Part 25 (1/2)
”Good-night, Jerry.”
The boy was changed. It may not seem a serious thing to you, my precocious reader, who number your flirtations among the trivial affairs of life. Calf love, you will say, is not a matter worth bothering one's brains about. You will cla.s.s that ailment perhaps with the whooping cough and the measles and sneer it out of existence. But I would remind you that Jerry's mind and character were quite mature.
I had schooled them myself and I know. If Jerry had fallen in love with Marcia Van Wyck who proposed to play at her game of ”pitch-farthing” with so fine a soul as Jerry's, the thing was serious, serious for both of them. His att.i.tude toward the girl in his conversation tonight reminded me that affairs had already progressed a long way. She had come to Briar Hills, flattering Jerry, of course, that they could be alone, intriguing meanwhile with Channing Lloyd, a wild fellow, according to Jack Ballard, who at thirty could have unprofitably shared his omniscience with the devil. A fine foil for Jerry!
At dinner, the following night, we made a curious party. Marcia Van Wyck, radiant in pale green, with her admirers one at either hand; Channing Lloyd, dark, ma.s.sive, well-groomed, with a narrow smile and an air of complete domination of the table; Jerry at the other side, rolling bread-pills and forcing humor rather awkwardly; Miss Gore, solemn in black satin--all of them elegant and correct in evening clothes, while I in my rather shabby serge sat awkwardly trying to hide the s.h.i.+niness of my elbows. From my position at one end of the table I had an excellent opportunity to study the company. I saw in Lloyd, I think, the attraction for Marcia. His looks, his topics, his appet.i.tes were animal and gross. He drank continuously, smoked after his salad, and monopolized the guest of the evening to the complete exclusion of the others. Fragments of their talk reached me, of which I understood a little--Greek to Jerry. Miss Gore sat calmly through it all, leading Jerry into the conversation at propitious moments and out of it when it threatened incomprehension.
There is a kind of charity of the dinner table and ballroom finer, I think, than the mere kindness of giving, finer because it requires discretion, n.o.bler because it requires self-elimination. The more I saw of Miss Gore the more deeply was I impressed by her many amiable qualities. She had an ear for Jerry, but aware of my complete elimination by the rowdy upon my left, found time to relieve the awkwardness of my situation and contribute something to the pleasure of what for me would otherwise have been a very unenjoyable repast.
But when dinner was over, to my great surprise, I found myself alone with the girl Marcia. I have no very distinct notion of the means by which she accomplished this feat, remembering only hazily that we all ambled over to the conservatory, where a particular variety of orchid seemed to interest the girl. And there we were, I explaining and she listening, the others off somewhere near the entrance to the gymnasium, where I heard Lloyd's voice in bored monotone. I was quite sure in a moment that she hadn't managed to get me there to talk orchids, and I felt a vague sense of discomfort at her nearness. I have given the impression that her eyes were cold. As I looked into them I saw that I had been mistaken. In the dim light they seemed illumined at their greater depth by a hidden fire. She fixed her gaze upon my face and moved ever so slightly toward me. You may think it strange after what I have written when I say that at this moment I felt a doubt rising in me as to whether or not I might have done this girl an injustice, for her smile was frank, her air gracious, her tone friendly.
”Oh, Mr. Canby,” she said in her even voice, ”I've wanted to tell you what a wonderful thing it is that you have created--to thank you for Jerry. He's a gift, Mr. Canby, refres.h.i.+ng like the rain to thirsty flowers. You can't know what meeting a man like Jerry means to a woman like me. I don't think you possibly can.”
”What does it mean to you?” I asked.
”It means a new point of view on life, a thing scarce enough in this day when all existence is either sordid or vicious. I had reached a Slough of Despond, Mr. Canby, weary of the attainable, not strong enough or clever enough or courageous enough to defy criticism and obey the small voice that urged. I was sick with self-a.n.a.lysis, filled to the brim with modern philosophies--”
”I understand,” I broke in with a smile, which seemed to come in spite of me. ”There's no medicine for that.”
”Yes, Jerry. I--I think he's cured me--or at least Pm well on the road to recovery. n.o.body could be mind-sick long with Jerry letting daylight in.”
”Daylight, yes. You found it startling?”
”A little, at first. I felt the way I look sometimes at dawn after dancing all night, my tinsel tarnished, my color faded. All my effects are planned for artificial light, you see.”
Her frankness disarmed me.
”I'm thanking you for Jerry,” she went on, ”but I can't help knowing that Jerry is what you've made him; that his ideals, his simplicity, his purity are yours also.”
If she had baited her hook with flattery there was no sign of premeditation in the gentleness of her accents or in the friendly look she gave me. Could it be possible that this was the person in whom I had seen such a menace to Jerry's happiness?
”I have merely taught Jerry to be honest, Miss Van Wyck,” I replied.
”I ask no credit of him or of you.”
”But if it pleases me to give it to you,” she said softly, ”you surely can't object.”
”No, but I don't ask laurels I don't deserve. Jerry is--merely himself.”
”Plus, Mr. Roger Canby--purist and pedagogue,” she laughed. ”No, you can't get out of it. Jerry reflects you; I think I actually recognize inflections of the voice. You ought to be very glad to have laid so strong an impress on so fine a thing.”
Just then I heard the raucous laugh of Channing Lloyd from the distant lawn, which reminded me with a startling suddenness that this slender creature who spoke softly of ideals and purity could choose a man like this fellow for an intimate. I noticed, too, the delicate odor which rose from her corsage of which Jack Ballard had spoken, something subtle and unfamiliar.
I straightened and looked out through the open window, steeling myself against her.
”I am glad you think him fine,” I said dryly. ”No doubt he compares very favorably with other young men of your acquaintance.”
”You mean Mr. Lloyd, of course,” she said quickly.
I was silent, avoiding her gaze and her perfume.