The Dilettante
It was on an impulse hardly needing the arguments he found himselfadvancing in its favor, that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turnedas usual into Mrs. Vervain's street.The "as usual" was his own qualification of the act; a convenientway of bridging the interval -- in days and other sequences -- that laybetween this visit and the last. It was characteristic of him that heinstinctively excluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth Gaynor, fromthe list of his visits to Mrs. Vervain: the special conditions attendingit had made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain than an engraveddinner invitation is like a personal letter. Yet it was to talk over hiscall with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to the scene of thatepisode; and it was because Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle thetalking over as skilfully as the interview itself that, at her corner,he had felt the dilettante's irresistible craving to take a last look ata work of art that was passing out of his possession.On the whole, he knew no one better fitted to deal with theunexpected than Mrs. Vervain. She excelled in the rare art of takingthings for granted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride in the thoughtthat she owed her excellence to his training. Early in his careerThursdale had made the mistake, at the outset of his acquaintance with alady, of telling her that he loved her and exacting the same avowal inreturn. The latter part of that episode had been like the long walk backfrom a picnic, when one has to carry all the crockery one has finishedusing: it was the last time Thursdale ever allowed himself to beencumbered with the debris of a feast. He thus incidentally learned thatthe privilege of loving her is one of the least favors that a charmingwoman can accord; and in seeking to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment hehad developed a science of evasion in which the woman of the momentbecame a mere implement of the game. He owed a great deal of delicateenjoyment to the cultivation of this art. The perils from which it hadbeen his refuge became naively harmless: was it possible that he who nowtook his easy way along the levels had once preferred to gasp on the rawheights of emotion? Youth is a high-colored season; but he had thesatisfaction of feeling that he had entered earlier than most into thatchiar'oscuro of sensation where every half-tone has its value.As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had known was comparableto Mrs. Vervain. He had taught a good many women not to betray theirfeelings, but he had never before had such fine material to work in. Shehad been surprisingly crude when he first knew her; capable of makingthe most awkward inferences, of plunging through thin ice, of recklesslyundressing her emotions; but she had acquired, under the discipline ofhis reticences and evasions, a skill almost equal to his own, andperhaps more remarkable in that it involved keeping time with any tunehe played and reading at sight some uncommonly difficult passages.It had taken Thursdale seven years to form this fine talent; butthe result justified the effort. At the crucial moment she had beenperfect: her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had made him regret that he hadannounced his engagement by letter. It was an evasion that confessed adifficulty; a deviation implying an obstacle, where, by common consent,it was agreed to see none; it betrayed, in short, a lack of confidencein the completeness of his method. It had been his pride never to puthimself in a position which had to be quitted, as it were, by the backdoor; but here, as he perceived, the main portals would have opened forhim of their own accord. All this, and much more, he read in thefinished naturalness with which Mrs. Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. He hadnever seen a better piece of work: there was no over-eagerness, nosuspicious warmth, above all (and this gave her art the grace of anatural quality) there were none of those damnable implications wherebya woman, in welcoming her friend's betrothed, may keep him on pins andneedles while she laps the lady in complacency. So masterly aperformance, indeed, hardly needed the offset of Miss Gaynor's door-stepwords -- "To be so kind to me, how she must have liked you!" -- thoughhe caught himself wishing it lay within the bounds of fitness totransmit them, as a final tribute, to the one woman he knew who wasunfailingly certain to enjoy a good thing. It was perhaps the onedrawback to his new situation that it might develop good things which itwould be impossible to hand on to Margaret Vervain.The fact that he had made the mistake of underrating his friend'spowers, the consciousness that his writing must have betrayed hisdistrust of her efficiency, seemed an added reason for turning down herstreet instead of going on to the club. He would show her that he knewhow to value her; he would ask her to achieve with him a feat infinitelyrarer and more delicate than the one he had appeared to avoid.Incidentally, he would also dispose of the interval of time beforedinner: ever since he had seen Miss Gaynor off, an hour earlier, on herreturn journey to Buffalo, he had been wondering how he should put inthe rest of the afternoon. It was absurd, how he missed the girl. . . .Yes, that was it; the desire to talk about her was, after all, at thebottom of his impulse to call on Mrs. Vervain! It was absurd, if youlike -- but it was delightfully rejuvenating. He could recall the timewhen he had been afraid of being obvious: now he felt that this returnto the primitive emotions might be as restorative as a holiday in theCanadian woods. And it was precisely by the girl's candor, herdirectness, her lack of complications, that he was taken. The sense thatshe might say something rash at any moment was positively exhilarating:if she had thrown her arms about him at the station he would not havegiven a thought to his crumpled dignity. It surprised Thursdale to findwhat freshness of heart he brought to the adventure; and though hissense of irony prevented his ascribing his intactness to any consciouspurpose, he could but rejoice in the fact that his sentimental economieshad left him such a large surplus to draw upon.Mrs. Vervain was at home -- as usual. When one visits the cemeteryone expects to find the angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdaleas another proof of his friend's good taste that she had been in noundue haste to change her habits. The whole house appeared to count onhis coming; the footman took his hat and overcoat as naturally as thoughthere had been no lapse in his visits; and the drawing-room at onceenveloped him in that atmosphere of tacit intelligence which Mrs.Vervain imparted to her very furniture.It was a surprise that, in this general harmony of circumstances,Mrs. Vervain should herself sound the first false note."You?" she exclaimed; and the book she held slipped from her hand.It was crude, certainly; unless it were a touch of the finest art.The difficulty of classifying it disturbed Thursdale's balance."Why not?" he said, restoring the book. "Isn't it my hour?" And asshe made no answer, he added gently, "Unless it's some one else's?"She laid the book aside and sank back into her chair. "Mine,merely," she said."I hope that doesn't mean that you're unwilling to share it?""With you? By no means. You're welcome to my last crust."He looked at her reproachfully. "Do you call this the last?"She smiled as he dropped into the seat across the hearth. "It's away of giving it more flavor!"He returned the smile. "A visit to you doesn't need such condiments."She took this with just the right measure of retrospective amusement."Ah, but I want to put into this one a very special taste," sheconfessed.Her smile was so confident, so reassuring, that it lulled him intothe imprudence of saying, "Why should you want it to be different fromwhat was always so perfectly right?"She hesitated. "Doesn't the fact that it's the last constitute adifference?""The last -- my last visit to you?""Oh, metaphorically, I mean -- there's a break in the continuity."Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: unlearning his arts already!"I don't recognize it," he said. "Unless you make me --" he added,with a note that slightly stirred her attitude of languid attention.She turned to him with grave eyes. "You recognize no differencewhatever?""None -- except an added link in the chain.""An added link?""In having one more thing to like you for -- your letting MissGaynor see why I had already so many." He flattered himself that thisturn had taken the least hint of fatuity from the phrase.Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose. "Was it that you camefor?" she asked, almost gaily."If it is necessary to have a reason -- that was one.""To talk to me about Miss Gaynor?""To tell you how she talks about you.""That will be very interesting -- especially if you have seen hersince her second visit to me.""Her second visit?" Thursdale pushed his chair back with a startand moved to another. "She came to see you again?""This morning, yes -- by appointment."He continued to look at her blankly. "You sent for her?""I didn't have to -- she wrote and asked me last night. But nodoubt you have seen her since."Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to separate his words from histhoughts, but they still clung together inextricably. "I saw her offjust now at the station.""And she didn't tell you that she had been here again?""There was hardly time, I suppose -- there were people about --" hefloundered."Ah, she'll write, then."He regained his composure. "Of course she'll write: very often, Ihope. You know I'm absurdly in love," he cried audaciously.She tilted her head back, looking up at him as he leaned againstthe chimney-piece. He had leaned there so often that the attitudetouched a pulse which set up a throbbing in her throat. "Oh, my poorThursdale!" she murmured."I suppose it's rather ridiculous," he owned; and as she remainedsilent, he added, with a sudden break --"Or have you another reason forpitying me?"Her answer was another question. "Have you been back to your roomssince you left her?""Since I left her at the station? I came straight here.""Ah, yes -- you could: there was no reason --" Her words passedinto a silent musing.Thursdale moved nervously nearer. "You said you had something totell me?""Perhaps I had better let her do so. There may be a letter at yourrooms.""A letter? What do you mean? A letter from her? What has happened?"His paleness shook her, and she raised a hand of reassurance."Nothing has happened -- perhaps that is just the worst of it. Youalways hated, you know," she added incoherently, "to have thingshappen: you never would let them.""And now -- ?""Well, that was what she came here for: I supposed you had guessed.To know if anything had happened.""Had happened?" He gazed at her slowly. "Between you and me?" hesaid with a rush of light.The words were so much cruder than any that had ever passed betweenthem that the color rose to her face; but she held his startled gaze."You know girls are not quite as unsophisticated as they used tobe. Are you surprised that such an idea should occur to her?"His own color answered hers: it was the only reply that came to him.Mrs. Vervain went on, smoothly: "I supposed it might have struckyou that there were times when we presented that appearance."He made an impatient gesture. "A man's past is his own!""Perhaps -- it certainly never belongs to the woman who has sharedit. But one learns such truths only by experience; and Miss Gaynor isnaturally inexperienced.""Of course -- but -- supposing her act a natural one -- " hefloundered lamentably among his innuendoes -- "I still don't see -- howthere was anything --""Anything to take hold of? There wasn't --""Well, then -- ?" escaped him, in crude satisfaction; but as shedid not complete the sentence he went on with a faltering laugh: "Shecan hardly object to the existence of a mere friendship between us!""But she does," said Mrs. Vervain.Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen, on the previous day, notrace of jealousy or resentment in his betrothed: he could still hearthe candid ring of the girl's praise of Mrs. Vervain. If she were suchan abyss of insincerity as to dissemble distrust under such frankness,she must at least be more subtle than to bring her doubts to her rivalfor solution. The situation seemed one through which one could no longermove in a penumbra, and he let in a burst of light with the directquery: "Won't you explain what you mean?"Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as though to prolong hisdistress, but as if, in the attenuated phraseology he had taught her, itwas difficult to find words robust enough to meet his challenge. It wasthe first time he had ever asked her to explain anything; and she hadlived so long in dread of offering elucidations which were not wanted,that she seemed unable to produce one on the spot.At last she said slowly: "She came to find out if you were reallyfree."Thursdale colored again. "Free?" he stammered, with a sense ofphysical disgust at contact with such crassness."Yes -- if I had quite done with you." She smiled in recoveredsecurity. "It seems she likes clear outlines; she has a passion fordefinitions.""Yes -- well?" he said, wincing at the echo of his own subtlety."Well -- and when I told her that you had never belonged to me, shewanted me to define my status -- to know exactly where I had stood allalong."Thursdale sat gazing at her intently; his hand was not yet on theclue. "And even when you had told her that --""Even when I had told her that I had had no status -- that I hadnever stood anywhere, in any sense she meant," said Mrs. Vervain, slowly-- "even then she wasn't satisfied, it seems."He uttered an uneasy exclamation. "She didn't believe you, you mean?""I mean that she did believe me: too thoroughly.""Well, then -- in God's name, what did she want?""Something more -- those were the words she used.""Something more? Between -- between you and me? Is it a conundrum?"He laughed awkwardly."Girls are not what they were in my day; they are no longerforbidden to contemplate the relation of the sexes.""So it seems!" he commented. "But since, in this case, there wasn'tany --" he broke off, catching the dawn of a revelation in her gaze."That's just it. The unpardonable offence has been -- in our notoffending."He flung himself down despairingly. "I give it up! -- What did youtell her?" he burst out with sudden crudeness."The exact truth. If I had only known," she broke off with abeseeching tenderness, "won't you believe that I would still have liedfor you?""Lied for me? Why on earth should you have lied for either of us?""To save you -- to hide you from her to the last! As I've hiddenyou from myself all these years!" She stood up with a sudden tragicimport in her movement. "You believe me capable of that, don't you? If Ihad only guessed -- but I have never known a girl like her; she had thetruth out of me with a spring.""The truth that you and I had never --""Had never -- never in all these years! Oh, she knew why -- shemeasured us both in a flash. She didn't suspect me of having haggledwith you -- her words pelted me like hail. 'He just took what he wanted-- sifted and sorted you to suit his taste. Burnt out the gold and lefta heap of cinders. And you let him -- you let yourself be cut in bits'-- she mixed her metaphors a little -- 'be cut in bits, and used ordiscarded, while all the while every drop of blood in you belonged tohim! But he's Shylock -- and you have bled to death of the pound offlesh he has cut out of you.' But she despises me the most, you know --far the most --" Mrs. Vervain ended.The words fell strangely on the scented stillness of the room: theyseemed out of harmony with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kindof intimacy on which at any moment, a visitor might intrude withoutperceptibly lowering the atmosphere. It was as though a grandopera-singer had strained the acoustics of a private music-room.Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess. Half the room was betweenthem, but they seemed to stare close at each other now that the veils ofreticence and ambiguity had fallen.His first words were characteristic. "She does despise me, then?"he exclaimed."She thinks the pound of flesh you took was a little too near theheart."He was excessively pale. "Please tell me exactly what she said of me.""She did not speak much of you: she is proud. But I gather thatwhile she understands love or indifference, her eyes have never beenopened to the many intermediate shades of feeling. At any rate, sheexpressed an unwillingness to be taken with reservations -- she thinksyou would have loved her better if you had loved some one else first.The point of view is original -- she insists on a man with a past!""Oh, a past -- if she's serious -- I could rake up a past!" he saidwith a laugh."So I suggested: but she has her eyes on his particular portion ofit. She insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what youhad done to me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered intotelling her."Thursdale drew a difficult breath. "I never supposed -- yourrevenge is complete," he said slowly.He heard a little gasp in her throat. "My revenge? When I sent foryou to warn you -- to save you from being surprised as I was surprised?""You're very good -- but it's rather late to talk of saving me." Heheld out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking."How you must care! -- for I never saw you so dull," was heranswer. "Don't you see that it's not too late for me to help you?" Andas he continued to stare, she brought out sublimely: "Take the rest --in imagination! Let it at least be of that much use to you. Tell her Ilied to her -- she's too ready to believe it! And so, after all, in asense, I sha'n't have been wasted."His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave thelook back brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient were toosimple to need oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few wordshad swept them from an atmosphere of the most complex dissimulations tothis contact of naked souls.It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; butsomething in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. He wentup to his friend and took her hand."You would do it -- you would do it!"She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook."Good-by," he said, kissing it."Good-by? You are going -- ?""To get my letter.""Your letter? The letter won't matter, if you will only do what Iask."He returned her gaze. "I might, I suppose, without being out ofcharacter. Only, don't you see that if your plan helped me it could onlyharm her?""Harm her?""To sacrifice you wouldn't make me different. I shall go on beingwhat I have always been -- sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do youwant my punishment to fall on her?"She looked at him long and deeply. "Ah, if I had to choose betweenyou -- !""You would let her take her chance? But I can't, you see. I musttake my punishment alone."She drew her hand away, sighing. "Oh, there will be no punishmentfor either of you.""For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me."She shook her head with a slight laugh. "There will be no letter."Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in hislook. "No letter? You don't mean --""I mean that she's been with you since I saw her -- she's seen youand heard your voice. If there is a letter, she has recalled it --from the first station, by telegraph."He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. "But inthe mean while I shall have read it," he said.The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadfulemptiness of the room.
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