Part 35

As she ate her solitary dinner, Jacqueline reflected upon this episode. Not a trace of wholesome contrition for her treatment of poor Mr. Terrill remained. On the contrary, the whole thing filled her with reprehensible contentment. Evidently Terrill admired her very much. She felt that she ought to tell Barty about him.

“And I’m afraid Barty won’t like it,” she thought.

Rank hypocrisy! Afraid? She hoped with all her heart that he wouldn’t like it. What if he should be really jealous and angry, and should insist upon a public announcement of their marriage? What if she had to give up her job and just be Barty’s wife?

A sudden rush of tears filled her eyes. Not for anything on earth would she hinder or worry Barty; but if he really insisted upon it--

He did not, however. Nothing, apparently, was farther from his thoughts. Before she had finished her meal, a bell boy came in to tell her that Mr. Leadenhall was waiting in the lounge, and she hurried in to him. She had entirely forgiven him for breaking that tea engagement. In fact, she was rather glad he had done so.

There he stood, waiting for her, and the sight of him aroused in her a tenderness that was half pain. Something she had once read in a book came to her now. “A young falcon”--that was what Barty was like. He was a strong, splendid, free creature whose heart would break if he were fettered.

“I’m not silly about him,” she thought. “I know he’s not so awfully handsome.”

But she thought there was something about Barty that marked him out among all other men. His tie was crooked, his sandy hair was a little ruffled, he might seem to others simply a passably good-looking young fellow with a somewhat impatient and careless manner. His conversation was practical enough for the most part. Indeed, his feet were solidly planted on the earth; but Jacqueline had had a glimpse now and then of his jealously guarded spirit, of his passion for beauty, of his love for the mute harmonies of his great art. She loved all that was Barty--even his faults; but his spirit she very nearly worshiped.

When she had first met Barty, she herself had been ambitious. She had wanted to write, to make a name for herself. She could laugh--or weep--at that thought now. Ambition? She hadn’t known the meaning of the word. For no imaginable reward could she have worked as Barty did. He would work for days and days on a sketch or a plan, careless of rest or food, in a fire of enthusiasm. Then, putting his enthusiasm aside, and looking at it with his cool, impersonal brain, he would accept his work, or he would reject and destroy it and begin all over again.

Her own little ambition had flickered and died. It seemed to her a sublime destiny to help Barty, to serve this rare talent which her honest heart acknowledged as beyond measure superior to her own.

Their hands met in a formal clasp, and they smiled at each other, with their own secret smile of understanding. It was a wonderful thing to meet thus in public, and to let nobody know that they belonged to each other.

“Old Jacko!” said he.

“Old Barty!” said she.

Looking into his steady gray eyes, all desire to tease him about Mr. Terrill left her. All she wanted in the world was to help her man, at any cost.

“I’ve only got a few minutes,” he said. “I’ve got to go back and finish that thing.”

“The museum?” she asked, with a sinking heart, but with a bright expression of interest.

“No,” he answered, with a trace of impatience. “That can’t be hurried. This is a bit of hack work--a plan for remodeling a house that ought to be blotted out of existence.”

“I hate you to do work like that, Barty!”

“Oh, do you?” said he, smiling. “Well, I’ll tell you what it means, Jacko. The fellow’s coming to look at the plans to-morrow, and if he likes ’em--which he will--it means a week off for you and me.”

“Oh, Barty! You don’t mean that we could go away together for a whole week?” she cried. “Oh, Barty!”

“Don’t, Jacko!” said he, turning away his head. “It--it makes me feel like a brute. You know, I had meant you to have a honeymoon in Europe.”

“As if I cared!”

“Well, I care,” said he, with a sort of fierceness. “You deserve it. You deserve--Jacko, you deserve more than I can ever give you in all my life!” He met her eyes, which were bright with unshed tears. “No one like you, Jacko!” he ended huskily.

IV

She made up her mind not to count upon that week together. She felt sure that something would happen to prevent it, that Miss Clarke wouldn’t let her go, that Barty would be detained by some important work.

Hers was the wildly unreasonable pessimism of a woman’s love. She foresaw the direst misfortunes, and was almost resigned to them. She was tired, too, after a long summer of hard work, and Miss Clarke was increasingly disagreeable to her. She was worried about Barty, worried about all sorts of absurd little things, so that she did not sleep well, and could scarcely tolerate the meals in her hotel. A whole week away somewhere with Barty? Impossible!

But on Sunday morning he actually came. She went upstairs and got her bag, which, with such wretched misgivings, she had packed the night before. She got into the taxi with Barty. His bag was in there. They really were going!

“But where?” she asked, like a happy child. “Where are we going, Barty?”

“Long Beach!” he said proudly. “You told me you liked it.”

“I do!” she assured him earnestly.

After all, what if they did happen to run across Mr. Terrill?

“I’ve engaged a room,” he went on, “for Mr. and Mrs. Leadenhall. If we see any one we know, all right. I’m pretty sick of this hole-and-corner business, anyhow.”

It was then that she noticed there was something wrong with Barty--something very wrong. There was about him an air of grim recklessness, almost of desperation. He was trying to be jolly, but he achieved only a strained sort of hilarity utterly foreign to him, and beyond measure distressing to Jacqueline. She watched him with growing anxiety, pretending to believe in his pretense, but positively sick at heart with apprehension.

They went all the way down by taxi.

“Hang the expense!” he said. “I’ve worked for it!”

And she pretended to enjoy the trip. She was even jollier than Barty. She spurred on her anxious heart to a hectic gayety. She talked and laughed, always with her eyes on Barty’s face.

He had engaged not a room, but a suite of parlor, bedroom, and bath. Mentally she computed the cost of this, and was appalled; but even then she said nothing. If this was what Barty wanted, very well, she was glad he had it. If it gave him any joy to waste what he had worked so hard to get, very well, she would not spoil his week by a single remonstrance.

He was walking up and down the parlor, with his hands in his pockets, and Jacqueline was in the bedroom, unpacking her bag. She had said all the things she could think of in praise of the suite. While she tried to think of some more praise, a blank little silence had fallen.

“Jacko,” he said, “you--you really do like this, don’t you? You really will be happy here, won’t you--for this week?”

He spoke like a doomed man, as if this week was to be their last. He didn’t even try to smile. Jacqueline could not bear it.

“Barty,” she said, “aren’t you well?”

“Well?” he repeated, in surprise. “Of course I’m well! I’m always well!”

She hesitated for a moment. Then she got up and went into the parlor, barring his path, so that he had to stop short in his pacing; and she asked him the question that had been in the back of her mind all the time.

“Didn’t Mr. Stafford like your going away, Barty?”

“Who cares?” said he.

She hadn’t much doubt now.

“I’d like to know, though, Barty,” she said quietly. “I’d rather know.”

“I can’t see that it makes any difference what Stafford says or thinks. After all--”

“I want to know, Barty!”

It seemed to her that this was the first time she had really felt like Barty’s wife, with a wife’s dignity, a wife’s right to know what concerned her husband. She saw that he felt this, too, for his high-handed air was conspicuously absent.

“Well,” he said, “if you must know, he made the devil of a row.”

“Oh, Barty! But how unkind and unreasonable of him!”

“Well, you see,” said Barty reluctantly, “he’s sick, and--”

“Sick?”

“Some trouble with his eyes. Can’t use them for a week or so. He wanted me to put off going away.”

“Oh, why didn’t you? Why didn’t you?”

“Because I didn’t want to. I had told you we’d have this week together.”

“I’d have understood, Barty!”

“I know it; but, don’t you see, Jacko, you’re my wife, and you come first.”

She began to cry foolish tears of tenderness and pride.

“That was very rash and imprudent,” she began.

“I’m not prudent where you’re concerned,” said Barty, “and I’m sick of trying to be. If it hadn’t been that I had promised you not to tell any one, I’d have told Stafford then that I was going away with my wife.”

“What did you tell him, Barty?”

“Nothing.”

“You must have said something!”

“I told him I had made arrangements for a week’s holiday with a friend of mine, and I couldn’t put it off.”

Her moment of pride and delight was over now. She realized what had happened. For her sake he had left the friend to whom he owed so much at the time when that friend most needed him. It was the supreme proof of his love for her, but it was a proof which she must not and could not accept.

She gently pushed Barty into a chair. Then she sat on the arm of it and drew his head down against her heart; and with all the wisdom, all the ingenuity, all the art born of her love, she talked to him, argued, pleaded, warned, cajoled. There was dismay in her heart, but she was unwaveringly resolute, and she vanquished him.

Once more she took ruthless advantage of his masculine instinct to yield to the beloved woman whatever she asked. For the second time she safeguarded him to her own cost. Their love must be a help to him, not a handicap. She was not a weak, silly creature to be indulged and protected. She was his friend, his pal. She understood.

“I’ll stay here by myself,” she said, “and it’ll be a splendid rest for me. Of course, I’ll miss you, Barty, but we’ll write to each other every day; and it won’t be very long before we shall be together all the time.”

She managed to say this without a tremor, and even with a smile; but Barty could not respond. Almost unconsciously, she had used two terribly potent arguments. She had evoked the sacred name of honor, telling him that he was in honor bound not to desert Stafford; and she had warned him that, in hazarding his future prospects, he was endangering her happiness as well as his own. With these weapons she had defeated him.

They went down into the dining room for lunch, and it was dust and ashes to them. They sat facing each other across a small table. Their eyes met, they tried to speak, but what was there to say?

This was not an episode. It had the air of a final tragedy. Their week, their one beautiful week, was lost! And they were so young, so honestly and utterly in love! That day, neither of them believed that happiness would ever come again.

As they were leaving the dining room, a man rose from one of the tables and bowed to Jacqueline.

“Who’s that?” asked Barty.

“Oh, I met him at Miss Clarke’s,” said Jacqueline.

At that moment Mr. Terrill was not of sufficient importance to have a name. He was less than nothing.

They went up to their suite again, and Barty put into his bag the few things he had unpacked so short a time before. Jacqueline helped him. She brushed his hair with his military brushes, she straightened his tie. She kissed him and sent him off with a smile.

“Oh, Barty! Oh, Barty!” she cried, after he had gone.

V

“Stopping here?” cried a delighted voice.

Odd, how people keep on existing, completely unaware how superfluous they are! Jacqueline turned from her contemplation of the moonlit sea to the vastly inferior spectacle of Mr. Terrill, and answered him as civilly as she could just then.

“Yes,” she said, “for a rest.”

“Not a very quiet place for a rest,” remarked Terrill.

“I don’t like quiet places,” Jacqueline replied impatiently.

He was charmed with this. The more unreasonable she was, the more he liked her.

“I enjoy a place like this,” he went on; “but not for a rest. What appeals to me is the stimulation one finds in a motley crowd like this.”

“Bah!” said Jacqueline, under her breath.

If he would only go away and leave her alone! His voice and his presence were an intolerable exasperation to her. She wanted Barty--and, failing Barty, she wanted to think of him undisturbed; but Mr. Terrill continued to exist, unabashed.

“It’s a curious thing,” he continued, “the transformation that certain qualities of light can effect. Of course, it’s been pretty thoroughly studied in the theater; but to the average mortal--well, moonlight, for instance. I’ve seen your face in lamplight and in the sunlight, but now, in the light of the moon--”

“It makes every one look ghastly, doesn’t it?” Jacqueline interrupted hastily. “I hate it!”

“Hate moonlight, Miss Miles?” said he, mildly reproachful.

“Yes!” she answered stoutly. “I’m not one of those sentimental idiots!”

He seemed to grasp her meaning, for he asked, in quite a different tone, cheerful and matter-of-fact, if he might come down to visit her while she was stopping here.

“Oh, but--” said Jacqueline, dismayed. “You see, Mr. Terrill, I--”

He waited patiently for the reason why he must not come to see Miss Miles, and she tried hard to think of one.

“Well,” she said lamely, “you probably wouldn’t find me at the hotel. I--I take long walks, and I shouldn’t like you to come all that way from the city, you know, and not find me.”

“I’d take a longer trip than that, any day,” said Terrill, “just on the chance of seeing you!”

She had to let that pass. There was no way of explaining to him; but she made up her mind that he should not find her in, whenever he might come.

The next morning she had a letter from Barty. He wrote:

You should have seen Stafford when I got back. There he was, sitting in the dark. I told him I’d thought better of it--took all the credit for your idea, little Jacko, but what else could I do?

I see now that you were right. It was so hard to leave you that I couldn’t see it then. All the way back on the train I was thinking things about you that you wouldn’t have liked. I thought you were a cold-blooded little beast to send me away like that; but after I’d seen poor old Stafford, I saw how right you were. You know, Jacko, I’d have given up Stafford, or anything else on earth, for that week with you, but you wouldn’t let me make a fool of myself. I’ve got it in me, you know, Jacko. I could make the most exalted, glorious sort of fool of myself, and I’d enjoy it; but you’ll always be my sensible little pal.

Jacqueline put down the letter and sat for a time staring before her, with a very odd expression on her face. Then she took it up and finished it.

Address letters in care of Jordan Galloway, Philipsville, Long Island. That is the nearest village, and I’ll go there for the mail whenever I get a chance; but don’t worry if you don’t hear from me every day, dear girl, because sometimes I may not be able to get into the village.

And then many affectionate messages, and a check, “so that you can stay where you are for another week.”

This check was the first money Barty had ever given her. He had paid for things--dinners, taxis, and so on--and he had bought her presents, but this was different. If she was his friend, his pal, why should she let him do this?

He warned her in his letter not to swim out too far. They had often bathed together. She was a good swimmer, strong and sound of wind, and she knew Barty was proud of her; but she could not swim as well as he. He could always have outdistanced her easily, if he had wished, but the idea of competition had never occurred to them. They were pals, friends, equals; but in almost everything he was stronger and more skillful.

He earned four times as much as she, and he was going forward while she stood still. When they went walking, she always tired first. Whatever they undertook, he did better than she, and it seemed to them both so much a matter of course that she had never thought of it before.

She looked about her, at those rooms, so terribly empty without Barty. She had made him go. She had sent away her man, telling him that she could do without him; but could she? He would do very well with Stafford. He would enjoy himself, no doubt, but how was it with her, left alone here, and sick at heart, longing and longing for Barty?

Suppose she had done wrong not to let him be a “glorious fool”? Suppose it was all a mistake to try to be a pal?

VI

Mr. Terrill did find her. He came across the beach to her, his thin, sensitive face bright with pleasure, and stood before her, hat in hand, looking down at her.

She was not sorry to see him. She had had no letter from Barty for three days. She had written to him every day--jolly, friendly little letters; and not a word from him! Three days!

“I went into the hotel and asked for you, Miss Miles,” said Terrill, “but they would have it that there was no Miss Miles stopping there.”

“How stupid!” murmured Jacqueline, with a smile; but at heart she was ashamed and distressed. “He ought to know,” she thought. “It’s not fair!”

But if he knew, what would he think of Barty?

“I came down in my car,” Terrill went on. “I thought perhaps you’d let me take you for a ride.”

“He’s got to know!” she thought. “Poor thing! At least I can give him some sort of hint.”

But he gave her no opportunity. He said nothing that could be seized upon as an excuse for mentioning that there was a Barty in the offing. It was his way of looking at her, the tone of his voice--intangible things which, of course, he meant her to notice. He very well knew that she did notice them, too.

It was a distressing situation, yet not without zest; for she was young and pretty, and when Mr. Terrill looked at her she felt ten times younger and prettier than when she sat on the sands alone and lonely. She tried not to like this, but she could not help it.

“We could run along the Motor Parkway,” he was saying, “turn off at Philipsville, and go--”

“Philipsville?”

“Yes. Do you know that route, Miss Miles?”

“No, Mr. Terrill,” said she.

He went on to describe the beauties of the trip he proposed. He need not have troubled. Any road that passed through Philipsville was of peculiar interest to Miss Miles. She accepted the invitation very graciously, and off they went.

It was a bright, cool morning, early in September, still summer, with summer’s green beauty all about; yet in the air there was an indefinable hint that the end was coming. There was an invitation to haste, even to recklessness--to live in joy while the roads were still open, before the iron frost came.

Never had Mr. Terrill seen Miss Miles so charming. To be sure, she responded with frank mockery to his sentimental glances, but he could forgive that, because her mockery was so gay and so kindly. Indeed, he liked everything she said and everything she did. She was willful, lively, imperious, and he submitted gallantly to her least caprice. This went to Jacqueline’s head a little; she found it only too agreeable to be imperious.

She made him stop the car while she gathered goldenrod and purple asters. She made him halt at the top of a hill and sit there for a long time in silence, while she admired the view. His patience and meekness encouraged her to further boldness. She insisted upon getting out of the car in Philipsville, pretending that she found that very dull and commonplace little village “quaint.”

With the obliging Mr. Terrill she strolled down the drowsy, tree-shaded Main Street until she found what she was looking for--a sign reading “Jordan Galloway, groceries and hardware.” Mr. Galloway’s store she also acclaimed as “quaint.” She went in, and bought some wizened little apples by way of excuse for lingering; and, behind the corner of a calendar hanging on the wall, she saw a little sheaf of letters addressed to Barty in her own handwriting. Then he hadn’t troubled to come and get her letters!

She was glad that the store was so dim and shadowy, for she could not keep back the tears. Terrill was talking affably with the proprietor, and nobody was looking at her just then. She could struggle valiantly against her pain and bitterness, and could master them.

She had turned toward Terrill, outwardly quite cool and self-possessed again, and was about to suggest their going on, when a man came in--a man so incongruous in Philipsville that she at once suspected his identity. He was a tall, lean man, fastidiously dressed in a theatrical sort of camper’s outfit--a gray flannel shirt, tweed knickerbockers, and high boots, all fatally belied by his neat Vandyke beard, his delicate hands, his toploftical air. What was more, he was smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder. It was scarcely necessary for Galloway to address him as “Mr. Stafford.” She had felt sure enough of that already.

“Er--we want potatoes, Galloway,” he said; “and--er--bread and bacon and coffee, and so on.”

He went over to the calendar, took down the letters, and put them into his pocket. Then he saw Jacqueline. His hand went involuntarily to his hat, but he was wearing none, so he bowed gravely instead.

“Er--Galloway!” he said. “I’m in no hurry. Attend to the lady first.”

“Thank you,” said Jacqueline, “but I’ve finished. I was only going to ask if any one here would be kind enough to tell me where the old Veagh house is. I wanted to see that doorway.”

“No! Really?” cried Stafford. “Upon my word, that’s very interesting! You’ll pardon me, but do you mind telling me where you heard of that doorway?”