Chapter 11

"Why what?"

"It fills the future with blanks that can't be filled in."

"That may or may not be, Barbs. If they can't be filled in, you will write to me, and I will come back."

"But I don't mean--"

"I don't believe you know what you mean. But you aren't Barbs now; you are my confessor. I confess to you, then, that I am in pretty much the same boat with Harry West. I am going away, partly, to get over you--if I can. Love is a fire. Feed it, and it grows. Let it alone, and it dies. Confessor, there is a certain girl--one Barbara Ferris, I love her with all my heart and soul and have so done for many years. Since this leads to happiness for neither of us, I am going to cut her out of my life."

"Wilmot! Are you speaking seriously? You're not going to write to me? I'll have no news of you? Not know how you are getting on? Not know if you are sick or well?"

"The first night," said Wilmot, "you cried. The second you slept and thought about work."

"But you are my oldest friend and my best. Whatever we are to each other, we are that--best friends. We have our roots so deep in the happenings of years and years that we can't be moved--and get away with it."

"We shall see," said Wilmot almost solemnly. "It isn't going to be easy for me, either. But time will soon show. If after a year we find that we cannot do without each other's friendship--why, then we must see each other again. That's all there is to it."

"At least you'll write?"

He shook his head.

"But I will."

"No, Barbs. The sight of your writing would be too much fuel for the fire."

She was silent for a quarter of a mile. She did not enjoy the idea of being deliberately cut out of Wilmot Allen's life and heart "Suppose," she said, "that at the end of the year the fire is still burning bright?"

He slowed the car down so that he could turn and look at her. His face looked very strong and stern. "In that case," he said, "I will come back and marry you,"

"And supposing that meanwhile, in a fit of loneliness and mistaken zeal, I shall have married some one else?"

"If I feel about you as I do now," said Allen, "I will take you away from him."

Once more the car began to run swiftly, so swiftly that Wilmot could not take his eyes from the road to look at Barbara's face. If he had, he would have seen in her eyes an extraordinary look of trouble and tenderness.

XXI

During the week-end Barbara and Allen were much together, to the amusement of the other guests, who said: "_It's_ on again." But it was not really.

If Wilmot was going away, Barbara wished him to have good memories of last times together to carry with him. And Wilmot, like a foolish fellow who is going to swear off Monday, and in the meanwhile drinks to excess, saw no reason why he should dress his wounds in the present, since, in time to save his life, he was going to give them every attention possible. That he was going to "get over" Barbara in a year he did not believe. But observation and common-sense told him that life without her must become easier and saner as time passed, and that to be forever caught up or thrown down by her varying moods toward him had ceased to be a self-respecting way of life. This is what common-sense and experience told him; but his heart told him that he would love her always, and that if he could not have her he must simply die.

Sunday night, after she had gone to bed, Barbara lay in the darkness and asked herself questions. Wilmot's life had not been fine, but his love had been very fine, and for longer than she could remember. Would it not be well to trust herself to such a love as that? Had she the right to send it away begging? Would it not be better, since marriage is a lottery, to grasp some things that in this case would be sure, instead of leaving everything to chance? If he kept away from her long enough, his love would probably die, or at least reduce itself to a state of occasional melancholy agitation. But if she belonged to him it would never die. Of this their whole past seemed a sure proof. If she married him he would always love her and be faithful to her; for her part she was wonderfully fond of him, and she believed that if she once actually committed herself to his care, she would be a good wife to him, and a loving. Then why not? She tried the effect of pretending that she had promised to marry him and meant to keep her word, and she found that the position, if only mentally, was strategically strong and secure. She would make him happy; she herself would cease from troubling him and other men. For her sake he would turn over new leaves and be everything that was fine. She would be obedient and have no more difficult knots to untangle for herself. Wilmot would simply cut them for her with a sure word, one way or the other.

She had not for a long time enjoyed so peaceful a night. Hours passed, and she found that, without sleeping, she was becoming wonderfully rested. For it is true that nothing so rests the thinker as unselfish thinking.

She had breakfast in her room, but was down in time to catch the business men's train for town, or to be driven in Wilmot's borrowed runabout, if he should ask her. He did, and amid shouts of farewell and invitations to come again soon, they drove away together into the cool bright morning.

"Wilmot," Barbara said, when they had passed the last outpost of the Bruces' shrubbery and whirled into the turnpike, "I spent most of last night thinking."

"You look fresh as a rosebud."

She shook her head as if to shake off the dew, and said: "I feel more rested than if I had slept soundly. If you will marry me, Wilmot, I will make you a good wife."

Wilmot's heart leaped into his throat with joy, and then dropped as if into a deep abyss of doubt. For all her confessions to him, and for all her promises of amendment, here was his darling Barbs unable to resist the temptation of hurting him again. "One of her impulses," he thought, and at once he was angry with her, and his heart yearned over her.

"Are you going to be able to say that, Barbs," he said gently, "a year from now, after we've been out of sight and hearing of each other all that time?"

"Wilmot," she said, "I'm not up to my old bad tricks. I am ready to give you my word this time, and to keep faith. Only I'd like everything to be done as soon as possible. I've been a very foolish girl, and perplexed and tired, and I want to lean on you, if you'll let me. We'll have a good life together, and I will keep my eyes in the boat."

"A few days ago, Barbs," he said, "you thought that you were seriously in love with another man."

"I know," she said, "but I wasn't."

"Are you in love with me now?" he asked wistfully.

"I know that you will always be good to me, and love me. And that is what I _know_ that I want."

"Poor little Barbs," he said.

"It seems to me rather," she said, "that I am now rich with chances of happiness for us both. I want to make my oldest and most deserving friend happy, and I trust him to make me happy."

"It isn't love, dear?"

"It's so much affection and friendship that perhaps it's better." She turned her face away a little. "The best that marriage can end in is affectionate companionship; why not begin with that, and so be sure of it for always?"

"If I had ever dreamed," said Wilmot unsteadily, "that you were going to say things like this to me, I'd have dreamed that I went wild with happiness, and drove you to the nearest clergyman. But now that you have actually said what you have said, in real life, I find that I love you more than ever, and that it is not compatible with so much love to take you on a basis of friendship. You feel that you have hurt me more than is possible for your conscience to bear, and you wish to make up for it. Is that right?"

"That's not all there is to it, Wilmot, by any means. But for heaven's sake believe that I'm being altogether unselfish: but you know me too well to believe anything so ridiculous."

"I know you well enough," said Wilmot, "to worship the ground you walk on. Not because my heart urges me, but my understanding. And I know you would play the game, once you had given your word, and make me a splendid wife. But what I have for you cannot be given to mere friendship and submission, I should feel that I had sinned against my love for you too greatly to be forgiven. You are closer to me than you have ever been, my dear--and yet so far away that I can only look upward as to a star, and despair of the distance. If there has been anything fine in my life, it has been my love for you. And behold, you, with every opposite intention, are tempting me to let that go rotten, too. But, O my Barbs, if you could only love me!"

Barbara drew a long breath. "I thought I was doing right."

"You _have_ done right. It is for me to do right."

"Well," she said, "I'm bitterly disappointed, and that's all there is to it. Ought I to thank you for letting me off?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then I thank you."

Neither spoke for a long time. At last Barbara said:

"When do you go West?"

"In a very few days."

"Then you will be able to go to Mr. Blizzard's party and hear him play."

"Are you still determined on that?"

"Why, yes. It will be fun. And besides, I haven't any husband to forbid me."

Wilmot's temper rose a little. "I'll go," he said shortly. "When will the bust be finished? And the whole Blizzard episode?"

"I'm sure I don't know," said Barbara patiently. "But I think the Blizzard episode--as you call it--is rather a permanent friendship. I find reasons to like him, and to admire him."

Wilmot made no comment. He longed to speak evil of Blizzard, but the fact of his financial obligation to the man kept him silent. He contented himself with saying: "I'm glad that I haven't your artistic judgment of character. One of these days you will learn, to your cost, that men's judgment of a man is usually correct."

"I wish he had legs," said Barbara. "I'd like to do Prometheus bound to the rock."

Wilmot's disgust was intense. "Do you mean to say--" he began, and then checked himself. "Why not have your father graft a pair on him? He's succeeded, by all accounts, in doing so for all sorts of beasts."

"Do you know," said Barbara sweetly, "that is just what my father would try to do for Mr. Blizzard if some interested person would only step forward and supply the legs."

"I dare say Blizzard would find a pair quickly enough, if he thought they could be attached."

"But how could he?"

"Oh, I'm just joking, Miss Innocence. But, seriously, he could buy a pair for a price. You can buy anything in this world--except love,"

Blizzard, sitting in the sun on the steps of 17 McBurney Place, watched the pair approaching in the runabout, noted as they drew near the affectionate seriousness of their attitude toward each other--for they had stopped talking of him and returned to themselves--and his whole being burned suddenly with a rage of jealousy. Controlling the expression of his face, he rose upon his crutches and descended the steps to greet Barbara at the curb.

"Glad to see you!" said she. "And how about Wednesday night for the party? Mr. Allen is coming, and I have asked three or four other people."

The legless man bowed and said: "Thank you. Wednesday at half-past nine."

He nodded affably to Allen, who returned the salute with all his charming ease and courtesy. You might have mistaken them for two men who really valued each other.

"Miss Ferris," said Blizzard, "I shall be ready for work as soon as you. I wish to ask Mr. Allen a question."

Wilmot winced, since he noted a tone of command in Blizzard's voice, and it jarred on him, and he said good-by to Barbara and watched her disappear into the studio-building with a feeling of strong resentment against the man who had to all intents and purposes dismissed her from the scene.

"Well?" he said curtly.

But Blizzard, enjoying the childish satisfaction of having separated the pair, was no longer in the mood to take offence. "I wish to make a proposition to you," he said, "but at some length. Will you come to my place at three o'clock this afternoon? It is easier for you to get about than for me."

"I am very busy," said Wilmot; "I am getting ready to go West."

"So I have gathered. Have you anything definite in view?"

"Not very," said Wilmot. "Nor any money to put it through with. About the loan you were so kind as to make me, I can only say that I am going to turn over a new leaf, and to work very hard at something or other. If I have any luck you shall be paid."

The legless man dismissed the matter of the loan with a backward toss of his head. "If you've nothing definite in view," said he, "please come at three o'clock, I have interests in the West--legitimate interests, and influence. Perhaps I can put you in a way to clear up your debts."

"Well, by George," said Wilmot, his good nature returning, "if that's the idea, I'll turn up at three sharp. Sure thing."

XXII

Blizzard had upon his desk a specimen of the straw hats which the young ladies of his establishment were kept so busy plaiting. At exactly three o'clock he thrust it to one side, and at exactly the same moment the bell of his street door clanged, and Wilmot Allen came in out of the sunlight.

"On time," said Blizzard, "thank you. Are you a judge of hats? Try that one."

Obediently Wilmot removed his own heavy yellowish straw, and substituted the soft and pliant article indicated. It fitted him to perfection, and the legless man smiled.

"It's yours," he said; "fold it up, and put it in your pocket."

"It'll break it."

"Here. Let me show you." And Blizzard folded the hat as if it had been a linen handkerchief. "Very handy thing," he said, "and only to be obtained as a gift. Sit down," Wilmot thrust the hat into his inside pocket and sat down on the beggar's left, facing the light. The faint hum of girls talking at their work came from the back of the establishment. A whirling fan buzzed and bumped. The weather had turned very hot.

"Young man," the beggar began abruptly, "if I had your legs I'd engage in something more active and adventurous than the manufacture of straw hats. Have you ever had the wish to be a soldier of fortune? To go about the world redressing wrong, fighting upon the side of the oppressed?"

"Of course," said Wilmot simply.

"You are heavily in debt?"

"Very."

"Whatever I may say to you will go no further?"

"No further."

The legless man stroked his chin strongly with his thick fingers. "I am engineering a little revolution," he said. "My own morals are negligible. Any revolution that offered a profit would look good to me. But in this case the revolutionary party _is_ oppressed, down-trodden, robbed, starved, and murdered by conditions created by the party in power. I am not yet at liberty to name you the part of the world in which this state of affairs exists, that will be for later. Meanwhile, if my proposition interests you, will you take my word for the place and for the abuse of power? Indeed, the latter smells to heaven."

"South America," said Wilmot, "is full of just such rottenness as you describe. I suppose you're speaking of some South American republic?"

"Maybe I am," said Blizzard, "and maybe I'm not. That will be for later--for January 15th. On that date my soldiers of fortune will be gathered in New York and told their destiny. I am hoping that you will be one of the leaders."

"I know nothing of soldiering."

"Your record proves that you are a great hand with a rifle. It stands to reason that you can teach the trick to others."

"Possibly," said Wilmot, "to a certain extent."

"I have," said Blizzard, "a number of scattered mining interests in Utah. I wish you to travel among them teaching the men in relays to shoot accurately and fast. This can be done without greatly interfering with the working of the mines. You would be nominally under the command of a man named O'Hagan, to whom I have written a letter introducing you, on the chance that you might care to use it."

"Where," said Wilmot smiling, "does the business end of the affair begin? I'm rotten with debts."

"For teaching my men to shoot," said Blizzard, "I will pay you the money that you owe me. That's one debt written off."

"And how shall I live in the meanwhile?"

"I have empowered O'Hagan to pay you five hundred dollars a month."

"And the rest of my debts? How about them?"

"You will fight for down-trodden people," said Blizzard gravely. "If you win, you will find them grateful--possibly beyond the dreams of avarice. In the republic of which we are speaking there is wealth enough for all. It is one of the richest little corners of God's footstool--gold, diamonds, silver. If you succeed you will be on Easy Street. If you fail, you will very likely get a bullet through your head."

Wilmot's face brightened. "If I got killed trying to pay 'em," said he, "my creditors couldn't feel very nasty toward me, could they?"

A look of strong admiration came into Blizzard's hard eyes. "I like the way your mind works," said he. "If you get killed in my service, I'll pay your debts myself."

"I owe nearly a hundred thousand," said Wilmot.

"I've been worse stung," said Blizzard.

"Where the devil do you get all your money, Blizzard?"

"I've lived for money and power. I've been lucky, clever--and unscrupulous."

"I like your frankness. But you are not letting me in for anything rotten?"

"Your Revolutionary ancestors fought against just such forces as you are to fight against--unjust taxation, abuse of power, and corruption in high places. Are you going to serve?"

"I'm going it pretty blind, but I think so. I like the idea of fighting. I like the idea of paying my debts. And at times I think a bullet in the head would be a matter for self-congratulation."

"That," said Blizzard, "is the feeling of two classes of young men--those who are tangled up with women and those who aren't."

Wilmot laughed, though the legless man's words brought the ache into his heart.

"You will return to New York," Blizzard went on, "during the first half of January."

"I had rather promised myself to keep out of New York for a year."

"It will be for only a few days. If you don't wish your presence in the city known, I'll put you up in my house. Parts of it are as secret as the grave."

"All right. But supposing the revolution falls through before it ever gets started?"

"I'll make you a bet," said Blizzard, smiling. "Please reach me that black check-book." He wrote a check, blotted it, and showed it to Wilmot. "This," he said, "against a penny! It will pay your debts. It's payable at the City Bank on January 16th. Put it in your pocket."

"When do I start for Utah?"

"Wednesday afternoon."

"I hoped to come to your concert that night."

Blizzard shook his head. "You will hear better music," he said, "in the West--rifles on the ranges. And by the way, don't lose that hat I gave you. It must be where you can get it on the 15th of January."

To Wilmot a straw hat suggested the palm-groves of a South American republic rather than the streets of New York in midwinter, and he said so; but the legless man only smiled.

XXIII

During those last days Barbara and Wilmot were together a great deal Tuesday morning, by invitation, he watched her at work upon her bust of Blizzard; afterward he took her to lunch and for a long drive through Westchester County. That night they dined with Mr. Ferris, who, immediately after dinner, excused himself, and withdrew to his laboratory. Wednesday morning Barbara did no work, but drove about in a taxicab with Wilmot and helped him shop. They lunched together, and she went to the Grand Central to see him off. Where Wilmot found the time to pack the things which they had bought in the morning was always something of a mystery to them both.

As train-time approached the hearts of both these young people began to beat very fast. Each felt that the good-bys presently to be said might be forever. In his resolution not even to write to Barbara, Wilmot was weakening pitiably. He wished that he had taken her at her word and married her Monday when she was in the mood. Better Barbara unloving, he thought, than this terrible emptiness and aching. His heart was proving stronger than his mind. Short, more or less conventional phrases were torn from him. Barbara, her heart beating faster and faster, said very little.

The attention of her wonderful eyes was divided between the crowds and the station clock. She could see the minute-hand move. Once in a while she snatched, as it were, a look at Wilmot. His eyes were never lifted from her face.

The gate for Wilmot's train was suddenly slid wide open with a horrid, rasping noise, and people began to press upon the man who examined the tickets. It was then that Barbara's roving and troubled eyes came to rest, you may say, in Wilmot's, with a look so sweet, so confiding, so trusting, that it seemed to the young man that the pain of separation was going to be greater than he could bear. He lifted his hands as if to take her in his arms, and stood there like a study in arrested motion.

"Best friend in the world," she said, the great eyes still in his, "most charming companion in the world--man I've hurt so much and so often--only say the word."

"What word? That I love you--love you--love you?"

They spoke in whispers.

"Stay with me," she said, "and for me--or take me with you. I can't bear this. I can't bear it."

"You'd come--now--just as you are?"

"Yes."

"Do you love me?"

Slowly, like two things in anguish, her eyes turned from their steady gazing into his. And, "I dare not say it," she said, "but I will go with you--and try."

They were aware of something pressing toward them, and turning with a common resentment against interruption, they found themselves looking down upon the legless man.

"Just dropped in to say good-by and wish you good luck," he said. His face wore a good-natured smile, and, quite innocent of self-consciousness, brought confusion upon their last moments together. The tentacles of unreasoning passion that each had been putting forth were beaten down by it and aside.

"Better get a move on--time's up."

"Good-by, Wilmot," said Barbara swiftly. "Everything's all right. Good luck to you and God bless you."

She turned, her lovely head drooping, and walked swiftly away.

A young man took off his hat and held it in his hands until she had passed. He had been watching her and Wilmot, and incidentally the legless man, for the last ten minutes. He hoped that she would look up and speak to him, but her mind was given singly to sorrow. And she went through the station to the street without knowing if it was crowded or deserted. Harry West's sad eyes followed her until she was out of sight. Then with a sort of wrench he turned once more to observe the actions of the legless man. This one, however, having said cheerful good-bys to the sulky and heartsick Wilmot, and having at the same time noted the obtrusive nearness of the secret-service agent, had made swift use of his crutches and stumps and was at the moment climbing into a waiting taxicab.

Whatever West's opinion may have been, Blizzard was making a sufficiently innocent disposition of time. He had prevented an elopement, perhaps. And he was on his way to a prominent florist to fill his cab with flowers for the evening's entertainment.