The High Heart

  CHAPTER XIV

  On Thursday Mr. Grainger came to the library to tea, but notwithstandingher suggestion Mrs. Brokenshire did not. She came, however, on Fridaywhen he did not. For some time after that he came daily.

  Toward me his manner had little variation; he was courteous and distant.I cannot say that he ever had tea with me, for even if he accepted acup, which he did from time to time, as if keeping up a role, he carriedit to some distant corner of the room where he was either examining theobjects or making their acquaintance. He came about half past four andwent about half past five, always appearing from the house and retiringby the same way. In the house itself, as I understood from Mrs. Daly, hedisplayed an interest he had not shown for years.

  "It's out of wan room and into another, and raisin' the shades andpushin' the furniture about, till you'd swear he was goin' to bemarried."

  I thought of Mr. Pyne, wondering if, before his trip to Atlantic Citywith Mrs. Grimshaw, he, too, had wandered about his house, appraisingits possibilities from the point of view of a new mistress.

  On the Friday when Mrs. Brokenshire came and Mr. Grainger did not shemade no comment on his non-appearance. She even sustained with somesuccess the fiction that her visit was on my account. Only her softeyes turned with a quick light toward the door leading to the house atevery sound that might have been a footstep.

  When she talked it was chiefly about Mr. Brokenshire.

  "It's telling on him--all this trouble about Hugh."

  I was curious.

  "Telling on him in what way?"

  "It's made him older--and grayer--and the trouble with his eye comesoftener."

  It seemed to me that I saw an opportunity.

  "Then why doesn't he give in?"

  "Give in? Mr. Brokenshire? Why, he never gave in in his life."

  "But if he suffers?"

  "He'd rather suffer than give in. He's not an unkind man, not really, solong as he has his own way; but once he's thwarted--"

  "Every one has to be thwarted some time."

  "He'd agree to that; but he'd say every one but him. That's why, when hefirst met--met me--and my mother at that time meant to have me--to haveme marry some one else-- You knew that, didn't you?"

  I reminded her that she had told me so among the rocks at Newport.

  "Did I? Perhaps I did. It's--it's rather on my mind. I had to changeso--so suddenly. But what I was going to say was that when Mr.Brokenshire saw that mamma meant me to marry some one else, and thatI--that I wanted to, there was nothing he didn't do. It was in thepapers--and everything. But nothing would stop him till he'd got what hewanted."

  I pumped up my courage to say:

  "You mean, till you gave it to him."

  She bit her lip.

  "Mamma gave it to him. I had to do as I was told. You'd say, I suppose,that I needn't have done it, but you don't know." She hesitated beforegoing on. "It--it was money. We--we had to have it. Mamma thought thatMr.--the man I was to have married first--would never have any more. Itwas all sorts of things on the Stock Exchange--and bulls and bears andthings like that. There was a whole week of it--and every one knew itwas about me. I nearly died; but mamma didn't mind. She enjoyed it. It'sthe sort of thing she would enjoy. She made me go with her to the operaevery night. Some one always asked us to sit in their box. She put me inthe front where the audience watched me through their opera-glasses morethan they did the stage--and I was a kind of spectacle. There was onenight--they were singing the 'Meistersinger'--when I felt just like Eva,put up as a prize for whoever could win me. But I was talking of Mr.Brokenshire, wasn't I? Do you think his eye will ever be any better?"

  She asked the question without change of tone. I could only reply that Ididn't know.

  "The doctor says--that is, he's told me--that in a way it's mental. It'sthe result of the strain he's put upon his nerves by overwork and awfultempers. Of course, his responsibilities have been heavy, though of lateyears he's been able to shift some of them to other people's shoulders.And then," she went on, in her sweet, even voice, "what happened aboutme--coming to him so late in life--and--and tearing him to pieces moreviolently than if he'd been a younger man--young men get overthings--that made it worse. Don't you see it would?"

  I said I could understand that that might be the effect.

  "Of course, if I could really be a wife to him--"

  "Well, can't you?"

  She shuddered.

  "He terrifies me. When he's there I'm not a woman any more; I'm acaptive."

  "But since you've married him--"

  "I didn't marry him; he married me. I was as much a bargain as if I hadbeen bought. And now mamma sees that--that she might have got a betterprice."

  I thought it enough to say:

  "That must make it hard for her."

  A sigh bubbled up, like that of a child who has been crying.

  "It makes it hard for me." She eyed me with a long, oblique regard."Don't you think it's awful when an elderly man falls in love with ayoung girl who herself is in love with some one else?"

  I could only dodge that question.

  "All unhappiness is awful."

  "Ah, but this! An elderly man!--in love! Madly in love! It's notnatural; it's frightful; and when it's with yourself--"

  She moved away from me and began to inspect the room. In spite of heragitation she did this more in detail than when she had been therebefore, making the round of the book-shelves much as Mr. Graingerhimself was in the habit of doing, and gazing without comment on thePersian and Italian potteries. It was easy to place her as one of thosewomen who live surrounded by beautiful things to which they pay noattention. Mr. Brokenshire's richly Italianate dwelling was to her justa house. It would have been equally just a house had it been Jacobean orLouis Quinze or in the fashion of the Brothers Adam, and she would haveseen little or no difference in periods and styles. The books she nowlooked at were mere backs; they were bindings and titles. Since theybelonged to Stacy Grainger she could look at them with soft, unseeingeyes, thinking of him. That was all. Without comment of my own Iaccompanied her, watching the quick, bird-like turnings of her headwhenever she thought she heard a step.

  "It's nice for you here," she said, when at last she gave signs ofgoing. "I--I love it. It's so quiet--and--and safe. Nobody knows I cometo--to see you."

  Her stammering emboldened me to take a liberty.

  "But suppose they found out?"

  She was as innocent as a child as she glanced up at me and said:

  "It would still be to see you. There's no harm in that."

  "Even so, Mr. Brokenshire wouldn't approve of it."

  "But he'll never know. It's not the sort of thing any one would thinkof. I leave the motor down at Sixth Avenue, and this time of year it'sso dark. As soon as I heard Miss Davis was leaving I thought how nicethe place would be for you."

  Since it was useless to make the obvious correction here, I thanked herfor her kindness, going on to add:

  "But I don't want to get into any trouble."

  "No, of course not." She began moving toward the door. "What kind oftrouble were you thinking of?"

  I wondered whether or not, having taken one liberty, I could takeanother.

  "When I see my boat being caught in the rapids I'm afraid there's acataract ahead."

  It took her some thirty seconds to seize the force of this. Having gotit her eyes fell.

  "Oh, I see! And does that mean," she went on, her bosom heaving, "thatyou're afraid of the cataract on your own account--or on mine?"

  I paused in our slow drifting toward the door. She was a great lady inthe land, and I was nobody. I had much to risk, and I risked it.

  "Should I offend you," I asked, deferentially, "if I said--on yours?"

  For an instant she became as haughty as so sweet a nature knew how tobe, but the prompting passed.

  "No; you don't offend me," she said, after a brief pause. "We'refriends, aren't we, in spite of--"

  As she hesitated I fill
ed in the phrase.

  "In spite of the difference between us."

  Because she was pursuing her own thoughts she allowed that to pass.

  "People have gone over cataracts--and still lived."

  "Ah, but there's more to existence than life," I exclaimed, promptly.

  "There was a friend of my own," she continued, without immediatereference to my observation; "at least she was a friend--I suppose sheis still--her name was Madeline Grimshaw--"

  "Yes, Mrs. Pyne; but she wasn't Mrs. Brokenshire."

  "No; she never was so unhappy." She pressed her handkerchief against thetwo great tears that rolled down her cheeks. "She did love Mr. Grimshawat one time, whereas I--"

  "But you say he's kind."

  "Oh yes. It isn't that. He's more than kind. He'd smother me with thingsI'd like to have. It's--it's when he comes near me--when he touchesme--and--and his eye!"

  I knew enough of physical repulsion to be able to change my line ofappeal. "But do you think you'd gain anything if you made himunhappy--now?"

  She looked at me wonderingly.

  "I shouldn't think you'd plead for him."

  I had ventured so far that I could go a little farther.

  "I don't think I'm pleading for him so much as for you."

  "Why do you plead for me? Do you think I should be--sorry?"

  "If you did what I imagine you're contemplating--yes."

  She surprised me by admitting my implication.

  "Even if I did, I couldn't be sorrier than I am."

  "Oh, but existence is more than joy and sorrow."

  "You said just now that it was more than life. I suppose you mean thatit's love."

  "I should say that it's more than love."

  "Why, what can it be?"

  I smiled apologetically.

  "Mightn't it be--right?"

  She studied me with an air of angelic sweetness.

  "Oh no, I could never believe that."

  And she went more resolutely toward the door.

  Hugh returned in good spirits from Philadelphia. He had been wellreceived. His name had secured him much the same welcome as thataccorded him on his first excursions into Wall Street. I didn't tell himI feared that the results would be similar, for I saw that he wascheered.

  To verify the love I had acknowledged to him more than once, I was eagerto look at him again. I found a man thinner and older and shabbier thanthe Hugh who first attracted my attention by being kind to me. I couldhave borne with his being thinner and older; but that he should beshabbier wrung my heart.

  I considered myself engaged to him. That as yet I had not spoken thefinal word was a detail, in my mind, considering that I had so oftenrested in his arms and pillowed my head on his shoulder. The fact, too,that when I had first allowed myself those privileges I had taken him tobe a strong character--the shadow of a rock in a thirsty land, I hadcalled him--and that I now saw he was a weak one, bound me to him themore closely. I had gone to him because I needed him; but now that I sawhe needed me I was sure I could never break away from him.

  He dined with me at the Mary Chilton on the evening of his return,sitting where Larry Strangways had sat only forty-eight hourspreviously. I was sorry then that I had not changed the table. To beface to face with two men, on exactly the same spot, on occasions sonear together, in conditions so alike, gave me a sense of faithlessness.Though I wanted nothing so much as to be honest with them both, I wasafraid of being so with neither; and yet for this I hardly knew where toplace the blame. I suffered for Hugh because of Larry Strangways, and Isuffered for Larry Strangways because of Hugh. If I suffered for myselfI was scarcely aware of it, having to give so much thought to them.

  Nevertheless, I regretted that I had not chosen another table, and allthe more when Hugh brought the matter up. He had finished telling me ofhis experiences in Philadelphia. "Now what have you been doing?" hedemanded, a smile lighting up his tired face.

  "Oh, nothing much--the same old thing."

  "Seen anybody in particular?"

  I weighed my answer carefully.

  "Nobody in particular, except Mr. Strangways."

  He frowned.

  "Where did you see that fellow?"

  "Right here."

  "Right here? What do you mean by that?"

  "He came to dine with me."

  "Dine with you! And sat where I'm sitting now?"

  I tried to take this pleasantly.

  "It's the only place I've got to ask any one I want to talk to."

  "But why should you want to talk to--to--" I saw him struggling with theword, but it came out--"to that bounder?"

  "He's a friend of mine, Hugh. I've asked you already to remember thathe's a gentleman."

  "Gentleman! O Lord!" He became kindly and coaxing, leaning across thetable with an ingratiating smile. "Look here, little Alix! Don't youthink that for my sake it's time you were beginning to drop that lot?"

  Though I revolted against the expression, I pretended to see nothingamiss.

  "You mean just as Libby Jaynes had to drop the barbers and the pages inthe hotel when she became Mrs. Tracy Allen."

  He laughed nervously.

  "Oh, I don't go as far as that. And yet if I did--"

  "It wouldn't be too far." I gave him the impression that I was thinkingthe question out. "But you see, Hugh, dear, I don't see any differencebetween Mr. Strangways--"

  "And me?"

  "I wasn't going to say you, but between Mr. Strangways and the peopleyou'd like me to know. Or rather, if I do see a difference it's that Mr.Strangways is so much more a man of the world than--than--"

  Perceiving my embarrassment, he broke in:

  "Than who?"

  I took my courage in both hands.

  "Than Mr. Rossiter, for example, or your brother, Mr. Jack Brokenshire,or any of the men I met when I was with your sister. If I hadn't seenyou--the truest gentleman I ever knew--I shouldn't have supposed thatany of them belonged to the real great world at all."

  To my relief he took this good-naturedly.

  "That's what we call social inexperience, little Alix. It's because youdon't know how to distinguish."

  "That is, I don't know a good thing when I see it."

  "You don't know that sort of good thing--the American who counts. Butyou can learn. And if you learn you've got to take as a starting-pointthe fact that, just as there are things one does and things one doesn'tdo, so there are people one knows and people one doesn't know--and noone can tell you the reason why."

  "But if one asked for a reason--"

  "It would queer you with the right people. They don't want a reason. Ifpeople do want a reason--well, they've got to stay out of it. It was oneof the things Libby Jaynes picked up as if she'd been born to it. Sheknew how to cut; she knew how to cut dead; and she cut as dead as sheknew how."

  "But, Hugh, darling, I don't know how."

  He was all forbearance.

  "You'll learn, sweet." As for the moment the waitress was absent, he putout his hand and locked his fingers within mine. "You've got it in you.Once you've had a chance you'll knock Libby Jaynes into a cocked hat."

  I shook my head.

  "I'm not sure that you're right."

  "I know I'm right, if you do as I tell you: and to begin with you've gotto put that fellow Strangways in his place."

  I let it go at that, having so many other things to think of that anymere status of my own became of no importance. I was willing that Hughshould marry me as Tracy Allen married Libby Jaynes, or in any otherway, so long as I could play my part in the rest of the drama withright-mindedness. But it was precisely that that grew more difficult.

  When Mrs. Brokenshire and Mr. Grainger next met under what I can onlycall my chaperonage they were distinctly more at ease. The firststammering, shamefaced awkwardness was gone. They knew by this time whatthey had to say and said it. They had also come to understand that if Icould not be moved I might be outwitted. By the simple expedient ofwandering away on the plea
of looking at this or that decorative objectthey obtained enough solitude to serve their purposes. Without takingthemselves beyond my range of vision they got out of earshot.

  As far as that went I was relieved. I was not responsible for what theydid, but only for what I did myself. I was not their keeper; I didn'twant to be a spy on them. When, at a certain minute, as they returnedtoward me, I saw him pass a letter to her, it was entirely by chance. Ireflected then that, while she ran no risk in using the mails in writingto him, it was not so with him in writing to her, and thatcommunications of importance might have to pass between them. It wasnothing to me. I was sorry to have surprised the act and tried todismiss it from my mind.

  It was repeated, however, the next time they came and many times afterthat. Their comings settled into a routine of being twice a week, withfair regularity. Tuesdays and Fridays were their days, though notwithout variation. It was indeed this variation that saved the situationon a certain afternoon when otherwise all might have been lost.