Part 18

“I don’t know what is to be done about it ...” continued Mrs. Callendar, “because I don’t know everything.... In a case like this, one must know everything in order to make sense. You have done something to him. I don’t blame you.... It is simply one of those things which happens.... I fancy if you had not met each other as you did, you would have met in some other fashion....” Her green eyes narrowed and her lips contracted so that all her plumpness appeared to shrivel and vanish. She seemed suddenly to become vastly old and wizened. “Yes, I am sure you would have met. Nothing could have kept you apart.” And then, plump and kindly once more, she said, “I don’t know what it is you have done to him. I don’t fancy he knows himself, but he’s miserable.... You see, the trouble is that he is really romantic ... just as I am romantic ... and he’s always pretended he was an experienced, cynical _homme du monde_.... In that one thing he is dishonest.”

She reached over and in an unexpected gesture touched the hand of the girl so that Ellen, taken unaware by this movement of sympathy, began to cry softly.

“I _am_ romantic,” said Mrs. Callendar softly, “though you might not believe it. Listen!” She leaned forward. “Listen! I’ll tell you a story about myself and you’ll see. You’ll understand then perhaps that I have sympathy enough to be of use in this matter ... because in a time of this sort, it’s sympathy that’s needed more than anything else.”

And then she settled back and between puffs on her cigarette related bit by bit, from the very beginning, the romantic story of her elopement with Richard Callendar’s father. She told the story with an Oriental sense of color, and slowly before the eyes of the girl she recreated the color of Constantinople in her youth, all the magic of the summer palace and the Bosphorus by moonlight, all the desolation of the Greek aunts, all the crafty manner of the rich old Dikran Leopopulos, and above all the somber glow of the love she had known for the blond and handsome young American. Under the spell of her own tale she began to speak half in French, half in English, but Ellen, listening, became so caught up in the magic of the story that she understood it all, even those things which Thérèse Callendar related in an alien tongue. The tale set fire to a vein of warmth in the girl which until now had gone undiscovered, save only at times when, lost in her music, it had emerged translated into a beauty of sound. For the moment even the plump Greek woman herself appeared no longer to be old and ugly and covered with diamonds in need of cleaning. In the fervor of her story, she attained for a passing instant the quality of youth and of a fleeting beauty out of the Levant.

And when she had finished, she leaned back and said, with a wicked chuckle, “_Voyez_. I am ugly now and fat. But I was not then.” Then she sighed quickly and looked down at her rings. “You see the thing is that he died ... he was drowned before we had been married two years.”

* * * * *

Again Ellen kept silent. There was nothing for her to say that would not have been trivial and idiotic. She waited and presently Thérèse said, “You see, I can understand.... I wanted you to know that.... One would have said that he and I were separated by a thousand things. None of them made the least difference.”

* * * * *

It was Ellen who in the end interrupted the strange, breathless silence which enveloped them at the conclusion of Thérèse’s story. She murmured, “It was nothing that I meant to do.... It happened.... I don’t know how.... It happened without either of us saying anything. It was,” (she groped for the words and collapsed into banality), “It was like a flash of lightning.”

“It would be,” said Thérèse, “with him. I don’t believe he understands what it is.”

“And I haven’t seen him since.”

“He has never spoken a word of it.... Always he tells me.”

Something of the girl’s awkwardness had vanished now, and between them there was a sense of a sympathy that had not before existed. It was the manner now of two women who were confidants.

“There is nothing I can do,” said Ellen, “nothing. It is hopeless.”

“You were a brave girl to go on coming here.”

A flash of Ellen’s old spirit returned as she said, “What could I do? Running away helped nothing.... It’s hard because I have had no one to speak to ... no one I could talk it over with.... You see, I am really alone.... It never mattered before.... I mean ... the loneliness.”

* * * * *

They faced each other, two women, each possessed of intelligence and honesty, striving to discover some way out of the tangle in which they were caught. Being wise, they knew perhaps the uselessness of violence. They waited, each knowing well enough that there was much more concerned than simple romance. Thérèse knew, no doubt, that the young woman who, stripped now of her fierce secrecy, sat opposite her, frightened and tearful, was not simply an adventuress seeking to gain a husband and a vast fortune. She knew, too, how much these things would have meant to the girl, and she understood well enough that Ellen, face to face with an unaccustomed tangle, lacked the experience which could have helped her.

On Ellen’s side, she must have been conscious of facing a mystery. The plump woman, covered with dirty diamonds, was her friend, yet, despite her kindliness, she was remote, separated from her by differences of blood, of tradition, of a million things. She was as remote, as beyond comprehension in the subtlety of her wise, old mind as her dark son, even in the moments when he was most disarming. Her own people Ellen might battle and overthrow, but these were different. She could not even fathom the woman’s friendliness.

“I am not a cheap adventuress,” she repeated. “Don’t believe that.”

“My dear girl, I am not such a fool.... I was not born yesterday.... I have dealt with women of that sort.”

“You see,” said Ellen, folding and refolding her handkerchief like a little girl, “I am quite alone.... I looked on him as a friend ... as I might look on my own brother.... I never thought of such a thing.”

At this Mrs. Callendar made a clucking noise and bowed her head for a time in thought. At last she said, “Ah, but that is where the trouble lay! That is where you were wrong!... Such a thing is not possible with him.... There is acquaintance and the next step is the other thing. He is not, after all, like your American men.”

Ellen looked up now and ceased to plait the handkerchief. “I can see that ...” she said. “I’ve learned a great deal. I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks.... It frightens me because I can’t stop thinking of it when I want to ... not even at night. There’s never been anything like it before.” She looked directly at Mrs. Callendar. “Could I talk to you ...? Could I tell you the truth?”

“My dear, it is the only way we shall arrive anywhere.”

“I’ve got to tell some one.... I’ve thought and thought about the whole thing. I don’t know what it is he wants of me. He has never said anything.... We have never even mentioned it.” She smiled faintly. “Perhaps I am a fool and silly. We’ve never mentioned it in any way....”

Mrs. Callendar interrupted her. “Ah, but that’s it. That’s what makes it serious....”

“Perhaps I’m talking of something that doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, it exists all right.” Thérèse knocked the ash from her cigarette. “You would know it if you had seen him.” She turned sharply to Ellen. “Why do you think he is avoiding you? It’s not because he regards you as a virgin not to be defiled. It’s himself he’s thinking of too.”

“But there is nothing to be done.... Nothing can be done.”

“Do you love him?”

Ellen smiled again. “How should I know that? I’ve not been in love a hundred times. I had never met anything like this. I had my whole life planned, perfectly, to the very end. I don’t know what’s to happen now.”

Before she answered Mrs. Callendar sighed. “If there is enough of love, anything is possible.” She raised her plump hand. “Oh, I’m not being a romantic fool. I only mean that if there is enough of passion.... If you believe that it is the greatest thing of all, worth all else in the world, then take what life can give you. Let nothing stop you. It will come to an end soon enough and you will be unhappy, but you must understand that in the beginning. If you are to have remorse, have it before you act and be done with it.... That is the only rule for intelligent people, and they are after all the only ones who dare know such a rule.”

* * * * *

For a time Ellen sat quietly regarding the floor, lost in consideration of all her companion had said. It was a bewildering speech and colossally unmoral. She must have thought, then or later, of the vast distance which separated the girl who sat in Mrs. Callendar’s drawing-room from the girl who sat on Hattie Tolliver’s knee the night that Jimmy Seton rang the bell and brought Clarence into her life; yet she had only gone a little way. Turning the speech of Mrs. Callendar over and over in her mind, she became aware that it savored curiously of Lily. It was a consciousness always present, an awareness of Lily’s charm, her beauty, her curious soft independence, the beauty, the talk, the scandal that centered about her.... If Hattie Tolliver could have known it, the influence of wicked Lily was stronger at that moment than it had ever been. Out of all the talk, the experience, the sorrow, Lily was emerging slowly from the well of mystery that engulfed her.

“It is impossible,” said Ellen slowly, “because I could not marry him.” She hesitated for a moment and then added in a whisper, “I have a husband already.... I’ve never told any one.”

She began to weep once more, gently and wearily, while Mrs. Callendar, poised and remote in black satin and diamonds, regarded her with an expression of astonishment.

At last the older woman said, “You should have told me this. It changes everything. Sabine told me that you had a lover ... that she had seen him at your flat.”

“That was my husband.”

“You never spoke of him, so we had nothing else to believe.” She smiled suddenly and touched Ellen’s hand once more. “I was right then. I did not believe it possible.”

Ellen looked at her silently, in amazement. “But you had me to your house, as a friend. How could you have done that when you thought me a woman of that sort?”

Across the gulf that separated them, Mrs. Callendar laughed and said, “But that would have made no difference. I learned long ago not to be concerned with the morals of my friends. You are what you are and I like you, my dear, whether you had one lover or fifty, except that if you had had fifty I should have known you to be a woman of no taste.” She paused and lighted another cigarette out of the box she had sent her from Constantinople. “I had no idea,” she continued thoughtfully, “how wide the difference was.... Besides, you are a musician ... an artist. One does not require of an artist the morals of the _bourgeoisie_. One expects such things. It is so because it is so, and there’s an end to it.” She puffed for a time, slowly, lost in thought, and then added in a kind of postscript. “My poor girl! What a lot you have not learned! You will not be free until you do what you see fit ... regardless of any one.”

And now Ellen found herself once more where she had begun. In all their talk they had arrived after all nowhere, because they had been talking all the while of two different things. Mrs. Callendar, conscious perhaps of the hopelessness of the muddle, rose and began to walk slowly up and down the room, an absurd and untragic figure, plump and much laced but energetic and clever. After a time she came and stood by Ellen’s chair.

“I take it then,” she said, “that you do not love your husband.”

“I don’t know,” Ellen replied dully, “I don’t know. It is nothing like this new thing ... nothing at all. I am sorry for him. Perhaps that is it.”

“It is a match then that your parents made?”

“No.... It is not that.... It’s quite different....” She hesitated for a moment and then said in a low voice, “I ran away with him.... I eloped. It was not because I loved him. It was because I had to escape. I wanted to be a musician.... I wanted to be great. Lately I have thought sometimes I was only a fool ... that I have only confused and ruined everything.”

This Mrs. Callendar pondered for a time, returning to her chair and lighting another cigarette before she spoke. “And why do you pity him?” she asked presently.

“It is because he is so good and so humble. I am afraid of hurting him. He has been good to me and generous. It is almost worse than if I had loved him.... Don’t you see?”

“You would not divorce him?” asked Mrs. Callendar.

“No,” Ellen cried suddenly. “No, I could not do that.... I couldn’t....”

“And you would not run away from him?”

“It is the same thing in the end.... It would hurt him. It might kill him.... He’s such a good man ... so kind, so helpless. He wants me to love him always.... He’s done everything he could for me ... everything and more than he is able to do. You see. I told you there was nothing to be done.”

“No,” said Mrs. Callendar slowly, “I’m afraid there is nothing to be done....” Again she rose from her chair and walked over to the window. “You had best think it over.” She turned and faced Ellen. “I will talk to Richard. I will not sail to-morrow. I will stay. It must be settled somehow, for the sake of all of us.... I have not forgotten Sabine. She must be considered.”

33

It was long after midnight when Ellen, entering the cabriolet at last, was driven off by the impatient Wilkes to the Babylon Arms. When she arrived, she found Clarence in the lower hall pacing up and down with a pitiful air of anxiety.

“I should have telephoned,” she said, “but I forgot. I did not know how late it was. You see we talked for a long time afterward.”

And then she kissed him gently, swept again by the old sense of pity. During all the drive home, in the long moments when she had been alone in the dark cabriolet, she had struggled, bitterly, with the puzzle that confronted her, knowing always in the back of her mind that whatever happened she could never run away with Richard Callendar. She might fall ill, she might die, she might go mad, but there were some things which she could not do. Deep down in her heart there was a force that was quite beyond her, a power that was an instinct, as much a physical thing as her very arms and hands. It was the part of her that was Hattie Tolliver.

There had been the other way out, but when she kissed Clarence she knew that it too was impossible. When she saw him waiting, his eyes wild with anxiety, his whole face suddenly lighted up with joy and adoration at sight of her, she knew too that she could never divorce him. His very weakness destroyed her, for she knew that if she had asked him he would have freed her. There was nothing that he would deny her ... nothing that he was able to give; and what she wanted from him, he would never be able to give because he was, after all, only a poor thing.

* * * * *

But the hardest part of the ordeal lay before her. It was the meeting with Callendar when, for the first time, they would both be forced to recognize the truth and deny it, forever. She understood this well enough; she was in a way even eager to have it occur at once so that she might put the memory of it behind her, so that she might stamp out the incident forever and go on her triumphant way. It came at last when Callendar, in a brief note, asked if he might call upon her. The letter, in a headlong handwriting so unlike the mocking cynicism which he cultivated, gave no hint of what was in his mind. It asked merely that she set a time and place.

She bade him come to the apartment in the Babylon Arms and he came, strangely sobered and quiet, with a chastened look in his gray eyes. At sight of him he appeared to her, as it seemed long afterward, for the first time in any semblance of reality; he existed with a new clarity, a new distinctness of outline. It was as if she had never seen him rightly before, as if until now he had been to her some one whom she accepted vaguely without questioning. Only one quality carried over completely into the new Callendar; it was the old sense of conflict, of will against will, of a pleasurable, almost perverse sensation of struggle. The new Callendar was an older man in a fashion she could not altogether define, save that the impression was related to the effect which his mother had upon her, of weakening and diminishing all reliance in herself.

The first thing she said to him was, “I am frightened.”

He took off his hat and laid it quietly on the divan by the side of his stick and then he turned and looking at her with his strange gray eyes, replied, “I too am frightened.”

Among the cheap furniture that crowded the room the old sense of his superiority returned to her, mingled this time with a new consciousness that he was utterly alien, stranger than she had ever imagined until now. She sat down quietly while he drew a chair to her side.

“I’ve talked to my mother,” he said. “Or rather she talked to me. She’s told me everything.”

Under the gaze of the gray eyes, Ellen turned aside, discomfited, wretched. “I wasn’t honest,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, but I hadn’t meant to be dishonest. I never thought it would make the least difference to any one.”

“It has made a difference though ... a great difference. It’s changed everything.” He reached over with a tenderness that suddenly weakened her and took one of her hands in his. She knew his hands; she knew them as she had known Clarence’s on the night in the Setons’ parlor when she had judged him nice enough but a bit of a prig. Callendar’s hands were slender, dark and strong, beautifully shaped in a way that made her fear them. When they approached her, she became weak; she felt that she was losing herself. She could not have explained the feeling save by a sense she had of their power. He was talking again, softly in the low voice with the thin trace of an accent, like Lily’s.

“I was foolish,” he was saying. “I should have known that the thing which made me afraid of you was the thing that would have kept you from taking a lover. I’d never encountered anything quite like it before.” He smiled and touched his mustache gently. “I was a fool. I should have known better. I thought perhaps you would love me some time ... not without a struggle. No, I never expected that. I thought we might understand each other....” For an instant the incredible happened. Callendar was blushing. It was a thing which she had not seen happen before. “I thought that one day we should come together.... I thought you were an artist, living as artists I have known do live. I was idiotic. I should have known better. You’ll forgive me that ... won’t you?”

For a moment she did not answer. The sound of his soft voice, the touch of the dark hands, had taken possession of her. Dimly she knew that she should have been insulted, yet she had no feeling at all, no sense of indignation; there was only a curious faintness that made her afraid. Somehow she understood that all this in reality had nothing to do with insults, with conventions, even with laws. It was something which might never again come her way and yet something which was to be feared, because it might destroy her forever. At last she said, “Why should I forgive you? It would make no difference now....”

“It would make a difference.... It would make a difference,” he said quickly. “I want you to marry me.... We can arrange everything. It makes no difference how.” And then after a sharp silence, he added in a low voice, “There is a magnificence about you, ... a bravery....” And the rest of the sentence trailed away so that she did not hear it.

Out of a great depth as if by a great physical effort she returned into the daylight. She found her lips moving. She found herself saying over and over again, “I must remember.... I must remember.... I must not ruin everything.” He had never even asked whether she loved him. He had accepted it as a fact. He had asked her nothing. He had come simply to take her.

Then she withdrew her hand slowly and sat staring at it with an air of looking at some object unfamiliar to her. “I can’t marry you,” she said slowly. “I can’t.... I can’t.... There is nothing to be done.... There is nothing to be done.” And she began to cry silently, so that the tears fell down upon her hands.

The speech appeared to astonish him, for he made no effort to regain her hand but sat staring at her as at a stranger. When at last he spoke it was in a voice that was low and caressing, but the tenderness had slipped away and in its place there was a hardness, as of steel; it was like a sudden glimpse of claws emerging from a soft and furry paw.

“Is it because you won’t give him up,” he asked, “as you told my mother?”

“It is because I cannot give him up.... I cannot treat him that way.... I cannot ... cannot.”

The steel in the voice emerged a little more sharply. There was an edge to it now, sarcastic, cutting. “Is it because he is so fine ... so handsome ... so magnificent ... so dazzling?”

He repeated thus all the things that Clarence was not, and so he gave her the last bit of strength that she required, for the sound of his voice, the sharp edge of the sarcasm, filled her with a sudden anger and a wild desire to protect Clarence as something which was her own. She found herself fighting for a man who was none of these things against a man who to her was all of them. It struck somehow at her sense of gallantry ... that Callendar who had everything should sneer at poor Clarence who had nothing.

She said, “It has nothing to do with that.... There are some things that one cannot do.... This I will not do.” She dried her eyes and sat more erectly. “There is no use.... There was no use in your coming here.... My mind was made up ... long before you came.”

At this he turned angry. “You are like all your women.... Love to you is nothing.... It is something to be controlled. You don’t know what love is.... You would exploit it.... You are like all your women.”

So he talked thus for a time in a childish vein strange and new while she sat impassive, conscious all the while of the power he could exert over her, a power that had to do with the beauty of his hands, with the strange quality of his eyes, with the sound of his voice, with the soft catlike way in which he moved; yet she remained in some mysterious way safe from that power. It was, perhaps, her intelligence which saved her, for as she watched him she gained slowly a curious intuition of what he might do to her if she yielded. The old sense of conflict was fanned into a new life, more intense than it had ever been. He sought to overpower her will. She knew all at once that this was the very essence of his confused, unreasonable emotion.

And as she listened to him her woman’s instinct for the dramatic came to her aid. She saw herself sitting there calm and a little cold, slowly but surely winning in the battle. She listened to his abuse. It did not enrage her. It did not even make her weep. It seemed rather to increase her coldness, her very strength. She felt him beating against the wall of her serenity and a kind of fierce triumph flowed through her body. For a time she possessed truly a great magnificence. At a little distance, she stood outside herself and watched the spectacle. She saw him standing by her, white with anger.