Paradise Garden: The Satirical Narrative of a Great Experiment
"Jerry is very generous," she said sweetly. "Do tell me about it."
Here Jerry blundered in rather sheepishly. "Oh, I say, Una, that's a secret, you know."
"Oh, is it?" said Una innocently. "I can't see why. Marcia knows. Everybody ought to. It was such a splendid thing to do."
"Jerry is so modest," said Marcia.
"The plans are simply adorable," Una went on quickly. "You know, Jerry, we simply had to have that open-air school on the roof. You know, you didn't object—"
"N—no—of course," said Jerry, shifting his feet.
"And the ward for nursing babies—we did put those windows in the west wall. You know we were a little uncertain about that."
"So we were," echoed Jerry dismally.
This was merely the preliminary skirmish with Una's outposts holding their positions close to the enemy's lines. But Marcia was not to be daunted. She opened fire immediately.
"It's simply dear of you, Una, to take so much interest in the work. I'm sure Jerry must have frightful difficulties in managing to spend his income. But to have his oldest friend to help him must relieve him of a tremendous burden of responsibility."
The outposts withdrew to the main line of skirmirshers and there opened fire again, from cover.
"It isn't so much a matter of friendship as of real interest in the needs of the community, you know. Anyone else would do quite as well as I; for instance, you, Marcia."
"But you see," Marcia countered coolly, "I haven't known Jerry nearly so long as you have."
"Haven't you?"
"I don't think so. Have I, Jerry?"
Jerry evaded the issue with some skill.
"Friendships aren't reckoned in terms of time," he put in with a short laugh. "If they were I'd be the most solitary person under the sun."
Marcia merely smiled, saying nothing, and when she joined the talk of another group I saw Una's gaze following her curiously.
She seemed to be able to understand Marcia little better than I did. But in a moment from my seat in the corner just beside them I saw Una look about the room and give a little gasp of pleasure.
"This cabin! Do you remember, Jerry?" she said quietly. "You gave me a cup of tea here and we decided just what you and I were going to do with the wicked world?"
"Oh, don't I? And you told me all about the plague spots?"
"Yes." She gazed out of the window. "You were interesting that day, Jerry."
"Was! I like that."
"So elephantine in your seriousness—"
"Elephantine! Oh, I say—"
"But you were nice. I don't think I've ever liked you so much as then. I think you're really much more interesting when you're elephantine. It was quite glorious the way you were planning to go galumphing over all vice and wickedness."
He shook his head soberly.
"I haven't made good, Una."
"Oh, there's still time. The jungle is still there, but it's an awfully big jungle, Jerry, bigger than you thought."
"Yes—bigger and swampier," he said slowly.
"I think if I could see more of you, Una, I might be better."
"I don't know that I've ever denied you the house," she laughed.
"I—I'm coming soon. But I want you to see my place here—the house, I mean. Couldn't you come with your mother and—and sisters and spend a few days up here?"
"Perhaps it would be time enough for me to answer that question when mother does. I—I am busy, you know."
"Please! And we can have one of our good old chats."
"Yes," and then mischievously, "but you'd better ask Marcia first, don't you think?"
His gaze fell and he reddened.
"I—I don't quite see what Marcia's got to do with it," he muttered.
"Oh, don't you?"
"No."
She smiled and then with a really serious air:
"Well, I do. I'm sorry I intruded, Jerry. I wouldn't have come for the world if I had known—"
"What nonsense you do talk. Promise me you'll come, Una."
"Ask Marcia first."
He laughed uneasily. "What a tease you are!"
"You ought to be very much flattered."
"How?"
"To be worth teasing."
Here they moved slightly away, turning their backs toward me and unfortunately I could hear no more. And so I sat listening to the group around Marcia, who was again enthroned at the tea-table.
I had not met the men, but they were of the usual man-about-town type, "Marcia's ex-es" somebody, I think the mannish Carew girl, amusingly called them. Among them Arthur Colton, married only a year, who already boasted that he was living "the simple double life." Besides the Laidlaws there were the Walsenberg woman, twice a grass widow and still hopeful, and the Da Costa debutante who looked as though butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, giggled constantly and said things which she fondly hoped to be devilish, but which were only absurd. This was the girl, I think, whom Jerry had described as having only five adjectives, all of which she used every minute. Channing Lloyd, a glass of champagne at his elbow, laughed gruffly and filled the room with tobacco smoke. I listened. Small talk, banalities, bits of narrow glimpses of narrow pursuits. I had to admit that Marcia quite dominated this circle, and I understood why. Shallow as she was, she was the only one with the possible exception of Phil Laidlaw who gave any evidence of having done any thinking at all. I might have known as I listened that her conversation had a purpose.
"I claim that obedience to the will of man," Marcia was saying, "has robbed woman of all initiative, all incentive to achievement, all creative faculty, and that only by renouncing man and all his works will she ever be his equal."
"Why don't you renounce 'em then, Marcia?" roared Lloyd, amid laughter.
"I know at least one that I could renounce,' said Marcia, smiling as she lighted a cigarette.
"Me? You couldn't," he returned. "You've tried, you know, but you've got to admit that I'm positively in'spensible to you."
"Do be quiet, Chan. You're idiotic. I'm quite serious."
"You're always serious, but you never mean what you say."
"Oh, don't I?"
"No," he grunted over his glass.
She glanced at him for a moment and their eyes met, hers falling first. Then she turned away. I think that the man's attraction for her was nothing less than his sheer bestiality.
"I believe in a splendid unconventional morality," she went on, musing with half-closed eyes over the ash of her cigarette. "After awhile you men will understand what it means."
"Not I," said Lloyd, who was drinking more than he needed. "If you say that immorality is conventional I'll agree with you, my dear, but morality—" and he drank some champagne, "morality! what rot!"
The others laughed, I'll admit, more at, than with him. But the conversation was sickening enough. I saw Jerry and Una shake hands and come forward and Marcia immediately turned toward them. The end of the battle was not yet, for as Una nodded in the general direction of the group in passing, Marcia spoke her name.
"Ah, Una dear. You're going?"
"I must," with a glance at her wrist watch. "It's getting late."
"What a pity. I wanted to talk to you—about the Mission."
"I'd like to, but—"
"We've just been discussing a theme that I know you're really vitally interested in."
"I?" I could see by the sudden lift of her brows that Una was now on her guard.
"Yes. You believe in women working, in woman's independence, in the New-Thought idea of unconventional morality, don't you?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Simply that women are or should be perfectly capable of looking out for themselves, as much so as men?"
"That depends a great deal upon the woman, I should say," replied Una, smiling tolerantly.
"I was just about to put a hypothetical question. Do you mind listening? A young girl, for instance, pretty, romantic, a trifle venturesome, weary of the banalities of existence, leaves all the tiresome cares of the city and with the wanderlust upon her goes faring forth in search of adventure. A purely hypothetical case, but a typical one. As she wanders through the woods, she comes upon a high stone wall, something like this one of Jerry's, and suddenly remembers that within this wall there lives a young man, beautiful beyond the dreams of the gods. I have said that she is romantic, also venturesome—"
"Her address, please," muttered Lloyd quickly.
"Do be quiet, Chan—" Marcia went on. "Venturesome, modern, moral—"
"It can't be done," muttered the brute again.
"Chan, do be serious. Curiosity overwhelms the girl. Nobody is about. So, putting her fears behind her, she climbs the wall and enters."
The daring impertinence of this recital had stricken Jerry suddenly dumb, but the veins at his temples were swelling with the hot blood that had risen to his face. Una, after a moment of uncertainty, became strangely composed.
"It is a beautiful spot. No one is in sight," Marcia went on amusedly. "The girl ventures further, and finds the beautiful young man catching trout. She talks to him. I think he is amused at her temerity, also perhaps a little flattered at her marks of confidence—"
"Marcia!" It was Jerry's voice, deep, booming, and I had hardly recognized it. But there was a note in it that caused a hush to fall over the room. The girl looked up as though puzzled.
"You interrupt, Jerry—"
"Neither Una nor I are interested in what you're saying," he cried hoarsely, while the rest of the company stared at him.
"I am, Jerry," said Una's voice very coolly. Except for Marcia, perhaps, she was the least ruffled person in the room. "I want very much to hear the rest of the story," she added. "It has possibilities."
Marcia laughed.
"Possibilities, yes. There isn't much left to tell except that the girl spent the afternoon and the evening in the cabin with the beautiful young man and then went over the wall the way she came. Now what I wanted to know, Una dear, is whether you think that morality, conventional or unconventional, can stand a test like that."
Una was silent for a moment and then her words came slowly, rather wistfully.
"Was she a friend of yours?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, a friend."
"And did you know her for any length of time to be honorable, upright, decent?"
"Oh, yes, quite so."
Una paused another moment and when she spoke her voice was crystal-clear.
"Then all I would like to say is that the mind that can conceive of evil in such a piece of innocent imprudence is unclean, beyond words! Is that all that you wanted to know?"
Marcia leaned back in her chair holding her breath for a moment and then broke into a peal of laughter.
"There! You see. I knew you would agree with me."
The people in the room looked from one to the other, aware of a hidden meaning in the situation. Channing Lloyd had paused in the act of pouring out another glass of wine and stood blinking heavily. The only sound was a nervous titter from the Da Costa girl. Una looked around from face to face as though seeking those of her friends and then spoke fearlessly.
"You may not know what this hypothetical question means or its answer?" she said with a smile. "I will tell you. I was that girl. Jerry Benham, the man. The place was here. I am accustomed to going where and with whom I please." She tossed her small head proudly, "Those who can see evil where evil doesn't exist are welcome to their opinions. As for my friends—"
Here a chorus of protest went up, from the treble of the Da Costa girl to Laidlaw's deep bass.
"Una—you silly child—of course no one thinks—"
"As for my friends," she repeated, her voice slightly raised, "I will choose them by this token."
I had not misjudged her. Her scorn of Marcia was ineffable, and I think the girl at the tea-urn had a sense of being at a disadvantage, for the idea of Una's frank admission had never entered Marcia's pretty intriguing head. She was hoist with her own petard and covered her confusion by a light laugh which was most unconvincing.
"Of course, Una, I didn't mean—"
But the rest of her sentence was lost in the sudden disintegration of the party into groups, some of which followed Una to the door. Jerry had regained his senses and strode out after her."
"I'm going with you, Una," I heard him say.
"It isn't necessary. I can find the way. Good-by, everybody. No, thanks, Phil."
But Jerry went on with her and I broke through the sympathetic crowd at the doorway and followed. Like Jerry, I too had been stunned, but unlike Jerry, in the reaction I was finding a secret delight in Una's splendid mastery of the situation. The pair were already far in advance of me, Una hurrying sedately, Jerry, his hands deep in his pockets, striding like a furious young god beside her, earnestly talking. It was not until they heard the sound of my hurrying footsteps that they stopped and turned.
"I can't let you go, Miss Habberton," I said breathlessly, "without letting you know how contrite I am at a slip of the tongue which—"
"It doesn't matter in the least, Mr. Canby. I have nothing to regret." And then, with her crooked little smile, "But you might have omitted the details."
"I—I—" I stammered.
"It was I—I who told—" Jerry blurted out. "I am to blame. Why shouldn't I tell? Was there anything to be ashamed of? For you? For me?"
"No, Jerry. The surest proof of it is that I'm not angry with you—with either of you. But I must be going."
"I'm going with you," said Jerry quickly.
"No."
"Let him, Miss Habberton," I put in.
"I had better go alone."
"I forbid it," said Jerry. "The machine is at the upper gate. I'll drive you. Come."
She hesitated. Our glances met. I think she must have seen the eagerness in my face, the friendliness, the admiration. She read too the revolt in Jerry's eyes, the dawning of something like reason and of his grave sense of the injustice that had been done to her. He pleaded almost piteously—as though her acquiescence were the only sign he could have of her forgiveness.
"Very well," she said at last, "to the station, then."
"No," said Jerry firmly, "to town. I'm going to drive you to town. We've got to have a talk. We've got to—to clear this thing up."
She hesitated again and I think she felt the need of companionship at that moment.
"But your guests—"
"Oh, I'll be here," I said. "They'll be going soon. Jerry can be back in time for the party."
"I'm not going to that party," Jerry muttered savagely.
He meant it. I bade them good-by—watched them until they passed out of sight and hearing, and then sank on a nearby rock, and hugged my knees in quiet ecstasy.
CHAPTER XXI
JERRY ASKS QUESTIONS
Fortunately for me, neither Jack Ballard nor the expected overflow from the Van Wyck house-party came to disturb the serenity of my thoughts, Jack being suddenly called to Newport, the guests having been taken in elsewhere. So I sat up alone for Jerry until late and finally went to bed, happily conscious that my embassy, impossible as it had seemed, had borne fruit after all. Jerry did not go to Marcia Van Wyck's party, and his evening clothes remained where Christopher had laid them out, on the bed in his room. I gave myself an added pleasure in slumber that night by going in and looking at them before I sought my own room. I cannot remember a night when I have slept more soundly and I rose refreshed and intensely eager to hear how things had gone with Jerry and the dear lady whom I had once so inaptly dubbed "the minx." At the breakfast table Poole informed me that Jerry had returned late to the Manor and was sleeping. It was good. The glimmerings of reason that had appeared in the boy during the last few days had been encouraging, and his open revolt against the enchantress had made me hopeful that her dominion over him was not so complete as it had appeared. Viewed from any angle, the conduct of the Van Wyck girl was reprehensible, and admitted of no excuse. She had overshot the mark and had done her target no harm. However warm her friendship with those of her guests who were at the cabin, the comments I had heard convinced me that Jerry and I were not alone in our condemnation. The attack seemed to savor of a lack of finesse, surprising in a person of her cleverness, for had her bias not been so great she should have known that as a gentleman, Jerry must resent so palpable and designing an insult to a guest at Horsham Manor. Her impudence still astounded me. Did she think herself so sure of Jerry that she chose purposely to try him? Or had the point been reached in their amatory relations where she was quite indifferent as to what Jerry might do?
Smoothly as my plan had worked and happily (or unhappily) as Marcia's pique and ill-humor had fitted into it, I could not believe that Jerry's revolt had ended matters. Even if the boy had been willing to end them (a thing of which I was not at all sure), Marcia Van Wyck was not the kind of girl to retire on this ungraceful climax, and Jerry's absence from her house on so important an occasion was nothing less than a notice to those present that he and Marcia were no longer on terms. I had had a sense of the girl's taste for conquest, and the more I thought of her the surer I was that Jerry's championship of Una Habberton would revive whatever remained of the lingering sparks of Marcia's passion.
Jerry joined me in the study later in the morning and sat for awhile reading the newspapers. He was silent, almost morose, and at last got up and walked about the place. I feared for a moment that he had gone to the garage with the intention of getting into his machine, and this I knew meant nothing less than a ride posthaste, to Briar Hills. But he came back presently in a more cheerful mood and after luncheon suggested fishing, a proposal that I instantly fell in with. And so I followed him up stream, my own humor being merely to carry the net, watch him whip the pools and pray that his luck might be good, for a full creel meant good humor and good humor, perhaps confidences.
Fortune favored. By the time we had gotten up the gorge, Jerry was in high spirits, for luck had crowned his skill and at least a dozen fish lay stiffening in the basket, and when we reached the iron grille Jerry emitted a deep sigh of satisfaction, drew out his pipe and sank on a rock to smoke it. I lay back beside him, my hat over my eyes. Nothing stimulates confidences so much as indifference. Jerry glanced at me once or twice, but I made no sign and after awhile he began talking. Whenever he paused I put in a grunt which encouraged him to go on. That is how I happened to hear about Jerry's ride home with Una Habberton.
It seems that when they got into the machine Una was very quiet and answered his questions only in mono-syllables, but Jerry was patient and all idea of Marcia's party being out of his head, he drove slowly so that he would not reach the city until everything was clear and friendly between them again. Her profile was very sober and demure, he said. He wasn't quite sure for a long time whether she was going to burst into anger, tears, or to laugh. Jerry must have looked sober too and for awhile it couldn't have been a very cheerful ride, but at last the boy saw Una looking at him slantwise and when he turned toward her she burst into the merriest kind of a laugh.
"Oh, Jerry, is it home you're driving me to, or just a funeral?"
He gasped in relief at her sudden change of mood. "I was just waiting," he said quietly. "I didn't want to intrude, Una."
"But you do look so like the undertaker's assistant," she smiled. "You have no right to be glum. I have. I'm the corpse. A corpse might laugh in sheer relief when the lid was screwed down and everything comfortable."
"Una! I don't see anything so funny—"
"My reputation! A trifling thing," she said coolly, "still, I value it."
"Your reputation! That's absurd—nothing could hurt you. I don't understand."
"I can't quite see yet how it all came out," she went on thoughtfully, "how Marcia knew that I had been inside the wall. Why, Jerry, unless she learned it recently, since I saw you in New York—" she paused.
"No," protested Jerry uncomfortably. "It was last summer—"
"But I had no name to you then—I was merely Una—"
"And I blurted it out, Una, the only name I knew, never thinking that you and Marcia were acquaintances."
"Oh, I see," and she smiled a little. "If my name had been plain Jane or even Mary, my reputation would have been safe."
"What rubbish, Una! Can't a fellow and a girl have a chat without—"
"Yes, but the girl mustn't get through eight-foot walls."
"I don't see what difference that makes." She must have given him a swift glance here. But she laughed again. "You evidently don't realize, Jerry, that monasteries are supposed to be taboo for young girls."
"Yes, but you didn't know about it being a monastery," he said seriously.
"Of course, or I shouldn't have dared. But that makes no difference to Marcia. I was there. You told her. Don't you know, Jerry, that it isn't good form to tell everything you know?"
"She guessed it," he muttered. "It's such a lot of talk about nothing." I think Jerry was getting a little warm now. "Suppose you were in there, whose affair is it but yours and mine?"
"Everybody's," she shrugged. "Everybody's business! That ought to be inscribed on the tombstone of every dead reputation. Hic jacet Una Habberton. Nice girl, but she would visit monasteries."
But nothing was humorous to Jerry's mood just then.
"I can't have you talking like that, Una," he said in a suppressed tone. "It's very painful to me. I can't imagine why anyone should try to injure you. They couldn't, you know. You're above all that sort of thing. It's too trivial—"
"Oh, is it? You'll see. All New York will have the story in twenty-four hours. Pretty sort of a tale to get to the Mission! The Mission! If those people heard! Imagine the embroideries! I could never lift my head down there again."
"Let the world go hang. Have you anything to be ashamed of, Una?"
"No."
"Nor I. Very well."
The seriousness that Una attached to the affair, while it bewildered, also inflamed him. "I wish it had been a man who had talked to you the way Marcia did."
Una turned toward him soberly.
"What would you do to him, Jerry?"
He smiled grimly. "I think I'd kill him," he said softly.
I think Jerry's tone must have comforted her, for he said that after that Una grew quieter.
"The world is very intolerant of idyls, Jerry."
They had reached a road which overlooked the river. Long, cool shadows brushed their faces as they rushed on from orchard to meadow, all redolent of sweet odors.
"Why?"
"Because they're a reproach."
"Friendship is no idyl, Una, with us. It's more like reality, isn't it?"
"I hope so."
"Don't you believe it?"
"Yes, I think I do."
He smiled at her gayly.
"I'm sure of it. I'm always myself with you, Una. I seem to want you to know all the things I'm thinking about. That's the surest indication, isn't it? And I want to know what you're thinking about. I feel as though I'd given you too many additional burdens down town, that you may tire this summer."
"Oh, you needn't worry. I'm quite strong."
"I want you to lay out some definite work that I can do, not merely giving money, but myself, my own strength and energy." He laughed. "You know I'm really thinking of asking you to establish a mission for men only, with me as the first patient. It does seem to straighten me out somehow, just being with you—keeps me from thinking crooked."
"Do you think crooked, Jerry?"
"Yes, often. Things bother me. Then I'm like a child. You've no idea of the vast abyss of my ignorance."
"But you mustn't think crooked. I won't have it."
"I can't help it, sometimes. People aren't always what you expect 'em to be. I ought to understand better by this time, but I don't."
"People aren't like books, Jerry. You're sure of books. But with people, you can turn the same page again and again and the printing is different every time."
"People do change, don't they?"
"Yes, and the pages are rather smudgy here and there, but you'll learn to read them some day. The office will help you, Jerry, because business people have to think straight or be repudiated. You ought to go to the office every day and work—work whether you like it or not. You've got too much money. It's dangerous. You're like a colt just out in the pasture, all hocks and skittishness. Work is the only thing for that. It may be tiresome but you've got to stick at it if it kills you."
