Читать книгу The Pretender - Robert William Service - Страница 8

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To believe a woman who tells you her age is twenty-nine is to show a naïve confidence in her veracity. Twenty-nine is an almost impossible age. No woman is twenty-nine for more than one year, yet by a process of elasticity it is often made to extend over half a dozen. True, the following years are insolent, unworthy of acknowledgment, best punished by being haughtily ignored. For to rest on twenty-nine as long as she dare is every woman's right.

Mrs. Fitzbarrington had been twenty-nine for four or five years, but if she had said thirty-nine, no one would have expressed particular surprise. However, there were reasons. Captain Fitzbarrington, who was in receipt of a monthly allowance, had been engaged for some years in a book entitled The Beers of America, the experimental investigations for which absorbed the greater part of his income. Mrs. Fitz, then, had a hard time of it, and it was wonderful how she managed to dress so well and keep on smiling.

She received me in the rather faded drawing-room of the house in Harlem. She herself was rather faded, with pale, sentimental eyes, and a complex complexion. How pathetic is the woman of thirty, who, feeling youth with all that it means slipping away from her, makes a last frantic fight to retain it! Mrs. Fitz, on this occasion, was just a little more faded, a little more restored, a little more thirty-ninish than usual; and she welcomed me with a little more than her usual warmth.

"I'm so glad to see you," she said, giving me both hands. "You know, I was just thinking of you."

This clearly called for a gallant reply, so I answered, "Ah! that must be telepathy, for you know I'm always thinking of you."

Yet I could have bitten my tongue as soon as I heard the last phrase slip from my mouth. There was a sudden catch in her breath; a soft light beaconed in her eyes. Confound the thing! why do the women we don't want to always take us seriously, and those we are serious with always persist in regarding us as a joke? I hastened to change the subject.

"Ah, how are the kiddies?"

The kiddies were Ronnie and Lonnie, two twin boys, very sticky and strenuous, whom in my heart I detested.

"The darlings! They're always so well. Heaven knows what I should do without them."

"And he?"

"Oh, he! I haven't seen him for three days, not since the remittance arrived, and then you can guess the state he was in."

"My poor friend! I'm so sorry." (How I hated my voice for vibrating as I said this, but for the life of me I could not help it. At such a moment tricks I had learnt in my short stage career came to me almost unconsciously.)

"Oh, don't pity me," she said; "you know a woman hates any one who pities her."

"Then I mustn't make you hate me." (Again that infernal fighting-with-repressed-feeling note.) "Well, you know you have my deepest sympathy," I added hastily.

She certainly had. My Irish heart melts at a tale of woe, or is roused to fiery wrath at the recital of a wrong. I feel far more keenly than the person concerned. Yet, alas! the moment after I am ready to laugh heartily with the next one.

"Yes, indeed, I know it," she spoke quickly. "It almost makes it worth while to suffer for that. You know how much it means to me, how much it helps, don't you?"

There was an awkward pause. She was waiting for me to take my cue, and I was staring at a mental sign-board, "Dangerous Ground." I tried to say, "Well, I'm glad," in a friendly way, but, to my infinite disgust, my voice broke. She caught the note, as of suppressed emotion. With wide eyes she looked at me as if she would read my soul; her flat bosom heaved, then suddenly she leaned forward and her voice was tense.

"Horace," she breathed, "do you love me?"

Now, when a female asks an unprotected male if he loves her there can be only two answers: Yes or No. If No, a scene follows in which he feels like a brute. If Yes, he saves her feelings and gives Time a chance to straighten things out. The situation is embarrassing and calls for delicate handling. I am sadly lacking in moral courage, and kindness of heart has always been my weakness. To say "No" would be to deal a deathblow to this woman's hope, to leave her crushed and broken, to drive her to despair, perhaps even to suicide. Besides—it would be awfully impolite.

"Perhaps I'd better humour her," I thought. So I too leaned forward, and in the same husky voice I answered, "Stella, how can you ask?"

"Cora," she corrected gently. I was rather taken aback. Yet I am not the first man who has called the lady of the moment by the name of her predecessor. It is one of life's embarrassing situations. However, I went on:

"Cora, how could you guess?"

"How does a woman know these things?" she answered passionately. "Could I not read it in your eyes alone?"

"Ah! my eyes—yes, my eyes ..." Inwardly I added, "Damn my eyes!" Then, after a pause in which I was conscious of her wide, bright, expectant regard I repeated lamely, "Ye—es, my eyes."

But she was evidently waiting for me to rise to the occasion. She leaned still further forward; then suddenly she laid her hands on mine.

"You mustn't kiss me," she said.

"Oh, no, I mustn't," I agreed hastily. I hadn't the slightest intention of doing it.

"No, no, that would ruin us. We must control ourselves. If Charley were to discover our secret he would kill me. Oh, I've known for long, so long that you loved me; but you were too fine, too honourable to show it. Now, what are we going to do? The situation is full of danger."

"Do!" I said glumly, "I don't know. It's beastly awkward." Then with an effort I cheered up. I tried to look at her with sad, stern eyes. I let my voice go down an octave.

"There's only one thing to do, Nora—I mean, Cora, only one thing: I—must—go—away."

"No, no, not that," she cried.

"Yes, yes, I must; I must put the world between us. We must never meet again."

I could feel fresh courage in my heart, also the steerage ticket in my pocket. In a near-by mirror I had a glimpse of my face, and was pleased to see how it was stern and set. I was pleased to see also that she was looking at me as if I were a hero.

"Brave! Noble!" she whispered. "I knew it. Oh, I understand so well! It's for me you're doing this. How proud I am of you!"

Then, with my returning sense of safety, the dramatic instinct began to seethe in me. Apparently I had got out of the difficulty easily enough. Now to end things gracefully.

"Oh, what an irony life is!" I breathed. "How happy we could have been, just we two in some garden of roses. Oh, if we were only free, free to fly to the ends of the earth together, to the heart of the desert, to the shadow of the pole—only together! Why did we meet like this, too late, too late?"

"Is it too late?" she panted, catching fire at my words. "Why should we let life cheat us of our joy? Take me away, darling, to some far, far land where no one will know us, where we can live, love, dream. What does it matter? There will be a ten days' scandal; he will get a divorce; all will soon be forgotten. Oh, take me away, sweetheart; take me away!"

By this time I was quite under the spell of my histrionic imagination. Here was a dramatic situation, and, though the heavens fall, I must work it out artistically. I threw caution to the winds and my arms around the lady.

"Yes," I cried. "Come with me. Come now, let us fly together. I want you; I need you; I cannot live without you. Make me the happiest man in the world. Let me live for you, just to adore you, to make your life one long, sweet dream of bliss."

These were phrases from one of my novels, and they slipped out almost unconsciously. Again in that convenient mirror I saw myself with parted lips and eyes agleam. "How well I'm doing this!" the artist in me applauded. "Ass! Ass!" hissed the critical overself. My attitude was a picture of passionate supplication, yet my whole heart was a prayer to the guardian that watches over fools.

"Oh, don't tempt me," she cried; "it's terrible. Yes, yes, I'll go now. Let's lose no time in case I weaken ... at once.... I'll just get my hat and cloak. Wait a moment—"

She was gone. Horror of horrors! What had I done? Here I was eloping with a woman for whom I did not care two pins. What mad folly had got into me? As I stared blankly at the door through which she had passed it seemed to be suddenly invested with all the properties of tragedy. Soon she would emerge from it clad for the flight, and—I must accompany her. Could I not escape? The window? But no, it was six stories high. By heaven, I must go through with it! Let my life be ruined, I must play the game. As I sat there, waiting for her to reappear, never in the history of eloping humanity was there man more miserable.

Then at last she came—Oh, merciful gods, without her hat!

"How can I tell you," she moaned. "My courage failed me. I couldn't bear to leave my children. There were their little photographs staring at me so reproachfully from the dressing-table. For their sakes I must stay and bear with him. After all, he is their father."

"Is he? I mean, of course he is." How my brain was reeling with joy! At that moment I loved the terrible twins with a great and lasting love.

"Forgive you, Flora," I said nobly, "There is nothing to forgive. I can only love you the more. You are right. Never must they think of their mother with the blush of shame. No, for their dear sakes we must each do our duty, though our hearts may break. I will go away, never to return. Yet, my dearest, I will always think of you as the noblest woman in the world."

"And I you too, dearest. You shall be my hero, and I shall adore you to the last day of my life. Now go, go quickly lest I weaken; and don't" (here she leaned closely to me), "don't kiss me—not even once...."

"No, I won't. It's hard, hard—but I won't. And listen, darling—if ever anything should happen to him, if at any time we should both find ourselves free, promise, promise me you'll write to me. I'll come to you though the whole world lies between us. By my life, by my honour I swear it."

"I promise," she said fervently. She looked as if she was going to weaken again, and I thought I had better get away quickly. A phrase from one of my novels came into my mind: "Here the brave voice broke."

"Good-bye," I cried. "Good-bye for ever. I shall never blame you, darling. Perhaps in another land I'll find my happiness again. Then some day, when we both are bent and grey, and sentiment lies buried under the frosts of time, we'll meet again, and, clasping hands, confess that all was for the best. And now, God bless you, Dora ... for the last, last time, good-bye."

Here "the brave voice broke" beautifully; then slowly and with drooping head I made my exit from the room. Once in the street I drew a deep breath.

"To be over-sympathetic is to be misunderstood," I sighed. "Well, I've given her a precious memory. Poor Mrs. Fitz!"

And, come to think of it, I had never kissed her, not even once.

Fifteen minutes later I had reached Riverside Drive, and was being shown into the luxurious apartment of Miss Boadicea Tevandale.

She was an orphan and an heiress, only child of Tevandale the big corporation lawyer, himself an author, whose Tevandale on Torts had almost as big a circulation as my Haunted Taxicab. Socially she moved in a more exalted sphere than I, but we had met at some of the less exclusive functions, and she had majestically annexed me.

Though her dearest enemy could not have called her "fat," there was just a suggestion of a suggestion that at sometime in the future she might possibly develop what might be described as an adipose approximation. At present she was merely "big."

I rather resent bigness in a woman. A female's first duty is to be feminine—to be small, dainty, helpless. I genuinely dislike holding a hand if it is larger than my own, and I can understand the feelings of Wainwright who poisoned his sister-in-law because her thick ankles annoyed him. However, Boadicea had really been very nice to me. It would have been terribly rude on my part to have ignored her overtures of friendship. Consequently we had been seen much together, and had drifted into what the world regarded as a sentimental attachment. With my faculty, then, for entering into such situations, I was sometimes convinced that my feelings for her were those of real warmth. Indeed, once or twice, in moments of great enthusiasm, I almost suspected myself of being mildly in love with her.

She received me radiantly, and she, too, gave me both hands. On the third finger of the left one I noted the sparkle of a new diamond.

"Hello, stranger," she said, gaily. "Just in time for tea. It seems ages since I've seen you. Why haven't you been near me for a whole fortnight?"

I was going to make the usual excuses, when suddenly that devil of sentiment entered into me. So, trying to give my face a pinched look, I answered in a hollow voice:

"Can you ask that?"

She looked at me in surprise. "Why, Horace, what's the matter?"

"Oh, you women, you women!" I groaned bitterly.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, with some amazement.

"What do I mean? Are you blind? Have you no eyes as well as no heart? Can you not see how I have loved you this long, long while; loved you with a passion no tongue can tell? And now—"

I pointed dramatically to the new ring.

"Oh, that! Why, you don't mean to say—"

"I mean to say that after I read of your engagement in this morning's Town Tattle I went straight off and took a passage for Europe. I leave to-morrow. I've just come to say good-bye."

"Oh, I'm sorry, so sorry you feel that way about it. I never dreamed—"

"No, I have uttered no word, given no sign. How could I, knowing the difference in our social positions? Break, break my heart, but I must hold my tongue. So it seems I have kept my secret better even than I knew. But it does not matter now. I have no word of reproach. To-morrow I go, never to return. I pray you may be happy, very happy. And so, good-bye...."

"Wait a moment! Good gracious!"

She laid a detaining hand on my arm, but I shook it off quite roughly, and strode to the window. My face was stern and set; my shoulders heaved with emotion. I had seen the leading man in our Cruel Chicago Company (in which I doubled the parts of the waiter and the policeman) use the same gesture with great effect.

"Why did I ever meet you?" I said harshly to a passing taxicab.

And strange as it may seem, at that moment I had really worked myself into the spirit of the scene. I actually felt a blighted being, the victim of a woman's wiles. Then she was there at my side, pale, agitated.

"I'm so grieved. Why didn't you speak? If I'd only known you cared. But then, you know, nobody takes you seriously. Perhaps, though, it's not too late. If you really, really care so much I'll try to break off my engagement with Bunny."

(Bunny was Mr. Jarraway Tope, an elderly Pittsburg manufacturer of suspenders—Tope's "Never-tear Ever-wear Suspenders.")

"No, no, it's too late now," I interrupted eagerly. "Things could never be the same. Besides, he loves you. He's a good old fellow. He will make you happy, far happier than I could. He is rich; I am poor. It is better so."

"Riches are not everything," she pouted miserably.

"No, but they're the best imitation of it I know. Oh, you hothouse flowers! You creatures of lace and luxury! You don't know what it is to be poor, to live from hand to mouth. How could you be happy in a cottage—I mean a Brooklyn flat? No, no, Boadicea, we must not let sentiment blind us. Never will I drag you down."

"But there's no question of poverty. You make lots of money?"

"A mere pittance," I cried bitterly. "It's my publishers who make the money. I'm no man of business. On a few beggarly royalties how can I hold up my end? No, I must put the world between us. Oh, it will be all right. Some day when we are both old and grey, and sentiment lies buried under the frost of time, we will perhaps meet again, and, clasping hands, confess that all was for the best."

"Oh, I hate to let you go away like that. If you have no money, I have."

"As if I could ever touch a penny of yours," I interrupted her sternly.

"Horace," she pleaded, "you cut me to the heart. Don't go."

"Yes, yes. Believe me it's best. Why prolong this painful scene? I'll pray for your happiness, for both of your happinesses, yours and Bunny's. Perhaps my heart's not so badly broken after all." (I smiled a brave, twisted smile.) "For the last time, good-bye, good-bye."

With that I rushed blindly from the room. When I reached the street, I wiped away a few beads of perspiration.

"Oh, you everlasting, sentimental humbug!" I cried. "One of these days you'll get nicely nailed to the cross of your folly."