Part 7

Adair's mother had been an Irish peasant girl. She was kind and warm-hearted, and spoke with a brogue; she was always laughing and singing, even under circumstances when a right-minded person would have thrown himself into the East River. She drank, too. Everybody drank. He used to be given sips from her glass, and knew what it was to be tipsy before he was eight. It was about that time he began to sell papers on the streets, for his father was dead, and his mother-- Well, he wouldn't go into that. But in her way she had always been good to him. She wouldn't let the men beat him. When she was sent to the Island for the second time he thought his little heart would break. She didn't last long after that. How could she, gone as she was in consumption, and drinking like a fish? Oh, what a hell it was--what a hell! His pennies were all his own now, though he often had to fight to keep them. He was always fighting to keep them--first in desperation, then by degrees with some coolness and science. The bigger boys coached him; egged him on; he became a regular little bantam. They'd make up a purse--a quarter or something--and set two little wretches to pounding each other. Anything was allowed, you know--biting, kicking, scrooging, hair pulling! There was only one rule, and that was to win.

Well, so it went on, till he was sixteen or thereabouts, the toughest young tough you could see on Avenue A. He was nicknamed Fighting Joe, and they used to get up cheap little matches for him in the back rooms of saloons--real fighting, stripped to the waist, and four ounce gloves. His only ambition was to get into the prize ring, and in his dreams at night he would see his picture in the _Police Gazette_. Then the Settlement workers came--a pale-looking outfit, with Mission furniture and leaflets. They were regarded as a great infliction--as an insult to an honest tough neighborhood. It was the correct thing to break their windows, and lambast their followers. Fighting Joe took a prominent part in this righteous task. What did it matter that several of them were women? What did such brutes care for that? If ever there was a young savage on earth it was he.

One of the women was tall and pretty--not very young--twenty-eight or twenty-nine perhaps. Miss Cooke, she was--Miss Grace Cooke. She would never see him but what she would turn white with anger and fear. You see, everything was put down to him, all that he did do, and all that he didn't--and totaling up both sides of it, it ran to a lot. He couldn't begin to remember the caddish things he was answerable for; he didn't care to try; my God, what a brute he was, what a brute! And yet he admired this woman; guessed he was in love with her in a calfy way; took every chance to see her--and insult her! Of course, there wasn't the faintest reason why he shouldn't have walked into the Settlement, said he was sorry, and have been received with open arms. But people like that can't say they are sorry--they don't know how. Besides, the social disgrace of it would have been awful! Joe Mayne running with that gospel gang! The thing was incredible.

Late one winter afternoon he saw her in the midst of a crowd of hobbledehoys, hooting and jeering at her. She was walking as fast as she dared, looking straight ahead of her, and pretending not to notice. It was dark; the street was empty; and if she was scared she had mighty good reason for it. One of the fellows lurched against her, and down she went on the sidewalk; as she tried to rise another rolled her over, and tore her hat off. Of course, it was a great joke, and they were all roaring with laughter. Then it was he came running up--Joe--and when she saw him she gave him a look he would remember to the day he died. Oh, the terror of it--the shrinking! But he smashed one on the jaw, caught another between the eyes, and lifted her up, half fainting as she was, and tried with his dirty hands to smooth her hair, and put on her hat again.--That's how they came to be friends; that's how he came to be landed in the Settlement; everything real in his life dated from that moment.

He was with them two years; with them as long as she lived. There wasn't a good quality in him that she didn't put there. On census forms, and such things, when asked his religion, he always felt inclined to write: "Grace Cooke." By God, it would have been the truth. She was his religion yet, far though he had fallen away from it--oh, so far--! She stood for everything that was good and beautiful and noble. It wasn't love. It was beyond all love. She was a Madonna, a saint, and he had had the privilege to kneel at her feet--a Caliban of the slums, a tough, a hoodlum, unworthy to touch the hem of her garment. Then she died, and that was the end of it. He didn't care for the Settlement after she died. He got a job as chucker-out in a low place called the Crystal Palace. There was a dais, and performers used to sing. He thought he would try it himself, and made quite a hit. Then he began giving recitations--_The Fi-erman's Dream_, and that kind of thing, and they caught on. He owed it all to Grace Cooke, who had taught him to read--(not ordinary reading, he had picked that up somehow for himself)--but real reading, dramatic reading. From this it was a step to monologues in costume, and from that to the vaudeville stage.

Sitting there in the growing dusk, and in an atmosphere so conducive to confidence, Adair unfolded his early life with a tender, persuasive and charming humor. He often laughed; often he was silent; again and again he would look up, and seek Phyllis' eyes in a lingering glance as though to assure himself of her interest. For once in his life he was shy; the slim, pretty hand he gazed at so covetously was safe from any touch of his; something told him that the least familiarity would cost him all he had gained.--It was not policy on his part. He was too humble to think of policy. To be with her alone seemed presumption enough--to feel her sympathy, her friendship. Not a word or act of his should mar that wonderful day.

He rose, apologizing for having stayed so long.

"It is your own fault," he said, holding out his hand, "you've made me forget everything."

"I'm afraid it was the other way round, Mr. Adair," she returned, trying to smile, and thankful for the darkness that veiled her face.

"Am I ever to see you again?"

She shook her head.

"You mean it is good-by, Miss Ladd?"

"Yes, it's good-by."

Her hand was in his, so soft, so motionless, yet somehow so reluctant to leave his grasp. His head was turning; he could not go like that. No, no, he could not. He suddenly pulled her towards him, and caught her in his arms, kissing her hair, her cheek, her mouth, with a passion that cared little whether she was crushed or smothered in his embrace. Good God, what was he doing? After holding back so long, what diabolical folly had tempted him to this? Yet she had said it was good-by. He had nothing to lose. Let her pant and struggle and tremble, he would take tribute of her beauty nevertheless, however much she was insulted or outraged. His lips were wet with her tears. He forced her to receive his kisses on her mouth, exulting in the strength that allowed her no escape. But was she resisting him? A tremor of maddening delight shot through his frame. Her mouth was seeking his, and he heard her whispering breathlessly: "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

It was so unexpected, so surprising, that he let her free. She sank into a chair and covered her burning face, repelling him as he threw himself on his knees beside her.

"If you don't go, I shall never forgive you!" she exclaimed. "Haven't you shamed me enough? Do you want me to die of humiliation?" Then, from the heart, came the woman's cry: "What will you think of me?"

That instinct, which in Adair took the place of conscience, honor, all the conventional virtues and restraints, again came steadfastly to his help. He bent down; kissed her on the brow; and getting his hat and cane abruptly took his departure.

*CHAPTER XII*

The dictionary with unhesitating positiveness informs us that infatuation is "unreasonable or extravagant passion." But are there not those who have stayed unreasonably impassioned to the end, those whose earthly parting has been but at the grave? And does not love of the admitted, recognized, unextravagant, very much approved, bless-you-my-children kind only too often ring out its knell in the divorce court? That Phyllis was infatuated with this good-looking scamp was beyond question, if by that one meant his physical attraction held her as much a slave as any of our ravished ancestors in the Vikings' boats. Her will was gone; her judgment; all her nicely-balanced highly-critical young-ladyism. It was horrifying to her to realize it; her powerlessness was at once an agony and a delight; it came over her, with a frightening sense of injustice, that a woman's happiness lies beyond herself, and is for ever dependent on some man.

Naturally she sat down, and wrote him a sad little letter. He was to forget everything that had passed, and not misjudge her for an uncontrollable impulse. Were he to presume upon it, she would not only die of shame, but would be forced to perceive that her trust had been misplaced. As a gentleman and a man of honor--and she knew him to be both--he would understand that it was impossible for them ever to meet again, and that her good-by was indeed irrevocable. But her good wishes would always attend him, and she would sign herself, in all sincerity, his friend, Phyllis Ladd. This done, she waited in a fever of impatience for his answer, hoping, dreading, tumultuously inconsistent, hot fits and cold succeeding each other in her troubled and anxious heart.

It may be imagined how unkindly Adair took her commands. In his large, straggling hand, and over six sheets of hotel paper he expressed his energetic dissent. It was a trite letter--flowery and theatrical--her haunting eyes, the memory of her adorable beauty, the despair of a man who had found love only to lose it, etc. Had Phyllis been herself it would have made her smile. Nothing, indeed, could have shown how far she had traveled on the road of illusion than her acceptance of these well-worn phrases. The tears sprang to her eyes at the smooth and nicely-rounded description of his wretchedness; she glowed and thrilled at the praise of herself, its boldness redeemed by what she ascribed to a lover's ardor; the pathetic plea for another meeting was irresistible. It might be unwise; it was sure to be painful; but, after all, it was his right. He loved her; he bowed to her decision; his life was hard at best, and now doubly so; what he asked was so little for her to give, yet to him it was everything--to see her once more before they parted for ever.

They met this time at the corner of a remote street. He was very pale, very quiet, and it was not a lie he told her that he had been unable to sleep for thinking of her. Had she known better what those thoughts were she would have shrunk from him. But, fortunately or not, she did not know. She, too, was quiet and pale, and it was with the sense of an impending fate that she took his arm, and slowly walked with him along the foot-path. Unconsciously he was more masterful with her, now that she was away from that daunting house, and that awe-inspiring drawing-room. The sanctity that had enveloped her there had largely disappeared. Here was a situation he was used to--a distractingly pretty girl, a sidewalk rendezvous, and an infatuation that needed but the right handling to bring it to the proper conclusion.

Yet with everything so plain--and apparently so easy, Adair himself was in a whirl of strange and new emotions. Something had pierced his colossal selfishness, and was disturbing him. It was annoying at a time when he needed all his wits about him, and he resented it as a symptom of unmanly weakness. One drop of real love in that ocean of sham was threatening to poison the whole. He did not put it thus concretely. He only knew that he was uncomfortable, and not rising as he should to the occasion. Except for that far-away Grace Cooke he had never known a decent woman. His counterfeit love had been lavished on counterfeit innocence: and counterfeit purity. Fooling, he had always been fooled.

But this proud and melting young beauty lay outside of all his experience. Had she defended herself he would have known better how to attack. But she made no demur when he took her hand and kissed it; she did not resist, when, after looking up and down the street to see if they had it to themselves, he caught her boldly in his arms, and crushed her against himself, murmuring a torrent of words that came so readily to his practised lips. How radiantly she smiled when he tore off a tiny corner of her letter, and told her she had to eat it as a punishment. Her saucy obedience put him in a seventh heaven, and it was with a sort of ecstasy that he snatched it from her, fearful lest it might do her harm. That letter, in one sense, had been disposed of almost as soon as they had met. She had tried, for a moment or two, to adhere to it, and to make him see the necessity of that good-by. But under the glamour of his presence she faltered and broke down, and all that was left of the matter was her incoherent plea for forgiveness. What tenderness she put into this request! There never could be a good-by between them--never, never--and her eyes swam with tears at her disloyalty to him.

Both felt an uplifting gaiety and light-heartedness, as she said, in extenuation of her happy laughter, that they were like people who had grown rich overnight, for had they not discovered an enormous nugget--a nugget of love? It had been lying there for any to find, but they had been the lucky ones! They had a right to be excited, hadn't they? The only really serious thing was the fact that they might have missed it. They might have stubbed against it, and passed on--like idiots. She developed this fantasy with captivating grace and archness, Adair meanwhile lost in admiration, not only of the delicate fancy that kept him smiling, but of her varying expressions so revealing of unexpected charm. She grew prettier and prettier to him--more kissable, more adorable. He kept forgetting his ulterior purpose in the rapture of being with her; he forgot his conceit, forgot his role; he was perilously near being in love. Perhaps he was in love. At any rate, when he recollected to take advantage of this unconcealed regard for him--of all this young ardor and innocent passion--the words somehow would not leave his tongue.

Her sensitive mouth, so responsive to every look of his, the sweet candor of her eyes, her transparent belief in him--all forbade. There would be time enough for that; and having made this concession to his manhood, he straightway put the idea by, dimly realizing to himself that it was unpleasant to him. It takes a bad man to appreciate and exalt the best of women; he sees her in such a contrasting light; her baser sisters give her by relief an angelic brightness. It is not for nothing that they say the reformed rake makes the best husband. Not that Adair had gone so far as this, however. He was not reformed, and cold chills would have run down his back at the horrid prospect; while his own brief career as a husband had left him with a hatred for the word and the institution. It was merely a fleeting impulse, stronger for the moment than he was, and induced by his artist love of beauty, which included this time in its comprehension, a rare, gracious and exquisite nature.

They were together for nearly two hours, and when they were forced at last to part it seemed as though only the half had been said. Yet not for an instant had they ever got near the realities. With Adair these were consciously avoided. It was one thing to say: "I love you," with mellow vibrations, and impassioned eyes; quite another to descend to the practical considerations that might reasonably be expected to follow. He felt neither in the humor to lie, nor to palter with the ugly truth, and in a sort of anger dismissed both alternatives. He was intoxicated with her; she mounted to his brain like wine; he only knew one thing, that come what might, she should never get away from him. This was all his dizzy head could hold. The future could take care of itself.

As for Phyllis she was in that rapt state of happiness when a woman can do nothing but glow and worship. Had not the king descended from his throne for her? At last was not her long heart-hunger gloriously appeased? Was she not so possessed with this demigod that all other sublunary concerns seemed to vanish into insignificance? She walked on air; she exulted in the memory of his caresses; she was the more precious to herself now that she was his, now that she belonged to him so utterly. She hoarded every compliment he had paid her; and wondered, in delicious doubt, though not altogether unconvinced, whether she could be, indeed, all that she had seemed to him. As for the deeper questions, she had the woman's faculty of answering them in formless dreams.

They were settled in a vague, tender and altogether perfect manner. He--and she--and a billowing bliss on which they floated evermore, hand pressed in hand, mouth against mouth, in an ineffable and transcendant content.

Adair, once beyond her influence, was aware of a certain sagging of that higher nature she had conjured into being. Not that he loved her any less; he was on fire for her, and his coarse passion was inflamed a thousandfold by their second meeting. But, as he said to himself, he had muffed it. He was not the first man to feel a twinge of guilt at having been _good_. He was a child of his world, of his conditions, upbringing and environment, and ought not to be blamed over-much--rather commended for the first faint stirrings of an embryo conscience, which, if it had died all too soon, was still a spark of grace.

The performance tired him more than usual. He was slack, and could not get into his part. As a consequence, to offset his disinclination, he overplayed, and left the theater thoroughly exasperated, and out of heart. He took supper moodily by himself, and though ordinarily abstemious--for no one with his complexion could be accused of habitual excess--he drank high-ball after high-ball with a brutal satisfaction in fuddling himself. He grew wickeder with every gulp, more cold-blooded and determined. He would see this thing through, by God. He would take her with him on the road. She was ripe for it; she was crazy about him--lady and all, there was the devil in her all right. The nicest women were the worst when they let themselves go. What a fool he had been ever to bother with the other kind. He had always been a cheap fellow, pleased with cheap things--with raddled actresses, and silly tiresome shop-girls. Here was a little piece that put them all in the shade; prettier than the prettiest, dewy fresh, with a twist to everything she said so that it was an endless pleasure to be with her. She was so quick, so daintily impudent, so finely bred and educated. God, what an armful! God, what a little mistress for a tired and lonely man, sick to death of common women!

He reeled up-stairs, half drunk, and sought his room, to sleep the sleep of perfect health and perfect digestion. Whatever else Adair was, he was a sound and vigorous human animal, with a constitution of iron. No dreams disturbed his repose--no spectral finger of remorse pointed at him. A child could not have lain more peacefully on its cot than he.

It will be asked why he could not Have married Phyllis properly and honestly? Apart from other considerations was she not the only daughter of a millionaire father? How did Adair come to overlook this very obvious advantage, and embark instead on all the troubles and vexations attending an illicit connection? To answer this question it is necessary to go back four or five years, and rake up his marriage with Ruby Raeburn, the dancer. She, too, had been the daughter of a rich man--Laidlaw Wright, the Michigan lumber king. Adair had thought he was doing a very good thing for himself. To have a father-in-law who is a "lumber king" has a pleasant sound. Without knowing exactly how it was to happen, he looked forward confidently to a flow of dollars in his direction, either in cash, or vicariously in royal "tips." Surely a lumber king would take care of his own--and of his own's husband. Ruby herself had not been above reproach in holding out the bait, and everybody had congratulated him, or sneered at him for "marrying money." Alas, for the disillusion that followed. Laidlaw Wright was the hardest-fisted man on the Lakes, and no bulldog, guarding a lunch basket, could have shown more formidable fangs than he at any hand slipping towards his money-bags. Adair learned the sad truth that when you possess the millionaire's daughter, it does not necessarily follow that you possess the millionaire. His dead body must too often be crossed first--and this event, however desirable, can not be unduly hurried.

And meanness was not the only drawback to Laidlaw Wright's character. He could spend money as viciously as he withheld it, and make of it a whip of scorpions for the scourging of sons-in-law. When Adair's domestic unhappiness reached the acute stage, the cantankerous old fellow jumped into the ring, snorting battle and destruction. Money was poured out like water; giants of the bar were retained at enormous fees; detective bureaus' worked night and day. Adair was shadowed; his door was burst open at a time of all others when he would have much preferred to have it stay shut; statutes of which he had never dreamed, lying hidden and unrepealed in the dark recesses of the law, were evoked against him with startling effect. He was sent to prison in default of the bail he could not give. Then after eighteen weary days, which the giants of the bar would willingly have made eighteen months, he was tried, and his case dismissed. But as he left the court room he was again arrested. That implacable old man, with his cohorts of lawyers and detectives, had furbished up fresh charges. The indictment was a mile long. Again there was bail, default, and gnashing of teeth in a stinking cell. Of course, he had legal remedies, but these involved legal tender. He had spent his last dollar; legal remedies had to be paid for, and he had nothing to pay with. A wealthy and vindictive man, if he choose to do so, and does not grudge the outlay, can make our judicial machinery into a most serviceable steam-roller.

After the divorce, when all seemed settled and done with, there were alimony bomb-shells to be contended with. This tribute on his son-in-law's freedom became the obsessing prepossession of Laidlaw Wright's life. He subordinated the lumber business to collecting this forty-five dollars a week, until it became Adair's fixed and unalterable purpose to escape payment by every means in his power. North or South, East or West, the battle went on. Injunctions, contempt proceedings, printed forms in immense envelopes, beginning with the familiar phrase: "You are cited to appear before Judge So-and-So to show cause why that you, etc., etc."--rained on Adair's head wherever Saturday night might find it. Incidentally eyes were blackened; blood streamed on box-office floors; bandaged functionaries and limping attorneys cried for vengeance in shabby court rooms--and not only cried, but often got it, in a heaping measure. And afar, the lumber king, like a horrible spider whose net covered the country from sea to sea, kept the wires busy and hot with hate.