Part 17

"It amounts to interference. I can't cheat you, and I don't fool myself into thinking my talk about Craig's work is impersonal. Neither is what I say about Julie impersonal. Of course you've heard that she jilted me for Van Ostade? Eh? I thought so. Don't think you must say you're sorry," he protested hastily, as her lips parted. "I'm not sorry. I'm thankful for my escape. That sounds bitter to you. Perhaps I am bitter, but the bitterness is for myself, not her; and it doesn't sway my judgment of her influence upon Craig by a hair's breadth. He thinks it does, naturally, and he discounts my warnings. But I know, and you _will_ know, if you don't see it yet, that he must shake her off. Otherwise he's damned."

Jean kindled from his fiery earnestness.

"What must I do?" she asked. "Do you think the new studio is a mistake?"

"No; I don't say it is. Craig had to come uptown. I'm not maintaining, either, that he can't paint under such conditions. Some men they stimulate. It isn't the studio; it's the commercial campaign it stands for which makes my gorge rise. Mind you, I don't censure Craig for not grasping Miss Hepworth in character. His youth is responsible for that fluke. But if he listens to Julie, he'll soon be painting everybody at their best moments. He'll take orders like a factory--yes; and execute then? like a factory--shallow, slap-dash, characterless vanities all of a mould, which fools will buy and the future ignore. There is no lost soul so tortured as the fashionable portrait-painter who has once known honest work. You must save Craig from such a fate. Don't think he is too strong to succumb. I've seen men with as much promise as his go under. Help him keep his feeling fresh. See that he has time to linger over and search out each subject. Make him paint even the mediocrities as they are."

"How shall I begin?"

"Throw Julie overboard," answered MacGregor, instantly. "I did not come here to mince words. I want to bring this home to you before I leave the country. I sail for Africa day after to-morrow."

"For Africa!"

"Yes. This is good-by. A magazine has made me an offer I can't afford to refuse."

She was oppressed by a great loneliness.

"Then I must fight it out single-handed," she said.

"You would fight single-handed if I were here, I'm afraid. Nobody can help you much. The most I can do is to try to convince you that you must fight. You must show Julie her place, and show her soon. Don't be soft-hearted about it. She's not soft, trust my word. You are dealing with an enemy--understand it clearly. She is an enemy and a clever one. Julie could not prevent your marriage, but she may break it."

She paled at the conviction of his tone.

"I can't believe it!"

"Can't you? I tell you the process of alienation has begun. Doesn't Craig think you indifferent about the studio?"

"Perhaps. I had reasons--"

"Chuck them away."

"And he knows I've been busy with Richter. Craig himself is lukewarm about the studio."

"You must not be. It may be your battle-ground. I don't say it will; but it may be, and it behooves you to look after your defences." He glowered at the painted face a moment, then: "You may know that the Chameleon was Julie's own choice for sister-in-law. Yes? It's a fact worth thinking over. Good-by, Jean, and good luck! I haven't been agreeable, but I've spoken as a friend. You feel that, I hope?"

"Yes," she answered unsteadily; "and thank you."

MacGregor winced as her voice broke.

"Buck up, buck up!" he charged. "You'll win out, sure!"

She brooded over his words till Atwood's return, but without seeing her way, and a restless night suggested only courses too fantastic for the light of day. She could not repeat MacGregor's warnings to Craig, nor could she voice them as her own; while to attack Julie openly seemed maddest of all. She could only drift and bide a time to assert herself with dignity.

Such a chance seemed to offer at luncheon when Mrs. Van Ostade asked Craig for suggestions regarding the decoration of the small room off the main studio.

"It has never been done up, you know," she continued. "The last tenant did not occupy it at all. We shall need it, however, and I think it should be put in order at once. I'll use my own discretion, if you don't want to be bothered."

"But that is Jean's affair," he said.

Julie's eyebrows arched.

"Really!"

"She and I settled it in the beginning that she should have that room for her work."

His sister drew her knife through an inoffensive chop with bloodthirsty vehemence.

"Indeed!" she returned.

"I will look after its decoration," put in Jean, quietly.

Mrs. Van Ostade's dusky skin shadowed with the dull red which marked her infrequent flush.

"It must be in harmony with the other rooms," she said sharply. "At times it will be necessary to throw everything open."

"Of course."

"And it should be done immediately. In fact, Mr. Satterlee promised to look in at the studio about it at five o'clock to-day."

Jean was staggered, but she could not hesitate.

"I will meet Mr. Satterlee," she answered.

Julie's thin lips parted in a travesty of a smile.

"You are sure it would be agreeable?" she asked.

Atwood lifted his eyes at her tone.

"Agreeable, Julie?" he said. "Why do you give the word that twist? Why shouldn't it be agreeable?"

Jean felt like an animal in a trap, but she faced Mrs. Van Ostade with head erect and unflinching eyes.

"Yes; why?" she demanded.

Julie seemed to weigh a reply which prudent second thought bade her check.

"How tragic you two have suddenly become," she drawled. "Isn't it possible that the exacting Richter may have a prior claim? I am only too happy that Jean can find time to revisit the studio--and meet Mr. Satterlee. I hope, Craig, you will be present yourself?"

Atwood looked frankly distressed over the rancorous turn the discussion had taken.

"If you'll wait for me, Jean," he said, "we will walk over together. Miss Hepworth is to give me a sitting at three."

Jean went heavy-hearted to her room and flung herself down to wonder dully how it would end. Drowsiness overtook her in these unprofitable questionings, and, spent with her wearing night, she fell into a deep slumber which shut out all thought till a knock called her back to face reality smugly embodied in a servant with a card-tray.

Paul! The bit of pasteboard fluttered to the floor. What brought him here? Then, perceiving a gleam of human curiosity light the face of the automaton with the tray, she gripped her self-control and bade the man tell Bartlett that she would see him.

"It's Amy," explained the dentist, rising from a respectful survey of Mrs. Van Ostade's drawing-room. "Nothing will do her but that you must come up to the flat. It isn't a thing I could 'phone or I wouldn't have broken in on you like this, let alone hustling down here between appointments and maybe missing other patients."

"But what is it?"

"The drummer. Amy thinks he means to shake her, and she's gone all to pieces. I ran in there to ask for the rent, which is 'way behind, and found her all in a heap. It was no place for P.B. Amy needs another woman and needs her bad; and it seems to be up to you. I know it's tough, asking you to go back to the Lorna Doone where every stick of furniture--"

"I'll go," she interrupted. "If Amy didn't need me, I know you would not have come."

"I'm afraid I can't wait to ride up with you," Paul apologized. "You see, I'm only here between appointments, and--"

"I understand. Besides, I must see Mr. Atwood first."

She mounted hurriedly to the billiard-room where Craig must still be at work, but hesitated on the threshold. The door was half open, and, unseen herself, she saw both painter and sitter. Virginia Hepworth had dropped her pose and had come behind Craig's chair. Neither spoke, though his brush was idle. They merely faced the canvas in a silence, the long-standing intimacy of which stabbed Jean with a jealous pang and sent her away with her message unspoken.

She trusted Craig, but she could not trust herself, and deemed it the part of wisdom to leave word with the dispassionate butler that a friend's sickness would prevent her going to the studio.

XXVII

Jean entered the Lorna Doone with a sense of having known the place in some former life. Its braggart onyx, its rugs, its palms, all the veneer which went to make for "tone"--that fetich of the dentist--greeted her with a luster scarcely dimmed; the negro hall-boy flashed a toothful smile of recognition; and even a scratch, which their moving had left on the green denim by the flat door, had its keen associations.

It was a relief to lay eyes upon Amy, who had no close relationship to this dead yet risen past. Amy, poor wight, seemed related to nothing familiar. Easily flooding tears, which gushed afresh at sight of Jean, had washed her prettiness away.

"I knew you'd come," she whispered, clinging desperately. "Paul thought it was no use to ask, but I made him go. You're not mad at me, Jean, for sending? I've nobody else--not a soul."

Jean soothed her as she would a child, and leading her into a bedroom close at hand, made her lie down. No sooner did her head touch the pillow, however, than she struggled up again.

"I can't lie still," she pleaded. "Don't make me lie still. I tossed here all night. I can't rest, I must talk. I want you to know what's happened. I want you to tell me what to do. I must do something. It can't go on. I'll lose my mind. I'll die."

Jean drew the woebegone figure to her.

"Tell me, Amy," she said gently. "Perhaps it isn't as black as it seems."

Amy rocked herself disconsolately.

"It's blacker than it seems," she lamented. "Oh, if I'd never taken the flat! Fred never wanted me to do it. I've only myself to thank. I didn't know when I was well off."

"But what has the flat to do with your trouble?"

"Everything. I thought it would be heaven to keep house,--my own house,--but it's been a hell. Fred said we couldn't afford a girl, though I never saw why, for he's done splendid in his new territory. And he didn't like my cooking! I only learned the plain things at the refuge, you know, and he's been pampered, living so much at hotels. Somehow I never can do things his way. Traveling men think a lot of their stomachs, and Fred is more particular than most."

Jean began to comprehend the sordid little tragedy.

"But you'll learn," she comforted. "Make Fred buy you a first-class cook-book. Try the recipes by yourself till you succeed. Don't feed him on the experiments."

"I did try by myself. I practiced on a Welsh rabbit, and I thought I had it down fine. So I surprised him one night after the theater when he came home hungry. He said it wasn't fit for a h-h-hog!"

Jean's indignation boiled over.

"It was a thousand times too good for him," she cried.

"Don't," begged Amy. "I didn't blame him after I tasted it. The thing I do blame him for and can't bear is the way he criticises my looks. I can't always look pretty and do my work. Fred seems to think I ought, and is always holding up Stella to me without stopping to remember that she has nothing to do but sing and change her clothes."

"Stella! Do you let Stella Wilkes come here?"

"Fred made me ask her. She's got a flat herself--just a common sort of a place that she rents furnished, with two chorus-girls. She's making money now. She left the Coney Island beer-hall for one of those cheap Fourteenth Street theaters. Fred says she's bound to make a hit. He's crazy about her,"--her voice rose to a wail,--"just crazy!"

Jean held the shaking form closer.

"Aren't you mistaken?" she said, without conviction.

"Mistaken!" The girl wrenched herself erect. "Last night I saw her in his arms."

"Amy!"

"I saw them--here--in my own house! Stella was here when Fred came home from Newark--I guess she knew he was coming--and he made her take off her things and stay to supper. It wasn't a good supper. The gas-range wouldn't work, and I'd forgotten to put Fred's beer in the ice-box. I was hot and cross from standing over the fire, and hadn't a minute to do my hair. I saw Fred looking from me to Stella, who was dressed to kill, and I knew what he thought. I could have cried right there. I don't know how I got through the meal, but it ended somehow, and they went off into the parlor, leaving me to clear away the things. I washed the dishes up, for, company or not, I hate to let them stand over until morning; and then fixed myself a little to go where they were. I must have got through sooner than they expected. I saw him kiss her as plain as I see you."

"Did they know you saw them?"

"I let them know," rejoined Amy, with a heart-breaking laugh. "I'll bet her ears burn yet. I ordered her out of the house, and she went, double-quick!"

"And he?"

The light died out of Amy's face.

"Fred went, too," she said numbly. "I haven't seen him since. I'll never see him again, I guess. I'm the most miserable girl alive! What shall I do? What shall I do?"

"Divorce the scoundrel," counseled Jean, promptly. "I'll take care of the lawyer. I'll employ detectives, too, if you need more evidence, as I suppose you will. He must be made to pay alimony. But you've nothing to fear, even if you don't get a cent. You earned your living once; you can do it again. Be rid of him at once."

Amy turned her face away.

"You don't know," she moaned.

"What is it I don't know?"

"The truth--the real truth."

"You mean you still care for him?"

"I do care for him--I always shall--but that's not what I mean. I can't divorce Fred. I'm not--not his wife."

Jean sprang to her feet.

"You're not married!"

A spasm of anguish racked the shrinking form.

"Not--not yet."

Jean stood in rigid dismay, striving to read this enigma.

"Not yet," she repeated slowly. "Did you believe, Amy, _could_ you believe, he ever meant to deal honestly with you?"

"Yes!" The girl turned passionately. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! He couldn't at first. His wife had divorced him, and he wasn't allowed to remarry for three years. The time wasn't up when we met again; it wasn't up when we began to live together. It seemed so long to wait. I trusted him. I loved him."

"But now? He is free now?"

"Yes."

"And does nothing!"

"We--we put it off."

"You mean, he put it off. Amy! Amy! Can't you realize that he is worthless? Can't you understand that you must root him out of your life? Face this like a brave woman. I'll help you make a fresh start. Be independent. Cut yourself off from him completely. Do it now--now!"

Amy's haggard eyes were unresponsive.

"It's too late."

"No, no!"

"It's too late. I can't cut myself off from him. Jean!" Her voice quavered to shrill intensity. "Jean! Don't you--don't you _see_!"

Jean saw and was answered, and her womanhood bade her sweep the weakling to her breast.

"I've kept it from him," wept Amy. "He hates children about. I did not dare tell him."

"I dare," cried Jean, like a trumpet-call. "And I will."

Her assurance quieted the girl like an anodyne, and presently she slept. Sundown, twilight, and night succeeded. The watcher's muscles grew cramped, but whenever she sought to loose the sleeper's clasp, Amy whimpered like a feverish child, and so she sat compassionately on aiding nature's healing work. Meanwhile she tried to frame her appeal to the drummer. How or when she should reach him she knew not; Amy must bring about a meeting. She did not believe that he had definitely deserted his victim. His sample-cases in the hall, his innumerable pipes, his clothing strewn about the bedroom, all argued a return. She longed that he might come now while her wrath burned hottest and she might scorch him to a sense of his infamy. It could be done. She was confident that she could stir him somehow. Surely, he was not all beast. Somewhere underneath the selfish hide lurked a torpid microscopic soul, some germ of pity, some spark of manhood.

Then Amy awoke, refreshed, heartened, yet still spineless, clinging, and dependent; and Jean threw herself into the task of cheering this mockery of a home. She made Amy bathe her dreadful eyes, arrange her hair, don a dress the drummer liked; and then set her ordering the neglected flat, while she herself conjured up a meal from the unpromising materials which a search of the larder disclosed. The little kitchen was haunted with ghosts of her other life. The dentist's astonishing ice-cream freezer and the patent dish-washer stared her in the face, and her hunt for the tea-canister revealed the kit of tools she had bought to surprise him. Not a utensil hung here which was not of their choosing.

And so it was with the other rooms. When she came to lay the cloth, its grape-vine pattern greeted her like a forgotten acquaintance; the colonial sideboard and the massive table, as formerly, united to resist invasion of their tiny stronghold. The silver candelabra, restored to the giver, still flanked Grimes's Louis XV clock upon the mantelpiece; the galaxy of American poets hung where she had appointed. The Jean who had done these things, lived this existence, was a distant, shadowy personality, and the feat of making her intelligible to another seemed more than ever impossible. She rejoiced that she had locked this chapter from Craig. Her present self was her real self, the Jean he idealized, the real Jean.

The belated supper braced Amy's mood. She became apologetic for the drummer and sanguine of the future.

"Don't be harsh with Fred," she entreated. "Tell him the truth, but don't hurt his pride. Fred is so proud. He's the proudest man I ever knew. Besides, I'm every bit as much to blame. Stroke him the right way, and he'll do almost anything you want. I could have managed him, if I'd been well. He means all right. He'll do right, too. I wish--I wish you could see us married, Jean. If he would only come now, we could get a minister in and have it over to-night."

Jean hoped as fervently as Amy for the drummer's coming, and in this hope lingered till she could wait no longer.

"Go to bed," she charged. "Sitting up won't hurry him home. If he comes, don't weep, don't reproach him, don't plead with him, don't--above all--don't apologize. Keep him guessing for once, and leave the talking to me. Find out in some way where I can see him. If he will be home to-morrow evening, I'll come here; if there's a chance of catching him earlier at the office of his firm, let me know and I'll go there. Meanwhile say nothing, but look your best."

Amy promised all things, and Jean hurried out, horrified at the lateness of the hour. The long down-town journey at this hour daunted her till she shook off the atmosphere of the Lorna Doone sufficiently to recall that penny-saving was no more a vital factor in her life. Cabs were not wont to stalk custom in this neighborhood, however, and even a search of the nearest cross-street, where business predominated, was fruitless. As she hesitated, scouring the scene, the attentions of a group of corner loafers became pointed, and, believing one of them about to accost her, she darted down a convenient stair of the subway and boarded a train which was just about to depart. She rode past two stations before she discovered that in her haste she had entered from an uptown platform.

Dismounting, she began a wait in the whited suffocating cavern, which seemed endless. Under the hard glitter of the arc-lights the raw flamboyant advertisements of soaps, whiskies, hair tonics, liver pills, and department-store specials became a physical pain. The voices of the ticket-choppers, gossiping across the tracks of the President whom they called by a diminutive of his first name, were like the drone of monster flies in a bottle. Then the green and yellow eyes of her dilatory train gleamed far down the tunnel, and the rails quickened and murmured under its onset. This show of speed was delusive, however. They halted leisurely at platforms where no one got off or on, and loitered mysteriously in the bowels of the earth where were no stations whatsoever. The system seemed hopelessly out of joint and the handful of passengers sighed or swore, according to sex, and tried with grotesque noddings to nap through the tedious delays. Then more waits and more stations succeeded, and the ranks of the sufferers thinned until only Jean and a red-nosed woman, who smelled of gin and thirsted for conversation, were left.

At last came release, and, spurred forward by the waxing friendliness of the red-nose, who also alighted, she hurried to the surface. The remaining distance was short, and in five minutes she was rummaging her shopping-bag for a latch-key. The servants were of course abed. Not a light was visible. All the house apparently slumbered in after-midnight peace. She experienced a burglarious sense of adventure in fitting her key to the lock, and a guilty start when the heavy door escaped her fingers and shut with a resounding slam. At the same instant a light streamed from the library at the farther end of the hall, disclosing Julie haughtily erect in the opening, and Craig's stricken face just behind.

XXVIII

"It is I, Craig," Jean called. "Surely you haven't worried?"

The man groaned.

"Worried!" he cried. "What does it all mean, Jean?"

He would have come out to her, but Julie laid a restraining hand on his sleeve, saying,--

"Keep yourself in hand, Craig dear."

Jean moved quickly down the hall and confronted them.

"What is this mystery?" she demanded. "Did not the servant deliver my message?"

Mrs. Van Ostade signed for her to enter the library. She passed in with a bewildered look at Atwood, who walked uncertainly to the fireplace and stood gazing down into its lifeless grate. His sister shut the door and put her back against it.

"Didn't you receive my message?" Jean again addressed Craig. "Miss Hepworth was with you, and I disliked to interrupt. There was no time for a note. I left too hurriedly."

"With whom?" The question was Julie's and was delivered like a blow.

Jean faced her.

"I went alone," she replied quietly. "Does it matter?"

Mrs. Van Ostade flung out an imperious finger.

"Read that card beside you on the desk," she directed. "'Paul Bartlett, D.D.S. Crown and bridge work a specialty,' Do you deny meeting that person to-day?"

"Certainly not. He brought word that a sick friend needed me, and left immediately afterward."

"And you have not seen him since?"