tobed, partly because, applying late on a Friday evening, he had notbeen able to get a room, but partly because the moon and the southerlybreeze and the silver shores of Long Island and the red and whitelighthouses had been too beautiful to leave. Besides, he had wanted tothink out carefully what he was going to say to his brother.
To separate a man from the woman he loves, however unwisely, has someof the same disadvantages as offering a bribe--one respects the otherperson less in proportion as one succeeds. What, Ben said to himself,could he urge against a girl he did not know? Yet, on the other hand,if he had known her, his objections would have seemed regrettablypersonal. Either way, it was difficult to know what to say. Hewondered what Cord had said, and smiled to think that here was oneobject for which he and Cord were co-operating--only Cord would neverbelieve it. That was one trouble with capitalists--they always thoughtthemselves so damned desirable. And Ben did not stop to inquire how itwas that capitalists had gained this impression.
On the pier he looked about for David, but there was no David. Ofcourse the boy had overslept, or hadn't received his telegram--Bensaid this to himself, but somehow the vision of David comfortablyasleep in a luxurious bed in the Cords's house irritated him.
His meditations were broken in upon by a negro boy with an openhack, who volunteered to "take him up for fifty cents." It soundedreasonable. Ben got in and they moved slowly down the narrow pier, thehorses' hoofs clumping lazily on the wooden pavement. Turning past thealley of Thames Street, still alight at three o'clock in the morning,Ben stopped at the suggestion of his driver and left his bag ata hotel, and then they went on up the hill, past the tower of theSkeleton in Armor, past old houses with tall, pillared porticoes,reminiscent of the days when the South patronized Newport, and turnedinto Bellevue Avenue--past shops with names familiar to Fifth Avenue,past a villa with bright-eyed owls on the gateposts, past many large,silent houses and walled gardens.
The air was very cool, and now and then the scent of some floweringbush trailed like a visible cloud across their path. Then suddenly thewhole avenue was full of little red lights, like the garden in "Faust"when Mephistopheles performs his magic on it. Here and there the hugeheadlights of a car shone on the roadway, magnifying every rut in theasphalt, and bringing out strange, vivid shades in the grass and thehydrangea bushes. They were passing a frowning palace set on a pieceof velvet turf as small as a pocket handkerchief--so small that thelighted windows were plainly visible from the road.
"Stop," said Ben to his driver. He had suddenly realized how long itmust be before he could rouse the Cord household.
He paid his driver, got out, and made his way up the drivewaytoward the house. Groups of chauffeurs were standing about theircars--vigorous, smartly dressed men, young for the most part. Benwondered if it were possible that they were content with the presentarrangement, and whether their wives and children were not stifling inthe city at that very moment. He caught a sentence here and there ashe passed. "And, believe me," one was saying, "as soon as he got intothe box he did not do a thing to that fellar from Tiverton--" Ben'sfootsteps lagged a little. He was a baseball fan. He almost forgavethe chauffeurs for being content. They seemed to him human beings,after all.
He approached the house, and, walking past a narrow, unroofed piazza,he found himself opposite a long window. He looked straight into theballroom. The ball was a fancy ball--the best of the season. It wascalled a Balkan Ball, which gave all the guests the opportunity ofdressing pretty much as they pleased. The wood of the long paneledroom was golden, and softened the light from the crystal appliquesalong the wall, and set off the bright dresses of the dancers as agold bowl sets off the colors of fruit.
Every now and then people stepped out on the piazza, and as they didthey became audible to Ben for a few seconds. First, two middle-agedmen, solid, bronzed, laughing rather wickedly together. Ben drew back,afraid of what he might overhear, but it turned out to be no veryguilty secret. "My dear fellow," one was saying, "I gave him a strokea hole, and he's twenty years younger than I am--well, fifteen anyhow.The trouble with these young men is that they lack--"
Ben never heard what it was that young men lacked.
Next came a boy and a girl, talking eagerly, the girl's handgesticulating at her round, red lips. Ben had no scruples inoverhearing them--theirs appeared to be the universal secret. But hereagain he was wrong. She was saying: "Round and round--not up and down.My dentist says that if you always brush them round and round--"
Then two young men--boys, with cigarettes drooping from their lips;they were saying, "I haven't pitched a game since before the war, buthe said to go in and get that Tiverton fellow, and so--" Ben saw thathe was in the presence of the hero of the late game. He forgave him,too.
As a matter of fact, he had never given the fashionable worldenough attention to hate it. He knew that Leo Klein derived a veryrevivifying antagonism from reading about it, and often bought himselfan entrance to the opera partly because he loved music, but partly,Ben always thought, because he liked to look up at the boxes and hatethe occupants for their jewels and inattention. But Ben watched thespectacle with as much detachment as he would have watched a springdance among the Indians.
And then suddenly his detachment melted away, for a lovely girl camethrough the window--lovely with that particular and specific kind ofloveliness which Ben thought of when he used the word--_his_ kind. Heused to wonder afterward how he had known it at that first glimpse,for, in the dim light of the piazza, he could not see some of hergreatest beauties--the whiteness of her skin, white as milk where herclose, fine, brown hair began, or the blue of the eyes set at an anglewhich might have seemed Oriental in eyes less enchanting turquoise incolor. But he could see her slenderness and grace. She was dressed inclinging blues and greens and she wore a silver turban. She leaned herhands on the railings--she turned them out along the railings; theywere slender and full of character--not soft. Ben looked at the onenearest him. With hardly more than a turn of his head he could havekissed it. The idea appealed to him strongly; he played with it, justas when he was a child in a college town he had played with the ideaof getting up in church and walking about on the backs of the pews.This would be pleasanter, and the subsequent getaway even easier. Heglanced at the dark lawn behind him; there appeared to be no obstacleto escape.
Perhaps, under the spell of her attraction for him, and the knowledgethat he would never see her again, he might actually have done it, butshe broke the trance by speaking to a tall, stolid young man who waswith her.
"No, Eddie," she said, as if answering something he had said some timeago, "I really was at home, at just the time I said, only this newbutler does hate you so--"
"You might speak to him about it--you might even get rid of him,"replied the young man, in the tone of one deeply imposed upon.
"Good butlers are so rare nowadays."
"And are devoted friends so easy to find?"
"No, but a good deal easier than butlers, Eddie dear."
The young man gave an exclamation of annoyance. "Let us find someplace out of the way. I want to speak to you seriously--" he began,and they moved out of earshot--presumably to a secluded spot ofEddie's choosing.
When they had gone Ben felt distinctly lonely, and, what was moreabsurd, slighted, as if Eddie had deliberately taken the girl awayfrom him--out of reach. How silly, he thought, for Eddie to want totalk to her, when it was so clear the fellow did not know how to talkto her. How silly to say, in the sulky tone, "Are devoted friendsso easy to find?" Of course they were--for a girl like that--devotedfriends, passionate lovers, and sentimental idiots undoubtedly blockedher path.
It might have been some comfort to him to know that in the remote spotof his own choosing, a stone bench under a purple beech, Eddie wassimply going from bad to worse.
"Dear Crystal," he began, with that irritating reasonableness ofmanner which implies that the speaker is going to be reasonable fortwo, "I've been thinking over the situation. I know that you don'tlove me, but then I do
n't believe you will ever be deeply in love withany one. I don't think you are that kind of woman."
"Oh, Eddie, how dreadful!"
"I don't see that at all. Just as well, perhaps. You don't want to getyourself into such a position as poor Eugenia."
"I do, I would. I'd give anything to be as much in love as Eugenia."
"What? With a fellow like that! A complete outsider."
"Outside of what? The human race?"
"Well, no," said Eddie, as if he were yielding a good deal, "butoutside of your traditions and your set."
"My set! Good for him to be outside of it, I say. What have they everdone to make anyone want to be inside of it? Why, David is an educatedgentleman. To hear him quote Horace--"
"Horace who?"
"Really, Eddie."
"Oh, I see. You mean the poet. That's nothing to laugh at, Crystal. Itwas a natural mistake. I thought, of course, you meant some of thoseanarchists who want to upset the world."
Crystal looked at him more honestly and seriously than she had yetdone.
"Well, don't you think there _is_ something wrong with the presentarrangement of things, Eddie?"
"No, I don't, and I hate to hear you talk like a socialist."
"I am a socialist."
"You're nothing of the kind."
"I suppose I know what I am."
"Not at all--not at all."
"I certainly think the rich are too rich, while the poor are sohorridly poor."
"_You'd_ get on well without your maid and your car and your father'scharge accounts at all the shops, wouldn't you?"
Though agreeable to talk seriously if you agree, it is correspondinglydangerous if you disagree. Crystal stood up, trembling with an emotionwhich Eddie, although he was rather angry himself, considered utterlyunaccountable.
"Yes," she said, almost proudly, "I _am_ luxurious, I _am_ dependenton those things. But whose fault is that? It's the way I was broughtup--it's all wrong. But, even though I am dependent on them, I believeI could exist without them. I'd feel like killing myself if I didn'tthink so. Sometimes I want to go away and find out if I couldn'tlive and be myself without all this background of luxury. But at theworst--I'm just one girl--suppose I were weak and couldn't get onwithout them? That wouldn't prove that they are right. I'm not soblinded that I can't see that a system by which I profit may still beabsolutely wrong. But you always seem to think, Eddie, that it'spart of the Constitution of the United States that you should haveeverything you've always had."
Eddie rose, too, with the manner of a man who has allowed things togo far enough. "Look here, my dear girl," he said, "I am a man and I'molder than you, and have seen more of the world. I know you don'tmean any harm, but I must tell you that this is very wicked, dangeroustalk."
"Dangerous, perhaps, Eddie, but I can't see how it can be wicked towant to give up your special privileges."
"Where in the world do you pick up ideas like this?"
"I inherited them from an English ancestor of mine, who gave up allthat he had when he enlisted in Washington's army."
"You got that stuff," said Eddie, brushing this aside, "from DavidMoreton, and that infernal seditious paper his brother edits--and thatwhite-livered book which I haven't read against war. I'd like to putthem all in jail."
"It's a pity," said Crystal, "that your side can't think of a betterargument than putting everyone who disagrees with you in jail."
With this she turned and left him, and, entering the ballroom, flungherself into the arms of the first partner she met. It was a timidboy, who, startled by the eagerness with which she chose him, withher bright eyes and quickly drawn breath, was just coming tothe conclusion that a lovely, rich, and admired lady, had fallenpassionately in love with him, when with equal suddenness she steppedout of his arms and was presently driving her small, open car down theavenue.
Under the purple beech Eddie, left alone, sank back on the stone benchand considered, somewhat as the persecutors of Socrates may have done,suitable punishments for those who put vile, revolutionary ideas intothe heads of young and lovely women.
In the meantime Ben, who had enjoyed the party more than most of theinvited guests, and far more than the disconsolate Eddie, had left hisvantage point at the window. He had suddenly become aware of a strangelight stealing under the trees, and, looking up, he saw withsurprise that the stars were growing small and the heavens turningsteel-color--in fact, that it was dawn.
Convinced that sunrise was a finer sight than the end of the grandestball that ever was given, he made his way down a shabby back lane,and before long came out on the edge of the cliffs, with the wholepanorama of sunrise over the Atlantic spread out before him.
He stood there a moment, somebody's close, well-kept lawn under hisfeet, and a pale-pink sea sucking in and out on the rocks a hundredfeet below. The same hot, red sun was coming up; there wasn't a steadybreeze, but cool salt puffs came to him now and then with a breakingwave. It was going to be a hot day, and Ben liked swimming better thanmost things in life. He hesitated.
If he had turned to the left, he would have come presently to a publicbeach and would have had his swim conventionally and in due time. Butsome impulse told him to turn to the right, and he began to wanderwestward along the edge of the cliffs--always on his left hand, spaceand the sea, and on his right, lawns or gardens or parapets crownedby cactus plants in urns, and behind these a great variety ofhouses--French chateaux and marble palaces and nice little whitecottages, and, finally, a frowning Gothic castle. All alike seemedasleep, with empty piazzas and closed shutters, and the only sign oflife he saw in any of them was one pale housemaid shaking a duster outof a window in an upper gable.
At last he came to a break in the cliffs--a cove, with a beach in it,a group of buildings obviously bathing-houses. The sacredness of thispavilion did not occur to Ben; indeed, there was nothing to suggestit. He entered it light-heartedly and was discouraged to find the doorof every cabin securely locked. The place was utterly deserted. ButBen was persistent, and presently he detected a bit of a garmenthanging over a door, and, pulling it out, he found himself inpossession of a man's bathing suit. A little farther on he discovereda telephone room unlocked. Here he undressed and a minute later wasswimming straight out to sea.
The level rays of the sun were doing to the water just what theheadlights of the motors had done to the road; they were enlargingevery ripple and edging the deep purple-blue with yellow light. Exceptfor a fishing dory chunking out to its day's work, Ben had the seaand land to himself. He felt as if they were all his own, and, fora socialist, was guilty of the sin of pride of possession. He wasenjoying himself so much that it was a long time before he turned toswim back.
He was swimming with his head under water most of the time so that hedid not at once notice that a raft he had passed on his way out wasnow occupied. As soon as he did see it his head came up. It was afemale figure, and even from a distance he could see that she wasunconscious of his presence and felt quite as sure of having the worldto herself as he was. She was sitting on the edge of the raft, kickinga pair of the prettiest legs in the world in and out of the water.They were clad in the thinnest of blue-silk stockings, the same inwhich a few minutes before she had been dancing, but not being ableto find any others in her bathhouse, she had just kept them on,recklessly ignoring the inevitable problem of what she should wearhome. She was leaning back on her straightened arms, with her headback, looking up into the sky and softly whistling to herself. Ben sawin a second that she was the girl of the silver turban.
He stole nearer and nearer, cutting silently through the water,and then, when he had looked his fill, he put his head down again,splashed a little, and did not look up until his hand was on the raft,when he allowed an expression of calm surprise to appear on his face.
"I beg your pardon," he said. "Is this a private raft?"
The young lady, who had had plenty of time since the splash toarrange her countenance, looked at him with a blank coldness, and thensu
ddenly smiled.
"I thought it was a private world," she replied.
"It's certainly a very agreeable one," said Ben, climbing on the raft."And what I like particularly about it is the fact that no one isalive but you and me. Newport appears to be a city of the dead."
"It always was," she answered, contemptuously.
"Oh, come. Not an hour ago you were dancing in blue and green and asilver turban at a party over there," and he waved his hand in thedirection from which he had come.
"Did you think it was a good ball?"
"I enjoyed it," he answered, truthfully.
Her face fell. "How very disappointing," she said. "I didn't see youthere."
"Disappointing that you did not see me there?"
"No," she replied, and then, less positively; "No; I meant it wasdisappointing that you were the kind of man who went to parties--andenjoyed them."
"It would be silly to go if you didn't enjoy them," he returned,lightly.
She turned to him very seriously. "You're right," she said; "it issilly--very silly, and it's just what I do. I consider parties likethat the lowest, emptiest form of human entertainment. They're dull;they're expensive; they keep you from doing intelligent things,like studying; they keep you from doing simple, healthy things, likesleeping and exercising; they make you artificial; they make you civilto