XXVII. A CONSPIRACY AGAINST ANITA
On about the hottest afternoon of that summer I had the yacht take me downthe Sound to a point on the Connecticut shore within sight of Dawn Hill,but seven miles farther from New York. I landed at the private pier ofHoward Forrester, the only brother of Anita's mother. As I stepped upon thepier I saw a fine-looking old man in the pavilion overhanging the water. Hewas dressed all in white except a sky-blue tie that harmonized with thecolor of his eyes. He was neither fat nor lean, and his smooth skirt wasprotesting ruddily against the age proclaimed by his wool-white hair. Herose as I came toward him, and, while I was still several yards away,showed unmistakably that he knew who I was and that he was anything butglad to see me.
"Mr. Forrester?" I asked
He grew purple to the line of his thick white hair. "It is, Mr. Blacklock,"said he. "I have the honor to wish you good day, sir." And with that heturned his back on me and gazed out toward Long Island.
"I have come to ask a favor of you, sir," said I, as polite to that hostileback as if I had been addressing a cordial face. And I waited.
He wheeled round, looked at me from head to foot. I withstood theinspection calmly; when it was ended I noted that in spite of himself hewas somewhat relaxed from the opinion of me he had formed upon what he hadheard and read. But he said: "I do not know you, sir, and I do not wish toknow you."
"You have made me painfully aware of that," replied I. "But I have learnednot to take snap judgments too seriously. I never go to a man unless I havesomething to say to him, and I never leave until I have said it."
"I perceive, sir," retorted he, "you have the thick skin necessary toliving up to that rule." And the twinkle in his eyes betrayed the man whodelights to exercise a real or imaginary talent for caustic wit. Such menare like nettles--dangerous only to the timid touch.
"On the contrary," replied I, easy in mind now, though I did not anger himby showing it, "I am most sensitive to insults--insults to myself. But youare not insulting _me_. You are insulting a purely imaginary, hearsayperson who is, I venture to assure you, utterly unlike me, and whodoubtless deserves to be insulted."
His purple had now faded. In a far different tone he said: "If yourbusiness in any way relates to the family into which you have married, I donot wish to hear it. Spare my patience and your time, sir."
"It does not," was my answer. "It relates to my own family--to my wife andmyself. As you may have heard, she is no longer a member of the Ellerslyfamily. And I have come to you chiefly because I happen to know yoursentiment toward the Ellerslys."
"I have no sentiment toward them, sir!" he exclaimed. "They arenon-existent, sir--nonexistent! Your wife's mother ceased to be a Forresterwhen she married that scoundrel. Your wife is still less a Forrester."
"True," said I. "She is a Blacklock."
He winced, and it reminded me of the night of my marriage and Anita'sexpression when the preacher called her by her new name. But I held hisgaze, and we looked each at the other fixedly for, it must have been, fullhalf a minute. Then he said courteously: "What do you wish?"
I went straight to the point. My color may have been high, but my voicedid not hesitate as I explained: "I wish to make my wife financiallyindependent. I wish to settle on her a sum of money sufficient to give heran income that will enable her to live as she has been accustomed. I knowshe would not take it from me. So, I have come to ask you to pretend togive it to her--I, of course, giving it to you to give."
Again--we looked full and fixedly each at the other. "Come to the house,Blacklock," he said at last in a tone that was the subtlest of compliments.And he linked his arm in mine. Halfway to the rambling stone house, severein its lines, yet fine and homelike, quaintly resembling its owner, as aman's house always should, he paused. "I owe you an apology," said he."After all my experience of this world of envy and malice, I should haverecognized the man even in the caricatures of his enemies. And you broughtthe best possible credentials--you are well hated. To be well hated by thehuman race and by the creatures mounted on its back is a distinction, sir.It is the crown of the true kings of this world."
We seated ourselves on the wide veranda; he had champagne and waterbrought, and cigars; and we proceeded to get acquainted--nothing promotescordiality and sympathy like an initial misunderstanding. It was a goodhour before this kind-hearted, hard-soft, typical old-fashioned NewEnglander reverted to the object of my visit. Said he: "And now, young man,may I venture to ask some extremely personal questions?"
"In the circumstances," replied I, "you have the right to know everything.I did not come to you without first making sure what manner of man I wasto find." At this he blushed, pleased as a girl at her first beau's firstcompliment. "And you, Mr. Forrester, can not be expected to embark in thelittle adventure I propose, until you have satisfied yourself."
"First, the why of your plan."
"I am in active business," replied I, "and I shall be still more active.That means financial uncertainty."
His suspicion of me started up from its doze and rubbed its eyes. "Ah! Youwish to insure yourself."
"Yes," was my answer, "but not in the way you hint. It takes away a man'scourage just when he needs it most, to feel that his family is involved inhis venture."
"Why do you not make the settlement direct?" he asked, partly reassured.
"Because I wish her to feel that it is her own, that I have no right overit whatever."
He thought about this. His eyes were keen as he said, "Is that your realreason?"
I saw I must be unreserved with him. "Part of it," I replied. "The restis--she would not take it from me."
The old man smiled cynically. "Have you tried?" he inquired.
"If I had tried and failed, she would have been on the alert for anindirect attempt."
"Try her, young man," said he, laughing. "In this day there are few peopleanywhere who'd refuse any sum from anybody for anything. And a woman--and aNew York woman--and a New York fashionable woman--and a daughter of oldEllersly--she'll take it as a baby takes the breast."
"She would not take it," said I.
My tone, though I strove to keep angry protest out of it, because I neededhim, caused him to draw back instantly. "I beg your pardon," said he. "Iforgot for the moment that I was talking to a man young enough still tohave youth's delusions about women. You'll learn that they're human, thatit's from them we men inherit our weaknesses. However, let's assume thatshe won't take it: _Why_ won't she take your money? What is thereabout it that repels Ellersly's daughter, brought up in the sewers offashionable New York--the sewers, sir!"
"She does not love me," I answered.
"I have hurt you," he said quickly, in great distress at having compelledme to expose my secret wound.
"The wound does not ache the worse," said I, "for my showing it--to_you_." And that was the truth. I looked over toward Dawn Hill whosetowers could just be seen. "We live there." I pointed. "She is--like aguest in my house."
When I glanced at him again, his face betrayed a feeling of which I doubtif any one had thought him capable in many a year. "I see that you loveher," he said, gently as a mother.
"Yes," I replied. And presently I went on: "The idea of any one I lovebeing dependent on me in a sordid way is most distasteful to me. And sinceshe does not love me, does not even like me, it is doubly necessary thatshe be independent."
"I confess I do not quite follow you" said he.
"How can she accept anything from me? If she should finally be compelled bynecessity to do it, what hope could I have of her ever feeling toward me asa wife should feel toward her husband?"
At this explanation of mine his eyes sparkled with anger--and I could notbut suspect that he had at one time in his life been faced with a problemlike mine, and had settled it the other way. My suspicion was not weakenedwhen he went on to say:
"Boyish motives again! They show you do not know women. Don't be deceivedby their delicate exterior, by their pretenses of super-refinement. Theyaffe
ct to be what passion deludes us into thinking them. But they're clay,sir, just clay, and far less sensitive than we men. Don't you see, youngman, that by making her independent you're throwing away your best chanceof winning her? Women are like dogs--like dogs, sir! They lick the handthat feeds 'em--lick it, and like it."
"Possibly," said I, with no disposition to combat views based on I knew notwhat painful experience. "But I don't care for that sort of liking--from awoman, or from a dog."
"It's the only kind you'll get," retorted he, trying to control hisagitation. "I'm an old man. I know human nature--that's why I live alone.You'll take that kind of liking, or do without."
"Then I'll do without," said I.
"Give her an income, and she'll go. I see it all. You've flattered hervanity by showing your love for her--that's the way with women. They gocrazy about themselves, and forget all about the man. Give her an incomeand she'll go."
"I doubt it," said I. "And you would, if you knew her. But, even so, Ishall lose her in any event. For, unless she is made independent, she'llcertainly go with the last of the little money she has, the remnant of asmall legacy."
The old man argued with me, the more vigorously, I suspect, because hefound me resolute. When he could think of no new way of stating hiscase--his case against Anita--he said: "You are a fool, young man--that'sclear. I wonder such a fool was ever able to get together as much propertyas report credits you with. But--you're the kind of fool I like."
"Then--you'll indulge my folly?" said I, smiling.
He threw up his arms in a gesture of mock despair. "If you will have itso," he replied. "I am curious about this niece of mine. I want to see her.I want to see the woman who can resist _you_."
"Her mind and her heart are closed against me," said I. "And it is my ownfault--I closed them."
"Put her out of your head," he advised. "No woman is worth a serious man'swhile."
"I have few wants, few purposes," said I. "But those few I pursue to theend. Even though she were not worth while, even though I wholly lost hope,still I'd not give her up. I couldn't--that's my nature. But--_she_ isworth while." And I could see her, slim and graceful, the curves in herface and figure that made my heart leap, the azure sheen upon herpetal-like skin, the mystery of the soul luring from her eyes.
After we had arranged the business--or, rather, arranged to have itarranged through our lawyers--he walked down to the pier with me. At thegangway he gave me another searching look from head to foot--but vastlydifferent from the inspection with which our interview had begun. "You area devilish handsome young fellow," said he. "Your pictures don't do youjustice. And I shouldn't have believed any man could overcome in one briefsitting such a prejudice as I had against you. On second thought, I don'tcare to see her. She must be even below the average."
"Or far above it," I suggested.
"I suppose I'll have to ask her over to visit me," he went on. "A finehypocrite I'll feel."
"You can make it one of the conditions of your gift that she is not tothank you or speak of it," said I. "I fear your face would betray us, ifshe ever did."
"An excellent idea!" he exclaimed. Then, as he shook hands with me infarewell: "You will win her yet--if you care to."
As I steamed up the Sound, I was tempted to put in at Dawn Hill's harbor.Through my glass I could see Anita and Alva and several others, men andwomen, having tea on the lawn under a red and white awning. I could see herdress--a violet suit with a big violet hat to match. I knew that costume.Like everything she wore, it was both beautiful in itself and most becomingto her. I could see her face, could almost make out its expression--did Isee, or did I imagine, a cruel contrast to what I always saw when she knewI was looking?
I gazed until the trees hid lawn and gay awning, and that lively companyand her. In my bitterness I was full of resentment against her, full ofself-pity. I quite forgot, for that moment, _her_ side of the story.