XXBEATRICE LOSES
Beatriceand Miss Clermont were finishing breakfast the following morning when Richmond came. As he entered the small sitting room with its bed folded away into a lounge he made no effort to conceal his feelings. In response to Beatrice’s look of defiance he sent to her from his haggard face a glance of humble appeal—the look of the beaten and impotent tyrant—for the pride of the tyrant is not in himself, but in his power, and vanishes with it. “I’d like to see you alone,” said he, ignoring Valentine as a servant.
“My partner, Miss Clermont,” said Beatrice, in the tone of making an introduction.
Richmond’s natural quickness did not fail him. He instantly repaired his mistake. “Miss Clermont,” said he, bowing politely. Then, “Pardon my abruptness. I am much upset in mind.”
Miss Clermont, who was now thoroughly adapted to her new rank, smiled politely and glided into the adjoining room, closing the door behind her. Said Beatrice: “You can’t imagine how splendid she is. Weshall make a fortune. I’m sure we shall. We have rented a shop—in Thirty-second Street—south side—three doors from Fifth Avenue. Frightful rent, but I insisted on beginning at the top.”
“I saw Wade yesterday afternoon,” said Richmond.
The animation died out of the girl’s face. And with its animation departed most of its beauty, at least most of its charm.
“I practically asked him to marry you.”
Her eyes lit up, immediately became dull again.
“He was polite—everything a man could be. But he—he will never marry.”
“Until he loves,” murmured Beatrice.
“There are men—” began Richmond.
“But they don’t love!” exclaimed Beatrice.
“Perhaps so,” said Richmond, who would not have ventured to discuss anything with her, however mildly. Also, no woman, no young woman could be expected to understand that marriage was not the one absorbing longing of every unattached man, as it was of every unattached woman. “Anyhow, he will never marry.”
“Until he loves,” repeated Beatrice.
Richmond was silent. He would not aggravate her unhappiness by telling her that Roger loved her.
“Is he still intending to go abroad?” she asked.
“To-morrow,” replied her father.
“To-morrow!” Beatrice started from her chair, an expression of wild disorder flashing into her face. But she fought for and regained control, sat back quietly with a calm, “Oh, I thought it was to be next week.”
“He has changed his plans.”
The daughter was looking at the father with scrutinizing eyes, full of doubt. He saw it, said in the tone that carried conviction, “I have come over to your side. He is a much bigger man than I thought—or than you know.”
“I know enough,” said the girl.
“At any rate, I wanted him for a son-in-law. I did my best. I haven’t anything he wants.”
“Nor I,” said Beatrice with a bitter, self-scorning laugh.
“He is opposed to marriage. He thinks——”
“He doesn’t love,” interrupted she. “That’s the whole story. Well”—she made a gesture of dismissal “now, let me tell you about the shop.”
“He has sent——”
“Please!” said she imperiously. “No more about him.”
“The picture—he promised to have it sent to Red Hill after he sailed. Instead, it came last night.”
“Why did he do that?” demanded she swiftly.
“I asked him for it.”
“No. I mean, why did he change his mind?”
“Oh, probably for no reason. That’s a trifle.”
She was sitting up, straight and alert. Her eyes were aglow with excitement. “He is sailing to-morrow instead of next week,” she said rapidly. “Instead of taking my picture—our picture—his and mine—instead of taking it with him as he intended at first, he gives it to you. He first says he’ll send it when he sails, then—after he has talked with you—he changes his mind and gets it out of the house—out of his sight—at once.”
Richmond gazed at her with marveling eyes. She was clairvoyant—this wonderful daughter of his!
Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled. Her words came joyfully tumbling over each other: “Why is he in such a hurry to sail—to get rid ofmypicture? Because he’safraid! He distrusts himself. He’s fighting hard. He— Father, he loves me!”
“Beatrice,” said Richmond tenderly, “he will never marry. He is a man of the unshakable sort—of my sort——”
Beatrice laughed. “You haven’t changed in this affair—oh, no!”
Richmond smiled guiltily. “I should have said, heis a man whose resolves haven’t been shaken by age and by foolish paternal fondness long indulged.”
“He isafraid! He is flying—flying fromlove!”
Richmond’s face wore a look of deepest anxiety. “My dear, you will only distress yourself with false hopes. There are things about men—men like him—that you don’t understand.”
“Of course. But there are also other things thatyoudon’t understand, father dear.”
“The picture is at home. Won’t you come and see it?”
“I must see him first. I must dress and go at once.” And she was up and was hastily gathering together the businesslike papers strewn upon the table among the breakfast dishes. “You’ll excuse me, father——”
“I asked him to come and see you—to beg you to go home again.”
She paused. “And he said?”
“He refused at first. As I was leaving—I hoped—he might.”
She reflected. “No, he’ll not come. Unless—but I’ll take no chances.”
“I know he was touched by my appeal,” persisted her father. “Beatrice—go on with this dressmaking if you must. But—forgive me and let things be withus as they were before.” He stretched out trembling hands toward her. “You’re all I’ve got in the world—all I care for. I’m not ashamed or repentant for what I did. I did it because I thought it was for your good. But I’m sorry. I was mistaken.”
“I do forgive you,” said the girl, “though I don’t like to say anything that sounds priggish and pious. But you can’t expect me to trust you, can you, father?”
“I’ve tried to pay for those bonds, but he has sold them to some enemy of mine—and for a good price.”
“Aren’t you ashamed about the bonds?” said the daughter with a roguish smile.
“No,” replied Richmond doggedly. “In the circumstances—what I believed and everything—that was the right move.”
Beatrice laughed with a touch of her old mirthfulness, with all her old adoration of his skill and courage. “You are so different!” cried she. “Not a bit a hypocrite. We’re friends again—until you try to undermine and ruin my dressmaking business.”
“I’ll give you all the capital you want,” he eagerly declared.
“No—thanks,” said she. “But—I’ll tell you what you may do. You may buy a block of Wauchong bonds I happen to own.”
“Youdid it?” cried he, delighted.
“You may have them at a hundred and fifty. I always try to make a reasonable profit on a deal.”
“I’ll send you a blank check.”
She put her arms round him and kissed him. There was a trembling in his tight return embrace that sent a pang through her; for it suggested somehow his deep impelling thought—fear—of the eternal separation—the everlasting farewell, not far away from him and her at the most. “Father—dear,” she murmured.
“Don’t harass yourself, child—about him,” he whispered. “Let me help you try to forget.”
She drew away gently and looked at him, in her eyes a will which he now admitted—proudly—to be more unswerving than his own. Said she: “Youdidn’t teach me to forget—or to give up, either.”
He sighed. “I’ll wait and take you to the ferry.” And she went into her bedroom.
She had been dressing perhaps ten minutes when he rapped excitedly on her door. “What is it?” inquired she.
“He’s come!” cried her father.
The door swung partly open and her face appeared at the edge. “Roger? Downstairs?”
“Yes—I answered the telephone from the office.”
“I can’t receive him up here. It’s against therules. Yet I want— No—say I’ll be down to the parlor immediately.”
“But I’m here,” suggested her father. “He could come up.”
“He mustn’t see you.”
“I could wait in there—couldn’t I?”
“Yes—the door is thick,” reflected Beatrice aloud. “Yes—say he is to come up. Val—Miss Clermont has gone out.... No—I’ll see him in the parlor.”
And Beatrice closed the door. It was not many minutes before she opened it again—to appear bewitchingly dressed in a new spring toilet—and the styles that year were exactly suited to her figure. She was radiant, and her father’s depressed countenance did not lessen her overflowing delight. “You can’t deny that he loves me—can you?” cried she.
“No,” replied Richmond. “The fact is, I saw he did yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” demanded she.
“You guessed it. What was the use?” evaded he.
“Guess?” The girl laughed. “You call that guessing because you’re merely a man. It was certainty—proof—plain as if he had said so. But then, I’ve known it for weeks. Now, keep well back in the elevator, dear, for he mustn’t see you as I get out.”
When the elevator was slowing for the parlor floorRichmond caught his daughter’s hand and pressed it convulsively. “Good luck!” he said in an undertone. “If you don’t win to-day we’ll follow him to France.”
“To the ends of the earth,” laughed she, kissing his hand and gayly pushing him back to a rear corner of the car.
The door closed behind her and the car resumed its descent; of all the thoughts boiling in Richmond’s excited brain not one was related to the strangeness of his own conduct or to the amazing transformation in a cold, tyrannical nature. In fact, the transformation was apparent rather than real. The chase had ever dominated him—the passion for the chase. And it was dominating him now.
In the wall opposite the elevator, and the width of the rather wide room from it, was a long mirror. No man could well have been freer from physical vanity than this big, self-conscious Roger Wade. Beyond his human duty of making himself inoffensive to the eye in the matter of clothing, he did nothing whatever toward personal adornment. Yet as Beatrice advanced he was primping industriously and unconsciously. To occupy his agitated mind he was standing before the mirror smoothing his hair, arranging his tie, fussing with the hang of the big, loose, dark-blue suit thatgave his splendid figure an air of freedom. Their eyes met in the glass. He did not turn, but gazed at her—and who would not have been charmed by a creature so redolent of springtime freshness, from the yellow roses in her hat, looking as if they were just from the garden, to the scrupulously neat effect of stockings and ties? She stood beside him, her yellow roses nodding in line with his ear. And they made a delightful picture—a rare harmony of contrasts and symmetries.
She laughed radiantly. “Chang!” she cried.
He was straightway so disconcerted that her amusement could not but increase. “Through primping?” mocked she.
“I think so,” he replied. “I see you attended to all that thoroughly before you came down.”
“Yes,” said she with the air of half-serious, half-jesting complacency she could carry off so well. “I’m ready to the last button. Let’s sit over there—by the window.” Then, as they sat opposite each other: “Why are you so solemn?”
Again Roger had to struggle to keep himself in hand.
“Why do you avoid looking at me?” laughed she. And so glad was she to see him again that she had less difficulty than she had feared in hiding her anxiety, her feeling that she was playing her last stake in thegame that seemed to her to mean lifelong happiness or lifelong wretchedness.
He colored, but contrived to smile and to look at her. It was an unsteady gaze, a grave smile. “I’ve come,” said he, “because I wish to urge you to go back home. Your father and I——”
“Yes, I know,” interrupted she. “Father has been here.”
“And you’re going back?”
“No—no, indeed. I’ve made the first step toward being independent. I’m going to keep on. Father’s a dear, but he’s not to be trusted. If he controls he tyrannizes. He might try not to do it, but he could not help himself. So—I’m to be a dressmaker.”
“What nonsense, Rix!” exclaimed he. “There’s nothing so detestable as an independent woman—a masculine woman.”
“One that has a will of her own and proposes to the man if she happens to feel like it?” suggested she, with dancing eyes.
“Well—yes—if you insist on putting it that way.”
“Woman, the weak, the foolish, the clinging—that’s your ideal?” said she.
He nodded emphatically.
“Isn’t it strange,” said she absently, “that we never fall in love with our ideals?”
Roger stirred about in his chair, much embarrassed.
“I suppose it’s part of our never—never—wanting to do what we ought—and never, never doing it if we can help.”
Roger took his hat from the floor beside his chair, got ready to rise. “If you’re determined on not going home I suppose it’s useless for me to talk. But—your father is old—much older these last few weeks, Rix. If you could make it up with him——”
“Oh, but I have,” cried she. “We are better friends than ever. I don’t think we’ll ever quarrel again.”
The artist showed a rather conventional kind of pleasure. “I’m sincerely glad,” said he. “I like him and I like you, and I’d have been sorry to go away feeling that you two were at outs.”
“You’re not a bit natural, Chang. You don’t talk like yourself. What’s the matter?”
“Probably I’ve got too much on my mind—the hurry of going so soon. That reminds me. I must say good-by. I’ve got such a lot to do.”
Her face did not change, but her heart began to flutter wildly.
“You and your father are friends,” proceeded he, his inward state showing only in the fact that he wasabsurdly repeating himself. “What I came to do is done. So I’ll go—as that was my only reason for bothering you.”
She gazed mockingly at him, shaking her head. “Oh, no—Chang. That wasn’t why you came.”
“I assure you it was. My only reason.”
“You big, foolish Chang!” mocked she. “You don’t know your own mind. Now, do sit down. That’s better. Now—there you are, jumping up again. Whatisthe matter?”
“I must be going.”
“Is it really true that big men are more stupid?... No, that wasn’t why you came. You came because——”
“Now, Rix,” cried he angrily—for her eyes plainly foretold what was coming. “That joke has gone far enough—too far—much too far.”
“What joke?”
“About your being in love with me.”
“Whether or not it’s a joke that I’m in love with you, it certainly is not a joke thatyouare in love withme.”
He sat on the arm of his chair and smiled ironically. “Really?” said he.
“Really,” declared she. “Shall I prove it to you?”
He stood. “I’ve no time. It’s very pleasant dawdling here with you, but——”
She ignored his hand, concentrated on his eyes. “What else have you painted besides that picture?” asked she.
He blushed slightly. “I’m very slow at my work.”
Her smile let him know that she was fully aware how heavily she had scored. “You came over to stay here in America,” pursued she. “Yet, you are going back—never to return, you announce. Why?... You’re not going through fear of father. No—don’t pretend. Fear isn’t in your line—fear ofmen. And you’re not going through fear of me? You could easily bar me out—make it impossible for me to annoy you.”
He had seated himself again. He was listening intently.
“You are going,” she went on, “through fear of yourself.” She laughed softly. “A regular panic, Chang!” she cried. “You didn’t intend to sail till next week. You are running off in the morning—by the first steamer.”
He made a faint effort to rise, gave it up, resumed the study of his hatband.
“You were going to take my picture with you,” continued she.
“Yourpicture?” said he with feeble irony.
“Ourpicture,” corrected she softly.
He waved the hat in a gesture of hopelessness.
“Then,” proceeded she, “you changed your mind and decided to leave it. But you thought you wouldn’t part with it until the last moment—to-morrow morning. Oh, Chang! Chang!”
“I found it more convenient to send it last night,” said he with a brave effort at indifference.
“Convenient?” she laughed. “I can see you storming against your weakness, as you call it. I can see you resolving to be brave—to free yourself immediately. But your scheme didn’t work. For the only result of not having the picture to say good-by to was that you had to come here and take one last look at the original.”
He laughed aloud—a forced, mirthless laugh. “Same old Rix!” exclaimed he. “Of all the conceit!”
“Isn’t it, though?” retorted she with a coquettish nod. “But it’s the truth, too—isn’t it?”
“I’d hate to destroy any illusion that seems to give you so much happiness.”
“You couldn’t, Chang. For”—softly—“I couldn’t feel as I do toward you if I didn’t know, with that deep, deep heart knowledge, that we are—like one.”
He rose resolutely, in his eyes an expression that thrilled and frightened her. She had from time to time caught glimpses of the man of whom that was the expression, but only glimpses—when he was at work and unconscious of her presence. Now, somehow, the expression seemed to reveal this almost unknown man within the Roger she loved. However, she concealed her alarm.
“You see, I’ve proved that you do love me,” said she. “But, Chang”—solemnly—“even though you do love me and I love you, what does it amount to—except for—for misery—unless we have each other?”
He slowly dropped to the chair again. He looked at her sternly, angrily. “It’s the truth,” said he. “I do love you. It is a whim with you—a caprice—a piece of willfulness. But with me”—he drew a long breath—“I love you. The only excuse for the way you’ve acted is that you’re too young and light-hearted to know what you’re about.”
Her hands clutched each other convulsively in her lap. But she was careful to keep from her face all sign of the feeling those words inspired.
He laughed with bitter irony. “To that extent—you’ve had your way,” he went on. “Get what satisfaction you can out of it—for, while you’ve conquered my heart, you’ll not conquer my will. I am not yoursto dispose of as you see fit. I can get over caring for you—and I shall.”
“Butwhy, Chang?Why?”
For answer he smiled mockingly at her.
“In your heart of hearts you don’t believe for an instant it’s a caprice with me. You know better, Chang.” Sincerity looked from her eyes, pleaded in her voice.
But Roger held his ground stubbornly. “I know it is caprice,” he said. “I’m not clean crazy with vanity, Rix. But even if you were in earnest—as much in earnest as you pretend—perhaps as you think—still, that wouldn’t change things. We can’t be anything more to each other than friends. In any other relation we’d be worse than useless to each other. You need a man of your own sort. If I tied up with any woman it’d be with one of my sort.”
“I don’t understand,” said she. “It wouldn’t be worth while for you to explain—for I couldn’t understand. All I know is, we love each other.”
“But marriage is a matter of temperaments. If you had less will I might compel you to go my way, to learn to like and lead my kind of life. If I had less will I might adapt myself to you—and become a comfortable, contemptible rich woman’s nonentity of a husband. But neither of us can change—so, we part.”
“I’ve thought of those things,” said she, quiet and sweet and unconvinced. “I’ve gone over and over them, day and night. But—Chang, I can’t give you up.”
“That is to say, you don’t care what becomes of me so long as you get your way.”
She did not respond to his argumentative mood, but took refuge in woman’s impregnable citadel. “I trust my instinct—what it tells me is best for us.”
“You don’t realize it,” argued he desperately, “but you count on my love for you making me weak enough to adapt myself to your kind of life.”
“I count on our love’s making us both happy.”
“You wish to marry me simply because you think I’m necessary to your happiness?”
“Yes—Chang. You are necessary to my happiness.”
“Andmyhappiness—have you thought of it?”
“I love you.”
“And you feel that your love ought to be enough to make me happy?”
“Your love is all I need,” replied she with sad gentleness.
“That’s the woman’s point of view,” cried he. “I’ll admit it’s more or less mine, too—when I’m with you or have been thinking about you till my head’s turned.But—Rix”—he was powerfully in earnest now—“while love may be all that’s necessary to make a woman happy, it isn’t so with a man. For a man, love is to life what salt is to food—not the food as it is with a woman, but the thing that gives the food savor.”
He paused. But she sat silent, her gaze upon her hands folded listlessly in her lap. He went on: “You have been indulging this whim of yours without giving it a serious thought. Now, I want you to think—to help me save us from the folly your willfulness and my weakness are tempting us to commit. I want you to ask yourself: ‘What sort of life would Chang and I lead together? Would I tolerate his devotion to his work? Would I respect him if he gradually yielded to my temptings and gave up his work? Whichever way it turned out, wouldn’t I either dislike or despise him?’”
“You—don’t love me,” she murmured.
“I do. But I’m not so selfish as your inexperience and thoughtlessness make you.”
She scarcely heard. She was gazing with all her mind and heart at the new Chang revealed clearly for the first time in the intense earnestness of this their first profoundly and crucially serious talk. This was the man her father had warned her about. There were dark circles round her eyes as if they had been bruised,and in them the look of present pain. He happened to glance at her. He saw—groaned. “No matter!” he cried. “I love you. I can’t bear it. I’m weak—contemptibly weak where you’re concerned. We’ll surely fail—fail miserably. But we must go on, now. I had a presentiment—I was a damn fool to come here to-day. Yes—we’ve drifted too far. We must go on—over the falls.”
He stopped, appalled by his own passionate outburst. She shook her head slowly. “No, we must not go on,” said she.
Her tone instantly calmed his runaway passion; he stared in amazement.
“You really feel like that?” she went on—“feel it’d be weak and wrong for you to marry me?”
“I have told you the truth—about yourself and about me,” was his reply. “You surely must see it.”
She gave a long sigh, furtive, deep. But her voice was steady as she said sadly: “Then—we must give each other up.”
“That is certainly best,” promptly assented he. “You see now that you didn’t want me, but only your own way.”
“I see that we should not be happy. I don’t understand your point of view. I suppose I’m not experienced enough. But I see you are in earnest—that itisn’t just a—a notion with you. So—” From her face waned the last glimmer of its look of the springtime. Her voice sank almost to a whisper—“I give up.”
He stood with aggressive erectness. “Then—it is settled.”
She nodded without looking at him. She could not trust herself to look. “I’ll not bother you any more,” said she.
He saw that he was victor—had gained his point. Yet never did man look or feel less the victor. He put out his hand; she let hers rest in it. “Good-by, Rix,” he said with a brave attempt at philosophic calm. “This is much better than seeing our love end in a quarrel and a scandal—isn’t it?”
“You go—in the morning?”
“Yes.”
Her hand dropped to her lap. He looked steadily at her, with no restraint upon his expression, because her eyes were down. “Good-by,” he repeated. He waited for a reply, but none came. With that long, sure stride of his, free and graceful, he went to the stairway and descended—and departed.