was still there for him. He roused himself, looked at the painter with frank admiration and respect. “That’s worth while!” said he. “No wonder she——”
Roger’s frown checked him. But only for a moment; then he went on, in an awed undertone: “She’s more of a—a person than anyone I ever saw. If she’d let me I’d be crazy about her. As it is, while I know I can never get her, everything’s stopped short with meuntil I’m sure she’s out of reach—married to some one else. I’m a better man for having known her, for having loved her.”
Roger was standing with arms folded upon his broad chest—powerful arms bare to the elbow. He seemed lost in reverie.
“Thank you for showing me that,” said Peter gratefully and humbly. “I’d wish to own it if it wasn’t that—well, I’d never be able to get any peace of mind if I had it about. I’d stare at it till I went crazy.”
Roger flushed a significant, a guilty deep red.
Peter got himself together with a shake of his big frame. “I’m off, now. You’ll not say anything about my having called—not to her or anyone?”
“I do not see anyone,” said Roger in a constrained voice.
“But you’ll surely—” began Peter, but he halted on the threshold of impertinence. “Well—I hope you’ll look in at the Wolcott and cheer her up. Good-by. Thank you again.”
The young men shook hands with the friendliness of intimacy. Roger went with Peter to the door, where they shook hands again. As Peter was turning away he happened to glance down into the woods to the left. There, beating a hasty, not to say undignified retreat, was Daniel Richmond!
“Now what do you think of that?” cried Peter. “What the devil ishedoing here?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Roger indifferently.
“No doubt he recognized me,” Peter went on. “He’s got me scared to a panic—for fear he’ll half ruin me—just out of a general insanity of meanness. If he asks you what I was doing here say I came to buy the picture. You don’t know how much trouble he could make for me.”
“I’ll probably not see him.”
“Do—for her sake, do,” urged Peter. “Be civil to him. Try to soften him down. You ought to do it for her—honest, you ought.”
“That’s true,” said Roger gravely.
Peter departed. Roger stayed on in the doorway. Presently Richmond reappeared, making his way slowly up the steep toward the studio. He arrived much out of breath, but contrived to put unmistakable politeness into his jerky tones as he gasped: “Good afternoon, Mr. Wade.”
“How d’ye do, Mr. Richmond?” was Roger’s civil rejoinder. His talk with Peter had put him in a frame of mind to bear and forbear, to do whatever he could toward ending the quarrel between father and daughter.
“I’d be greatly obliged—for a few—minutes of your time,” said Richmond between breaths.
He looked old and worn and tired. Violent passions, especially violent temper, freely indulged, had played their wonted havoc. And these eroding emotions had deepened seam and gutter painfully. There had now appeared the gauntness in eye socket and under jawbone, about the saddest of the forewarnings of decrepitude and death that show in the human countenance with advancing age. Roger pitied him, this really superior man who had given his life furiously to plowing arid golden sands and was reaping ill health and unhappiness as his harvest. “Come in,” said Roger.
When they were seated in the cool, airy workroom and had lighted, Richmond a cigar, Roger his pipe, Richmond glanced at the covered picture and said: “Is that it?”
“Yes,” replied Roger, not in a tone that invited further conversation along those lines.
“I’ve come to see you about it,” persisted Beatrice’s father, apparently undiscouraged.
“I do not care to discuss it,” said Roger.
“It is a picture of my daughter—painted for——”
“It is not a picture of your daughter,” interrupted Roger, “and it was painted for my own amusement.”
“My wife gave you the commission, with the idea of a surprise for me.”
Roger was silenced.
“So,” Richmond went on, “the picture belongs to us.”
“No,” said Roger quietly. “I purpose to keep it.”
“You certainly have a strange way of doing business,” said Richmond with resolute amiability.
“I don’t do business,” replied Roger.
Richmond waved his hand. “Oh—call it what you like. Artists paint pictures for money.”
“I don’t know about others,” said Roger. “But I paint for my own amusement. And of my work I sell enough to enable me to live.”
“Very fine—very fine,” said Richmond, in the tone of a man who doesn’t believe a word of it, but politely wishes to seem impressed. “I saw from the beginning of our acquaintance that you were an unusual man. I’ve thought about you a great deal”—with a sly smile—“naturally.”
Roger made a slight inclination of his head.
“I owe you an apology for the way I acted the other day. And I make it. I lost my temper—a bad habit I have.”
“Yes, it is a bad habit,” said Roger dryly. “A particularly bad one for a man in your position, I should say.”
“How in my position?” inquired Richmond, surprised.
“Oh, an independent man like me, who asks nothing of anybody, can afford that sort of thing. But you, who are dependent upon others for the success of your plans—that’s very different.”
“Um,” grunted Richmond, little pleased but much struck by this new view of him as slave, not master. “Um.” A long pause, with Richmond the more embarrassed because Roger’s silence seemed natural and easy, like that of a statue or of a man alone. “I also—I also wish to say,” Richmond resumed, “that on thinking the matter over I feel I did you an injustice in believing you—in accusing you—” He could not find a satisfactory word frame for his idea.
“In suspecting I was after your daughter and your money?” suggested Roger with an amused, ironic twinkle.
“Something like that. But, Mr. Wade, you are a man of the world. You can’t wonder at my having such an idea.”
“Not in the least,” assented Roger.
“At the same time I do not blame you for being angry.”
Roger smiled. “But, my dear sir, I was not angry. I didn’t in the least care what you thought. Even ifyou had succeeded in your vicious little scheme for robbing me of my competence, I still couldn’t have been angry. It is so easy for a man to make a generous living if he happens not to have burdened himself with expensive tastes.”
“That matter of the railway bonds—it will be adjusted at once, Mr. Wade. I was sorry the exigencies of a large operation forced me to—to——”
In his indignation Roger forgot the resolutions Peter had soothed and softened him into making. With his curtest accent he said: “What you did was contemptible enough. Why make it worse by lying?”
Richmond sprang to his feet. Roger rose toweringly, in his face a plain hope that his guest was about to depart. Richmond sat down again. “You have me at your mercy,” cried he with a ludicrous mingling of attempt at politeness and frantic rage.
“I?” said Roger, laughing. “Oh, no. Neither of us can do the other any harm. I wouldn’t if I could. You couldn’t if you would. Don’t you think we have had about enough of each other?”
“I have a favor to ask of you,” said Richmond sullenly.
Roger hesitated, seated himself. There was a look in his visitor’s eyes—a look of misery—that touched his heart.
“Mr. Wade,” Richmond began again after a brief silence, “I am a man of very strong affections—very strong. Circumstances have concentrated them all on one person, my daughter Beatrice. They say everyone is a fool in at least one way. I am a fool about her.”
Wade, inscrutable, was gazing at the drape over his painting.
“But,” Richmond went on, “if she married against my will, much as I love her, foolish as I am about her, I would cut her off relentlessly.”
“Then you don’t love her,” said Roger. “If you did you’d insist on her freely choosing the man she is to live with, the man who is to be the father of her children.”
“Our ideas differ there,” said Richmond stiffly.
“I am not surprised that she has left you,” pursued Roger. “You have made her realize that you don’t love her. And from what I know of her I doubt if you will ever get her back until you change your notions of what loving means.”
Suspicion was once more sparkling in Richmond’s wicked eyes. “You may be sure I’ll not change, Mr. Wade,” said he with a peculiarity of emphasis which even the simple-minded Roger could not fail to understand.
Roger laughed heartily. “At it again!” cried he. “Really, you are very amusing.”
“Be that as it may,” snapped Richmond, “I want you to know that I will never take her back—never!—until I am sure she has given you up. You may stake your life on that, sir. When I put my hand to the plough I do not turn back.”
Roger leaned toward the unhappy man distracted by his own torturings of himself. “Will you believe me, sir,” said he earnestly, “when I say I am deeply sorry that I have been the innocent cause of a breach between you and your daughter. Perhaps it is just as well that she has gotten away from you. It may result in her developing into the really fine person God intended her to be. Still, I wish to do all I can to heal the breach.”
“That sounds like a man, Mr. Wade!” cried Richmond, all eagerness.
“I’ve been putting up with you this afternoon,” pursued Roger, apparently not much impressed by this certificate of his virtue, “because I hoped to do something toward ending the quarrel between you two.”
“You can end it,” interrupted Richmond. “You can end it at once.”
“Tell me how, and I’ll do it,” said Roger.
“She believes you wish to marry her.”
“I am confident she never told you anything like that.”
“She thinks you’re afraid to marry her unless she brought the money to keep her in the style she’s been used to.”
“Impossible,” said Roger.
“She tells me you refused her. But she still hopes.”
Roger had become red and awkward. “Your daughter is something of a coquette,” he stammered. “But I assure you you are wrong in thinking she— It’s impossible for me to discuss this.” He rose impatiently. “Your daughter does not wish to marry me. I do not wish to marry her. That’s the whole story, sir. I must ask you to let me continue my work.”
“If youmeanthat,” urged Richmond, “you will go to her and tell her so. She’s at the Wolcott—in New York City. You will tell her you do not love her and would not marry her—and she’ll come home.” The father’s voice had grown hoarse and quavering, and in his face there was a piteous humility and wretchedness—such an expression as only a dethroned tyrant can have. “If you knew how her conduct is making me suffer, Mr. Wade, you’d not hesitate to do me—and her—this favor.” That last word of abasement came in little more than a whisper.
Roger seemed to be debating.
“You must realize she is not a fit wife for you—she, brought up to a life of fashion and luxury. And she will never have a cent from me—not a cent!”
Roger had not been listening. “Can’t do it,” he now said. “Sorry, but I can’t.”
“You wish to marry her!” cried Richmond in the frenzy of impotence struggling at its bonds. “You hope!”
Roger, too full of pity for resentment, regarded the old man with friendly eyes. “Mr. Richmond,” said he, “I repeat I do not wish to marry anyone. I have made up my mind, with all the strength of what little good sense I may have, never to marry. I do not believe in marriage—for myself—for people who are doing the sort of thing I’m trying to do. You might as well accuse a Catholic priest of intending to marry.”
“Fudge!” snorted Richmond.
Roger shrugged his shoulders. “This interview was not of my seeking. I wish it to come to an end.”
“You refuse to tell her you will not marry her?”
“I refuse to make an impertinent ass of myself. If you wish your daughter back, sir, go and apologize for having outraged her finest feelings and ask her to come home unconditionally. I could not say to her what you request—for obvious reasons of good taste. Ifyou had a sense of humor you’d not ask it. But I don’t hesitate to give you my word that you need not have an instant’s uneasiness lest your daughter and I marry.”
“On your honor?”
“On my honor.”
Richmond gazed at him with eyes that seemed to be searching every corner of his soul. “I believe you,” said he at last. “And I am content.” He had abruptly changed from suspicion and sneer and hardly veiled insult to his most winning friendliness and geniality. It was amazing how attractive his wizened and usually almost wicked face became. “It’s been my experience,” he went on to explain, “that human beings are at bottom exactly alike—in motives, in the things that appeal to them. Once in a while there is an exception. You happen to be one, Mr. Wade. I think you’ll forgive me for having applied my principle to you. Where exceptions are rare it’s most unwise for a practical man to consider them as a possibility.”
Roger smiled amiably enough. “No matter,” said he. “I hope you’ll make it up with your daughter.”
Richmond’s face clouded, and once more that look of anguish showed deep in his eyes. “It’ll just about kill me if I don’t,” said he.
“Go to her—like a father who loves,” said Rogergently. And once more the impulse came, too strong to resist, and he dropped the cover from the painting. But this time he did not look at the picture—at Beatrice Richmond as incarnation of a spring morning; he fixed his gaze upon her father. And the expression of that sad, passion-scarred face made him glad he had yielded to the impulse.
“I must have it!” said Richmond. “Name your own price.”
“It is not for sale.”
“I tell you I must have it.”
“No—you can have her. I shall keep this.”
Roger was gazing absently at his creation. Richmond, struck by some subtle accent in his words, glanced quickly at him.
“I’ll take it with me—back to Paris,” said Roger, talking aloud to himself.
“When do you go?” asked Richmond abruptly.
“Next week.”
“For the summer?”
“For good,” said Roger, covering the picture.
“I wish you every success,” cried Richmond heartily. “You are an honest, sincere man.”
The meaning of Roger’s quizzical smile escaped him.