The Forbidden Way. Gibbs George
her, and, when she refused, took one himself, lit it slowly, gazing out of the transom opposite.
"I hope I haven't tired you, Mrs. Cheyne. It's dangerous to get me talking about myself. I never know when to stop."
"I don't want you to stop. I've never been so entertained in my life. I don't believe you know how interesting you are."
He turned toward her, embarrassed and still incredulous. "You're very kind," he muttered.
"You mustn't be so humble," she broke in sharply. "You weren't so a minute ago. I like you best when you are talking of yourself."
"I thought I'd like to talk about you."
She waved a hand in deprecation. "Me? Oh, no. We can't come to earth like that. Tell me another fairy tale."
"Fairy tale? Then you don't believe me?"
"Oh, yes," she laughed, "I believe you, but to me they're fairy tales just the same. It seems so easy for you to do wonderful things. I wish you'd do some conjuring for me."
"Oh, there isn't any magic business about me. But I'll try. What do you want most?"
She put an elbow on her knee and gazed at the blossom in her fingers. Her voice, too, fell a note.
"What I think I want most," she said slowly, "is a way out of this." She waved the blossom vaguely in the direction of the drawing room. "I'm sick of it all, of the same tiresome people, the same tiresome dinners, dances, teas. We're so narrow, so cynical, so deeply enmeshed in our small pursuits. I'm weary – desperately weary of myself."
"You?"
"Yes." And then, with a short, unmirthful laugh, "That's my secret. You didn't suspect it, did you?"
"Lord! no." And after a pause, "You're unhappy about him?"
"Cheyne? Oh, no. He's the only thing I am happy about. Have you ever been really bored, Mr. Wray?"
"Never. I never even heard the word until I came to New York."
"Have you ever been so tired that your body was numb – so that if you struck it a blow you were hardly conscious of it, when you felt as if you could go to sleep and never want to wake up? Well, that's the condition of my mind. It's so tired of the same impressions that it fails to make note of them; the people I see, the things I do, are all blurred and colorless like a photograph that has been taken out of focus. The only regret I have when I go to sleep is that I have to wake up again."
"My dear Mrs. Cheyne – "
"Oh, I'm not morbid. I'm too bored to be morbid even. I don't think I'm even unhappy. It takes an effort to be unhappy. I can't tell you what the matter is. One drifts. I've been drifting a long time. I think I have too much money. I want to want something."
"Don't you ever want anything you can't have?"
She sat upright, and her voice, instead of drawling languidly, came in the quick accents of discovery. "Yes, I do. I've just found out. You've actually created a new interest in life. Won't you be nice to me? Come and see me often and tell me more fairy tales."
CHAPTER VII
BRAEBANK
"I can't see, Curtis," said Mrs. Janney, in the smoking room, "why you chose to ask those vulgar Wrays to Braebank. It almost seems as if you were carrying your business relationships too far. The woman is pretty enough, and I dare say her easy Western ways will be attractive to the masculine portion of your guests. But the man is impossible – absolutely impossible! He does not even use correct English, and his manners – atrocious!"
The palms of the good lady's hands, as she raised them in her righteous wrath, were very pink on the inside, like the petals of rosebuds. They were sheltered hands, very soft and plump, and their fingers bore many large and expensive jewels. Mrs. Janney was made up wholly of convex curves, which neither art nor starvation could deflect. The roundness of her face was further accented by concentric curves at brows, mouth, and chin, which gave the impression of a series of parentheses. It would not be stretching the figure too far to add that Mrs. Janney, in most of their few affiliations, bore a somewhat parenthetical relation to her husband. Her life, as well as her conversation, was made up of "asides," to which Curtis Janney was not in the habit of paying the slightest attention. Her present remarks, however, seemed to merit a reply.
"My dear Amelia," he said, tolerantly, from his easy chair, "when we were first married you used to say that all a man needed to make his way in New York was a dress suit and a smile. Wray has both. Besides, it is quite necessary to be on good terms with him. As for his wife, I have rarely seen a girl who created such an agreeable impression. Cornelius Bent has taken them up. He has his reasons for doing so. So have I. I'll trouble you, therefore, to be civil."
He got up and put down his cigar, and Mrs. Janney shrugged her shoulders into a more pronounced convexity.
"I won't question your motives, Curtis, though, of course, I know you have them. But I don't think we can afford to jeopardize our standing by always taking up new people like the Wrays. The man is vulgar – the woman, provincial."
Mr. Janney by this time had taken up the telephone and was ordering the wagons to the station.
"Why, Gretchen, dear! You're late. It's almost train time." Miss Janney entered in riding clothes from the terrace, bringing traces of the fine November weather. She was a tall, slender girl of the athletic type, sinuous and strong, with a skin so firm and ruddy from the air that it glowed crisply as though shot with mica.
"Is it, mother? Cortland and I had such a wonderful ride. He is really quite the nicest man in the world. Aren't you, Cort?"
"Of course I am," said Bent, laughing, as he entered, "anything Gretchen says. That's because I never made love to her, isn't it, Gretchen?"
"Partly. Love is so silly. You know, daddy, I've given Cort his congé."
Janney turned testily. "What nonsense you children talk!"
"I mean it, though, daddy," she went on calmly. "I'm too fond of Cort ever to think of marrying him. We settled that still more definitely to-day. Since you were so inconsiderate, you two, as to neglect to provide me with a brother, I've adopted Cort."
"Really, Gretchen, you're getting more hopeless every day," sighed her mother. "What does Cortland say?"
"I?" laughed Bent. "What is there left for me to say? We're hopelessly friendly, that's all. I'm afraid there's nothing left but to take to drink. May I?"
He lifted the decanter of Scotch and poured himself a drink, but Janney, with a scowl in the direction of his daughter, left the room.
"You mustn't speak so heartlessly, dear," said Mrs. Janney. "You know it always makes your father angry. You must be patient with her, Cortland."
"I am," said that gentleman, helping himself to a cigarette. "I'm the soul of patience, Mrs. Janney. I've pleaded and begged. I've even threatened suicide, but all to no purpose. There's no satisfaction in shooting one's self on account of a girl who's going to laugh at your funeral."
He threw himself hopelessly into a big English chair and sighed exuberantly, while Gretchen gave him a reproachful look over her mother's shoulder. "My poor boy, don't give her up," said the lady, genuinely. "All will come right in time, I'm sure. You must be sweeter to him, Gretchen. You really must."
"I suppose I must," said Gretchen with an air of resignation. "I'll not be any more cruel than I can help."
When the good lady left the room they looked at each other for a moment, and then burst into shameless laughter.
"Poor mother! She never had a sense of humor. I wouldn't laugh at your funeral, though, Cort. That was unkind. You know, I'm afraid father is very much provoked."
Bent's laughter died, and he gazed at the ash of his cigarette. "He's really quite serious about it, isn't he?"
"Oh, yes. It's an awful nuisance, because, in his way, he has a will as strong as mine."
Bent smiled. "I'm glad I'm not in his boots. You're fearfully stubborn, Gretchen."
"Because I insist on marrying