  Hugh slept late the next morning, and instead of being the first down to breakfast was the last. He had done very well on his business trip to Chicago, however, and felt that he could afford to sleep as long as he liked. He had got to bed very late. This was not because Joan had kept him up. She had not, or had done so only indirectly. He had merely driven to Holly with her, a drive of less than ten minutes, and immediately on arrival set out on his walk home. That is, he had started off in the direction of Wild Acres, but when he came to the entrance of the avenue he found in himself no desire and, in fact, a repugnance both for dancing and sleeping. So, overcoatless, hatless and in only thin patent-leather pumps, he had tramped off for miles up the Hudson and back. It had been a simple state of misery that sent him off on the walk. But it was not Joan’s fault. Neither from his point of view nor hers. She had been rather unusually nice to him, in fact. The brief minutes alone with her in her car had begun with silence, but a silence palpitant with potentialities. There had been many such silences between them before, scattered sparsely but vividly through the past fifteen years. Out of one of them, some day, salvation might come. Joan might say, “I love you enough to marry you, my dear. At last I am sure of it.” For it was these silences that kept Hugh going, and nourished hope. He sat, leaning a little forward, watching the road ahead over Amos’ shoulder through the glass which separated them from the driver’s seat. And Joan, in her corner, her head tilted back, watched him through the silent few minutes that swept them down the wood road—which was all their avenue amounted to really—to the wide Post Road. There, on the highway, by the infrequent lights, she contemplated his clear-cut profile. But she wanted to see his eyes. She knew that they must be clouded with miserable hunger, but she had a desire to see, to be sure once again. Suddenly, the want conquered her whim of displeasure with him. She drew out of her corner, came nearer, and thrusting an arm through his elbow found his hand, and their palms met in a slow pressure. She broke the silence, hardly knowing that she spoke. “Kiss me, Hugh. Kiss me—” Whether it was anger or passion that uttered the demand Joan didn’t know. Perhaps it was merely her old insatiable desire to keep Hugh’s desire from weakening. Perhaps sometime—perhaps even quite soon—she would know and understand herself. That was her hope. For she was in the very middle of being psychoanalyzed. Her doctor had been on the Riviera and in Bermuda, stopping at hotels conveniently near to her own, combining work with vacation the past few months. Her sudden and unexpected return had occurred only because another patient with whom he had supposedly finished treatment had backslid and sent him an urgent S O S from New York. Thereupon, Doctor Steiner had persuaded Mrs. Nevin that the time had come for her to meet her problems face to face, with no further evasion. And Hugh was the chief of these problems. The question was: Was she in love with Hugh Weyman enough to marry him? Doctor Steiner had undertaken to help her discover the answer to this question by means of a minute and indefatigable research into her nightly dreams. This process necessitated a two-hour daily sÉance with himself,—the two hours being sacredly dedicated to an intimate hashing over of Joan’s emotional life and history. Hugh, so far, knew nothing of this. But his mother had known from the beginning and been interested and sympathetic. Soon now, in all probability, Joan would decide to talk about it with Hugh himself. For while she had been able to hold him in a state of uncertainty and loyalty during the years since her husband had died, her excuses for indecision were beginning to wear too thin, even to herself. Besides, Hugh had not written to her once during her entire absence this winter, in spite of her having sent him two or three very interesting and even affectionate letters. That he was trying to gain his emotional independence was evident to her even without Doctor Steiner’s elucidations. His pride was becoming too deeply involved. When she took him into her confidence about this business of being psychoanalyzed she would have to explain how Doctor Steiner had discovered that she, Joan, was so complicated an individual, so highly organized emotionally as well as physically, that things were not nearly so simple and straight for her as for more ordinary and perhaps fortunate persons,—people like Hugh himself, for instance, who knew so definitely what he wanted, and had no agonizing conflicts between his impulses and his actions. When her analysis was completed, she would tell him, but not till then, she might be able to give herself to a husband in the whole-hearted and elemental way which Hugh’s type would demand in a wife. And she might not. The final word really must rest on Doctor Steiner’s findings. All this she might reveal to Hugh soon—but not to-night. She was a little sleepy to-night, and anyway, there was a quicker and simpler way of snatching him back if he really was pulling at a slightly worn leash and inhibited by pride. The easier way had also the merits of having been tested many, many times before on Hugh, and always it had worked with mathematical certainty. So she had whispered, angrily or passionately—it didn’t matter which—“Kiss me, Hugh.” To-night it worked as expected, except for a slight hitch. But the hitch was, indeed, so slight and so passing that it hardly bothered her at all. In fact, it added zest. With Hugh’s free hand, the hand not clasped to the palm of hers, he put her away from him. But his face was so close that she could almost discern what she had wanted to discern, the hunger in his dark eyes in the less-dark interior of her speeding motor. His touch was gentle but his voice was not. “Joan! It’s got to be more than this. You know how I want you. I’m not going on playing at love. I’m through. Have been all winter.” She stayed very still in his repudiating grip. But she smiled. She could wait, smiling. She had only to wait a minute, however. And it was a blissful minute, tinglingly electric with her power over him. His arm went suddenly around her shoulders. She lifted her face. He kissed her eyes shut before he kissed her slightly parted lips. Joan could surrender more in a kiss than many women can surrender in a life-time of more dangerous giving,—for all the complexities and refined subtilities of her nature. Joan’s desire for Hugh’s desire was fully satisfied in that long kiss. As for Hugh, flames—a conflagration—roared against the dark of his mind. This was chaos to him, not satisfaction. But a shadowy sort of consolation would come to him later in the realization that once again Joan had loved him a little. Now he was holding her cheek close against his with the hand that had held her away a minute ago. Their faces were as close, as hard pressed, as the palms of their hands. Not until the motor slowed to a stop and Amos had got down and was coming around to open the car door did they draw apart. Joan moved then, and the interior of the car was flooded with light. How could she have delivered them up so ruthlessly to the glare? Probably for appearances. But surely Joan was superior to wanting to justify herself to her chauffeur! Hugh saw her bright lips smiling, satisfied. His kisses had not crushed out their brightness. Her eyes, too, were bright and enigmatically smiling. She barely touched the hand he held to her as she alighted. But what had he expected! It was like a dream that recurs.... And the waking was always the same. They were standing together at her door, but as yet Hugh had not rung the bell. She did not wait for him to do so, but stretched her own hand, as she had stretched it to turn on the light that brought desolation in the car a minute ago, and simultaneously turned to speak to Amos, who remained at attention by the limousine door. “What are you waiting for, Amos? That is all for to-night.” But Amos was not the complete automaton he might appear. He said, “I thought I’d be taking Mr. Weyman back.” “He prefers to walk. Good night, Amos.” The hall door was opening. Amos muttered half audibly, but intending Joan to hear, “It’s nothing at all to drive Mr. Weyman back to Wild Acres. He’s not—dressed for walking!” Joan was very short with his incivility. “Do as I say,” she commanded crisply. “And put the car up.” Then she gave her hand to Hugh. “Good night, Hugh,” she murmured. “Do run over and see me often, now I’m back, won’t you? We’ve lots to get caught up with. No end of things.” She passed the butler, who continued to hold the door open until Hugh had nodded to him absently and turned away into the night. Now, after his solitary mid-morning breakfast, Hugh came leisurely out into the hall, lighting a cigarette. The house had been so quiet ever since his rising that he wondered where every one was. But here was Anne, in the hall, under his nose, sitting still as a mouse in the very chair Joan had glorified last night, while allowing her overshoes to be buckled. Hugh seemed to remember that when he had gone in to breakfast half an hour ago Anne had been there. She was smoking cigarettes, and had, apparently, been some time at it, for the silver letter tray on the table near was cluttered to overflowing with twisty pale stubs. “Hello. Still here! What’s up?—I’m looking for Ariel. It looks as if you were looking for trouble.” In fact it did. There was an ominous ring about Anne’s quiet, now that he was within its radius. Anne inclined her head just slightly toward the library door, which was shut. “Your Ariel’s in there,” she informed Hugh, in a furious low voice. “But it would be too unkind to disturb her. She’s busy with her latest conquest. I should have thought Glenn would have been enough to begin with!” Hugh made a movement toward the library door, but Anne intercepted him, jumping up and grabbing his arm. “Please don’t, Hugh. It’s twenty-five minutes of eleven. The boys’ train goes at five past, if they’re going to be at Professor Barker’s party this afternoon. I’m simply dying to see whether Ariel’s charms will make Prescott lose that train. I know he’s crazy about the party because Masefield’s going to be there. Glenn’s crazy about it too. He’ll expect Prescott to be packed and all ready now. And he isn’t. And he won’t be—not if he and Ariel keep it up much longer. Give the girl a chance! Have a heart—” Hugh looked at his sister curiously. This was an Anne strange to him. She was so distrait and altogether unnatural that he was concerned. But he asked quietly, “How do you know they’re in there, dear? I don’t hear voices.” “That’s it. Neither have I, for ages. For an hour or more. I just happened to see them going in together, that’s all. They didn’t see me. He shut the door behind them very carefully. It never is shut. He went to a lot of trouble to get it over the rug. I won’t have them disturbed! I’m guarding their privacy! That’s what I’m doing.” “Nonsense, Anne! Of course we’re not going to let him miss the train. Hello! Here’s a letter for Ariel.” He picked a letter from the floor which had evidently been thrown there by Anne when she appropriated the letter tray for her ash tray. “Where’s the rest of the mail?” “Rose took it up to Mother. There wasn’t anything for you. I took charge of Ariel’s.” “You did? Well, I’ll take charge of it now. I’m going to open the door.” For an instant longer Anne clutched his arm. But he moved forward, and she gave it up, dropping back. He stood for some few seconds, Ariel’s letter in his hand, in the open doorway. Then he turned his head and looked at Anne. She was looking past him into the quiet room. Ariel was there, in a chair, feet curled under her, by one of the farther windows, bent absorbedly above a book on her knees. She was so absorbed, indeed, that she had not heard the opening door. Enderly was sunk deep in another chair, the length of the room away. His was a cushioned, low chair. His legs were sprawled apart, his head was tilted back, and his arms were dropped over the chair arms, the fingers brushing the rug,—so total was his relaxation. His mouth, too, was slightly open. His slumber was profound. In the direct flood of morning light, seen all unconscious like this, the boy looked unpleasantly pale and even dissipated, Hugh thought. It wasn’t a pretty picture, anyway, and with a sense of relief, he turned his back on it and crossed the room to Ariel. It was only when he offered her the letter that she woke, with a start, to his presence. But she cried out with pleasure at sight of the envelope addressed to her. Enderly was waked by that and sat up. “Hello. What time is it? I’ve been asleep. I say, was I asleep, Anne?”—For Anne was there, looking down at him. “If a little party like last night’s knocks you out, I don’t see what’s to become of you, old thing! You’ve got two minutes or so to pack in. Come along and I’ll help.” There was something jagged, hysterical, in Anne’s voice and her laugh. It worried Hugh. Ariel was tearing open her letter. “What made Enderly shut the door, anyway?” Hugh asked, when Anne and the novelist were out of hearing. “What door?” She was eagerly unfolding her letter, but Hugh did not notice her excitement. “The door there,” he said dryly. “It never is shut.” “Oh? He said it was drafty, I think. He was cold. Wanted to sit by the fire.” Her eyes were eating up the pages of her letter. Hugh hesitated by her side another minute, then turned away. Ariel called him back. “Excuse my rudeness,” she begged. “But you see—this letter! It’s so awfully important! It’s from Charlie Frye!” “Oh, is it!” Hugh was very much interested at once. Ariel went to him and stood so that he could read with her, over her shoulder. After a minute of following the small, printlike script that was Charlie Frye’s handwriting, he suddenly cried out himself with pleased excitement. “But this is stupendous! Do you realize? It’s Michael Schwankovsky himself!” “Yes.” Ariel flapped over one sheet and went on to the next. “Of course. But do you think Charlie ought to hand over the thing to him so absolutely? Would Father like that?” “But of course he would. Why, Ariel! It’s the best thing in the world that could happen to us and to your father’s pictures. Don’t you know? Don’t you see? If any one can make an exhibit a go, Schwankovsky is that one. The old boy’s as rich as Croesus too, and will buy some of them himself if he’s this interested. And he’ll exhibit in the New Texas Galleries, I bet you anything! Frye, if he’d been lucky, might have secured a little space in the Opportunity Gallery perhaps. Yes—I was right. Here ’tis. The New Texas Galleries. And for one week! Ye gods, Ariel! Our fortune’s made! And Gregory Clare’s name!” That the news was, in all truth, stupendous Ariel knew as well as Hugh. Michael Schwankovsky had by chance seen some of the Gregory Clare pictures in Charlie’s New York studio, and straightway offered to sponsor and finance the “whole show.” That meant that he had recognized her father’s great genius at sight. She cried, suddenly clapping her hands like a child, “Think of it! Michael Schwankovsky! And in spite of Mrs. Nevin!” Hugh looked at Ariel in quick surprise. Now why had she said that? Why was she so delighted that this great luck had befallen the exhibition in spite of Joan? But was it in spite of Joan? Now that Ariel had reminded him of her, Hugh saw that it was Joan who had done it all. Bless her! And it was rather wonderful of her not to have told him last night. She had sent her friend, Schwankovsky, to Frye’s studio with just this end in view. Hugh was exhilarated enough in the good fortune that seemed promised to the Gregory Clare exhibition now; but he was even more exhilarated that Joan had been kind enough to use her influence. For what she did for Ariel she did for Hugh himself. Or so he thought,—in his own mind having identified Ariel’s good with his. Ariel was as close to his heart as Anne almost, even in this short time, and he was more responsible for her than for Anne. For Anne needed only his financial support. That was easy enough. Ariel needed something infinitely more subtile—and, yes—more important. Affection which she could count on, and sympathy. Hugh realized that he had never in his life been vital to any other living soul in precisely the way Ariel made him feel that he was vital to her. If Joan had wanted to marry him ten years ago, instead of Nevin, and Persis and Nicky were his and hers, he might have toward those children something of this same consoling sense of obligation. It was what his life had missed even more than it had missed intimate companionship with the woman he loved. And now, at last, he and Joan were sharing a living, lovely, common interest—Ariel’s good. “By the way, you must have already seen this Schwankovsky person, Ariel. Did you know? He was the bearded creature who met Mrs. Nevin at the boat. They’re great friends.—So perhaps this isn’t ‘in spite of Mrs. Nevin.’ See here! Let’s us two go for a walk and celebrate by having lunch together, just ourselves, at an inn I know near Scarsdale. And, I say, Ariel, wear your white coat.” |
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