Paradise Garden: The Satirical Narrative of a Great Experiment

"She's the woman I love," he declared with pathetic drama.

I braved the fists and laughed.

"Tush!" I said.

He was furious. For a moment I thought he was going to strike me. Had he done so I should have been ended there and then, and this interesting history brought to an untimely conclusion on the very eve of its most interesting disclosures.

But he thought better of it and with a shaking forefinger pointed toward the path downstream. "Go, Roger," he said in a trembling voice, "please go."

CHAPTER XXII

THE CHIPMUNK

I obeyed. There was nothing left for me to do. Our afternoon had ended in disaster, but I was not sorry. I had thought from all Jerry had told me that he was beginning to awaken, to rouse himself and tear asunder the web of enchantment that this girl Marcia had woven about him. I had meant to help him lift the veil to let him see her as she was, a beautiful, selfish little sensualist with a silken voice and an empty heart. But the time was not yet. I sighed, lamenting my failure but not regretting my temerity. If he would not waken at least I had the satisfaction of knowing it was not because I had not tried to wake him.

I made my way down over the rocks, casting a glance over my shoulder toward Jerry as I descended. He was following slowly, his hands behind him, his head down, the pipe hanging bowl downward in his teeth. There was anger in his appearance but there was something of reflection, too. Down on a lower level where the going was easier I paused, deliberating whether I shouldn't put my pride in my pocket and braving rebuffs, wait for him. I had half decided to choose this ignominious course when in the path ahead of me at some distance away I espied a figure walking toward me. I was deep in the shadow and the person, a female, had not espied me, but I could see her quite clearly in the sunlight. There was no mistaking her curious gait. It was Marcia Van Wyck, come at pains which must convince of her contrition, to make peace with Jerry.

I looked again to be sure that my eyes had not deceived me and then jumped into the underbrush beside the path and hid myself under a projection of nearby rock. I disliked the girl intensely and hated the sight of her, and this must, I suppose, account for the sudden impulse which led to my undignified retreat. Had I known in advance of the unfortunate situation in which it would have placed me, I should have faced her boldly or have fled miles away from that spot, to be forever associated in my mind with the one really discreditable experience of my career. I have always been, I think, an honorable man and such a paltry sin as eavesdropping had always been beneath me, save on the one occasion when my duty as Jerry's guardian prompted me to listen for a few moments at the cabin window last year when Una and Jerry were settling between them the affairs of the world. That was a pardonable transgression, this, a different affair, for Jerry was now released from my guardianship, a grown man ostensibly capable of managing his own affairs, which, as he had some moments before taken pains to inform me, were none of mine.

But as luck would have it, the girl walking upstream and Jerry walking down, they met in the path just beside the rock behind which I was so uncomfortably reclining and scarcely daring to breathe. I could not see their faces as they came together, but I heard their voices quite Distinctly.

"Marcia!" said Jerry, it seemed a trifle harshly. "What are you doing here?"

With my vision obstructed, the soft tones of her voice seemed to take an added significance.

"I came," she purred, "because, Jerry, I couldn't stay away."

And then, after a pause, her voice even more silken, "You don't seem very glad to see me."

"I—I—your appearance surprised me."

"But now that the surprise is over—are you glad to see me?" she asked.

A pause and then I heard him mutter.

"I didn't suppose that—after yesterday you would want to see me."

"Yesterday," she sighed, "twenty-four hours—an age! The surest proof that I wanted to see you is that I'm here, that I ran away from a house full of people, just to tell you—"

"Is Channing Lloyd still there?" he broke in harshly.

"Yes, Jerry, he is. But doesn't it mean anything to you that I left him, to come to you?"

"You broke your promise—to give him up—"

"Why, Jerry, I had to invite him to my dance. It would have been a slight."

"But you promised. He's a—"

"But I've known him for ages, Jerry. I can't be impolite."

"He's not polite to you, to me, or anybody. I told you I wanted you to give him up."

"You're fearfully exacting," she said, modulating her voice softly.

"He's a cad. I can't understand your inviting him. His very look is an insult, his touch a desecration. I don't like the way he paws you."

"Of course, he—he means nothing by it," she said soothingly. "It's only his way."

"But I don't like his way and I don't like him. I've told you so a good many times."

"You make it very difficult for me. It would have been insulting not to have asked him. We've been very good friends until you came."

"It's a pity I came, then. You've got to choose between us. I've told you that before."

"Why, Jerry, I have chosen," she said, her voice softening suspiciously. "How could I ever think of anybody else now that I have you? It's so absurd of you to be jealous of Chan. He's not like you, of course, and his manner is a little rough, but he really isn't nearly so terrible a person as you think he is." She sighed. "But if you insist, I suppose I shall have to give him up."

"Is it painful to you?" he muttered.

She laughed. "You silly boy, of course not. I will give him up. There! Does that settle that matter?"

"I thought it was settled before."

"It was—but—" She paused.

"I don't see how you could want to be with a man I don't like—"

"I don't care for him, Jerry, really I don't. Won't you believe me?"

"I'll believe you when you give him up."

She sighed again, her voice breaking effectively.

"Oh, dear! Do you want me to give up all my friends? And is it quite fair?"

"I haven't asked you to give up any of your friends, but Lloyd—"

Well, I've given him up, Jerry. I'll send him home tonight. Don't let's think of him any more. I can't stand having anything come between us again. I can't, Jerry. It makes me so unhappy. I've been wretched since yesterday about Una. That's why I came. I wanted you to know how sorry I am that I spoke to Una the way I did."

"Are you, Marcia?" His voice had softened suddenly and from the shuffling of his feet I think he took a pace toward her.

"Yes, Jerry dear, contrite. I simply couldn't let another hour pass without coming to ask your forgiveness."

He was weakening. Perhaps his arm was around her. I don't know, but his silence was ominous.

"I have been so miserable," she murmured. "My conscience has troubled me terribly. Oh, I can't tell you how I have suffered. All the evening I thought you would come. I waited for you; I went out on the terrace a hundred times, watching for the lights of your car; but you didn't come, you didn't come, Jerry, and I knew how terribly I had offended you."

I couldn't see her but I'm sure she was wringing her pretty white hands. Jerry must have been deeply moved for his voice was shaky.