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Title: The Stars Incline

Author: Jeanne Judson

Release date: October 3, 2019 [eBook #60413]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STARS INCLINE ***




Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)









                           THE STARS INCLINE


                                   BY

                             JEANNE JUDSON

                      AUTHOR OF “BECKONING ROADS”

[Illustration]

                          McCLELLAND & STEWART

                        PUBLISHERS       TORONTO

                                  1920




                            COPYRIGHT, 1919

                    BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.


                        PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.


                       The Quinn & Boden Company

                           BOOK MANUFACTURERS
                        RAHWAY       NEW JERSEY

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           THE STARS INCLINE




                               CHAPTER I


One can be nineteen and still know a great deal of the world. Ruth
Mayfield felt that she knew a great deal of the world. She could judge
character, and taking care of Mother’s business affairs had helped a
lot, and like most young women of nineteen she knew that if marriage
offered no more to her than it had offered to her parents, she did not
want to marry. Of course they hadn’t quarrelled or anything, but they
lived such dull lives, and there were always money worries—and
everything.

Ruth had never told her mother any of these things, especially after her
father died and her mother had cried so much and had seemed to feel even
worse than Ruth did, for Ruth _had_ felt badly. She had been awfully
fond of her father, really fonder of him than of her mother. He
understood her better and it was he who had encouraged her to study art.

That was one of the things that set her apart from other girls in
Indianapolis. She was an art student. One day she would do great things,
she knew.

When she was a very little girl she had intended to write. She decided
this because nothing gave her so much pleasure as reading, not the sort
of books that delight the hours of the average childhood, but books
which, had her mother ever taken the trouble to look at them, would have
made her rather concerned for the future of the small reader. But Mrs.
Mayfield never troubled to look. The books all came from the
Indianapolis public library, so they must be all right. They were fairy
tales at first and later mythology. The mythology of the Greeks and
Romans which somehow never stepped out of the marble for her; and the
intensely human mythology of the Icelanders and of the Celts which she
liked better, and later the mythology of India which fascinated her most
of all because it had apparently neither beginning nor end. While her
mother and her mother’s friends were dabbling in Christian Science and
“New Thought” she was lost in the mysteries of the transmigration of
souls. Perhaps it was all this delving into the past that gave to her
wide brown eyes what is called the spirituelle look—a look decidedly
contradicted by her sturdy body; perhaps, too, it was extensive reading
that finally decided her not to try to write, but to express herself in
painting, a medium through which she could depict emotions and dramas
rather than ideas and facts.

There came to her at the age of fourteen a development which, while it
increased her faith in things supernormal and for a while fascinated her
into a deeper delving into the religions of the East, had the final
effect of frightening her away from things of the mind and turning her
activities into more beautiful channels. She had read of the
objectification of ideas and the materialization of thoughts and wanted
to try to do these things herself, without quite knowing what exercise
she should make of her knowledge even though it came to her. Like many
people of a spiritual yet intense nature, of her five senses the sense
of smell was the keenest. She liked flowers for their odour more than
for colour or form. One winter day when she had returned home from
school and was sitting alone with her books—looking out at the
snow-laden trees instead of studying—she thought of spring and violets;
she was tired of winter, eager for the spring to come again, and she
tried to see violets, to catch their scent and their colour. She closed
her eyes and shut out the winter room and the frost-rimmed window—all
around her in great warm waves of fragrance rose the odour of
violets—exquisite English violets with the freshness of the woods in
them. She took deep breaths, keeping her eyes closed lest the miracle
should fade. Then when she had quite satisfied herself that she really
did smell violets she opened her eyes. All about her on the floor, on
the table, covering her schoolbooks, they lay, great heaps of odorous
purple blossoms mingled with rich green leaves. With a little cry of
pleasure and amazement she stretched out her hands to gather them in and
they were gone. The room was as it had been before, but the odour was
not gone. For many minutes the fragrance of violets filled her nostrils.
She was afraid to close her eyes again to bring back the vision, but the
following day she tried again, and many times afterward. She tried
different flowers, carnations and Chinese lilies. She could not always
see the flowers, but she seldom failed with the odour. The game
fascinated her so that she spent every moment that she could find alone
in materializing flowers. Then came to her the desire to take the next
step—to make other people realize her power. Her mother, being the least
imaginative person she knew as well as the one most conveniently near,
she decided to try with her. It was one evening when her father was not
at home. Her mother was busy embroidering—one of those never to be
finished articles of no conceivable use, which occupy the hands of women
who have no active interest in life. Ruth was pretending to read. She
dared not shut her eyes lest her mother should observe. But she bent
unseeing eyes over her book and concentrated on the inner vision of the
mystic—shutting out everything except the thought of violets. They were
her mother’s favourite flower. For many seconds after she herself was
surrounded by the odour of violets and could see them on her book, her
mother did not speak. Then she looked up restlessly from her embroidery.

“Have you been using perfume, Ruth?—you know I don’t approve of young
girls—”

“No, Mother, I haven’t. I haven’t any to use.”

“I smell perfume—violet perfume—it’s more like real violets than just
perfume—don’t you notice it? The whole room is heavy with it.”

She dropped her embroidery and moved about the room as if hunting for
the flowers though she knew there were none there.

“It must have been my imagination—it’s gone now. Strange, I was sure I
smelt violets. I must ask Doctor Gorton about it. It may be a dangerous
symptom.”

Ruth did not speak. She was rather ashamed and not a little frightened.
There was nothing of the mischievous about her. She did not want to play
tricks. She had just wanted to test her power, but this was the last
time that she consciously tried to use it. For some time the illusion of
flowers persisted whenever she thought of them, but she tried not to
think of them and before many months the experiment was a thing of the
past. It persisted in Ruth only in a deep-rooted faith in the power of
mind, and in the truth of many things that the average person considered
superstition. When she heard of deaths and births and marriages—of good
luck and bad luck—of coincidences and accidents, it seemed to her that
behind the obvious and accepted causes of all these things she could
trace an inner and spiritual reason—the working of forces that laughed
at the clumsy working of material machinery. Yet she no longer delved.
For a while she actually made a conscious effort to look at life in the
ordinary way. She was helped in this by the death of her father, which
placed her in a position of responsibility toward her invalid mother,
and made her life too full of reality to leave much room for the occult
and supernatural.

She hadn’t realized quite how much she had loved her mother until she
died. Mother had been old-fashioned and fussy, but then all invalids
were fussy, and she had been a dear about letting her go on with her
studies after Father died, even though she wouldn’t move to Chicago as
Ruth wished. They could have lived as cheaply in Chicago and Ruth could
have gone to the art institute there, but Mother wouldn’t consent to the
move. She wanted to stay near her friends. Ruth couldn’t understand
that. Her mother’s friends were all such ordinary people. Kind-hearted,
but quite hopelessly ordinary. It was curious that her mother’s death
had realized for her one of her most cherished dreams. Mother knew that
she was going to die. The doctors had told her so, and she had told
Ruth. It made Ruth cry, but her mother didn’t shed any tears. That was
why Ruth did. If her mother had cried Ruth would have been more
controlled, but her mother was so unnaturally calm.

“When I am gone I want you to go to your father’s sister, Gloria
Mayfield. I hate to send you there, but there’s no one else of your
blood, and you’re too young to live alone. Gloria has retired from the
stage and they say she is quite respectable now, and besides you won’t
be dependent on her. Now that there will be no more doctors’ bills to
pay, there will be enough money for you to live on, more than any young
girl ought to have in her own hands. It is all in trust and you will
have just the income until you are twenty-one.” Ruth made no comment to
this. Having handled her mother’s business affairs she knew that her
income would be very small indeed, but she and her mother had different
ideas as to how much a young girl should spend. “Of course I expect you
to pay your way with your aunt,” her mother went on. “But you must live
with some older woman and she is your father’s sister.”

She said it as if the fact that Gloria Mayfield was her father’s sister
answered all arguments.

“Where does Aunt Gloria live, Mother?” asked Ruth. She accepted the fact
that her mother would die soon without making an effort to persuade
either herself or her mother that there was any hope that the doctors
might be mistaken. She had known for years that her mother would not
live long. Doctors, New Thought, Christian Science, and Theosophy had
all been appealed to without having any appreciable effect on her
mother’s health. Ruth being perfectly healthy was inclined to have faith
in the New Thought. She disliked the Science because of the word
Christian, but was inclined to believe that any one of these numerous
things might have helped if used alone. When her father had died first
it had seemed unreal—impossible almost, for Ruth and her father had
always expected her mother to go first, though neither of them would
have put such a thought into words. It was just an unspoken
understanding between them.

“In New York,” Mrs. Mayfield had answered; and Ruth was ashamed that her
first thought on hearing this amazing news was that in New York she
could study in the best American art schools.

“How old is she?” asked Ruth. She had been a bit troubled by her
mother’s words about an older woman. Ruth had no desire to go to New
York to be controlled by some elderly female relative.

“I don’t know. I never saw her. In her younger days she was abroad a
great deal, and then I never cared to meet her. She was younger than
your father, quite a lot younger, but she must have reached years of
discretion by this time. I hope so for your sake. Perhaps I’m not doing
the right thing by telling you to go to her, but after all she is your
father’s sister and will be your only relative after I am gone.”

“Have you written to her—do you want me to write?”

“No. I didn’t write to her before and I can’t start now. You will go to
her after I’m gone as your father’s daughter. Your claim on her is
through him, not me. You can write to her yourself as soon—as soon as
you know. Her address is in that little red book on the desk—at least
that was her address five years ago, when your poor father died. She
didn’t come to the funeral, though she did write to me, and she may have
moved since. She probably has. I think on the whole you’d better write
now so that the letter will have time to follow her.”

Ruth did write and her aunt had not moved, for by a curious coincidence
Aunt Gloria’s answer came on the very day that her mother died. At the
time, concerned with her grief, Ruth didn’t read the letter very
carefully, but afterward—after the funeral, and after all the
innumerable details had been settled, she went back to it and read it
again. She didn’t know exactly what to think of it. It filled her with
doubts. Almost she persuaded herself to disregard her mother’s wish and
not go to Aunt Gloria at all, but she had already told all her mother’s
kind friends that that was what she would do. It gave her a logical
excuse for refusing all of the offers of the well-meaning women who
asked her to come and stop with them “for a few weeks at least until you
are more yourself.”

Ruth realized that she had never felt so much herself as she did
now—rather hopelessly alone and independent in a way that frightened
her. These kind women were all her mother’s friends, not hers. She had
none. She had always prided herself on being different from other girls
and not interested in the things they cared for—boys and parties and
dress. Even at the art school she had found the other students
disappointingly frivolous. They had not taken their art seriously as she
did. The letter was curious:

“My dear child,” she had written, “by all means come to me in New York
if your mother dies. But why anticipate? She’ll probably live for years.
I hope so. To say I hope so sounds almost like a lack of hospitality and
to send you an urgent invitation to come, under the circumstances,
sounds—This is getting too complicated. Come whenever you need me, I’m
always at home now.”

And the letter was signed with her full name, Gloria Mayfield. She had
not even called Ruth niece, or signed herself “your loving aunt,” or
anything that might be reasonably expected.

Ruth might have lingered on at home, but she had refused the hospitality
of her mother’s friends and the house was empty and desolate and she was
dressed in black. She hadn’t wanted to dress in black, but she hadn’t
the courage to shock people by continuing to wear colours, so she
hurriedly finished all the ghastly business that some one must always
finish after a funeral, and then she packed her trunks, putting in all
the pictures and books that she liked best, and took a train for New
York. She had a plan in the back of her mind about a studio there. She
had never seen a real studio, but she had read about them, and if Aunt
Gloria proved disagreeable, she would go and live in one. She wondered a
bit what sort of a place Aunt Gloria lived in. The address sounded
aristocratic and sort of English, Gramercy Square. She liked the sound
of it.

Her mother’s death had hurt her cruelly, but she was so young that
already she was beginning to rebound. The journey helped to revive her
spirits. Everything interested her, but her first sight of New York
disappointed her vaguely. If she had known, her disappointment was
caused only because the cab driver took her down Fourth Avenue instead
of Fifth, and there was little to interest her in the dull publishing
buildings and wholesale houses, and she missed even the shabby green of
Madison Square. Her spirits rose a bit when the cab turned into Gramercy
Square. All the fresh greenness of it, the children playing within the
iron-barred enclosure, the old-fashioned houses and clubs and the big,
new apartment buildings looking so clean and quiet in the morning
sunlight, appealed to her. She rather expected the cab to stop before
one of the apartment houses, but instead it stopped on the north side of
the park. Her aunt lived in a house then. This was also cheering. The
cab driver carried her bag for her up the high steps and she rang the
bell with a fast-beating heart. She didn’t know exactly what she had
expected—perhaps that Aunt Gloria would open the door in person—and she
started back when it was opened by a tall negro who looked as startled
as herself.

“Is Aunt Gloria—is Miss Mayfield at home?”

“Are you expected?”

He spoke in a soft, precise voice unlike the voice of any nigger Ruth
had ever heard before. She knew he must be a servant though he was not
in livery, and she looked at him as she answered, suddenly impressed by
his regular features, his straight hair, and yellow-brown skin.

“She didn’t know exactly when I’d come, but she knew I was coming. I am
her niece.”

The servant picked up her bag, which the cab driver had left beside her
and opened the door wider for her to come in.

“Miss Mayfield is at home. I’ll let her know that you are here if you
will wait a few moments.”

She was in a wide hall now from which an open staircase rose to rooms
above. The hall was very cheerful with white woodwork and grey walls
hung with etchings in narrow black frames. Uninvited Ruth perched
hesitatingly on the edge of a Chippendale chair and waited. The coloured
man walked to the far end of the hall, opened a door there and called:

“Amy, come here, you.”

Amy came, a round, short, black woman of the type most familiar to Ruth.

To her the man evidently explained the situation, but his soft voice did
not carry to Ruth’s end of the hall; not so the voice of Amy. Ruth could
hear her replies quite plainly.

“Mis’ Mayfiel’ a’n yit had her breakfus’—I’se jes now makin’ de tray—ef
you sez so I’ll tell her, but dis a’n no hour to be talkin’ to Mis’
Mayfiel’.”

Both Amy and the man disappeared through the door and soon Amy emerged
again carrying a breakfast tray. She went past Ruth and up the stairs.
Ruth was growing impatient and rather offended. Of course she should
have sent a wire, but even so, Gloria Mayfield was her aunt and she
should have been taken to her at once. Evidently her aunt ate breakfast
in bed. Perhaps she was an invalid like her mother. Ruth hoped not.
Evidently too she had a lot more money than Ruth had supposed. Her
impatience was not alleviated when Amy came down the stairs again
without speaking to her. It was unbearable that she should sit here in
the hall of her aunt’s house, ignored like a book agent. In another
moment the man had reappeared.

“Miss Mayfield will see you as soon as she can dress, Miss, and would
you like breakfast in your room or downstairs?”

He had picked up Ruth’s bag as he spoke.

“I’ve had breakfast,” said Ruth. She had indeed eaten breakfast in Grand
Central Station. It was only seven o’clock in the morning when she
arrived in New York, and that had seemed rather an early hour for even a
relative to drop into her aunt’s home unexpectedly.

She followed the servant up the stairs, mentally commenting on how she
hated “educated niggers.” Yet she had to admit there was nothing
disrespectful in his manner. He set her bag down in one of the rooms
opening out of the circular landing and asked for her trunk checks, and
suggested sending Amy up to make her comfortable. She gave him the trunk
checks, refused the offer of Amy’s help, and when he had closed the door
sat down to examine her surroundings and wait for the appearance of her
aunt.

There had been a certain charm about the entrance hall and stairway of
the house, but the room in which she found herself was as uninteresting
as possible. It was large and high-ceiled and almost empty and streamers
of loosened and discoloured wall paper hung from the walls. It was in
the rear of the house. The few essential pieces of furniture in the room
made it look even larger than it really was. It looked like what it was,
a very much unused bedroom in a house very much too large for its
inhabitants. She walked to the window and looked out, but the view did
not interest her. It was only of the rear of the houses on Twenty-second
Street. The house opposite had a tiny back garden that ran out to meet a
similar back garden in the rear of her aunt’s house. Ruth did not call
this plot of ground a garden, because it had nothing growing in it
except one stunted, twisted tree on the branches of which September had
left a dozen pale green leaves. It made her think of an anæmic slum
child. Looking at it Ruth felt suddenly very sad and neglected. She had
hoped that her aunt would not be too much like a relative, but now she
began to persuade herself that she had looked forward to the embracing
arms of a motherly aunt, and her cold reception had quite broken her
heart. Instead of a fussy, motherly relative she had found a cold,
selfish woman living in a house much too large, surrounded by
servants—Ruth had only seen two but there were probably more. She was
unwelcome; she had been shoved off into the shabbiest room in the house
by an insolent servant. But she was not a pauper. She would tell her
aunt very coldly that she had only come to pay her respects and was
going immediately to an hotel.

“Oh no, Aunt Gloria; I couldn’t think of imposing on you,” she could
hear herself saying, and of course then her aunt would urge her to stay,
but she wouldn’t. What could her aunt do in such a big house? It was
four floors and a basement. It must be full of shabby, unused rooms like
this one. Just then there was a knock at the door, and she hadn’t even
smoothed her hair or powdered her nose as she had intended doing before
her aunt sent for her.

“Come in,” she said. Her voice sounded husky and unused. The words were
scarcely out of her mouth when the door opened and a woman swept into
the room—the tallest woman she had ever seen, at least six feet tall and
slender without being thin—a graceful tiger lily of a woman with masses
of auburn hair and big grey, black-lashed eyes and a straight white nose
and a crushed flower of a mouth. With one hand she was holding a
gorgeous, nameless garment of amber silk and lace and the other hand was
held out to Ruth. Even as she took it Ruth realized that it would have
been preposterous to have expected the goddess to kiss her.

“I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting—Ruth,” she said. Her voice was
like silver bells ringing.

“I should have wired,” admitted Ruth. Her voice sounded flat and
toneless after hearing her aunt speak.

“It would have been awkward if I hadn’t happened to be in town, but I
was, so it’s all right. You’re older than I thought, I was afraid that
you’d turn out a little girl.”

“And you’re ever so much younger than I thought, Aunt Gloria,” said
Ruth, beginning to gain her composure.

“Thirty-five last birthday,” said her aunt.

Immediately Ruth realized that thirty-five was the only possible age for
a woman. To be older or younger than thirty-five was infinitely dull.
She herself at nineteen, which only a few moments ago she had considered
a very interesting age indeed, was quite hopeless.

“But come, we mustn’t stay in this awful room. I didn’t tell George just
where to take you. Certainly not here. I’ll have a room fixed up for
you. Did George send for your trunks? He said you’d had breakfast, but
that can’t be true—coffee perhaps, but not breakfast—I only had coffee
myself. So we can eat together while they’re getting a room ready for
you.” She was sweeping Ruth along with her down the stairs as she
talked, not waiting for answers to anything she said. At the foot she
turned and opened a door at the left of the staircase and peered in.

“Too gloomy in the dining-room in the morning. We’ll go in here,” and
she turned to the other side, opening a door into a big room, all
furnished in soft grey and dull gold. Ruth’s artist eye perceived how
such a neutral-tinted background was just the thing to enhance the
colourful appearance and personality of her aunt. The only touch of
vivid colour in the room was in the hangings at the deep, high windows
that looked out on the park.

“Have Amy bring our breakfast in here,” said Gloria, and then Ruth saw
that George was standing in the doorway of the room they had just
entered, though she had not heard her aunt call him. Later she observed
the same thing many times, that George always appeared as if by magic
and seemingly without being called whenever her aunt wanted him.

The room was full of comfortable, low, cushioned chairs, and seated on
two of them with a table between, on which George had laid a white
cloth, Ruth and her aunt Gloria gave each other that full scrutiny which
surprise and embarrassment had previously denied them.

Ruth could see now that her aunt was not really so young as she had at
first appeared. There were fine lines around her large eyes and art, not
nature had painted her lashes black. Her fine brows had been “formed”
and there were little, pale freckles gleaming on her white nose and
across her long, cleanly moulded hands. Ruth saw all these things and
they only strengthened her belief that Aunt Gloria was the most
beautiful and charming woman in the world. She hoped very much that her
aunt would like her, but she was not sanguine about it. She tried to
tell herself that this woman was only her father’s sister, but it was
hard to believe.

“Now, tell me all about it,” said Gloria.

“There’s very little to tell. Mother died on the tenth—your letter
arrived on the same day. Of course it wasn’t unexpected. She had been an
invalid for almost ten years, so it wasn’t a shock. I was the only
relative at the funeral, but Mother had ever so many friends—”

She paused, wondering if she ought to tell Aunt Gloria about the
flowers, the Eastern Star wreath, and—

“I don’t mean that,” Gloria interrupted her thoughts. “I mean how your
mother happened to suggest that you come here. You know Jack’s wife
didn’t approve of me—refused to meet me even, and I can’t understand.
Was there some sort of deathbed forgiveness, or what?”

There was the faintest trace of mockery in her voice, but somehow Ruth
could not be angry, though she knew that this woman, her father’s
sister, was laughing at her dead mother and her dead mother’s
conventions and moralities. She decided that she would be as frank as
her aunt.

“No, Aunt Gloria, I don’t think Mother’s views had changed at all. She
sent me here because you are my only living relative and she thought I
was too young to live alone—and I came,” she continued bravely, “because
New York is the best place in America to study art and I want to be a
great painter. But if you don’t want me here I’ll live alone—I have
money you know, and Mother intended that I should pay my own way.”

“I understand,” said Gloria, nodding. “That would be in character—a sort
of blood is stronger than Bohemia idea.”

“And then,” continued Ruth, determined to be absolutely frank, “I think
Mother was under the impression that you were older than you are, and
had settled down—you have retired from the stage?”

Again Gloria laughed.

“My dear child, I’ve done nothing but retire from the stage ever since I
first went on it, but that doesn’t matter. I agree with your mother that
you will be much better off here with me than alone, and I shall be very
glad to have you—it means one more permanent resident in this huge barn
of a house. Only please don’t call me Aunt. Call me Gloria. My being
your aunt is more or less of an accident. The fact that I like you is of
vastly more importance, and if you like me we shall get on very well
together.”

“I think you’re wonderful,” admitted Ruth, blushing deeply.

“Very well, then, you shall stay here—you can have two rooms or more if
you want ’em, fixed up to suit yourself, and you can spend your income
on your clothes and your education—but you will be here as my guest, not
as my relative. I dislike relatives inordinately—don’t you?”

Without giving Ruth time to reply she went on:

“Have you thought about where you’re going to study?”

“No; I suppose there are a number of places.”

“There are, of course; the Art Students’ League is one of the best. The
associations there should be good. You’ll be working with the
strugglers. How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“Nineteen and the whole world before you, work and failure and success
and New York and Paris and your first love affair—you’re young and you
don’t have to nibble at the loaf; you can take big, hungry bites, and
when the time for nibbling does come, you’ll have a banquet to
remember.”

“Where is the Art Students’ League?” asked Ruth.

Her aunt fascinated her; she talked “like a book,” Ruth thought, but
Ruth herself was practical despite her dreaming and the talk of art
schools interested her.

“Oh, it’s a school with small fees—if you have a lot of talent they give
scholarships—I don’t really know much about it, except that it’s on
Fifty-seventh Street some place, and that it is supposed to be proper
and good. You might try it for a year—then you’ll probably be wanting
Paris. In another year I may feel old enough to chaperon you.”

After breakfast they went through the house, planning where Ruth should
establish herself, finally deciding on two rooms on the fourth floor,
because one of them had a skylight and could be used as a studio, where
Ruth could work undisturbed.

The next few days were spent in buying furniture, in having the rooms
redecorated, and in becoming familiar with New York.

Ruth was determined not to be impressed by anything, a determination
that led Gloria Mayfield to suspect that her niece was of a phlegmatic
temperament, and to wonder why she wanted to be an artist. Only the
quiet sense of humour that Ruth displayed at rare intervals, encouraged
her to believe that having her niece with her might not be a bad
arrangement.

Ruth on her part discovered that her Aunt Gloria had a wide and varied
circle of friends and no particularly well-defined scheme of existence.
And she discovered a little of Gloria Mayfield’s past, the past that had
been so shrouded in mystery in her mother’s house. It was when Ruth had
made a remark about her aunt living alone in such a large house.

“Yes, it is large, but what am I to do?” said Gloria. “My second husband
wished it on me and my third was kind enough to settle enough income on
me to pay the taxes, and there you are. Of course I could let it to some
one else, but it’s nice to have a lot of room.”

Ruth could not disguise her shock and astonishment.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” asked Gloria, smiling cheerfully.

“I didn’t know you’d been married at all,” said Ruth.

“Only once, really—the others were almost too casual. I supposed your
mother had told you.”

“Did they die?” asked Ruth.

“Not to my knowledge—I never killed any of them,” said Gloria.

And Ruth put this conversation away in the back of her brain for future
reference, along with several dozen other things that she didn’t exactly
understand.




                               CHAPTER II


Ruth would have liked a scholarship—not because she could not easily
afford the small fees at the Art Students’ League, but because a
scholarship would have meant that she had unusual talent; but she didn’t
get one. No one seemed particularly interested in her work. The woman
who enrolled her in the League was as casual as a clerk in an hotel.

The manner of the enrolment clerk and the grandeur of the Fine Arts
Building produced a feeling of insignificance in Ruth that was far from
pleasant. She engaged her locker for the year, and when she was led to
it to put her board and paints away, and saw the rows upon rows of other
lockers, she felt even smaller. Was it possible that all those lockers
were needed? That so many other girls and boys were also art students?
If there was an art student for every locker and each of them shared her
determination to become a great painter, the world would be so flooded
with splendid art that one might better be a stenographer. Then she
comforted herself that all of the students could not possibly succeeded.
Some of them, the girls especially, would doubtless give up art for
marriage and babies. Some of the men would become commercialized, go in
for illustrating or even advertising, but she would go “onward and
upward,” as her instructor in Indianapolis had so thrillingly said. She
felt better after that; and seeing her reflection in a shop window she
felt better still. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was interesting
looking, she told herself. The way she combed her almost black hair down
over her ears Madonna fashion, her little low-heeled shoes, her complete
absence of waist line, all marked her as “different.”

She had enrolled for the morning class in portrait painting from 9:00 to
12:30 and the afternoon class in life drawing from 1:00 to 4:30 and she
would attend the Friday afternoon lectures on anatomy. They began at
4:30, after the first of November, so she could go direct from her life
class to the lecture. She would have liked to attend some of the evening
classes, too, but Gloria had suggested that she wait a bit.

“My word, child, it’s all right to work hard. One must work hard, but
don’t spend twenty-four hours a day at it. It’s bad enough to begin at
the unearthly hour of nine in the morning without spending your evenings
there, too.”

Afterward Ruth was glad that she had not enrolled in any of the evening
classes. She usually returned to the house on Gramercy Square about five
o’clock in the afternoon, just when Gloria’s day seemed to be properly
begun, and there were always people there who interested Ruth, though
she took little part in the conversation. Ruth would come into the hall,
her sketches under her arm, and Gloria would call to her and she would
walk into the big comfortable room and be introduced to half a dozen
people, whose names she seldom remembered. The people would nod to her
and go on with their conversation, and she would sit back listening and
watching, feeling more like an audience at a play than one of the group
of people in a drawing-room.

Most of the conversation was quite meaningless to her, but there was one
man, one of the few who did not change in the ever-changing group, who
interested her intensely. She gathered that he was a playwright and that
he had written the book and lyrics for a musical comedy that was to have
its New York _première_ soon. One of the other men called him a show
doctor, and said that he had written lines into over half the shows on
Broadway.

All of the other people seemed to think him “terribly clever,” but Ruth
didn’t understand all of the things at which they laughed. They were
always begging him to sing his latest song, and he never demurred,
though any one could tell with half an ear that he hadn’t any voice at
all. He sang in a queer, half-chanty voice, with a curious appealing
note in it.

“Do you really like his singing?” she once asked Gloria.

“His voice, you mean?” Gloria looked at her with the little frown
between her eyes and the amused twist to her mouth that Ruth often
observed when her aunt was explaining things to her. “Of course not;
it’s not his voice, it’s his song. He’s the cleverest song writer in New
York, and he’s already written two fairly successful plays. He’s young,
you know.”

“Is he? I thought he must be thirty at least.”

Then Gloria laughed outright.

“He is about thirty, but that isn’t old. He’s a funny, old dear, don’t
you think so?”

“Yes,” admitted Ruth. “He dresses oddly—that is—”

“I know what you mean, but you see a man like Terry Riordan doesn’t have
to keep his trousers pressed. No other man is worth listening to while
Terry is in the room.”

Ruth decided that she would pay particular attention to Terry Riordan
the next time she met him.

Her opportunity came the next day. She had gone out to lunch that day
and had been a little late at life class in consequence, and had to
stand up at an easel in the back instead of sitting among the more
fortunate ones in the front rows, where early arrival had usually placed
her. The model was a man—“Krakowski, the wrestler,” one of the girls had
whispered to her. “He’s got a wonderful body; we’re lucky to get him.”

Ruth could not control a little gasp of admiration when he stepped on
the model throne. He looked like a statue with his shining
smooth-muscled body, and he stood almost as still. It was several
minutes before Ruth could get the proper, impersonal attitude toward
him. Most of the models had quite uninteresting faces, but Krakowski had
a face almost as handsome as his body, and there was a half smile on his
lips as if he were secretly amused at the students. For a second Ruth
saw them through his eyes—thin, earnest-eyed girls, dressed in “arty”
garments, squinting at him over drawing-boards as if the fate of nations
depended on their work, well-dressed dabblers and shabby strugglers
after beauty. She noted again the two old women, the fat one with the
dyed hair, and the ribbons and art jewelry and the thin one whose hair
was quite frankly grey. The fat one had attracted Ruth’s attention the
very first day because in the rest period she ran around insisting that
every one near her should look at her work and offer criticism, and when
the instructor came through she monopolized as much of his time as
possible to his obvious annoyance.

Why didn’t they think of studying art twenty years ago? Ruth wondered.
It seemed to her that the model was thinking the same thing. Then she
forgot his face and began to block in her sketch.

The girl next to her had a scholarship, her name was Dorothy Winslow, a
rather pretty, widemouthed girl with a shock of corn-coloured bobbed
hair and very merry blue eyes. Out of the corner of her eye Ruth watched
her work. She had large, beautiful hands and the ends of her slim
fingers were always smudged with charcoal or blotted up with paint. She
wore a painting-smock of purple and green batik. Ruth was tremendously
impressed, but tried not to be. She was torn between a desire to dress
in the same manner and a determination to consider herself superior to
such affectations and remain smug in the consciousness of her
conventional dress. Still she did wonder how she would look with her
hair bobbed. How fast Dorothy Winslow worked. Her pencil seemed so sure.
Never mind, she must not be jealous.

“Facility? Facility is dangerous—big things aren’t done in a few
minutes—Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she said to herself in the best
manner of her instructor in Indianapolis. One thing that puzzled her was
the way the instructors left the students alone. They were there to
teach, why didn’t they do it? Instead, they passed around about twice a
week and looked at the drawings and said something like “You’re getting
on all right—just keep it up,” or now and then really gave a criticism,
but more often just looked and passed on to the next without a word in
the most tantalizing manner possible. The reticence of the instructors
was amply balanced by the loquacity of the students. They looked at each
other’s work and criticized or praised in the frankest manner possible,
and seemingly without a hint of jealousy or self-consciousness. It was
time to rest. The model left the throne and immediately the students all
left their drawing-boards to talk.

Dorothy Winslow leaned over Ruth’s shoulder.

“That’s really awfully nice, the way you’ve got that line,—” she pointed
with one long, slim charcoal-smudged finger.

“Do you think so? Thank you,” said Ruth.

“Krakowski’s lovely to work from, anyway. I’d love to paint him. He’s
got such an interesting head.”

“Yes—it distracted me from my work a little,” admitted Ruth. “Why,
you’ve almost got a finished sketch,” she continued, looking at
Dorothy’s board.

“I always work fast,” admitted Dorothy, “but I’ll do it all over again a
dozen times before the week is finished.”

“I wonder how she happened to take up art,” said Ruth, nodding toward
the broad back of the fat lady with the dyed hair.

“Oh, she’s—she’s just one of the perpetual students—they say she’s been
coming here for ten years—didn’t they have any perpetual students where
you came from? But perhaps this is your first year?”

“No, I studied a year in the Indianapolis Art School and we didn’t have
any perpetual art students. Is the one with grey hair a perpetual
student, too?”

“Yes; we had one, a man too, in San Francisco where I came from.”

“Why do they do it? Isn’t it rather pitiful, or are they rich women with
a fad?”

“No, indeed, they’re not rich. I never heard of a perpetual student who
was rich. Why, Camille De Muth, the fat one, sometimes has to pose in
the portrait class to earn money to pay for her life.”

“How does she live?” asked Ruth.

“Dear Lord, as well ask me why is an art student as how does one
live—how do any of us live, except of course the lucky ones with an
allowance from home?”

All the time she was talking, Dorothy Winslow was moving her hands,
defying all the laws of physiology by bending her long fingers back over
the tops of them, and by throwing one white thumb out of joint.

“But you haven’t told me why they do it—why they keep on studying year
after year. Don’t they try to make any use of what they’ve learned?”

“Not that I ever heard of—they’re just—just art artists. They spend
their lives in class and at exhibitions, but I’ve never tried to
understand them—too busy trying to understand myself.”

“What do they do when they’re not here?” asked Ruth.

“They spend their leisure in the cool marble twilight of the
Metropolitan, making bad copies of old masters.”

The model had reappeared and they went back to their boards, but after
class Ruth found that Dorothy Winslow was walking by her side toward
Fifth Avenue.

“Do you go downtown?” asked Dorothy.

“Yes,” admitted Ruth. She was really very much interested in Dorothy,
but she was a bit afraid that the girl would attract attention on the
street. She now had a vivid blue tam with a yellow tassel on her fluffy
hair.

“How do you go?”

“On the ’bus,” said Ruth.

“So do I, when I can afford it; when I can’t I walk, but I guess I can
spend the dime today. I got some fashion work to do last week.”

“Fashions?” Ruth could not keep the scorn out of her voice.

“Oh, I know how you feel about that, but one can’t become Whistler or
Sargent all in a day, and paint and Michelet paper and canvas cost
money.”

“You must be awfully clever to be able to earn money with your work
already,” admitted Ruth, a bit ashamed of herself.

“I have talent,” admitted Dorothy, “but then so many people have talent.
I’ve got an idea that work counts a whole lot more than talent, but of
course that’s an awfully practical, inartistic idea—only I can’t help
it. I had to come to New York and I couldn’t come without a scholarship,
so I worked and got it. What do you think about it?”

“Work counts of course, but without the divine spark of genius—one must
have talent and genius, and then work added makes the ideal combination.
Why, if only hard work were necessary, any one, any stevedore or common
labourer or dull bookkeeper, could become a great artist.”

“That doesn’t sound so silly to me. I really think they could, if the
idea only occurred to them and they didn’t give up. I think any one can
be anything they please, if they only please it long enough.”

It was like Ruth to answer this with a quotation.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “‘There is a destiny that shapes our ends,
rough-hew them as we may.’”

“Perhaps, but some people do a lot more rough-hewing than others, and
I’m going to hew my way to a position as the greatest American portrait
painter, and it won’t be so rough either.”

Before such blind self-confidence Ruth was dumb. She also intended to be
a great something or other in the world of art, but she had never
thought definitely enough about it to decide just what it would be. She
did think now, or spoke without thinking.

“Then I’ll be the greatest landscape painter—landscapes with figures.”

Before they parted at Twentieth Street, Ruth had promised to go to an
exhibition with Dorothy on the following Saturday.

Gloria had given her a latch key and she went into the house on Gramercy
Square without ringing the bell. She expected to hear her aunt’s voice,
but instead a man’s voice called out:

“That you, Gloria?”

She answered by walking into the drawing-room, disappointed at not
finding Gloria there.

“Where is Gloria?”

They both said it at once, and then they both laughed. Terry Riordan was
very appealing when he laughed. He had risen at her entrance, and was
standing loose-limbed yet somehow graceful in his formless tweeds.

“I’ve been waiting at least an hour for her, though it was obvious that
George didn’t want me here. He quite overpowered me with big words and
proper English to explain why he thought my waiting quite uncalled for.”

“He’s like that, but Gloria is sure to come if you wait long enough,”
said Ruth, sinking wearily into a chair and dropping her sketches beside
her on the floor.

“Even if she doesn’t I couldn’t find a more comfortable place than this
to loaf. I’m too nervous to be any place else in comfort. The show opens
tonight. It was all right at the tryout in Stamford, but that doesn’t
mean much. I want a cigarette, and George frightened me so that I didn’t
dare ask him where they are.”

“Frightened? You, Mr. Riordan?”

“There, you looked like Gloria then. You are relatives, of course, same
name and everything, but I never noticed any resemblance before. Suppose
you must be distant relatives.”

“Gloria says we must be very distant relatives in order to be close
friends,” said Ruth, dodging the invitation to tell the extent of her
relationship to Gloria.

“As for the cigarettes, there should be some in the blue Ming jar over
there, or, if you prefer, you can roll your own. There’s tobacco in the
box—Gloria’s own tobacco.”

“Thanks; I suppose I could have found it myself, but I was actually
afraid to look around—George gave me such a wicked look—he did indeed,”
said Terry. “What a wonderful woman Gloria Mayfield is,” he continued as
he lit a cigarette.

“I know,” said Ruth. “No wonder she has so many friends.”

“Every one loves Gloria,” continued Terry.

“You love her?” asked Ruth. She felt that this man was confiding in her.
She wondered if he had proposed to Gloria and if his suit was hopeless.
She felt sorry for him, but even while she sympathized she could not
keep the three husbands out of her mind. Three husbands were rather
overwhelming, but four! Somehow, it didn’t seem quite right, even for so
amazing a woman as Gloria.

“I should say I do love Gloria. Why, she lets me read everything I’ve
written and always applauds. That’s one of the things I came for today.
I’ve written that number for Dolly Derwent. Want to hear it?”

“Yes, please; I’d love to hear it.”

“Got to tell some one,” said Terry, and without waiting for further
encouragement, he began singing in his queer, plaintive voice, that made
his words sound even more nonsensical than they were, a song the refrain
of which was:

          “_Any judge can recognize
          A perfect lady by her eyes,
          And they ain’t got nothing, they ain’t got nothing,
          They ain’t got nothing on me._”

“Do you think that’ll get across? You know Dolly Derwent. Don’t you
think that will suit her?”

Now, Ruth had never seen Dolly Derwent, and looking at Terry Riordan she
suddenly decided to drop pretence.

“I’ve never seen her,” she admitted, “and while I suppose your songs are
awfully clever and funny, I don’t know anything about the stage and half
the time I don’t know what you’re all talking about. You see I haven’t
been in New York long and I spend most of my time at the Art Students’
League and I’m afraid I’m not much good as a critic.”

For a few moments Terry did not answer. He just looked at her, smiling.
His smile diffused a warm glow all round her heart as if he were telling
her that he understood all about her and rather admired her for not
understanding all the stage patter.

“Suppose you show me your sketches. I don’t know any more about art than
you do about the stage, so then we’ll be even,” he said.

“There’s nothing here that would interest you—just studies from the life
class.”

“I say there’s an idea for a number—chorus of art students in smocks and
artists’ caps and a girl with an awfully good figure on a model
throne—no, that’s been used. Still there ought to be some sort of an
original variation of the theme.” He took out his notebook and wrote
something in it.

“Shall I bring tea, Miss Ruth?”

George was standing in the doorway, having appeared suddenly from
nowhere.

“Yes, thank you, George—”

“Perhaps if we go on just as if we weren’t waiting for Gloria, she’ll
come.”

“I’d forgotten that we were waiting for her,” said Terry. “Do you know,
I think that nigger is jealous of me—you know, as dogs are sometimes
jealous of their mistress’ friends—and he’s only being civil now because
I’m talking to you instead of Gloria. Some day he’s going to put
something in my high ball.”

“What a terrible thing to say,” said Ruth. “I’m sure George is perfectly
harmless. It’s only that he doesn’t talk like other niggers.”

“Don’t call him a nigger!” exclaimed Terry, pretending to be shocked.
“Hasn’t Gloria told you that he is a Hindoo—half-caste I imagine, and he
came from some weird place, and I heartily wish he’d return to it.”

A Hindoo—that explained George’s appearance, but it made him more
puzzling as a servant than before. He was not like the imaginations of
Hindoos that her reading had built up, but perhaps as Terry said he was
a half-caste. Terry’s words, for the moment, surprised her out of
speech.

“Here’s Gloria now,” he said. “We must stop talking treason. She thinks
she has the best servants in the world.”

Gloria came in, filling the room with cold outer air mingled with the
odour of the violets pinned on her sables.

“Just look who’s here,” she said, holding a small, plump, frizzled,
blond woman of about forty in front of her. “Billie Irwin—she came over
from London with the unfortunate ‘Love at First Sight’ company, and here
she is with no more engagement than a trapeze performer with a broken
leg—you know her, don’t you, Terry?—well, anyway you know her now, and
this is Ruth Mayfield—not in the profession, an artist of a different
kind.”

“How interesting!” murmured Billie Irwin.

“Tea? Take it away, George—we don’t want tea. I want dinner just as soon
as Amy can get it. We’re all going to see the opening of ‘Three Merry
Men.’ You thought I was going to fail you, didn’t you, Terry? But we’re
not, we’ll all be there. And, George, do get a room ready for Miss
Irwin. She’s going to stay for a few days with me.”

“She means a few months,” whispered Terry to Ruth, thereby establishing
between them a secret confidence.

That night Ruth got a new impression of Terry Riordan. He did not stay
to dinner, though Gloria asked him, but he met them at the theatre.
Every one seemed to know him and treated him as quite an important
person. It was her first experience of a first night, and she got the
impression that these people were waiting through the acts for the
intermissions instead of waiting through the intermissions for the acts.
Terry wasn’t in their box, he had a seat in the back of the theatre with
Philip Noel, who had written the music, but he slipped in and out during
the evening to chat and to hear words of praise.

“How do you think it’s going to go?” Gloria asked him when he returned
to their box after the first intermission.

“Badly, I’m afraid; I met several of the newspaper men out there, and
they seemed to like it. If the critics like it, it’s almost sure to
close in three weeks,” said Terry.

“I won’t believe it. It is sure to have a long run,” said Gloria.

“God knows I did my best to lower the moral tone of the thing and make
it successful,” said Terry. “If it will only run long enough to give me
some royalties, just long enough to keep me going until my comedy is
finished, I won’t care.”

They chatted on, commenting on the people on the stage until Ruth lost
all sense of illusion. They took away from her the fairyland sense that
had formerly made the theatre a joy, and as yet she had not acquired the
knowledge of stagecraft that gives the stage a stronger fascination for
theatrical folk than for the people who have never seen it in any way
except from “out front.”

She knew that the music was all stolen from something else, for a
composer, a rival of Philip Noel, who had dropped in to chat with
Gloria, had said so; that in an effort to do something original the
costumer had produced frightful results, for Terry Riordan had commented
on it, and Billie Irwin had spoken of how often the leading woman
flatted her notes. Her voice had been bad enough when she started ten
years ago, and now it was quite hopeless.

Terry Riordan had not spoken to Ruth since their arrival, when he had
pretended to be quite overcome with the grandeur of her gown. Since then
he had devoted himself entirely to Gloria. Ruth couldn’t blame him for
that. Gloria made every one else appear colourless. No wonder Terry
Riordan loved her. It was foolish of her to let him occupy her thoughts.
No man in his right mind would give her a second thought in the presence
of Gloria. Even the thought that she was an art student no longer
brought comfort. There were so many art students in New York. Still she
could not keep Terry out of her mind. It was not that she thought him a
genius. Indeed, she rather scorned his slapstick lyrics. New York might
bow down before his frayed cuff cleverness, but she was from the Middle
West, where men are rated by what they have done, not what they are
going to do. She couldn’t analyse exactly what it was about Terry
Riordan that stirred her emotions,—some sympathetic quality in his voice
perhaps, his never-failing cheerfulness and his absolute confidence in
his own future. She was rather glad that he didn’t talk to her very
much, for she blushed whenever he spoke to her. She had blushed when he
spoke about her frock and old John Courtney had commented on it in his
absurd exaggerated manner.

“How charmingly you blush, Miss Mayfield,” he had said. “You must pardon
an old gentleman for speaking of it, my dear, but I dare say it is the
only genuine blush that Broadway has seen these forty years.”

If it had been possible to be annoyed by anything the ancient matinée
idol said, Ruth would have been annoyed, especially as it momentarily
attracted the attention of every one to the party, to herself.

John Courtney was another of Gloria’s admirers.

“The best actress in New York,” he whispered to Ruth. “But she hasn’t
had an engagement for three years. She won’t take anything but leads,
and there isn’t a man who dares play opposite her. It’s not alone that
she’s so tall—though no man likes to play opposite a woman from one to
five inches taller than he—it’s her personality. She fills the stage.
The other players are just so much background.”

Later even John Courtney seemed to forget the existence of Ruth, and she
sat back in the crowded box in the crowded theatre quite alone. She
could not even watch the stage—for they had reduced the people on it to
a group of ordinary individuals working at their trade. She had a little
sketch pad and a pencil with her and began making caricatures of the
principals. She became absorbed in this and forgot to feel alone.

“That nose is wonderful and that’s just her trick with her hands. I
didn’t know you were a cartoonist.”

It was Terry Riordan looking over her shoulder. She had not known he was
in the box.

“I’m not a cartoonist,” she said, making an effort to hide her sketch
pad. “I was only doing it for fun.”

“But they’re great; let me see the others. I had no idea you were so
talented. I thought you just daubed around with paint.”

From any one else the words would have been cruel enough, but from Terry
Riordan they were almost unbearable. She could hardly keep the tears
back.

“That isn’t talent,” she managed to articulate. “It’s just facility. I
am studying painting—I never do this sort of thing seriously—I was just
playing.”

He had taken the sketches from her and was looking at her in puzzled
wonder.

“Do you mean to say you don’t want to do this sort of thing—that you
consider it beneath your talent?”

“It doesn’t interest me.” She spoke with as much dignity as she could
muster. For a moment he looked troubled, then his irresistible smile
came.

“Never mind, I understand,” he said. “Ten years ago I intended to be a
modern Shakespeare—and just see the awful end to which I’ve come.”

Just then the curtain went up, and she did not notice that he had not
returned her sketches.

Up to this time Gloria had been the gayest person there—so gay that Ruth
thought that she had forgotten her existence. She was in the chair in
front of Ruth, and had apparently been absorbed in the play and the
conversation of the people with her. Suddenly she rose and left the box,
pausing just long enough to whisper in Ruth’s ear, “I’m going home;
Billie will explain.”

The others in the box didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps they thought Gloria
had gone back stage to see some friend and would return. It was only
when the final curtain fell and Terry came back to ask them to go to
supper that her absence was explained.

“Where’s Gloria?” he asked.

“Gone home,” said Billie. “She asked me to explain to you that she had
to go.”

“But why?” asked Terry.

“Because she wanted to—you know Gloria—sudden fit of depression, because
she isn’t working and wants to work. Why don’t you write a play for her,
Terry?”

“I will one day perhaps—if I can, but I so wanted her tonight. Let’s
follow her home and drag her out again.”

“Not if you value her friendship,” said Billie. “Aren’t there enough of
us here to make a supper party?” She smiled coyly at him, shrugging her
plump shoulders and turning her pale eyes at him in an ingénue ogle.

“Of course—we’ll try to be as merry as possible without her.”

“I think if you’ll help me find a cab I’ll go home to Gloria,” said
Ruth.

“You too?” Terry looked at her reproachfully.

“I’d rather if you don’t mind.”

“We can’t allow you to go alone. I shall be most happy,” said John
Courtney.

“No indeed. I know that you don’t want to miss a word of what they say
about Terry’s play, and I’d rather go alone. The others would never
forgive me for taking you away.”

After that it was easy for her to slip away into the darkness and
seclusion of a cab, alone with the thousands in the checked
thoroughfare. She wanted to get away from Terry Riordan and his success.
She thought she was escaping for the same reason that Gloria had run
away, but Gloria could not be as unhappy as she, for Gloria had had her
success. Terry Riordan knew that Gloria was a great actress, but he
didn’t know that she, Ruth Mayfield, was a great painter, at least a
potential great painter. He had suggested that she was a cartoonist and
he had thought that he was paying her a compliment. Years from now, when
she became a beautiful, fascinating woman of thirty like Gloria, even in
imagination she couldn’t make herself quite thirty-five—they would meet
again. It would be at a private view at the Academy, and he would be
standing lost in wonder before the picture she would have hung there.
Every one would be talking about her and her work, and then they would
meet face to face. There would be no condescension in his words and
smile then—

She was imagining childish nonsense. By the time she had won her
success, Terry would be married to Gloria. It was easy to see that he
loved Gloria. Why not? No one could be so beautiful or so charming as
Gloria. It was silly to dream of Terry Riordan’s love, but she would win
his admiration and respect. After all, marriage had never held any place
in her plans. She didn’t want to marry. She wanted to be a great
painter. One must make some sacrifices for that. The cab turned into the
great quiet of Gramercy Square. A soft mist hung over the trees, like
quiet tears of renunciation.

She was startled to see lights gleaming in all the lower windows of the
house. Inside she found George sitting on the lower step of the stairs.
He rose as she entered, but did not respond when she spoke to him. The
doors into the drawing-room were open and she looked in. Lying face down
on the floor, still fully dressed, was Gloria and scattered around her
were the violets from the bouquet she had been wearing. She was quite
motionless, and Ruth dared not speak to her. Evidently George was
keeping watch.

“Can I do anything?” she whispered to him.

He shook his head and pointed silently up the stairs. She went, hurrying
up the three flights as if the act of going up lifted her above her own
discontent and above the unhappiness of Gloria. She went into the studio
and looked at the canvas on which she had been working. It was hard to
wait until morning to begin on it again. It had been a week since she
had touched it. When she began she had intended rising early to get an
hour’s work before breakfast, but evenings in the company of Gloria and
her friends had kept her up late and youth claimed its need of rest
despite her firmest resolves. It was no good, the picture, anyway. She
would paint it all out and begin over again. She would spend her Sundays
in the country with the other art students, sketching. She had not
entered into the student life enough. And she had entered into Gloria’s
life too much. If she had been taking her work more seriously she would
not have had time to fall in love with Terry Riordan. She did not
question that it was love that had come into her life to complicate
things. In Indianapolis it had all seemed so simple. There were paint
and canvas and her hands to work with, and she would study and work and
exhibit and become famous. Now it was made plain to her that art itself
was not a matter of paint and canvas and exhibitions, or even of work as
Dorothy Winslow had said, but a matter of men and women, and competition
and struggle and love and hate and jealousy and thwarted ambitions like
those of the woman who lay down there prostrate with defeat. The defeat
that was such a tragic jest—a great talent useless because the actress
was too tall. If success was dependent on such things as that of what
use to struggle and work? Crouched on the floor before her canvas she
looked up through the skylight at a star, and soft tears moved slowly
down her cheeks, tears for herself and for Gloria and for all the
unfruitful love and labour in the world.




                              CHAPTER III


Ever since her conversation with Dorothy Winslow, Ruth had wondered
whether it would not be better if she had taken painting and composition
instead of portrait painting in the morning. But she didn’t like to give
up the portrait painting and she knew that if she suggested attending
one of the evening classes Gloria would object that she was working too
hard. Of course she was her own mistress, but it wasn’t pleasant to meet
with opposition nevertheless.

She spoke to Dorothy about it.

“You can’t get everything in a year, and it all counts. I don’t think
one can tell exactly what one’s forte is until one has studied for some
time. Better keep on as you are. Certainly don’t give up the portrait
class. Bridgelow is wonderful,” Dorothy had assured her, “and you may
not get a chance to study under him again.”

It seemed to Ruth that she was living a sort of double life, her hours
among the art students were so separate from her life with the people at
the house on Gramercy Square. And in a way she was not actually a part
of either life. Among the students she felt a certain reticence, because
they were most of them, at least the ones she had met, very obviously
poor. They were paying their own way by working at things far removed
from art. One of the girls painted stereopticon slides for illustrated
songs, and some of the boys worked at night as waiters. They lived in
studios and cooked their own meals, and Ruth was ashamed to let them
know exactly where or how she lived. She heard their chatter of parties
to which she had not been invited, and she could not control the feeling
that she was inferior to these people because she had an assured income.

The morning following the opening of Terry Riordan’s play Ruth had left
the house without seeing Gloria, and the thought of her aunt as she had
last seen her, was with her all morning. In the brief time between
classes she was glad to join the group of students who always hurried to
a little restaurant on Eighth Avenue for a bite of lunch, or a “bolt of
lunch” as Nels Zord called it. Nels was a Norwegian, possibly
twenty-five years old who spent every other year studying. He was
supposed to have a great amount of talent and he sometimes sold
things—seascapes mostly, small canvases of a delicacy that seemed
incredible in view of his huge, thick hands. When he was not in New
York, he went on long voyages as a sailor before the mast, where he
satisfied his muscles with hard work and his soul with adventure and
gathered material to be painted from half finished sketches and from
memory when he returned to New York. He had gone to sea first as a boy
of fifteen, from his home in Seattle and always chose sailing vessels
from preference. He had two passions, art and food, and had never yet
been known to give a girl anything but the most comradely attentions,
which was, perhaps, why he was so much sought after by them.

Ruth, Dorothy, and Nels walked together to the lunch room. All of the
students were talking about the water colour show that was to open at
the Academy the following Tuesday. On Monday evening there was to be a
private view, and Nels Zord, by virtue of being an exhibitor was one of
the few students who would be admitted. He was permitted one guest and
had surprised every one by inviting Dorothy Winslow. She told the news
to Ruth as they walked along.

“I didn’t,” said Nels with what seemed to Ruth unnecessary rudeness.
“You invited yourself, and I hadn’t asked any one else. Might as well
take you as any one.”

“Far be it from me to care how I get there,” said Dorothy with perfect
good nature. “It’s a shame that Ruth can’t go too. You’ve never been to
a private view at a big show like this, have you?”

“No, and I’d love to go, but I suppose there’s no chance.”

“I’ll tell you what; I think I know how you can get it,” said Nels. “I
know a chap, old fellow, one of the patrons. He always goes and he’s
always alone. I don’t see why he wouldn’t take you—he’s not one of those
old birds who goes in for young girls—not old enough I guess—and you’re
quiet looking and everything. You know he ought to be proud to take
you,” he ended up in what was for him a burst of enthusiasm, but Ruth
was rather inclined to be offended.

“Really, I’d much rather not go than to go in that way—” she began
explaining.

“Now don’t be foolish,” interrupted Dorothy. “You know that any one of
us will go in any way possible. It doesn’t matter how we get there so
long as we do get there. At the private view we’ll have a chance to
really see the pictures and to hear the criticisms of the people whose
opinion counts. Do be sensible and come with us.”

“Of course I want to go, just as all of us do,” admitted Ruth, “but not
badly enough to go as the unwelcome guest of a man I’ve never met.”

“You don’t understand,” said Nels. “He won’t be taking you there,
exactly. It’s just this way. He’s allowed one guest, I’ve never known
him to bring one. Some one might just as well use that guest card. He’s
a friend of mine and I’ll ask him for it. If it’s necessary for him to
appear with you, we can all meet at the Academy. By the way, a private
view is awfully dressy—have you got evening things?”

Ruth wasn’t surprised at the question. She knew that lots of the
students considered themselves lucky to possess one costume suitable for
the street. She knew two girls who shared a studio and one evening gown
together. They wore the gown turn about, and couldn’t both accept an
invitation to the same party. Knowing these things she nodded without
comment.

“Of course, she has everything,” explained Dorothy.

“Well, I haven’t you know—always put on my Latin quartier clothes,
things I never dared wear in Paris, but they go big enough here,
especially when worn by an exhibitor,” said Nels.

“I don’t know what I shall wear—probably borrow a frock from some one.”

“Would you—do you think you could wear one of mine?” asked Ruth
hesitatingly.

“D’you mean to say you’ve got two?” asked Dorothy with mock amazement.

“If you think it can be arranged without too much trouble, I would like
to go,” admitted Ruth.

“Simplest thing in the world,” said Nels who was rather proud of his
influential friend.

The conversation about the water colour show drove thoughts of Gloria
out of Ruth’s mind until she started homeward from the League. She
wondered how Gloria would look, whether she would dare speak of the
happening of the night before, whether Gloria would be shut in her own
room and refuse to see her.

Gloria’s voice called joyously to her as she opened the door. She was
standing in the midst of innumerable garments, frocks, hats, shoes,
lingerie, gloves, all in a state of wild confusion, while George dragged
huge trunks into the few empty spaces on the floor, and Amy stood by,
trying to fold and classify garments as Gloria threw them about.

“I’m going to Palm Beach—want to come along?” she called cheerfully.

“I can’t very well leave school, Gloria, but if you want to close the
house I can go to an hotel for a few weeks. How long are you going to be
gone—when are you going?”

“I don’t know. I just know I’ve got to get away for a while. I hate New
York. I’m going as soon as I can get packed, but there’s no reason for
closing the house. You’re here and Billie will be here at least until
she gets an engagement, and I’ll leave George and Amy. I just thought if
you wanted to come you might.”

“Of course I’d love to go; I’ve never been to Florida, but I can’t leave
school just now. Can I help?”

“Dive in; the sooner the trunks are packed the sooner I go.”

“Have you bought a ticket and made reservations?” asked Ruth
practically.

“Time enough for that later. I can’t go today anyway you know. I just
thought of it an hour ago.”

“If Miss Mayfield will pardon a suggestion from me,” said George, “I
would suggest that Palm Beach will be very dull just now—It is too early
for the season to have begun and the hotels will be quite deserted.”

“That’s just why I’m going—I’m fed up with people,” said Gloria, and
George subsided into sullen silence.

One of the few things about Gloria that Ruth did not quite like was her
treatment of her servants. She was quite as apt to ask the advice of
George or Amy as one of her friends, and in consequence they often
offered it unsolicited. With Amy this course was all right. She would
storm and scold in true Southern negro fashion and take the resulting
scolding in good part, but if Gloria reprimanded George he would retire
sullenly to the lower regions of the house and pack his luggage and then
appear with great dignity to offer his resignation. Whereupon Gloria
would beg him to stay and he would consent to do so with apparent
reluctance. Once Ruth had seen her put her hand on his arm with a
familiar gesture while she pleaded with him to stay. The sight sent a
cold shudder over her. To Ruth there was something sinister and
repulsive about George, and she was almost sure that her feeling of
distrust and dislike was fully returned.

He went out now in answer to the ringing door bell, and returned with
Terry Riordan, who stood looking in with wide, questioning eyes. Ruth
watched his face intently, keen to see whether he would show regret at
Gloria’s going away.

“Glad I got here in time to say good-bye,” he said, smiling. “Who’s
going away?”

“I thought George told you over the ’phone that I couldn’t see any one
today,” said Gloria. “I’m packing to go to Palm Beach, and now that
you’ve satisfied your curiosity, perhaps you’ll run along.”

“Not at all; I’m going to stay to argue with you. In the first place why
go away and in the second why go to Palm Beach when there are so many
interesting places to go?”

“I’m going away because I’m tired of playwrights and actors and
actresses, and Fifth Avenue and Broadway, and if you have any better
place than Palm Beach to suggest, I will be very glad to go there—only
don’t say the North Pole, for I’ve been packing summer clothing and
don’t want to do it all over again.”

“Can’t you say anything to her?” he asked, smiling at Ruth.

She shook her head, answering him with her eyes and again she had the
feeling of a secret understanding between herself and Terry.

“Haven’t you any control over this house, George?” he asked perching on
top of one of the trunks and lighting a cigarette.

George made no answer, but Amy grinned her delight. With her mistress
gone George would assume more upper servant airs than ever and she would
have no court of justice to which she could refer in time of domestic
strife.

“Please get off that trunk, Terry; there are chairs to sit on,” said
Gloria, drawing the red flower of her lip under her white teeth.

“How can I sit on a chair when there are hats and boots on every one?”

“Here, I’ll clear one for you,” said Gloria, and sent a hat sailing
across the room.

Ruth would never dare throw a hat across the room, no matter how much
she felt like it. She watched Gloria in a perfect passion of admiration
that half drowned the sharp pain in her heart because she knew that
Terry also saw Gloria’s beauty and felt the charm of her.

“If you really must go away, and I can understand that too, for I’d like
to get away myself, why not take a sea voyage—that’s the real thing in
rest cures. Go to San Francisco by rail and then take one of those boats
that run to Hawaii and Samoa and on to Sydney if you don’t want to stop
at Samoa. Let me see, five days to San Francisco, eighteen days to
Sydney, not counting a long stopover in Hawaii and Samoa, and by the
time you return I’ll have a comedy written for you,—a comedy in which
the entire plot rests on the heroine’s being not less than six feet
tall—”

“Don’t tease me, Terry—it isn’t fair—you’ve been writing that comedy for
three years now—if you only would write it I wouldn’t care even if I had
to play opposite a giant from a circus—”

She was near tears, so near that Ruth could hardly restrain an impulse
to go to her and throw her arms about her, when Terry evidently with the
same impulse went to her and did throw one arm about her shoulders. Ruth
saw now that they were exactly the same height.

“My dear girl, I’m not teasing. The comedy is half finished now, only I
wanted to keep it for a surprise, and you won’t play opposite a circus
giant. If necessary I’ll play opposite you myself and wear French
heels.”

“Don’t believe him, Ruth,” said Gloria, smiling now. “He’s always
promising to write a comedy for me, but he doesn’t mean it.”

“Wait and see,” said Terry. “You do believe me, don’t you Ruth?”

But Ruth, gazing hopelessly on the splendid beauty of her aunt, and
seeing Terry’s arm across her shoulder could not answer.

“I’ll give you four weeks more to make good, Terry,” said Gloria. “Clear
all the junk away, George; I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going away for
a while.”

Terry Riordan forebore to laugh, but his eyes again sought Ruth’s in
secret understanding.

“I think I’ll go up and work a while before dinner,” she said. It was
better to leave them alone, and she must work! she must work! she must
work!

Pursuant to her conversation with Dorothy Winslow in which she had
announced her intention of painting landscapes with figures, Ruth had
begun a new canvas—a corner of the park with two children playing under
the trees. She had been trying to get an effect of sunlight falling
through green leaves. It was badly done. She could see that now.
Besides, she didn’t want to paint children. She painted them out with
great sweeps of her brush. They were stiff, horrid, complacent little
creatures. Instead she would have only one figure, a shabby, old woman
crouching on a park bench, and she would take out the sunlight too. A
thin mist of rain would be falling and the sky would be murky with a
faint, coppery glow where the sun sought to penetrate through the
clouds, but the chief interest of the picture would centre about the
figure of the old woman, holding her tattered cloak about her under the
uncertain shelter of the trees.

If only she had the colour sense of Nels Zord—she would get it in time.
It was only a question of more work and more work. Would Terry Riordan
really play opposite Gloria in the new comedy? The play was the task
that Gloria had set him and when it was produced Terry could claim his
reward. She would go to the wedding and no one would ever guess that her
heart was broken. Afterward she would live in retirement and paint; or
perhaps she would travel and one day be thirty-five years old and
beautiful with a strange, sad beauty and men would love her, but she
would refuse them all ever so gently.

She worked steadily for almost an hour and then she began to wonder
whether Amy would have a very good dinner and how many would be there.
Perhaps Terry Riordan would stay. And she decided to put on a new dinner
frock that she had bought and wondered if she could dress her hair as
Gloria did, and tried it, but found it unsuccessful and reverted to her
own simple coiffure.

When she went down she found that Terry had indeed stayed for dinner and
Gloria had changed to a gorgeous gown and Billie Irwin, who had come in
late from the hair-dresser’s, had acquired a splendid aureole of golden
hair in place of the streaked blond of yesterday, and Philip Noel was
trying out some new music and they had all promised to stay to dinner
and afterward there was a play that they simply must see, at least the
second act. There was really nothing worth listening to after the second
act, and all conversation about going away or about the new comedy
seemed to be forgotten.

“You’ll have a surprise on Sunday morning,” Terry told her.

“What kind of a surprise?” asked Ruth.

“Can’t tell now; it’s a secret. Gloria knows, though.”

“It’s a very nice surprise,” said Gloria.

Ruth glanced quickly from one to the other. Perhaps they were going to
be married and would announce the fact on Sunday.

“Can’t I guess?” she asked, trying to imitate their gay mood.

“No! you’d never guess,” said Gloria, “but it’s really a wonderful
surprise. Only you mustn’t ask questions—you’ll find out at breakfast
Sunday morning and not a moment sooner.”




                               CHAPTER IV


Sunday breakfast was a ceremony at the house on Gramercy Square. Then
Gloria broke away from her rule of breakfast in bed, and clad in the
most alluring of French negligées, she presided at the coffee urn in the
big dining-room, while around her were ranged friends expected and
unexpected in harmonious Sunday comfort. There was a delightful
untidiness about the entire room that was particularly cheering—ash
trays with half-smoked cigarettes on the white cloth and Sunday
newspapers scattered at random by casual hands. Conversation for the
first half hour was confined to nods and sleepy smiles, but when the
second cup of coffee had been poured people really began to talk. There
was always, when the weather permitted, a fire in the grate, and after
breakfast there was an hour of intimate chat in which all the stage
gossip of the season was told and analysed, and careers were made and
unmade.

Breakfast was at eleven o’clock, but Ruth had been up for hours, working
away in her studio at the top of the house. At eleven she came down, for
George was intolerant of late comers. Gloria, Billie Irwin, Terry
Riordan, and John Courtney were already there. They raised their heads
from their newspapers and greeted her with smiles, for Gloria considered
it the worst taste possible for any one to speak before she had had her
first cup of coffee, and particularly she disliked “Good morning” spoken
in a cheery tone.

“There is no such thing as a good morning,” she always averred. “Morning
is never good, except for sleep.”

At the moment that Ruth entered George placed the coffee urn on the
table and Gloria proceeded to pour the cups, looking very lovely with
the dusk of sleep still in her eyes.

Ruth thought it very odd to be at a table with four other people none of
whom spoke a word. No one else seemed to mind, they all devoted
themselves to their breakfast with the same earnestness that a few
moments before had been bestowed on the Sunday newspapers.

“Now, Terry, you can give Ruth her surprise,” said Gloria presently.

Ruth had almost forgotten but now she remembered, seeing them all look
at her beamingly, as if she had done something very nice.

Terry reached down to the floor and picked up a section of newspaper. It
was the theatrical section, Ruth saw, even before he handed it to her,
and then, that it contained a story about “Three Merry Men,” with a
photograph of the leading woman and grouped around it the sketches that
Ruth had made caricaturing the players. The sketches had not been signed
but under them was a printed caption, “Sketched by Ruth Mayfield.” She
stared at the page for some moments, realizing that they were all
looking at her and expecting some sort of an outburst. Finally when she
sat silent, Billie Irwin, less sensitive than the others, spoke:

“Isn’t it wonderful, Ruth—we’re all so proud and glad for you—to think
of seeing your work reproduced, and you’ve only been in New York a few
weeks.” She put her plump hand on Ruth’s shoulder with an impulsive
gesture.

Ruth restrained an impulse to throw it off. She still kept her head
bent, instinctively hiding her eyes until she should gain control of
their expression. She realized that every one there thought that Terry
had done a fine thing in getting the sketches printed, that Terry
himself thought he had done a nice thing. It would be impossible to
explain to these people that she considered such work beneath her—that
she, the future great painter, did not want to dabble in cartooning. But
to them she was only an obscure art student. She must say something
soon—her silence was past the limit of surprise.

“How good of you, Mr. Riordan,” she said at last. “I had no idea that
you were going to do this when you took my sketches. It’s quite
wonderful to see them—to see them in a newspaper like this—”

“My word,” laughed Terry, “I believe that Ruth doesn’t really like it at
all, though I meant well, I did indeed, child, and though you don’t know
it, cartooning is quite as much art as painting, and quite as difficult
if one had not the particular genius for it. I gave the sketches to the
_Sun_ critic and he was quite enthusiastic. I dare say you might get a
chance to do it right along if you wanted to.”

“Ruth is an ungrateful little wretch if she isn’t both pleased and
proud,” said Gloria, smiling fondly at Ruth.

“I am pleased and grateful,” protested Ruth, “but I don’t want to be a
cartoonist, not until I’m quite sure that I can never be a painter.”

“Better far be a clever cartoonist than a bad painter,” said John
Courtney, “though I understand just how you feel. As a young man, when I
first entered the profession I wanted to be a great comedian—I still
think I could have been one, for I have a keen sense of humour, but it
was not to be, I was, you will pardon me for speaking of it, I was too
handsome—my appearance forced me to be a romantic hero—”

He passed one white hand over his grey, curled hair, as he spoke, with a
gesture as one who should say, “you can see that I am still handsome and
can judge for yourselves of my youth.”

“Your fatal beauty was your ruin,” said Gloria.

He smiled good-naturedly.

“No, not my ruin, I have done very well, but I did want to be a great
comedian, and I’ve never seen a comedian who did not secretly long for
tragic rôles, but ‘there is a destiny that shapes our ends—’ What is
that quotation?”

“‘Rough-hew them as we will,’” Ruth finished for him. “I quoted that
myself to a girl last week and she answered me by saying that she
intended to do a lot of rough-hewing.”

“Still, even if you do want to paint I think you ought to follow this
newspaper thing up,” said Billie Irwin who was a bit vague as to the
trend of the conversation. “Your name is in quite large type and nothing
counts like keeping one’s name before the public. If only I had not been
so retiring when I first started!”

Just here George came in with a letter which he laid beside Ruth’s
plate.

“It just came by hand,” he explained.

Ruth lost no time in opening the large, square envelope, addressed in a
precise, old-fashioned, masculine hand.

Inside was a square engraved card of admission to the private view of
the water colour show at the Academy on Monday evening. With it was
another card with the name Professor Percival Pendragon engraved on it,
and the words “compliments of” written above.

“Oh, isn’t this splendid!” she exclaimed, passing the contents of the
envelope to Gloria. “You know all of the students are crazy to go to the
private view tomorrow night, but it’s awfully exclusive and only the
members of the Academy and the exhibitors have cards, but each one is
permitted one guest. Nels Zord, one of the student exhibitors is taking
Dorothy Winslow and he’s asked this man, a friend and patron of his, to
send me his guest card. Hasn’t he got a queer name? You know I’ve never
met him at all. He must be really fond of Nels—quite an old chap I
suppose and perhaps I’ll meet him at—”

Just then Ruth was stopped by the expression on Gloria’s face. She was
holding the card away from her as if it were something dangerous and her
face had grown quite pale, her big, blue eyes staring out with an
expression that Ruth could not analyse.

“What is it—are you ill?” In her fright Ruth has risen from her place at
the table and moved to Gloria’s side.

Gloria waved her away with a movement of her arm, and seeming to recover
a part of her composure began to smile.

“It’s nothing at all, Ruth,” she said. “I was just startled for a
moment—you see Professor Percival Pendragon is—was, my husband.”

Ruth sank back into her chair.

“Then I suppose—perhaps you’d prefer—I can send the card back to him and
tell that I am unable to use it.”

“Not at all,” said Gloria, twisting her round, red mouth in the
whimsical way she had. “If you haven’t met him he doesn’t know that you
are a relative of mine and you needn’t tell. Besides he’s an awfully
good sort really. I always did like Percy. I didn’t know he was in
America. The last I knew he was in Oxford, associated with the
observatory there. He’ll probably talk to you about the great star map.”

“The great star map?” questioned Terry.

“Oh, I don’t know what the thing really is,” said Gloria. “Something
that the astronomers are working on now. It takes about twenty years to
make one, but it’s no particular use to them after it’s finished. They
just make it with great work—but that’s merely a rehearsal. Their
children make another one, which I suppose is the dress rehearsal; and
their grandchildren make a third, which is I suppose the _première_.
Then they compare their map with the one made by their parents and
grandparents and by some process discover that the planets have moved.
They have a wild hope that they may discover where the planets have
moved and why, but if that doesn’t materialize the great-grandchildren’s
children make a new star map, devoting their entire lives to it, and
some time, two thousand years from now, perhaps, some grey-whiskered old
man some place will know something exact about the stars, or will not
know something exact about the stars, as the case may be.”

Every one except Ruth laughed at this description. She felt that these
people with all their years must be in some ways younger than herself.

“They are working for posterity,” she said reprovingly. “All great art
and science is like that.”

“Yes, but you mustn’t expect player folk to appreciate anything but the
transitory in art,” said John Courtney. “It is the tragedy of the
profession that the art of every one of us dies with us. The tones of
Gloria’s marvellous speaking voice will not be heard by our descendants.
Booth is nothing but a memory in spite of his statue out there in the
park. It is the life of a butterfly.”

Courtney had used his deepest emotional voice in speaking, and despite
custom and knowledge of his many harmless affectations, Billie Irwin
shuddered and looked pained.

“Butterflies are very beautiful at least,” said Terry, reflecting in his
face the concern that Ruth also felt as she noted that Gloria was still
looking quite pale, with a strained expression in her eyes as if she
were seeing things far removed from the breakfast room. She determined
to again ask her aunt if it would not be better to give up the private
view, as soon as she had an opportunity to speak with her alone.

The opportunity did not come until late that afternoon, and then Gloria
shrugged her shoulders in a careless manner and laughed at Ruth.

“Certainly not, foolish child. He doesn’t know that you live with me. I
doubt if he even knows that I am alive. I’ve been off the stage so long
and besides he never goes to the theatre. This art thing must be a new
fad with him. Still he must have noticed the name. Even Percy can
scarcely have forgotten my last name. Only don’t tell him about me.
Don’t let him know that you are a relative, and don’t let him come to
the house.”

“The others are coming—Dorothy and Nels. I’m going to lend Dorothy a
gown.”

“Do they know anything about me?” asked Gloria.

“No; you see I’ve been afraid to tell them just how happily I am
situated. They are all so poor and I’ve been afraid that they’d not take
me seriously if I told them that I have never been hungry or afraid of a
landlord or any of the interesting things that seem to be common in
their lives. They rather look down on the students that have an
allowance from home, so I’ve never told them anything about myself.
Probably I shan’t meet Mr. Pendragon at all. If he had wanted to meet me
he would have come with Nels instead of sending the admission card,
don’t you think so?”

“Perhaps,” said Gloria.

Then curiosity overcoming delicacy, Ruth asked her the question that had
been in her mind all day.

“Which one is Professor Pendragon?”

“Which one?” Gloria’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “Oh yes, I know what
you mean, which one on my list. Percy was number one. I was very young
when I married Percy and very ambitious. It was—let me see—eleven years
ago and we were married just one year. I haven’t seen him for nine years
or heard of him for at least five, and if you love me, Ruth, you won’t
let him know who you are or you won’t mention me. You see I’ve been
married twice since then and I don’t want to meet Percy. It would be
painful to both of us. He can’t have any interest in me, and certainly l
have none in him.”

Her voice grew hard as she spoke the last words and her mouth set in a
line that made her lips look almost thin, but her eyes were not hard.
Some deep emotion looked out of them, but whether it was pain or hate,
Ruth could not decide.

She could understand that Gloria would be embarrassed at seeing her
first husband, especially in view of the fact that he had had two
successors, and that Gloria was contemplating a fourth marriage. As
Ruth’s own admiration for Terry Riordan increased she found it
increasingly difficult to believe that Gloria would reject him, so the
fourth marriage seemed quite possible.

Gloria was going to dine out that night and they were together in her
room where she was dressing. Her auburn hair fell over her shoulders and
Ruth decided that now she looked like the pictures of Guinevere in “The
Idylls of the King.” Ruth knew that Gloria had been disturbed by the
knowledge that her former husband was in New York and that she might
meet him at any time, but she did not seem to be averse to talking about
it, and Ruth was one of those persons, who, seemingly shy and reserved,
actually so about her own affairs, could yet ask with impunity,
questions that from any other person would have seemed prying and almost
impertinent. This was really because Ruth never asked out of idle
curiosity, but because she had a real interest. Her aunt was to her a
fascinating book, the pages of which she must turn and turn until she
had read the entire story.

“Had any of the people this morning ever met Professor Pendragon?” she
asked.

“No; that is no one but George—I acquired George in London, you know,
just about the same time that I married Percy. Husbands come and
husbands go, but a good servant is not so easily replaced, so I’ve
managed to keep George, though he hates New York.”

“Then,” continued Ruth, more to herself than to Gloria, “it was not
Professor Pendragon who gave you this house.”

“No, as I told you, I don’t think he even knows that I’m in New York. I
didn’t know he was here. I was fond of Percy and naturally I don’t let
him give me anything, because that would have given him pleasure and I
wanted to hurt him—”

In the mirror she caught the shocked expression in Ruth’s eyes, and
turned swiftly to face her.

“Of course you think all this is terrible, but after a few years you’ll
understand, not me, but something of life itself and of how helpless we
all are. I know that you have a very clearly defined plan of
life—certain things that you will do—certain things that ‘could never
happen to me.’ I know because we’re all like that. And then one day,
utterly without your own volition, knowing that you’re doing the wrong
thing, you’ll do and say things that simply aren’t written in your
lines. Do you suppose that at your age I planned to love a human
observatory that observed everything except me, or that I expected to
divorce him and marry a tired business man who expected to use me as a
perpetual advertisement for toilet preparations, or that I expected when
I divorced him that I’d do it all over again with a man more lifeless
than his family portraits? You don’t know what you’re going to do when
you start out. I know just that much now—that I don’t know. I may commit
matrimony again tomorrow.”

“But didn’t you love any of these men?” gasped Ruth.

“Of course—I loved Percy, and Percy loved the stars—perhaps that’s why
he married me. I was a star of a kind at the time.”

“Then why—”

“Oh, I don’t know; I think the final break came because of Eros— Isn’t
that the bell? Do run and tell Terry that I’ll be with him in a minute.
I wonder why he will persist in always being on time?”

It was Terry. He was trying to engage the dignified George in
conversation.

“Hello—you look as if you’d been reading fairy tales,” he exclaimed.

“No, just talking to Gloria,” said Ruth. “She’ll be down in a few
minutes.”

“It must have been an exciting conversation from the size of your young
eyes.”

“We were talking,” said Ruth, “we were talking about—about Eros.”

“The God of Love?” asked Terry.

“If you will pardon me,” said George, “Eros is also the name of a small
planet discovered in our solar system in the year 1898.”

Completing which amazing piece of information, George silently departed,
leaving the two staring after him.




                               CHAPTER V


Ruth had intended asking permission to have Dorothy and Nels to dinner
on the night of the private view, but if she did that they would learn
that her aunt was Gloria Mayfield and there was every chance that Nels
would refer to that fact in talking to Professor Pendragon, for Ruth had
already discovered that the art students were ardent celebrity seekers
and Gloria Mayfield, though she had not appeared on any stage for three
seasons, was still something of a celebrity.

She compromised by eating an early dinner with Dorothy at the little
restaurant on Eighth Avenue, at least Dorothy called it dinner, though
it was eaten at tea time and both girls were too excited to care what
they ate. Then they went home to dress. It was the first time that Ruth
had taken any one of the students to her house and she wondered just how
she would avoid telling Dorothy about her aunt.

George opened the door for them and they went on up to Ruth’s room
without seeing any one else, though Ruth could hear voices from the
drawing-room.

“This doesn’t look like a rooming house,” said Dorothy.

“It isn’t. I live here with friends. What do you think of my work room?”

“Great!—warm, too. There isn’t any heat where I live and I have to use a
little oil stove, but it’s expensive. You know I don’t think much of
that—one might as well be frank—” She was looking at the canvas Ruth had
on her easel. “Nels and I were talking about it yesterday. We think you
ought to follow up the cartoon thing. You know they make a lot of money,
cartoonists. You could take it up seriously, you know—”

“But I don’t want to take it up seriously. I don’t want to be a
cartoonist. I want to be a landscape painter, and if you will allow me
to be frank, too, I don’t think that you are in a position to judge
whether I have talent or not.”

Ruth had been very much surprised to find that her friends at school
seemed to think that she had achieved something by having her sketches
in a Sunday newspaper. What she had thought would make her lose caste
among them had in reality given her distinction, but it had had another
effect also. If she was a caricaturist she could also be a painter, they
reasoned, and less frankly than Dorothy, Nels Zord had expressed the
opinion that she would never be a great painter.

“Better be a successful cartoonist than an unsuccessful painter,” he had
said.

She had made no protest until now and Dorothy looked at her in
amazement.

“Don’t be angry. I didn’t mean anything, only it’s always a pity when
any one has a real talent and then insists on some other method of
expression. Of course you may be a great painter. As you say, I’m not a
critic and besides you haven’t been studying long. Only the painting is
all a gamble and the sketches are a success right now if you care to go
on with them.”

“So are your fashions if you care to go on with them,” said Ruth, still
hurt.

“Speaking of fashions, let me see the frock I’m to wear,” said Dorothy,
changing the subject with more abruptness than skill.

“They’re in my other room,” said Ruth. “You can have anything you want
except what I’m going to wear myself.”

Then followed two hours of dressing and redressing. There were only two
gowns to choose from, but Dorothy had to try both of them many times,
rearranging her bobbed hair each time, and finally deciding on the blue
one because “it makes my eyes so lovely and Nels is crazy about that
blue.”

She was so interested in her own appearance that she forgot to ask
questions about the friends with whom Ruth lived and long before Nels
called for them, Ruth knew that Gloria would have gone out for she was
dining with the Peyton-Russells. Mrs. Peyton-Russell had been a chorus
girl who after she married John Peyton-Russell had the good taste to
remember that Gloria Mayfield had befriended her, the result being that
Gloria was often invited to dinner parties at their place in town and
had a standing invitation to whatever country place happened to be
housing the Peyton-Russells, all invitations that Gloria often accepted,
though she complained that Angela Peyton-Russell took her new position
far more seriously than she had ever taken her profession. She was
almost painfully respectable and correct. She dressed more plainly than
a grand duchess, and having no children, was making strenuous efforts to
break into public work. One of the most amusing of her activities, at
least to Gloria, was in connection with a drama uplift movement.

Nels Zord came promptly at half-past eight, dressed as he had
threatened, “like a musical comedy art student.” His wide trousers,
short velvet jacket and flowing tie created in the mind of Ruth much the
same wonder that Dorothy’s unaccustomed elegance created in the mind of
Nels. Only Dorothy herself was unimpressed by their combined
magnificence. To her everything was but a stepping stone on the upward
path of her career.

“Don’t I look spiffy, Nels? And aren’t you going to make sure that I
meet Professor Pendragon, and be sure and tell him that I do portraits
and then I’ll do the rest. If one can’t make use of one’s friends, of
whom can one make use?” The last addressed to Ruth.

“I wouldn’t miss the opportunity of letting him meet you for anything,”
agreed Nels. “Only do try and be a little bit careful, Dot, you are
strenuous, you know. Anyway you’d have met him without asking. He seemed
curious to meet Ruth. Asked how she looked and if she was tall and
beautiful, and seemed awfully disappointed when I told him that she was
only short and pretty. Are you all ready? There’s the cab waiting.”

From somewhere George appeared to open the door for them, and as Ruth
paused to wrap her cloak more closely about her bare shoulders, his
soft, lisping voice whispered in her ear:

“Take care what you say to Pendragon, Miss.”

She nodded and followed Nels and Dorothy into the cold, outer air. In
the cab Nels and Dorothy chatted of the exhibitors—great artists whom
they knew by sight, while Ruth to whom they were only names, listened in
breathless admiration.

When they had arrived and had left off their wraps, Dorothy protested:


“Do we have to go down the line, or can we duck to the left?”

“No nonsense like that; remember you’re with an exhibitor, and besides
Professor Pendragon may be waiting for us. We can pay for the privilege
of looking at the pictures by breaking through the line of receiving
dowagers. It’s only fair.”

“Oh, very well—but it’s really awful, Ruth. Lots of the students just
duck the line and slip in at the left, but I suppose we’re too dignified
tonight.”

Professor Pendragon was not waiting for them, but the long line of
dowagers was. If Dorothy had not been with her, Ruth would merely have
looked at them as a long line of middle aged and elderly women in
evening dress, but Dorothy saw them with far different eyes. She knew
the names of some of them, and whispered them to Ruth while they waited
to follow some people who had arrived before them.

“Just look at the third one from the end—the one with the Valeska Suratt
make-up on the Miss Hazy frame—”

And then Ruth looked puzzled.

“You know Miss Hazy in ‘Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch’—I say, wouldn’t
you think she’d choke with all those beads—the one with the neck like a
turtle. The ones with the antique jewelry are from Philadelphia—you can
tell them with their evening cloaks on, too. They always have evening
cloaks made out of some grand, old piece of tapestry taken from the top
of the piano—”

Then Nels led them forward and in a very few seconds they had passed the
line of patronesses, thin and stout, there seemed to be no
intermediates, and were free to look at the pictures and talk to their
friends.

Not for the world would Nels have dashed immediately to his own picture,
though he knew to a fraction of an inch just where it was hung. But
gradually they went to it, hung on the eye line and in the honour room,
and there the three stood, the girls telling Nels how proud they were,
and Nels, gratified at their praise, yet half fearing that some one
would overhear, with the blood coming and going in his blond face until
he looked like a girl despite his heavy shoulders and the big hands that
looked more fitted for handling bricks than for painting delicate
seascapes in water colour.

Other people seeing their interest in the picture came and looked at it
also. The “outsiders,” as Dorothy called them, standing up as close as
their lorgnettes would permit, the artists, standing far off and closing
one eye in absurd postures, while murmurs of “atmosphere,” “divine
colour,” and other phrases and words entered the pink ears of Nels like
incense in the nostrils of a god.

So much engrossed was he in his little ceremony of success that he did
not see Professor Pendragon approaching, though Dorothy and Ruth,
without knowing his identity, were both conscious that the very tall,
distinguished looking man was watching them, Ruth even guessed who he
was before he laid his hand on Nels’ shoulder and spoke. It was not
alone that he was tall—very tall even with the slight stoop with which
he carried his shoulders; it was his face that first attracted Ruth’s
attention, a keen, dark face with a high bridged nose and eyes from
which a flame of perpetual youth seemed to flash. Yet it was a lined
face, too, full of unexpected laugh wrinkles and creases and there were
streaks of grey in the hair.

“Well, Nels, you can’t complain of how the picture was hung this time.”
His voice was like his face, poetic and with a hidden laugh in it.

Nels turned, flushing redder than before.

“Professor Pendragon, we’ve been looking for you. I knew you’d turn up
here sooner or later and just waited. Here is Dot, I mean Miss Winslow,
and Miss Mayfield.”

“Thank you so much for letting me use your guest card. It was very kind
of you, Professor Pendragon, and I’m having such a good time.”

“Not at all! I was delighted to be able to make such good use of it.
Have you seen Alice Schille’s children or Mary Cassatt’s charming
pastel? The women artists are rather outshining the men this year. If
Nels can break away from his own work we’ll go and see them. Then
there’s John Sloan and Steinlen, and a Breckenridge thing with wonderful
colour.” He led them off, smiling down with a funny little stooping
movement of his head that in a smaller man might have been described as
birdlike. He seemed to know every one and was continually being stopped
by men and women who wanted his opinion about this or that piece of
work. Ruth tried hard to look at the pictures, but her mind was
continually wandering to the people and especially to Professor
Pendragon. Dorothy noticed this.

“Don’t try to look at things tonight. None of us ever do. The people are
too funny. The dragon seems to be on intimate terms with all of them,”
she whispered. “Nels tells me that he’s a great swell with ever so much
money. I wish you could mention that I paint portraits. If I could get
him to sit it would be a start. You mention portraits and I’ll do the
rest.”

Much embarrassed and in great fear that Dorothy’s whispers would be
overheard, Ruth tried to make an opportunity for mentioning that Dorothy
painted portraits. Professor Pendragon himself made it.

“What sort of work are you doing, Miss Mayfield?” he asked.

“Nothing now, I’m just a student, but I hope to do landscapes. Dorothy
is to be a great portrait painter.”

“You know I’d love to paint you, Professor Pendragon. You have such an
interesting face—you have really,” she ended as Nels laughed.

“Some day when I have lots of time—and thank you for saying that my face
is interesting! Or perhaps I can do even better and get some beautiful
woman to sit for you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“No; I’d rather have you,” said Dorothy, raising her large blue eyes
with ingenuous confidence.

“There’s a very interesting picture in the ‘morgue,’ by a new artist of
course, that I’d like to have you see, Nels.” He broke off, for Nels had
been drawn away by some fellow students and Dorothy had followed him,
leaving him alone with Ruth.

“Never mind; perhaps you’ll be interested, Miss Mayfield.”

Ruth thought she detected the faintest trace of hesitancy in his voice
whenever he pronounced her name.

“Is New York your home?” he asked.

“It is now. I came from Indiana, but my mother died a few months ago and
I am living with friends here.”

“How sad; you have no relatives then?”

“No.”

His eyes were searching her face and she felt that he must see that she
was lying.

“Do you paint?” she asked.

“Oh no, this art thing is a new fad with me—that is of course I’ve
always been interested in beautiful things, but it’s only recently that
I’ve been actively interested. I’m afraid I’m a dilettante—rather an
awkward confession for a man of forty-one to make, but it’s true. I
thought I had a career as an astronomer, but I gave that up some years
ago, and since then I’ve tried a bit of everything. One must play some
sort of game, you know. It must be wonderful to be like that little girl
with Nels. Her game will be earning a living for some time to come—”

Another pause gave Ruth a clue to his thoughts.

“No; I’m not exactly in that position—of course I want to earn money,
too, but only because that is the world’s stamp of success,” she said.

He had evidently forgotten the picture they went to see, for he asked
her if she was hungry, and when she said “No,—”

“I thought young things were always hungry, especially art students, but
if you’re not hungry let’s sit here and talk. Nels and Miss Winslow will
be sure to find us soon.”

“Astronomy must be an awfully interesting study,” she said, wondering
how any man once having married Gloria could ever have let her go, and
why Gloria once having loved a man like this, could ever have sent him
away.

“Yes, interesting, but like art it is very long. I sometimes think I
would have done better to take up astrology.”

“You’re joking,” said Ruth. “Surely you don’t believe in that sort of
thing.”

“Why not? There’s a grain of truth at the bottom of all old beliefs, and
it is as easy to believe that one’s destiny is controlled by the stars
as to believe in a Divine Providence, sometimes much easier. The stars
are cold, passionless things, inexorable and fixed, each moving in its
appointed round—passing and repassing other stars, meeting and
parting—alone as human lives are alone. There are satellites powerless
to leave the planet around which they circle and here and there twin
stars that seem one light from this distance, but doubtless are really
millions of miles separated in space—”

He caught the intent look on her face and smiled:

“No, on the whole I think astrology would not have been any more
satisfactory than astronomy, for even there, there is nothing clear cut,
‘The stars incline but do not compel.’ Just one thing is really sure,
one must play with something.”

“Here comes Nels,” said Ruth.

“Just in time to keep me from persuading you that I am quite insane,”
said Professor Pendragon. “I was going to show you a wonderful picture
in the morgue, but it’s too late, Nels, for you’ll never be able to find
it alone, and I am going to buy it. Some day, if you’ll come and have
tea with me—all of you—you can advise me about the proper place to hang
it.”

“We’ll do that, but I’ll bet I can find it by myself—go ahead and buy it
and when we come to your house I’ll be able to describe the picture and
tell you who painted it.”

“Of course, if some one tells you.”

“No, not that; if there’s anything in the morgue worth your attention,
I’ll be sure to notice it.”

“So will I,” said Dorothy. “Come on, Ruth, let’s look.”

Ruth had been wondering whether Pendragon would go out with them and how
she could avoid his going to the house on Gramercy Square, but evidently
he was as informal as a student, for he only nodded a careless farewell
and strolled off while they went in search of the picture.




                               CHAPTER VI


Ruth entered the house with her own key, which she had taken, not
wanting to keep George waiting up to open the door for her. The house
was quite silent and dark, save for one dim light burning in the hall,
and this light seemed to illumine a thick blue haze or smoke that
floated out enveloping her as she paused on the threshold. At the same
moment she was conscious of an almost overpowering odour of incense,
something that Gloria never used, she knew. She stood a moment peering
through the blue haze until she made out a figure crouching on the
stairs, not George as she at first supposed, but Amy, who seldom showed
herself in the front of the house. She was huddled up, with clasped
arms, weaving to and fro and moaning inarticulate prayers, while her
eyes rolled wildly about in her head.

“Amy, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

Amy paused in her weaving and moaning to shake her head negatively.

“Then what’s wrong? Is Miss Mayfield ill?”

Again the negative shake.

“I’se waitin’ up for yo’, Mis’ Ruth. I want you to let me sleep upstairs
with you all tonight. There’s a couch in the room what you all paint. I
kin use that,—please, Mis’ Ruth, I’se a dead woman ef you says no.”

“What nonsense!” said Ruth, trying to speak sharply and at the same time
in a low tone. Amy, for all her agitation, kept her voice almost a
whisper and kept turning her head over her shoulder as if she feared
that some one was coming up behind her.

“Why do you want to sleep in my studio? Aren’t you comfortable
downstairs? If you’re ill I’ll send for a doctor. You’ll have to give me
some reason.”

She saw that the negro woman’s distress was very real, however foolish,
and laid her hand on her trembling shoulder.

“Doan ask me no questions now—jes let me come,” she said rising as if
she would accompany Ruth upstairs against her will, and still looking
over her shoulder.

“I can’t let you come unless you tell me why,” said Ruth, her voice
growing louder in spite of her efforts to keep it low.

The negress laid a warning finger on her lips and shot a look of such
terror over her shoulder that Ruth felt a sympathetic thrill of horror
down her own spine and peered into the blackness beyond the stairway,
half expecting to see some apparition there. Then struggling as much to
control her own nerves as those of the servant, she put both hands on
Amy’s shoulders and forced her down on the stairway again.

“If there’s any real reason why you should sleep upstairs you can, but
you must tell me first what you’re afraid of.”

The negress leaned toward her, whispering:

“It’s him—that devil-man, George; he a voodoo and he’s practisin’ black
magic down there. I cain’t sleep in the same paht of the house. I’m
goin’ to give notice in the mawnin’—please, Mis’ Ruth, take me up with
yo’—”

For a moment Ruth did not know what to say. She knew that all negroes
are superstitious, but looking into the rolling eyes of Amy, there in
the midnight silence of the house, she was not able to laugh.

“I’m surprised at you, Amy. I thought you were more sensible. What’s
George doing? He hasn’t tried to hurt you, has he?”

“No, not me, he ain’t goin’ hu’t me—I don’t expec’ you-all to
understand. I don’t care whether you understands or not, jus’ let me go
up with yo’.”

“What’s George doing?” demanded Ruth again. She would much rather have
given consent at once and ended the argument, but she could not control
a feeling both of curiosity and nervousness, and was now protesting more
against her own fears than those of Amy.

“He tol’ me to go to baid. He orders me roun’ li’e I was his nigger, and
I went, but I could see him through the keyhole—he’s in our
settin’-room—it’s between his room and mine. There’s another do’ to my
room and I wen’ right out through it. I didn’t waste no time. But don’t
you-all try to stop him. He’s at black magic—oh-o-o-o-o-o—”

Her tense whisper trailed off into a suppressed wail.

“Come with me,” said Ruth with sudden determination. “I’ll see for
myself.”

She started off down the hall, through the thick blue haze which she
could now tell was issuing from the servants’ quarters, and Amy,
protesting, but evidently fearing to remain behind, walked behind her.
Ruth had never been in the servants’ quarters, but she knew that they
had rooms on the first floor, which was partly below the street level.
As she passed she switched on the lights in the hall, illuminating the
short flight of steps that led below. The door at the bottom was closed.
At the top of the steps, Amy caught her arm.

“Don’t go, Mis’ Ruth—jes’ look through the keyhole once. The do’s
locked—don’t knock, jes’ look once—”

Ruth shook off her restraining arm, but unconsciously she softened her
footsteps, creeping almost noiselessly down the steps, while the black
woman waited above. In the silence she could hear her frightened
breathing. She had no intention of following Amy’s advice, but intended
to knock boldly at the door and then to scold George for frightening his
fellow servant. She was determined to do that even if George complained
to his mistress, but when her foot touched the last step, something
stronger than herself restrained her. She stood a moment with her heart
beating against her ribs, and then, Ruth Mayfield, daughter of
respectable parents, bent down in the attitude of a curious and
untrustworthy servant and applied her eye to the keyhole. She knelt thus
for many minutes before she finally rose and came back up the steps
controlling by a strong effort of her will the inclination to look back
over her shoulder as she had seen Amy do. At the top Amy took her arm
and together they walked back through the hall.

At the foot of the stairway she turned her white face to Amy.

“You can come with me if you’ll promise not to say anything about this
to Miss Mayfield, or to leave for a while at least.”

“I’ll promise anything, Mis’ Ruth, only take me with you—an’ I won’
tell—I ain’ ready to die yit.”

“It’s all just nonsense, Amy, only I don’t want to worry Gloria with it
just now. You understand, it’s just nonsense,” she repeated with lips
that trembled.

She slept fitfully that night, waking in the morning to the sound of
Amy’s knocking at her door. She called to the servant to come in, eager
to talk with her again before she had an opportunity to speak to Gloria.
She came in with the breakfast tray, looking much as usual and
apparently only too eager to ignore the events of the night before. She
set the tray down and began rubbing her shoulders.

“I got a misery,” she whined, “the wu’k in this house is too ha’ad.
They’se wu’uk enough here for foah and only two to do it all. I’se neber
wu’uked in a big house like this befo’ less they was at least foah kep’.
I’se a cook, I is, not a maid, and what not. Nex’ thing she’ll be askin’
me to do laundry.”

“Now, Amy, that isn’t fair. The house is big, but Miss Mayfield only
uses about half of it, and you know she dines out almost more than in.
Besides I don’t want you to go away yet. If you’ll stay I’ll ask Miss
Mayfield to let you sleep up here all the time. I can tell her that I’m
nervous up here so far away from every one and I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Amy’s face beamed with pleasure. “Is you-all goin’ speak to her ’bout
Go’ge?”

“Not at once—I must have time to think about that, and you must be
quiet, too.”

“Don’ you fret; I ain’ goin’ say anything ef you-all doan’.”

At the door she turned again and looked at Ruth as if she would like to
ask a question, but Ruth pretended not to see, and she went out without
speaking.

What Ruth had seen could not be ignored, yet she could not go to Gloria
and tell her that she had deliberately peeked through keyholes,
especially as there was no way of proving that she had seen what she had
seen. George did not practise his rites every night or Amy would have
long since fled in terror. The only thing to do was to try and persuade
Gloria to discharge George for some other cause, or failing that, to
watch an opportunity to show Gloria what she had seen. But perhaps
Gloria already knew. That did not seem exactly probable, but Gloria was
a strange woman and she said that George had been in her service a long
time—before her marriage to Professor Pendragon. Perhaps Professor
Pendragon—

Her thoughts lost themselves in trying to unravel the tangled skein of
Professor Pendragon, Gloria and her marriages, George and his evident
connection with everything. She remembered George’s warning whisper of
the night before. Pendragon might be able to explain everything to her,
but she could not ask him about George without also giving him
information of Gloria, a thing she had promised not to do. The night
before she had thought that she might go direct to Gloria with her story
about George, but in the light of morning it sounded both fantastic and
unreal—as foolish as the fears of the superstitious Amy had seemed
before she, herself, had investigated her wild story.

She would be late to class this morning, for she had waked late and had
dressed slowly with her thoughts. On her way downstairs she passed
Gloria’s room. The door was open and Gloria was sitting up in bed
surrounded by innumerable papers.

“Are you in a hurry?” she called.

“No, not much,” which was true, for being already late, Ruth was
wondering whether it would be worth while to try and attend her first
class.

“Perhaps you can help me out—can’t make anything of all this,” said
Gloria.

“What is it?”

“Bills and my bank account—they don’t seem to match somehow.”

She thrust a mass of papers toward Ruth, who sat down on the side of the
bed and began to look at them. She picked up an assortment of bills,
some of them months old, some of them just arrived, some of them mere
statements of indebtedness, others with pertinent phrases attached
thereto, such as “An immediate settlement will be appreciated.”

Ruth found a pencil and a pad and began to add up the various
amounts—they totalled several thousand dollars. The idea of so much
indebtedness frightened Ruth. All her life she had been accustomed to
paying for things when she got them. Since coming to New York she had
discovered that this was bourgeoise and inartistic, but training and
heredity were stronger than environment with her and she still had a
horror of debt. However, she tried to conceal her surprise.

“Now, if you’ll let me see your check book and your pass book, perhaps
we can discover why they don’t match,” she suggested.

“Here they are—go as far as you like. I never could make anything of
figures, except debts,” said Gloria.

“But you haven’t made out more than half the stubs on your checks—how
can I tell what you’ve spent unless you’ve kept some record of it?

“I don’t know—they balance the book now and then at the bank, but I
don’t know as it’s much use. The truth is I really can’t afford to keep
up this house, even with only two servants.”

“Why don’t you rent it and then get an apartment and let George go and
keep Amy? You could do with one servant in a small apartment and I could
pay half the expense—”

“You could not! I thought I made that quite clear. I can’t have any one
living with me except as a guest—”

“But why?”

“I don’t know why, except that it flatters my vanity. Besides I can’t
give up the house. I’ve got to keep it whether I can afford it or not.
Where would Billie and any number of other people live when they’re out
of work if they didn’t have this big house to come to? I got a note from
Ben Stark yesterday. His company broke up in Saint Louis last week and
he’s coming on here. I wrote that I could put him up until he gets
another engagement.”

“But Gloria, don’t you see that you can’t afford to do that sort of
thing? You’re too generous. No one likes to talk about money, but one
must talk about money—it’s always coming in at the most inopportune
moments and unless we recognize it politely at first it’s sure to show
up at the worst time possible later. You can’t afford to be always
giving and never taking anything from any one. If you’d only let me live
here on a sensible basis—it would make me feel much more comfortable,
and—”

“It would not,” said Gloria. “If I’d known you were going to be sensible
and practical and all that sort of thing, I wouldn’t have asked you to
look at the silly, old bills. And I’m not generous at all. I’m selfish.
Generous people are the sort of people who accept favors
gracefully—people like Billie Irwin and Ben Stark. Besides we aren’t
sure yet. I may have money enough to pay all this—only it’s such a bore
writing checks.”

She smiled cheerfully at the thought.

“I’ll tell you what—I’ll take your book to the bank and have it balanced
and then we can find out just what is wrong, and I’ll take care of it
all for you. I did all that sort of thing for Mother, you know.”

“You’re a dear, and just to show you that I can help myself too I’m
going to do something that I suppose I should have done long ago.”

One of Gloria’s pet extravagances was having telephone extensions in all
the rooms that she herself used. She reached out now to the telephone by
her bed and called a number.

“Is Mr. Davis there?” she asked. “Tell him Miss Mayfield wants to talk
to him.” Then after a pause: “Good morning—you remember you offered me a
contract last week. Is it still open? Send it over and I’ll sign it—
Tomorrow? Yes, I can begin tomorrow. Nine o’clock—that’s awfully early,
but I can do it I suppose if other people do. Yes, thanks. Woman’s
prerogative and I have changed mine. Tomorrow, then— Thank you—
Good-bye.”

“There now, I’ve promised to go to work in the movies and earn some
money. Meantime if you can straighten out my financial puzzle I shall be
most grateful.”

“Have you ever worked in motion pictures before?” asked Ruth.

“No, but we all come to it sooner or later, that is if they’ll take us.
I haven’t any illusions about it. They may not like me at all. Being an
actress on the speaking stage doesn’t always mean that one can make a
picture actress. Half the down and out artists of the spoken drama who
scorn the movies, couldn’t get in if they tried. But if they give me a
contract for a few weeks I’ll have that at least, and then if I’m no
good I won’t have to worry about it any more.”

“Has Miss Irwin an engagement yet?”

“No; but she’s doing her best, poor dear. It’s awfully hard in the
middle of the season. Angela Peyton-Russell is going to give a Christmas
party at their house in the Berkshires. I’ll have her invite you, too.
If I work a few weeks in pictures I’ll be ready for a rest. By the way,
did you see Percy last night?”

Suddenly Ruth had a suspicion that this was the real reason why she had
been called in. Gloria’s tone was almost too casual and she had asked
her question without introduction, abruptly in the middle of other
things.

“Yes, I met him and he’s awfully nice and good looking, but I told him
that I had no relatives and that I am living with friends.”

“He asked then?”

“Yes; I suppose the name made him curious.”

“He isn’t married?”

“If he is his wife was not with him and he didn’t mention her. I’m
almost sure that he’s not.”

“Did he talk about astronomy?”

“No—that is yes—only to say that he’d given it up and art is his latest
fad.”

“Take care you don’t fall in love with him, he’s very fascinating,” said
Gloria, smiling.

“I know—why did you divorce him?”

“How should I know?” Gloria frowned impatiently. “Oh, because he was
quite impossible—as a husband. All men are.”

“I’ll take your book to the bank now. I’ve missed my morning class
anyway,” said Ruth rising. The weight of all the things she knew and
guessed, and did not know, was pressing heavily on her and she longed
for some one to whom she could tell everything and get advice. Obviously
her temperamental aunt was not the one.

At the door she paused again, making one last effort to simplify her
problem.

“Why don’t you discharge George anyway and get another woman? I’m sure
he must be very expensive.”

“You don’t like George, do you?”

“No, I don’t. He’s not like any nigger I ever saw before. Where did he
come from anyway?”

“I don’t know exactly. He is a Hindoo, half-caste I imagine, or he
wouldn’t work as a servant, and I found him in London. It was just
before I married Percy. George had been working in one of the music
halls as a magician and he was ill. I took care of him. His colour
didn’t matter—he was in The Profession, in a way, you know, and when he
got well he offered to work for me and he’s been with me ever since,
about eleven years. I really couldn’t do without George, you know. Percy
didn’t like him either.”

“Why doesn’t he go back into vaudeville? He could make more money.”

“Gratitude, I suppose—anyway, that wouldn’t make very much difference,
and so long as I have any money at all, I shall keep George.”

“How do you know that he is really a Hindoo?” asked Ruth.

“He told me that when I first found him. You’re more curious about
George than Percy was. Percy always said he looked like something come
to life from a pyramid, but George never liked Percy and he won’t like
you if you ask him questions.”

“I shan’t ask him questions.”

“I do wish you hadn’t met Percy—he keeps coming into my mind. Did he
look well?”

“Very well indeed.”

“Happy?”

“That’s more difficult—you know I’d never seen him before, so it would
be hard to tell. If you—why didn’t you let me tell him the truth; then
probably you’d have seen for yourself.”

“No, I wouldn’t. He might have thought that I deliberately tried to see
him. Anyway I don’t want to see him. I was only curious. Don’t speak
about him again, even if I ask. I want to forget him.”

Ruth went out with thoughts more conflicting than before. One moment she
thought she detected in Gloria a sentimental interest in her former
husband; the next she appeared to hate him, and apparently there was no
hope of persuading her to send George away. She went to the restaurant
on Eighth Avenue for lunch, where she met Nels and Dorothy.

“What do you think?” said Nels. “I just heard that Professor Pendragon
is ill—paralysis or something like that, and he certainly looked well
last night. I can’t understand it.”

“The news doesn’t seem to have affected your appetite any,” said
Dorothy.

“Certainly not—must keep up steam. Shouldn’t wonder if that was why he’s
ill. He never eats anything much. One can’t paint greatly unless one
eats greatly.”

“When did he get ill, and how?” asked Ruth.

“When he went home from the show last night—It’s extraordinary because
he’s never been troubled that way and he was quite well just a short
time before.”

Ruth was thinking of George and of all the old tales she had ever heard
of the evil eye and black magic. She was thinking of these things with
one part of her brain, while with another part she scoffed at herself
for being a superstitious, silly fool. If only Amy hadn’t persuaded her
to look through the keyhole.

“I’m going to go and see him tomorrow afternoon,” said Nels. “I’d go
today, but I have to work.”

“Take us with you,” said Dorothy. “He invited us to tea anyway and he
seemed to be interested in Ruth.”

“One can’t go to tea with a paralytic, Dot, besides, he lives in a
hotel, unless they’ve moved him to a hospital. I’ll find out and if it’s
all right of course you can go too.”

“Just look at Ruth, Nels; she looks as concerned as if the dragon were a
dear friend.”

“I’m not at all; it’s just that it’s sudden—and I was thinking of
something else too.”

She was remembering Gloria’s last words about not mentioning Pendragon’s
name again. Here was another piece of information that she must keep to
herself. It was so annoying to be just one person with only one pair of
eyes and ears and only one small brain. If she could only see inside and
know what Gloria was really thinking, what depths of ignorance or
wickedness were concealed behind George’s black brows, what secret
Professor Pendragon knew—and even, yes, it might blight romance, but she
would like to know just what Terry Riordan thought.

Did Gloria love Terry or did her heart still belong to her first
husband? And what of those other two whose names were never mentioned?
If only she could be one of those wonderful detective girls one read
about in magazine stories. How simply she would solve everything.

She found Terry with Gloria when she reached home. They were talking
interestedly as they always did, with eyes for no one else apparently,
and her heart sank. George came in to ask come question about dinner. He
did look like something that had stepped from the carvings on a pyramid.
His fine features were inexpressibly cruel, yet there was something
splendid about him too. He was so tall—taller than Gloria. Tall enough
to play—she stopped affrighted at her unnatural thought.




                              CHAPTER VII


The entire régime of the house on Gramercy Square had been changed.
Instead of rising at eleven o’clock Gloria now left the house shortly
after eight, to be at the motion picture studios in New Jersey at nine,
so that Ruth seldom saw her before dinner time. The balancing of
Gloria’s bank book disclosed that she had been living at a rate far in
excess of her income—news that did not seem to trouble Gloria at all.

“I’ll make it all up again in a few weeks now that I’m working,” she
said. “If you’ll only write out a book full of checks for my poor, dear
creditors, I’ll sign them and then you can mail them out and everything
will be lovely—for a few months at least.”

“Yes, but don’t you think you ought to regulate your expenditures
according to your assured income, Gloria? You know you aren’t always
working,” said Ruth.

“I can’t be troubled with that now. Wait until I get tangled up
again—something always happens, and nothing could be worse than the
pictures; regular hours like a shopgirl, and no audience.”

Ruth returned from school to find Gloria not yet home and the
drawing-room empty, except perhaps for Billie Irwin and Ben Stark, a
tall, good-natured youth, who had followed hard upon his letter and who
was perpetually asking Ruth to go to theatres with him, where he had
“professional courtesy” due to having worked on Broadway the season
before. If Ruth refused, as she sometimes did, he cheerfully turned his
invitation to Billie Irwin, seemingly as pleased with her society as
with that of the younger woman.

It troubled Ruth to think of them all, herself and Miss Irwin and Ben
Stark, all living here as if Gloria had unlimited wealth, while Gloria
went out every morning to uncongenial work to keep up with the expenses
of her too large ménage. Only that morning Amy had complained to her of
having so many breakfasts to prepare for people who rose whenever they
pleased and never remembered to make her any presents. If only George
would grow dissatisfied—but he never seemed weary of serving Gloria’s
impecunious guests, and if he was still engaged in midnight orgies of
enchantment Ruth could not know. She dared not repeat the keyhole
experiment. She wished that she had not taken Amy upstairs to sleep;
then she would have had a spy below stairs. It was foolish of her to
connect Professor Pendragon’s illness with George, but she could not
help it. If she could only have some other opinion to go by—or perhaps
when she had seen Professor Pendragon again, her illusion would be
dispelled. Nels Zord had talked with him over the telephone and
Professor Pendragon had made light of his illness and said he would be
glad to have Nels and the two girls come and have tea with him the
following Thursday. He said he was not going to a hospital and hoped to
be quite well when they came. If he was well then Ruth could laugh at
her superstitious fears. Thursday was a good day for all of them because
there was no lecture Thursday afternoon and they could all leave the Art
Students’ League at half-past four and go together to Professor
Pendragon’s hotel.

The idea of visiting a man in his hotel, even a man of forty who was
ill, and in company with two other people did not seem quite proper to
Ruth, but she did not say anything about it, having acquired the habit
of taking customs and conventions as she found them. Nevertheless she
was quite relieved to find that Professor Pendragon had a suite and that
they were ushered into a pleasant room with no hint either of sickness
or sleep in it. She even took time to wonder where the prejudice against
sleeping rooms as places of ordinary social intercourse first
originated.

Professor Pendragon met them, leaning on a crutch, one foot lifted in
the attitude of a delightful, old stork.

“It’s really kind of you to come,” he said, after he had made them all
comfortable. “You know I have hundreds of acquaintances but very few
friends, as I have discovered since I became a victim of the evil eye.”

Ruth could not restrain a start of surprise and he looked at her, his
dark eyes wrinkling with mirth.

“So you know about the evil eye?” he questioned.

“No, I don’t. Only I suppose the phrase startled me. What really is the
matter?”

“I don’t know and neither do the doctors apparently; that’s why I call
it the evil eye. I came home from the show that night and went to sleep
like a good Christian with a quiet conscience, but when I woke I found
that my right leg was paralysed to the knee. It was the dark of the moon
that night. I know because I always think in more or less almanacal
terms—that would be when the evil eye would be most effective, you know;
and I’m waiting for the full moon to see if I will not be cured as
mysteriously as I have been afflicted.”

Nels and Dorothy were listening with puzzled eyes, not quite knowing
whether Professor Pendragon was jesting or in earnest.

“You mean all maniacal terms, if you believe such rubbish,” said Nels,
“and you need a brain specialist, not a doctor.”

“I think that’s our tea at the door, if you’ll please open it for me,
Nels, and I promise not to talk about the evil eye in the presence of
such moderns as you and Miss Winslow again.”

“Why don’t you include Ruth in that?” asked Dorothy, as Nels rose to
open the door.

“Because Miss Mayfield is not a modern at all; she belongs to the dark
middle ages.”

“I’m afraid I’m a bit superstitious,” admitted Ruth, and then hoping to
test his sincerity, for he had spoken throughout with a smile, and also
to throw, if possible, some light on the uncanny suspicions that
troubled her—“Even if you did believe in the evil eye, who would want to
harm you?”

“Please do stop,” said Dorothy. “You’re spoiling my tea with your
gruesome talk. Where’s the picture that Nels was to point out and advise
you about hanging?”

“That is, perhaps, a more wholesome topic, but we were only joking, Miss
Mayfield and I.”

“I’ve found the picture already,” exclaimed Nels—“the one with the fat
Bacchus—you see I picked it out of all the others—I don’t blame you for
buying it; it’s delightful humour, depicting Bacchus as a modern
business man, fat and bald, yet clad in a leopard skin with grape vines
on his head, and tearing through the forest with a slim, young nymph in
his arms—it’s grotesque and fascinating.”

“I thought you’d approve,” said Professor Pendragon. “Now where shall we
hang it?”

“It’s all right where it is, unless you have a larger picture to hang
there.”

“Now, while you’re unable to walk around, why don’t you sit for a
portrait—you’ll never have another time when the sittings will be less
irksome. I’d come here and Ruth could come with me as a chaperon, not
that I need one, but we might as well be perfectly proper when it’s just
as pleasant—you know,” she continued, slightly embarrassed by the smiles
on the faces of Nels, Professor Pendragon, and Ruth. “I’m not looking
for a commission at all; I just want to paint you because you will make
an interesting subject, and because, if I can hang you—I mean get your
picture hung in the Academy, I will get real commissions, just because
you sat for me. Now I’ve been perfectly frank,” she finished.

Pendragon held out his hand to her, laughing:

“Any of those numerous reasons ought to be enough,” he said, “and if my
infirmity lasts long enough, I’ll be glad to have you come and help me
kill time.”

“Better start before next dark of the moon,” said Ruth mischievously.

“That gives you only ten more days,” said Pendragon.

“You don’t really believe in those things?”—Dorothy’s blue eyes were
wide with distress—“Please tell me the truth; Nels, they’re just
teasing, aren’t they?”

“Of course, you know they are; don’t be a silly goose, Dot,” said Nels.

“I know they are, but even if they don’t believe in all they say, they
believe in something that I don’t understand, now, don’t you?—confess.”

She turned to Ruth, but it was Pendragon who answered.

“If mind is stronger than matter, and most of us believe that now, then
an evil thought has power over matter just as surely as a good thought
has power, and the power of the evil thought will continue until it is
dispelled by good thought. There if you like is black and white magic. I
believe that there are people in the world so crushed by fear and
wickedness that every breath of their bodies and every glance of their
eyes is a blight on all who come near them, and I believe that there are
people who are so fearless and good that where they walk, health and
happiness spreads round them as an aura, as sunlight on every life that
touches them. Does that satisfy you, Miss Dorothy?”

“Oh yes, that’s very beautiful, I’m sure,” said Dorothy, looking a bit
uncomfortable as if she had been listening to a sermon. “When will you
let me come for your first sitting?”

“Sunday morning if you like; that won’t interfere with your classes, and
it’s a good day for me too, because I am duller than usual on Sunday.”

As they were leaving, Ruth lingered for a moment.

“If you did have an enemy who was trying to harm you, what would you do,
Professor Pendragon?” she asked.

“Evil works like good, can only be accomplished with faith; if I had an
enemy, I would destroy his faith in his own power,” he answered.

Ruth found the entire family, as Gloria called her household, assembled
when she reached the house on Gramercy Park. Terry Riordan was among
them.

“Please, Ruth, won’t you go to the theatre with Terry tonight? He has a
perfect passion for first nights, but as an honest working woman I need
my rest and I’m too tired to go tonight,” said Gloria.

“I’d like to, but—” Ruth glanced in the direction of Ben Stark.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said that youth. “The fact that you have refused me
three times won’t make any difference. I’m accustomed to such treatment
from the fair sex.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” said Terry. “I have three tickets and
intended taking both Gloria and Ruth if they would go.”

“Please, Miss Ruth, will you let me go with you? I’ll walk a few paces
in the rear and be a good little boy,” said Ben. “You really must be
kind to me, because I’m going into rehearsals for another trip to the
coast with a company that will probably go at least as far as Buffalo.
You’ll miss my cheery smile when I am far away.”

“Then we’ll all go together,” agreed Ruth, rather annoyed that Terry
should have suggested that Ben go with them. Evidently he considered her
too young to be an interesting companion and would be glad to have
another man to talk to. It was perhaps for this reason that when they
started out she directed most of her smiles and conversation to the
erstwhile neglected Ben, making that young man beam with pleasure, while
Terry seemed not to observe his neglected state at all.

“What’s wrong, old chap? You are as solemn as an owl and you ought to be
as happy as larks are supposed to be, with a real, honest-to-goodness
show on Broadway,” said Ben.

“It’s going off next week,” said Terry. “It’s been nothing but a paper
house for a week, and they’re going to try it on the road; I don’t seem
to have the trick or the recipe for success.”

“I’m so sorry; perhaps it will go well on the road,” said Ruth.

“Don’t feel sorry; it doesn’t matter very much; I’ll write another. A
man must do something and if I grow very successful I might be tempted
to stop.”

“Yes, one must play some game; that’s what Professor Pendragon says.”

“That’s right, you met Gloria’s husband, didn’t you? What’s he like?”

“Very nice; I’ll tell you later all about it.”

They were entering the theatre now and Ruth wanted to talk to Terry
about Professor Pendragon when no one else was listening. Ben Stark was
a jarring note that precluded absolute revealment of her hopes and
fears. Nevertheless she forgot to be annoyed at his presence in the
theatre for he amused her with his comments about people on and off the
stage and Terry was strangely silent. The play was a particularly inane
bit of fluff and seemed to be making a great hit. Ruth could imagine the
trend of his thoughts, the discouragement attendant upon doing his best
and seeing it fail, and watching the success of an inferior endeavour,
yet she envied him, for he at least believed in his own work, and the
more she studied and compared her work with that of other students, the
more a creeping doubt of her own ability filled her brain.

“I need cheering up! Won’t you go to supper with me?” he asked as they
passed out of the theatre.

His invitation was addressed to both Ben and Ruth, but Ben, with motives
which Ruth understood only too well begged off.

“You know I have to report for rehearsals tomorrow morning, if you don’t
mind I’ll run along.”

He evidently thought that Terry would like to be alone with Ruth, and
Ruth, realizing his mistake, was yet too timid to protest, even had she
not secretly desired to be alone with Terry. She had never gone to
supper with a man alone. It would be an adventure, and the fact that she
loved the man even though he did not know or care, made it even more
thrilling. She bethought herself of her costume and wished that she were
in evening clothes.

“I think I’d better take you some place near home,” said Terry. “If we
use a cab we can save time, and there won’t be so many people downtown
and we’ll be served quicker. I feel a bit guilty about keeping you out
late.”

“I’m not a child,” said Ruth, pouting.

“I know you’re not, but you are—you’ll always be one, I hope.”

She was about to ask why, but they were entering a cab now and she did
not ask. She wanted to ask where they were going, but she did not ask
that either. She found herself with Terry afflicted with a strange
inability to talk. They rode almost in silence to Fourteenth Street and
entered a most disappointing place.

Ruth’s idea of supper after the theatre was a place of soft lights and
music with beautifully dressed women and flowers, and sparkling wine.
She didn’t want to drink the sparkling wine herself or even to wear the
beautiful gowns, but she wanted to see them.

The place they entered was a low ceiled, dark paneled room with no music
visible or audible. There were white spread tables, but the women around
them were far from beautiful, the men undistinguished in the
extreme—matrons on the heavy order with men who were quite obviously,
even to Ruth’s untrained gaze, their lawful spouses. Both men and women
were giving more attention to their food, than to their companions and
they were drinking—beer.

“It’s quiet here and we can talk,” said Terry, quite oblivious to Ruth’s
disappointment, but when they were seated he did not talk.

“Tell me about the new comedy you’re writing,” said Ruth, remembering
the axiom that it is always tactful to talk to a man about his own work.

“No; I want to forget my work and myself. Let’s gossip. Tell me about
Gloria’s husband.”

In this Ruth thought she detected the interest of a jealous suitor.

“Professor Pendragon is very charming and very clever and good looking.
He is taller than Gloria, and apparently has no particular vocation, for
he has given up astronomy. His interest in art he calls a fad; he lives
alone in a suite in the Belton Hotel and about ten days ago he became
mysteriously paralysed—his right leg up to the knee. That’s all I know,”
said Ruth, “except that he’s one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever
seen and I can’t understand why any woman would ever give him up. He’s
almost as wonderful as Gloria herself. I’d like to say that he is ugly
and old and disagreeable for your sake, but he isn’t.”

Terry looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment and then ignored her
inference if he understood it at all.

“That’s a lot of information to have collected all about one person,” he
said. “They say it was a great love match and that they disagreed over
some trifle. They met and were married in London and Gloria got a
divorce in Paris less than a year later. Curious his turning up just
now.”

“Why just now?” asked Ruth.

“Because Gloria is a woman who must at all times have some absorbing
interest, and recently she hasn’t had one and it’s telling on her. She
has fits of moodiness, and wild ideas that she never carries out—like
the proposed sudden trip to Palm Beach. Two years ago when I first met
Gloria she would have gone. If only I could finish my comedy and make it
a real success with Gloria in the star rôle—”

“You would really like to do things for Gloria,” said Ruth.

“Yes; I’m awfully fond of her. She’s been my friend and has helped me
ever since I first met her.”

“Then, please, can’t you persuade her to get rid of George?”

There was an intense appeal in Ruth’s voice that surprised Terry more
than her request.

“Why? How would that help her?”

“I can’t explain it exactly. There are several reasons. One is that
Gloria has been living quite beyond her income—I suppose I shouldn’t
tell these things even to you, but I am worried about her and perhaps
you can help—and she simply refuses to give up her big house because it
serves as a refuge for professional people, friends of hers, out of an
engagement. Of course all these people think that Gloria has unlimited
means or they wouldn’t come. She won’t even let me help her, though I
could quite easily. It’s because she really needs money that she’s gone
to work in motion pictures. I imagine that George is an expensive
servant and I thought if we could make her discharge him, she could get
some one else for less money. Of course that wouldn’t make much
difference in her expenses—I understand that—but it would be a start.
It’s a lot of small economies that count, you know,” she said gravely.

“I had no idea that Gloria didn’t have lots of money. Her second husband
was Darral Knight, a man who had made a fortune in toilet preparations.
It was he who gave her the house on Gramercy Square. Then she married
Brooks Grosvenor and he settled an income on her when they were
divorced. I always supposed that it was ample. Certainly from what I’ve
heard of the man he would have it fixed so that she could not get
anything but the income, and even that would be forfeited if she married
again.”

“The income isn’t large, not really large enough to afford such a big
house, and Gloria has gone in debt a lot and now she’s working to pay it
off. You see she’d have enough money if she would consent to live
differently.”

“But Gloria is not the sort of person who will ever live differently. I
have often wondered how she got by in such a big house with perpetual
guests and only two servants, but I suppose she just didn’t want to
bother with any more. But that isn’t the reason you want her to get rid
of George, is it? It really wouldn’t make any appreciable difference,
would it?”

“No—there are other reasons too, but I’m afraid to tell you.”

“Something you don’t like to put into words?”

Ruth nodded.

“I think I know. I’ve thought of it myself and I don’t like to put it
into words either, but I will, so that we can understand each other
perfectly—a necessary thing if we are to help Gloria.” He paused looking
at her, and seemingly trying to gather courage for what he was about to
say.

“You think that George is in love with his mistress.”

Ruth’s horrified face revealed that Terry had put into words something
quite foreign to anything in her thoughts.

“Don’t look so horrified, it sounds terrible to us—it is terrible, but
you must remember that George is a Hindoo, not a nigger, and that he is
well educated, and that in many parts of the world, the idea of a black
man loving a white woman is not so repugnant as it is here. I wouldn’t
admit it for a long time myself, but it’s the only plausible explanation
of a lot of things. Perhaps Gloria has told you that when she first met
George he was a magician mahatma, who had been playing in London music
halls and that he had been out of work for some time on account of
illness. Out of gratitude, apparently, he offered to serve her. Later
when he had quite recovered his health he could easily have gone back to
his former work, but he didn’t go, though regardless of what Gloria pays
him, it must be much less than he could make on the stage. If you’ve
observed too, you will have seen that his attitude, while quite
respectful, is never the attitude of a servant, and toward Gloria’s men
friends his attitude is almost offensively disrespectful, especially
when she is not present. He even hates me. I’ve thought for a long time
that she ought to get rid of him, but I can’t go to her and tell her
what I think, for certainly Gloria doesn’t suspect anything like that.”

During this explanation, Ruth, recovered from the first shock of his
words, was thinking rapidly. All her fears and superstitions came back
one hundred fold in the light of Terry’s revelation. They gave reason
and purpose to what she had seen and what she had suspected. She debated
in her mind whether she dare tell everything to Terry.

“But evidently you had something else in mind—some other reason,” he
continued. “What was it?”

She looked at his grey blue eyes and brown hair, his clear, fair skin
and firm chin—he was Western of the West—he would never understand or
believe.

“Nothing,” she answered. “I suppose it’s just that I sensed what you
have said, without ever daring to put it into words even in my own
thoughts. Couldn’t you try and tempt George back on to the stage?”

“I don’t know—I couldn’t, because he doesn’t like me, but I might get
some one else to do it, that is if he hasn’t forgotten all his old
tricks. Eleven years is a long time, you know.”

“Oh, he hasn’t—” but she decided not to finish her sentence.

The restaurant was almost deserted now, and Terry bethought himself,
with many apologies, of his resolve not to keep Ruth out too late. He
would have hurried into another cab, but Ruth protested that it was such
a short distance and she wanted to walk. In reality she thought that in
the darkness when she could not see his face so clearly she might find
the courage to tell him. Yet she walked silent by his side, unable to
speak. She was lost in the wonder of being alone with him—he was so tall
and wonderful. She looked up at the stars and gratitude filled her
heart. It was good to love, even when love was unreciprocated. She
pitied women who had never loved, as she did, unselfishly—a love more
like adoration than earthly passion. She wanted to help Terry and
Gloria. She would rejoice in their marriage. If she could only solve
their problems, she would not care what life held for her after that. It
was an exalted mood for a girl of nineteen years, some months and days,
and Terry, all unsuspecting, broke into it with words:

“I wish we could arrange to have Gloria and Professor Pendragon meet
again,” he said. “Pendragon was the big love of her life, and no man
ever having once loved Gloria could possibly be quite free of her sway.
She made the other marriages just for excitement, I think. I can’t
imagine any other reason. I’d like to have them meet again. It would be
interesting to say the least. I’m horribly unmodern, but I believe that
men and women love once and once only.”

It seemed to Ruth that there was a note of sad resignation and generous
resolve in his voice.

“But I’ve promised Gloria that I will not let him know anything about
her. It’s very generous of you to want to—to bring them together.”

For a moment Terry did not speak. He seemed to be considering her words
and looked at her in a curious way that she did not understand.

“It’s not generosity—perhaps only curiosity,” he said. “Gloria and I
have been such good friends—and I am tremendously fond of her. She is so
beautiful and charming and talented, but just now I think she needs
something, some one, bigger than her work.”

They had reached home, Ruth in a state of exalted pain and happiness.
Terry loved Gloria; that was evident, but for some reason he did not
hope to win her. With noble generosity he was hoping only for Gloria’s
happiness—planning to bring her and Professor Pendragon together.
Somehow it seemed that she and Terry were sharing sacrifice—he his love
for Gloria, she her love for him. It gave her a feeling of sweet
comradeship with him, that almost compensated for the pain of knowing
that he did not love her. Perhaps behind her thoughts too there was the
faint hope that if Gloria went back to her first husband, Terry might
change the object of his affections, but this thought was only half
defined, for at nineteen the idea of a man loving twice is very
inartistic. To Ruth all real love was of the _Abelard and Heloise, Paul
and Virginia_ type.

Thus she thought in silence while Terry waited for her to unlock the
door. The door opened to her key and she turned to say good-night to
him, when her nostrils caught the overpowering perfume of some strange
incense, and in the hall she saw the same blue haze that she had seen
that night when she found Amy on the stairs. Terry, too, had smelled the
incense, and paused, looking at her for explanation. Her heart was
beating at a tremendous rate. Here was the opportunity that she had been
seeking to secure an unbiased witness. She put her finger to her lips in
sign of silence, as Amy had done that night, and drew him with her into
the hall. Then she closed the door silently behind them. Without knowing
why he imitated her example in silence. Inside the hall was heavy with
the blue smoke and the perfume that seemed to be smothering them.

“Now I can show you why I want Gloria to send George away. He’s
downstairs now, I think,” she was speaking in a low whisper. “I want you
to see for yourself. I haven’t dared to tell any one for fear they
wouldn’t believe. He’s down there,” she pointed. “Don’t knock or let him
know you’re coming—I want you to see everything. Perhaps—I know it
sounds a terrible thing to do, but if you could just look through the
keyhole—”

She stopped abruptly, seeing Terry’s look of amazement at such a
request.

“Believe me—it is better to do that—just look once and you’ll
understand.”

She moved toward the rear of the house, tiptoeing noiselessly and
beckoning him to follow. At the top of the short flight of steps she
stopped again.

“Down there, behind that door,” she whispered.

As one preparing to dispel the foolish fears of a nervous woman, Terry
advanced down the steps, yet such was the influence of the hour, the
strange incense and Ruth’s manner that he walked softly. Ruth followed
him, but at the bottom Terry did not bend down to look through the
keyhole. Before Ruth’s frightened eyes he put his hand to the handle of
the door, which swung inward at his touch.

A deeper blue haze than that above filled the room into which they
looked. In the centre of the room George was kneeling—about his head a
white turban was wound and he was wrapped in a long, black robe on which
the signs of the zodiac were picked out in gold thread. Before him was
placed an altar, which rose in a series of seven steps. At the bottom a
lamp was burning with a blue flame, from which the clouds of incense
were rising, almost obscuring what lay coiled on the topmost step which
spread into a flat platform—an enormous serpent coiled, with its head
lifted from the centre of the mass and swaying from side to side,
seemingly in accompaniment to a low monotonous chant that George was
singing, while he too swayed back and forth, for some moments seeming
not to know that the door had been opened. Ruth could not understand the
words of the chant, but from the tone they sounded like an invocation.
George was praying to his reptile! Suddenly, as if he had just seen
them, he lifted his hands and his voice rose, and the snake reared its
head far into the air, so that they could see its darting, forked
tongue. Then as George’s voice suddenly stopped on a high note the snake
subsided again, and George rose to his feet and greeted them.

“Good evening,” he said, “I was just practising my box of tricks. You
know I used to be a professional magician and Miss Mayfield has asked me
to accompany her to the Christmas party in the country to help entertain
the guests of the Peyton-Russells. The snake is quite harmless,” he
continued, picking it up on both hands and dropping it over his
shoulders. “Would you like to touch it?”

“Oh, no, no,” said Ruth, drawing back and instinctively clutching
Terry’s arm. Terry did not accept the invitation either, but to Ruth’s
surprise he seemed to accept George’s explanation of the strange scene
as truth.

“We were attracted by the smell of the incense,” he explained, “thought
it might be fire and we’d better investigate.”

“Certainly, quite right.” Never had George’s voice sounded so silky and
lisping and sinister. He stood quite still, seemingly waiting for them
to go, the snake coiled round his shoulders. Ruth was only too glad to
make her escape and Terry followed her. In the hall he turned to her
smiling.

“No wonder you were frightened if that’s what you saw, but you see it’s
quite all right—Gloria knows about it and it hasn’t any significance. Of
course snakes aren’t pleasant things to have in the house, but this one
is harmless, so I hope it won’t disturb your sleep.”

“Do you believe what George said,” she asked.

“Of course, why not?”

“Because I don’t. He may be practising tricks for the Christmas
party—that may be true, but there was no trick to what we saw just
now—the snake was real, and the altar and the incense—and George was
praying—he was praying to that snake.”

“Even so,” said Terry. “We’re not missionaries that we should try to
convert the heathen. I don’t care how many snake worshippers there are
in New York.”

“It isn’t that, Terry—I know it sounds weird, but the night I saw him
before, was the night Professor Pendragon was stricken with paralysis—”

She stopped frightened by the lack of comprehension in Terry’s face.

“Don’t you see if George will worship a snake, he is the sort of person
who will pray calamities on his enemies. If he loves Gloria, then he
hates Professor Pendragon, because he is the only man Gloria has loved.
When Pendragon’s name was first mentioned, you remember the Sunday
morning I got the card to the water colour show, George was even more
concerned than Gloria, and when I went he warned me to be careful what I
said. I believe that he is responsible for Pendragon’s illness.”

Comprehension had dawned in Terry’s face, but with it Ruth could see a
tolerant incredulity and a wonder that she could believe such nonsense.

“It’s reasonable enough that George hates Pendragon, but even if he does
hate him and even if he was actually praying for him to be harmed, that
doesn’t give a prop snake the power to carry out his wishes.”

“It isn’t the snake; it’s the power of George’s concentrated thought.”

“Thoughts can’t harm people,” said Terry.

“But they can—thoughts are things and evil thoughts are as powerful as
good ones.”

She could almost see the thoughts passing through Terry’s brain. He was
looking at her, assuring himself that she really was sane and had been
up to this night quite normal, almost uninterestingly normal, and even
while she tried to make her beliefs clear she was conscious of a feeling
of exultation because for the first time she was actually interesting
the man.

“I’ve heard of Indian fakirs who could paralyse parts of their own
bodies so that knives could be thrust into them without causing the
slightest pain, but I never heard of one who exercised such power over
another person, but even if that were possible how would it help to send
George away? If Gloria sent him away, he could still keep on thinking
and worshipping snakes, too, for that matter,” he said, smiling.

“Professor Pendragon told me that if he had an enemy who was trying to
harm him, he would try and destroy that enemy’s faith in his ability to
harm. What we must do is destroy the snake first. George worships the
snake or some power of which the snake is a symbol. Either way if we
destroy the snake we destroy George’s confidence in his ability to
harm.”

“I haven’t any objections to killing snakes. In my opinion that’s what
the horrid beasts were created for, but this particular snake is
probably very valuable—he belongs to the profession and everything.”

“Please don’t jest about it, Terry; it may be a matter of life and
death. If I hear that Professor Pendragon is worse instead of better
tomorrow, I will be sure. Then we must do something before it is too
late. You must promise to help me.”

She laid her hand on his arm and looked up at him with such genuine fear
and entreaty in her eyes that for a moment he understood and sympathized
with all of her beliefs.

“Of course I’ll help,” he promised, “but now I’d best go, and you must
go to bed and try not to dream of snakes.”




                              CHAPTER VIII


Ruth waited impatiently for the noon hour, so that she might ask Nels
what news he had of Professor Pendragon, but when she finally met him he
had not seen nor heard from the Professor since the day they all had tea
together. On Sunday morning Dorothy was to go to him to begin his
portrait and Ruth was to accompany her. Until then she probably would
get no news. In the afternoon when she returned to the house she found
Gloria there before her, having returned early from the motion picture
studios. Terry was there too, reading the last of his new comedy which
was now completed. Gloria was enthusiastic about it and Billie Irwin,
who had been quite depressed for over a fortnight, was now as cheery as
if the contract was already signed, for Gloria had picked out a part
that must certainly be given to Billie if she, herself, was to play the
lead.

They all talked as if the production of the play was assured, and as if
no one but the author would have a word to say about how it should be
cast, a thing that seemed quite logical to Ruth until Terry himself
explained that he would have very little to say about it, except as to
Gloria, and she would be given the leading rôle when the play was
produced, not so much because Terry wanted her, as because she was the
only well-known actress who could possibly fit it.

To hear the others talking one would think that the play was going into
rehearsals tomorrow with all the parts distributed among Gloria’s
friends. Even Ben Stark begged Terry to try and hold out one of the
parts until he saw how his road tour was coming out, and they were all
discussing how the various parts ought to be dressed.

Terry had no opportunity to talk to Ruth alone, but they exchanged
significant glances when George appeared with tea, looking so correct
and conventional that it was difficult to believe that they had seen him
the night before burning incense and kneeling to a snake.

“Any news?” Terry whispered, and Ruth could only shake her head.

When George had left the room Terry ventured to speak of him:

“What’s all this that George is telling me about going up to the
Peyton-Russells’ with you to amuse the guests with vaudeville magic?” he
asked.

“Oh, he’s been telling!” exclaimed Gloria. “I intended it to be a
surprise. He’s really quite wonderful, you know, or at least he was
quite wonderful if he hasn’t forgotten.”

“It can’t do any harm, my knowing, as I’m not to be one of them,” said
Terry.

“I’d get you an invitation, if there was the slightest chance that you’d
accept,” said Gloria.

“You know I’d like to go, just to see George.”

“Consider yourself invited then. Angela will ask any one that I tell her
I want. They’ve got loads of room and men are never too numerous even in
the trail of the fair Angela.”

“Don’t you think that George ought to go back to his profession? If he’s
as good as you say it ought to be easy to get him signed up on the
Orpheum circuit. If he doesn’t know the ropes here in the States I’ll be
glad to help him,” said Terry.

“It can’t be done—the biggest salary in the world wouldn’t tempt George
away from my service. It’s the Eastern idea of gratitude. We had that
all argued out ten years ago. I told George that he ought not to give up
his career to serve me, but he wouldn’t listen to me at all. He said
that I had saved his life, therefore it belonged to me. He almost wept
at the idea of having to go, and yet I sometimes think that it is my
life that belongs to George instead of his life that belongs to me. He
is a most despotic servant and tries to rule all of my actions. If my
conduct displeases him he inconsistently threatens to leave, but of
course he doesn’t mean it.”

Gloria was smiling, reciting the peculiarities of an amusing servant,
but to Ruth her words were appalling. She seemed to see Gloria as a
bright plumaged bird, charmed by a snake. Once, years ago when she was a
little girl visiting in the country, she had seen a bird thus charmed,
circling, circling, downward toward the bright-eyed snake that waited
for it. She had been unable to move or help, as fascinated as the bird
itself. She felt the same sensation of helplessness now. She dared not
look at Terry, but a few minutes later he came to her side and whispered
to her:

“Meet me at Mori’s tomorrow at five.”

She had never heard of Mori’s, but she could look it up in the telephone
directory. Evidently Terry had some plan. The thought cheered her
immeasurably.

The situation in the house was a curious one, for Amy shrank with terror
whenever George came near her, at the same time leaping to do his
slightest bidding. Ruth, so far as possible, ignored George completely
and he never spoke to her directly unless it was absolutely necessary,
and Gloria did not seem to either observe or sense that there was a
strained atmosphere in the house.

The distrust of George and foreboding of the future descended on Ruth
the moment she entered the house in the afternoon and remained with her,
colouring all her thoughts until she entered the Art Students’ League in
the morning. Here she forgot everything in passionate pursuit of art,
daily lifting her ambition to higher ideals and daily seeming to
demonstrate more and more her lack of talent for the career which she
had chosen.

Seeing her earnestness her fellow students strove to help her, giving
her advice and criticism and now and then a word of encouragement, and
Ruth, whose confidence in herself was fast slipping, listened to
everything, following the advice last received and struggling to “find
herself.”

The thing that hurt her most was the fact that as yet she had seemed to
attract no particular notice from her instructors. In Indianapolis she
had been rather important and she could not think that the greater
attention she had received there was entirely due to there not being so
large a number of students. She longed to ask one of the instructors,
but it was hard to do that. They came through, looked impersonally at
her work and made brief comments about drawing, proportion, composition,
etc. Finally the courage came to her very suddenly in the portrait class
one morning. She had come early and was in the front row. Very slowly
the instructor, the most frank and vitriolic of all the instructors,
according to Nels, was coming toward her. Suddenly she knew that she
would speak to him that day. As he stopped from time to time, her
courage did not desert her. She waited quite calmly until he reached her
side. She rose to let him have her chair, and for some seconds he looked
at her work without speaking. Then he began:

“Don’t you see that your values are all wrong? And the entire figure is
out of drawing; it’s a caricature!”

Ruth listened almost without emotion. It was as if he was speaking to
some one else.

“By the way,” continued the instructor, looking up at her suddenly,
“didn’t I see some work of yours in one of the Sunday newspapers about a
month ago?”

Ruth nodded; she could not speak.

“I thought so; I was pleased and surprised at the time to see how much
better your work in that line was than anything you have done here.
That’s what is the trouble with this; it’s a cartoon.”

“But I want to be a portrait painter; I’m interested more in landscapes.
Please tell me the truth. Do you think I have talent—possibilities—will
I ever do anything?”

He looked at her, frowning, yet with a half smile on his lips.

“Tell me first, what are you studying for? Are you collecting canvases
to take home and show Mother, or do you intend to try for a career—to
make a profession of painting?”

“It is my profession—I’ve never wanted to do anything else—I must be a
great painter.”

She spoke with almost hysterical intensity.

A shadow passed over the instructor’s face.

“It is difficult to say who has and who has not talent. So far I have
seen no signs of it in your work here. Unquestionably you have the
cartoon gift, but as for painting—still a great desire may do much. Rome
wasn’t built in a day.”

She had listened attentively, almost hopefully, until those last
words. Then she knew that he was doing what Nels would have called
“stalling.” He did not believe that there was any chance for her. He
rose and went on about his tour of inspection, and Ruth sank down into
the empty chair. She did not work any more, but sat still, looking at
her work, but not thinking of it—not thinking of anything. She was
roused by seeing the other students filing out at the luncheon hour.
She did not want to see Nels and Dorothy; she would not go to their
restaurant, instead she would eat the “cheap and wholesome” lunch
offered in the building. There she would be with strangers. She ate
something, she did not know what, and returned to her life class, but
again she could not work. She was beginning to think definitely now.
She had no talent—no future. If she could not be a great artist, a
great painter, there was nothing in life for her. She didn’t want
anything else, not even love. If she could come to Terry with a great
gift, she would not stop hoping that he would love her, but to be just
an ordinary woman—just a wife. If she was not to be a great painter,
then what was she to be? Very carefully she went over every word of
the professor. He had admitted that it was difficult to say exactly
whether she had talent or not; he had only said that he had discovered
no signs of it. Yet he was only one man. Thousands of geniuses in
every field of endeavour had been discouraged by their elders simply
because the new genius worked in a different manner from those who had
gone before. But that didn’t apply to herself. She had no new and
original methods. She changed her style of work every day in response
to something she had heard or had seen. She had no knowledge, no ideas
about art, in herself. Yet all beginners must be swayed by what they
saw and heard, influenced by this or that painter from day to day,
until they found themselves. Then she wondered if she had a self to
find. She was vaultingly ambitious; she was industrious and something
of a dreamer, but with all this Ruth was practical. She thought of
perpetual students—did she want to become one of them? That was what
it meant, following a muse who had not called. Art is not chosen. It
chooses its own. Dorothy Winslow was wrong—fame could not be achieved
merely by ambition, energy, and determination—neither is genius the
art of taking pains, she thought. Sometimes it is achieved with
infinite carelessness. The hour was afternoon, class was over and she
had not touched crayon to paper. Not until she was on the street,
hurrying out to avoid speaking to Nels or Dorothy, did she remember
her engagement with Terry. Mori’s was on Forty-second Street. If she
walked she would arrive at the right time. She was no longer curious
as to what Terry would have to say. Gloria and George did not interest
her. She was arrived at branching roads and she must choose. She
realized that. Not that she could not keep on with her studies,
regardless of whether she had talent or not. She could, for she was
responsible to no one. No one counted on her to make good, nor was
there any one to warn her against mistakes. She only knew that she did
not want to devote her life to something for which she was not
intended. She did not want to fail, even less did she want to be a
mediocre success. She must live on Olympus or in the valley. It
occurred to her that her very thoughts were proof of her unworthiness.
If she were really a great artist she would not be thinking of either
fame or failure, but only of her work. She was walking rapidly so that
she arrived at Mori’s before five. She glanced at the watch on her
wrist before entering and he was beside her, coming from the opposite
direction.

“On time,” he said with mock surprise.

“No, I am ahead of time. I just came from the League.”

They went in together—a big room crowded with innumerable tiny tables
and many people, yet when she found herself seated opposite him, pouring
tea, they seemed to be quite alone together. Perhaps it was because the
tables were so tiny, perhaps because of the small, soft, rose-shaded
light on each one, that she seemed to be nearer him than ever before,
both physically and spiritually.

“You were looking quite downcast when we met; I hope you aren’t worrying
too much about George,” he said.

His tone was friendly, intimate, comforting, inviting confidence.

“No, it’s not that. Much more selfish. I was thinking of my own
troubles.”

“I didn’t know you had any.”

“Yes, it’s art. You know I have thought for years—three years to be
exact—that I would one day be a great painter and today I discovered
that I have no talent.”

“You can’t know that; you’re discouraged over some little failure. I
don’t know anything about art, but you’ve only been studying a few years
and that’s not time enough to tell.”

“Yes, it is—I’ve compared my work with that of other students and I’ve
been afraid for some time. Today I asked Burroughs, one of the
instructors, and now I know.”

“But that’s only one man’s opinion. Just what did he say?—I know the
pedagogue-al formula, three words of praise and one of censure to keep
you from being too happy, or three words of adverse criticism and one of
praise to keep you from being too discouraged. Wasn’t it like that?”

“No; he just said very frankly that he would not say that I had no
future at all, but he did say that if I had any my work at school had
never given any indication of it. He said my portraits looked like
cartoons, and then he remembered those awful sketches in the _Express_—”
She stopped embarrassed.

“You never will live that down, will you?” said Terry, smiling.

“That isn’t fair, I didn’t mean that, only it’s all so discouraging, to
want to paint masterpieces and to be told to draw cartoons.”

“Did he tell you that?” Terry spoke eagerly.

“Not in so many words, but that’s what he meant.”

“Then he rather admired your ability to do cartoons?”

“I suppose so.”

“Then why don’t you go in for that? One must do something, you know—play
some game and that is better than most.”

Ruth did not answer.

“If you’d like I dare say you could do theatrical caricatures for the
Sunday _Express_ every week. It wouldn’t take much time. Of course you’d
soon get as fed up with the theatre as a dramatic critic, but it would
be interesting for a time and you could continue to study, to take time
to prove whether or not you have talent. If you say I may, I’ll speak to
Daly about it the next time I see him.”

“I’d like it I think—after all, as Mr. Courtenay said, it’s better to be
a good cartoonist than a bad painter, and I can always keep on studying.
It will not be exactly giving up my ambition, only I won’t be gambling
everything on it.” Then, as if half ashamed of her surrender, and
wishing to change the subject, “But we didn’t intend to talk about me,
we were going to talk about Gloria, weren’t we?”

“Is it absolutely necessary that we should have something very definite
to talk about?” he asked, smiling. “Suppose I just asked you to meet me
for tea, because.”

Was he teasing her, she wondered.

“But now that we are together, because, let’s talk about Gloria. I won’t
know anything more about Professor Pendragon until Sunday. I’m going
there with Dorothy Winslow, who is going to do a portrait of him, but in
the meantime I’d feel very much happier if he was out of the house, or
if not George, at least the snake. Couldn’t you kill it, Terry? That
might make George so angry that he’d leave. And anyway, the snake is the
important thing. Without the snake George would be comparatively
harmless. You must kill the snake.”

“But, my dear girl, how do you propose that I am to make away with
George’s little pet? It belongs to George, you know. I don’t even know
where he keeps it, and if I did it is his property and it wouldn’t be
legal, you know—”

“I wish you wouldn’t laugh at me—”

“I’m not laughing at you. Even if I can’t quite believe all the things
that you believe, I can still see that the situation is serious, but I
can’t see how killing the snake would help any. My idea is a bit
different and perhaps quite as bizarre in its way. I’ve been thinking
that if we could bring Gloria and Professor Pendragon together again,
then he would take her away from George and the snake and save us the
trouble of taking George and the snake away from her.”

“It sounds good, but there’s no way to do it. I’ve given Gloria my word
that I’ll not mention her name to him and the other day she even made me
promise not to mention his name to her again.”

“Even so, there must be other people who know both of them.”

“He’s only been in America two years—they’d move in different circles,
naturally.”

“Yes, but circles cross—and look here, those pictures will be coming out
soon.”

“I don’t imagine he goes to the movies, certainly not now that he’s
ill.”

“Yes, but he reads the newspapers; he’ll see her pictures.”

“But that isn’t meeting her. If he’s at all like Gloria, he’ll be too
proud to look her up; besides we may be talking nonsense. How do we know
that they don’t really hate each other?”

“That’s not the worst. People don’t usually hate over ten years. They
may be utterly indifferent. I realize that possibility, but I don’t
believe they are indifferent. It’s all just guessing.”

“The simplest way would be to get rid of the snake,” persisted Ruth.

“Yes, I know, but who’s to do it, and how?”

“You’re to do it, and I suppose that I, being in the house, should plan
the means—find out where he keeps his pet and how to kidnap it.”

“Even if it has the significance you suppose, what’s to prevent him
getting a new one?”

“They don’t sell them in the department stores, you know,” said Ruth,
smiling.

“Let’s wait until you see Pendragon again before we do anything rash,”
Terry closed the discussion.

He came home with Ruth, who wondered if Gloria would observe them coming
together, and if it might not wake in Gloria some latent jealousy.

“I’ve persuaded Ruth to take up cartooning as a profession,” he
announced. His putting it into words like that before all of them seemed
to make it final.

“You mean those political things of fat capitalists and paper-capped
labouring men?” asked Ben Stark.

“Certainly not,” said Terry. “You’re horribly behind the times. That
sort of thing isn’t done. If she goes in for political cartoons at all
she will draw pictures of downtrodden millionaires defending themselves
from Bolsheviki, rampant on a field of red, or of a mob of infuriated
factory owners throwing stones at the home of a labour leader—she may
draw a series of pictures showing in great detail how a motion picture
actress makes up to conceal the wart on her nose before facing the
camera.”

“It isn’t at all settled yet,” said Ruth. “I may not be able to get a—a
job.” She hated the word, but pronounced it in a perfect fury of
democratic renunciation.

“I don’t think there’ll be any trouble,” said Terry. “There’s always a
demand for that sort of thing.”

Altogether, however, the announcement produced surprisingly little
comment from Gloria and her friends. They seemed to take it as a matter
of course, like Gloria’s going into motion pictures. She had been,
despite her fears, rather successful, and had been offered a new
contract, which, however, she was unwilling to sign until she knew more
about the production of Terry’s comedy. If Terry’s play really got a New
York production, Gloria would be only too glad to desert the camera.

The revelation of Ruth’s duplicity to Professor Pendragon was threatened
in a most unexpected manner, Sunday morning. First Dorothy called for
her at the house, and this time, manifested more curiosity about her
surroundings than she had done previously, because this time her mind
was not on the more important matter of frocks.

“Who do you live with here?” she asked Ruth, as she waited for her to
put on her hat and coat.

Ruth hesitated; she hated deception of any kind, or making mysteries.
After all it was very silly of Gloria. If one must leave ex-husbands
scattered around the world, one should contemplate the possibility of
running across them now and then with equanimity. And then the stupid
idea of concealing their relationship. It was all most annoying.

“With a woman who was a friend of my father,” she answered at last, but
Dorothy was not to be put off so easily.

“I mean what’s her name?” she asked with frank curiosity.

“Gloria Mayfield—she’s really my aunt,” said Ruth with a desperate
realization that she might as well speak now as have her secret come out
later under less favourable circumstances. After all, Dorothy didn’t
know that Pendragon was one of Gloria’s husbands and she might not
mention their relationship to him anyway.

“The actress?” asked Dorothy, with a rising inflection composed of
astonishment, envy, and doubt in her voice.

“Uh—huh.” She tried not to be pleased at the look in Dorothy’s blue
eyes.

“She’s in pictures, isn’t she, now? I saw her picture in at least three
newspapers this morning.”

“I don’t know—I’ve not seen any newspapers this morning,” she answered.

“Will I meet her?” asked Dorothy. She was a most distressingly natural
and unaffected person. She always said what she thought and asked for
what she wanted without the slightest effort at concealment.

“I dare say you will if you come often enough. She’s asleep now, but
she’s not at all difficult to meet.”

“Perhaps I could paint her,” again suggested Dorothy.

“I don’t think Gloria could sit still long enough.”

Things were developing too rapidly for Ruth. She had known that Dorothy
would be interested, but she had not thought that her interest would
take this turn, though she might have guessed, for Dorothy looked at
everything and every person as so much available material. She worked
incessantly with both hands and brain. She didn’t just study art; she
lived it in the most practical manner possible. She was becoming quite
well known as a fashion artist and could have been busy all the time,
had she not continued her studies. As it was she did quite as much work
as many fashion artists who devoted all their time to it. And she never
for a moment let herself think that being a fashion artist today would
debar her from becoming a famous portrait painter tomorrow. She was
building high hopes on Professor Pendragon.

On the way to his hotel Ruth told her about her decision to go in for
cartooning professionally, and she rather hoped that Dorothy would
discourage her, but she was disappointed.

“Splendid! You’re doing the right thing. You know I don’t think you’ll
ever get any place with painting. Nels thinks that, too, but you have a
genius for caricature. Those things in the _Express_ were really clever.
Lots of character and good action. You’ll be famous.”

“Famous!” Ruth put as much scorn as possible into the one word.

“Of course—beginning with Cruickshank there have been ever so many
caricature artists in the last two centuries whose names will last as
long and longer than most of the painters.”

Ruth did not respond to this. She was wondering if after all she might
not one day, not only be reconciled to the work destiny had given her,
but be actually rather proud of it.

They were expected by Professor Pendragon and were conducted immediately
to his apartment, but when the boy knocked at his door, he did not open
it as on the former occasion, instead they were met by a white uniformed
nurse.

“Professor Pendragon begs to be excused from his appointment. He is very
much worse. The paralysis has extended from his knee to his hip. He
asked me to say that he will be glad to make good his promise as soon as
he is well.”

The effect of this announcement was bad enough on Dorothy, who naturally
was bitterly disappointed, but its effect on Ruth was much worse.
Professor Pendragon’s misfortune had fallen upon him on the night that
she first watched George, and a repetition of George’s ceremonial had
brought with it the increased misfortune to him that she had feared. She
was eager to hurry away and find an opportunity to tell Terry of this
new development, but Dorothy lingered at the door, expressing sympathy,
which Ruth suspected was more for herself than for Professor Pendragon.

Professor Pendragon called to the nurse to let them come in. He was
propped up on a chaise longue, with newspapers and the remains of
breakfast scattered about on the floor and on a low table beside him.
His face was very pale and Ruth thought that he looked as if he had not
slept. She tried not to look at some photographs of Gloria prominently
displayed on the scattered sheets. Evidently he had seen them, so now he
knew that she was in New York, or at least in America.

“I’m awfully sorry to disappoint you and myself. But you see a man can’t
have his portrait painted in a pose like this,” he said. “I can’t
imagine what’s wrong with me, but of course it won’t last long. A friend
of mine has asked me out to his place in the Berkshires and I think I’ll
go. Perhaps this may be the result of nerves, and anyway, lots of cold
air and altitude and quiet can’t do any harm. When I return I’ll be very
glad to make good, but perhaps by that time you will have so many
commissions that you won’t have time for me.”

“No chance,” said Dorothy. “I shall be waiting for you.” And then: “How
long do you think it will be?”

“You’ll know definitely after Christmas eve, next dark of the moon, you
know.” He was smiling, the smile that Ruth had grown to suspect hid a
serious thought. “Either the paralysis will have crept up to my heart,
or it will have gone entirely. I am waiting.”

Dorothy laughed nervously.

“What nonsense; of course you’ll get well and the moon hasn’t anything
to do with it anyway. We’re awfully sorry that you’re ill, and don’t
forget to let me know when you get back to town.”

When Ruth took his hand to say good-bye she thought he looked at her
reproachfully, but she dared not meet his eyes. Dorothy was looking down
at the pictured face of Gloria that was smiling up at them, but
apparently she looked with unseeing eyes, for she did not say anything.

In a way it would have relieved Ruth’s conscience if Dorothy had spoken.
She might then have discovered whether Pendragon knew of her deception
and what he thought. One thing she knew. Professor Pendragon was really
facing death—a mysterious, relentless death that could not be overcome
or even combated. When he died no one would search for his murderer—no
one would believe that his death was anything but natural, and the force
that had killed him would still go on through the world, too mysterious
and unbelievable for modern minds to compass.




                               CHAPTER IX


It was the first time that Ruth had seen Prince Aglipogue, though
apparently he was on the most congenial and intimate terms of friendship
with Gloria. He was at the piano now, accompanying himself, while he
sang in Italian. He had glossy black eyes, glossy red lips, glossy black
hair, smooth glossy cheeks and what Terry described as a grand opera
figure. He was a Roumanian, and while he sang magnificently, was a
passable pianist and a really good violinist, he was at present earning
his living as a painter.

Gloria had finished her motion picture contract and was relaxing. Ruth
had just come home from the League and found Gloria, Terry, Billie
Irwin, Prince Aglipogue and Angela Peyton-Russell at the house. Ben
Stark had at last started out on tour, or he would also have been there.
Ruth often thought that her aunt’s house was more like a club than a
home. Of course Ruth did not immediately learn all the foregoing details
about Prince Aglipogue, whom Gloria called Aggie, and the others called
Prince. Her information came in scraps gathered from the conversation of
the others. She had slipped quietly into the room while Prince Aglipogue
was singing and was introduced to him when he had finished. He bowed
with surprising depth and grace for a man with no waist line to speak
of, and regarded her out of his glossy, black eyes. He spoke entirely
without accent, but constructed his sentences curiously, Ruth thought.

As always when there were many people Ruth did not talk, but listened.
Mrs. Peyton-Russell had come to talk over with Gloria the details of her
Christmas party. As at present arranged she would have one more man than
woman, and it appeared that her party must be conducted strictly on the
Ark principle, with pairs. She was deeply distressed. She had invited
Billie Irwin in a patronizing burst of generosity, but Billie had also
secured an engagement that would take her out of town and could not
come.

“I don’t know who to have,” Angela complained. “Of course there are
dozens of people I could ask, but I wanted this to be just our little
Bohemian circle—no swank, no society people—just friends.”

No one seemed to mind this remark. George had come in with a tea wagon
and the Prince was engaged in the, to Ruth, alarming, procedure of
drinking whiskey and soda and eating cake. Witnessing this catholic
consumption of refreshment she could easily conceive that an invitation
to any party under any circumstances, would be welcome to him. As for
Gloria, she was accustomed to Angela, and did not mind her airs. Since
her marriage Angela had consistently referred to all her old friends as
“our little Bohemian circle,” a circle, to which she was constantly
reverting for amusement, after unsuccessful attempts to gain access to
the more conventional circles described as Society.

“Angela’s heart is as good as her complexion,” Gloria always said, and
that was indeed high praise.

“Just tea, please, Gloria,” Angela was saying. “I never drink anything
stronger any more—no, no real principle, but people in our position must
set an example, you know. Not sweets—I really don’t dare, well just a
tiny bit. You know there is a tendency to stoutness in our family.”

“There is, I suppose, in that, nothing personal,” said Prince Aglipogue,
hastily swallowing a _petit fours_.

Angela laughed gaily. She pretended to believe everything the Prince
said to be extremely clever.

“But that doesn’t solve my problem,” said Angela. “You are all to come
up on the Friday night train. We’ll meet you at the station at North
Adams. You must be sure and dress warmly, because it’s a twenty-mile
drive through the hills and while there’ll be lots of robes in the
sleigh, one can’t have too much.”

“It will remind me of Russia,” said the Prince.

“You’ll be sure to bring your violin and some music,” said Angela.

Prince Aglipogue assented carelessly.

“I really think it will be tremendously successful,” said Angela, “not a
dull person in the party, only John has invited one of his friends—he’s
coming up early. I forget his name, but anyway I haven’t the slightest
idea what he’s like and he makes my party uneven. Come to think, though,
John said something about his being ill—lungs, I suppose, so perhaps he
won’t want to talk to any one. Anyway I’ll try and think of some one
congenial before it’s too late.”

She rambled on, sipping her tea and forgetting her diet to the extent of
two more cakes, while George moved in and out among them apparently a
model of what a perfect servant could be.

“Of course you’ll sing for us,” she demanded of the Prince.

“You will inspire my best efforts,” he assured her, looking at Gloria.

“And you’ll be sure to have some clever stories, Mr. Riordan.”

Evidently every one would have to pay for their entertainment. Ruth
wondered if she would be expected to draw.

“And the best part of the entertainment is to be a secret.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t to most of them,” said Gloria. “Professional pride
got the better of George’s discretion and he told Terry and Terry told
Ruth.”

“What is it?” asked the Prince, evidently fearing a rival attraction.

“It’s George,” explained Gloria. “He used to be a music hall magician
and he’s going to do his tricks for us.”

“Oh!” Prince Aglipogue shrugged his fat shoulders.

“You won’t be so scornful when you’ve seen him. He was one of the best
and if he hasn’t forgotten he’ll astonish you. George is a Hindoo, you
know, and he doesn’t need a lot of props to work with.”

“And he is working here as your—as your butler.” It was indeed difficult
to classify George. His duties were so numerous and varied.

“Yes, Aggie, as my butler, footman, and he will be cook and maid as
well, I’m afraid, for Amy has given notice. She’s leaving at the end of
the week, unless Ruth can persuade her to stay.”

“Why Ruth?” asked Terry.

“I don’t know. Servants always have favourites and while George is
devoted to me, Amy is devoted to Ruth.”

“Devotion? Among servants!” Angela threw out her hands in a despairing
gesture and then launched forth on a discussion of servants to which no
one paid much attention, with the possible exception of Billie Irwin,
who listened to every one on every subject, showing her keen attention
to their words by sundry nods, smiles, and shakes of the head.

Angela was taking Gloria away with her to dinner and Prince Aglipogue,
finally having consumed the last scrap of cake, and convinced that he
would not be asked to come with them, took his departure. Billie Irwin
went up to her room to rest, Gloria and Angela went away and Terry also
departed, leaving Ruth alone. She rather hated these evenings when
Gloria was away and she had to dine alone. Amy usually served her on
these occasions, George hardly thinking that one person at the table
justified his appearance. She was wondering whether she should tell her
not to trouble with dinner and go out, when George came in to take away
the tea things. Ruth was almost as much afraid of George as Amy, but she
nerved herself to speak to him now, because she questioned whether she
would again have such a good opportunity.

“How is your pet?” she asked.

“I beg your pardon,” said George, capturing a glass from the piano and a
tea cup from the floor with what looked like one movement.

“I mean the snake that you use in your—in your tricks.”

“I do not perform _tricks_ with the daughter of Shiva.”

“But you said you were rehearsing the day Mr. Riordan and I looked in on
you?”

“You knew that I was not speaking the truth.”

As he talked he went on about his duties. There was in his attitude
toward her nothing of the servant. He did not pronounce her name once,
but spoke as one speaks to an equal.

“Why should I think that you were speaking anything but the truth? If
you were not telling the truth I must speak to Miss Mayfield. I don’t
think she would like the idea of having a snake in the house.”

He put down the cup in his hand and turned to her.

“Miss Mayfield is well aware that the daughter of Shiva is with me. She
has been with me since my birth and was with my father before me, and
she is sacred.”

“George, you ought to be ashamed to believe all that superstition—an
educated—” she stopped, the word nigger on her lips—“man like you. It’s
nothing short of idolatry.” She was trying to talk to him as she would
have scolded at one of her mother’s coloured servants.

“You prefer the mythology of the Hebrews?” asked George.

Ruth decided to ignore this.

“And now you’ve frightened poor Amy so that she is leaving. That ought
to concern you, for it may be some time before Miss Mayfield can find
any one to take her place.”

“That is of no importance, for on the first of the year the house will
revert to its original owner and she will not need servants. She will be
travelling with her new husband.”

“Her what?” Ruth forgot that she was talking to George. She stared at
him wide eyed, unwilling to believe that she had heard him rightly.

His blue lips curled up in a thin smile:

“Certainly—wait and you will see that I am right. She herself does not
know it, but she will marry Prince Aglipogue on the first of the new
year.”

“She will do nothing of the sort—she can’t—he’s fat!”

Ruth was protesting not to George but to herself, for even against her
reason she believed everything George said to her. He shrugged his
shoulders, still smiling at her, and it seemed to her that the iris of
his eyes was red, concentrating in tiny points of flame at the pupils.

“You are speaking foolishly out of the few years of your present
existence; back of that you have the unerring knowledge of many
incarnations and you know that what I say is true. Has she not already
had three husbands? I tell you she will have one more before she finally
finds her true mate. She has suffered, but before she knows the truth
she must suffer more. Through the Prince she will come to poverty and
disgrace, and when these things are completed she will see her true
destiny and follow it.”

A mist was swimming before Ruth’s eyes so that she no longer saw the
room or the figure of George—only his red eyes glowed in the deepening
shadows of the room, holding her own. She struggled to move her gaze,
but her head would not turn; she tried to rise, to leave him as if his
words were the silly ravings of a demented servant, but her limbs were
paralysed. Only her lips moved and she heard words coming from them, or
echoing in her brain. She could not be sure that she really made a
sound.

“What do you mean?”

“In the whole world there are only two men who are fit to walk beside
her—and of those one is slowly dying of an unknown disease. He whom the
gods chose will soon be gone, but I remain because I have knowledge. In
the _Mahabharata_ it is written, ‘Even if thou art the greatest sinner
among all that are sinful, thou shalt yet cross over all transgressions
by the raft of knowledge,’ and the Vedas tell of men who armed with
knowledge have defied the gods themselves—”

He paused and turned on her almost fiercely:

“Do you think that I have renounced my caste, that I have lived with the
unclean and served the unclean for nothing—the price has been too high
for me to lose—but no price will seem too high after I have won!”


Ruth woke to find herself alone and in darkness, save for the light from
the street lamps that shone through the curtained windows. With her
hands stretched out in front of her to ward off obstacles she moved
cautiously through the room until she found a light to turn on. She felt
weak and dizzy, but she remembered everything that George had said. It
could not be true—it could not, but with her denials she still heard
George’s voice speaking of the raft of knowledge and she half remembered
the incomprehensible contradictions of Indian mythology—of heroes and
holy Brahmans who had actually fought with gods and conquered, but these
men had only won power through self-denial. Possibly George thought that
by living as a servant for eleven years he was performing
austerities—possibly did not know what he believed. Certainly modern
Hindoos did not believe as he did. His mind seemed to be a confused mass
of knowledge and superstition, ancient and modern, but one thing he
had—faith and absolute confidence in his power, and she remembered some
words she had read, when, as a child, she pored over books of mythology
instead of fairy tales: “All this, whatever exists, rests absolutely on
mind,” and “That man succeeds whom thus knowing the power of austere
abstraction, practises it.”

She was roused from her thoughts by the entrance of Amy.

“Ain’ yo’ goin’ eat dinnah? That voodoo man, he’s gone out, an’ I saw
you-all sleepin’ here and didn’t like to disturb yo’. Yo’ dinnah’s cold
by now, but I’ll warm it up—now he’s gone I ain’ ’fraid to go in the
kitchen.”

“I’m not hungry, Amy, and I’m sorry you’re going.”

“Dat’s all right. I ain’ so anxious fo’ wu’k as that. I don’ haf to wu’k
with devils. An’ yo’ bettah eat. You-all too thin. It’s a shame you-all
havin’ ter eat alone heah while Mis’ Glorie go out to pahties. She don’
treat yo’ like folks. Dat devil man he’s hoodooed her. I’ve seen him
lookin’ at her with his red eyes.”

She went on muttering and returned with dinner on a tray, and Ruth
knowing the uselessness of resistance dutifully ate, while Amy hovered
near.

“Tell me all about it, Amy. What has George been doing now? I thought
you would be satisfied when I let you sleep upstairs.”

“No, sir, I ain’ satisfied nohow. I wouldn’t wu’k heah or sleep heah
’nother night not for all the money in the worl’. Dat man he sets an’
sets lookin’ at nothin’ an’ then he runs knives inter his hans—an’ he
don’ bleed. He ain’ human—that’s what.”

“I’m sorry, Amy—I don’t want you to go and neither does Gloria, but of
course we can’t keep you. Let me know if you don’t get another place or
if anything goes wrong. Perhaps later George may go and then you can
come back.”

“He won’t go. One mawnin’ you-all will wake up dade—that’s what goin’
happen.”

She shook her head, looking at Ruth with real tears in her eyes.
Apparently she thought she looked at one doomed to early death, and
Ruth, though she knew the threatened evil was not for herself, had long
since lost the ability to laugh at Amy’s superstitions.




                               CHAPTER X


Terry Riordan arranged an interview for Ruth with the Sunday editor of
the _Express_, with the result that she found herself promised to do a
weekly page of theatrical sketches, beginning the first of the year, and
she discovered the unique joy of having real work which was wanted and
for which she would receive money. Also she discovered that association
with a newspaper and connection with a weekly stipend gave her a
prestige with her fellow students which no amount of splendid amateur
effort would have won for her. Dorothy and Nels told every one they knew
about “Ruth Mayfield’s splendid success,” and Professor Burroughs
congratulated her.

“It is always sad to see a student with a real gift neglecting it for a
fancied talent,” he said, “and it is equally satisfying when any of our
students wisely follow the line of work for which they are fitted. We
don’t want to turn out dabblers, and too often that’s what art students
become.”

Ruth would have looked forward to the beginning of the next year
eagerly, had she been thinking only of herself, for her new work was
throwing her much in the company of Terry Riordan, who was taking her to
the theatre every night, so that she would become familiar with the
appearance and mannerisms of the popular actresses and actors. Of course
he was doing it only because he was such a kind-hearted man and because
he wanted to help her, but even Ruth knew that if she had not been a
rather pleasant companion he would not have taken so much interest in
helping her. His cheerfulness puzzled her. He seemed so brave and
happy—but perhaps it was merely the forced gaiety of a man who is trying
to forget.

It was not, however, her own affairs that interested her most. Terry had
found a producer for his play and despite the lateness of the season,
rehearsals for it were to begin in January. Gloria had been offered the
leading rôle, and with characteristic perverseness had said that she was
not at all sure that she wanted it, information that Terry refused to
convey to the manager. This, coupled with the fact that Gloria was now
constantly in the company of Prince Aglipogue, made Ruth remember
vividly her conversation with George. Her beauty, her restlessness, her
changeful moods seemed to increase from day to day. She was always kind
to Ruth, but she was very seldom with her. Invitations that a month
before would have been thrown away unread were now accepted and Gloria
dashed about from one place to another, always with Prince Aglipogue in
her wake. His ponderous attentions seemed to surround her like a cage
and she, like a darting humming-bird, seemed ever to be struggling to
escape and ever recognizing the bars that enclosed her.

Terry and Ruth, returning very late from supper after the theatre, would
sometimes find her sitting in semi-darkness, while the Prince sang to
her, but in such brief glimpses there was no chance for intimate
conversation between the two women. Alone with Terry at the theatre or
in some restaurant, Ruth almost forgot the shadow hanging over the house
on Gramercy Park. Terry was so gay and amusing, so healthful and normal
in his outlook, and wherever they went they met his friends, until Ruth
began to feel like a personage. It was all very pleasant. Late hours had
forced her to appear less and less often at the morning class, but she
was always at the League in the afternoon and she began to wonder
whether she would not give it up altogether as soon as she actually
began her work for the _Express_. She had tried to tell Terry about her
talk with George; but a few hours away from George and his snake worship
and the sight of George in his rôle of servant had restored what Terry
called his mental balance, and he no longer regarded him as dangerous.
He was beginning to be a bit ashamed of even listening to Ruth’s fears.

“It’s only natural that you should be nervous—that we should both have
been a bit impressed, it was so weird and unexpected, but after all
George is just a servant, and the snake is probably a harmless reptile,
such as one sees in any circus. I do not think that he is a bad servant
and that he does not regard Gloria as a servant should; he’s impertinent
and disagreeable, if you like, but I don’t believe he has the slightest
thing to do with Professor Pendragon’s illness. How could he?”

He talked thus until Ruth despaired of securing his assistance. Terry
had given Gloria a contract to sign, which she persistently refused to
consider. Finally he appealed to Ruth about it.

“Can’t you make Gloria sign it?” he said. “She seemed keen enough before
we found a producer and before the thing was cast, and now that she has
the contract before her, she seems to have lost all interest. I can’t
imagine what’s wrong. Of course temperament covers a multitude of sins,
but she never was temperamental about her work.”

“Perhaps she’s decided to really abandon the stage,” said Ruth.

They were having supper together—Ruth didn’t know where. One of the
delightful things about Terry was that he never asked her where she
wanted to go. He didn’t even tell her where they were going. He just
took her.

Terry looked at her in amazement. “Leave the stage?”

“Did it ever occur to you that Gloria might marry Prince Aglipogue?” she
asked.

Terry answered with a laugh:

“My dear child, you’ve thought so much about Gloria and George that
you’re beginning to think of impossibilities. Gloria wouldn’t marry a
man like that, and if she did she’d have to stay on the stage to support
him. The house, of course, belongs to her, but the income from her other
husband—I forget his name—would certainly stop if she remarried.”

“I know; I thought it was preposterous too, but she’s always with him,
and George told me that Gloria would marry Aglipogue.”

“Servants’ gossip, or perhaps he did it to annoy you. Did you tell
Gloria?”

“No; I never get a chance to talk to her any more.”

“If you told her it might make her angry enough to dismiss him. Gloria
hates being discussed. Is the Prince going to the Christmas party?”

“Of course; he goes everywhere that Gloria goes. I know you think that I
am foolish and superstitious, but I can’t help thinking that George has
some power over Gloria—that what he says is true—that he’s forcing her
to marry Prince Aglipogue and that he is responsible for Professor
Pendragon’s strange illness. The first time I saw George with the snake
was almost three months ago—that same night Professor Pendragon became
paralysed; the next time was just a month later and at the same time
Professor Pendragon’s paralysis became suddenly worse. It was at the
dark of the moon—”

The last words were spoken almost in a whisper and when she paused Terry
did not speak, but sat waiting for her to go on.

“I know George hasn’t worshipped the snake since that time, for I’ve
been in the house every night and you can always tell because of the
incense that fills the hall and lingers there for hours. Christmas Eve
will be the next dark of the moon. I know, for I’ve looked it up. We’ll
all be in the Berkshires then, at the Peyton-Russells’. George will be
there, too—and I’m afraid—I’m afraid.”

Terry still sat silent looking at her with an expression of helpless
amazement. His blue eyes were troubled and doubting and she knew that
while he did not quite disbelieve her, he was by no means convinced,
that her fears were justified. It was all too bizarre and unusual. The
only trace of fear in his eyes was for herself, not for Gloria, or
Professor Pendragon. She had been bending eagerly toward him. Now she
sank back with a little helpless sigh. Instantly Terry’s hand reached
across the table and caught her own in a comforting grip.

“Tell me what you want me to do, Ruth; I’ll do anything. I’ll do
anything for you—anything in or out of reason. I don’t understand all
this talk about snakes and black magic, but whatever you want done, you
can depend on me.”

The blood rushed into Ruth’s cheeks in a glow of happiness. Something
deeper than friendship thrilled in his voice. For a moment she forgot
Gloria, and believed that she was looking into the eyes of her own
acknowledged lover. Then she remembered. His words, even his eyes told
her that he did, but it could not be true. For a moment she could not
speak. She must think of Gloria first and herself afterward, but she
wanted to prolong her dream a little while. Finally she told him what
she had decided in her own mind was the only thing that Terry could do
for her. She knew that he did not believe that George was menacing the
life of Professor Pendragon, or that he was influencing Gloria to marry
Prince Aglipogue, but even though he did not love her, he would do
whatever she asked.

“I want you to get me a revolver, Terry; I want a revolver—one of those
little ones—before we go to the Christmas party.”

She did not quite understand the curious “let down” expression on
Terry’s face, when she made her request.

“You don’t want to shoot George or the snake?” he asked, smiling.

“I don’t want to shoot any one or any thing unless—anyway I’d feel much
more comfortable if I had a little revolver.”

“You shall have one; I’ll call it a Christmas present; but can you
shoot?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I could hit things if they weren’t too far away
or too small.”

“If you accidentally kill any of your friends I shall feel morally
responsible, but I suppose I’ll just have to take a chance. Do you by
any chance want the thing to be loaded?”

“Of course,” said Ruth, ignoring his frivolous tone.

They went home together almost in silence. Ruth did not know what
occupied Terry’s thoughts, but she herself was wondering if she could
find the courage to ask Terry to save Gloria from George and Aglipogue,
by marrying her himself. It was all very well to be unselfish in love,
but for some weeks at least it seemed to her that Terry had given up all
effort to interest Gloria. If he would only make an effort he might save
Gloria from the Prince and win happiness for himself, but despite her
generous resolves, she could not bring herself to advise him to “speak
for himself.”

They could hear Prince Aglipogue singing as she unlocked the door of the
house on Gramercy Square. The sound of his voice and the piano covered
the opening and closing of the door, so that they stood looking in on
Gloria and her guest without themselves being observed. The song was
just ending—Prince Aglipogue at the piano, her eyes wide and if she
heard the music she did not see the singer. There was a trance-like
expression in her eyes and when, the song ending, they saw Aglipogue
draw her to the seat beside him and lift his face to kiss her, with one
movement Terry and Ruth drew back toward the outer door.

“Guess I’d better go,” whispered Terry.

“Yes; you saw George was right. They didn’t see us—don’t forget my
revolver.”

She closed the door after Terry, this time with a loud bang that could
not fail to be heard and as she turned back she saw, far down the hall,
two red eyes gleaming at her, like the eyes of a cat. She wondered if
George had been watching too, and if his quick ears caught her whispered
words to Terry.

Gloria called her name before she entered the room, almost like old
times, but Prince Aglipogue did not seem to be particularly pleased to
see her.

“You were singing,” she said to him. “Please don’t stop because I’ve
come. I love to hear you.”

“Thank you, but it is late for more music; and it is late, too, for
little girls who study, to be up even for the sake of music.”

Even a week ago he would not have dared speak to her like that. He sat
staring at her now, out of his insolent, oily black eyes, as if she were
really a troublesome child. For a moment anger choked her voice and she
half expected Gloria to speak for her, but Gloria was still looking at
Aglipogue, the strange trance-like expression in her eyes, and Ruth
became calm. If Prince Aglipogue chose to be rude she could be
impervious to rudeness.

“I’m not trying to make the morning classes any more, Prince Aglipogue,
so I can stay up as long as I like, but perhaps you’re tired of
singing.”

It was Aglipogue who looked at Gloria now as if he expected her to send
Ruth away, but she said nothing, sitting quite still with her long hands
folded in her lap, a most uncharacteristic pose, and a faint smile on
her lips. She seemed to have forgotten both of them. It seemed
incredible that less than five minutes before Ruth had seen her bend her
head to meet the lips of the fat singer—incredible and horrible.

“Yes, I’m tired—of singing,” said Aglipogue after a pause. He rose and
lifted one of Gloria’s lovely hands and kissed it. Simultaneously George
appeared at the door with his hat and stick. It seemed to Ruth that
under his air of great deference and humility George was sneering at the
Prince. Gloria, seemingly only half roused from her trance or reverie,
rose also in farewell and seemed to struggle to concentrate on her
departing guest.

“Tomorrow,” he said, bending again over her hand.

“Yes, tomorrow.”

He went out without again speaking to Ruth, who waited breathless until
she heard the closing of the outer door. Gloria watched him disappear,
and then lifted her arms high above her head, stretching her superb body
up to its full length like a great Persian cat just waking from a nap.

“What are you doing up at this hour, Ruth?” She spoke as if seeing Ruth
for the first time.

“I went to the theatre with Terry, you know, and then we went to supper
afterward and I came in fifteen minutes ago. I’m not a bit tired.”

“I am, horribly, of everything.”

“It’s only Prince Aglipogue who’s been boring you. No wonder you’re
tired of him. If he’d only sing behind a curtain so that one didn’t have
to look at him, he would be quite lovely,” said Ruth. She spoke thus
with the intention of making Gloria tell what she really thought of the
Prince. Gloria sank back on her chair by the piano and rested her chin
on her folded hands, her elbows on her knees. Unlike most large women
she seemed able to assume any attitude she chose without appearing
ungraceful.

“You don’t like Aggie, do you?”

She was looking at Ruth now with something of her normal expression in
her eyes.

“I don’t exactly dislike him,” said Ruth. “He’s all right as a singer or
a pianist or a painter, but as a man he is singularly uninteresting,
isn’t he?”

“He is horribly stupid—I—” Suddenly her expression changed and she was
on her feet again, walking restlessly up and down the room: “I’m going
to marry him; he’s going to South America on a concert tour and I’ll go
with him—I’m so tired of everything; I want to get away.”

Involuntarily Ruth had also risen, bewildered at the sudden change in
Gloria’s manner. Through the open doorway she could see George standing
in the dimly lighted hall beyond, his red eyes gleaming, fixed on
Gloria’s moving figure. She thought she understood, at least in part,
the reason for the sudden change and though she was trembling with the
unreasoning fear that assails the bravest in the face of the mysterious
and unknown, she forced herself to move across the room so that she
stood between George in the hall, and Gloria. She could almost feel his
malignant gaze on her back as she stood in the doorway, but she did not
falter.

“If you do that, Gloria, it will mean that you can’t work in Terry’s
play—It will mean giving up everything—your career and your income. Does
Prince Aglipogue know that?”

Gloria paused in her restless walk and looked at her from beneath her
troubled brows.

“I don’t care about the career; I’m tired of the stage, but what
difference will the income make? It’s such a little one, you know.”

“Still it may make a difference with Aglipogue, and if you give up your
career and your income you will be dependent on him. That should make a
difference to you.”

Ruth wondered afterward where she got all this worldly knowledge and how
she was able to say it, with George’s eyes burning into her back.

“What a practical child you are; but let’s not talk about it tonight.
I’m awfully tired. We were going to announce our engagement Christmas
Eve, but there’s no harm in your knowing.”

“Gloria, you can’t—you can’t marry him. He’s fat and selfish and
horrid!” In her excitement she forgot George and moved to Gloria’s side.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Gloria’s eyes looked across her, over her head and the trance-like look
came back into them.

“When you are as old as I you will know that physical appearance doesn’t
matter much. I don’t know why I’m marrying Aggie, but it seems to be
happening. So many things happen—I need a change; I want to travel in a
new country. Besides it’s all fixed—it’s too late now—too late—”

She threw off Ruth’s detaining hands and swept past her through the hall
and up the stairway, and Ruth did not try to follow her. Somewhere
beyond the shadows she knew that George was still standing, his red eyes
gleaming like those of a cat. She waited a few minutes to give Gloria
time to go to her room and to give him time to retire to his own
quarters. She did not want to pass him in the hall, and when at last she
also went up, she thought she caught the sounds of suppressed sobs,
coming from Gloria’s room. It would do no good to stop. In two days more
they would be going to the Berkshires and there either George would win
in his curious twisted plans or she would defeat him. If only she knew
where to find Professor Pendragon. Terry could not help. He was too
modern and practical. He couldn’t understand, his mind was fresh and
clean and honest and western. If she could see Pendragon again she would
tell him everything and he might help. She decided to telephone his
hotel in the morning and find out, if possible, just where he had gone.




                               CHAPTER XI


When Ruth telephoned Professor Pendragon’s hotel she found that he had
not left any address and would not be expected back before the first of
the year. Her next thought was of Nels Zord. He might know, but much to
her surprise she did not see Nels at the League, and sought out Dorothy
instead. She found her easily enough, but it was not until she had asked
about Nels that she observed that Dorothy’s eyes were red and her cheeks
swollen as if from recent weeping. It was luncheon time and they were
walking toward their restaurant together.

“I don’t know where Nels is,” said Dorothy. Her voice was almost a sob.

“Haven’t you seen him today?”

“I never see him any more—haven’t you seen? He’s too busy with that
Alice Winn girl. Oh, you know her, Ruth, the insipid creature with the
carefully nurtured southern accent, who always has some highbrow Russian
or Swedish book under her arm, and begins reading it every time she
thinks a man is looking.”

“I think I know the one you mean, but what about her and why is Nels
busy with her and why have you been crying? You _have_ been crying.”

“I suppose I have; it’s most unmanly of me, but I must do something. All
men you know are irresistibly attracted to the weakest, cheapest sort of
women. They all prefer sham to reality, and they are all snobs at
heart.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about men,” admitted Ruth.

“Well, I’m telling you about them now. You might as well know. And the
better a man is the more he likes imitation women, and Nels is just as
bad as any of them, and that’s why he’s fallen so hard for Alice Winn.
First he fell for the highbrow books. He really believes that she reads
’em. Then she told him all about her aristocratic family in Kentucky,
who fought and fought to keep her from being an artist, but she must
‘live her own life,’ even if she had to brave the hardships of a great
city with not a thing to live on except the income she gets from home.
And then, of course, she scorns everything except real art—she would
never stoop to a fashion drawing or commercial art of any kind. Her
artistic temperament would not allow it. She is working on a mural—yes,
indeed—of course it never has and never will go any further than a rough
sketch and a lot of conversation in her comfortable studio, but Nels
doesn’t know that. He and every other man she talks to believes that she
is really working on something big. And then she is _such_ a lover of
beauty. She must have flowers in her studio at all times. She simply
couldn’t live without flowers. And Nels—Nels who never bought me even a
bunch of violets at Easter time—is pawning his clothes to buy her roses.
I think that’s what hurts most. I’m just a practical old thing, and I’ve
never wanted to do anything at all but work with him and for him, and go
to dinner with him ‘Dutch’—and so you see I am of no value—and she, who
has never done a useful thing in her whole life, has completely
fascinated him. He isn’t worth all this. I ought not to care—I don’t
care—I’m just plain angry.”

Tears were overflowing the blue eyes of the “just plain angry” girl and
Ruth feared a public exhibition. They had reached the restaurant and she
feared the curious eyes inside.

“Let’s not eat here today, Dorothy. You need a change, that’s all, so
why not take the afternoon off? We could go to your studio. I’ve never
been there, you know. Couldn’t we have lunch there?”

“We could buy it at the ‘delly’ ’round the corner,” said Dorothy, her
round face clearing a bit.

“And let’s buy some flowers first; if Nels shows up we can pretend a man
sent them.”

“That’s ‘woman stuff’; I don’t think I ought—but—”

“Just for this once,” persisted Ruth, leading the way into the nearest
flower shop.

“I don’t like to have you spend money on me. I don’t like to have
anything that I can’t pay for myself.”

“That’s selfish, and vain. Perhaps that’s why Nels is with Alice.”

“I suppose so. You know they’re so stupid, men. They believe everything
you tell them. I’ve told Nels what a practical worker I am and how
independent I am and he believes me, without ever trying to prove it;
and she’s told him that she is an impractical, artistic dreamer and he
believes that, too, though if he’d only think for just a minute he’d
know that she’s a mercenary schemer, not an artistic dreamer.”

“Do you like these pink ones?”

“Oh, and those unusual pale yellow roses—the combination is wonderful,
and the scent.”

She buried her nose in the flowers in an ecstasy of delight that made
her forget that Ruth was paying for them.

“Now we’ll ride down on the ’bus,” said Ruth. “But you haven’t told me
just where Nels is—is Alice Winn pretty?”

Questions of this sort are perfectly intelligible to women and Dorothy
answered in her own way as they climbed into the Fifth Avenue ’bus.

“He’s gone with her to the Met—to look over some costumes she wants to
use in this mural she’s supposed to be doing; and of course she is
pretty—an anæmic, horrid, little dark-skinned vamp—and she lisps—all the
time except when she forgets it or when there aren’t any men around.
It’s not nice for me to talk like this. Probably she’s all right, only
she isn’t good for Nels. I know that. What I’m afraid of is that she’ll
use him. Lots of girls do, you know, use men like that. She’ll ask his
advice about things and before he knows it he’ll be painting her old
mural for her and she’ll sign it, and he’ll sit back and let her get the
credit for doing it. It’s been done before, you know.”

“Nels is too sensible for that. He’ll wake up before it’s gone that
far.”

“I don’t think so; she _is_ attractive to men.”

They fell silent for a short space, looking out at the grey December
streets on which no snow had yet fallen. Now a thin, cold rain began
falling, making the pavements glisten, and giving even well-dressed
pedestrians a shabby appearance as they hurried up and down—a thick
stream of holiday shoppers.

“My room isn’t much, but at least I live on Washington Square and that
is something,” said Dorothy. “I love it all the year round, even now
when there aren’t any leaves on the trees or any Italian children
playing and when this beastly rain falls. I rather like rain anyway, but
I’m awfully glad we’ve got the roses. We’ll get off here and walk around
to the ‘delly’ first. It’s on Bleecker Street. I’m not supposed to cook
anything in my room, but of course I do. All of us do.”

Their purchases, though guided by the practical Dorothy, were rather
like a college girl’s spread. Dorothy lived in an old-fashioned white
house on the south side of the square—a house in which every piece of
decrepit furniture seemed to have been dragged from its individual attic
and assembled here in vast inharmony. Yet mingled with the 1830
atrocities were a few “good” things, left from time to time by artists
and writers whom prosperity had called to better quarters. Dorothy lived
at the top of the house in one of the two rooms facing the square.

“You see it isn’t really a studio,” she explained apologetically. “But
it has got north light and the sloping room and that bit of skylight
makes it quite satisfactory, and then, too, I face the Square and can
always see the fountain and the Washington arch and the first green that
comes on the trees in May, and I like it. And just because we’re
celebrating I’ll put a charcoal fire in the grate and we’ll make tea in
the samovar, but first we must take care of the flowers.”

For a few minutes she seemed to have forgotten all her troubles.

“I do wish I had a pretty vase. It’s almost criminal to put roses in
this old jug. Don’t you think the samovar’s pretty? Nels did get me
that. Wait a minute; I’ll show you his studio. It’s the next room to
this and just like it. He never locks his door.”

She stepped out, Ruth following, and pushed open the only half closed
door of a room, the exact counterpart in size of her own, but rather
more comfortable as to furnishings.

“That’s her picture; she must have given it to him last week. I haven’t
been in his studio for days and we used to have such corking times
together—I worked here more often than in my own room and he always
seemed to like having me—”

Fearing a return of tears Ruth hastily retreated to Dorothy’s room.
Besides she didn’t feel quite comfortable about entering a man’s room
during his absence and examining his pictures.

“Let’s not think about her; it’s just a phase and he’ll recover and come
back to you,” she comforted.

“You make the tea and I’ll spread this little table,” she continued,
removing a pile of sketches to the floor.

In a short space of time there was a real fire burning in the tiny
grate, throwing a ruddy glow on the burnished brass of the samovar; in
the small room the roses shed a heavy sweet perfume and the two girls
chatted cosily over their tea cups. Dorothy smoked a cigarette.

“Cigarettes are a party to me,” she exclaimed. “If I could afford to
smoke I might not care for it at all, but I can’t, so when I want to be
extravagant I smoke; it’s just a symbol.”

Now that Dorothy seemed to have put her grief into the background Ruth
was beginning to feel restless. On the following day the party was to
leave for the Christmas party. They would arrive at their destination on
the twenty-third of December and the imminence of the solution of all
Ruth’s worries, for either good or evil, made her feel that she should
be at the house as much as possible. Could she have done so she would
have followed Gloria wherever she went. Most of all she wanted to find
out where Professor Pendragon was stopping; and she ought to telephone
Terry again to remind him not to forget the revolver. In her own mind
she was not exactly sure what she would do with the gun when she got it.

“I think I’ll have to run along,” she said.

“Oh, and we were having such a good time. I was beginning to be quite
cheered up. Wait a minute; that’s him.”

Regardless of grammar, Ruth knew that the masculine pronoun could refer
to only one person. Down three flights of stairs she could hear a
tuneless but valiant whistle.

“I wonder why he’s coming home so soon?” continued Dorothy. “I’ll shut
the door tight so he won’t see us. I’m not going to make it easy for him
to come back.”

She closed the door as she spoke and the two girls waited, trying to
keep up a hum of conversation. Dorothy’s agitation communicated itself
to Ruth.

“Will he come here?” she asked.

“I don’t know; he always did before, but now, he may just be coming in
to get something and then dash out again to meet her.” She walked to the
window and looked out:

“There’s no one down there waiting for him.” She came back to her place
at the tiny table.

The whistle had mounted all three flights now, and paused a moment
before their door. Dorothy began talking unconcernedly. They heard him
enter his own studio. The whistle was resumed and they could hear him
moving restlessly about. A match was struck, then another; then silence,
then footsteps and a knock at the door.

“Come in,” called Dorothy, and the door opened, disclosing a rather
shame-faced Nels, who, however, was determined to appear as if nothing
had happened.

“Looks like a party,” he said.

“It is a party,” said Ruth.

“I hope I’m not intruding—I thought Dorothy was alone.”

“We were chattering continuously enough for any one to hear us,” said
Dorothy. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Thanks—I suppose that means, too, that I can come in and sit down and
share your gossip, and everything,” said Nels, seating himself forthwith
on the couch-bed—not a chaise longue—but an ugly bed disguised as a
couch—without which no cheap studio or hall bedroom is complete.

Much is written about the “feminine touch” which makes home of the most
ordinary surroundings. Ruth thought of it as she looked at Dorothy’s
room. Perhaps, she decided, artistic women are an exception to this
rule. Dorothy had knowledge of beautiful things, more knowledge than the
average woman, but no one would have guessed it from the untidy
shabbiness of her studio. Only the bright samovar and the roses, thrown
into relief by the firelight, which with the same magic threw dusty
corners into shadow and seemed to gild the ugly, broken-down furniture
into beauty, threw a glamour over the place now and made it seem quite
different from the cheerless room they had entered over an hour before.
The rain was bringing a premature twilight which made the firelight
doubly welcome. Nels felt the change and looked about him as if in
unfamiliar surroundings.

“This is certainly cheery,” he said, taking the cup Dorothy offered him.
“And roses!” He looked inquiringly at Ruth.

“No, I’m not the lucky girl; some admirer of Dorothy’s.”

There was an embarrassed pause. Ruth blushed because she had told what
in childhood she had called a “white lie”; Dorothy because she accepted
the deception that she would not herself have instigated, and Nels for
many reasons.

“Whoever he is he’s not a poor artist,” he said. “I know the price of
roses in December,” whereupon he blushed more redly in remembrance.

“I thought you were going to spend the entire day at the Metropolitan,”
said Dorothy, beginning to enjoy the situation.

“So did I,” said Nels, and then with a sudden burst of resolution, “I
don’t mind telling you all about it—I’ve been an awful fool, and if
you’ve decided to play with some one else, I don’t blame you. We walked
to the Met this morning; Alice lives way uptown and I thought it would
be a pleasant hike, but when we got there she was quite worn out, and
then some fellow she knows came along with a car and offered to take her
home and she went; said the walk had made her too tired to work. Of
course he offered to ‘pick me up,’ too, but I preferred to walk and I
did—all the way from the Metropolitan to Washington Square—now you know
the entire story and can laugh to your heart’s content.”

But neither of the girls laughed. Nels had evidently learned his lesson,
and they were in no mood to increase his discomfiture.

“I wanted to see you to ask if you know where Professor Pendragon went
when he left town. He said some place in the country, but I’ve forgotten
where,” said Ruth.

“Yes; I got a note from him only this morning. He’s visiting a friend of
his in the Berkshires. North Adams is the post-office and I’ve forgotten
the name of the house. One of those big country places with a fancy
name—wait and I’ll get the note from my room.”

“He believed that about the roses and now that he’s sane again, my
conscience hurts,” whispered Dorothy when he had left them.

“Let it hurt a bit; I wouldn’t tell him,” whispered Ruth.

“Here it is,” said Nels, returning. “Professor Percival Pendragon, care
of Mr. John Peyton-Russell, Fir Tree Farm, North Adams,
Massachusetts—some address, but anyway it will reach him.”

“Peyton-Russell—he’s at the Peyton-Russell’s?”

“You know them?”

“Yes, that is, I know Mrs. Peyton-Russell a bit; she’s a friend of my
aunt’s, and we’re going there for Christmas—going tomorrow.”

“Really; that’s splendid, for you can save me writing a note. I hate
writing letters. You see Pendragon has been trying to interest this
Peyton-Russell in my work. He’s one of these men who’s spent two-thirds
of a lifetime making money, and now he doesn’t know exactly what to do
with it. He’s only been married about two years. I know Pendragon hadn’t
met his wife, but Mr. Peyton-Russell depends on Pendragon to tell him
when things are good, and when Professor Pendragon bought one of my
pictures Mr. Peyton-Russell thought he ought to buy one, too. If you’d
just tell Professor Pendragon that I don’t care what he pays for the
picture he has—I let him borrow one to see whether he grew tired of it
after it was hung—you’ll save me a lot of trouble.”

“Of course; did you say Professor Pendragon hasn’t met Mrs.
Peyton-Russell?”

“He hadn’t; but I suppose he has now that he’s a guest in her house.
John Peyton-Russell used to try to get him out to dinner in town, but
Pen wouldn’t go; he hates society. But he was ill, you know, and
Peyton-Russell was so anxious to do something for him, and promised that
it would be quiet—no one out there, and the doctor seemed to think it
might be good—he took the nurse along, of course, so Pen went.”

“Did he say how he was getting on, in his last letter?”

“Yes; just the same, no better and no worse, but didn’t say anything
about coming back at once. You’re more interested than Dot.”

“No; only it seems strange, a coincidence, his being at the same house
we’re going to.”

“While you’re delivering messages for Nels, deliver one for me too,
Ruth,” said Dorothy. “Tell him I’m waiting very patiently to make that
portrait and that when it’s finished if he wants to sell it to his rich
collectors he can. What is he, Nels, a sort of dealer?”

“My word, no—he’s a—just a man who happens to have a little money and a
lot of appreciation. He’s just helping me to success, and helping
Peyton-Russell to a reputation as a collector—he is quite disinterested.
He could be anything, that man. I don’t know why he isn’t. Something
went wrong some place along his route, I guess, and he just got
side-tracked, you understand.” He finished with a wave of his hand.

“Now I really must go—one must do a few things even before a short
journey.”

Ruth was more anxious than ever to get away now, and neither Nels nor
Dorothy made any great effort to keep her. Nels was looking at the roses
with sad eyes and Dorothy was looking at him with eyes that made Ruth
fear that the secret of the flowers would not be kept long. Dorothy was
too generous and honest to want to keep up even so tiny a deception.

The one stupendous fact that stood out in her brain as she walked
homeward was that Gloria and Professor Pendragon would meet. What would
they do? Would Pendragon leave or would Gloria come back to town? What
would they say to each other? How amazing that Mr. Peyton-Russell should
be a friend of Pendragon’s and that Angela should be a friend of
Gloria’s and that they had never before all met. Still it was
understandable. Angela had only been married a year. George would be
there, too, and Prince Aglipogue.

She thought of Pendragon’s tall, clean-cut figure and fine face, and of
Aglipogue’s heavy countenance and elephantine form—the contrast. Surely
Gloria would see and withdraw before too late. It would be, too, the
time of test—the dark of the moon.




                              CHAPTER XII


It had been planned that they would all take the morning train together
for North Adams, Gloria and Ruth, Terry and Prince Aglipogue and George,
but Gloria, despite her motion picture experience, proved unequal to the
early rising.

“It’s no use,” she explained to Ruth, who went to her room to wake her.
“I simply can’t get up this early in the morning. You go on and meet
Aggie and Terry at the station and tell them that I’m coming up on the
sleeper tonight. Tell George to go along, too, just as he planned. He’s
got his ticket and will take care of your luggage and the others’, and
everything will go just as we planned it except that I’ll show up
tomorrow morning.”

“Suppose there isn’t any sleeping train?”

“There will be; anyway as far as Pittsfield. Do go down and tell George
and explain to Angela when you get there.”

What the trip would have been had Gloria not decided to wait for the
night train, Ruth could not guess. What it was was most unexpected.
George, being first told, was the first person to show sulky displeasure
at Gloria’s decision. For a moment Ruth thought that he was actually
going to knock on Gloria’s door and remonstrate with her, but even
George dared not do that, so instead he preceded Ruth to the station,
heavily laden with boxes and bags. He was there when she arrived, as was
also Terry, who laughed without any apparent regret at Gloria’s revolt.

“I rather hated to get up myself,” he said, “but a holiday is a holiday,
and it’s part of the game to climb out of bed from one to ten hours
earlier than usual. Besides, think how tired we’ll be tonight and what
wonderful sleep we’ll get up there in the fresh air. There’ll be lots of
snow, too. A few flakes fell here this morning, and that means that up
in the mountains it will be thick and wonderful. I only hope it won’t be
too cold.”

“Here comes Prince Aglipogue,” said Ruth.

The Prince was approaching, his great bulk thrusting aside the lesser
human atoms in the station. Ruth was amazed to see that his curious
travelling costume was finished by a top hat and wondered whether he
would wear it in the train and in the sleigh from North Adams. Over the
collar of his fur-lined overcoat his huge face rose, placid and
self-satisfied, until he spied the waiting group with Gloria not among
them.

“Has she not yet come?” he asked. “The time of the train is immediate;
we will miss it.”

“Gloria has decided to take the evening train,” said Terry.

“Then I also will wait.”

“No, she especially asked that we all go ahead just as planned. Here’s
George to take care of everything,” said Ruth.

“Did she send to me no personal message?”

“No; just that,” Ruth took pleasure in watching his face, like a
cloud-flecked moon, in its annoyance. “We were all to go ahead and
explain to Mrs. Peyton-Russell that Gloria will arrive in the morning.”

Just then the gate was opened and Prince Aglipogue, still frowning,
followed them reluctantly through it, in front of George and the two
porters, who were helping him carry travelling bags.

When they were all comfortably disposed in their seats Ruth began to
fear that it would be rather an unpleasant journey, for Prince
Aglipogue, unhappy himself, was determined that the others should be,
too, if he could make them so.

Only the amused light in Terry’s eyes gave her courage. Prince Aglipogue
began with a monologue about rotten trains, stupid country houses,
beastly cold and the improbability of Gloria’s coming at all, and
finally worked himself up into a state of agitation bordering on tears,
which would have made Ruth laugh had she not been afraid.

“It is unkind of her to leave us this way. For herself she sleeps
comfortably at home, while I rise at this unchristian hour for her
sake,” he protested, more to himself than to the others, for he seemed
determined to ignore them. His next phase was one of annoyance at his
own discomfort.

Why had not the Peyton-Russells themselves provided a drawing-room for
him? They were “filthy” with money, and he was not accustomed to
travelling in this public manner in spite of the fact that he was only a
poor artist. Then he became worried about his luggage, which had
consisted of a single dressing-case. He had entrusted it to George, and
who knew what had become of it? He lurched off in search of George some
place in the rear cars to find out.

“I’d buy him a drawing-room just to get rid of him, if there was any
graceful way of doing it,” said Terry. “I’m afraid this is not going to
be the pleasantest of parties.”

“For more reasons than one,” said Ruth. “I discovered yesterday that
Professor Pendragon is already a guest of the Peyton-Russells. What will
happen when Gloria arrives and they meet? Ought I to tell him, do you
think, that she’s coming?” She had been thinking of nothing else since
her talk with Nels and was delighted to have an opportunity to tell some
one.

“This is going to be fun! How do you know, and why do you suppose Angela
Peyton-Russell is doing it—some idea of bringing them together again?”

“I don’t see any fun in it with that beast Aglipogue along. And Angela
didn’t know—at least, I’m quite sure she didn’t, and doesn’t. Professor
Pendragon is a friend of Mr. Peyton-Russell and had never met his wife,
and I don’t think Angela was going to the house many days before her
guests. Mr. Peyton-Russell asked Professor Pendragon there because
they’re old friends and Pendragon was ill. He thought the air and quiet
would be good for him. He took a nurse along. I only learned yesterday
from Nels Zord. Unless Angela has mentioned the names of all her guests,
it’s possible that Professor Pendragon doesn’t know she’s coming. It’s
going to be awfully awkward—meeting that way. I suppose one of them will
return to New York. Perhaps he would if we warned him. Do you think I
ought?”

“You didn’t warn Gloria, and you had time for that; I don’t see why you
should warn her ex-husband. Besides, it isn’t such an awful thing.
Ex-husbands and wives meet every day in New York and don’t seem to
mind.”

“In a way I suppose I didn’t tell Gloria because she told me not to
mention his name again, and besides I’d like to have her meet him,
providing she didn’t make a scene. If she saw him again I don’t think
she could go on with the Prince.”

“Do you think she really is going to marry him?” asked Terry.

“Of course she is, unless you or some one stops her; I don’t see how you
can stand by quietly and see it done.”

“It’s no affair—here he comes now.”

Their conversation, thus broken off by the reappearance of Prince
Aglipogue, they turned to the scenery outside, while their heavy
companion, turning his back upon them as much as possible, pretended to
read a magazine. The snow that had been falling in thin flakes in New
York was coming down in great, feathery “blobs,” as Terry descriptively
called them. At first they did not see any hills, but the movement of
the train and the stertorous puffing of the engine told them that they
were going steadily upgrade. Now the ground was entirely covered with
snow, and the train twisted so continuously around the hills that
sometimes they could see the engine curving in front of them, through
the window.

“If the snow continues like this, I’m afraid we’ll be many hours late,”
said Terry.

“It won’t matter much. We’re to be there at two o’clock, and we couldn’t
be delayed more than a few hours at most, could we?”

“You are pleased to be cheerful,” said the Prince. Evidently he had not
been so deeply engaged with his magazine as he pretended. “If I am
forced on this train to remain a moment longer than is necessary I shall
perish.”

“They do get snow bound, sometimes, you know,” said Terry cheerfully.
“It won’t be so bad if we’re near some town. We can just get off and
spend the night in an hotel.”

At this the Prince only glared.

“That would be an adventure—I think I’d rather like it,” said Ruth.

As if he could bear no more the Prince again departed.

“Presently he’ll come back, saying that the air in the smoking car has
made his head ache.”

“Don’t you want to go yourself for a smoke? You know you mustn’t think
you have to stay here and amuse me,” said Ruth.

“I can live ever so long without a cigarette. Besides I’d rather go when
he isn’t there. I’ve been thinking about Gloria. Do you suppose she
could have found out about Pendragon and isn’t coming? It would be like
her. She could telephone that she’s ill or something.”

“I don’t think so, but of course I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
Perhaps Pendragon himself has left and all my worry is for nothing.
Who’d ever think an aunt could be such a responsibility?”

She said it so seriously and with such a wistful look that Terry
restrained his impulse to laugh.

“An aunt is almost as difficult to chaperon as a modern mother,” he
admitted gravely; “but if the snow doesn’t stop snowing she may arrive
as soon as we do, and you’ll not have to decide whether to warn the
professor or not. After all, it’s no affair of yours. If they’re to meet
this way they will meet this way, and it may be rather amusing.”

It was difficult to answer him when he talked like that. Probably his
words were prompted by bitterness, but it was maddening to have him sit
back as if he were helpless to do anything. If only he would make an
effort he could win Gloria away from her present course. He was
attractive enough to win any woman. Whether he talked or sat silent, it
was good to be with him. Then she remembered the gift he had promised
her.

“Oh, you’ve forgotten! I was afraid you would.”

“No, I haven’t. You mean the revolver, but I thought it was to be a
Christmas gift.”

“It was—only I’d like to have it now if you don’t mind.”

“What are you afraid of—train robbers? This isn’t a western movie in
spite of the wild nature of our journey.”

“I know, but please let me have it. You don’t know what a comfort it
would be just to look at it.”

“All right; just to show you how much I thought of it I didn’t pack it
at all. It’s here in my overcoat.”

An eager porter anticipated his movement to reach up to the rack on
which the coat had been put, and brought it down for him, and he reached
inside the pocket and brought out a box which he put in her hands.

For a moment she did not open it, though he waited, smiling. She was
conscious of the movement of the train, of the white flakes flashing
past the window, half obscuring the rolling, tree-crowned hills that
were fast merging into mountains; of the smell of the Pullman car,—a
combination of steam-heated varnish and dusty upholstery—and most of all
of Terry, seated opposite her, a half eager, half amused light dancing
in his eyes.

“It’s rather an odd gift to give a woman,” he said as she hesitated. She
opened the box now, realizing herself more than anything else, as the
central figure in a little drama. Inside she found a leather case—pale
blue leather, more fit to contain jewels than a weapon of defence, and
inside that the tiniest revolver she had ever seen, an exquisite thing
with gold mountings.

“Will—will it really shoot?” she gasped. “And it must have been horribly
expensive—you shouldn’t have done it.”

Her pleasure was so apparent in her face that her words, which she felt
were ill chosen, did not really matter.

“Of course it will shoot; and it’s loaded now, so please do be careful.
Here, I’ll show you how it works—see, you open it this way, and here’s
the way to empty the shells out—you see there are six—this revolves so
that when you’ve shot one the next one moves into place all ready; it’s
quite as deadly as a big one, I assure you. Do you think you’ll feel
quite safe with this?”

“It isn’t myself I want to protect,” she answered, and just then, she
saw Prince Aglipogue returning, and some instinct prompted her to take
the gun from his hands and put it back in its case and conceal it behind
her. She need not have concealed it, for Prince Aglipogue was in no mood
to observe details. His oily, black eyes were standing out in his head
and his face had turned a sickly green. His three chins seemed to be
trembling with fright.

“That nigger of Gloria’s; he’s in the baggage car with a snake—a snake
as big as”—he threw out his fat arms as if he could think of no word to
describe the size of the snake. His voice was a thin whisper. “You must
the conductor tell—it is not allowed. They do not know the trunk’s
contents—I tell you I am speaking truth—a snake—as big as the
engine—will you do nothing?” He grasped Terry’s shoulder and shook him.

“It’s all right. We know all about it. Miss Mayfield knew he was
bringing it. He uses it in his vaudeville stunts.”

“I tell you I will not go on—to travel with a snake—it is horrible.”

“He’s always had it,” soothed Terry. “It was in the house on Gramercy
Square and never came out and bit any one. I guess you’re safe.”

“If I had known——” He shuddered through all his fat frame and rolled his
eyes upward.

“How is he taking it?” asked Terry. “It’s bad enough to travel with a
pet dog, but what one does with a pet snake I don’t know, and I’ve been
curious.”

Prince Aglipogue, frightened into friendliness, broke into a torrent of
words from which they gathered that George had the snake in a trunk, the
sides of which were warmed by electricity; that the train officials had
no idea of the contents of the trunk, that George had gained access to
the baggage car though it was against the rules, and that the Prince,
being still worried about his luggage, though he had seen it safely
aboard, had claimed the right to follow him there and had found George
kneeling beside the opened trunk, from which the snake, artificially
warmed to activity, was rearing a head which the Prince protested was as
large as that of a cow. As he saw that his hearers were unmoved and that
they had known about the snake and seemed to consider it quite ordinary,
he was a bit ashamed of his agitation, though by no means convinced that
there was no cause for it.

“It’s a harmless variety,” Terry assured him. “If it were dangerous
Gloria wouldn’t have allowed George to keep it in the house.”

“For the bite, yes; it may be of no harm, but the shock to the nerves! I
should have been warned.”

“We didn’t know that you were going into the baggage car,” protested
Terry.

“What a terrible journey—look at the snow,” said the Prince, sinking
into his seat.

They looked out. The movement of the train exaggerated the whirling of
the snow until it seemed like a frozen, white whirlwind, sweeping past
them, or a drove of wild, white horses whose manes brushed the window
panes. Beyond the whirling drift they could see nothing.

Terry looked at his watch. Down the aisle Ruth heard a man asking how
late they were, but could not catch the answer.

“Let’s have something to eat; even if we’re on time, we won’t want to
wait luncheon until our arrival. A twelve-mile drive through this
doesn’t sound very alluring, and we may die of starvation on the way.”

Terry’s glance included both Ruth and Prince Aglipogue.

“Food I cannot face after what I have witnessed,” said the Prince.
“Perhaps I may have something—a cup of tea—something to keep up my—what
did you say—two hours late?”

He clutched the arm of a passing conductor.

“Yes, sir; two hours late now—only two hours,” he answered wearily,
freeing his arm and passing on. Prince Aglipogue sank back in his chair
as if he would never rise again.

“Cheer up; that’s not bad. What can you expect with this snow? Two hours
only means that we’ll arrive about five o’clock and get to Fir Tree
Lodge—I think that’s what they call it—in time for dinner. Better come
on and eat with us.”

But Prince Aglipogue shook his huge head sadly, much to the relief of
both Terry and Ruth, and they walked out together. Ruth was beginning to
feel that she was having an adventure. Something in the restlessness of
the other passengers on the train, who were beginning to look frequently
at watches and to stop the train officials every time they appeared,
something in the sight of the whirling clouds of snow, the thought of
George, some place back there with his strange travelling companion, all
contributed to the undercurrent of excitement, and with it was that
comforting feeling of security that always comes from looking at storm
and snow from a place of warmth and shelter.

Because it was the holiday season the train was crowded and they were
compelled to wait in the narrow hallway with other people in line before
they could get a table.

“Isn’t it wonderful and Christmasy?” she asked, “especially as I’ve
already got one gift; see, I brought it with me. I’d like to look at it
again, only I’m afraid if any of the other passengers saw it they might
suspect me of being a train robber.”

“Yes; you look so much like one. But perhaps it would be just as well
not to look at it now. I’m glad you like it.”

“It’s beautiful, and somehow I feel safer—I mean safer and happier about
Gloria now that I have it.”

“It’s a curious gift to give a girl, but I couldn’t exactly imagine
giving you—”

“Table for two,” interrupted the steward. Ruth wondered what it was that
Terry couldn’t imagine giving her.

Luncheon was like a party. Terry seemed to be making as much effort to
amuse her as he would have made for Gloria, or perhaps he was so
charming that he couldn’t help being charming all the time, she
reflected. He had the most wonderful eyes in the world, and the kindest,
strongest mouth, but she must stop looking at them. Still just for today
she might pretend that he was her lover and that they were engaged,
and—why not pretend that they were actually married and on their wedding
journey? The thought made her gasp.

“Is something wrong? I’ll call the waiter.”

“No, nothing! I was just thinking—of something.”

“Something nice, I hope.”

“Yes, no—I don’t know.” It was horrible to blush like that. If she were
only older and poised and sophisticated. Perhaps then she wouldn’t have
to be pretending. But she would pretend, no matter how bold and
unladylike it was to pretend such things and perhaps she would never be
with him again in just this way, and it would be nice to remember.

In her reckless mood she surprised herself by saying things like Gloria
sometimes. They lingered as long as they dared because it was such a
good way of killing time, and when they had finished she made Terry go
back to the smoker.

“They ought to have smoking cars for women,” she said. It was what
Gloria might have said.

“But you don’t smoke,” said Terry, smiling.

“I know, but I shall learn.”

“Not right away, I hope,” he said, smiling.

Ruth found that Prince Aglipogue had controlled his nervous shock to the
extent of having a very substantial lunch brought to him, which he
seemed to be enjoying as much as if snakes had never been created, but
he showed no more disposition to be sociable than before, for which Ruth
was grateful. It would have spoiled her illusion that she and Terry were
travelling alone together. Even she did not think he was gone long. He
came back looking rather sober.

“Would you be very much frightened if we didn’t reach North Adams
tonight at all?” he asked.

“No, not frightened; but why?”

“It looks as though we couldn’t go much farther. We may have to stop.
You can see how slowly we’re moving now. If they can get to the next
station we can all stop at an hotel, but if not we may have to sit up
all night.”

“I think it’ll be rather fun—only won’t Angela Peyton-Russell be
worried?”

“She’ll probably have telephoned the station at North Adams and will
know that we’re late. Gloria was wise. The track may be clear by the
time her train leaves and she’ll arrive as soon as we.”

“Then I won’t have to decide about warning Professor Pendragon. He’ll
learn the news less gently.”

“He may have left,” said Terry.

“I don’t know whether to wish that he has or has not,” said Ruth. She
could not bear the thought of Gloria’s marrying Prince Aglipogue, but
every hour it seemed to grow more difficult to entertain the thought of
her marrying Terry. Of course it wasn’t absolutely necessary for her to
marry any one, but she must be in a marrying mood, or she wouldn’t think
of Aglipogue, and she’d done it so often before that it ought to be
easier every time. If only she could ask Terry what he thought, but of
course she couldn’t do that.

Prince Aglipogue had heard Terry’s first words and had lumbered off to
secure the first-hand information. All the other men in the coach seemed
to be doing the same thing. The snow had brought on a premature darkness
and the lights were lit so that now they could see nothing outside. One
could almost feel the struggles of the engine, which seemed to grow
greater and greater as the speed of the train grew less. Finally it
stopped altogether with a sound of grinding wheels. The conductor told
them not to be alarmed. It was nothing but a few hours’ delay. A steam
plough was already on its way. It was impossible to say how long.

For a few minutes the passengers all talked to each other. Some of the
men thought that if they could reach the road they might hail a passing
sleigh that might convey some of them to the nearest town, but the road
was half a mile away and there would be few vehicles abroad in such a
storm, and the idea was abandoned. Terry went back to see how George was
faring, and reported him still in the baggage car, sleeping on the trunk
which doubtless contained “the daughter of Shiva.”

People settled down to waiting; some of them read, and others slept,
among them Prince Aglipogue. He snored unrebuked. Ruth heard a man
inviting Terry to a poker game in the smoking car and was relieved when
he refused. It would have been lonely without him. She tried to read,
but the car was growing steadily colder. Terry insisted that she put on
her cloak, but even that didn’t help much, when she was stiff with
inaction. She tried to read, and finally curled up in the chair to
sleep. Her last conscious thought was a protest when she felt rather
than saw Terry wrapping his cloak around her.




                              CHAPTER XIII


Ruth awakened to the sound of grinding brakes and opened her eyes to
look into the eyes of Terry, which seemed very near as he bent over her.
Her muscles were horribly cramped. She did not fully remember until he
spoke.

“We’ll be on our way in less than an hour, and if you want some coffee
you’d better hurry. The train was only prepared for one meal, but there
is some coffee and perhaps a piece of toast, if we get there before the
hungry mob has finished it,” he said.

“You gave me your coat,” she said, looking down at the garment that was
wrapped about her. “You shouldn’t have done that; I had my own, and you
must have frozen.”

“Not at all; I’ve slept beautifully. Did it keep you warm?”

“Yes, but—”

“That’s all that counts; come on and get some coffee.”

“Can’t I even wait to wash my face, or shall I wash it afterward, cat
fashion?”

“If it’s really necessary, you may; but you look remarkably clean and
fresh considering—a few grains of dust, perhaps—”

He looked at her with his head on one side, smiling.

She was on her feet in an instant, but discovering that one foot was
asleep, did not make such swift progress as she had expected. There were
two other women in the dressing-room. Yesterday they would have looked
at her as silently and impersonally as at the mirror or the wash basin
or the black “prop” comb that is always found in Pullman dressing-rooms
and that no one has ever been known to use, but now they were talking to
her and to each other. The stout lady who was going home from a day’s
Christmas shopping in New York was most voluble. She was worried about
her husband and children, especially her husband.

“What I’ll ever say to Henry, I don’t know. He told me that I could do
just as well in Pittsfield as in New York. They have everything there,
and such accommodating sales people—not like New York, where every one
is too busy to be polite—and I didn’t get a thing I went after—and then
this horrible experience. It’s added ten years to my life—I know it
has.”

“After all, it was only a delay,” comforted Ruth. “Suppose the train had
been wrecked. I think it was rather fun.”

“Fun! Fun!” the tall thin woman fairly shrieked at her, and the eyebrow
pencil she was using slipped and made a long mark down her nose that she
had to rub off subsequently with cold cream, producing a fine, high
polish, which in turn had to be removed with powder, so thickly applied
that Ruth thought she looked as if her nose was made of plaster of Paris
and had been fastened on after the rest of her face was finished. It was
difficult to do anything in the tiny crowded space, but she finally
completed a hasty toilet and hurried out to rejoin Terry, who, in her
absence, had secured two cups of coffee and some toast and brought them
to their seats in the Pullman.

“Where’s the Prince?” she asked suddenly, remembering his unwelcome
existence.

“In the dining-car; he got there early and managed to secure what little
food there was aboard.”

“Gloria’s train is right behind us,” he continued, “so we’ll wait for
her at the station and all go up together.”

The increasing warmth in the train was beginning to clear the frosted
windows, and Ruth could see that the snow had stopped falling. A
wonderful pink glow was resting on top of the softly rounded mountains,
and where the clouds were herded between two high crests it looked like
a rose-coloured lake with fir trees on its banks. She forgot her
uncomfortable night and felt new-born like the sun. Everything was
simple and easy. Everything would be solved; Gloria would not marry
Prince Aglipogue. She certainly would not, for he came in now, unshaved,
with bloodshot eyes and rumpled linen. He did not speak at all, but
slumped in his chair, his chins resting on his bulging shirt bosom.

“Have you seen George?” she asked Terry.

“Yes; he’s all right. I only hope the daughter of Shiva froze to death,
but I fear not.”

“Will it be long now?”

“We’ll be into North Adams in less than an hour.”

“I’m afraid you didn’t get any sleep at all,” said Ruth, observing that
his eyes looked tired.

“Do I look as badly as that?” he parried. “Never mind, wait until we
reach Fir Tree Farm and I’ve had a mug of hot Scotch.”

“What’s hot Scotch?”

“It’s something that no one would think of drinking at any time except
the Christmas holiday—and the only thing that it seems quite correct to
drink on a Christmas holiday, especially in a country house. It’s hot,
and sweet and full of Captain Kidd’s own brand of rum, and spice,
and—oh, ever so many things. You’ll see.”

“Perhaps Gloria won’t let me drink it,” said Ruth.

“Don’t ask her—from now on you must ask me—and if I say you may, it’s
all right.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t I tucked you in and watched over you like a mother?” said
Terry. “That gives me the right to say yes and no about things. I shall
explain my new position just as soon as the stately Gloria steps off the
train.”

“This is North Adams; I heard a man say so—”

“Yes; we’re here. I wonder if there’s food in the station. I’m starving
already.”

There was not food at the station, but there was a huge sleigh drawn by
two powerful horses, with bells on their harness that tinkled merrily in
the sharp air, and a man from Fir Tree Farm. Inquiry revealed the fact
that Gloria’s train would be in within fifteen minutes and Terry told
the man to wait. Meantime George appeared, looking as calm and
imperturbable as if he had just stepped out of the house on Gramercy
Square. They all sat on hard benches in the railway station, or looking
through the soiled windows at other passengers driving gaily off to
their homes—and breakfast, as Terry said quite wistfully. Prince
Aglipogue paced up and down in melancholy silence. Ruth could imagine
that he was preparing dignified reproaches to hurl at the auburn head of
Gloria. Her train came in finally and she stepped off swathed in furs,
exhaling the perfume of violets, followed by respectful porters and
greeted by George, who took possession of everything, before the
vicarious servitors quite knew what was happening.

Gloria looked so fresh and beautiful, so perfectly groomed and so
rested, that they all felt shabbier than ever and more dishevelled. They
made a rush for her, and when George had stepped aside she greeted them
with bright smiles.

“Hello, people. You see I was right! What a wonderful morning! Hello,
Aggie—you look as if you’d been in a wreck, and Ruth and Terry as if
they’d been, oh, on an adventure. I actually believe you liked it. What
did you sleep on?”

“It has been a terrible experience,” Prince Aglipogue began, trying to
look reproachful, but only succeeding in looking ridiculous. He could
get no further in his speech, for Ruth and Terry were both talking.

“We did enjoy it; wish you’d been along.”

“We slept in our chairs, at least I did, but I don’t believe Terry slept
at all. You look gorgeous, Gloria—there’s a sleigh out there with bells
on.”

“Come on, then; I’m famished. Didn’t you get up in time for breakfast
even if there’d been any to get? Have you eaten?”

“No; only a cup of coffee—very bad, too.”

They followed George, all talking at once, and piled into the sleigh.
There was straw on the bottom and many fur robes, the heaviest of which
Aglipogue managed to collect for himself and Gloria, who were in the
back of the sleigh. Ruth would have loved to sit in front with the
driver, but, of course, George had to sit there.

“My word, why did you wear that?” Gloria burst into peals of laughter,
and lifted the silk hat from the head of Prince Aglipogue.

“Naturally I supposed that the millionaires, your friends, would send a
conveyance suitable—an enclosed car. How was I to know—straw, farm
horses?” He almost snorted in his disgust.

“You’re so funny, Aggie! Don’t you know there isn’t a motor built that
could drive through these mountains in winter time? We’re lucky that the
sleigh can make it.”

Ruth noted with horror that in her laughter there was a tender note as
if she were talking to an attractive, big boy. Instinctively she turned
to look at George’s straight back, and long, narrow head. It seemed to
her that his ears were visibly listening.

From somewhere Terry produced a long, knitted scarf, and this Gloria
tied around the Prince’s head, laying his hat tenderly down in the
middle of the sleigh. He looked like a huge, ugly boy with mumps, Ruth
thought, and Gloria, whose sense of humour even her Titania-like love
could not quite quench, burst into renewed peals of laughter. Perhaps
he’ll get angry and break his engagement, Ruth thought, hopefully, but
his resentment seemed to be at things in general rather than at Gloria.

They were really very comfortable in spite of the keen wind and the
country round them was magnificent, hill melting into hill in endless
procession like the waves on a limitless ocean. The sky was a vivid blue
and the rich green of the fir and hemlock trees shone warm in contrast
to the white snow. The clear ringing of the bells on the horses seemed
like fairy music leading them over the hills and far away to some
tremendous adventure. Just what that adventure would be Ruth could not
guess, but she knew that Gloria would be its heroine and George the
villain. As for Prince Aglipogue, with his fat face swathed in the
scarf, she would concede him no other rôle than that of buffoon. The
hero? Perhaps Professor Pendragon, perhaps Terry, but she would rather
save Terry for another story.

If only she knew whether Professor Pendragon was still at Fir Tree
Lodge. It would have been easy to ask the driver, who was an inquisitive
New Englander and was making desperate attempts to talk with George,
but, of course, she dared not do that because of Gloria. After all she
was not supposed to know anything about the guests. That was Angela
Peyton-Russell’s affair.

The heavy snow rather helped than impeded their progress, but they were
all rather cold and tremendously hungry before they reached the gates of
Fir Tree Farm. Then there was a slow pull up to the top of the hill on
which it was built, a huge stone house, almost hidden in a forest of fir
trees.

Prince Aglipogue shuddered when he looked at it.

“How is it heated?” he asked in tragic tones.

“Very old-fashioned—no furnace or steam heat—just fire places like your
dear castles in Europe,” said Gloria, which was not true, but served its
purpose of making him look even more melancholy and making Gloria laugh
again. She was quite the gayest person in the party and didn’t even
complain of hunger.

Angela Peyton-Russell was not at the door to greet them, but a
maidservant and a man servant were. Angela had read some place that it
was not smart to greet one’s guests in country homes that way, so she
did what she thought was the correct thing.

“Though she’s probably watching us from some point of vantage,” Gloria
whispered to Ruth, as they followed the maid up a wide staircase, at the
top of which she separated them, leading Ruth into what looked like the
most cheerful room in the world.

“Your luggage will be up directly,” she told Ruth, “and as soon as you
can you’re to come down to breakfast. Mrs. Peyton-Russell has waited it
for you.”

She left at once, evidently going to attendance on Gloria, who any
servant could see at a glance was the more important guest of the two.
While she was waiting for her bags Ruth warmed herself before a
wonderful wood fire, in front of which a blue satin-covered day bed
tempted her to further rest. Through the wide windows the tops of the
mountains that had looked so cold when she was driving to the house
resumed the almost warm beauty that she had admired on the train. Snow
always looks thus, infinitely attractive when one is safely indoors
before a fire, but rather cold and lonely when one is travelling through
it. She had hardly had time to remove her cloak and hat when a tap at
the door announced her bags, and another maid came in to help her
unpack. Ruth let her stay because she took rather kindly to being
served, an inheritance from her mother, who came from Virginia, and
because she might, without appearing too curious, learn something of the
other guests.

“Are there many people here?” she asked. It sounded rather unsubtle
after she had said it, but the maid was evidently a country girl, not
like the one who had brought her up, who had probably come from the
Peyton-Russell town house, and she did not seem surprised, but rather
glad to talk.

“Only Mr. and Mrs. Peyton-Russell, and Miss Mayfield—but you came with
her—you’re Miss Ruth Mayfield? and the foreign prince, and Mr. Riordan
and Professor Pendragon, a poor sick man who’s been here almost a month,
and a Miss Gilchrist, a singer. Perhaps you know her?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Ruth, almost sorry she had spoken, for the
maid seemed to consider it an invitation to talk at length.

“You’ll be surprised when you meet her, Miss; she’s that odd—not at all
like you other ladies. She sings beautiful—do you want to change for
breakfast? I wouldn’t if I were you. The breakfast’s waiting—here, let
me smooth your hair—no, I want it for practice—one day I want to be a
lady’s maid—a personal maid.”

She laid great stress on the first syllable of the word personal.

“They say some of these personal maids in big houses gets lovely
tips—not that I want tips; I’m glad to serve some people, but a working
girl’s got to take care of herself. If they was all like Miss Gilchrist
life _would_ be hard.”

She had a curious way of talking, with a rising and falling inflection,
stressing unexpected words and syllables, so that in listening to her
voice Ruth scarcely heard her words and forgot that she ought not to
encourage servant’s gossip.

“She’s terrible homely for one thing, and I think looking at herself in
the mirror has soured her disposition. She wears her hair short, and at
first I thought it was toifide fever. You should seen her glare at me
when I ast. You better run right down; I’ll finish unpacking for you.
You look too sweet; clothes ain’t everything.” With which doubtful
compliment ringing in her ears, Ruth passed out, but instead of “running
right down” she knocked at Gloria’s door. She had the feeling that if
they were to walk down and meet Professor Pendragon face to face she
wanted to be with Gloria. She had a vague fear that Gloria might faint,
and she wanted to be there to bear her up. Gloria was herself all ready
for descent, but she had changed her travelling costume for a charming
frock. Hunger had doubtless prompted speed and a theatrical woman’s
facility had aided her. She looked stunning, Ruth thought, and her heart
swelled with pride at the thought that at least her Gloria was looking
her very best for the encounter.

“Afraid to go down alone?” Gloria asked. “You needn’t be; you’re looking
ducky. I hope she has a millionaire for you to meet, but no such luck.
That would spoil ‘our Bohemian circle.’”. She mimicked Angela’s gurgling
voice perfectly. “I dare say those hungry brutes of men are waiting
now—if they have the grace to wait, which I doubt; I could eat almost
anything myself.”

Angela, having done her conventional duty by not meeting them at the
door, now yielded to her emotions and ran halfway up the stairs to meet
them, hurling herself into Gloria’s arms and even kissing Ruth on the
cheek to make her feel that she was welcome and really belonged.

“Come on, we’re having breakfast in the sun parlour; it’s the loveliest
room in the house. Every one is waiting. I’ve only two other guests, and
I didn’t tell them who was coming. You’ll be such a welcome surprise,”
she gurgled.

“We will, indeed,” thought Ruth.

“This is the library,” she waved her hand at an enormous room with
gloomy furniture, the door of which was open. “Cosy little place, don’t
you think? But here—”

She paused dramatically before she threw open the door of the sun
parlour. She was after all such a fluffy, good-hearted child that her
pride in her possessions was no more offensive than the pride of a child
in new toys, and Ruth couldn’t blame her for being proud of the room
they entered. They all stood at the open door looking at it a moment
before entering—a long, narrow room, evidently running the full length
of the house from north to south, with two sides of glass, window after
window with drawn-back draperies of amber silk, and between each window
a bird cage, hung above a tall blue vase filled with cut flowers. At one
end of the room the breakfast table was spread and at the other, where
there were no windows, was a fireplace, round which the men were
standing—Terry, Prince Aglipogue and John Peyton-Russell. There was a
lady seated there, too, and in another big, wing chair Ruth thought she
could discern the top of Professor Pendragon’s head.

They had satisfied Angela with their admiration, and as they came in the
three standing men advanced to meet them, and the woman turned her head.
Ruth looked at her, and her brain working by a sort of double process,
she had time to compare her with the maid’s description, even while her
heart was standing still because of the imminent meeting of Gloria and
Professor Pendragon. Miss Gilchrist did have short hair, not a fluffy
mass like Dorothy Winslow’s, but lank, dank, soiled-brown locks that
framed a lank, soiled-brown countenance. Her gown also seemed to be of a
dusty black, and Ruth could easily imagine that if her manners were no
more attractive than her appearance, she would be quite as disagreeable
as the maid described her. A closer view showed an out-thrust foot in a
long, flat, soiled-brown shoe, and Ruth remembered what Dorothy had once
told her:

“Never trust a woman who wears common sense shoes—there is something
radically wrong with her.”

She was being introduced to Mr. Peyton-Russell now. She had never met
him before. He was a large man who looked as if he took his material
wealth very seriously indeed and thought he owed some reparation to the
public from which he had extracted it, but he had a heavy cordiality
that was rather charming because it was so obviously sincere.

“And now you must meet the others,” chirped Angela.

Ruth realized for the first time that Angela was like a yellow canary.
The birds, singing gaily in the sunshine, made the comparison almost
compulsory.

“You’ll have to come to them, and anyway, I always have cocktails in
front of the fireplace. After that lone, cold ride, you must need one,
though it is only ten o’clock in the morning.”

They followed her across the long room, Ruth walking a step behind
Gloria, watching her face, waiting for the moment when she should see
around the high-backed chair. They must have seen him at the same
moment, for Ruth’s heart gave a little thump and it seemed that Gloria
missed a step, her body swaying just perceptibly for a second, while one
hand flew to her throat in a gesture that Ruth had seen before. Her
colour did not change, but with the sophistication of four months in New
York Ruth knew that Gloria’s colour did not “come and go” for very good
reason. The biggest change was in her eyes. They seemed to have turned a
dark violet and to have opened wider than Ruth had ever seen them
before, in a fixed stare. They were standing before him now. In her
anxiety about Gloria she had not thought of him at all. His face was
quite white and he seemed to be nerving himself for some tremendous
ordeal.

“Pardon me for not rising,”—he indicated the crutches beside his chair.

“Professor Pendragon’s not a bit like a real invalid—one forgets it the
moment one talks to him,” apologized Angela, rather tactlessly. “He and
John are such good friends that I used to be jealous of him, and when I
heard he was ill I insisted that John make him come, and do you know, he
wanted to run away before, but I told him what clever people were coming
and made him stay—aren’t you glad now that you’ve met Gloria Mayfield,
and Ruth?”

“Miss Ruth Mayfield and I have met before,” he said.

She was almost afraid to look at him. There was in his eyes a look of
questioning, almost of reproach. He had grown thinner and she wondered
how Gloria could be so heartless. Still it wasn’t all Gloria’s fault.
Ruth had seen her dark eyes melt with pity at sight of the crutches—pity
and a sort of bewildered fright, but when he spoke as if he had never
seen her before, the soft look faded and her eyes changed from violet to
the coldest grey imaginable, and her mouth set in a cold line, quite
unlike its natural form.

“I’m sure you’ll like our little Bohemian circle,” she said.

Ruth wondered how she dared make fun of Angela that way in her own
house. Somehow or other they had all been presented to Miss Gilchrist,
too, but she proved to be one of those persons one habitually forgets,
and who is perpetually trying to call back the wandering attention of
others, like a friendless pup rubbing his nose in the hands of
strangers, hoping some place to find a master. Of course Miss Gilchrist
hadn’t that kind of nose, but there was a pitiful look in her
dust-coloured brown eyes that simply plead for attention. Evidently
Terry saw it, for he was talking to her now, or perhaps he was only
trying to relieve what was an awkward moment for him as well as for
Ruth.

The cocktails came and though Ruth had never seen Gloria drink anything
stronger than coffee before four o’clock in the afternoon, she took this
one in the way that Ruth had sometimes seen men drink, almost pouring it
down. They all moved off to the breakfast table then, Gloria with John
Peyton-Russell, Angela beside Prince Aglipogue, and Terry with Miss
Gilchrist. Ruth waited while Professor Pendragon picked up his crutches.
Evidently he could get about very well by himself.

“I want to see you after breakfast—as soon as possible,” she whispered
to him.

“The enclosed veranda at five o’clock,” he whispered back.

She wanted to ask him what and where the enclosed veranda was, but there
was no chance. Every one was talking at once, it seemed; that is, every
one except Professor Pendragon and herself. She tried to catch Terry’s
eyes, but when she did, he only lifted one eyebrow as who should say:

“You see, your anxiety was needless; they are sophisticated New Yorkers
and didn’t mind a bit.”

But they did mind; she knew that. If they had recognized each other—that
would have been the sophisticated thing to do. Instead they had taken
the romantic course and met as strangers, though unlike strangers they
did not talk to each other. All around her she could hear snatches of
conversation. Terry seemed to have quite won the formidable Miss
Gilchrist.

“Yes; I sing,” she could hear her saying; “but I prefer poetry to any of
the arts.”

“Really?” said Terry politely.

“Yes; I say that poetry is my chief métier. I have a poem this month in
_Zaneslie’s_.”

“I must read it,” murmured Terry.

“You should hear me recite to really appreciate; don’t you think that
one is always the best interpreter of one’s own work?”

Terry nodded understandingly, and then in a voice that amused Ruth even
while she thought it rather cruel of him to laugh at the serious Miss
Gilchrist:

“Do you write rhymed poetry or do you prefer free verse?” he asked.

Miss Gilchrist deserted her grape fruit and gave him her undivided
attention.

“You know, Mr. Riordan, for years I have written rhymed poetry, but
recently, quite recently, I have felt a definite urge toward the free
medium. I have not relinquished the rhyme, but I am expressing myself in
both forms. The free medium—”

Her voice went on, and on, but Ruth could not hear her now because
Gloria’s voice, clear and high like the sleigh bells, rose above
everything else for the moment.

“No; I can’t work in Terry’s play; I’ve decided never to go back to the
stage. I want to travel—South America, perhaps.”

“But you’re going there on a concert tour, aren’t you, Prince?” said
Angela. “Perhaps—if you have a secret from me, Gloria, I don’t know what
I shall do to you.”

For a moment Ruth’s eyes met those of Professor Pendragon. She saw a
strange light flash into them, like a sword half withdrawn from its
sheath and then replaced, as he dropped his eyes.




                              CHAPTER XIV


It was easy to slip away alone. Ruth knew that Gloria, who had gone to
her own room, expected to be followed, but she did not want to talk
alone with Gloria until she had seen Professor Pendragon. She found the
enclosed veranda, a sleeping porch above the sun room. She threw a heavy
cloak about her shoulders and passed unobserved down the hall and
through the narrow doorway leading outside. He was there, waiting for
her in his wheel chair. There was another chair beside him, perhaps for
the nurse. She could look out over a wide circle of white hills with
masses of dark green where fir trees clustered in the hollows. The outer
edge of the circle was stained a deep rose, so that hill and cloud lay
heaped against the sunset bathed in cold flame.

She moved toward him slowly, wondering how she would begin now that she
had kept her rendezvous. He laid down the pipe he had been smoking and
held out a hand to her, a hand through which the light seemed to shine,
it was so pale and thin.

She sat down beside him without speaking at once and looked for a moment
at the sunset hills. They seemed so quiet and cold and peaceful. What
she was going to say would sound strange and unreal here—more strange
even than it sounded in New York.

“I want to talk to you about Gloria,” she began, but he did not speak
when she paused, so she went on:

“When you sent me that card to the water colour show—it was at breakfast
I got it—Gloria told me that she’d been married to you. She’s my aunt—my
father’s sister, but I’d never seen her until after father and mother
both died and I came here to study art. Mother sent me to her because
she is my only living relative. She didn’t know you were in New York
until I got that card, and she asked me not to tell you about her, so I
lied when you asked me about myself, or at least didn’t tell the truth.
Then just before we came here I saw Nels Zord and he told me you were
here too. At first I thought of telling Gloria, but I didn’t because I
want you to help me. I want you to save Gloria.”

“I’m afraid I can’t save Gloria, my child, any more than Gloria can save
me—she perhaps has lost her soul—tomorrow I lose my life. It is all set
and we have as little to do with it as with that thin thread of waning
moon up there, which tomorrow night will be utterly dark.”

“But don’t you see, Gloria doesn’t understand and that’s why she is
helpless; but you do understand and can prevent things. You said
yourself to me once, ‘The stars incline but do not compel.’ If you won’t
help me I must do everything alone, but you must tell me the truth,
isn’t George the cause of your illness?”

He leaned suddenly toward her.

“Why do you think that?”

“You talked about the evil eye and the dark of the moon; the others,
Nels and Dorothy, thought you were joking or talking in riddles, but I
didn’t. The night of the show, when you were first stricken, I saw
George performing incantations before a horrible snake—a black cobra, I
think; a month later he worshipped the snake again and your illness
increased. He has come here because Angela wants him to entertain us
with his music hall magic. I am afraid that he will use the snake. You
say you are to lose your life tomorrow; if George is the cause of your
illness, then that is true.”

He was still leaning toward her, searching her face in the waning light.
He spoke slowly as if his words were but a surface ripple over a deep
lake of thought.

“It is true that my illness is mind-born—I have known that from the
beginning—and that it is not of myself, and I have tried to discover who
could have thought it on me. It may be, as you suggest, that George has
done it. It is an answer, but why?”

“Because of Gloria,” she said. With another man it would have been
difficult to tell her beliefs, but for the moment it seemed as if they
two were hanging suspended in the dusk-blue bowl of mountain and sky,
and the soul, eager yet indifferent of life, that looked out of his
eyes, commanded absolute truth.

“George loves her—he is a Hindoo, and for no other reason would he have
been her servant all these years. At first he understood the prejudices
of a Western woman and realized that he couldn’t marry her, but I think
if you will look back perhaps now you can see how he separated you and
Gloria. I have never seen the two men who followed, but I think he must
have hypnotized her into marrying them, and then himself broken the
marriages, and now she is going to marry this horrible Prince Aglipogue.
George is forcing her to do that. He boasted that it was so to me. It
will ruin her career and make her poor, and break her heart with shame
when she wakes to what she has done. Then George will claim his reward.
He did not mention your name when he talked to me, but he said, ‘There
is only one other fit to walk beside her, and he is slowly dying of an
unknown disease.’ You see there is only one link gone from my story and
that is how you let Gloria go at first. Why did you, why did you?”

In the retelling of the story that had occupied her mind all these
weeks, putting all her fears into words, it seemed that the danger she
told had grown fourfold. When she had tried to tell Terry his very
attitude of uncomprehension had made her story sound unreal, but when
she told it now, she saw belief and understanding in Pendragon’s eyes,
and something else—a resignation that maddened her. It was as if he
watched Gloria being murdered and made no movement to protect her.

“Why, why?” she demanded again, grasping his arm with tense fingers. She
could almost have shaken him.

He seemed quite unmoved by her excitement.

“Gloria had met George before we were married,” he said in his quiet
voice. “She found him ill, you know, and paid his debts and got him a
doctor, and when he was well he wanted to serve her. I didn’t like him
and advised her not to take him; it would have been much better for him
to go back to his profession, but he begged to come and she liked him;
perhaps his devotion flattered her. Everything went well until the night
when Gloria was to open in a new play. I never went much to the theatre.
I thought it better to leave her alone in her professional life, and on
this night the planet Eros—a small planet discovered quite recently in
our new solar system—was to be very near—much nearer than it had ever
been but once before, much nearer than it would be again for many years.
The first time the astronomers of the world had missed a wonderful
opportunity; this time they were all watching. We were to take
photographs if the weather permitted; by means of Eros and comparative
calculations we would discover something exact about the distance and
weight of many other planets. It was the opportunity of a century.

“We had a small flat in London and George was acting as a sort of butler
and sometimes valeting me as well. I hated having him around, but Gloria
said he was happier when he was busy. I remember now everything that
happened and how he looked at me. ‘You are going to the theatre tonight,
Sir?’ he said, and I had the impression that he often gave me, that he
was being impertinent, almost insulting, though there was neither
impertinence nor insult in his words or manner.

“‘No; I’m due at the observatory,’ I answered. There had been no idea of
my going to the opening in my mind, or in Gloria’s, I think, until that
moment, but when George had left us she turned on me with reproaches.
She said that I took no interest in her work; that I was jealous of her
career and that I must choose between her and the stars that night. I
dare say I was very stupid, but she seemed quite strange and
unreasonable as I had never seen her before, and I said some rather
nasty things. She said if I did not go to the theatre she would never
return to the flat. Of course I said that was unnecessary—that I would
go. I did; expecting a message from her every day. The only message I
got was from her lawyers in Paris, where she had gone for a divorce.
That’s the story.”

He stopped talking now, but Ruth waited. Over the hills the rose flush
had faded, the thin, keen blade of the almost disappearing moon hung
like a scimitar in a field of dark purple and resting above it a star
hung, trembling, as if waiting for the cold arms of a laggard lover.

“I suppose half confidences won’t do,” he said at last. “I still love
Gloria; what man once having loved her could forget? ‘Time cannot change
nor custom stale her infinite variety’; but of what use to fight one’s
destiny—in another incarnation, perhaps. I cannot believe all that you
say of George. That he is a Mahatma is doubtless true, that he loves
Gloria is gruesomely natural, that he hates me and has put upon me this
mind-born malady is reasonable, but that he should possess, or even
aspire to possess, Gloria is incredible.”

There was a sadness on his face, another worldness in his eyes, but
there was no light of battle there, and Ruth, whose youth and energy
cried out for action, felt as if she were beating with futile hands
against a stone wall.

“But he does want her, and he’s going to succeed if you don’t do
something. If he has the power to kill you, he has the power to do these
other things too. Even if you don’t believe this, you must do something
to save your own life.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very keen about living; if I die now it is an easy
way out—”

She wanted to protest that if he had courage he might yet win Gloria
again, but she did not dare raise hopes that might never be fulfilled.
Even if Gloria were saved from the Prince who could tell that she might
not marry Terry?

“That’s weak, and cowardly,” she said, “and if you believe in the wisdom
of the East you know that in the next life you will not enjoy the fruit
of any joy for which you have not struggled in this. You are selfish,
too. Even if you no longer care for your own life, you must do what you
can to help Gloria.”

“She no longer wants anything from me; she would only resent my
interference.”

“You are thinking only of yourself—what difference can her attitude make
now? Promise me that you will do something—promise—”

“Perhaps the voice of youth is the voice to follow—I am afraid I have
grown old and age does not love knighthood, but I promise that if I see
any way in which to change her destiny and mine, I will make what effort
I can. I will think about it.”

It was almost dark now, and Gloria was standing beside them before they
saw her.

“Angela’s been looking for you; she wants you to play billiards, Ruth.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“That doesn’t make any difference; neither do I and neither does Miss
Gilchrist; you just stand around and make the men wish that you’d go
away and let them have a good game—but don’t go just yet,” as Ruth
started away. “I want to say something to Professor Pendragon and I
don’t want to be alone with him.”

Ruth could not see his face very clearly, but she saw his long white
hands clenching over the arms of his chair.

“I thought, of course, when we met this morning, that you would find
some excuse for going away on the next train, Percy.”

“Why should I do that, Gloria? I did not know you were coming; you did
not know I was here. We have been thrown together for a brief time.
Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Peyton-Russell knows that we have met before. I
have promised to stay over the New Year. John knows I haven’t any
particular business interest to call me away. I thought the least
conspicuous thing would be to stay. My illness makes it easy for me to
stay much in my own rooms. We need not meet often, but if you wish, of
course, I can go tomorrow.”

There was no trace of bitterness or anger in his voice. He spoke in a
cold, casual way as if he were discussing some rather boring detail of
business.

“I do wish it very much—Prince Aglipogue has asked Angela to announce
our engagement tomorrow night. Of course no one but Ruth and Mr. Riordan
knows that we have ever met before, but it will be awkward for me, even
though you seem to have forgotten everything.”

Her voice, as cold as his at the beginning, deepened and trembled on the
last words, whether with tears or anger Ruth could not tell. She only
knew that both of these people were suffering as only proud people can
suffer and she did not want to watch. She tried to slip away, but
Gloria’s hand on her arm restrained her.

“Really, Gloria, I don’t see why you should announce a thing like that;
you might as well make an announcement every time you buy a new frock.”

The words could not have cut Gloria more than they did Ruth. Surely this
was not the man who not fifteen minutes earlier had told her that he
still loved Gloria? If he had hated her he could have said nothing more
rude. She felt Gloria’s hand tighten on her arm as if for support.

“I will go, then; you need not trouble,” she said in a low voice.

“No; forgive me—I will go on the early train.”

But already Gloria had turned and was walking away, and Ruth, not
knowing what to say, followed, her heart aching for both the woman and
the lonely man outside. Gloria did not pause nor look back and Ruth
suspected that she dared not turn her face for fear of disclosing tears.

The warm air inside made Ruth realize for the first time that, though
sheltered, it was very cold outside. She hesitated, wondering whether to
follow Gloria or to go back and beg Professor Pendragon not to remain
longer out of doors. Gloria decided her by walking steadily forward and
turning into her own room, closing the door behind her.

He was still sitting where they had left him, staring out into the
blue-black sky. Even his hands still clung tightly to the arms of his
chair as they had when she had left him.

“I’ve just discovered that it’s terrifically cold out here and you ought
to come in,” she said, trying to speak as if nothing had happened.

“The nurse was to have come out for me a long time ago; I dare say she
saw us talking and went back. If you think you could push the chair for
me—I haven’t any crutches here—I will go in,” he answered in the same
tone.

Without speaking she moved to the back of the chair and began wheeling
him toward the door. It really moved very easily. She stopped at the
door, opened it and pushed him through.

“Which door?” she asked.

“That one,” he pointed.

It was next to Gloria’s room and across the hall from her own. The
obvious thought came to her of how these two, apparently so near, were
separated by a bridgeless ocean of misunderstanding.




                               CHAPTER XV


“It’s a worse storm than the one that held up your train; it’s rather
Christmasy and all that, but it’s rather unfortunate, because the nurse
has become alarmed about Professor Pendragon and he wanted to take the
early train back to New York. We’ve telephoned Dr. Gerstens, and if it’s
possible for anything to travel five miles through this snow storm he’ll
be here.”

Ruth glanced across the breakfast table at Gloria while Angela was
speaking, but there was no annoyance on Gloria’s face, only a desperate
fear looked out of her eyes. Again it seemed to Ruth that she was a
trapped bird.

“How about the children?” asked Mr. Peyton-Russell.

“Oh, these storms never last more than a few hours; by noon it will be
over and most of them can get here—those that only live a few miles
away. They’re accustomed to weather like this—unless James refuses to
take out the horses—James, you know, thinks more of the horses than he
does of us,” she continued, turning to the others. “You know every
Christmas John has the most beautiful custom. He gees around to all the
farm houses and collects the children and brings them here to play games
and enjoy our Christmas tree. I expect you to help entertain them, Ruth.
You’re the youngest person here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about children, but I’ll try.”

“I’ll help,” said Terry quickly.

“I knew you would,” said Angela, and they all laughed, though Ruth could
see nothing to laugh at. She was beginning to fear that the events of
the last weeks had dulled her wits.

“Can’t Pendragon take the afternoon train if it clears up?” asked Mr.
Peyton-Russell.

“The nurse won’t let him; says he can’t stand sleeping cars. She simply
won’t let him go until morning—and perhaps when Dr. Gerstens comes he’ll
say it isn’t necessary—though he has looked rather badly the last few
days. You know at first I quite forgot that he was ill until he would
try to walk. I like him so much—don’t you think it’s awfully sweet of me
to like John’s friends, Gloria?”

Angela was in one of her juvenile moods in which Gloria usually
encouraged her, but now she only answered:

“Yes, very.”

“It is the duty of a good wife to like the friends of her husband,” said
Prince Aglipogue, who by this time had sufficiently satisfied the first
keen edge of the appetite acquired through the night to begin taking
part in the conversation.

This remark was a challenge to Miss Gilchrist, who began a long talk on
the duty of every woman to retain her individuality after marriage,
illustrating her talk with examples of what the unfortunate man who
married her might expect. And no one was rude enough or brave enough to
tell her that all these plans and warnings on her part were unnecessary.
Ruth didn’t even listen. She had discovered that Miss Gilchrist never
required an answer to anything she said. She was content if only allowed
to go on talking.

It was at such times as these that everything that Ruth had seen in the
past and everything she feared for the future seemed most unreal and
incredible.

Surely here in this warm room with its glowing fire, its flowers and
birds, among these every-day people, eating breakfast and chatting of
ordinary things, there could be nothing more sinister than the snow
storm outside; and that only seemed to add to the comfort and good cheer
within.

Then she saw George glide across the far end of the long room, silent,
dark-clad, swift, and she remembered that this was not only Christmas
Eve; it was also the dark of the moon. The children would come to play
before the Christmas tree in the afternoon—and at night the doom of the
daughter of Shiva would fall. Later she knew that it was in this moment
that she thought again of the words of Professor Pendragon: “If I had an
enemy I would destroy his faith in his power to harm,” and she knew what
it was that she must do.

Angela was right. The snow stopped falling before ten o’clock. They had
all been keeping country hours and had breakfasted at eight, and they
all watched James drive off in the huge sleigh that was to bring the
children to the Christmas party.

There would not be as many as usual, for James had been forced to make a
late start and he could not travel very rapidly in the deep snow and the
children must be there at three o’clock if they were to start home early
in the evening. For these very good reasons he could not stop at more
than four or five of the very nearest farms. However, as each farm could
provide from two to six children, there promised to be quite enough to
keep Ruth busy if she was to amuse them.

The idea of amusing children rather frightened Ruth, but she was
relieved when Angela took them to see the tree. It had all been very
nicely arranged with enough mechanical amusement to relieve her of any
very great responsibility. The tree—a very big one—was in a large room
from which most of the furniture, except a few chairs, had been
thoughtfully removed. Aside from the candles and tinsel ornaments there
were dozens of small gifts, of little value, but suitable almost for any
child, together with the usual “Christian sweets,” as Terry called them,
which Ruth remembered to have received herself from Church Christmas
trees, and to have seen nowhere else at any time. Then there was to be
tea with lots of cakes and chocolate and nuts and fruit, and altogether
Ruth could see that there would not be more than one torturing hour in
which she would have to “amuse the children.” Besides they would
probably amuse themselves.

“Why not teach them poetry games?” suggested Miss Gilchrist, “those
lovely things of Vachel Lindsay’s, where the poetry is interpreted by
motion—”

“Better let them play games they know,” said Angela. “They only have an
hour or two, and there won’t be time to teach them anything new.”

“Oh, very well. I was only suggesting; of course if you prefer the
old-fashioned, undirected play—but it seemed to me a splendid
opportunity to bring beauty into the lives of children who might never
have another opportunity of studying it. I have gone in for child study,
you know, quite deeply; I may say that child culture is my—”

Ruth feared that she was going to say it was her chief métier, but
Angela interrupted with:

“I think I’ll have some little tables brought in for the tea. Children
are so awkward about cups and things, and perhaps they’ll feel less shy
if they’re all sitting together round a table.”

Though her ideas about modern child culture seemed to meet with so
little approval, Miss Gilchrist did not absent herself from the party.
She was with Ruth and Terry and Mr. and Mrs. Peyton-Russell while they
watched the arrival of the sleigh load of shouting children. Prince
Aglipogue was, of course, far too dignified to take any interest and
Gloria had absented herself since breakfast as if she feared that she
would have to meet Pendragon again.

“They didn’t seem to mind meeting at all,” Terry had said to her the day
before, but when Angela had spoken of Professor Pendragon’s dangerous
condition and his plan of returning to the city, Ruth had caught his
glance and knew that he understood at least in part—at least as much as
any one else could understand. She did not intend to tell him anything
about her own conversation with Pendragon or the scene between him and
Gloria which she had witnessed. She knew that she had been there, not so
much as a confidante, as an artificial barrier between two people who
otherwise could not have borne the pain of meeting. The experience had
made her feel very old, and now the idea of entertaining children seemed
almost preposterous.

The door was opened and the little guests came trooping into the big
hall, but something seemed to have happened when they clambered out of
the sleigh. They had been laughing after the most approved manner of
childhood. Ruth could swear to that. She had seen their faces and some
of the shrill shouts had penetrated into the house. Now they stood, with
wide, curious eyes and solemn demeanour, the little ones were huddling
close behind the older ones and all looking like shy, frightened wood
things. They followed Mr. Peyton-Russell into the room of the Christmas
tree; they looked, but where were the cries of delight with which Ruth
had expected them to hail this wonder? Beyond shy “yes” and “no” to
questions they said nothing. They stood like little, wooden images while
the maids separated them from vast quantities of little coats, sweaters,
knitted caps, hoods, mufflers, and overshoes. Ruth hoped that they would
breathe sighs of relief and begin to look happy after that, but they
didn’t. They stood quite solemnly where they were and Angela and her
husband, who were to return later to distribute the gifts, fled, leaving
them to be “amused.” The electric candles on the tree had been lighted,
though it was a bright day, and some of the bolder children drew near to
it, but still they did not talk. It seemed that entrance into the house
had made them strangers to each other as well as to their hosts, and
they looked so dull Ruth wondered, remembering the hordes of dark-faced
children she had seen playing in Washington Square, if country children
were duller than city children.

“Let me start them,” said Miss Gilchrist, talking quite audibly as if
the children could not hear. “I have a great way with children.” She
threw an ogreish smile at them as she spoke and one little girl
instinctively drew near to Terry as if for protection.

“Now, children, what shall we play?” she asked in what was doubtless
intended to be an engaging tone of voice.

For a long time no one spoke; then a little girl—the tallest little girl
there—whispered just audibly:

“Kissing games.”

Terry grinned delightedly, but Miss Gilchrist flushed a dark purple.

“No, indeed,” she said, still in her schoolteacher voice. “I’m sure the
other children do not want to play games like that. Tell me what you
play at school.” But again there was silence. Though some of the little
boys had giggled, there were indications that most of the children did
want to play “kissing games,” probably because those were the only
indoor games they knew.

“Why not let them play the games they’re accustomed to playing—isn’t
there one called—er—post-office?” he questioned the little girl. She
nodded emphatically, and Miss Gilchrist, casting looks expressive of
deep disgust at both Terry and Ruth, departed. In her absence the
children seemed to gain confidence. They told Terry their names and
recalled to him such details of the fascinating game of post-office as
he had forgotten.

“D’you really mean you never played it?” he asked Ruth.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know it was so important.”

“No child’s education complete without it; but it’s never too late to
mend your ways, so you can learn now.”

At first Ruth couldn’t help feeling rather ridiculous, but the children
after five minutes of play seemed to regard her as one of them, and
Terry was perhaps a bit younger than the youngest boy there. They
progressed from one game to another, and to Ruth it seemed that every
game, no matter how harmless on the surface, called for some declaration
in rhyme about “the un that I luf best,” followed by a kiss to prove it,
and she was in constant fear that the etiquette of play would require
that she kiss Terry, but it never did. Evidently Terry understood these
things far better than she did, for while he kissed every little maid in
the room and every little boy made declaration of his love for her, they
never had to kiss each other.

Still it was a relief when tea was brought in; a relief to the children
as well, if one could judge by the enthusiasm with which they greeted
it, and afterward John Peyton-Russell and Angela and Gloria and even
Prince Aglipogue came in to see the distribution of gifts.

They all sat in rows, “Like in Sunday School,” as Ruth heard one of the
little girls whisper, while Mr. Peyton-Russell made a little speech and
gave out the gifts. Gloria’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes were
unnaturally bright, Ruth thought, but as always under stress of emotion,
she was hiding behind words, amusing words with a touch of acid behind
them.

“He used to invite the parents, too,” she told Ruth; “sort of lord of
the manor pose; but he found that American farmers do not lend
themselves well to the tenantry idea; they came and then sent him
invitations as a return of hospitality. They simply would not be
faithful retainers, and then”—

“I’m afraid Aggie’s being bored—not enough to drink for one thing—Angela
is so conservative—dinner tonight will cheer him—some more people
coming; the Brixtons and their guests, I think. Hope Percy has the good
grace to keep to his rooms even though he didn’t leave.”

“He couldn’t, you know, because of the storm this morning,” defended
Ruth.

“I say, is he going to die, do you think?” she asked suddenly.

“No—what made you ask that?” Ruth felt her eyes shifting in spite of her
efforts to meet Gloria’s clear gaze.

“I don’t know—something in the look of him when we left him there in his
wheel chair—you know everything is finished for us, but still it would
be terrible! I should hate to have Percy die, though God knows I have
enough ex-husbands to be able to spare just one.”

Her shrill, mirthless laughter rose above the chatter of the children’s
voices.

“Don’t, Gloria—please don’t—I can’t bear it!”

“Look here, child—are you—do you love Percy?” Her voice had changed now,
all the hardness gone from it—it was almost the mother tone. Her words
startled Ruth more than anything that had gone before.

“Love Professor Pendragon? Of course not. I like him awfully well—I’m
afraid I think you’ve treated him very badly and perhaps I’m sorry for
him, but I never thought of him in any other way. What made you ask
that?”

Gloria listened, at first with a little puzzled line between her perfect
brows, and then, convinced of Ruth’s sincerity, her face cleared.

“I don’t know—something Terry said first gave me the idea. I think he
got the impression from something you said. And it wouldn’t be so
strange, would it? Percy _is_ attractive.”

“Much more attractive than that horrible creature,” said Ruth, glancing
in Prince Aglipogue’s direction.

Gloria shrugged her shoulders and did not reply. One could say anything
to Gloria. She was never offended because people did not agree with her,
nor did the opinions of other people change or influence her own actions
or beliefs in any way.

Ruth did not try to talk any more. She was thinking of what Gloria had
said about Terry. If Terry thought that she was interested in
Pendragon—if she could have made a mistake like this—wasn’t it possible
that she had made a mistake in thinking that Terry loved Gloria? Somehow
since their adventure on the train together he had not seemed so
inaccessible. Reason had told her that he was unattainable, but
something stronger than reason had told another story. There had been an
indefinable something different in his attitude toward her during the
last few days—something like a prelude—something for which they were
both waiting. Still, she must not deceive herself with false hopes.
There were so many things for which she was waiting—things that would
happen now she knew within a very few hours.




                              CHAPTER XVI


The other guests had come, so that there were twelve people around the
Christmas Eve dinner table, among them Professor Pendragon, in whose
quiet face Ruth thought she read some new resolve. Surely he must have
some purpose in thus joining the others when he knew that tonight
Gloria’s engagement to Prince Aglipogue would be announced, and when his
illness would have made his absence seem quite plausible. He moved about
so unobtrusively as to make his infirmity almost unnoticed, and now,
seated beside Ruth, she found it difficult to believe that he was really
paralysed. She talked to him of trivial things, ordinary dinner chat, or
listened to the others, wondering within herself what secrets lay behind
those smiling masks of triviality.

If Gloria and Pendragon, who had once been married, could meet thus as
strangers, if she and Terry knowing their secret, or at least a part of
it, could calmly pretend to the world that they did not know, might not
all these other people have secrets, too—old memories that wine would
not drown, meetings and partings whose pleasure or pain even time could
not dim—immortal loves and hates still living, but sealed securely in
coffins of conventionality?

Hundreds of candles flashed against dark walls, stained to a semblance
of old age; bright scarlet holly berries nestled against their green
waxen leaves, and dark, red roses shed their heavy perfume over
everything. The dinner was being a great success, for there were no
awkward lulls in conversation, and, while Ruth in her youth and
innocence did not know it, Angela Peyton-Russell was blessed with an
excellent cook, without whose services the faces of the men present
would not have been so happy. Ruth did not even observe what she ate,
but Prince Aglipogue, upon whose face sat heavy satisfaction, could have
told to the smallest grain of condiment exactly what each dish
contained.

Some one suggested that there were enough people to dance, and Angela,
realizing the advantages of spontaneity in entertainment, eagerly
acquiesced. They would dance for an hour or two after dinner and she
would have her little “show” later; but the guests themselves would have
to supply the music.

The Prince, who could be agreeable when he chose, immediately offered
his services and his violin if Miss Gilchrist would accompany him with
the piano.

It would all be just like an old-fashioned country dance, and “so
delightfully Bohemian,” Angela thought. She was tremendously happy over
the success of her Christmas party, and her husband was tremendously
satisfied because of the success of his beautiful wife in the luxury of
his beautiful home; but Ruth’s heart ached whenever she heard Gloria’s
liquid laughter because there were tears in it, and in the steady fire
of Professor Pendragon’s dark eyes she saw a flame more pitiful than the
funeral pyre of a Sati.

He talked a little, very quietly of trivial things, sometimes to her,
sometimes to the others, and Ruth took courage from his calmness. Only
as the party grew more gay it seemed to her that under all the sparkle
and the gaiety there was a silence louder than the noise, like the heavy
hush that falls on nature before the thunder clap and the revealing
flash have ushered in a storm. So strong was this sense of waiting that
when their host stood with upraised glass, her hand instinctively went
out and rested for a brief second on Professor Pendragon’s arm, as if
she would shield him. Then she saw Terry looking at her, and remembering
what Angela had said to her that afternoon, she quickly withdrew it.
There had been no need to touch him, for Pendragon, like the others at
the table, turned his attention to John Peyton-Russell, listening to his
words as if they held no especial significance for him.

“I want John to make the announcement,” Angela had said. “It gives him
such pleasure to make speeches. He simply adores it.”

Evidently she knew her husband’s tastes, for with the halting words and
awkward phraseology of the man accustomed to addressing nothing gayer
than a board of directors’ meeting, he stumbled at great length and with
obvious self-satisfaction through a speech in which he proposed that
they drink to the approaching marriage of Gloria Mayfield and Prince
Aglipogue.

His words were greeted with enthusiasm by all those to whom they meant
nothing except that a more or less famous actress was to marry a fat
foreign prince. Ruth heard a woman near her whisper to the man at her
right:

“Will this make her third or her fourth?”

And the response:

“I’ve lost count.”

The Prince was responding now—something stilted and elaborate, but Ruth
did not hear. The dinner had become a nightmare. She wanted to escape.
Concealed in the girdle of her frock was the little revolver that Terry
had given her. She could feel its weight, and it comforted her.

Somehow the dinner ended and Ruth with the others followed Angela to a
drawing-room that had been denuded of rugs for dancing. A few months
before Ruth would have thought all these people charming, the women
beautiful, the men distinguished. Now they were repulsive to her. How
could they listen unprotesting to the announcement that Gloria, the
beautiful and good (no power on earth could have persuaded Ruth that
Gloria was not good), was to marry an ugly ogre like Prince Aglipogue?

His fat face wreathed in smiles now, he stood, tucking his violin under
his third chin, and then he played—he played, and even Ruth forgot the
source of the music. It was not Prince Aglipogue that played, but some
slender, dark Hungarian gypsy whose music was addressed to an
unattainable princess, ’neath whose window he stood, bathed in
moonlight. She threw a rose to him and he crushed it against a heart
that broke with joyous pain of loving.

Some little time he played before any one danced; then the insensate
callousness of people who “must be amused” triumphed over the music and
the stupid gyrations of the modern dance which every one had been forced
to learn in self-protection—for those who do not dance must watch, and
the insult to the eyes is too great to be borne.

Perhaps after all the music of Aglipogue’s violin did move them; perhaps
it was only that they had dined too well; perhaps because the company
was so small that twice men found themselves dancing with their own
wives; for any, or all, or none of these reasons, they tired of dancing
early and were ready for Angela’s much-advertised “show.”

Terry had been dancing with Ruth, and she knew that there was something
that he wanted to say to her. She guessed that it was something about
Gloria, but she did not want to talk to Terry about Gloria. He could not
understand and she regretted that she had tried to make him understand.
She could not discuss Gloria with any one, not even Terry. She knew what
she had to do and her whole mind was set on that. If she talked to Terry
his lack of faith would weaken her purpose. She left him now, abruptly,
ignoring the look of reproach in his eyes, and walked beside Professor
Pendragon, who was moving slowly on his crutches, a little behind the
others. She meant to stay close beside him through the rest of the
night.

In the room that had been the scene of the children’s party that
afternoon a stage had been put up—a low platform covered with a black
velvet carpet and divided in half by a black curtain on which the signs
of the Zodiac were embroidered in gold thread. The Christmas tree was
still in the room, but unlighted and shoved away into an obscure corner.
To Ruth it looked pitiful, like an old man, Father Christmas perhaps,
who sat back watching with sorrowful eyes the unchristmas-like
amusements of modern humanity. There was a piano on the stage. For a
woman who was herself “unmusical,” Angela had more pianos in her house
than any one in the world, Ruth decided.

In a semicircle, very close to the stage, chairs had been placed, and
here the company seated themselves, with much more or less witty comment
about what they might expect from behind the mysterious curtain. Behind
them was another row of chairs, which, carrying out Mr. Peyton-Russell’s
“lord of the manor” pose, the household servants had been invited to
occupy. They came, with quiet curiosity, one or two of the maids
stifling yawns that led Ruth to suspect they would much rather have gone
to bed.

The semi-circular arrangement of the chairs made those at the ends of
the row much closer to the stage than those in the centre. On one of
these end chairs sat Professor Pendragon, his crutches resting beside
him on the floor, and next to him sat Ruth. Then came some of the dinner
guests, the other house guests, including Gloria and Prince Aglipogue,
being at the farther end of the row; the room was dimly lighted and the
stage itself had only one light, a ghostly green lamp, seemingly
suspended in the middle of the black curtain, in the shape of a waning
moon. Instinctively voices were hushed and people talked to each other
in whispers. Only Ruth and Professor Pendragon did not speak. She could
not know of what he was thinking, but she knew that in herself thought
was suspended. She sat watching her hand clasping the tiny revolver
concealed in her girdle.

John Peyton-Russell then announced that Miss Gilchrist (if she had a
Christian name no one ever heard it) had consented to recite some of her
own poems. The relaxation of the company, almost visible, was half
disappointment, half relief. The stage set had led them to expect
something unusual, and they were only going to be bored.

Miss Gilchrist seated herself at the piano, on which she accompanied
herself. Ruth did not know if her words were as bad as her music, for
she did not understand them, and from certain whispered comments she
knew that no one else did, with the possible exception of Miss Gilchrist
herself.

Some one else—a pretty, blond young thing with a “parlour voice,” sang
an old English Christmas carol that sounded like sacrilege. Then Prince
Aglipogue sang. Ruth never hated him so much as when he sang because
then as at no other time he created the illusion of an understanding
soul. His painting was obvious trickery; his violin playing of a quality
that did not discredit the composer, for he had been trained to a
parrot-like perfection; but when he sang he created the illusion of
greatness—Purcell, Brahms, Richard Strauss—it did not matter whose music
he sang; one felt that he understood, and it angered Ruth that when she
closed her eyes she forgot the singer and could understand how Gloria
might marry and even love the possessor of this voice.

Aglipogue always maintained that the war had ruined his career. He had
an opera engagement in Germany in 1914, and when the war came he could
not go to fill it. So he had remained in the States, and his amazing
versatility had enabled him to earn a living as an artist. Now the end
of the war had opened new opportunities and he was going to South
America in concert work. Ruth had never quite believed his boasting. She
did not think that any man’s work could be bigger than himself—that any
artist could express something bigger than that contained in his own
soul; and the soul of Prince Aglipogue was a weak, cowardly, hateful
thing. Yet his voice moved her, attracted and repelled, cast a spell
over her, exotic, fascinating, yet sinister as if the music were only a
prelude to the wicked necromancy of the Hindoo that was to follow.

The voice ceased, and Prince Aglipogue, alone of all the company unmoved
by his own voice, resumed his place at Gloria’s side. For a brief
breathing minute no one moved. John Peyton-Russell seemed to have
forgotten his cue. Then he rose and told them that the real surprise was
to come, an exhibition of magic by Karkotaka, a famous Indian Mahatma.
It was the first time that Ruth had ever heard George’s Hindoo name and
she suspected that it was no more his real name than was George. She
thought she remembered an Indian story in which a certain Karkotaka
figured as king of the serpents, a sort of demi-god.

All eyes were on the dark curtain now, but if they expected it to rise
or to be drawn aside they were disappointed. Instead, it parted silently
and Karkotaka, George, glided through, dressed not in the costume of a
Brahman, but of a mediæval prince of India. Instead of a turban he wore
a high jewelled headdress. A single piece of cloth, dark blue in colour
and gemmed with small gold stars, was draped about him, leaving one arm
and shoulder bare, and descending to his feet, which were encased in
jewelled sandals. Even Ruth, who had expected something extraordinary,
gasped as he stood bowing before them. The dignity that had shown even
through his servant’s dress was now one hundred times more apparent. He
moved with a lithe grace as became the king of the serpents, slowly
moving his bare bronze arms until it seemed to Ruth they coiled and
writhed like living snakes. Under his headdress his eyes gleamed more
brightly than the jewels above.

He had come upon the stage with nothing in his hands, and except for the
piano it was empty, certainly empty of all the paraphernalia of
legerdemain. Then, suddenly he held in his hand a small brass bowl. He
made a sign to some one in the back of the room, who had evidently been
detailed to help him, and a servant gave him a carafe of ice water. This
he set down beside the bowl. Then he offered the bowl to the spectators
for examination. Ruth noticed that he was so close to them that it was
not even necessary to step down from the low stage. Two or three men who
“Never saw a trick yet I couldn’t see through” examined the bowl with
sceptical eyes and pronounced it quite ordinary. Then George poured ice
water from the carafe into the bowl and again offered it for inspection.
Several people touched it with their hands and pronounced the water with
which it was quite filled to be ice cold. Then George set the bowl down
before him and covered it with a small silk handkerchief. He waved his
hands over it three times, removed the handkerchief, and they saw steam
rising from the ice water. Again George offered the bowl for inspection.
Terry dipped his fingers into the water and as quickly removed them with
an exclamation of pain. The water was almost too hot to touch.

Then from nowhere appeared the little mound of sand and watering pot
indispensable to any self-respecting Indian fakir. Several people
whispered, “The mango tree—that’s an old one.” Throughout George had not
spoken one word. He seemed to be unconscious of his audience except when
he asked them to examine something. To Ruth there seemed in his studied
leisure a conscious effort to disguise haste. He bent now over the sand,
pouring water on it and pressing it up into a little hillock of mud;
then he covered it with a cloth, beneath which his hands were still
busy. Then he moved away and seemed to be muttering charms. When he
returned and removed the cloth there was the little mango sprout with
its two leathery leaves. Again the plant was covered, next time to
appear several inches tall with more leaves, and so on until it had
reached a height of more than a foot.

It was all very wonderful, as was also the fountain of water that sprang
from the tip of his index finger, until he seemed to chide it, whereupon
it disappeared from his hand and was seen spouting from the top of the
piano. Dissatisfied, he lit a candle and, calling to the water, made it
spring from the candle flame itself. Then he called again, spread out
his arms, and the stream, leaving the still lighted candle, separated
and sprang from his five outspread fingertips.

In an ordinary music hall the people who watched would doubtless have
conceded that it was clever, but here in an ordinary drawing-room in an
ordinary country house in the Berkshires on Christmas Eve, the
performance became something more than legerdemain. It bordered on the
supernatural and they sat silent and fascinated.

Suddenly with an annoyed gesture he threw up his hands, apparently
throwing off the water, which instantaneously began to flow in myriad
streams from his headdress, reminding Ruth of Shiva, who, with his hair,
separated the flow of the sacred river when it came down from the
Himalayas. George removed his headdress, disclosing a close white turban
beneath, and the flow of the fountain died as unceremoniously as it had
begun.

The servant who was standing nearby waiting for his signal now handed
George an ordinary walking stick, which George silently offered for
inspection. After some examination it was agreed that it was a very
ordinary walking stick indeed. George whirled it about his head and
dropped it before his feet—it was a writhing snake. Several women
screamed. Fountains were pretty, but they were in no mood for snakes.
George picked up the snake again and whirled it around his head. It was
an ordinary walking stick, though the men hesitated to re-examine it for
proof.

George balanced the stick on his finger, holding his arm out straight
before him, and it began to writhe and twist, a snake with open, hissing
mouth and darting tongue. He dropped it—the same women screamed again,
then laughed hysterically as they saw the common piece of wood before
them.

“This sort of thing is all very well from a distance, but I don’t really
care for snakes at such close quarters,” Ruth heard some one whisper.

Ruth glanced at Professor Pendragon beside her, but his eyes were fixed
on George. There was an eager light in his eyes as if he, too, were
waiting, and his firm set lips were curved in a smile. Again her hand
sought Terry’s gift. If all these people here were the victims of
hypnotic illusions, she at least must keep one corner of her brain free
and untouched. Pendragon’s presence there was proof that he had decided
to fight, and she must help him. In the semi-darkness of the room she
could not see Gloria, but she heard her laughter like thin bells over
snow-covered hills—it seemed to echo round the room, and she fancied
that George, bending over the task of clearing away the things with
which he had been working, winced as he heard it, as if the frost of her
mirth had bitten into his heart.

The stage was all clear again now, and he bowed deeply before them three
times. There was a restless movement among the watchers. Perhaps they
thought this was the end, but Ruth waited, her heart high up in her
throat and standing still with fear that she would somehow fail to do
the thing she had decided upon.

George moved slowly backward toward the curtain and parted it with his
two hands, still facing them. Then reaching back he grasped a heavy
object behind him and dragged it into the centre of the stage, the
curtains closing behind him. He stood back now and they could see what
looked like a large ebony chest. He knelt before it, and Ruth could see
that there was more of reverence than utility in his attitude, as he
lifted the deep lid that seemed to divide the chest in half. Before her
eyes she saw forming the altar she had twice seen before. The side of
the lifted top made a wide platform. It was there that _It_ would lie.
From a compartment in the lifted half he took an antique lamp, which he
set on what now looked like the base of the altar. Ruth had removed the
revolver from her girdle—the cold metal saved her from screaming aloud
as George lit the lamp—a pale blue flame from which, on the instant,
heavy, odorous spirals of smoke began to rise, filling the silent room
with the insidious perfume of idolatry. For a moment the smoke seemed to
blind her eyes. Then she saw—




                              CHAPTER XVII


A sigh, more like a gasp, ran through the room—from nowhere apparently,
by some trick of slight of hand, by some optical illusion, by some power
of hypnosis, they all saw a huge snake coiled on top of what had been an
ebony chest, but was now an altar, and before it knelt a priest whose
last incarnation had surely been thousands of years before kind Buddha
came to bless or curse the world with his doctrine of annihilation.

Then for the first time Karkotaka moved his lips in audible
speech—swaying on his knees before the altar, he chanted what no one
could doubt was a hymn of praise and supplication to the snake that lay
coiled inert above the lamp. For some moments he chanted while they
waited with held breath, fascinated, repelled, frightened, for once in
their sophisticated lives, into silence.

Then the coiled mass began to move—its head was raised and they could
see its cold, glittering eyes; it seemed to be swaying as Karkotaka
swayed in time to the chant. The clouds of incense grew thicker and they
could scarcely see each other’s faces had they looked, but their eyes
were held by the tableau on the stage, the kneeling, swaying, chanting
priest and the reptile that swayed in response. Ever higher and higher
reared the evil head, swaying always further and further toward the end
of the semicircle at which Ruth and Pendragon were sitting. Ruth sensed
his presence at her side and knew the tenseness of his waiting, but she
dared not turn her eyes toward him for one moment. Higher and higher
rose the chant until with a swift movement and a shout Karkotaka stood
upon his feet. In the same moment the snake reared to its full height,
hissing with open mouth toward them. In that instant Ruth shot. In the
confusion she was conscious of thinking that she must have hit the snake
right between the eyes, for it fell to the floor with scarcely a
movement, and George stood, staring stupidly down at it. Every one was
on their feet—every one speaking at once, though she could not
understand what they said. She could only stare at the revolver in her
hand. It all happened in such a swift moment—then her head was
clear—Gloria had fainted—they were trying to give her air. Some one of
the bewildered, frightened servants turned on the lights. Professor
Pendragon strode past her, and though Ruth saw the smoking revolver in
his hand, it carried no message to her brain. Thrusting aside Prince
Aglipogue, who was kneeling futilely over Gloria, he picked her up in
his arms and carried her out, and in the general excitement no one
thought to wonder at his miraculous cure. Angela had followed Pendragon,
but Ruth with the others stood gazing at the horrible enchantment.

“Who did it?—who shot the thing?” she heard some one ask.

“I did.” She held up her revolver. “I killed it.”

“Let me see.” It was Terry standing beside her. He took the revolver
from her hands.

“Sorry, Ruth, but I’m afraid you didn’t. It was Pendragon. I was
watching him and saw him aim and fire. It was a splendid shot even for
an expert and at such short range, for the filthy brute was moving and
he hit it right between the eyes. You see, child—” he opened the
revolver for her to look—“there hasn’t been a single shot fired from
your gun.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.”

And then, though she had never done anything so mid-Victorian in her
life before, she swayed and for the smallest fraction of a second lost
consciousness, then woke to the realization that Terry was supporting
her and straightened up with protestations that she was all right.

“But why did you, why did he do it? We were going to see something quite
wonderful—I think the Indian snake dances are—”

It was Miss Gilchrist, but no one had to answer her, for Mr.
Peyton-Russell came in just then to tell them that Miss Mayfield was
quite all right.

“Angela’s going to stay with her for a while, but if any of you don’t
feel that your nerves are quite ready for bed, come on down to the
billiard room. There’s a little drink—real, old-fashioned hot Scotch,
waiting for you.”

He was trying hard to be the imperturbable jovial host and perhaps he
succeeded for there was a general exodus. Terry looked questioningly at
Ruth.

She shook her head. She wanted above everything to get away from them.
They would sit over their drinks and gossip discreetly—discuss George,
why Pendragon had killed the snake, his sudden return to health, his
usurpation of Aglipogue’s place at Gloria’s side. She had not killed the
snake but she had gone through all the nervous strain of preparing to
kill it—of thinking she had killed it and she was very tired.

Terry walked with her as far as the staircase.

“Tomorrow,” he said, but she did not know what he meant. Yet she slept
that night. She was in that state of weariness mental and physical in
which one stretches out like a cat, feeling the cool, clean linen like a
caress and thanking God for the greatest blessing in all this tired
world—sleep.


She woke late with a sense of happiness and relief even before she was
sufficiently conscious to remember the events of the past night. It was
a wonderful Christmas day—sunshiny and bright. She lay quietly thinking,
looking at the holly wreaths at her windows and watching some snow birds
on her sill. She wished lazily that she had some crumbs to feed them.
She felt very young, almost like a child. It would be nice to be a child
again, to get up and explore the contents of a stocking hung before the
chimney place in the living-room of a Middle West home. She thought of
her mother, as one inevitably thinks of the dead on days of home
gathering, and soft tears filled her eyes.

She answered a discreet knock on the door and a maid entered with a
tray. It was the gossipy maid of her first day. How she knew that she
was awake Ruth could not guess.

“I thought you’d rather have breakfast in bed this morning, Miss,” and
then as an afterthought, “Merry Christmas, Miss.”

“Merry Christmas— It is a Merry Christmas after all, and I would like
breakfast in bed, though it makes me feel awfully lazy. How did you
think of it?”

“The mistress left orders last night, but I’d thought of it anyway—after
what we all went through last night—”

She shook her head and compressed her lips solemnly. Ruth looked at her,
willing to be interested in anything or anybody. She could not have been
much older than Ruth herself, but hard work and a coiffure composed of
much false hair surmounted by a preposterously small maid’s cap, made
her seem much more mature. As Ruth did not answer she went on:

“Such goings on—it’s a wonder we’re all alive to tell of it.”

“Then you didn’t like the show?” asked Ruth.

“Such things ain’t Christian, especially on the Lord’s birthday. Tell
me, Miss, was it you killed it—some said it was you and some said it was
the poor paralysed gentleman, who was cured so miraculous like.”

“It was Professor Pendragon. Have you seen him today?”

“Indeed, we’ve all seen him. He’s walking round all over the place, and
he’s give ev-er-ey servant in the house a five dollar gold piece!”

This amazing piece of information gave Ruth a shock. In her selfish
absorption in Gloria and herself she hadn’t thought of the servants and
the inevitable toll of Christmas gifts.

“Do you know, Jennie, I didn’t buy any gifts before I came up here and I
almost forgot, but I want to give you a present—” She was just about to
offer money, and then something in the kind, stolid face warned her that
this would be wrong. “I’d like to give you something of my own that you
like. If you’ll just tell me what you want you can have anything of
mine—any dress or hat or—well, just anything you like.”

The girl’s eyes spread wide.

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything, that is, if I have anything you like. If not I’ll have
to follow Professor Pendragon’s example and give you money to buy your
own gift.”

“You’ve got such lots of pretty clothes—”

Ruth thought her wardrobe very limited, but waited.

“There is one dress—not a party dress—I’ve always wanted one—there ain’t
any place to wear it, but if you could—do you really mean it—anything?”

“Of course,” said Ruth, expecting a request for one of her three
presentable evening gowns.

“Then I’d like that blue silk thing with the lots of lace—the thing you
wear here in your own room.”

She pointed to a negligée thrown over a chair by the dressing-table.

“Take it; it will make me very happy to know that you have it.” She
tried to visualize Jennie in the negligée, but the picture was not
funny. She turned her head away so that Jennie should not see the tears
in her eyes.

“You’ll most likely be getting a lot of things yourself, Miss; a man’s
gone down to the village for the mail. You’ll be getting a lot of things
from the city.”

“I’m afraid not; still I may get some letters which will be welcome.”

“I’ll go down and see—he may be back. He went early.”

She was back in an incredibly short space of minutes bearing one letter,
from Dorothy Winslow.

“And Miss Mayfield wants to know if you’ll come to her room when you’re
dressed,” said Jennie, who, seeing that Ruth was going to read her
letter, left her with another hurried, awkward “thank you, Miss,”
delivered through the door as she hurried off with her blue silk prize.

Dorothy’s Christmas letter fairly bubbled over with happiness, and with
an affection for Ruth which she had never suspected.

“It seems ages since you went away,” she wrote, “and I’m just dying to
tell you everything—how Nels was awfully humble and admitted he’s been a
perfect silly over that imitation high siren, and then he was
jealous—furiously jealous over your roses. It was hard not to tell him
the truth, but I didn’t—not until afterward, when he asked me to marry
him. Yes, he did! And we’ve done it. Neither of us had any money, but
that didn’t really make any difference. He’s always been able to buy his
own cigarettes and so have I and there’s no reason why we can’t do it
together just as well as apart. We’ve got the funniest little apartment
on Thirty-fourth Street—just a room with an alcove and a bath and a
kitchenette. Nels is going to get another place to work—one room some
place—very business-like and all that sort of thing and I’ll work at
home. But please do hurry back and have dinner with us sometime. You’ll
see! I _can_ cook. But I must work, too, else Nels will get ever so many
leagues ahead of me. And please have you delivered my message to the
Dragon? You did give him Nels’ message I know for Nels heard from him
and that man with the double name who is so splendidly entertaining you
over the holidays is going to buy the picture. You must get back in time
for the party we’ll put on to celebrate when the check comes. You know I
feel that you made it all happen.”

She chatted on over ten pages of art school gossip that made Ruth rather
homesick, and eager to get back to New York, especially as the first
object of her visit had been accomplished. But had it been accomplished?
The snake was killed and Professor Pendragon was cured. To her the
connection seemed obvious. Professor Pendragon had been cured because
the object of George’s faith had been destroyed and with it the
mind-born malady which, through faith, he had put upon the man who was
his rival. But this did not accomplish all of Ruth’s desire. There still
remained the Prince. Even though George’s power over Pendragon had been
destroyed, might he not still exercise the same influence over Gloria?
And would George calmly submit to the insult that had been put upon him?
Her whole trust was now in Pendragon. He had shown that he could fight.
Having gone so far he must go further and drive away Prince Aglipogue.
Then every one would be happy—that is, every one except herself and
Terry. She was no longer sure that Terry loved Gloria. Probably he had
loved her because no man could be indifferent to Gloria, but perhaps he
had resigned himself to the unromantic rôle of friend. He had suspected
her of being interested in Pendragon for herself. That might mean
anything—his thought might have been fathered by the hope that some one
would remove Pendragon, one of his own rivals; or perhaps she had
betrayed her love for him and he wanted to turn her attention toward
another object, or perhaps—but men were such curious creatures and who
could tell? At least he did not love her which was all that really
mattered now. Nels and Dorothy could go working and playing together
through the future, but she must content herself to be wedded for life
to her art; and such art—newspaper cartoons!

While she thought she was dressing, for she was really very curious to
see Gloria and hear what she had to say. The door of Gloria’s room was
half open and Ruth knocked and went inside at the same moment. Gloria
was fully dressed and seemed to be in the midst of packing. There were
dark circles under her eyes as if she had not slept.

“Ruth, I want you to do something for me,” was her abrupt greeting.

Ruth waited for an explanation.

“Will you?”

“Of course, Gloria,—anything.”

“I believe you would at that—you’re an awfully nice child; sometimes I
suspect that you’re older than I am; but this is something rather nasty,
so don’t be too sure that you’ll want to do it. I want you to tell Aggie
that I can’t marry him—that I must have been insane when I said I would,
that the whole thing is utterly impossible—that it would please me if he
would go back to New York at once. I don’t want to see him any more.”

Ruth struggled to conceal her joy at this announcement.

“Don’t you think, Gloria, that it would be more effective if you told
him yourself?”

“No; and besides I don’t want to see the brute—he—he— Oh, I can’t bear
to look at him—to remember everything—”

“Suppose he doesn’t believe me?”

“He will.”

“You could write a note.”

“Then he wouldn’t believe; a note would be too gentle. He’d want to see
me and talk, but if you tell him he’ll know that it’s final or I
wouldn’t have chosen to tell him through a third person. Will you do
it?”

“Yes.”

“I was going to leave myself,” explained Gloria with a wave of her hand
toward the evidences of packing. “But I can’t. George has
disappeared—absolutely disappeared—”

“When—where?”

“I said disappeared; that doesn’t mean he left a forwarding address. He
slipped off into the nowhere, sometime between midnight and morning and
of course I can’t move until we hear from him.”

“You can, too!” Ruth was intense in her excitement. “You can—you’ve
given up the Prince; the next thing is to give up George. He’s been the
cause of all your troubles. I know you don’t believe it, but he has—he’s
hypnotized you—and if he’s disappeared you ought to be glad of it.”

Gloria looked at her curiously from between half-closed lids.

“Why do you think I won’t believe you? I don’t believe or disbelieve, I
know that I have been hypnotized, or mad, or ill—something. I woke up
this morning quite new— Perhaps it’s religion—” She laughed with
something of her old careless mirth. “Anyway I’m quite sane now, and I
do want to get back to New York so that I can begin rehearsals in
Terry’s new play. I feel like working hard, like beginning all over
again— I feel—so—so free, that’s the word, as if I had been in prison—a
prison with mirror walls, every one of which reflected a distorted
vision of myself. That’s all I could see—myself, always myself and
always wrong.”

“May I come in?”

It was Angela at the still half-open door.

“Why, you’re not leaving?”

“No; I only thought I was. Changed my mind again.”

“And you’re quite well. The poor, dear Prince has been quite frantic.
He’s so anxious to see you for himself before he will be assured that
you’re really all right, after the shock last night. He’s waiting for
you now. The other men have gone off on a hike through the snow. John
has such a passion for exercise—afraid of getting stout, though he won’t
admit it. I told the Prince that I would try and send you down to him.”

“I can’t go now. Ruth will go down and talk to him.”

“Ruth? But he wants you.”

A sign from Gloria counselled Ruth to go now before the discussion, and
she slipped out unnoticed by Angela whose blue eyes were fixed on
Gloria, awaiting explanations.

Prince Aglipogue was not difficult to find. She could hear his heavy
pacing before she had reached the bottom of the stairs. He stopped
abruptly when he saw her approaching, waving his cigarette frantically
with one hand while he twisted his moustache with the other.

“Gloria, Miss Mayfield, she is well; you have news from her? She is
coming down?”

“Miss Mayfield is well, but she is not coming down just now. She wants
to be alone, but she sent me—”

It was impossible to tell him. Much as she hated the man she did not
quite have the courage to deliver Gloria’s message without
preliminaries.

“Yes? Yes?—speak, tell me; she is ill, is it not?”

There was a nervous apprehension in his voice and manner that made Ruth
suspect that the news would not be altogether unexpected.

“No; she is not ill. As I said she is quite well, but she asked me to
say—to tell you—it’s awfully hard to say it, but she asked me to tell
you that she cannot marry you and that it would be very tactful if you
would go back to New York at once without trying to see her.”

It was blunderingly done, but she could think of no other way to tell
it. Unwelcome truths are only made more ugly by any effort to soften
their harshness.

His cigarette dropped unnoticed upon the rug and his jaw dropped in a
stupid way that made him look like a great pig. One part of Ruth’s brain
was really sorry for him, for he had doubtless been fond of Gloria in
his own way; the other half of her brain wanted to laugh, but she only
stood with bent head, as if, having struck him she was waiting for his
retaliation. It came with a rush as soon as he had assimilated the full
meaning of her words:

“I do not believe—it is a plot—she would not send a message such as that
to me—it is the work of that Riordan— He is jealous—. I will sue her for
breach of promise—one can do that, is it not?”

“Women sometimes sue men for breach of promise,” said Ruth, who was
quite calm now, “but men seldom sue women; besides, you can’t sue
Gloria, because she has no money.”

“No money?” He laughed and lit another cigarette to give point to his
carelessness and unbelief.

“You say she has no money? With a house on Gramercy Park, she is poor?”

Behind his words and his nonchalant air Ruth caught the uneasiness in
his small eyes and knew that she had struck the right note.

“It is true that she has a house on Gramercy Square, but it takes her
entire income to pay the taxes. She got the house from her second
husband; the third was more careful. He only gave her a small income,
which, of course, she loses when she remarries.”

For a moment he stared at her incredulous, but there was nothing but
honesty in her face.

“It is the truth, you are speaking? Come, let us sit and talk—here a
cigarette? No? You do not smoke? I had forgotten. We have not been such
friends as I might have desired. Now explain—Miss Mayfield wishes to
break her engagement with me?”

“She has broken it,” said Ruth tersely.

“It is, you can understand, a shock of the greatest—I loved—but no
matter—tell me again of the affairs financial of Miss Mayfield. As a
friend only—I am resigned—as a friend only I am interested.”

She looked at him, his heavy body, his fat face, his oily brown eyes,
and was tempted to tell him the truth of what she thought. He laid one
fat hand on hers with a familiar gesture and involuntarily she drew back
as if something unclean had touched her. He saw but pretended not to
see. He had an object to achieve and could not afford to be sensitive.
She understood and thought it all out before she spoke. If she followed
her impulse he would cause trouble, or annoyance to Gloria at the least.
If she told him the truth he would believe her and would go away without
further urging. Evidently he had thought that Gloria had money, and
Gloria, to whom money meant nothing, had never thought to tell him
anything of her affairs. It was a repulsive task but Ruth decided to
give him the information he wanted.

“You must understand,” she said, “that Gloria is merely a professional
woman, an actress, not an heiress. She has no money except what she
earns. One of her husbands gave her the house on Gramercy Park. A year
later she married again and when she was divorced from her last husband
he settled on her a small income—hardly sufficient to keep up the house
when she is not working. If she marries again she loses even that.”

She rose to leave him, having finished with her mission, but he caught
her hand.

“You are speaking the truth, Miss Ruth?”

She drew away her hand without answering.

“But you? Perhaps you have been helping her?”

“I have even less than Gloria.”

His amazing lack of finesse—his appalling vulgarity stunned her into
making a reply.

“There is a train in the morning—”

“There is one this afternoon that you can catch if you will hurry. I
advise you to take it.”

“Thank you, I will—you have saved me a great deal of annoyance. I am
grateful—if—”

But Ruth did not wait for the end of his remarks. She could not bear to
look at him for another second. He was even worse than she had supposed.
Evidently he had not cared for Gloria at all, and she had always
conceded to him that much—that Gloria had touched some one small bit of
fineness in his sordid nature.

She dared not return to Gloria just then, for she knew that Gloria in
her usual frank manner had doubtless told Angela of her changed plans;
even now Angela might be protesting with her and urging her not to
dispose of a real title so carelessly. Even without the title Angela
would not approve of the broken engagement, for it had been announced in
her house; therefore, she had, in a way, been sponsor for it, and would
want to see it go through to a successful conclusion.

She made her way to the enclosed veranda where she had kept her
rendezvous with Pendragon on the afternoon of her arrival. It was quite
deserted now, but far out on the crest of one of the near hills she saw
a moving, black splotch against the snow that as she watched gradually
resolved itself into three figures—John Peyton-Russell, Terry and
Professor Pendragon. It gave her a strange thrill to see them
thus—Pendragon striding along with the rest. Surely this was a miracle—a
Christmas miracle, and she remembered a sentence in an old book of
witchcraft that she had once read:

“Verily there be magic both black and white, but of these two, the white
magic prevaileth ever over the black.”




                             CHAPTER XVIII


Ruth did not see Gloria until just before luncheon.

“I told him, and he’s going,” she said.

“Did he make much of a row?”

“Not after I explained that you hadn’t any money.”

“Let’s not talk about him any more—only has he gone yet?”

“Yes; he wouldn’t even wait until train time. Said he could get luncheon
in the village and started out as soon as he could pack. I’m so happy
about it—now you can marry Professor Pendragon again.”

She realized at once that she shouldn’t have said it, but she had left
so much unsaid during the last few weeks and now with both George and
Prince Aglipogue gone she felt that the seal had been removed from her
lips. She felt too, in a curious way, that Gloria though so many years
older, was in a way her special charge—that she was entering a new life
and must be guided.

Gloria looked at her with startled eyes.

“What nonsense! You’re too romantic, Ruth!”

“But, Gloria, you do love him; you can’t deny it. Didn’t you tell me
once that he is the only one you’ve ever really loved?”

“It takes two to make a marriage, Ruth.”

“But he loves you too.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He told me so.”

“Even so, and even if I would marry again, you must realize that men
very rarely marry the women they love. That’s why we separated, I think.
We married for love and that is always disastrous. I should never have
married at all. Tomorrow we’ll go back to town and Percy and I will each
go our separate ways and forget the horrible nightmare of this place. It
was just chance that we met—a weird freak of coincidence. He didn’t want
it; neither did I.”

There was nothing that Ruth could answer and presently Gloria went on:

“No woman was meant to have both a career and a husband; lots of them
try it—most women in fact, but usually they come to grief. It isn’t
written in the stars that one woman should have both loves, art and a
husband.”

Ruth thought of Nels and Dorothy. Would they come to grief she wondered.
As for herself she didn’t have to choose—love didn’t come and art had
turned its back on her. She wondered if it was written in the stars that
she should have neither art nor love. Then she remembered Pendragon’s
quotation, “The stars incline, but do not compel.” So many things had
happened here perhaps another miracle would be performed. She wondered
why Gloria said nothing about Pendragon’s sudden recovery.

It was a relief not to see Prince Aglipogue at the luncheon table. The
dinner guests of the night before had all returned to their own homes.
Aglipogue was gone, and Ruth wondered if Angela would be troubled,
because, for once, there was an uneven number of people at the table.
She did look a bit troubled, though she was trying hard to conceal it.
An engagement announced and broken within twenty-four hours was rather
trying. Still she was smiling:

“We’ve got news of your servant, Gloria dear,—rather horrid news. It’s
quite a shock—a bad way to end a pleasant Christmas party, even though
he was only a servant, and not a very good one.” She paused, but no one
came to her rescue with questions or information and she went on:

“They found him in the snow—he must have tried to walk to the station
and got lost—he was dead—frozen—and he had the—that horrible beast with
him—the dead snake wound round his body.”

Her voice broke hysterically and she shivered with horror.

“They didn’t bring him here—thank God—but took him to an undertaker’s in
the village. If he has any relatives that you could wire—”

“None that I know of—they wouldn’t be in America anyway,” said Gloria,
quite calmly, though her face was pale.

“Then Terry said he’d arrange things, you know—one place is as good as
another. I’m glad you take it so quietly—it’s an awful ending.”

“He must have been furious because Pendragon shot the snake,” said
Terry.

“Still, if the excitement of killing a snake could cure Pen, Miss
Mayfield ought to be willing to sacrifice her servant,” said John
Peyton-Russell.

“It really was remarkable—though I have heard of similar instances—of
paralytics leaving their beds during the excitement of a fire, and that
sort of thing— I trust there will be no relapse.”

Miss Gilchrist’s tone left no doubt in the minds of her hearers that she
was prepared for the worst. Indeed, her eyes were constantly fastened on
Professor Pendragon as if she expected him to fall down at any minute.

“There will be none, thank you,” said Pendragon.

Ruth and Terry exchanged glances. Ruth’s eyes asked Terry, “Do you
believe me now?” and Terry’s answered, “I don’t know— I don’t understand
it at all.”

“Of course we’re all very happy over Professor Pendragon’s recovery,”
said Gloria in her most conventional voice, “and of course I don’t
really feel any loss about George, though I am sorry he died that way.”

“It is tragic, but now he’s really gone, Gloria,” said Terry. “I’m
awfully glad to be rid of him. He was the most disagreeable servant I
ever met, if one can be said to meet servants. I don’t think George ever
really accepted me. He used to snub me most horribly and I don’t like
being snubbed.”

“That reminds me that you haven’t any servant at all, Gloria, so you
really must stay here a few days longer. Perhaps I can find some for
you—she really can’t go back now, can she, John?”

“Really, Angela, that’s unfair; of course I want Miss Mayfield to
stay—we planned to have everybody over the New Year. Perhaps Professor
Pendragon can persuade her.”

“I have had little luck in persuading women to do anything—if Prince
Aglipogue had not left us so suddenly he might have been more
successful.”

There was a little embarrassed silence around the table after Pendragon
had spoken, then Angela began talking of some irrelevant subject and the
conversation went on, but always Ruth observed that neither Gloria nor
Pendragon ever spoke directly to each other, though the omission was so
cleverly disguised that no one at the table observed it except Terry and
Ruth who always seemed to see everything together. Ruth had been so busy
with Gloria and her affairs that she had talked very little to Terry and
never alone; but they conversed nevertheless, constantly reading each
other’s eyes as clearly as they would a printed page. The same things
seemed to amuse them both and except in the realm of mystery which
Ruth’s childhood had built about her, they understood each other
perfectly. She knew now that he wanted to talk to her, but she pretended
not to see, for having begun her task of managing the happiness of
Gloria, she was determined to go on, and the person she wanted to see
alone was Professor Pendragon.

Angela who always advertised her house as “one of those places where you
can do exactly what you please,” and therefore never on any occasion let
any one do as they pleased if she could possibly prevent it by a
continuous program of “amusement” and “entertainment,” was trying to
interest them in a plan to go skating that evening by moonlight on a
little lake that lay halfway between Fir Tree Farm and the village. Some
one had reported that the ice was clear of snow and what was the good of
being in the country in winter time if one didn’t go in for winter
sport?

Her plans fell on rather unenthusiastic ears. The men, having enjoyed a
long hike in the morning, were not eager for more exercise; Gloria
wanted to spend the afternoon preparing to leave the next morning; Ruth
was not interested in anything that did not seem to offer any
furtherance of her plans for Gloria; and Miss Gilchrist didn’t skate.

The very atmosphere seemed to say that the party was finished; that
these people had, for the time being, said all they had to say to each
other and for the time, and wanted to be gone along their several roads.
It is a wise hostess who recognizes this situation and apparently Angela
did recognize it, for she finally stopped urging her scheme and when
Gloria asked Ruth to help her pack—Gloria always went on a week-end
equipped as for transcontinental travel—Angela made no effort to detain
them or to go with them.

Gloria’s moment of confidences had passed. She talked now, but of
Terry’s play. She had told him of her changed decision and he seemed
very happy about it.

“Perhaps you’ll have a chance to make sketches of us,” she said to Ruth,
awakening again Ruth’s interest in the work to which she also was
returning.

“We’ll find two women servants some place and go on as before, Ruth.
Except that I’m not going to see quite so many people—only people I
really like after this. You know I really love the old house—as near
home as anything I’ll ever have. Wish we could get Amy back.”

“We can,” said Ruth. “Amy and I had an agreement when she left that she
would come back if you ever got rid of George. I have her address.”

“Really, Ruth!” said Gloria, looking at her with genuine admiration,
“You are the most amazing young person I’ve ever met. You ought to write
a book on the care and training of aunts. It would be a great success.”

Of this Ruth was not so sure. They were to leave on the morning train
and while she had accomplished half her purpose she had not wholly
succeeded. Gloria and Pendragon had met and now they were going to part
more widely separated than ever before, because their opportunity had
come and for some stupid reason they were both letting it go without
reaching out a hand or saying one word to make it their own. And Gloria
wasn’t happy—she was just normal at last, and a normal Gloria was rather
a pitiful thing. She was like stale champagne—all the sparkle gone out
of her. It seemed to Ruth that she could not live through another meal
with Gloria and Pendragon talking across and around each other—Pendragon
with his grave, quiet face in which the lines of pain seemed to be set
forever—Gloria, changed and quiet, determined to work and succeed again,
not for the joy of her work, but because it seemed the right thing to
do. Yet she did live through another dinner, a most unhappy meal at
which John and Angela sat trying to talk, realizing that something more
than they could quite understand had gone wrong and not knowing exactly
what to do about it. Terry and Miss Gilchrist relieved the tension
somewhat, Terry consciously, Miss Gilchrist unconsciously, because no
one else seemed able to talk, drew her out and once started on modern
child training, there was no reason for any one else making any effort.
She ran on endlessly with no more encouragement than an occasional, “Oh
quite, Really, Yes indeed, or How interesting!” from Terry or Pendragon.

What hurt more than anything was that Terry no longer signalled Ruth
with his eyes. There was no longer any interest or invitation in them.
If he had had anything to say to her he had forgotten it or lost
interest, for now he seemed to avoid exchange of words or glances with
her as much as Gloria and Pendragon avoided each other.

There was a feeble attempt on the part of Angela to start a conversation
with some semblance of animation over the coffee cups in the library
afterward, but finally even she surrendered as one by one they made
excuses of weariness, the early train or no excuse at all and drifted
away.

Ruth watched for Pendragon’s going and followed him. He made his way to
the enclosed veranda. She stood a moment looking through the glass door,
watching him as he paced up and down, smoking a pipe. What she was going
to do required courage; she might only meet with the cold rebuff that is
due to meddlesome persons, but Gloria’s happiness was at stake and she
could only fail, so she walked timidly out to him.

She waited patiently until he turned and faced her. She thought she saw
a look of disappointment cross his face when he saw who had interrupted
his solitude. That look, fancied or real, encouraged her to go on.

“I wanted to thank you for doing what you did—for not giving up, and to
tell you how happy I am that you’re well again,” she began.

“Yes—I am well again—I walk and eat and sleep and wake again—I am
alive.”

“And I wanted to ask you if you’re going to stop now— You’ve saved
Gloria from George and from the Prince—are you going to let her go away
now that you have accomplished so much?”

“My dear child, I can’t kidnap Gloria—she’s not the sort of woman one
kidnaps—not even the sort one woos and wins. She is the other sort—the
only sort worth while I think—the princess who calls her own swayamvara,
and makes her own choice.”

“But she did choose.”

“She has chosen too often.”

“Do you mean that even if Gloria still loved you you would not marry her
just because she has—because she has—”

All her old ideas and training rose up and kept her from finishing the
sentence “because she has had two other husbands.”

“If Gloria had married one hundred men I would still want her—don’t you
understand that?” He spoke almost fiercely. “But you don’t
understand—you’re too young; it isn’t that; but Gloria doesn’t love me.
If she did she would tell me so. She knows that I love her and she has
shown very plainly that she doesn’t want my love. I appreciate your
kindness,” he went on in a calmer tone, “but don’t trouble any more—what
is written is written and can’t be changed no matter how one tries.”

“If I give you my word of honour that Gloria does love you, what then?
She told me so—she does know that you love her, but she thinks you
don’t—she thinks the husbands make a difference. She doesn’t believe
that a man could understand that they were just—just incidents.”

Neither laughed at the idea of this twenty-year old girl speaking of two
husbands as incidents, though later Ruth remembered it herself, and
thought it rather funny.

He did not answer,—he was standing quite rigidly, staring at the door,
and, turning, Ruth saw Gloria approaching them:

“I’m sorry; I thought you were alone, Ruth,” she said and hesitated as
if she would have gone back.

“I’ve just remembered,” said Pendragon, “that the small star Eros is
supposed to be visible again about this time, but we have no telescope.
Ruth has not found it, though she has young eyes— Perhaps you and I,
together, Gloria—if we looked very closely—”

Under the clear starlight she saw them in each other’s arms. There was
one very bright star, that seemed to hang lower in the sky than winter
stars are wont to hang. Surely it was the star of love, though doubtless
no astronomer had ever named it so. She did not know exactly where she
was going when she left them there, but she was very happy. And then
halfway down the stairs she sat down because her happiness was
overflowing from her eyes in tears and she couldn’t see, and suddenly
she felt very tired. It was there that Terry, ascending, found her.

“I say—what’s wrong? You’re crying. I saw you with Pendragon—has he done
anything to hurt you? I’ll—”

“No-it’s not that—I’m crying because I’m so happy—”

“Oh!”

He looked at her half-disappointed, half-relieved and wholly bewildered.

“It’s Gloria and Pendragon—they’ve made up.” She reverted to the
vernacular of childhood. “I’m so happy because they’re happy.”

“But I thought—I thought you cared for Pendragon,” stumbled Terry.

“That’s funny—what made you think that? I do like him but mostly for
Gloria’s sake.”

“Look here,” said Terry. “If you don’t love Pendragon who do you love?”

She was smiling through her tears now.

“Is it absolutely necessary that I should love some one? You know I
always thought that you loved Gloria. If you don’t love Gloria, whom do
you love?”

For a moment he looked down into her upturned face, struggling against
the provocation of her lips.

“I love the most charming, youngest, most mature, most unselfish, most
winsome—oh, there aren’t adjectives enough. Who do you love?”

“The nicest—the very nicest and cleverest man in the world,” she
answered demurely.

“Nicest—I’m not quite sure that I like that adjective applied to a man.”

“I can’t help it—we can’t all have playwright’s vocabularies, you know.
I could draw him better.”

He bent over very near to her while her clever fingers made rapid
strokes. When it was finished she looked up at him with shy daring in
her eyes.

“Is my nose really like that?” he asked.

“How did you guess who it was meant for?” she teased, and turned her
head quickly, because she was not quite sure even now that she was ready
for that wonderful first kiss.

“I’ve always wanted to kiss you just below that little curl anyway,”
whispered Terry. “And now your lips, please.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------




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