He reached the street and turning the corner walked northward blindly, in dull resentment against Percy Endicott, and the world that he typified. Their story of his adventure, it appeared, was common property, and was being handed with God knows what hyperbole from one chattering group to another. It didn’t matter about himself, of course. He realized grimly that this was not the first time his name had played shuttlecock to the fashionable battledore. It was of her he was thinking—of Jane. Thank God, they hadn’t found a name to couple with his. What they were telling was doubtless bad enough without that, and the mere fact that his secret was known had already taken away some of the idyllic quality with which he had invested it. He knew what fellows like Ogden Spencer and Larry Kane were saying. Had he not himself in times past assisted at the post mortems of dead reputations, and wielded his scalpel with as lively a skill as the rest of them?
Two months had passed since that day in the woods when he had lost her, but there wasn’t a day of that time when he had not hoped that some miracle would bring them together again. In Canada he had made inquiries at the camps he had passed, and poor Joe Keegón, who had spent a day with her guides, had come in for his share of recrimination. The party had come from the eastward, and had made a permanent camp; there were many people and many guides, but no names had passed. Joe Keegón was not in the habit of asking needless questions.
One thing alone that had belonged to her remained to Gallatin—a small gold flask which bore, upon its surface in delicate script, the letters J.L. On the day that they had broken camp Joe Keegón had silently handed it to him, his face more masklike than ever. Gallatin had thrust it into his coat-pocket with an air of indifference he was far from feeling, and had brought it southward to New York, where it now stood upon the desk in the room of his boyhood, so that he could see it each day, the token of a great happiness—the symbol of an ineffable disgrace.
It seemed now that Gallatin had not needed that reminder, for since he had been back in the city he had been working hard. It surprised him what few avenues of escape were open to him, for when he went abroad and did the things he had always done, there at his elbow was the Bowl. But his resolution was still unshaken, and difficult as he found the task, he went the round of his clubs at the usual hours and joined perfunctorily in the conversation. Always companionable, his fellows now found him reticent, more reserved and less prone to make engagements. Bridge he had foresworn and the card room at the Cosmos saw him no more. He stopped in at the club on the way home as he had done to-day, sometimes leaving his associates with an abruptness which caused comment.
But already he was finding the trial he had set for himself less difficult; and as the habit of resistance grew on him, he realized that little by little he was drifting away from the associations which had always meant so much to him. He had not given up the hope of finding Jane. From a chance phrase, which he had treasured, he knew that New York was familiar to her and that some day he would see her. He was as sure of that as though Jane herself had promised it to him. She owed him nothing, of course, for in the hour of his madness he had thrown away the small claims he had upon her gratitude, and the only memory she could have of him was that which had been expressed in the look of fear and loathing he had last seen in her eyes. To her, of course, time and distance had only magnified that horror and he knew that when he met her, there was little to expect from her generosity, little that he would even dare ask of it except that she would listen while he told her of the enemy in his house and of the battle that was still raging in his heart. He wanted her to know about that. It was his right to tell her, not so much to clear himself of blame, as to justify her for the liberality of her confidence before the tide of battle had turned against him—against them both.
Time and distance had played strange tricks with Jane’s image and at times it seemed very difficult for Gallatin to reconstruct the picture which he had destroyed. Sometimes she appeared a Dryad, as when he had first seen her, running frightened through the wood, sometimes the forlorn child with the injured ankle, sometimes the cliff-woman; but most often he pictured her as when he had seen her last, running in terror and dismay from the sight of him. And the other Jane, the Jane that he knew best, was hidden behind the eyes of terror. The memory was so vague that he sometimes wondered whether he would even know her if he met her dressed in the mode of the city. Somehow he could not associate her with the thought of fashionable clothes. She had worn no hat nor had she needed one. She belonged to the deep woods, where dress means only warmth and art means only artificiality. He always thought of her hatless, in her tattered shirtwaist and skirt, and upon Fifth Avenue was as much at a loss as to the kind of figure he must look for as though he were in the land of the great Cham.
Yes, he would know her, her slender figure, her straight carriage, the poise of her head, her brown hair, her deep blue eyes. No fripperies could conceal them. These were Jane. He would know them anywhere.
VIII
CHICOT, THE JESTER
Philip Gallatin had been mistaken. He did not know Jane when he saw her. For, ten minutes later, he met her face to face in one of the paths of the Park—looked her in the face and passed on unknowing. Like the hound in the fable, he was so intent upon the reflection in the pool that he let slip the substance. He was conscious that a girl had passed him going in the opposite direction, a girl dressed in a dark gray tailor-made suit, with a fur at her neck and a dark muff swinging in one hand—a slender girl beside whom two French poodles frisked and scampered, a handsome girl in fashionable attire, taking her dogs for an airing. He walked on and sat down on a bench which overlooked the lake. The sun had fallen below the Jersey hills and only the tops of the tall buildings to the eastward held its dying glow. The lawns were swathed in shadow and the branches of the trees, already half denuded of their foliage, emerged in solemn silhouette like a pattern of Irish lace against the purpling sky. A hush had suddenly fallen on the distant traffic and Gallatin was alone.
Out of the half-light an inky figure came bounding up to him and sniffed eagerly at his knees. It was a black poodle. Gallatin patted the dog encouragingly, upon which it whined, put its paws on his lap and looked up into his face.
“Too bad, old man,” he said. “Lost, aren’t you?” Then, as the memory came to him, “By George, your mistress will be hunting. I wonder if we can find her.” He turned the nickel collar in his fingers and examined the name-plate. There in script was the name of the owner, and an address. Gallatin thrust the crook of his stick through the dog’s collar and rose. He must find Miss Jane Loring or return the animal to its home. Jane Loring? Jane—?
He stopped, bent over the excited dog and looked at the name plate again. Jane Loring—“J. L.” Why—it was Jane’s dog! He had passed her a moment ago—here—in the park. More perturbed even than the wriggling poodle, he rose and hurried along the path down which he had come. There could be no mistake. Of course, it was Jane! There was no possible doubt about it! That blessed poodle!
“Hi! there! Let up, will you?” he cried, as the dog twisted and squirmed away from him. A whistle had sounded shrilly upon Gallatin’s left and before he knew it the dog had escaped him and was dashing hotfoot through the leaves toward the spot where a dark figure with another dog on a leash was rapidly moving.
Gallatin followed briskly and came up a moment later, in the midst of the excitement of reunion and reconciliation.
“Down, Chicot, down, I say,” the girl was commanding. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself to be giving so much trouble!” And as Gallatin approached, breathlessly, hat in hand, “I’m ever so much obliged. I ought to have had him in leash. He’s only a puppy and—” She stopped, mouth open, eyes wide as she recognized him. He saw the look she gave him and bowed his head.
“Jane!” he said, humbly. “Jane!”
The dogs were leaping around them both and Chicot was biting joyously at his gloved hand, but Miss Loring had drawn back.
“You!” she said.
“Yes,” softly. “I—I’m so glad to see you.”
He held his hand before him as though to parry an expected blow.
“Don’t,” he muttered. “Give me a chance. There’s so much I’ve got to say,—so much–”
“There’s nothing for you to say,” she said decisively. “If you’ll excuse me—I—I must be going at once.”
She turned away quickly, but the dogs were putting her dignity in jeopardy for the puppy still nosed Gallatin’s hand and showed a determination to linger for his caress.
“You’ve
got
to listen,” he murmured. “I’m not going to lose you again–”
“Come, Chicot,” said the girl in a voice which was meant to be peremptory, but which sounded curiously ineffective. Chicot would not go until Gallatin caught him by the collar and followed.
“You see,” he laughed, “you’ve got to stand for me—or lose the puppy.”
But Miss Loring had turned abruptly and was moving rapidly toward the distant Avenue. Gallatin put on his hat and walked at her side.
“I want you to know—how it all happened to me—up there in the woods,” he muttered, through set lips. “It’s only justice to me—and to you.”
“Will you please leave me!” she said, in a stifled voice, her head stiffly set, her eyes looking straight down the path before her.
“No,” he replied, more calmly. “I’m not going to leave you.”
“Oh, that you would dare!”
“Don’t, Jane!” he pleaded. “Can’t you see that I’ve got to go with you whether–”
“My name is Loring,” she interrupted coldly, strongly accenting the word.
“Won’t you listen to me?”
“I’m entirely at your mercy—unfortunately. I’ve always thought that a girl was safe from intrusion here in the Park.”
“Don’t call it that. I’ll go in a moment, if you’ll only hear what I’ve got to say.”
“You’d offer an apology for—for
that
!” She could not find a tone that suited her scorn of him.
“No—not apology,” he said steadily. “One doesn’t apologize for the things beyond one’s power to prevent. It’s the
miserere
, Jane—the
de profundis
——”
“It comes too late,” she said, but she stole a glance at him in spite of herself. His head bent slightly forward, he was gazing, under lowered brows directly before him into the falling dusk. She remembered that look. He had worn it when he had sat by their camp-fire the night they had heard the voices.
“Yes, I know,” he went on slowly. “Too late for you to understand—too late to help, and yet–”
“I beg that you will not go on,” she broke in quickly. “It can do no good.”
“I must go on. I’ve got so much to say and such a little time to say it in. Perhaps, I won’t see you again. At least I won’t see you unless you wish it.”
“Then you’ll not see me again.”
He turned his head and examined her soberly.
“That, of course, is your privilege. Don’t be too hard, if you can help it. Try and remember me, if you can, as I was before–”
“I shall not remember you at all, Mr. Gallatin.”
He started as she spoke his name. “You knew?”
“Yes, I knew. You—your name was familiar to me.”
“You mean that you had heard of me?” he asked wonderingly.
She knew that she had said too much, but she went on coldly.
“In New York one hears of Philip Gallatin. I knew—there in the woods. I discovered your name by accident—upon your letters.”
She spoke shortly—hesitantly, as if every word was wrung from her by an effort of will.
“I see,” he said, “and what you heard of me—was not good?”
“No,” she said. “It was not good. But I had known you two days then, and I—I thought there must—have been some mistake—until—” she broke off passionately. “Oh, what is the use of all this?” she gasped. “It’s lowering to your pride and to mine. If I have said more than I meant to say, it is because I want you to know why I never want to see you—to hear of you again.”
He bowed his head beneath the storm. He deserved it, he knew, and there was even a bitter pleasure in his retribution, for her indifference had been hardest to bear.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “I will go in a moment. But first I mean that you shall hear what I have to say.”
She remembered that tone of command. He had used it when he had lifted her in his arms and carried her helpless to his camp-fire. The memory of it shamed her, as his presence did now, and she walked on more rapidly. Their path had been deserted, but they were now approaching the Avenue where the hurrying pedestrians and vehicles proclaimed the end of privacy. A deserted bench was before them.
“Please stop here a moment,” he pleaded. “I won’t keep you long.” And when she would have gone on he laid a hand on her arm. “You must!” he insisted passionately. “You’ve got to, Jane. You’ll do me a great wrong if you don’t. I’ve kept the faith with you since then—since I was mad there in the wilderness. You didn’t know or care, but I’ve kept the faith—the good you’ve done—don’t undo it now.”
A passer-by was regarding them curiously and so she sat, for Gallatin’s look compelled her. She did not understand what he meant, and in her heart she knew she could not care whose faith he kept, or why, but she recognized in his voice the note of a deep emotion, and was conscious of its echo in her own spirit. Outwardly she was as disdainful as before, and her silence, while it gave him consent, was anything but encouraging. As he sat down beside her the puppy, “Chicot,” put his head upon Gallatin’s knees and looked up into his eyes, so Gallatin put his hand on the dog’s head and kept it there.
“I want you to know something about my people—about—the Gallatins–”
“I know enough, I think.”
“No—you’re mistaken. We are not all that you think we are. Let me go on,” calmly. “The Gallatins have always stood for truth of speech and honesty of purpose, and whatever their failings they have all been called honorable men. Upon the Bench, at the Bar, in the Executive chair, no word has ever been breathed against their professional integrity or their civic pride. My great grandfather was a Justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, my grandfather a Governor of the State of New York, my father–”
Miss Loring made a gesture of protest.
“Wait,” he insisted. “My father was a great lawyer—one of the greatest this City and State have ever known—and yet all of these men, mental giants of their day and generation—had—had a weakness—the same weakness—the weakness that I have. To one of them it meant the loss of the only woman he had ever loved—his wife and his children; to another the sacrifice of his highest political ambition; to my father a lingering illness of which he subsequently died. That is my pedigree—of great honor—and greater shame. History has dealt kindly because their faults were those of their blood and race, for which they themselves were not accountable. This may seem strange to you because you have only learned to judge men by their performances. The phenomenon of heredity is new to you. People are taught to see the physical resemblances of the members of a family to its ancestors—but of the spiritual resemblance one knows nothing—unless—” his voice sunk until it was scarcely audible, “unless the spiritual resemblance is so strong that even Time itself cannot efface it.”
The girl did not speak. Her head was bowed but her chin was still set firmly, and her eyes, though they looked afar, were stern and unyielding.
“When I went to the woods, I was—was recovering—from an illness. I went up there at the doctor’s orders. I
had
to go, and I—I got better after a while. Then
you
came, and I learned that there was something else in life besides what I had found in it. I had never known–”
“I can’t see why I should listen to this, Mr. Gallatin.”
“Because what happened after that, you were a part of.”
“
I?
”
“It was you who showed me how to be well. That’s all,” he finished quietly. He rubbed the dog’s ears between his fingers and got some comfort from Chicot’s sympathy, but went on in a constrained voice. “I was hoping you might understand, that you might give me charity—if only the charity you once gave to the carcass of a dead deer.”
There was a long silence during which he watched her downcast profile, but when at last she lifted her head, he knew that she was still unyielding.
“You ask too much, Mr. Gallatin,” she said constrainedly. “If you were dead you might have my pity—even my tears, but living—living I can only—only hold you in—abhorrence.”
She rose from the bench quickly and shortened in the leashes of her dogs.
“You—you dislike me so much as that?” he asked dully.
“Dislike and—and fear you, Mr. Gallatin. If you’ll excuse me–”
She turned away and Gallatin started up. Dusk had fallen and they were quite alone.
“I can’t let you go like this,” he whispered, standing in front of her so that she could not pass him. “I can’t. You mean that you fear me because of what—happened—My God! Haven’t I proved to you that it was madness, the madness of the Gallatin blood, which strikes at the happiness of those it loves the best? I love you, Jane. It’s true. Night and day–”
“You’ve told me that before,” she broke in fearlessly. “Must you insult me again. For shame! Let me pass, please.”
It was the assurance of utter contempt. Gallatin bowed his head and drew aside. There was nothing left to do.
He stood there in the dusk, his head uncovered, and watched her slender figure as it merged into the darkness. Only the dog, Chicot, stopped, struggling, at his leash, but its mistress moved on hurriedly without even turning her head and was lost in the crowd upon the street. Gallatin lingered a moment longer immovable and then turned slowly and walked into the depths of the Park, his face pale, his dark eyes staring like those of a blind man.
Night had fallen swiftly, but not more swiftly than the shadows on his spirit, among which he groped vaguely for the elements that had supported him. He crept into the night like a stricken thing, his feet instinctively guiding him away from the moving tide of his fellow-beings—one of whom had just denied him charity—without which his own reviving faith in himself was again in jeopardy. For two months he had fought his battle silently with her image in his mind—the image of a girl who had once given him faith and friendship, whose fingers had soothed him in fever, and whose eyes had been dark with compassion—the girl who had taught him