Who Cares? A Story of Adolescence

  XV

  Alice marched up to her, blazing with anger and indignation. She wasnot, at that moment, the gentle Alice, as everybody called her,Alice-sit-by-the-fire, equable and pacific, believing the best ofpeople. She was the mother-woman eager to revenge the hurt that hadbeen done to one who had all her love.

  "Ah," she said, "you're just in time for me to tell you what I think ofyou."

  "Whatever you may think of me," replied Joan, "is nothing to what Ithink of myself."

  But Alice was not to be diverted by that characteristic way of evadinghard words, as she thought it. She had seen Joan dodge the issues likethat before, many times, at school. They were still screened from theveranda by a scrub-supported dune. She could let herself go.

  "You're a thief," she blurted out, trembling and out of all control foronce. "Not a full-blown thief because you don't steal to keep. But akleptomaniac who can't resist laying hands on other women's men. Youought not to be allowed about loose. You're a danger, a trap. You haveno respect for yourself and none for friendship. Loyalty? You don'tknow the meaning of the word. You're not to be trusted out of sight. Idespise you and never want to see you again."

  Could this be Alice,--this little fury, white and tense, with clenchedhands and glinting eyes, animal-like in her fierce protectiveness?

  Joan looked at her in amazement. Hadn't she already been hit hardenough? But before she could speak Alice was in breath again. "Youcan't answer me back,--even you, clever as you are. You've nothing tosay. That night at my house, when we had it out before, you said thatyou were not interested in Gilbert. If that wasn't a cold-blooded liewhat was it? Your interest has been so great that you've never let himalone since. You may not have called him deliberately, but when he cameyou flaunted your sex in his face and teased him just to see himsuffer. You were flattered, of course, and your vanity swelled to seehim dogging your heels. There's a pretty expressive word for you andyour type, and you know it as well as I do. Let me pass, please."

  Joan moved off the narrow board-walk without a word.

  And Alice passed, but piqued by this unexpected silence, turned andwent for her once most intimate friend again. If she was callous andstill in her "Who Cares?" mood words should be said that could never beforgotten.

  "I am Mrs. Gray. My husband won't be back for several days," These werethe only words that rang in Joan's ears now. Alice might as well havebeen talking to a stone.

  "Things are coming to a head," Alice went on, unconsciously usingGilbert's expression and Hosack's.

  "And all the seeds that you've carelessly sown have grown into greatrank weeds. Ask Mrs. Jekyll what you've driven Martin into doing ifyou're curious to know. She can tell you. Many people have seen. But ifyou still don't care, don't trouble, because it's too late. Go a fewyards down there and look at that man bent double in the summer house.If you do that and can still cry out 'Who Cares?' go on to the hourwhen everything will combine to make you care. It can't be far away."

  "I'm Mrs. Gray. My husband won't be back for several days." Like thesong of death the refrain of that line rose above the sound of the seaand of Alice's voice. Joan could listen to nothing else.

  And Alice caught the wounded look in the eyes of the girl in whom shehad once had faith and was recompensed. And having said all that shehad had in her mind and more than she had meant to say, she turned onher heel, forced herself back into control and went smiling towards thegroup on the veranda. And there Joan remained standing looking asthough she had seen a ghost,--the ghost of happiness.

  "Mrs. Gray,--and her husband Martin.... But what have I got to say,--I,who refused to be his wife? It only seemed half true when I found themtogether before, although that was bad enough. But this time, now thatmy love for Martin has broken through all those days of pretending topretend and that girl is openly in that cottage, nothing could betruer. It isn't Martin who has taken off his armor. It's I who have cutthe straps and made it fall from his shoulders Oh, my God, if only Ihadn't wanted to finish being a kid."

  She moved away, at last, from the place where Alice had left her andwithout looking to the right or left walked slowly down to the edge ofthe sea. Vaguely, as though it was something that had happened in aformer life, she remembered the angry but neat figure of Alice and afew of the fierce words that had got through to her. "Rank weeds ...driven Martin ... too late.... Who Cares?" Only these had stuck. Butwhy should Alice have said them? It was all unnecessary. She knew them.She had said them all on the way back from Devon, all and many more,seated beside that nice boy, Harry, in his car.... She had died a fewfeet from the stoop of the cottage, in the scent of honeysuckle andCome back to something that wasn't life to be tortured with regrets.All the way back she had said things to herself that Alice, angry andbitter as she had seemed to be, never could have invented. But they toowere unnecessary. Saying things now was of no more use than throwingstones into the sea at any time. Rank weeds ... driven Martin ... toolate ... who cares--only who cares should have come first becauseeverything else was the result.

  And for a little while, with the feeling that she was on an island,deserted and forgotten, she stood on the edge of the sea, looking at ahorizon that was utterly blank. What was she to do? Where was she togo? ... Not yet a woman, and all the future lay about her in chaos....Once more she went back in spirit to that room of Martin's which hadbeen made the very sanctum of Romance by young blood and moonlight andlistened to the plans they had made together for the discovery of aworld out of which so many similar explorers had crept with wounds andbitterness.

  "I'm going to make my mark," she heard Martin cry. "I'm going to makesomething that will last. My father's name was Martin Gray, and I'llmake it mean something out here for his sake."

  "And I," she heard herself say, "will go joy-riding on that hugeRound-about. I've seen what it is to be old and useless, and so I shallmake the most of every day and hour while I'm young. I can live onlyonce, and I shall make life spin whichever way I want it to go. If Ican get anybody to pay my whack, good. If not, I'll pay itmyself,--whatever it costs. My motto's going to be a good time as longas I can get it and who cares for the price!"

  Young fool, you young fool!

  The boy followed her to the window, and the moonlight fell upon themboth.

  "Yes, you'll get a bill all right. How did you know that?"

  And once more she heard her answer. "I haven't lived with all those oldpeople so long for nothing. But you won't catch me grumbling if I gethalf as much as I'm going out for. Listen to my creed, Martin, and takenotes if you want to keep up with me.... I shall open the door of everyknown Blue Room, hurrying out if there are ugly things inside. I shalltaste a little of every known bottle, feel everything there is to feelexcept the thing that hurts, laugh with everybody whose laugh iscatching, do everything there is to do, go into every booth in the bigBazaar, and when I'm tired and there's nothing left, slip out of theendless procession with a thousand things stored in my memory. Isn'tthat the way to live?"

  "Young fool, you young fool," she cried, with the feeling of beingforgotten and deserted, with not one speck on the blank horizon."You've failed--failed in everything. You haven't even carried out yourprogram. Others have paid,--Martin and Gilbert and Alice, but the bigbill has come in to you ... Who cares? You do, you do, you young fool,and you must creep out of the procession with only one thing stored inyour memory,--the loss of Martin, Martin."

  It was a bad hour for this girl-child who had tried her wings too young.

  And when Gilbert straightened up and gave thanks to God for the womanwho had never stirred him, but whose courage and tenderness had addedto his respect, he too turned towards the sea with its blankhorizon,--the sea upon which he was to be taken by his good wife forrest and sleep, and there was Joan ... young, and slight and alluring,with her back to him and her hands behind her back, and the mere sightof her churned his blood again, and set his dull fire into flames. Oncemore the old craving returned, the old madness revived, as it alwayswould when th
e sight and sound of her caught him, and all the commonsense and uncommon goodness of the little woman who had given himcomfort rose like smoke and was blown away.... To win this girl hewould sacrifice Alice and barter his soul. She was in his blood. Shewas the living picture of his youthful vision. She only could satisfythe Great Emotion.... There was the plan that he had forgotten,--thelunatic plan from which, even in his most desperate moment, he haddrawn back, afraid,--to cajole her to the cottage away from which hewould send his servants; make, with doors and windows locked, one lastpassionate appeal, and then, if mocked and held away, to take her withhim into death and hold her spirit in his arms.

  To own himself beaten by this slip of a girl, to pack his traps andleave her the field and sneak off like a beardless boy,--was that thesort of way he did things who had had merely to raise his voice to hearthe approach of obsequious feet? ... Alice and the yacht and nothingbut sea to a blank horizon? He laughed to think of it. It was, in fact,unthinkable.

  He would put it to Joan in a different way this time. He would hide hisfire and be more like that cursed boy. That would be a new way. Sheliked new things.

  He left the summer house, only the roof of which was touched by thelast golden rays of the sun, and with curious cunning adopted a sort ofcaricature of his old light manner. There was a queer jauntiness in hiswalk as he made his way over the sand, carrying his hat, and a flippantnote in his voice when he arrived at her side.

  "Waiting for your ship to come home?" he asked.

  "It's come," she said.

  "You have all the luck, don't you?"

  She choked back a sob.

  He saw the new look on her face. Something,--perhaps boredom,--perhapsthe constant companionship of that cursed boy,--had brought her downfrom her high horse. This was his chance! ...

  "You thought I had gone, I suppose?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "To-morrow suits me best. I'm off to-morrow,--I've not decided where. Along journey, it may be. If you're fed up with these people what do yousay to my driving you somewhere for dinner? A last little dinner toremind us of the spring in New York?"

  "Would you like me to very much?"

  He steadied his voice. "We might be amused, I think."

  "That doesn't answer my question," she said.

  "I'd love you to," he answered. "It would be fair, too. I've not seenmuch of you here."

  Yes, it would be fair. Let her try, even at that late stage of thegame, to make things a little even. This man had paid enough.

  "Very well," she said. "Let's go." It would be good to get away fromprying eyes and the dull ache of pain for a few hours.

  He could hardly believe his ears. Joan,--to give him something! It wasalmost incredible.

  She turned and led the way up. The sun had almost gone. "I'll get myhat at once," she said, "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

  His heart was thumping. "I'll telephone to a place I know, and bewaiting in the car."

  "Let me go in alone," she said. "We don't want to be held up to explainand argue. You're sure you want me to come?" She drew up and looked athim.

  He bowed to hide his face. "Of all things on earth," he said.

  She ran on ahead, slipped into the house and up to her room.

  Exultant and full of hope, Gilbert waited for a moment before followingher in. Going straight to the telephone room he shut the door, askedfor the number of his cottage and drummed the instrument with hisfingers.

  At last!

  "Is that you, Itrangi? ... Lay some sort of dinner for two,--coldthings with wine. It doesn't matter what, but at once. I shall be overin about an hour. Then get out, with the cook. I want the place tomyself to-night. Put the door key on the earth at the left-hand cornerof the bottom step. Telephone for a car and go to the hotel at SagHarbor. Be back in the morning about nine. Do these things withoutfail. I rely upon you."

  He hardly waited for the sibilant assurance before putting back thereceiver. He went round to the garage himself. This was the first timehe had driven Joan in his car. It might be the last.

  Harry was at the bottom of the stairs as Joan came down.

  "You're not going out?" he asked. She was still in day clothes, wearinga hat.

  "Yes, I am, Harry."

  "Where? Why?"

  She laid her hand on his arm. "Don't grudge Gilbert one evening,--hislast. I've been perfectly rotten to him all along."

  "Palgrave? Are you going out with Palgrave?"

  "Yes, to dine somewhere. I want to, Harry, oh, for lots of reasons. Youknow one. Don't stop me." Her voice broke a little.

  "But not with Palgrave."

  "Why?"

  "I saw him dodge out of the telephone room a minute ago. Helooked--queer. Don't go, Joan."

  "I must," she said and went to the door. He was after her and caughthold of her arm.

  "Joan, don't go. I don't want you to."

  "I must," she said again. "Surely you can understand? I have to getaway from myself."

  "But won't I do?"

  "It's Gilbert's turn," she said. "Let go, Harry dear." It was good toknow that she hadn't hurt this boy.

  "I don't like it. Please stay," but he let her go, and watched her downthe steps and into the car, with unaccountable misgiving. He had seenGilbert's face.

  And he saw it again under the strong light of the entrance--triumphant.

  For minutes after the car had gone, with a wave from Joan, he stoodstill, with an icy hand on his heart.

  "I don't like it," he repeated. "I wish to God I'd had the right tostop her."

  She thought that he didn't love her, and he had done his best to obey.But he did love her, more than Martin, it seemed, more than Gilbert, hethought, and by this time she was well on her way to--what?