The Pace That Kills Part 3

To the New Yorker March is the vilest month of all the year. In the South it is usually serene. Mrs. Metuchen, who gave herself the airs of an invalid, and who possessed the invalid's dislike of vile weather, was aware of this; and while the first false promises of February were being protested she succeeded in persuading Miss Dunellen to accompany her out of snow-drifts into the sun. It was Aiken that she chose as refuge; and when the two ladies arrived there they felt satisfied that their choice had been a proper one--a satisfaction which they did not share alone, for a few days after their arrival Roland Mistrial arrived there too.

During the intervening weeks he had seemed idle; but it is the thinker's characteristic to appear unoccupied when he is most busily engaged, and Roland, outwardly inactive, had in reality made the most of his time.

On the morning succeeding the encounter with Thorold something kept coming and whispering that he had undertaken a task which was beyond his strength. To many of us night is apt to be more confident than are the earlier hours of the day, and the courage which Roland had exhibited spent itself and went. It is hard to feel the flutter of a bird beneath one's fingers, and, just when the fingers tighten, to discover that the bird is no longer there. Such a thing is disappointing, and the peculiarity of a disappointment consists in this--the victim of it is apt to question the validity of his own intuitions. Thus far--up to the looming of Thorold--everything had been in Roland's favor. Without appreciable effort he had achieved the impossible. In three days he had run an heiress to earth, gained her father's liking, captivated her chaperon, and, at the moment when the air was sentient with success, the highway on which he strode became suddenly tortuous and obscure. Do what he might he could not discern so much as a sign-post; and as in perplexity he twirled his thumbs, little by little he understood that he must either turn back and hunt another quarry, or stand where he was and wait. Another step on that narrowing road and he might tumble into a gully. Did he keep his word with Thorold he felt sure that Thorold would keep his word with him. But did he break it, and Thorold learn he had done so, several consequences were certain to ensue, and among them he could hear from where he stood the bang with which Mr. Dunellen's door would close. The only plank which drifted his way threatened to break into bits. He needed no one to tell him that Justine was not a girl to receive him or anyone else in the dark; and even fortune favoring, if in chance meetings he were able to fan her spark of interest for him into flame, those chance meetings would be mentioned by her to whomsoever they might concern. No, that plank was rotten; and yet in considering it, and in considering too the possibilities to which, were it a trifle stronger, it might serve as bridge, he pa.s.sed that morning, a number of subsequent mornings. A month elapsed, and still he eyed that plank.

Meanwhile he had seen Miss Dunellen but once. She happened to be driving up the Avenue, but he had pa.s.sed her un.o.bserved. Then the weather became abominable, and he knew it was useless to look for her in the Park; and once he had visited her father's office and learned again, what he already knew, that in regard to the lost estate, eternity aiding, something might be recovered, but that the chances were vague as was it.

And so February came and found his hunger unappeased. The alternate course which had suggested itself came back, and he determined to turn and hunt another quarry. During his sojourn abroad he had generally managed a team of three. There was the gerundive, as he termed the hindmost--the woman he was about to leave; there was another into whose graces he had entered; and there was a third in training for future use.

This custom he had found most serviceable. Whatever might happen in less regulated establishments, his stable was full. And that custom, which had stood him in good stead abroad, had nothing in it to prevent adoption here. Indeed, he told himself it was because of his negligence in that particular that he found himself where he was. Instead of centring his attention on Miss Dunellen, it would have been far better to wander in and out of the glittering precincts of Fifth Avenue, and see what else he could find. After all, there was nothing like being properly provisioned. If one comestible ran short, there should be another to take its place. Moreover, if, as Jones had intimated, there were heiresses enough for export purposes, there must surely be enough to supply the home demand.

The alternate course alluded to he had therefore determined to adopt, when an incident occurred which materially altered his plans. One particularly detestable morning he read in public print that Mrs.

Metuchen and Miss Dunellen were numbered among the visitors to South Carolina, and thereupon he proceeded to pack his valise. A few days later he was in Aiken, and on the forenoon of the third day succeeding his arrival, as he strolled down the verandah of the Mountain Glen Hotel, he felt at peace with the world and with himself.

It was a superb morning, half summer, half spring. In the distance a forest stretched indefinitely and lost itself in the haze of the horizon beyond. The sky was tenderly blue, and, beneath, a lawn green as the baize on a roulette-table was circled by a bright-red road. He had breakfasted infamously on food that might have been cooked by a butcher to whom breakfast is an odious thing. Yet its iniquity he accepted as a matter of course. He knew, as we all do, that for bad food, bad service, and for futility of complaint our country hotels are unrivalled, even in Spain. He was there not to enjoy himself, still less for the pleasures a blue ribbon can cause: he was there to fan into flame the interest which Miss Dunellen had exhibited; and as he strolled down the verandah, a crop under his arm, his trousers strapped, he had no intention of quarrelling with the fare. Quite a number of people were basking in the sunlight, and, as he pa.s.sed, some of them turned and looked; for at Aiken men that have more than one lung are in demand, and, when Roland registered his historic name, to the unattached females a little flutter of antic.i.p.ation came.

But Roland was not in search of flirtations: he moved by one group into another until he reached a corner of the verandah in which Mrs.

Metuchen and Miss Dunellen sat. Merely by the expression on the faces of those whom he greeted it was patent to the others that the trio were on familiar terms; and when presently he accompanied Miss Dunellen off the verandah, aided her to mount a horse that waited there, mounted another himself, and cantered off with the girl, the unattached females declared that the twain must be engaged. In that they were in error. As yet Roland had not said a word to the charge he might not have said to the matron. Both of these ladies had been surprised when he reached Aiken, and both had been pleased as well. In that surprise, in that pleasure, Roland had actively collaborated; and taking on himself to answer before it was framed the question which his advent naturally prompted, he stated that in journeying from Savannah to Asheville he had stopped over at Aiken as at a halfway house, and that, too, without an idea of encountering anyone whom he knew. Thereafter for several days he managed to make himself indispensable to the matron, companionable to her charge; but now, on this particular morning, as he rattled down the red road, the courage which had deserted him returned; and a few hours later, when before a mirror in his bedroom he stood arranging his cravat, he caught a reflection of Hyperion, son-in-law of Croesus.

V.

In a fortnight that reflection was framed with a promise. Justine had put her hand in his. The threads by which he succeeded in binding her to him are needless to describe. He understood that prime secret in the art of coercing affection which consists in making one's self desired. He was never inopportune. Moreover, he saw that Justine, accustomed to the devotion of other men, accepted such devotion as a matter of course; in consequence he took another tack, and bullied her--a treatment which was new to her, and, being new, attractive. He found fault with her openly, criticised the manner in which she sat her horse, contradicted her whenever the opportunity came, and jeered--civilly, it is true, but the jeer was there and all the sharper because it was blunted--at any enthusiasm she chanced to express. And then, when she expected it least, he would be enthusiastic himself, and enthusiastic over nothing at all--some mythical deed canned in history, the beauty of a child, or the flush of the arbutus which they gathered on their rides. To others whom he encountered in her presence he showed himself so self-abnegatory, so readily pleased, sweet-tempered, and indulgent, so studious even of their susceptibilities and appreciative of what they liked and what they did not, that in comparing his manner to her and his manner to them the girl grew vexed, and one evening she told him so.

They happened to be sitting alone in a corner of the verandah. From within came the rhythm of a waltz; some dance was in progress, affectioned by the few; Mrs. Metuchen was discussing family trees with a party of Philadelphians; the air was sweet with the scent of pines and of jasmines; just above and beyond, a star was circ.u.mflexed by the moon.

"I am sorry if I have offended," he made answer to her complaint. "Do you mind if I smoke?" Without waiting for her consent he drew out a cigarette and lighted it. "I have not intended to," he added. "To-morrow I will go."

"But why? You like it here. You told me so to-day."

With a fillip of forefinger and thumb Roland tossed the cigarette out into the road. "Because I admire you," he answered curtly.

"I am glad of that."

The reproof, if reproof there were, was not in her speech, but in her voice. She spoke as one does whose due is conceded only after an effort.

And for a while both were mute.

"Come, children, it is time to go to bed." Mrs. Metuchen in her fantastic fashion was hailing them from the door. Already the waltz had ceased, and as Mrs. Metuchen spoke, Justine rose from her seat.

"Good-night, Don Quichotte," the old lady added; and as the girl approached she continued in an audible undertone, "I call him Don Quichotte because he looks like the Chevalier Bayard."

"Good-night, Mrs. Metuchen, and the pleasantest of dreams." But the matron, with a wave of her glove, had disappeared, and Justine returned.

"At least you will not go until the afternoon?"

"Since you wish it, I will not."

She had stretched out her hand, but Roland, affecting not to notice it, raised his hat and turned away. Presently, and although, in spite of many a vice, he was little given to drink, he found himself at the bar superintending the blending of gin, of lemon-peel, and of soda; and as he swallowed it and put the goblet down he seemed so satisfied that the barkeeper, with the affectionate familiarity of his cla.s.s, nodded and smiled.

"It takes a Remsen Cooler to do the trick, don't it?" he said.

And Roland, a.s.senting remotely, left the bar and sought his room.

The next morning, as through different groups he sought for matron and for maid, he had a crop under his arm and in his hand a paper.

"I have been settling my bill," he announced.

"But are you going?" exclaimed Mrs. Metuchen.

"I can hardly take up a permanent residence here, can I?" he replied.

"Oh, Justine," the old lady cried, and clutched the girl by the arm, "persuade him not to." And fixing him with her glittering eyes, she added, "If you go, sir, you leave an Aiken void."

The jest pa.s.sed him unnoticed. He felt that something had been said which called for applause, for Mrs. Metuchen was laughing immoderately.

But his eyes were in Justine's as were hers in his.

"You will ride, will you not? I see you have your habit on." And with that, Justine a.s.senting, he led her down the steps and aided her to the saddle.

There are numberless tentative things in life, and among them an amble through green, deserted lanes, where only birds and flowers are, has witcheries of its own. However perturbed the spirit may have been, there is that in the glow of the morning and the gait of a horse that can make it wholly serene. The traveller from Sicily will, if you let him, tell of hours so fair that even the bandits are coerced. Man cannot always be centred in self; and when to the influence of nature is added the companionship of one whose presence allures, the charm is complete. And Roland, to whom such things. .h.i.therto had been as accessories, this morning felt their spell. The roomy squalor of the village had been pa.s.sed long since. They had entered a road where the trees arched and nearly hid the sky, but through the branches an eager sunlight found its way. Now and then in a clearing they would happen on some shabby, silent house, the garden gay with the tender pink of blossoming peach; and at times, from behind a log or straight from the earth, a diminutive negro would start like a kobold in a dream and offer, in an abashed, uncertain way, a bunch of white violets in exchange for coin. And once an old man, trudging along, saluted them with a fine parabola of hat and hand; and once they encountered a slatternly negress, very fat and pompous, seated behind a donkey she could have carried in her arms. But practically the road was deserted, fragrant, and still.

And now, as they rode on, interchanging only haphazard remarks, Roland swung himself from his horse, and, plucking a spray of arbutus, handed it to the girl.

"Take it," he said; "it is all I have."

His horse had wandered on a step and was nibbing at the gra.s.s, and, as he stood looking up at her, for the first time it occurred to him that she was fair. However a girl may seem in a ball-room, if she ever looks well she looks best in the saddle; and Justine, in spite of his criticism, did not sit her horse badly. Her gray habit, the high white collar and open vest, brought out the snuff-color of her eyes and hair.

Her cheeks, too, this morning must have recovered some of the flush they had lost, or else the sun had been using its palette, for in them was the hue of the flower he had gathered and held.

She took it and inserted the stem in the lapel of her coat.

"Are you going?" she asked.

"What would you think of me if I remained?"

"What would I? I would think--"

As she hesitated she turned. He could see now it was not the sun alone that had been at work upon her face.

"Let _me_ tell. You would think that a man with two arms for sole income has no right to linger in the neighborhood of a girl such as you. That is what you would think, what anyone would think; and while I care little enough about the existence which I lead in the minds of other people, yet I do care for your esteem. If I stay, I lose it. I should lose, too, my own; let me keep them both and go."

"I do not yet see why?"

"You don't!" The answer was so abrupt in tone that you would have said he was irritated at her remark, judging it unnecessary and ill-timed.

"You don't!" he repeated. "Go back a bit, and perhaps you will remember that after I saw you at your house I did not come back again."

"I do indeed remember."

"The next day I saw you in the Park; I was careful not to return."