Part 3 (2/2)
Warrington's novel (the only one he ever wrote) was known to few. To tell the truth, the very critics that were now praising the dramatist had slashed the novelist cruelly. And thereby hangs a tale. A New York theatrical manager sent for Warrington one day and told him that he had read the book, and if the author would attempt a dramatic version, the manager would give it a fair chance. Warrington, the bitterness of failure in his soul, undertook the work, and succeeded. Praise would have made an indifferent novelist of him, for he was a born dramatist.
Regularly each year he visited his birthplace for a day or so, to pay in person his taxes. For all that he labored in New York, he still retained his right to vote in his native town.
A sudden desire seized him to-night to return to his home, to become a citizen in fact and deed. It was now the time of year when the spring torrents flood the lowlands, when the melting snows trickle down the bleak hillsides, when the dead hand of winter lies upon the bosom of awakening spring, and the seed is in travail. Heigh-ho! the world went very well in the springs of old; care was in bondage, and all the many gateways to the heart were bastioned and sentineled.
”Sir, a lady wishes to see you.”
Warrington turned. His valet stood respectfully in the doorway.
”The name?” Warrington rose impatiently. n.o.body likes to have his dreams disturbed.
”Miss Challoner, sir.”
”Challoner!” in surprise; ”and this time of night?” He stroked his chin. A moment pa.s.sed. Not that he hesitated to admit her; rather he wished to make a final a.n.a.lysis of his heart before his eyes fell down to wors.h.i.+p her beauty. ”Admit her at once.” He brushed the ashes from his jacket and smoothed his hair. The valet disappeared. ”If I only loved the woman, loved her honestly, boldly, fearlessly, what a difference it would make! I don't love her, and I realize that I never did. She never touched my heart, only my eye and mind. I may be incapable of loving any one; perhaps that's it. But what can have possessed her to leave the theater this time of night?”
A swish of petticoats, a rush of cool air with which mingled an indefinable perfume, and, like a bird taking momentary rest in the pa.s.sage, she stood poised on the threshold. A beautiful woman is a tangible enchantment; and fame and fortune had made Katherine Challoner beautiful, roguishly, daringly, puzzlingly beautiful. Her eyes sparkled like stars on ruffled waters, the flame of health and life burned in her cheeks, and the moist red mobile mouth expressed emotions so rapidly and irregularly as to bewilder the man who attempted to follow them. Ah, but she could act; comedy or tragedy, it mattered not; she was always superb.
There was a tableau of short duration. Her expression was one of gentle inquiry, his was one of interest not unmixed with fascination.
He felt a quick touch of compa.s.sion, of embarra.s.sment. There had been times when yonder woman had seemed to show him the preference that is given only to men who are loved. Even as the thought came to him, he prayed that it was only his man's vanity that imagined it. As he stared at her, there came the old thrill: beauty is a power tremendous.
”d.i.c.k, you do not say you are glad to see me.”
”Beauty striketh the sage dumb,” he laughed. ”What good fortune brings you here to-night? What has happened? How could you find time between the acts to run over?”
”I am not acting to-night.”
”What?”
”No. Nor shall I be to-morrow night, nor the thousand nights that shall follow.”
”Why, girl!” he cried, pus.h.i.+ng out a chair. He had not seen her for two weeks. He had known nothing of her movements, save that her splendid talents had saved a play from utter ruin. Her declaration was like a thunderbolt. ”Explain!”
”Well, I am tired, d.i.c.k; I am tired.” She sat down, and her gaze roved about the familiar room with a veiled affection for everything she saw. ”The world is empty. I have begun to hate the fools who applaud me. I hate the evil smells which hang about the theater. I hate the overture and the man with the drums,” whimsically.
”What's he done to you?”
”Nothing, only he makes more noise than the others. I'm tired. It is not a definite reason; but a woman is never obliged to be definite.”
”No; I never could understand you, even when you took the trouble to explain things.”
”Yes, I know.” She drew off her gloves and rubbed her fingers, which were damp and cold.
”But, surely, this is only a whim. You can't seriously mean to give up the stage when the whole world is watching you!”
She did not answer him, but continued to rub her fingers. She wore several rings, among which was a brilliant of unusual l.u.s.ter.
Warrington, however, had eyes for nothing but her face. For the past six months he had noted a subtle change in her, a growing reserve, a thoughtfulness that was slowly veiling or subduing her natural gaiety.
She now evaded him when he suggested one of their old romps in queer little restaurants; she professed illness when he sent for her to join him in some harmless junketing. She was slowly slipping away from him; no, drifting, since he made no real effort to hold her. And why had he made no real effort? Sometimes he thought he could answer this question, and then again he knew that he could not. Ah, if he only loved her! What a helpmeet: cheerful, resourceful, full of good humor and practical philosophy, a brilliant wit, with all the finished graces of a G.o.ddess. Ah, if indeed he only loved her! This thought kept running through his mind persistently; it had done so for days; but it had always led him back to the starting point. Love is not always reasoning with itself. Perhaps--and the thought filled him with regret--perhaps he was indeed incapable of loving any one as his poet's fancy believed he ought to love. And this may account for the truth of the statement that genius is rarely successful in love; the ideal is so high that it is out of the reach of life as we, genius or clod, live it.
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