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Together, a novel by Robert Herrick |
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Part Five - Chapter 48 |
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_ PART FIVE CHAPTER XLVIII The time, almost the very minute, when Isabelle realized the peculiar feeling she had come to have for Cairy, was strangely clear to her. It was shortly after Percy Woodyard's funeral. She had been to Lakewood with her mother, and having left her comfortably settled in her favorite hotel, had taken the train for New York. Tom was to go to the theatre with her that evening, and had suggested that they dine at a little down-town restaurant he used to frequent when he was Gossom's slave. He was to meet her at the ferry. She had been thinking of Percy Woodyard, of Fosdick's epithet for Conny,--the Vampire. And there flashed across her the thought, 'She will try to get Tom back!' (Cairy had told her that he had gone to the funeral because Conny had written him a little note.) 'And she is so bad for him, so bad for any man!' Then looking out on the brown March landscape, she felt a pleasant glow of expectation, of something desirable in immediate prospect, which she did not at once attribute to anything more definite than the fact she was partly rested, after her two days at Lakewood. But when in the stream of outgoing passengers that filled the echoing terminal she caught sight of Tom's face, looking expectantly over the heads of the crowd, a vivid ray of joy darted through her. 'He's here!' she thought. 'He has come across the ferry to meet me!' She smiled and waved the bunch of violets she was wearing--those he had sent down to Lakewood for her--above the intervening heads. "I thought I would snatch a few more minutes," he explained, as they walked slowly through the long hall to the ferry. The bleak March day had suddenly turned into something warm and gay for her; the dreary terminal was a spot to linger in. "That was very nice of you," she replied gently, "and so are these!" She held up his flowers, and in the look they exchanged they went far in that progress of emotional friendship, the steps of which Cairy knew so well.... The city was already lighted, tier on tier of twinkling dots in the great hives across the river, and as they sat out on the upper deck of the ferry for the sake of fresh air, Isabelle thought she had never seen the city so marvellous. There was an enchantment in the moving lights on the river, the millions of fixed lights in the long city. The scent of sea water reached them, strong and vital, with its ever witching associations of far-off lands. Isabelle turned and met Cairy's eyes looking intently at her. "You seem so joyous to-night!" he said almost reproachfully. She smiled at him softly. "But I am! Very happy!--it is good to be here." That was it,--the nearest description of her feeling,--it was all so good. She was so much alive! And as she settled back against the hard seat, she thought pleasantly of the hours to come, the dinner, the play, and then Tom would take her home and they would talk it over.... She had asked John to go with her. But he had declined on the ground that "he could not stand Ibsen," and "he didn't like that little Russian actress." Really, he was getting very lazy, Isabelle had thought. He would probably smoke too many cigars, yawn over a book, and go to bed at ten. That was what he usually did unless he went out to a public dinner, or brought home work from the office, or had late business meetings. Nothing for his wife, she had complained once.... This wonderful feeling of light-hearted content continued as they walked through dingy streets to the old brick building that housed the restaurant, half cafe, half saloon, where the Irish wife of the Italian proprietor cooked extraordinary Italian dishes, according to Cairy. He was pensive. He had been generally subdued this winter on account of the failure of his play. And, after all, the London opening had not come about. It was distinctly "his off year"--and he found it hard to work. "Nothing so takes the ideas out of you as failure," he had said, "and nothing makes you feel that you can do things like success." Isabelle wanted to help him; she was afraid that he was being troubled again by lack of money. Art and letters were badly paid, and Tom, she was forced to admit, was not provident. "But you are happy to-night," she had said coaxingly on the ferry. "We are going to be very gay, and forget things!" That was what Tom did for her,--made her forget things, and return to the mood of youth where all seemed shining and gay. She did that for him, too,--amused and distracted him, with her little impetuosities and girlish frankness. "You are such a good fellow--you put heart into a man," he had said. She was happy that she could affect him, could really influence a man whose talent she admired, whom she believed in. "I can't do anything to John except make him yawn!" she had replied. So to-night she devoted her happy mood to brushing away care from Cairy's mind, and by the time they were seated at the little table with its coarse, wine-stained napkin, he was laughing at her, teasing her about growing stout, of which she pretended to be greatly afraid. "Oh, dear!" she sighed. "I stand after meals and roll and roll, and Mrs. Peet pounds me until I am black and blue, but it's no use. I am gaining! Tommy, you'll have to find some younger woman to say your pretty things to. I am growing frightfully homely! ... That's one comfort with John,--he'll never know it." As the meal passed their mood became serious once more and tender, as it had been when they met. Cairy, lighting cigarette after cigarette, talked on, about himself. He was very despondent. He had made a hard fight for recognition; he thought he had won. And then had come discouragement after discouragement. It looked as if he should be obliged to accept an offer from a new magazine that was advertising its way into notice and do some articles for them. No, he would not go back to be Gossom's private mouthpiece at any price! He did not whine,--Cairy never did that exactly; but he presented himself for sympathy. The odds had been against him from the start. And Isabelle was touched by this very need for sunshine in the emotional temperament of the man. Conny had appraised the possibilities of his talent intelligently, believed that if properly exploited he should "arrive." But Isabelle was moved by the possibilities of his failure,--a much more dangerous state of mind.... It was long past the time for the theatre, but Cairy made no move. It was pleasantly quiet in the little room. The few diners had left long ago, and the debilitated old waiter had retreated to the bar. Cairy had said, "If it were not for you, for what you give me--" And she had thought, 'Yes, what I _might_ give him, what he needs! And we are so happy together here.'... Another hour passed. The waiter had returned and clattered dishes suggestively and departed again. Cairy had not finished saying all he wanted to say.... There were long pauses between his words, of which even the least carried feeling. Isabelle, her pretty mutinous face touched with tenderness, listened, one hand resting on the table. Cairy covered the hand with his, and at the touch of his warm fingers Isabelle flushed. Was it the mood of this day, or something deeper in her nature that thrilled at this touch as she had never thrilled before in her life? It held her there listening to his words, her breath coming tightly. She wanted to run away, and she did not move.... The love that he was telling her she seemed to have heard whispering in her heart long before.... The way to Isabelle's heart was through pity, the desire to give, as with many women. Cairy felt it instinctively, and followed the path. Few men can blaze their way to glory, but all can offer the opportunity to a woman of splendid sacrifice in love! "You know I care!" she had murmured. "But, oh, Tom--" That "but" and the sigh covered much,--John, the little girl, the world as it is. If she could only give John what she felt she could give this man, with his pleading eyes that said, 'With you I should be happy, I should conquer!' "I know--I ask for nothing!" (Nothing! Oh, damnable lover's lie! Do the Cairys ever content themselves with nothings?) "I will do as you say--in all things. We will forget this talk, or I will not go back to the Farm; but I am glad we understand!" "No, no," she said quickly. "You must come to the Farm! It must be just as it has been." She knew as she said the words that it could never be "as it had been." She liked to close her eyes now to the dark future; but after to-day, after this new sense of tenderness and love, the old complexion of life must be different. Cairy still held her hand. As she looked up with misty eyes, very happy and very miserable, a little figure came into the empty room followed by the waiter, and glanced aimlessly about for a table. "Vick!" Isabelle cried in astonishment. "Where did you come from?" Vickers had a music score under his arm, and he tapped it as he stood above them at the end of their table. "I've been trying over some things with Lester at his rooms, and came in for a bite. I thought you were going to the theatre, Belle?" "We are!" Cairy exclaimed, looking at his watch. "We'll about get the last act!" Vickers fingered his roll and did not look at Isabelle. Suddenly she cried:-- "Take me home, Vick! ... Good-night, Tom!" She hurried nervously from the place. Vickers hailed a cab, and as they rode up town neither spoke at first. Then Vickers put his hand on hers and held it very tightly. She knew that he had seen--her tear-stained eyes and Cairy's intent face,--that he had seen and understood. "Vick," she moaned, "why is it all such a muddle? Life--what you mean to do, and what you can do! John doesn't care, doesn't understand.... I'm such a fool, Vick!" She leaned her head on his shoulder and sobbed. He caressed her hand gently, saying nothing. He was sure now that he was called somewhere on this earth. _ |
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