Part 16

To-night, instead of being a performer, one who played in public, she was the guest, the center of the evening.

* * * * *

She played for them the Moonlight Sonata and while she played, she became conscious again of the curious, breathless way in which Richard Callendar listened. It seemed, for a time, that he existed only in a single spirit which somehow enveloped her and the music of Beethoven. All the evening he had been silent and watchful, as silent and as watchful as herself, save in the moment when she was carried away by her own story. When she had finished playing she was conscious of another fact, perhaps even more interesting. It was that Sabine had noticed a difference and was regarding the handsome Callendar with a look so intent that Ellen, turning sharply, caught her unaware.

This new world was a world of shadows, of hints, of insinuations, a world of curious restraints and disguises. Out of these, in the very instant she turned from the piano, she understood that the relation between Sabine and young Callendar was more than a casual friendship. Sabine was in love with him, passionately, perhaps without even knowing it, for it must have required a terrible force to lead a woman so circumspect into such a betrayal.

* * * * *

That night, for a second time, Ellen left the house in company with Sabine and Richard Callendar. It came about that, as they were preparing to leave, young Callendar proposed to accompany them and without further discussion entered the carriage. In the past it had been the custom to send Ellen home in the cabriolet while Callendar followed in the brougham with Sabine. Sometimes these two walked to Sabine’s house. She lived in Park Avenue, a half dozen blocks away, in a tall narrow house, exceedingly stiff and formal in appearance ... a house which one could not but say suited her admirably.

On the way, they talked music for a time and when the cabriolet approached Sabine’s corner, she said simply, “I am tired. You can drop me at home.”

So she bade them good night without further ado and disappeared into the narrow house. It was a strange thing for her to have done. Ellen and Callendar must have expected her to accompany them all the way to the Babylon Arms and to return alone with him; that would have been the order of things. But she was more subtle than they imagined. If she understood, as Ellen was certain she had, that there was some new thing come into the relations that existed among them all, she was clever. She did not attempt to change or even interrupt this new current; wise in the depths of her shrewd mind she saw that to be an obstacle was not the same as to be a goal. So she left Richard Callendar with the stranger who had become her rival. It may have caused her sleeplessness and torment; she may have felt a keen jealousy, but it was impossible to know. It may also have been that, knowing the continental ideas of Callendar, she was not concerned over her ultimate victory. By the rule of the very tradition which had shut her in, Callendar could not _marry_ this stranger.

29

As Callendar reëntered the cabriolet, Ellen settled back into her corner to wait. She watched, as always, but this time she was conscious that there was another who was watching. It seemed for the first time that there had risen up in her path a person, perhaps even an enemy, who played the same waiting game. Callendar sat in his corner, his dark face visible now and then as a streak of light from the lamps entered the door, and in that uncertain and shifting illumination, Ellen studied him closely for the first time.

It was a strangely pleasing face; the very dark pallor, so evenly distributed, so perfectly shaded caught her attention as a kind of beauty new to her. There was no ruddiness here, no boisterous energy. Rather it was a silent, subtle kind of beauty. The power behind it was not so much a crude energy as a strength that was placid yet possessed of the quality of steel. It was a strength that revealed itself in the firm, clean line of the jaw and in the square, almost hard modeling of the intelligent head. If there was a hint of passion it lay in the red lips that were so full and sensual beneath the fine black mustache. He wore the collar of his coat turned up a little, with his hat pulled well over his eyes so that the whole gave an impression of rakishness and adventure. Yet her instinct told her that here was something to be feared, something subtle and rather neat, of a sort strange to her.

They must have ridden several blocks in silence when he said to her, in a voice that was warm and carried faint traces of an accent, “I say, you are a remarkable person. I’d never dreamed how much it took to bring you where you are.”

When she answered, Ellen felt a new and absurd inclination to become a helpless, almost arch, young girl. “It’s nothing,” she said. “I’d never thought about it.”

“It was an entertaining story you gave us.... You see people like me and Sabine seldom get any idea of what the real world is like.” He paused for a moment and then continued as if to make clear what he meant--“I mean a world in which people have to fight for things. We just have them. We forget about the others. And we’re in the minority of about ... shall we say ... one to a thousand. I’ve always had what I wanted.... I suppose I’ll always have it.”

This was strange talk, in a queer philosophic vein, to which Ellen answered again, “I don’t know ... I’ve never thought about the difference. I know what I want and some day ... I suppose I’ll have it.”

“You _are_ an extraordinary musician ... you know,” he continued. “I wonder if you know how extraordinary.”

Ellen did know; she was sure of it. But she saw fit not to answer because she was a little puzzled. In a world bounded by Clarence and Herman Biggs, she had not met a man of this sort. He was younger than Clarence and not much older than Herman but that made no difference. It was something that had nothing to do with age. Rather it was a matter of experience. She knew she was an excellent musician; she must have believed it or she could not have gone her own way with such unswerving directness, but she chose to answer modestly. In the dim light of the cab, it was impossible to know whether or not she actually smirked.

“Perhaps I am. How is one to know?... About one’s self, I mean.”

“My mother and I know about such things,” he replied, and then for a time the cabriolet fell into silence. They turned from the avenue into the park, and presently out of his corner he spoke again.

“You’re sure you told us everything to-night? You didn’t leave out of the story anything that might interest us?”

There was in this an impertinence which Ellen sensed and considered for a time. He was looking out of the window at the bare trees of the park with a splendid air of indifference, which Ellen felt was not indifference at all. Far back in her consciousness an odd feeling of triumph came into existence, a queer, inexplicable feeling that she was the dominant one, that somehow she had caught him now off his guard, as if she found he was not so clever as he thought. She became aware of a genuine sense of conflict, vague and undefined, ... a sort of conflict between her own intelligence and one that was quite as powerful. She watched the clear-cut ivory profile for a time and then said, “No. I left out nothing that could possibly interest anybody but me.”

(That much for his curiosity about the little man he saw for an instant through the open door at the Babylon Arms!)

Callendar turned to her. “I sound impertinent, but I only ask because it seems to me that you are even more interesting than the story you tell.”

Again this was bold and even personal, as though he sought to assume possession of that part of her which should belong to no one ... the part which was _herself_, at which he had no right to pry. The temptation to become feminine seized her once more.

“I suppose,” she said, “that that is a compliment. I thank you for it. Of course, I don’t know how true it is.”

“It _is_ true,” he replied abruptly. “You are admirable ... and courageous. Spirit is a fine thing ... the greatest in the world.”

* * * * *

There was one thing for which she was thankful. He did not treat her as if she were a silly girl, as a man might, for example, have treated May Seton. In years he was not much older than herself yet in reality she understood that he was centuries older. Of that, she was certain. What she did not understand was that his approach to life, down to the veriest detail, was one which, by the nature of things, was not only alien but incomprehensible. He had patience, a quality which in her was so utterly lacking as to be inconceivable; he could wait. It was this which puzzled her ... this and the sense of conflict, so complicated, that was always a little way off, just out of reach and not to be understood.

From a great distance, she watched him and even herself, confused, puzzled, but profoundly interested. That much she had gained from the blood that flowed in old Gramp Tolliver’s veins. She was always watching, waiting, learning.

* * * * *

The rest of their conversation was less interesting. It possessed, to be sure, a strange quality of leisure; there were long silences not in the least awkward and uncomfortable. On the contrary, despite that sense of conflict and watching, there was a certain calmness about them, as of the silences which fall between old friends immersed in a perfect understanding. It was perhaps the same friendliness which she neglected always to take into consideration, in which she would never quite believe.

At the Babylon Arms they passed between the Syrian Lions of cast iron and at the elevator he left her. There was no prying this time, no evidence of curiosity. As he bade her good night, he suggested that one day they might lunch together. Then the swaying elevator bore her upward to Clarence and out of sight of Callendar.

The sense of conflict disturbed her, even after Clarence came in from the Bunces’, murmuring apologies for having forgotten her and stayed so late. He apologized too for having, in the enthusiasm of a pinochle game, invited the Bunces to dinner four weeks later when he had returned from his western trip.

30

Mrs. Callendar stayed two months longer than usual in New York. She was kept by the only things which could have kept her away from the sunshine of her adored Cannes; that is to say, difficulties over stocks and bonds, adjustments of the Callendar fortune. She saw to it that there were no slips and no losses. Indeed, by missing the season at Cannes she turned a profit of several hundred thousand dollars which might have been lost in the hands of one in whose veins there flowed less Levantine blood.

Richard, of course, remained with her, though he exhibited a curious indifference toward the affairs which made upon his mother claims so passionate. When she reproached him, as she frequently did, he turned to her sometimes in the dark library of the house on Murray Hill and said, “My God! I’m too rich now. What should I do with any more money? Why should I worry?”

It was an attitude in which there was nothing of softness, nothing of degeneracy; it was not even the case of a son pampered by riches. His mother must have known that, better than any one, because she had encountered in him a will not unlike her own ... a will troubled in his case by a strange restlessness born perhaps of the bizarre mixture of blood. If he was possessed of any passions they were for women, and for music, which had an effect that was amazing; it was the one thing which held the power of quieting him. There were times when he would sit motionless in the presence of music as if enchanted by it. Its effect upon him was primitive and barbaric like the hypnotism which a tom-tom exerts upon a savage.

There came a night when, as they sat alone over their coffee, estranged and a little silent after her reproaches, she turned to him and without warning said, “What about this _jeune prodige_ ... Miss Tolliver. I hear you’ve been lunching with her.”

At this direct sally, a smile appeared slowly on the dark face of the son. It began gently at first on the sensual red lips, and then spread itself until the effect was utterly disarming. He had a way of smiling thus, after a fashion that was disconcerting because its implications were so profound, so subtle, and so filled with disillusionment. It was a smile in which the gray eyes, lighting suddenly, played a tantalizing rôle--a smile which seemed to envelop its subject and, clinging there for a time, to destroy all power of deceit by its very friendliness. It said, gently and warmly, “Come now, let’s be honest and generous with each other.” The red lips curved ever so gently beneath the dark mustache. It was the smile of a man born knowing much that others seldom ever learn.

He smiled at her and said, “Ah! Who could have told you that?... Who but Sabine ... who knows everything?”

The very tone of his voice appeared to caress and yet mock his mother. (Sabine ... indeed all women.) Before such an assault even Thérèse Callendar had no resistance. Shifting her plump body so that the heavy bangles on her wrists jangled and clattered, she waited a moment before answering. Then a faint blush, which appeared to arise from a real sense of guilt, spread slowly up to the edges of her bright small eyes.

“It _was_ Sabine who told me,” she said. “You can’t blame her for that.”

“No ... she always knows everything.” He laughed abruptly. “Sometimes I think she must be in communication with the birds ... or the mice.”

“You know what I think.... I think that it’s time you married. It’s a responsibility ... the money.... There ought to be heirs. We can’t give all that money to charity or some drafty museum.” While she knocked off the ashes from her cigarette, he watched her silently with the same caressing, mocking smile. “You’re past twenty-five, you know.... I want my grandchildren to be the children of young parents. I believe in it.”

Then suddenly, he pierced straight into the thing which she had avoided mentioning. “I shan’t marry Sabine,” he said. “I’ll find some one. I haven’t found her yet.”

“Sabine is excellent. She is well brought up.... She is rich. She is one of the few American women we know who is _mondaine_. I want you to marry an American. We need new blood. She knows her way about. She dresses superbly.... She will make an excellent hostess. She will be at home everywhere.”

“But I am not in love with her,” he said smiling.

For an instant a glint of hard anger appeared in her eyes. “You are old enough ... or at least wise enough not to be romantic.”

“It is not a question of romance, Mama.... It is more a question of necessity. I should prefer to be faithful to my wife.”

At this speech, she clucked her tongue, and crushed out the end of her cigarette. “_Ça ne marche pas_,” she observed coldly. “You can’t expect me to believe such nonsense.”

* * * * *

Thérèse was by no means innocent. She had lived in the world, always. She knew what things went on about her and, being Levantine and French, she expected even less than most women of experience. She understood that there were such things as mistresses and that most men of her world were not unacquainted with them; so she could not for a moment have supposed that her son, smiling at her in his knowing fashion, possessed a purity that was virginal. Indeed, it might be said that she knew more of his adventures than he ever supposed. Once she had scandalized Mrs. Champion by saying, “My son has an intrigue with the wife of one of my best friends in Paris. It puts me in a most uncomfortable position.”

Nevertheless she had said this in a tone that implied satisfaction; the mistress of her son was, at least, a lady and not a woman of the streets. There was only one thing (she was accustomed to say) that she regarded as unforgivable; it was that he should make a fool of himself or waste great sums of money on any woman. And this, she must have known, was extremely unlikely.

After their disagreement they sat for a time in the sort of strained silence that envelops a conflict between two people of extraordinary will. It was Thérèse who, with a sudden embarrassed cough, interrupted the stillness.

“This girl ...” she said. “I hope you’re not entangling yourself with her.”

Again he smiled and replied, “No, I haven’t entangled myself.”

“Because, it is dangerous with a girl of that sort.... She’s an American, you know, and not the sort one finds among musicians in Paris.... _Autres choses_.... She’s well brought up ... _bourgeoisie_, I should say, of the provinces.”

This time Richard laughed. “Not so _bourgeoise_ as you might think.”

She leaned forward a little. “That’s just it!” she said. “She’s not easy to win.... She’s not the ordinary sort. She’s a woman of character ... of will.” Then she moved back, folding the chubby hands, glittering with rings, on the brief expanse of her black satin lap. “No, you’d best keep clear of her.... Whatever happens is without my approval.”

“She is interesting,” the son replied. “I’ve never seen a woman quite like her.”

This, it appeared, was the cause for new alarm. After regarding him for a time curiously, she murmured, “You can’t marry her, of course. She’s too inexperienced.... Sometimes, she’s _gauche_. But that’s not the chief thing.... If you married her, I don’t think I should object ... not very greatly.... It’s new blood ... healthy blood. But I advise you against thinking of such a thing. Wherever she goes, trouble will follow. She’s born, like most people with a touch of genius, under a curse.” He would have interrupted her here, but she checked him with a gesture of her fat hand. “She is certain to affect the lives of every one about her ... because, well, because the threads of our lives are hopelessly tangled. Oh, don’t think I’m talking nonsense or saying this to discourage you.... I know it.... I’m sure of it.... Marry her if you will, but don’t expect happiness to come of it. She would doubtless bear you a son ... a fine strong son because she is a fine cold animal. But don’t expect any satisfaction from her. She knows too well exactly where she is bound.”

During this long speech the son stood smoking silently with a shadow of the mocking smile on his lips. When she had finished he did not answer her but sat, with a thoughtful air, looking out into the garden which Thérèse this year had not bothered to have planted.

After a time she spoke again to say, “Surely you don’t fancy you could ever control her.... She’s a wild young filly.... No man will ever control her ... not for long.”

“I’ve never thought of marrying her,” he replied quietly. “Why, she has a lover already.”

At this Mrs. Callendar’s countenance assumed an expression of passionate interest. “But she is not that sort ... not a _demi-mondaine_. She is an honest woman ... a cold woman. One can see that.”

He smiled, this time even more softly and mockingly and into the gray eyes there came a gleam of ironical humor. “It was Sabine who said she had a lover,” he said. “You remember, Miss Tolliver told us nothing of what has happened to her since she came here.... Besides, cold women are the most successful. They do not lose their heads.”

31

If Ellen had ever had any use for such a creature as a confidante, she would have told her no doubt that life, at this moment, was an exasperating puzzle. Between the manners of Herman Biggs and Clarence and the manners of such a man as Richard Callendar, there lay a vast gulf, a sort of blank page in the book of her experience, an hiatus that left her uneasy and disturbed.

Clarence and Herman Biggs, she understood, represented to a great degree the husband and lover of her own country. They were the ones who came seeking, the ones who idolized the object of their affections. They were, if not fascinating, affectionate and docile. They were perhaps, even convenient, so long as they did not get under foot. There was in them a certain childlike innocence, complicated alone by a Quixotic code of chivalry and honor which allowed them to be despoiled. Either they overlooked or were innocent of the ways of the world and so clung to the sentimental image of women as pure, devoted creatures who were always good and generous. There were, of course, such things as “bad women” but these did not concern them; such women were of a class apart, without any real relation to good women, a third sex one might have said, with its own uses. The women of their world had changed abruptly, swiftly, in a generation or two, from helpmates on a rude frontier adventure into creatures of luxury; and men like Herman and Clarence had not kept pace. These were the men whom Ellen had always known. There had never been any one like Richard Callendar.

In the absence of Clarence among the factories of the middle west Ellen lunched, not once, but several times with Callendar. Out of the money she had earned by her playing she was able now to dress herself in a fashion which, if not smart, was at least simple and charming. With the approach of the warm days, they lunched at Sherry’s (for he made no effort to conceal his attentions) in an open window which gave out upon the Avenue and the stream of carriages, disordered now by increasing inroads of noisy automobiles. She must have understood, out of the depths of her mother’s teachings, that what she did was an improper and even a dangerous thing. It was, at least, a misstep, taken through lack of experience ... a step which later on she might not have risked.

There was Callendar himself to be considered. It was clear that, despite all her coolness, he had an effect upon her. There were times when she would blush as if suddenly overcome by a sense of his presence, for he was charming to her--gentle, understanding, full of a fire which leapt up in sudden gusts to join the flame of her own triumph and zest in living. In the window overlooking Fifth Avenue there were moments when she must have forgotten everything save the future, hours when they talked of Europe, when he described to her with something very close to passion the brilliance of Paris or the smoky glow of London. Both were naïve, Ellen in the fashion of the inexperienced and Callendar, so dark, so charming, so utterly new, in the fashion of a man whose directness of action had nothing to do with the question of conventions. It was impossible for either to have understood the emotion that drew them together, for it was a romantic thing to which both were then insensible, the one because life had taught her not to expect such a thing as romance, the other because he had never believed in its existence.