Ben Blair

  CHAPTER XX

  CLUB CONFIDENCES

  Late the same evening, in the billiard-room of the "Loungers Club"Clarence Sidwell met one Winston Hough, seemingly by chance, though infact very much the reverse. Big and blonde, addicted to laughter, Houghwas one of the few men with whom Sidwell fraternized,--why, only theProvidence which makes like and unlike attract each other could haveexplained. However, it was with deliberate intent that Sidwell enteredthe most brilliantly lighted room in the place and sought out the groupof which Hough was the centre.

  "Hello, Chad!" the latter greeted the new-comer. "I've just trimmed upWatson here, and I'm looking for new worlds to conquer. I'll roll youfifty points to see who pays for a lunch afterward."

  Sidwell smiled tolerantly. "I think it would be better for my reputationto settle without playing. Put up your stick and I'm with you."

  Hough shook his head. "No," he objected, "I'm not a Weary Willie. Iprefer to earn my dole first. Come on."

  But Sidwell only looked at him. "Don't be stubborn," he said. "I want totalk with you."

  Hough returned his cue to the rack lingeringly. "Of course, if you putit that way there's nothing more to be said. As to the stubbornness,however--" He paused suggestively.

  Sidwell made no comment, but led the way directly toward the street.

  "What's the matter?" queried Hough, when he saw the direction they weretaking. "Isn't the club grill-room good enough for you?"

  Sidwell pursued his way unmoved. "I said I wished to talk with you."

  "I guess I must be dense," Hough answered gayly. "I certainly never sawany house rules that forbid a man to speak."

  Sidwell looked at his companion with a whimsical expression. "Thetrouble isn't with the house rules but with you. A fellow might as welltry to monopolize the wheat-pit on the board of trade as to keep youalone here. You're too confoundedly popular, Hough! You draw people asthe proverbial molasses-barrel attracts flies."

  The big man laughed. "Your compliment, if that's what it was, is a bitinvolved, but I suppose it'll have to do. Lead on!"

  Sidwell sought out a modest little _cafe_ in a side street and selecteda secluded booth.

  "What'll you have?" he asked, as the waiter appeared.

  Hough's blue eyes twinkled. "Are you with me, whatever I order?"

  Sidwell nodded.

  "Club sandwiches and a couple of bottles of beer," Hough concluded.

  His companion made no comment.

  "Been some time, hasn't it, since you surprised your stomach withanything like this?" bantered the big man, when the order had arrivedand the waiter departed.

  Sidwell smiled. "I shall have to confess it," he admitted.

  "I thought so," remarked Hough dryly. "Next time you depict a plebeianscene you can remember this and thank me."

  This time Sidwell did not smile. "You're hitting me rather hard, oldman," he said.

  "You deserve it," laconically answered Hough.

  "But not from you!"

  Hough meditatively watched the beads bursting on the surface of theliquor.

  "Admitted," he said; "but the people who ought to touch you up areafraid to do so, and someone ought to." He smiled across the table."Pardon the brutal frankness, but it's true."

  Sidwell returned the glance. "You think it's the duty of some intimateto perform the kindness of this--touching up process occasionally, doyou?"

  Hough drank deep and sighed with satisfaction. "Jove! that tastes good!I limbered up my joints with a two-mile walk before I went to the clubthis evening, and I've been as dry as a harvest-hand ever since. All thewine in France or elsewhere won't touch the spot like a little good oldbrew when a man is really healthy." He recalled himself. "Your pardon,Sidwell. Seriously, I do think it's the duty of our best friends tobring us back to earth now and then when we've strayed too far away. Noone who doesn't care for us will take the trouble."

  "Our _very_ best friends, I judge," suggested Sidwell.

  "Certainly." The big man wondered what was coming next.

  "A--wife, for instance."

  Hough straightened in his chair. His jolly face grew serious.

  "Are you in earnest, Chad," he queried, "or are you just drawing meout?"

  "I never was more in earnest in my life."

  Hough lost sight of the original question in the revelation itsuggested.

  "Do you mean you're really going to get married at last?"

  Sidwell forced a smile. "If the matter were already settled, it would betoo late to consider the advisability of the move, wouldn't it?" hereturned. "It would be an established fact, and as such useless todiscuss. I haven't asked the lady, if that answers your question."

  Hough made a gesture of impatience. "Theoretically, yes, butpractically, no. In your individual case, desire and gratificationamount to the same. You're mighty fascinating with the ladies, Chad. Fewwomen would refuse you, if you made an effort to have them do thereverse."

  "Thank you," said Sidwell, equivocally.

  His companion scowled. "Appreciation is unnecessary. I'm not even surethe remark was complimentary."

  They sat a moment in silence, while the beer in their glasses grewstale.

  "Suppose I were to consider marriage, as you suggest," said Sidwell atlast. "What do you think would be the result? Judging from yourexpression, some opinion thereon is weighing heavily upon your mind."

  The blonde man looked up keenly. One would hardly have recognized him asthe easy-going person of a few moments before.

  "It will, of course, depend entirely upon whom you choose. That'shackneyed. From the motions of straws, though, this Summer, I presumeit's admissible that I jump at conclusions concerning the lady."

  The other nodded.

  "In that case, Chad, as surely as night follows day it'll be a failure."The blue eyes all but flashed. "Moreover, it's a hideous injustice tothe girl."

  Sidwell stiffened involuntarily.

  "Your prediction sounds a bit strong from one who is himself abenedict," he returned coldly. "Upon what, if you please, do you baseyour opinion?"

  Hough fidgeted in his chair.

  "You want me to be frank, brutally frank, once more?"

  "Anything you wish. I'd like to know why you spoke as you did."

  "The reason, then, is this. You two would no more mix than oil andwater."

  Sidwell's face did not change. "You and Elise seem to jog along fairlywell together," he observed.

  Hough scowled as before. "Yes, but there's no possible similaritybetween the cases. You and I are no more alike than a dog and a rabbit.To come down to the direct issue, you're city bred, and Miss Baker hasbeen reared in the country. She--"

  Sidwell held up his hand deprecatingly. "To return to the illustration,Elise was originally from the country."

  "And to repeat once more," exclaimed Hough, "there's again nosimilarity. Elise and I have been married eight years. We met atcollege, and grew together normally. We were both young and adaptable.Besides, at the risk of being tedious, I reiterate that you and I aretotally unlike. I'm only partially urban; you are completely so--to yourvery finger-tips. I'm half savage, more than half. I like to be out inthe country, among the mountains, upon the lakes. I like to hunt andfish, and dawdle away time; you care for none of these things. I canmake money because I inherited capital, and it almost makes itself; butit's not with me a definite ambition. I have no positive object in life,unless it is to make the little woman happy. You have. Your work absorbsthe best of you. You haven't much left for friendships, even mild oneslike ours. I've been with you for a good many years, old man, and I knowwhat I'm talking about. You are old, older than your years, and you'renot young even in them. You're selfish--pardon me, but it'strue--abominably selfish. Your character, your point of view, yourhabits--are all formed. You'll never change; you wouldn't if you could.Miss Baker is hardly more than a child. I know her--I've made it apoint to know her since I saw you were interested in her. Everything inthe world rings genuine to her as yet.
She hasn't learned to detect thecounterfeit, and when the knowledge does come it will hurt her cruelly.She'll want to get back to nature as surely as a child with a bruisedfinger wants its mother; and you can't go with her. Most of all, Chad,she's a woman. You don't know what that means--no unmarried man doesknow. Even we married ones never grasp the subtleties of woman-naturecompletely. I've been studying one for eight years, and at times sheescapes me. But one thing I have learned; they demand that they shall befirst in the life of the man they love. Florence Baker will demand this,and after the first novelty has worn off you won't satisfy her. I repeatonce more, you're too selfish for that. As sure as anything can be, ChadSidwell, if you marry that girl it will end in disaster--in divorce, orsomething worse."

  The voice ceased, and the place was of a sudden very quiet. Sidwelltapped on his thin drinking-glass with his finger-nail. His companionhad never seen him nervous before. At last he looked up unshiftingly."You've given me a pretty vivid portrait of myself, of what I'm goodfor, and what not," he said. "Would you like me to return thecompliment?"

  Again Hough wondered what was coming. "Yes, I suppose so," he answeredhesitatingly.

  "You've often remarked," said Sidwell, slowly, "that you knew of no workfor which you were especially adapted. I think I could fit you outexactly to your liking. Just get a position as guard to a lake ofbrimstone in the infernal regions."

  Hough laughed, but Sidwell did not. "I fancy," he continuedmonotonously, "I see you now, a long needle-pointed spear in your hands,jabbing back the poor sinners who tried to crawl out."

  "Chad!" interrupted the other reproachfully. "Chad!" But Sidwell did notstop.

  "You'd stand well back, so that the sulphur fumes wouldn't irritate yourown nostrils, and so that when the bubbles from the boiling broke theywouldn't spatter you, and with the finest kind of intuition and the mostdelicate aim you'd select the tenderest place in your intended victim'sanatomy for your spear-point." He smiled ironically at the picture."Gad! you'd be a howling success there, old man!"

  An expression of genuine contrition formed on Hough's jolly face. "I'mdead sorry I hurt you, Chad," he said, "but you asked me to be frank."

  "You certainly were frank," rejoined the other bluntly.

  "What I said, though, was true," reiterated Hough.

  Sidwell leaned a bit forward, his face, handsome in spite of itsshadings of discontent, clear in the light.

  "Perhaps," he went on. "The trouble with you is that you don't give mecredit for a single redeeming virtue. No one in this world is whollygood or wholly bad. You forget that I'm a human being, with naturalfeelings and desires. You make me out a sort of machine, cunninglyconstructed for a certain work. You limit my life to that work alone. Ahuman being, even one born of the artificial state called civilization,isn't a contrivance like a typewriter which you can make work and thenshut up in a box until it is wanted again. There are certain emotions,certain wants, you can't suppress by logic. Even a dog, if you imprisonhim alone, will go mad in time. I'm a living man, with red blood insteadof ink in my veins, not an abstract mathematical problem. I've had myfull share of work and unhappiness. You'll have to give me a betterreason for remaining without the gate of the promised land than you'veyet done."

  Hough looked at the speaker impotently. "You misunderstood me, Chad, ifyou thought I was trying to keep you from your due, or from anythingwhich would really make for your happiness. I was simply trying toprevent something I feel morally certain you'll regret. Because oneisn't entirely happy is no adequate reason why he should make himselfmore unhappy. I can't say any more than I've already said; there'snothing more to say. My best reason for disapproving your contemplatedaction I gave you first, and you've not considered it at all. It's theinjustice you do to a girl who doesn't realize what she is doing. Withyour disposition, Chad, you'd take away from her something which neitherGod nor man can ever give her back--her trust in life."

  Sidwell's long fingers restlessly twirled the glass before him. Theremainder of the untouched beer was now as so much stagnant water.

  "If I don't undeceive her someone else will," he said. "It's inevitable.She'll have to adjust herself to things as they are, as we all have todo."

  Hough made a motion of deprecation.

  "Miss Baker is no longer a child," continued Sidwell. "If you've studiedher as you say you've done, you've discovered that she has very definiteideas of her own. It's true that I haven't known her long, but she hashad an opportunity to know me well such as no one else has ever had, noteven you. No one can say that she is leaping in the dark. Time and timeagain, at every opportunity, I have stripped my very soul bare for herobservation. The thing has not been easy for me; indeed, I know ofnothing I could have done that would have been more difficult. Thoughthe present instance seems to give the statement the lie, I am noteasily confidential, my friend. I have had a definite object in doing asI have done with Miss Baker. I am trying, as I never tried before in mylife, to get in touch with her--as I'll never try again, no matter howthe effort results, to get in touch with a person. She knows the goodand bad of me from A to Z. She knows the life I lead, the kind of peoplewho make up that life, their aims, their amusements, their standards,social and moral, as thoroughly as I can make her know them. I havetaken her everywhere, shown her every phase of my surroundings. For oncein my life at least, Hough, I have been absolutely what Iam,--absolutely frank. Farther than that I cannot go. I am not mybrothers keeper. She is an individual in a world of individuals; a freeagent, mental, moral, and physical. The decision of her future actions,the choice she makes of her future life, must of necessity rest withher. For some reason I cannot point to a definite explanation and saythis or that is why she is attractive to me. She seems to offer thesolution of a want I feel. No system of logic can convince me that,after having been honest as I have been with her, if she of her own freewill consents to be my wife, I have not a moral right to make her so."

  Again Hough made a deprecatory motion. "It is useless to argue withyou," he said helplessly, "and I won't attempt it. If I were to try, Icouldn't make you realize that the very methods of frankness you haveused to make Miss Baker know you intimately have defeated their ownpurpose, and have unconsciously made you an integral part of her life. Isaid before that when you wish you're irresistibly fascinating withwomen. All that you have said only exemplifies my statement. It doesnot, however, in the least change the homely fact that oil and waterwon't permanently mix. You can shake them together, and for a time itmay seem that they are one; but eventually they'll separate, and stayseparate. As I said before, though, I do not expect you to realize this,or to apply it. I can't make what I know by intuition sufficientlyconvincing. I wish I could. I feel that somehow this has been myopportunity and I have failed."

  For the instant Sidwell was roused out of himself. He looked at hiscompanion with appreciation. "At least you can have the consolation ofknowing you have honestly tried," he said earnestly.

  Hough returned the look with equal steadiness. "But nevertheless I havefailed."

  Sidwell put on his hat, its broad brim shading his eyes and concealingtheir expression.

  "Providence willing," he said finally, "I shall ask Miss Baker to be mywife."