Cape of Storms Part 18

"The metropolis," he told himself, "is a maelstrom that never gives up it's human prisoners: it merely changes their cells occasionally." At which reflection he presently laughed. The old text came to him: "The thing to do is to laugh!"

"Yes," he thought, "but it's harder here than anywhere else. Much harder."

Arrived at the club, he ordered dinner, and in the short interval, set down to write a letter to his mother. For the many months of his absence abroad he had contented himself with sending her occasional newspapers, the briefest of notes, and ill.u.s.trated magazines. In none of these missives had there ever been the real personal, familiar note. He had given merely the scantest news of his whereabouts and his well-being. In the life and the philosophy he had chosen there was little room for comrades.h.i.+ps, even with his own mother. Now, however, with the distance between them so vastly less, he felt again some of the old affections that he had thought to have slain with laughter. In any event, he wrote, whether he decided to remain on this or that continent, he would pay Lincolnville a visit presently. They would have that dear, delightful talk that the months had despoiled them of.

As he stepped into the dining-room, Vanstruther nailed him. "Saw a friend of yours just now, d.i.c.k," he said, "Miss Ware!"

"Ah," was the reply, given in apparent abstraction, "they still live here then?"

"Yes. d.i.c.k did it ever occur to you that she's a devilish pretty girl?"

"Oh, look here, Van," said d.i.c.k, laughingly, "I came to feed on solids, not the lilies of your imagination. The prettiest thing in the world to me, at this date, is a good dinner."

CHAPTER XVIII

It is impossible, even for the most hara.s.sed of human beings, to be entirely pessimistic after a dinner that had been well prepared, tastefully served, and finely appreciated. With the coffee and the liqueur a warm glow of pleasant sentiment is sure to invade the dinner; the dismal reflections that harrowed his soul an hour ago have fled at the approach of that self-satisfied feeling that marks the man that has dined.

By this time the Curacao called for discussion, Lancaster had succeeded in putting away all thoughts of the cheerless philosophy of laughter that he had come to consider at once his salvation and his curse, and was quietly, even hopefully, contemplating the chances in his intended interview with Dorothy Ware.

It was all a question, he had now a.s.sured himself, of whether she loved him or not. If not, then all other things were of no consequence. If she did, but yet denied the possibilities of their union, he would venture all things to scatter her arguments to the ground. Nothing else need matter, so she loved him. Who was he that he should ask of any woman the question: What art thou?

He had a hansom called and bade the man drive North. The fierceness was changed a little in the face of the town; it was now the fierceness for pleasure, rather than for riches. Everywhere there were couples hurrying to the theatre, the opera, the concert. Carriages drove swiftly through the glaring streets. The restaurants seemed s.h.i.+ning with the eagerness of expectancy. Men in evening clothes walked along, smoking, laughing and chatting. The newsboys were gone; in their stead was a miserable, skirmis.h.i.+ng band of Italian tots, who used the papers they carried more as an aid to mendicancy than as stock in trade.

It came to Lancaster for an instant, that he might tell the driver to head for the Auditorium; he might go in and hear that charming Santuzza whose acquaintance he had made and enjoyed abroad. He might send her his card; there would be a renewal of pleasant fascinations, forgetfulness of all other things--and laughter! He lifted up his arm, to tap for the driver's attention; his cuff caught in the window-curtain, and the accident, slight as it was, recalled him to himself. He shuddered a little; the things that shaped the courses of men's lives, he thought, were so absurdly insignificant!

When the cab stopped in front of the house that the Wares occupied when Lancaster was last in town, a flood of brilliant light flooded out upon it from the windows and the hall. It was evident that there was an entertainment in progress. Could it be that they had moved? Lancaster, paying the cabman, told him to wait for a moment, for further orders.

But the maid, answering Lancaster's ring, settled the doubt in his mind.

Miss Ware, she said, was receiving. He gave his name, dismissed the driver, and entered, feeling a little annoyed at having fallen upon such an occasion.

But presently Miss Ware appeared, radiant in a rosehued gown, and wistful happiness s.h.i.+ning in her eyes.

"We thought you were thousands of miles away," she smiled. "What a will-o'-the-wisp you are! Mother will be ever so glad. We are going back to Lincolnville soon, you must know; and this is our farewell reception. Everyone has been so kind to us; we felt we must do something in return."

"To think," she added, looking up at him shyly, "that the occasion should bring out such a lion!"

"Don't!" he implored. "Do you really think they'll know--anything about me? They do? Then, for goodness sake I'm someone else--anyone! For I do detest--"

She interrupted him gaily. "Oh, no; you are doomed. I shall introduce you to the most portentous faddists; you shall suffer. That, sir, may be your punishment for surprising me so!" She glided away, and returned with Mrs. Ware.

Never, thought Lancaster, had he seen Dorothy so gay, so cheerful, so roguish. Whence came that playful mood of hers; that mocking, joyous laughter? Talking to this and that person, Lancaster kept his watch upon Miss Ware. He saw her go out of the room, laughing and chattering, and the moment she reached the conservatory, put her hands up to her forehead and press them swiftly over her eyes. The smile went from her lips; her whole form testified to a sudden relaxation of an artificial tension.

A mask, Lancaster told himself, a mask for her feelings. She was agitated, but she determined to hide all that under a cloak of gayety.

He understood. Had he not himself tested the expungent qualities of laughter?

As of old, the touch of her hand, the sound of her voice had thrilled him with a sense of wonderful gladness. At sight, at sound of her all the good in him seemed to become vibrant; she was still the star, far above him, that he longed for. The comforts of his cold philosophies, the promises of the epicureanisms he had delved in so deeply--all faded into ashes at approach of this girl.

"We are really very fortunate," a voice behind him aroused him from his reverie, "in having such a distinguished guest with us tonight." It was Stanley, who stood with his hand on Lancaster's shoulder. "Surprised to see me here, are you? Well, to tell the truth, it's only of late that I've gone into these rare regions. I find that it conserves one's pessimism to enjoy the company of one's fellow-creatures. Will you excuse me, I see that man Wreath coming over here. I really can't stand him. He always remarks to me, sorrowfully, 'Ah, Mr. Stanley, I'm very much afraid you're not in earnest!' Why, the man himself's an eternal warning against being in earnest. There's nothing that spoils the look of a person's mouth so much as earnestness."

In truth, at that moment, just after Stanley had deftly slipped away, Mr. Wreath had solemnly greeted the artist. "You have shown great talent, Mr. Lancaster, great talent. But--" and he beamed reproach upon the other, "why don't you dig deeper?"

Lancaster felt as if he could have sworn at the man's presuming egoism.

But he merely laughed, and said, "Ah, you forget what a fellow-artist of mine once said, _apropos_ of cleanliness. 'Wash,' he said, 'no, we don't wash; we merely scratch and rub, scratch and rub.' I choose, in like manner, only to scratch. If I can scratch an effective creation, why should I dig?"

Wreath shook his head, with a mournful smile. "Ah, you will agree with me--later. In the meantime, I want to talk to you about my next novel.

Do you think we could make it worth your while to ill.u.s.trate it for us?"

He dragged Lancaster off into the library and bored him, for at least ten minutes. From the other room came sounds of music. Someone was singing. "_In Einem Kuehlen Grunde_" went the soft, sweet old ballad.

Lancaster promised Wreath that he would let the writer's publishers know definitely in a day or so, whether he would undertake the ill.u.s.trations.

He hurried back into the salon, muttering, as he went.

"Several haystacks; two thres.h.i.+ng-day scenes; several prairie pictures, one for each season of the year--that's about what those ill.u.s.trations will have to be. Well, I'd do it twice over if that man would promise to let me alone!"

It was Dorothy Ware that had been singing. She got up just as he entered the room. She caught his look, and smiled to him. "You must take me to the conservatory," she commanded, with a pretty air of authority, "for singing is warm work." She took his arm, and while someone else went to the piano and began to play the ballet from "Sylvia," together they strolled out into the cooler rooms beyond.

"And now," she said, when they were snugly seated upon the cus.h.i.+oned windowseat, "I must tell you how proud mother and I have been of you.

Oh, it was so good to read all these praises of you!"

He smiled. "It came," he said, "because I did not care whether it came or not. I was indifferent; and so success came."

"Indifferent? Why, d.i.c.k? With such power it is not right to be indifferent. Why--"

"Why should I be anything other than indifferent? For myself? No. I despise myself too much. I consider myself only a means toward amus.e.m.e.nt. And if not for myself, for whom?"

She was playing with the leaves of a palm that hung down over her shoulder.

"No," he went on, "there was never any motive in it all. It was all sheer play. There was the joy, the delirium of creation; that was a sufficient sensation; beyond that--nothing! It might be different if...." He stopped with the word half spoken.

"If what?"

He looked at her swiftly. There was in her face only earnest curiosity and sympathy. "If," he continued, "if there were--someone else. Oh, Dorothy, dear, don't you see? Don't you realize that it is you, you for whom I would work--yes, work and live? Dorothy, tell me that you are not altogether indifferent. Once--long ago--you said you might care for me. Then we were boy and girl; now we are man and woman. Then again you told me to forget you. I tried. I tried--all ways into forgetfulness. I tried to laugh away you, and all the past; to live only for the essence of the moment. And now, Dorothy, why don't you speak?"

She gently disengaged her hand from his. Her face was white, and she could only shake her head.

"But why?" he moaned, fiercely, "why? Can you not love me a little?"

She looked at him reproachfully, and for a moment he thought he divined the framing of the words, "Ah, but I do love you," then she merely sighed, and looked away again.

"Is it," he went on, "that I have put myself beyond your mercy? Have I become too notorious a vagabond?" He laughed bitterly. "Well, it is all true; I am come through all the highways and byways of life, and I am touched with the sc.u.m of it all. Perhaps you are right. I am not worthy.

And yet--I only ask for forgiveness, and a little love. With that, I might--be able to--sink the bitterness of the days behind. But, as I said, I dare say you are right. Shall we go into the other room?"

"Oh, d.i.c.k," she sighed, "how hard you make it! d.i.c.k, it is--it is I that am not worthy." She put her hands to her face suddenly, and pressed them feverishly to her cheeks and eyes, and then started as if to go away.

Lancaster took her hand and kissed it. "Dorothy," he said, "Don't talk nonsense! Unworthy of me--of a man who has used the world as a playground, and exhausted his days in satiating curiosity! Ah, no! That is impossible. There is no one, Dorothy--no one, however wretched, who would not be worthy of me."

"You don't understand," she wailed, "you don't understand! I--" she hid her face in her hands again, "I have sinned!"