The Restless Sex

"You took me out of the gutter!" she repeated excitedly. "You cleaned the filth from me, gave me shelter, love; – you educated me, made me possible, strove to eradicate the unworthy instincts and inclinations which I might have inherited. My aunt told me. I know what dad did for me! Why shouldn't I adore the memory of your father? Why shouldn't I love his son? I do. I always have. I didn't dream that you ever could offer me a greater love. But when I understood that it was true – when I realized that it was really love, then I stepped into your arms because you held them out to me – because you were your father's son whom I had loved passionately all my life in one way, and was willing to learn to love in any way you asked of me – Jim! – my brother – my lover – "

She flung herself into his arms, choking, clinging to him, struggling to control her voice:

"I am nothing – I am nothing," she sobbed passionately. "Why should not all my gratitude and loyalty be for your father's son? What is so terrible to me is that I can't give myself! That I can't throw myself at your feet for life. To marry you would be too heavenly wonderful! Or, to snap my fingers in the world's face for your sake – dearest – that would be so little to do for you – so easy.

"But I can't. Your father – dad – would know it. And then the world would blame him for ever harbouring a gutter-waif – "

"Steve, dearest – "

"Oh, Jim," she stammered, "I haven't even told you how those inherited traits have raised the deuce with me. I've got in me all the low instincts, all the indolence, the selfish laziness, the haphazard, irresponsible, devil-may-care traits of the man who was my own father!"

"Steve – !"

"Let me tell you! I've got to tell you. I can't keep it any longer. It was something in Oswald that appealed to that gypsy side of me – awoke it, I think. The first time I ever saw him, as a boy, and under disagreeable circumstances, I felt an odd inclination for him. He was like me, and I sensed it! I told you that once. It's true. Something in him appealed to the vagabond recklessness and irresponsibility latent in me – the tendency to wander, the indolent desire to drift and explore pleasant places… After you went abroad I met him. I wrote you about it. I liked him. He fascinated me. There was something in common – something common in common between us… I went to his studio, at first with Helen, and also when others were there. Then I went alone. I didn't care, knowing there was really no harm in going, and also being at the age when defiance of convention is more or less attractive to every girl.

"He was fascinating. He was plainly in love with me. But that means nothing to a girl except the subtle excitement and flattery of the fact. But he was what I wanted – a fellow vagabond!

"Every time I came into town I went to his studio. My aunt had no idea what I was up to. And we did have such good times, Jim! – you see he was successful then, and he had a wonderful studio – and a car – and we ran out into the country and then returned to take tea in his studio… And, Jim, it was all right – but it was not good for me."

She clasped his arm with both of hers and rested her head on his shoulder; and went on talking in a steadier and more subdued voice:

"I didn't write you about it; I was very sure you wouldn't approve. And my head was stuffed full of modernism and liberty and urge and the necessity for self-expression. I felt that I had a perfect right to enjoy myself… And then came trouble. It always does… Oswald's father, Chiltern Grismer, came to the hospital one day, terribly wrought up and looking ghastly.

"My aunt had gone to New York to consult a specialist, but he asked for me, and I came down to the private reception room. I was a graduate nurse then. Oh, Jim! – it was quite dreadful. He seemed to be scared until he saw that I was. Then he was fearfully harsh with me. He told me that my aunt was about to begin suit against him to recover some money – a great deal of money – which my aunt pretended I should have inherited from my grandmother, Mr. Grismer's sister.

"He said we were two adventuresses and that he would expose me and my unhappy origin – all that horror of my childhood – "

A sob checked her; she rested in his arms, breathing fast and irregularly; then, recovering self-control:

"I was bewildered. I told him I didn't want his money. But there was in his eyes a terror which I could see there even when he was upbraiding and threatening me most violently. I didn't know what to do; I wanted to go back to my ward, but he followed me and held the door closed, and I had to listen to the terrible, shameful things he said about my mother's mother and my own mother and myself… Well – just as he was about to leave, my aunt entered… I was in tears, and Mr. Grismer's face was all twisted and contorted with rage, as I thought; but it remained so, white and distorted, as though something had broken and he couldn't recover the mobility of his features. I heard what my aunt said to him – I didn't want to hear it. I cried out, protesting that I didn't wish any of his money… He went away with his face all twisted…"

"What did your aunt say to him?"

"I can't tell you, dear. I am not at liberty to tell you… And after all, it doesn't matter… He died – suddenly – a week later… My aunt was ill at the time and I was with her… A letter was handed to her by an orderly. It was from Mr. Grismer… From a dead man! What she read in it seemed to be a terrific shock to her. She was sick and weak, but she got out of bed and telephoned to her attorneys in New York… I was frightened… It was a most dreadful night for us both… And … and my aunt died of it, I think – the shock and her illness combined… She died a week later… I took our studio with Helen… I saw Oswald every day. He had inherited a great deal of money. We went about… And, Jim, the very devil was in me to roam everywhere with him and see things and explore the part of the world we could cover in his touring car. All the gypsy instinct born in me, all the tendency to irresponsible wandering and idle pleasure suddenly seemed to develop and demand satisfaction… Oswald was a dear. He was in love with me; I knew it. He didn't want to go on those escapades with me; but I bullied him into it… And it got to a point beyond all bounds; the more recklessly we went about the keener my delight in risking everything for the sake of unconventional amusement. Twice we were caught out so far from New York that he had to drive all night to get into town. And then, what was to be expected happened: our car broke down when it meant a night away from the studio with Oswald. And the very deuce was to pay, too, for in the Ten Eyck Hotel at Albany we ran into friends – girls I knew in school and their parents – friends of dad's!

"Oh, Jim, I was panic-stricken. We had to stay there, too. I – there was nothing to do but present Oswald as my husband… That was a terrible night. We had two rooms and a connecting parlour. We talked it over; I cried most of the time. Then I wrote out that cablegram to you… Oh, Jim, he is a dear. You don't know him as I do. He knew I didn't love him and he was in love with me… Well, we had to do something.

"He went out to the Fort Orange Club and got a man he knew. Then, with this man as witness, we told each other that we'd marry each other… Then Oswald went away with his friend and I didn't see him again until next day, when he called for me with the car… And that is all there was of my marriage… And now," she sobbed, "I'm in love with you and I – I – " She broke down hopelessly. He drew her close to him, holding her tightly.

"There is m-more," she faltered, "but I c-can't tell it. It's c-confidential – a matter of honour. I want to be what dad and you expect of me. I do want to be honourable. That is why I can't tell you another person's secret… It would be dishonourable. And even if I told you, I'd be afraid to ask him for my freedom – "

"You mean he would not let you divorce him?"

"Oh, no, I don't mean that! That is the terrible part of it! He would give me my freedom. But I don't want it – that way – not on the – not on such terms – "

They walked slowly toward the house together, she leaning on him as though very tired. Ahead of them a few fireflies sparkled. The rushing roar of the river was in their ears all the way to the house.

Helen had retired, leaving a note for them on the library table:

Forgive me, but I've yawned my head off – not because you two lunatics are out star-gazing, but because I'm in my right mind and healthily fatigued. Put the cat out before you lock up!

    H.

Stephanie laughed, and they hunted up the cat, discovered her asleep in the best room, and bore her out to the veranda. Then Cleland locked up while Stephanie waited for him. Her tears had dried. She was a trifle pale and languid in her movements, but so lovely that Cleland, already hopelessly in love with her, fell deeper as he looked at her in this pale and unfamiliar phase.

Her grey eyes returned his adoration sweetly, pensively humourous:

"I'm in rags, emotionally," she said. "This loving a young man is a disturbing business to a girl who's just learned how… Are you coming upstairs?"

"I suppose so."

"You'll sleep, of course?"

"Probably not a wink, Steve."

"I wonder if I shall."

They ascended the old staircase together in silence. At her door she held out her hand; he kissed it, released the fingers, but they closed around his and she drew him to her.

"What shall I do?" she said. "Tell me?"

"I don't know, dearest. There seems to be nothing you can do for us."

She bent her head thoughtfully.

"Anything that dishonours me would dishonour you and dad, wouldn't it, Jim?"

"Yes."

She nodded.

"You understand, don't you? I count myself as nothing. Only you count, Jim. But I can't marry you. And I can't go to you otherwise without betraying both dad and you. It isn't a question of my being married and of loving you enough to disregard it. I do. But you and dad require more than that of the girl you made one of your own race. I am loyal to what you both expect of me… Good night, dear… There doesn't seem to be any way I can make you happy. The only way I can show my love and gratitude to dad and you is to retain your respect … by being unkind – Jim – my dearest – dearest – "

She closed her eyes and gave him her lips, slipped swiftly out of his arms and into her room.

"Oh, I'm desperately in love," she said, shaking her head at him as she slowly closed the door. "I'm going to get very, very little sleep, I fear… Jim?"

"Yes."

"You know," she said, "Helen is a charming, clever, talented, beautiful girl. If you are afraid my behaviour is going to make you unhappy – "

"Steve, are you crazy?"

"Couldn't you fall in love with her?"

"Do you want me to try?"

There was a silence, then Stephanie shook her head and gently closed her door.