XXVIII
A WALK IN THE STARLIGHT
Having no further pretext for calling upon her, Curtis thought of Elsieas of a strain of music which had passed. He was rather silent atdinner, but not noticeably so, for Maynard absorbed most of the time andattention of those present. At the first opportunity he returned to hispapers, and was deep in work when Jennie came in to tell him that Elsiewas coming over to stay the night.
"She has given up her bed to her father, and so she will sleep here. Goover about nine and get her."
If she knew how deeply this command moved him, she was considerateenough to make no comment. "Very well, sis," he replied, quietly. "Assoon as I finish this letter."
But he did not finish the letter--did not even complete the sentencewith which his pen was engaged when Jennie interrupted him. After shewent out he sat in silence and in complete immobility for nearly anhour. At last he rose and went out into the warm and windless night.
When he entered the studio he found her seated upon one trunk andsurveying another.
"This looks like flight," he said.
"Yes; papa insists on our going early to-morrow morning. Isn't itpreposterous! I can only pack my clothing. He says the trouble is onlybeginning, and that I must not remain here another day."
"I have come to fetch you to Jennie."
"I will be ready presently. I am just looking round to decide on what totake. Be seated, please, while I look over this pile of sketches."
He took a seat and looked at her sombrely. "You'll leave a great bigempty place here when you go."
"Do you mean this studio?"
"I mean in my daily life."
She became reflective. "I hate to go, and that's the truth of it. I amjust beginning to feel my grip tighten on this material. I know I coulddo some good work here, but really I was frightened at papa's conditionthis afternoon. He is better now, but I can see that he is failing. Ifhe insists on campaigning I must go with him--but, oh, how I hate it!Think of standing up and shaking hands with all these queer people formonths! I oughtn't to feel so, of course, but I can't help it. I've nopatience with people who are half-baked, neither bread nor dough. Ibelieve I like old Mary and Two Horns better."
"I fear you are voicing a mood, not a conviction. We ought not tocondemn any one;" he paused a moment, then added: "I don't like you toeven _say_ cruel things. It hurts me. As I look round this room I seenothing which has to do with duty or conviction or war or politics.There is peace and beauty here. You belong in this atmosphere; you arefitted to your environment. I admit that I was fired at first with adesire to convert you to my ways of thought; now, when a sense of dutytroubles you, takes you away from the joy of your art, I questionmyself. You are too beautiful to wear yourself out in problems. I nowsay, remain an artist. There is something idyllic about your artist lifeas I now understand it. It is simple and childlike. In that respect itseems to have less troublesome questions of right or wrong to decidethan science. Its one care seems to be, 'What will produce and preservebeauty, and so assuage the pain of the world?' No question of money orreligion or politics--just the pursuit of an ideal in a sheltered nook."
"You have gone too far the other way, I fear," she said, sadly. "Ourlives, even at the best, are far from being the ideal you present. Itseems very strange to me to hear you say those things--"
"I have given the matter much thought," he replied. "If I have made youthink of the woes of the world, so you have shown me glimpses of a lifewhere men and women are almost free from care. We are mutuallyinstructed." He rose at this point and, after hesitation, said: "Whenyou go I wish you would leave this room just as it is, and when I amtired and irritable and lonely I'll come here and imagine myself a partof your world of harmonious colors, with no race questions to settle andno harsh duties to perform. Will you do this? These few hangings andlamps and easels are unimportant to you--you won't miss them; to me theywill be priceless, and, besides, you may come back again some time. Sayyou will. It will comfort me."
There was a light in his eyes and an intensity in his voice whichstartled her. She stammered a little.
"Why, of course, if it will give you the slightest pleasure; there isnothing here of any particular value. I'll be glad to leave them."
"Thank you. So long as I have this room as it is I shall be able topersuade myself that you have not passed utterly out of my life."
She was a little alarmed now, and hastened to say: "I do not see why weshould not meet again. I shall expect you to call when you come toWashington--" she checked herself. "I'm afraid my sense of duty to theTetongs is not strong. Don't think too hardly of me because of it."
He seemed intent on another thought. "Do you know, you've given me a dimnotion of a new philosophy. I haven't organized it yet, but it'ssomething like this: Beauty is a sense of fitness, harmony. This senseof beauty--call it taste--demands positively a readjustment of theexternal facts of life, so that all angles, all suffering and violence,shall cease. If all men were lovers of the beautiful, the gentle, thenthe world would needs be suave and genial, and life harmoniouslycolored, like your own studio, and we would campaign only againstugliness. To civilize would mean a totally different thing. I'm notquite clear on my theory yet, but perhaps you can help me out."
"I think I see what you mean. But my world," she hastened to say, "isnothing like so blameless as you think it. Don't think artists areactually what they should be. They are very human, eager to succeed, tooutstrip each other; and they are sordid, too. No, you are too kind tous. We are a poor lot when you take us as a whole, and the worst of itis the cleverest makers of the beautiful are often the least inspiringin their lives. I mean they're ignorant and spiteful, and oftendishonorable." She stopped abruptly.
"I'm sorry to hear you say that. It certainly shatters a beautifultheory I had built up out of what you and other artists have said tome." After a little silence he resumed: "It comes down to this, then:that all arts and professions are a part of life, and life is acompromise between desire and duty. There are certain things I want todo to-day, but my duties for to-morrow forbid. You are right in goingaway with your father--I'm not one to keep you from doing that--but Imust tell you how great has been the pleasure of having you here, and Ihope you will come again. If you go to-morrow morning I shall not seeyou again."
"Why not?"
"I start at dawn to arrest Cut Finger."
"Alone?"
"No. The captain of the police goes with me."
Her face paled a little. "Oh! I wish you wouldn't! Why don't you takethe soldiers?"
"They are not necessary. I shall leave here about four o'clock andsurprise the guilty man in his bed. He will not fight me." He rose. "Areyou ready to go now?"
"In a moment," she said, and softly crossed the floor to peep into thebedroom. "Poor papa, he looks almost bloodless as he sleeps."
As they stepped out into the darkness Curtis realized that this wastheir last walk together, and the thought was both sweet and sad.
"Will you take my arm?" he asked. "It is very dark, though there shouldbe a new moon."
"It has gone down; I saw it," she replied, as she slipped her handthrough his elbow. "How peaceful it all is! It doesn't seem possiblethat to-morrow you will risk your life in the performance of duty, andthat I will leave here, never to return. I have a curious feeling aboutthis place now. It seems as though I were settled here, and that I am togo on living here forever."
"I wish it were true. Women like you--you know what I mean; there are nowomen like you, of course--come into my life too seldom. I dread theempty futility of to-morrow. As an Indian agent, I must expect to livewithout companionship with such as you. I have a premonition that Jennieis going to leave me--as she ought."
"You will be very lonely then; what will you do?"
"Work harder; do more good, and so cheat myself into forgetfulness thattime is flying."
"You are bitter to-night."
"Why shouldn't I be when you are going away? It wouldn't
be decent of meto be gay."
"Your methods of flattery are always effective. At one moment youdiscuss the weightiest matters with me--which argues I have brains--andthen you grow gloomy over my going and would seem to mean that I amcharming, which I don't think is quite true."
"If I weren't a poor devil of an army officer I'd convince you of mysincerity by asking you not to go away at all."
"That _would_ be convincing," she said, laughingly. "Please don't doit!"
His tone became suddenly serious. "You are right, I can't ask you toshare a life like mine. It is too uncertain. I may be ordered back to myregiment next winter, and then nothing remains but garrison duty. Ithink I will then resign. But I am unfitted for business, or for anymoney-getting, and so I've decided that as an honorable man I must notimperil the happiness of a woman. I claim to be a person of taste, andthe girl I admired would have other chances in life. I can't afford tosay to her, 'Give up all your comfort and security and come with me tothe frontier.' She would be foolish to listen--no woman of the stamp Ihave in mind could do it." They were nearing "the parsonage" gate, andhe ended in a low voice: "Don't you think I am right?"
"The theory is that nothing really counts in a woman's life but love,"she replied, enigmatically.
"Yes, but theory aside--"
"Well, then, I can conceive of a girl--a very _young_ girl--leavingwealth and friends, and even her art, for the man she loved, but--"
He waited a moment as a culprit listens to his judge. "But then--but incase--"
"If the girl were grown up and loved luxurious living, and shared anenthusiasm--say for art--then--" She broke off and said, wearily, "Thenshe might palter and measure values and weigh chances, and take accountof the future and end by not marrying at all."
They had reached the gate and he spoke with perceivable effort: "I've noright to ask it, of course, but if you take pity on my loneliness at anytime and write to me, your letters will be more welcome than it isseemly in me to say, and I'll promise not to bore you with furtherdetails of my 'Injines.' Will you be kind to me?"
"I will be glad to write," she replied, but in her voice was somethinghe did not understand. As they entered the house Elsie said: "CaptainMaynard, Captain Curtis is going out to-morrow morning to arrest thatcrazy Indian. Do you think he ought to go alone?"
"Certainly not! It would be too dangerous. He shall have an escort,"replied Maynard, emphatically.
"No, no!" said Curtis, decisively. "I am safer to go unarmed and alone."
"George!" protested Jennie, "you shall not go out there alone. Why don'tyou send the police?"
Maynard here interposed. "Don't take on worry; I'll go with him myself."
This last hour in Elsie's company was a mingled pain and pleasure toCurtis, for she was most charming. She laid aside all hauteur, allperversity, and gave herself unreservedly to her good friends. They wereall at high tension, and the talk leaped from jest to protest, and backto laughter again, agile and inconsequent. The time and the place, thepast and the future, counted for little to these four, for they wereyoung and they were lovers.
At last Jennie rose. "If you people are to rise at dawn you must go tosleep now. Good-night! Come, Elsie Bee Bee."
Maynard followed Jennie into the hall with some jest, and Curtis seizedthe opportunity to delay Elsie. He offered his hand, and she laid herstherein with a motion of half-surrender.
"Good-night, Captain. I appreciate your kindness more than I can say."
"Don't try. I feel now that I have done nothing--nothing of what Ishould have done; but I didn't think you were to leave so soon. If I hadknown--"
"You have done more than you realize. Once more, good-night!"
"Good-night!" he said, in an unsteady voice; "and remember, you promisedto write!"
"I will keep my promise." She turned at the door. "Don't try to writearound your red people. I believe I'd like to hear how you get on withthem."
"Defend me from mine enemies within the gates, and I'll work out myproblem."
"I'll do my best. Good-bye!"
"No, not good-bye--just good-night!"
For a moment he stood meditating a further word, then stepped into thehall. Elsie, midway on the stairs, had turned and was looking down athim with a face wherein the eyes were wistful and brows perplexed. Sheguiltily lowered her lashes and turned away, but that momentarypause--that subtle interplay of doubt and dream--had given the soldier apleasure deeper than words.
* * * * *
Jennie was waiting at the door of the tiny room in which Elsie was tosleep, her face glowing with admiration and love. "Oh, you queenlygirl!" she cried, with a convulsive clasp of her strong arms. "I can'tget over the wonder of your being here in our little house. You ought tolive always in a castle."
Elsie smiled, but with tears in her eyes. "You're a dear, good girl. Inever had a truer friend."
"I wish you were poor!" said Jennie, as they entered the plain littleroom; "then you could come here as a missionary or something, and wecould have you with us all the time. I hate to think of your going awayto-morrow."
"You must come and see me in Washington."
"Oh no! That wouldn't do!" said Jennie, half alarmed. "It might spoil mefor life out here. You must visit us again."
There was a note of honest, almost boyish suffering in Jennie'sentreaties which moved the daughter of wealth very deeply, and she wentto her bed with a feeling of loss, as though she were taking leave ofsomething very sweet and elementally comforting.
She thought of her first lover, and her cheeks burned with disgust ofher folly. She thought of two or three good, manly suitors whoseprotestations of love had left her cold and humorously critical. OnLawson's suit she lingered, for he was still a possibility shouldshe decide to put her soldier-lover away. "But I _have_ doneso--definitely," she said to some pleading within herself. "I can'tmarry him; our lives are ordered on divergent lines. I can't come hereto live."
"Happiness is not dependent on material things," argued her newlyawakened self. "He loves you--he is handsome and true and good."
"But I don't love him."
"Yes, you do. When you returned Osborne Lawson's ring you quite plainlysaid so."
She burned with a new flame with this confession; but she protested,"Let us be sensible! Let us argue!"
"You cannot argue with love."
"I am not a child to be carried away by a momentary gust of emotion. Seehow impossible it is for me to share his work--his austere life."
And here entered the far-reaching question of the life and death of arace. In a most disturbing measure this obscure young soldierrepresented a view of life--of civilization antagonistic to her faith,and in stern opposition to the teachings of her father. In a subtlefashion he had warped the word _duty_ from its martial significance to aplace in a lofty philosophy whose tenets were only just beginning tounfold their inner meaning to her.
Was it not true that she was less sympathetic with the poor brownpeoples of the earth than with the animals? "How can you be contemptuousof God's children, whom the physical universe has colored brown or blackor yellow--you, who are indignant when a beast is overburdened? If werepudiate and condemn to death those who do not please us, who willlive?"
She felt in herself some singular commotion. Conceptions, hitherto mereshells of thought, became infilled with passion; and pity, hitherto afeeble sentiment with her, expanded into an emotion which shook her,filled her throat with sobs, discrediting her old self with her new selftill the thought of her mean and selfish art brought shame. How small itall was, how trivial, beside the consciousness of duty well done,measured against a life of self-sacrifice, such as that suggested bythis man, whose eyes sought her in worship!
Could there be any greater happiness than to stand by his side, helpingto render a dying, captive race happier--healthier? Could her greatwealth be put to better use than this of teaching two hundred thousandred people how to meet and adjust themselves to the white man's wa
y oflife? Their rags, their squalor, their ignorance were more deeplydepressing to her lover than the poverty of the slums, for the Tetongshad been free and joyous hunters. Their condition was a tragicdebasement. She began to feel the arguments of the Indian helpers. Theirwords were no longer dead things; they had become electric nodes; theymoved her, set her blood aflame, and she clinched her hands and said: "Iwill help him do this great work!"