Part 83

She had sat down on the sofa beside the child, and was stroking her fair mane, while her eyes were fixed upon Ross with genuine solicitude. She looked so kind, so honest, so sensible--he marveled that he had ever thought her formidable.

“You wanted to see Phyllis?” she went on. “She’s out, just now; but you must wait.”

“By George!” cried Ross.

For he had an inspiration. With all his stubborn soul he had been dreading to meet Phyllis in his present condition. He was penniless, and, what was worse, he could not rid himself of an unreasonable conviction of guilt. And now that he found Mrs. Barron so kind--

“Mrs. Barron!” he said. “It’s really you I ought to speak to. It’s about this child. She’s a--sort of cousin of mine, and she’s”--he paused a moment--“alone.”

Mrs. Barron was looking down at the child, very thoughtfully.

“I don’t know any one in this country,” he went on, “so I thought if you’d advise me. I want to find a home for her. A--a real home, you know, with people who’ll--be fond of her. Just for a few months; later on I’ll take her myself. But, just now--” His dark face flushed.

“I’m a bit hard up just now,” he said; “but I’ll find a job right away, and I’ll be able to pay for her board and so on.”

Mrs. Barron continued to look thoughtful, and it occurred to him that his request must seem odd to her--very odd. The flush on his face deepened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, coldly; “but there are a good many things I can’t explain--”

“Yes, you can!” Mrs. Barron declared, in her old manner. “And that’s just what you’re going to do. As soon as I set eyes on you, on board that ship, I knew what you were. And I am _never_ deceived about character. Never, Mr. Ross! I knew at once that you were to be trusted. I said to Phyllis: ‘That young man has force of character!’ I knew it. Now you’ve gone and got yourself into trouble of some sort, and you’ve come to me--very properly--and you’re going to tell me the whole thing.”

“I can’t!” Ross protested.

“Oh, yes, you can! Here you come and tell me you haven’t a penny, and don’t know a soul in this country, and here’s this poor little child who’s been foisted upon you--Don’t look surprised! I know it very well! She’s been foisted upon you by selfish, heartless, unscrupulous people, and you can’t deny it! Now, tell me what’s happened.”

He did. And what is more, he was glad to tell her.

There were a good many details that he left out, and he mentioned no names at all, but the main facts of his amazing story he gave to her. Especially was he emphatic in pointing out that he had now no name and no money, and he thought that would be enough for her.

But when he carefully pointed this out, she said:

“Nonsense! You’ve got your own name, and you can go right on using it. As for money, you’re never going to let that horrible, wicked woman rob you like that--”

“Look here, Mrs. Barron!” said Ross. “I am. I give you my word, I’ll never reopen that case again. It’s finished. I’m going to make a fresh start in the world and forget all about it.”

“I shan’t argue with you now,” said Mrs. Barron, firmly. “You’re too tired. And if you want a position--for awhile--Mr. Barron will find you one. The little girl will stay here with us, of course. Now, take off your coat and make yourself comfortable until lunch time.”

“No!” said Ross. “No! I--don’t you see for yourself? I don’t want to see--_anybody_.”

“Mr. Ross!” said Mrs. Barron. “I’m not young any longer. I’ve lived a good many years in the world, and I’ve learned a few things. And one of them is--that character is the one thing that counts. Not money, Mr. Ross; not intellect, or appearance, or manners; but character. What you’ve done is very, very foolish, but--” She leaned across the child, and laid her hand on his shoulder. “But it was very splendid, my dear boy.”

Ross grew redder than ever.

“Just the same, I’d rather go,” he muttered, obstinately.

“Here’s Phyllis now!” cried Mrs. Barron, in triumph.

So he had to get up and face her--the girl he had run away from when he had had so much to offer her. He had to face her, empty-handed, now; heartsick and weary after his bitter adventure.

And she seemed to him so wonderful, with that dear friendly smile.

“Mr. Ross!” she said.

She held out her hand, and he had to take it. He had to look at her--and then he could not stop. They forgot, for a moment; they stood there, hands clasped, looking at each other.

“Didn’t I _know_ he’d come!” cried Mrs. Barron.

THE END

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

OCTOBER, 1926 Vol. LXXXIX NUMBER 1

Human Nature Unmasked

A CYNIC SEES THE TRUE CHARACTERS OF HIS FRIENDS REVEALED BY A SEARCHING TEST, THE LURE OF A MILLION DOLLARS

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

Wilder sprang off the train, jostled his way through the crowd on the platform, and dashed up the steps to the street, scowling with impatience; and yet, when he got there, he stopped short.

The trolley car that met the train was waiting in front of him, and there was a rush of commuters toward it. He had meant to get on that car, but he could not. He was too tired, too mortally sick and tired of his fellow creatures. He could not and would not be crowded in there. He wanted miles of uninhabited space about him. He felt that it was impossible to endure the sight of a human face or the sound of a human voice.

Then, just behind him, some one called out cheerily:

“Hello, Wilder!”

He pretended not to hear, and set off down the street, with that headlong gait of his.

“Let me _alone_!” he said to himself. “Oh, Lord! I’m so tired!”

All he asked was to be let alone, but he never was. At this moment Marian was waiting for him.

“Let her wait!” he thought.

But, just the same, he hurried home to her.

“I’m a slave!” he thought. “I’m a fool, an ass, an idiot, an imbecile!”

These weaknesses were not obvious in Leonard Wilder’s appearance. A big fellow, well set up, lean and vigorous, he looked like one abundantly able to take care of himself. His face, with its big, bold nose, its keen gray eyes, and that out-thrust underlip, looked like a clever face. He was by no means handsome, but there was something about him that pleased the eye. People were inclined to stare at him. People who knew him detested and loved him at the same time. He was impossible to get on with; yet, once you got used to him, it was hard to get on without him.

He was an architect; but he said that if he could choose again, he would be a house wrecker. There was, he said, no room on earth for an architect until ninety-five per cent of all buildings now standing had been razed to the ground. Feeling as he did, he nevertheless helped in the erection of more monstrosities. The owners of a “development park” employed him to design houses.

“Regular little love nests!” said Connolly, the senior partner.

“Why d’you call these things ‘nests’?” asked Wilder. “Haven’t you ever _seen_ a nest? Don’t you realize the fundamental _decency_ of birds? Why, man, birds _hide_ their nests! ‘Love nests,’ eh? Sheep pens, you mean!”

Connolly laughed; but he always arranged to keep his architect and his clients as far apart as possible. When this could not be done, he took care to explain in advance that Wilder was a genius. Connolly believed this. He believed that only a genius could be so outrageous; that only a genius would do such good work for so little money. He liked geniuses.

Leonard’s own opinion of himself was less flattering. He called himself a fool. For instance, here he was, hurrying home, when he so violently did not want to go home, simply because it would upset Marian if he were late. He always hurried home, and not out of good will. He felt no good will toward anybody on earth. He was the complete cynic. He did not love his fellow man. If he caught trains, it was only through a very contemptible weakness.

The sun had gone, but it was not yet dusk. As he reached his own corner, the street lamps suddenly came alive, glowing with a faint, luminous violet against the pallor of the sky. He was startled and enchanted by the effect. He stopped, to stare up at them, to watch the delicate changes in the sky.

“Extraordinary thing!” he thought. “I spend my life looking for the beautiful line--the clean, strong, inevitable line; and here is beauty without line, almost without form or color--half tints, shadows--of nothing. Why is this beautiful to me?”

He wanted a formula, and could find none. He lit a cigarette, and leaned back against the lamp-post, meditating. Marian saw this from the window. She saw her brother-in-law standing on the street corner, smoking a cigarette and staring at the sky, when he knew very well that dinner was ready. Let him! She made up her mind that she would not say one word. She put everything into the oven to keep hot, went out on the veranda, and sat down there.

When, at last, Wilder came down the street, and saw her, he knew by her face that she was not saying a word. Instead of admiring this forbearance, a fierce exasperation rose in him. He wanted her to say a word, so that he could reply in other words. He desired a barrage of peppery words. He had stopped, just to look at the sky--and she begrudged him that!

“Good evening, Leonard,” she said, quite politely.

“Oh! Good evening!” said he, as if surprised. “You here?”

Then he sat down on the top step and lit another cigarette.

“And here I sit until you do say something!” he thought.

“I will not be drawn into a dispute with Leonard,” thought Marian. “He’s simply looking for a chance to be nasty; but I shan’t say a word.”

From inside the house came a sound of hammering. It was Evan Wilder, doing some little carpentering job; and this--this creditable and helpful thing--filled Leonard with still greater exasperation.

He was weary and hot. He wanted peace. He wanted a dim and lofty dining room, a silent and highly competent manservant, and a rare sort of dinner; and when he thought of what he was actually going to get--

He had meant not to speak, but that hammering was too much.

“_Peter Pan_, the Boy Scout who never grew up,” he observed. “What good turn is he doing now?”

Marian still said nothing, but the effort she made to hold her tongue vibrated through the air.

“He is misguided,” Leonard went on. “If he were to follow our example, Marian! Here we sit, developing serenity of soul in contemplation. I’m happy to see you contemplative, Marian. Don’t you feel strengthened by it?”

“Leonard,” she replied, in a voice unsteady from many suppressed emotions, “if, instead of sneering at Evan--”

“Shan’t I put dinner on the table?” interrupted a voice.

It was the voice of Marian’s young sister, Violet. Leonard rose.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” he asked sternly.

“Why should I?” returned Marian. “I didn’t want to disturb you in your soulful contemplations.”

She, too, had risen. He admitted that she was a nice looking girl, but it exasperated him to see that she was tired. It made him feel that every one in the world was tired. He thought of Marian working all day in this detestable little house. He thought of Evan sitting in his office, waiting for the patients who did not come. Everything was awful!

Violet disturbed him. He was sorry for her, just entering upon life in all its awfulness; and she was so unsuspicious. She did not look either tired or discouraged. She was a designer, working in a fashion studio, and she did not seem to mind it.

There she stood in the doorway. The light behind her shone on her bright hair, making it glitter like gold wire. She had a nice color in her cheeks, and across her nose was a band of freckles that seemed to Wilder funny and very touching. She had serious blue eyes. She was a serious girl altogether, but he always felt that the seriousness was not quite honest. He strongly suspected that there were moments when she laughed.

She glanced at Leonard as he came in, and smiled seriously. He would have said that he was sorry he was late, only that Marian would have heard, and it would have been mean to be sorry to Violet and not to her.

As he went upstairs to wash, he met his brother Evan coming down, with a clean collar, and his dark hair still damp. He looked neat and subdued, yet cheerful. Evan was always cheerful. His valiant smile did not soothe the cynic, who came downstairs worse than ever.

They all sat down at the table.

“Ah! Tomato soup!” said Evan, bravely and brightly.

“Tomatoes have gone up awfully,” observed Marian.

“Listen!” said Violet. “That taxi--isn’t it stopping here?”

“Good Lord!” cried Evan, springing up. “A patient!”

“Probably an accident who can’t afford to pay,” said Marian.

Evan retired, so that he might be mysteriously invisible to any patient, and Marian went to open the door.

II

From the dining room, Leonard and Violet could see who stood outside--a large figure in a plumed hat and billowing cloak, like a cavalier. It was no cavalier, however, but a lady.

“Dr. Wilder’s house?” the stranger asked.

“Yes,” said Marian. “If you’ll step into the waiting room, I’ll see if the doctor’s disengaged.”

“Deary,” said the visitor, “tell him it’s his Aunt Jean!”

At this Evan stepped forward.

“I am Dr. Wilder,” he announced sternly--sternly, because he had no Aunt Jean.

“No!” cried she. “You don’t say! You must be one of the boys; but it’s old Dr. Wilder I’m looking for.”

“He--” Evan began, and hesitated. “My father--”

“No!” said she, all sympathy. “Gone? That’s just terrible! I looked in the telephone book, and I saw ‘Dr. Wilder,’ and I came here. My! That’s sad! And you’re a doctor, too? Deary, you’ve got a _grand_ presence!”

Evan was considerably taken aback.

“Deary,” said she, “I’ll explain--”

Just then she caught sight of Leonard, who had come into the hall, urged by sheer curiosity. He wished to hear the preposterous tale this woman would surely tell. It was almost pathetic, to think of her coming before him, the cynic, the merciless detector of human weakness, with her ridiculous yarn.

“You’re the one to remember!” she said. “Your eyes--so kind o’ piercing looking, and all! You remember your Auntie Jean, I bet!”

“No,” said Leonard, “I can’t say that I do.”

Indeed, he felt that if he had ever set eyes on her before, he would have remembered. She was not one easy to forget. Stout and tall, she carried herself with majesty. In her face, powdered white as a clown’s, her lips were a vivid scarlet. Sticky dark lashes surrounded her eyes, and crowning all was a bushy halo of blond hair, dry and unreal as a doll’s wig. No, Leonard did not remember her.

Nevertheless, looking at her, a queer sympathy stirred in him. There was something honest in her. Even the paint and powder and dyed hair were honest. They showed no intention to deceive, but merely an artless desire to make the best of what nature had provided.

“Deary,” she said, “I’m your Uncle Lambert’s second.”

There really had been an Uncle Lambert, a black sheep brother of their father’s, and Leonard thought he could remember some talk about a dreadful marriage. He was almost ready to believe that this lady might be a relation--by marriage; but that did not exclude the possibility of her being also a swindler.

“I remember,” said she, “as plain as plain. Your mother was the only one in the family that ever had a kind word for me--a sweet, lovely woman, she was. Well do I remember her saying to me: ‘Jean,’ she said, and those were her words--‘Jean,’ she said, ‘come and see the children.’ Then she took me up through that rich, elegant house, and the taste there was in those lace curtains I shall remember to my dying day, and the carpet on the stairs as thick as fur, and there you were in the nursery, the two of you, in little black velvet pants and white silk shirts, as sweet and clean as two little lambs.” She sobbed. “Two little lambs!” she insisted. “And Evan, he sat on my lap and played with my locket, and well I remember he broke it off the chain and tried to swallow it, and you stood in a corner, saying, ‘Go ‘way! Go ‘way!’ Two l-little l-lambs!”

Leonard believed her. He could not recollect the incident, but he believed it had been as she said.

“Sit down, Aunt Jean,” he said firmly.

“Aunt!” said she. “Deary, I will _not_ forget this sweetness!”

Still in tears, she sat down, and so did Leonard, but the others remained standing.

“Boys!” she said. “I’m all kind of fluttery.” She paused. “Boys!” she said solemnly. “How are things with you?”

“Bad,” replied Leonard, promptly.

“Oh, no!” Evan chivalrously declared. “I’m married--”

“A sweet, lovely woman!” said Aunt Jean, looking at Marian. “I can see that; but--” She glanced about the neat, quiet little room. “Boys!” she said. “I know!”

There was something so portentous, so mysterious in her manner that Evan glanced behind him, as if a specter had thrown a shadow.

“This is not what you’ve been accustomed to,” she went on. “This is not what you ought to have. No, sir! Servants to wait on you hand and foot, and a fine house and all--that’s what you ought to have; and that’s what you’re going to have! That’s just what I came for!”

She was gratified to see that they were astonished.

“Yes, sir!” she continued. “As soon as ever I heard the news, I came right here. You’ve heard of Darcy Rose, of course?”

To her surprise, they had not.

“A grand man!” she said. “Him and I--he and me--were partners years ago. A novelty act, it was--Rose and La Reine. He did mind reading and mesmerizing, and I was Jean La Reine, the galvanic girl. I used to be galvanized, you know, stiff as a board, lying in the air, all dressed in white, and my hair down. It was a real pretty act, if I do say it myself; but it kind of went out of style. Darcy, he went in for private mind readings--séances and all, and he made a lot of money.”

“Won’t you join us at dinner?” asked Evan, because he saw Marian looking so patient.

“Deary, I will!” said she. “And sweet it is of you to ask me!”

She flung off the voluminous cape with a fine gesture, and stood before them in a low-necked black satin dress, with a rope of pearls reaching to what might be called her waist. Combined with the plumed hat and the high-heeled velvet slippers, the effect was remarkable--especially if one did not notice how worn and dusty the slippers were, how shabby the dress, how bedraggled the feather.

“Darcy Rose is doomed,” she said. “A grander spirit I never saw. One week ago this very night he sent for me. ‘J.,’ he said, ‘I’m going,’ he said.” She wiped her eyes. “‘And I’m ready,’ he said. ‘I haven’t one of my own kin left,’ he said, ‘and me with a million dollars! J.,’ he said, ‘you and me were partners;’ and the way he talked about old times would have wrenched tears out of a stone. He wanted to know what I was doing, and I told him the solemn truth. ‘Darcy,’ I said, ‘I won’t tell you I’m resting, for the truth is, I’ve given up the profession. I may look all right to you,’ I said, ‘and there are many who admire a stately figger; but it’s not the style just now, and on the stage I do not look so young. I will not hide from you, Darcy, that I am demonstrating French Cream Balm of Lettuce in the stores.’ Tears came into the man’s eyes.” She turned to Marian. “He made a last will and testament,” she said, “leaving all to me.”

“I see!” said Marian.

“And I wish to share it with the boys,” said Aunt Jean. “Darcy Rose isn’t the only one can be grateful. Their mother was an angel to me, when the rest of the family were--were _not_; and I’ve come to set things right.”

“That’s mighty kind of you,” said Evan.

“Do have another slice of ham!” said Marian.

“And wouldn’t you like a nice cup of tea?” asked Violet.

Leonard said nothing. Although he had long ago lost all illusions about human nature, he felt a queer sort of pain at seeing them all so very kind and attentive--to a million dollars. It sickened him. He was not going to join the crowd of flatterers. Let them truckle as they liked to the poor old soul; he would be rudely honest.

He was.

III

It was an unseasonably hot June that year, and Wilder suffered from it. He was tired to the bottom of his soul. A competition for a model house was organized by a popular magazine, and he had been working in the evenings on a set of plans, and had sent them in.

He knew he would not win, for his house was much too good. Nobody would appreciate that roof line, that staircase. He had done it to please himself, as a relief from the love nests, and to divert his mind from the sickening state of affairs at home, where Aunt Jean was now installed in the house, an honored guest.

The hot weather had brought on a boom in love nests. His firm advertised that “every house will be built according to your ideas. The home we build for you will be your Home o’ Dreams;” and clients came in with all sorts of queer ideas.

Basically, the love nests were strangely alike, but it was Wilder’s task to give each one a mendacious air of individuality.

“Seems to me that sort o’ cupola effect isn’t so artistic as the others,” said Connolly, the senior partner.

“Oh, yes, it is!” said Wilder. “More so, if possible. That cupola is the most arty thing I’ve ever done. It makes the love nest a perfect little hencoop.”

Connolly glanced at his genius with a shade of anxiety.

“Wilder,” he said, “you’re all wore out.”

“No,” said Wilder, “I’m a man of iron.” He took off his eye shade and got up. “And now,” he said, “peace and rest at length have come, all the day’s long toil is past.” He stopped to light his pipe. “And now,” he continued, “each heart is whispering ‘Home--home at last!’”

“I’ll say you got the right idea,” said Connolly.

“Just think of that to-night, as you’re going uptown in the subway,” said Wilder. “Try to realize that all the hearts crammed in there with you are whispering, ‘Home--home at last!’ Good night!”