Part 11

"It does resemble you--here," said he. "And it doesn't suggest a palace or an antique store or a model room in a furniture display, or an auction room.... You work hard?"

His glance had come back to her, to linger on the graceful lines of her throat and slim, pallid neck, revealed by the rounding out of her tea-gown. Never before had he been drawn to note the details of a woman's costume. He would not have believed garments could be surcharged with all that is magnetic in feminine to masculine as was this dress of cream white edged with narrow bands of sable.

"It would be impossible not to work, with Raphael to spur one on," was her reply. Her accent in pronouncing that name gave him the desire to grind something to powder between his strong, white teeth. "The better I know him, the more wonderful he seems," continued she, a gleam in her eyes that would have made a Raphael suspect she was not unaware of the emotion Armstrong was trying to conceal. "I used to think his work was great; but now it seems a feeble expression of him--of ideas he, nor no man, could ever materialize for a coarse sense like sight."

"You don't like his work, then?" said Armstrong, pleased.

Neva looked indignant. "He's the best we have--one of the best that ever lived," exclaimed she. "I didn't mean his work by itself wasn't great, but that it seemed inadequate, compared with the man. When one meets most so-called great men--your great men downtown for example--one realizes that they owe almost everything to their slyness, that they steal the labor of the hands and brains of others who are superior to them in every way but craft and unscrupulousness. A truly great man, a man like Boris Raphael, dwarfs his reputation."

Armstrong suspected a personal thrust, a contrast between him and Boris, and was accordingly uncomfortable. "I'd like to see some of _your_ work," said he, to shift the subject.

"Not to-day. I don't feel in the mood."

"You mean, you think I wouldn't care about it--that I never was interested in that sort of thing."

"Perhaps," she admitted.

He laughed. "There's truth in that." He was about to say, "I'm still just as much of a Philistine as I used to be"; but he refrained--something in her atmosphere forbade reminiscence or hint of any connection whatever between their present and their past.

"You're like Boris in one respect," she went on. "Nothing interests you but what is immediately useful to you."

"He's over head in love with you--isn't he?" Armstrong blurted.

Her face did not change by so much as a shade. She gave not an outward hint that she knew he had rudely flung himself against the barrier between them, to enter her inmost life on his own ruthless terms of masculine intolerance of feminine equality of right. She continued to look tranquilly at him, and, as if she had not heard his question, said, "You don't go out home often?"

The rebuke--the severest, the completest, a woman can give a man--flooded his face with scarlet to the line of his hair. "Not--not often," he stammered. "That is, not at all."

"Father and I visit with each other every few weeks," she continued. "And I take the home paper." She nodded toward a copy of the Battle Field _Banner_, conspicuous on the table beside him. "Even the advertisements interest me--'The first strawberries now on sale at Blodgett's'--you remember Blodgett, with his pale red hair and pale red eyes and pale red skin, and always in his shirt sleeves, with a tooth-brush, bristle-end up, in his vest pocket? And I read that Sam Warfield and his sister Mattie 'Sundayed' at Rabbit's Run, as if I knew and loved the Warfields."

This connecting of her present self with her past had the effect of restoring him somewhat. It established the bond of fellow-townsmen between them. "I too take the _Banner_," said he. "It's like a visit at home. I walk the streets and shake hands with the people. I'm glad I come from there--but I'm glad I came."

But he could not get his ease. It seemed incredible, not, as he would have expected, that they were such utter strangers, but that they had ever been even acquaintances. Not the present, but the past, seemed a trick of the imagination upon his sober senses. His feeling toward her reminded him of how he used to regard her when he, delivering parcels from his father's little store, came upon her, so vividly representing to him her father's power and position in the community that he could not see her as a person. While she continued to talk, pleasantly, courteously, as to an acquaintance from the same town, he tried to brace himself by recalling in intimate detail all they had been to each other; but by no stretch of fancy could he convince himself of the truth. No, it was not this woman who had been his wife, who had dressed and undressed before him in the intimacy of old-fashioned married life, who had accepted his embraces, who had borne him a child.

When he rose to go, it was with obvious consciousness of his hands and feet; and he more than suspected her of deliberately preventing him from recovering himself. "She's determined I shan't fail to learn my lesson," he thought, as he stood in the outer hall, waiting for the elevator, and recovering from his awkward exit.

A week, almost to the minute, and he came again. She received him exactly as before--like an old acquaintance. She had to do the talking; he could only look and listen and marvel. "I certainly wasn't so stupid," he said to himself, "that I wouldn't have noticed her if she had had eyes like these, or such teeth, or that form, or that beautiful hair." He would have suspected that she had been at work with the beauty specialists who, he had heard, were doing a smashing business among the women, had he not seen that her manners, her speech, the use of her voice, everything about her was in keeping with her new physical appearance; she had expanded as symmetrically as a well-placed sapling. The change had clearly come from within. There was a new tenant who had made over the whole house, within and without.

What seemed to him miracle was, like all the miracles, mysterious only because the long chain of causes and effects between beginning and end was not visible. There probably never lived a human being to whom fate permitted a full development of all his possibilities--there never was a perfect season from seed-time to harvest. The world is one vast exhibit of imperfect developments, physical, mental, moral; and to get the standard, the perfection that might be, we have to take from a thousand specimens their best qualities and put them together into an impossible ideal--impossible as yet. For one fairly well-rounded human being, satisfying to eye and mind and heart, we find ten thousand stunted, blighted, blasted. Each of us knows that, in other, in more favorable, in less unfavorable circumstances, he would have been far more than he is or ever can be. But for Boris, Neva might have gone through life, not indeed as stunted a development as she had been under the blight of her unfortunate marriage, but far from the rounded personality, presenting all sides to the influences that make for growth and responding to them eagerly. Heart, and his younger brother, Mind, are two newcomers in a universe of force. They fare better than formerly; they will fare better hereafter; but they are still like infants exposed in the wilderness. Some fine natures have enough of the tough fiber successfully to make the fight; others, though they lack it, persist and prevail by chance--for the brute pressure of force is not malign; it crushes or spares at haphazard. Again, there are fine natures--who knows? perhaps the finest of all, the best minds, the best hearts--that either cannot or will not conform to the conditions. They wither and die--not of weakness, since in this world of the survival of the fittest, the fit are often the weak, the unfit the strong. All around us they are withering, dying, like the good seed cast on stony ground--the good minds, the good hearts, the men and women needing only love and appreciation and encouragement, to shine forth in mental, moral, and physical beauty. Of these had been Neva.

Boris, with eyes that penetrated all kinds of human surfaces and revealed to him the realities, had seen at first glance what she was, what she could be, what she was longing and striving to be against the wellnigh hopeless handicaps of shyness and inexperience and solitude. For his own sybarite purposes, material and selfish, from mere wanton appetite, he set his noble genius to helping her; and the creative genius finds nothing comparable in interest to the development of the human plant, to watching it sprout and put forth leaves, blossoms, flowers, perfume, spread into an individuality.

Every day there was some progress; and now and then, as in all nature, there were days when overnight a marvelous beautiful change had occurred. In scores on scores of daily conversations, between suggestions or instructions as to painting, much of the time consciously, most effectively and most often unconsciously, never with patronage or pedantry, he encouraged and trained her to learn herself, the world, the inner meaning of character and action--all that distinguishes fine senses from coarse, the living from the numb, all that most of us pass by as we pass a bank of wild flowers--with no notion of the enchanting history each petal spreads for whoever will read. Boris cleared away the weeds; he softened the soil; he gave the light and the air access. And she grew.

But Armstrong had no suspicion of this. Indeed, if he had been told that Boris Raphael, cynic and rake, had been about such an apparently innocent enterprise, he would have refused to believe it; for the Raphael temperament, the temperament that is soft and savage, sympathetic to the uttermost refinement of delicacy and appreciation, and hard and cruel as death, was quite beyond his comprehension. Armstrong, looking at Neva, saw only the results, not the processes; and he could scarcely speak for marvel, as he sat, watching and listening. "May I come again?" he asked, when he felt he must stay no longer.

"I'm usually at home after five."

Her tone was conventional--alarmingly so. With a pleading gesture of both hands outstretched and a youthful flush and frank blue eyes entreating, he burst out, "I have no friends--only people who want to get something out of me--or whom I want to get something out of. Can't you and I be friends?"

She turned abruptly away to the window. It was so long before she answered that he nerved himself for an overwhelming refusal of his complete, even abject surrender with its apology for the past, the stronger and sincerer that it was implied and did not dare narrow itself to words. When she answered with a hesitating, "We might try," he felt as happy as if she had granted all he was concealing behind that request to be tolerated. He continued in the same tone of humility, "But your life is very different from mine. I feared-- And you yourself-- I can't believe we were ever--anything to each other."

There was her opportunity; she did not let it slip. She looked straight into his eyes. "We never were," she said, and her eyes piercing him from their long, narrow lids and deep shadowing lashes forbade him ever to forget it again.

He returned her gaze as if mesmerized. Finally, "No, we never were," he slowly repeated after her. And again, "We never were," as if he were learning a magic password to treasures beyond those of the Forty Thieves.

He drew a long breath, bowed with formal constraint, and went; and as he walked homeward he kept repeating dazedly, "We never were--never!"

*XIII*

*OVERLOOK LODGE*

Overlook Lodge was Amy's first real success at amusing those interminable hours of hers that were like a nursery full of spoiled children on a rainy day. Every previous device, however well it had begun, had soon been withered and killed by boredom, nemesis of idlers. Overlook was a success that grew. It began tediously; to a person unaccustomed to fixing the mind for longer than a few minutes, the technical part of architecture comes hard. But before many months Overlook had crowded out all the routine distractions; instead of its being a mere stop-gap between them, they became an irritating interruption to its absorbing interest. It even took the sharp edge off her discomfiture with Armstrong; for interest is the mental cure-all. She dreaded a return of her former state, when an empty hour would make her walk the floor, racking her brains for something to do; she spun this occupation out and out. Narcisse Siersdorf lost all patience; the patience of feminine with feminine, or of masculine with masculine, is less than infinite. "We'll never get anywhere," she protested. "You linger over the smallest details for weeks, and you make all sorts of absurd changes that you know can't stand, when you order them."

Narcisse did not comprehend the situation. Who with so much to do that the months fairly flash by, can sympathize with the piteous plight of those who have nothing to do and all the time in the world to do it? Alois was not so unsympathetic. When the Overlook plans were begun, he was away; but, soon after his return, Amy fastened upon him, and presently he had abandoned all other business of the firm to his sister, that he might devote himself to making this work "really great."

"Concentration's the thing," said he to Narcisse, in excusing himself to her--and to himself. "Miss Fosdick has the true artistic spirit. She is willing to let me give full play to my imagination, and she interferes only to help and to stimulate. I feel I can afford to devote an unusual amount of time and thought. When the work is done, it'll be a monument to us."

Narcisse gave him a queer glance, and her laugh was as queer as her eyes. He colored and frowned--and continued to dawdle with Amy over the plans. It was not his fault, nor hers, that the actual work finally did begin; it was the teasing of her father and Hugo about these endless elaborations of preparation. "When Overlook is begun" became the family synonym for never. She and Alois suddenly started the work, and pushed it furiously.

The site selected had nothing to recommend it but a view that was far and away the most extensive and varied in that beautiful part of New Jersey--mountains, hills, plains, rivers, lakes, wildernesses, villages, farms, two cities--a vast sweep of country, like a miniature summary of the earth's whole surface. But Overlook Hill was in itself barren and shapeless. Many times, rich men in search of places where they could see and be seen had taken it under consideration; but always the natural difficulties and the expense had discouraged them. Fosdick had bought the site before investigating; he had been about to sell, when Amy took Narcisse out there. The builder instantly saw, and unfolded to Amy, a plan for making the hill as wonderful in itself as in its prospect; and that original inspiration of hers was the basis of all that was done.

When Amy and Alois did set to work, they at once put into motion thousands of arms and wheels. The day came when the whole hill swarmed with men and carts, with engines and hoisting machines and steam diggers and blasting apparatus; and the quiet valley resounded with the uproar of the labor. Amy took rooms at the little hotel in the village, had them costlily refurnished, moved in with a cook and staff of servants; Alois came out every morning, even Sundays. The country people watched the performance in stupefaction; it was their first acquaintance with the audacities upon nature which modern science has made possible. And presently they saw a rugged cliff rise where there had been a commonplace steep, saw great terraces, slopes, levels, gentle grades, supersede the northern ascents of Overlook. The army of workmen laid hold of that huge upheaval of earth and rock and shaped it as if it had been a handful of potter's clay.

Near the base of the cliff ran the river; barges laden with stone began to arrive--stone from Vermont and from Georgia, from Indiana, from Italy. A funicular clambered up the surface of the cliff; soon its cars were moving all day, bearing the stone to the lofty top of the hill; and there appeared the beginnings of foundations--not of a house alone, but of a dozen buildings, widely separated, and of terraces and lake bottoms and bridges--for a torrent, with several short falls and one long leap, was part of the plans. At the same time, other barges, laden with earth and with great uprooted living trees, arrived in interminable procession, and upon bare heights and slopes now began to appear patches of green, clumps of wood. And where full-grown transplanted trees were not set out, saplings were being planted by the hundreds. As the stone walls rose, sod was brought--acres of grass of various kinds; and creepers and all manner of wild growing things to produce wilderness effects in those parts of the park which were not to be constructed with all the refinements of civilization. These marvels of nature-manufacture were carried on in privacy; for the very first work had been to enclose the hill, from cliff edge round to cliff edge on the other side, with a high stone wall, pierced by only two entrances--one, the main entrance with wrought-iron gates from France, and a lodge; the other, the farm or service entrance, nearer the village and the river.

Amy and Alois had begun as soon as the frost was out of the ground. By June they had almost all the trees planted. The following spring, and the transformation was complete. Overlook Hill, as it had been for ages, was gone; in its place was a graceful height, clad in a thousand shades of green and capped by a glistening white bastionlike building half hid among trees that looked as if they had been there a century at least. Indeed, except the buildings, nothing seemed new, everything seemed to belong where it was, to have been there always. The sod, the tangle of creepers and underbrush on the cliff and in the ravines, the cliff and the ravines themselves, all looked like the product of nature's slow processes. The masonry, the roads, the drives--signs of age and of long use. One would have said that the Fosdicks were building on an old place, a house better suited to modern conditions than some structure, dating from Revolutionary days at least, which must have stood in those venerable surroundings and had been torn down to make room for the new.

"The buildings are going to look too new," said Alois. And he proceeded to have them more artfully weather-stained.

Narcisse had preached the superiority of small houses to Amy until she had convinced her. So, Overlook Lodge, while not so small as it looked, was still within the sane limits for a private house. And the interior arrangements--the distribution of large rooms and less, of sunny rooms, of windows, of stairways, of closets--were most ingenious. No space was wasted; no opportunity for good views from the windows or for agreeable lines, without or within, was neglected. Through and through it was a house to be lived in, a house whose comfort obtruded and whose luxury retired.

In the woodwork, in the finishing of walls and ceilings, in the furniture, Alois followed out the general scheme of the appearance of an old-established residence, a family homestead that had sent forth many generations. Before a stone had been blasted at Overlook, the furniture and the woven stuffs were designed and manufacturing. While the outer walls of the house were finishing, the rooms were beginning to look as if they had been lived in long. There was nothing new-looking anywhere except the plumbing; nothing old-looking, either. The air was that of things created full grown, things which have not had a shiny, awkward youth and could not have a musty, rickety, rotten old age.

There came a day when the last rubbish was cleared, when the last creeper was in leaf, the last flower in bloom, when the grass and the trees seemed green with their hundredth summer, when the settees and chairs and hammocks were on the verandas and porticos as if they had been there for many a year, when no odor of fresh paint or varnish or look of newness could be detected anywhere about the house--and the "work of art" was finished. Alois and Amy, in an automobile, went over every part of the grounds, examined them from without and from within; then they made a tour of the house, noting everything. Changes, improvements, could be made, would be made; but the work as a work was finished. They seated themselves on a veranda overlooking the valley, and listened to the rush of the torrent, descending through the ravines, in banks of moss and wild flowers, to spring from the edge of the cliff. Amy burst into tears.

"You're very tired, aren't you!" said Alois sympathetically. There were tears in his eyes.

"No, that isn't it," she answered, her face hidden--she knew she didn't look at all well when she was crying.

"I understand," said he. "There's something tragic about finishing anything. It's like bringing up a child, and having it marry and go away." He sighed. "Yes, we're done."

"I feel horribly lonely," she cried. "I've lost my occupation. It's the first great real sorrow of my life. I wish we hadn't been in such a hurry! We might have made it last a year or two longer."

"I wish we had!"

"You can't wish it as I do. You will go on and build other houses. You have a career. It seems to me that _I've_ come to the very end."

"You don't realize," he said hesitatingly, "that it was the personal element in this that gave--that gives it its whole meaning, to me. I was working with you and--for you."

He glanced at her eagerly, but with a certain timidity, for some sign that would encourage him. A hundred times at least, in those months when he had spent the whole of almost every day with her, he had been on the point of telling her what was in his heart, why he was so tireless and so absorbed in their task. But he had never had the courage to begin. By what he regarded as a malicious fatality, she had always shifted the conversation to something with which sentiment would not have harmonized at all. Apparently she was quite unconscious that he was a man; and how she could be, when he was so acutely alive to her as a woman, he could not understand. Sometimes he thought she was fond of him--"as fond as a nice girl is likely to be, before the man declares himself." Again, it seemed to him she cared nothing about him except as an architect. Her wealth put around her, not only physically but also mentally, a halo of superiority. He could not judge her as just a woman. He always saw in her the supernal sheen of her father's millions. He knew he had great talent; he was inordinately vain about it in a way--as talented people are apt to be, where they stop short of genius, which--usually, not always--has a true sense of proportion and gets no pleasure from contrasting itself with its inferiors. He would have been as swift as the next man to deny, with honest scorn, that he was a wealth worshiper; and as he was artist enough to worship it only where it took on graceful forms, he could have made out a plausible case for himself. Amy, for example, was not homely or vulgar--or petty. She had good ideas and good taste and concealed the ugly part of her nature as dexterously as by the arrangement of her hair she concealed the fact that it was neither very long nor very thick. Besides, in her intercourse with Alois, there was no reason why any but the best side of her should ever show.