Together Part 59

"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 coa.r.s.e, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed. 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, d.a.m.nable 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.

CHAPTER XLIX

When Lane went West early in May for his annual inspection trip, Isabelle moved to the Farm for the season. She was wan and listless. She had talked of going abroad with Vickers, but had suddenly given up the plan. A box of books arrived with her, and she announced to Vickers that she meant to read Italian with him; she must do something to kill the time. But the first evening when she opened a volume of French plays, she dropped it; books could not hold her attention any more. All the little details about her house annoyed her,--nothing went smoothly. The governess must be changed.

Her French was horrible. Marian followed her mother about with great eyes, fearful of annoying her, yet fascinated. Isabelle exclaimed in sudden irritation:

"Haven't you anything to do, Molly!" And to Vickers she complained: "Children nowadays seem perfectly helpless. Unless they are provided with amus.e.m.e.nt every minute, they dawdle about, waiting for you to do something for them. Miss Betterton should make Molly more independent."

And the next day in a fit of compunction she arranged to have a children's party, sending the motor for some ten-mile-away neighbors.

In her mood she found even Vickers unsatisfactory: "Now you have me here, cooped up, you don't say a word to me. You are as bad as John. That portentous silence is a husband's privilege, Vick.... You and I used to _jaser_ all the time. Other men don't find me dull, anyway. They tell me things!"

She pouted like a child. Vickers recalled that when she had said something like this one day at breakfast with John and Cairy present, Lane had lifted his head from his plate and remarked with a quiet man's irony: "The other men are specials,--they go on for an occasion. The husband's is a steady job."

Cairy had laughed immoderately. Isabelle had laughed with him,--"Yes, I suppose you are all alike; you would slump every morning at breakfast."

This spring Isabelle had grown tired, even of people. "Conny wants to come next month, and I suppose I must have her. I wanted Margaret, but she has got to take the little boy up to some place in the country and can't come.... There's a woman, now," she mused to Vickers, her mind departing on a train of a.s.sociation with Margaret Pole. "I wonder how she possibly stands life with that husband of hers. He's getting worse all the time.

Drinks now! Margaret asked me if John could give him something in the railroad, and John sent him out to a place in the country where he would be out of harm.... There's marriage for you! Margaret is the most intelligent woman I know, and full of life if she had only half a chance to express herself. But everything is ruined by that mistake she made years ago. If I were she--" Isabelle waved a rebellious hand expressively. "I thought at one time that she was in love with Rob Falkner,--she saw a lot of him. But he has gone off to Panama. Margaret won't say a word about him; perhaps she is in love with him still,--who knows!"

One day she looked up from a book at Vickers, who was at the piano, and observed casually:--

"Tom is coming up to spend June when he gets back from the South." She waited for an expected remark, and then added, "If you dislike him as much as you used to, you had better take that time for Fosd.i.c.k."

"Do you want me to go?"

"No,--only I thought it might be more comfortable for you--"

"Cairy doesn't make me uncomfortable."

"Oh--well, you needn't worry about me, brother dear!" She blushed and came across the room to kiss him. "I am well harnessed; I shan't break the traces--yet."...

It was a summerish day, and at luncheon Isabelle seemed less moody than she had been since her arrival. "Let's take one of our old long rides,--just ride anywhere, as we used to," she suggested.

They talked of many things that afternoon, slipping back into the past and rising again to the present. Vickers, happy in her quieter, gentler mood, talked of himself, the impressions he had received these months in his own land.