Paradise Garden: The Satirical Narrative of a Great Experiment
"You seem to know a great deal about Jerry," I said at last. "Who has told you?"
"My eyes are tolerably good, Mr. Canby, my ears excellent."
I would have questioned further, but Jerry and the Van Wyck girl at this moment came out on the terrace. Jerry was laughing.
"Caught in the act," he cried, as they came down to join us. "There's hope for you yet, Roger."
Marcia came and thrust her arm through Miss Gore's. "Isn't it wonderful to be the first woman in the Garden of Paradise?"
Miss Gore nodded carelessly.
The girl was so radiant in her air of possession that I couldn't help speaking.
"But you're not," I said.
Marcia's narrow eyes regarded me coolly and then looked at Jerry inquiringly, and when she spoke her voice was almost too sweet.
"Please don't rob us of our poor little halos, Mr. Canby," she said. "Do you mean that there have been other women, girls—in here before?"
I can't imagine why Jerry hadn't told her that. She seemed to know about everything else. "Yes, one."
"Jerry!" reproachfully. "And you said I was the first girl you'd ever really known!"
He smiled, though he was quite pink around the ears.
"You are really. Er—she didn't count."
"I shall die of chagrin. Her name, Mr. Canby," she appealed.
I hesitated. But Jerry, still red, blurted out:
"Una Smith. But Roger says that couldn't have been her name."
"But why shouldn't it be her name? She had nothing to be ashamed about, had she?"
"Of course not. She just slipped in through a broken grille. She was a stranger around here—I just happened to meet her and—er—we had a talk."
The boy seemed to be quite ill at ease. What did he already owe this girl Marcia that such an innocent confession made him uncomfortable?
"Una—Una—Smith," the girl was repeating. "This is really beginning to be fearfully interesting. Una," she turned quickly, her eyes widening. In the bright sunlight they seemed very light in color, a dark gray shot with little flecks of yellow. "Of course," she exclaimed. And then, "When was this—er—intrusion, Jerry? Last July?"
"I think so."
It was Jerry's turn to be surprised.
"She was brown-haired, smallish, with blue eyes? Quite pretty?"
Jerry nodded.
"Wore leather gaiters and carried a butterfly net?"
"You know her, Marcia?" he broke in.
"Of course. Jerry, I'm really surprised—also a trifle disillusioned—"
They moved off down the path toward the lake, Jerry talking earnestly. I watched them for a moment in silence, wondering what crisis I had precipitated in Jerry's affairs.
Beside me I heard the deep voice of Miss Gore.
"You see? He's already madly infatuated with her."
"Yes, yes," I replied, still watching them. "And she?"
Miss Gore shrugged her thin shoulders.
"I don't know. She won't marry him. I doubt if she will ever marry."
"Thank God for that," I said feelingly. She looked up at me quickly.
"You don't like Marcia?" she asked.
"No." I realized that I had gone too far, but I stood firm to my guns.
I was surprised that she didn't resent my frankness. Instead of being angry she merely smiled.
"Mr. Canby, it is difficult for many of us who live in the world to realize the effect of luxury and over-refinement upon society! We live too close to it. Mr. Benham is an anachronism. I would have given much if he had not become interested in Marcia. She is not for him nor he for her. But I think it is his mind that attracts her—"
"Rubbish!" I broke in. "Has he no face, no body?"
She smiled at my impetuousness. Strangely enough, we were both too interested to resent mere forms of intercourse.
"It's true. She has a good mind, but badly trained. His innocence fascinates, tantalizes her. I've watched them—heard them. She toys with it, testing it in a hundred ways. It's like nothing she has ever known before. But she isn't the kind you think she is. I doubt even if Jerry has kissed her. To Marcia men are merely so much material for experimentation. She has a reputation for heartlessness. I'm not sure that she isn't heartless. It's a great pity. She's very young, but she's already devoured with hypercriticism. She's cynical, a philanderer. You can't tamper with a passion the way Marcia has done without doing it an injury. You see, I'm speaking frankly. I don't quite understand why, but I'm not sorry."
I bowed my head in appreciation of her confidence. This woman improved upon acquaintance.
"You care for her," I said soberly. "I should have been more guarded."
"Yes, I care for her. She has many virtues. She gets along with women and I can understand her attraction for men. But she has confessed to me that men both attract and repel her. Sex-antagonism, I think the moderns call it—a desire to tease, to attract, to excite, to destroy. She uses every art to play her game. It is her life. If any man conquered her she would be miserable. A strange creature, you will say, but—"
"Strange, unnatural, horrible!"
She smiled at my sober tone.
"And yet she is acting within her rights. She asks nothing that is not freely given."
"Women are curiously tolerant of moral imperfections in those they care for. Your Marcia is dangerous. I shall warn Jerry."
But she shook her dark head sagely.
"It will do no good. You will fail."
We walked slowly toward the house and I tried to make her understand that I was grateful for her interest. She was not pretty, but, as I had discovered, had some beauties of the mind which made her physical attractions a matter of small importance.
As we neared the terrace, a thought came to me and I paused.
"You know who the girl Una is?" I asked.
"Yes," she nodded, "but her name isn't Smith."
"I was aware of that. Would you mind telling me who and what she is?"
She remained thoughtful a moment, fingering the stem of a plant.
"I don't see why I shouldn't. Her name is Habberton, Una Habberton. She was visiting the Laidlaws here last summer. Her family, a mother and a lot of girls, live in the old house down in Washington Square. They're fairly well off, but Una has gone in for social work—spends almost all of her time at it—slumming. I don't know much about her, but I think she must be pretty fine to give up all her social opportunities for that."
I smiled.
"She may have another idea of social opportunity," I said.
"Yes—you're quite right. I used the wrong words. One is not accustomed in Marcia's set to find that sort of thing an opportunity."
"Miss Van Wyck knows her?" I asked.
"Yes. Marcia is on a committee that provides money for this particular charity. They know each other. She came over to Briar Hills one night with Phil Laidlaw. Marcia saw her several times in our fields with her butterfly net. You see, her name is unusual. Marcia guessed the rest."
"Thanks," I said. "I hope you've forgiven me for my churlishness. I should like to know you better if you'll let me."
She turned her head toward me with a motherly smile.
"I don't care for the society of men," she said amusedly. "They annoy me exceedingly."
CHAPTER XI
THE SIREN
Something went wrong with Jerry's afternoon, for not long after lunch I heard his machine in the driveway. But I didn't go out to meet him. I knew that if there was anything he wanted to say to me he would come to the study door. But I heard him pass and go upstairs. I hadn't been able to do any work at my book since yesterday morning, and the prospect of going on with it seemed to be vanishing with the hours.
The astounding frankness of Miss Gore had set me thinking. As may be inferred, I did not understand women in the least and hadn't cared to, for their ways had not been my ways, nor mine theirs. But the woman's revelations as to the character of her cousin had confirmed me in the belief that Jerry had gotten beyond his depth. I think I understood her motives in telling me. I was Jerry's guardian and friend. If Miss Gore was Marcia's cousin she was also her paid companion, her creature, bound less by the ties of kinship than those of convention. I suppose it was Jerry's helplessness that must have appealed to the mother in her, his youth, innocence and genuineness. Perhaps she was weary treading the mazes of deception and intrigue with which the girl Marcia surrounded herself. Jerry wasn't fair game. All that was good in her had revolted at the maiming of a helpless animal.
For such, I am sure, Jerry already was. How much or how little the unconscious growth in the boy of the sexual impulse had to do with his sudden subjugation by the girl it was impossible for me to estimate. For if the impulse was newly born, it was born in innocence. This I knew from the nature of his comments on his experiences in the city. Knowledge of all sorts he was acquiring, but, like Adam, of the fruit of the tree he had not tasted. And yet, even I, stoic though I was, had been sensible of the animal in the girl. Her voice, her gestures, her gait, all proclaimed her. Miss Gore had spoken of a psychic attraction. Bah! There is but one kind of affinity of a woman of this sort for a beautiful animal like Jerry!
It was bewildering for me to discover how deeply I was becoming involved in Jerry's personal affairs. With the appointed day I had turned him adrift to work out in his future career, alone and unaided, my theory of life and his own salvation. And yet here, at the first sign of danger, I found myself flying to his defense as Jack Ballard would have it, like a hen that had hatched out a duckling. I reasoned with myself sternly that I feared nothing for Jerry. He would emerge from such an experience greater, stronger, purer even, and yet, in spite of my confidence, I found myself planning, devising something that would open the boy's eyes before damage was done. I was solicitous for Jerry, but there were other considerations. Jerry wasn't like other men. He had been taught to reason carefully from cause to effect. He would not understand intrigue, of course, or double dealing. They would bewilder him and he would put them aside, believing what he was told and acting upon it blindly. For instance, if this girl told him she cared for him, he would believe it and expect her to prove it, not in accordance with her notions of the obligation created, but in accordance with his own. There lay the difficulty, for he was all ideals, and she, as I suspected, had none. There would be damage done, spiritual damage to Jerry, but what might happen to Marcia? Jerry was innocent, but he was no fool, and with all his gentleness he wasn't one to be imposed upon. Flynn had understood him. He was polite and very gentle, but Sagorski, the White Hope, knew what he was when aroused. I wondered if Marcia Van Wyck with all her cleverness might miss this intuition.
Dinner time found the boy quiet and preoccupied. If he hadn't been Jerry I should have said he was sullen. That he was not himself was certain. It was not until he had lighted his cigarette after dinner that he was sure enough of himself to speak.
"What made you talk of Una to Marcia, Roger?" he asked quietly.
"I didn't," I said coolly. "You did, Jerry. And if I had, I can't see what it matters."
"It does a little, I think. You see, Marcia knows who she is. Una gave a false name. She wouldn't care to have people know she had come in here alone."
This was a reason, but of course not the real one. It wasn't like Jerry to mask his purposes in this fashion. I laughed at him.
"If you'll remember, Jerry, I mentioned no names."
"But why mention the incident at all?"
"Because to tell the truth," I said frankly, "I thought Miss Marcia Van Wyck entirely too self-satisfied."
He opened his eyes wide and stared at me. "Oh!" he said.
And then after the pause:
"You don't like Marcia?"
"No," I replied flatly, "I don't."
He paced the length of the room, while I sat by a lamp and ostentatiously opened the evening paper.
"I hope you realize," he said presently, with a dignity that would have been ridiculous if it hadn't been pathetic, "that Miss Van Wyck is a very good friend of mine."
"Is she?" I asked quietly.
"Yes—I'm very fond of her."
"Are you?" still quietly.
"Yes." He walked the floor jerkily, made a false start or so and then brought up before me with an air of decision. "I—I'm sorry you don't like her, Roger. I—I should be truly grieved if I—I thought you meant it. For I intend some day to ask her to be my—my—wife."
It was as bad as that? I dropped pretense and the newspaper, folding my arms and regarding him steadily.
"Isn't this decision—er—rather sudden?" I asked evenly.
"I've loved her from the first moment I saw her," he exclaimed. "She is everything, everything that a woman should be. Amiable, charitable, beautiful, talented, intellectual." He paused and threw out his arms with an appealing gesture. "I can't understand why you don't see it, Roger, why you can't see her as I see her."
I was beginning to realize that the situation was one to be handled with discretion. He was in a frame of mind where active opposition would only add fuel to his flame.
"I'm sorry that I've grown to be so critical, Jerry. You forget that I've never much cared for the sex."
It seemed that this was just the reply to restore him to partial sanity, for his face broke in a smile.
"I forgot, old Dry-as-dust. You don't like 'em—don't like any of 'em. That's different. But you will like Marcia. You shall. Why, Roger, she's an angel. You couldn't help liking her."
I smiled feebly. My acquaintance with decadent angels had been limited. I turned the subject adroitly.
"Have you discovered who Una is?" I asked.
"No. Marcia wouldn't tell me. She only laughed at me, but I really wanted to know. She was a nice girl, Roger, and I'd hate to have her shown in a false light. Not that Marcia would do that, of course, but girls are queer. I think she really resented our acquaintance. I can't imagine why."
"Nor I," I said shortly. "She doesn't own you, does she?"
He looked up at me with a blank expression.
"No, I suppose not," he said slowly.
I followed up my advantage swiftly.
"It's rather curious, Jerry, this attraction Miss Van Wyck has for you. A moment ago you were chivalrous enough in your hope that Una's identity would not be discovered. Was this chivalry genuine? Were you sorry on Una's account or on your own? I really want to know. You liked Una, Jerry. Didn't you?"
"Yes, but—"
"She seemed a very interesting, a fine, even a noble creature. The thought of a girl doing the sort of things she was doing made you reproach yourself for your idleness—your cowardice, I think you called it. Now what I'd like to discover is whether you've quite forgotten the impression she made—the ideal she left in your mind?"
"Of course not. My ideals are still the same. I've tried to tell you that I'm going to put them into practice," he muttered.
"You've forgotten the impression made by Una herself; what reason have you for believing that you won't forget the ideals also?"
"There's no danger of that. She merely opened my eyes. Anyone else could have done the same thing."
"Ah! Has Miss Van Wyck done so?"
"Yes. She's very charitable. But she doesn't make a business of it like Una. She has so many interests and then—" He paused. I waited.
"Roger," he went on in a moment, "I thought Una wonderful. I still do. But Marcia's different. Una was a chance visitor. Marcia is a friend—an old friend. She's like no other woman in the world. You will understand her better some day."
"Perhaps," I said thoughtfully. After that Jerry would say no more. Perhaps he thought he had already said too much, for presently he took himself off to bed. At the foot of the stairs he paused.
"By the way, Roger, we'll be five instead of four for dinner tomorrow."
"Who now?"
"A friend of Marcia's, Channing Lloyd, a chap from town. He came up today."
That admission cost Jerry something, and it explained many things, for I had heard of Channing Lloyd.
"Ah, very well," I said carelessly and shook out my paper.
"Good-night, Roger."
"Good-night, Jerry."
The boy was changed. It may not seem a serious thing to you, my precocious reader, who number your flirtations among the trivial affairs of life. Calf love, you will say, is not a matter worth bothering one's brains about. You will class that ailment perhaps with the whooping cough and the measles and sneer it out of existence. But I would remind you that Jerry's mind and character were quite mature. I had schooled them myself and I know. If Jerry had fallen in love with Marcia Van Wyck who proposed to play at her game of "pitch-farthing" with so fine a soul as Jerry's, the thing was serious, serious for both of them. His attitude toward the girl in his conversation tonight reminded me that affairs had already progressed a long way. She had come to Briar Hills, flattering Jerry, of course, that they could be alone, intriguing meanwhile with Channing Lloyd, a wild fellow, according to Jack Ballard, who at thirty could have unprofitably shared his omniscience with the devil. A fine foil for Jerry!
At dinner, the following night, we made a curious party. Marcia Van Wyck, radiant in pale green, with her admirers one at either hand; Channing Lloyd, dark, massive, well-groomed, with a narrow smile and an air of complete domination of the table; Jerry at the other side, rolling bread-pills and forcing humor rather awkwardly; Miss Gore, solemn in black satin—all of them elegant and correct in evening clothes, while I in my rather shabby serge sat awkwardly trying to hide the shininess of my elbows. From my position at one end of the table I had an excellent opportunity to study the company. I saw in Lloyd, I think, the attraction for Marcia. His looks, his topics, his appetites were animal and gross. He drank continuously, smoked after his salad, and monopolized the guest of the evening to the complete exclusion of the others. Fragments of their talk reached me, of which I understood a little—Greek to Jerry. Miss Gore sat calmly through it all, leading Jerry into the conversation at propitious moments and out of it when it threatened incomprehension.
There is a kind of charity of the dinner table and ballroom finer, I think, than the mere kindness of giving, finer because it requires discretion, nobler because it requires self-elimination. The more I saw of Miss Gore the more deeply was I impressed by her many amiable qualities. She had an ear for Jerry, but aware of my complete elimination by the rowdy upon my left, found time to relieve the awkwardness of my situation and contribute something to the pleasure of what for me would otherwise have been a very unenjoyable repast.
But when dinner was over, to my great surprise, I found myself alone with the girl Marcia. I have no very distinct notion of the means by which she accomplished this feat, remembering only hazily that we all ambled over to the conservatory, where a particular variety of orchid seemed to interest the girl. And there we were, I explaining and she listening, the others off somewhere near the entrance to the gymnasium, where I heard Lloyd's voice in bored monotone. I was quite sure in a moment that she hadn't managed to get me there to talk orchids, and I felt a vague sense of discomfort at her nearness. I have given the impression that her eyes were cold. As I looked into them I saw that I had been mistaken. In the dim light they seemed illumined at their greater depth by a hidden fire. She fixed her gaze upon my face and moved ever so slightly toward me. You may think it strange after what I have written when I say that at this moment I felt a doubt rising in me as to whether or not I might have done this girl an injustice, for her smile was frank, her air gracious, her tone friendly.
"Oh, Mr. Canby," she said in her even voice, "I've wanted to tell you what a wonderful thing it is that you have created—to thank you for Jerry. He's a gift, Mr. Canby, refreshing like the rain to thirsty flowers. You can't know what meeting a man like Jerry means to a woman like me. I don't think you possibly can."
"What does it mean to you?" I asked.
"It means a new point of view on life, a thing scarce enough in this day when all existence is either sordid or vicious. I had reached a Slough of Despond, Mr. Canby, weary of the attainable, not strong enough or clever enough or courageous enough to defy criticism and obey the small voice that urged. I was sick with self-analysis, filled to the brim with modern philosophies—"
"I understand," I broke in with a smile, which seemed to come in spite of me. "There's no medicine for that."
"Yes, Jerry. I—I think he's cured me—or at least Pm well on the road to recovery. Nobody could be mind-sick long with Jerry letting daylight in."
"Daylight, yes. You found it startling?"
"A little, at first. I felt the way I look sometimes at dawn after dancing all night, my tinsel tarnished, my color faded. All my effects are planned for artificial light, you see."
Her frankness disarmed me.
"I'm thanking you for Jerry," she went on, "but I can't help knowing that Jerry is what you've made him; that his ideals, his simplicity, his purity are yours also."
If she had baited her hook with flattery there was no sign of premeditation in the gentleness of her accents or in the friendly look she gave me. Could it be possible that this was the person in whom I had seen such a menace to Jerry's happiness?
"I have merely taught Jerry to be honest, Miss Van Wyck," I replied. "I ask no credit of him or of you."
"But if it pleases me to give it to you," she said softly, "you surely can't object."
"No, but I don't ask laurels I don't deserve. Jerry is—merely himself."
"Plus, Mr. Roger Canby—purist and pedagogue," she laughed. "No, you can't get out of it. Jerry reflects you; I think I actually recognize inflections of the voice. You ought to be very glad to have laid so strong an impress on so fine a thing."
Just then I heard the raucous laugh of Channing Lloyd from the distant lawn, which reminded me with a startling suddenness that this slender creature who spoke softly of ideals and purity could choose a man like this fellow for an intimate. I noticed, too, the delicate odor which rose from her corsage of which Jack Ballard had spoken, something subtle and unfamiliar.
I straightened and looked out through the open window, steeling myself against her.
"I am glad you think him fine," I said dryly. "No doubt he compares very favorably with other young men of your acquaintance."
"You mean Mr. Lloyd, of course," she said quickly.
I was silent, avoiding her gaze and her perfume.
"I'm afraid you don't understand me, Mr. Canby," she said softly. "I'm sorry. Any friend of Jerry's ought to be a friend of mine."
"I should like to be, of course, but—"
I paused. This woman, against my will, was making me lie to her.
"But what—? Am I so—so unpleasant to you? What have I done to earn your displeasure?"
"Nothing," I stammered. "Nothing."
"Is it that you fear the contamination of the kind of culture I've been bred and born in? Or the effect of my familiarity with doctrines with which you're not in sympathy?"
Was she mocking? Her voice was still gentle, but I had a notion that inside of her she was laughing. It was as though, having failed to win me, she was beginning to unmask. I peered into her face. It was guileless and wore the appealing expression of a reproachful child.
"You do not understand," I said. "I fear nothing for Jerry. He is strong enough to stand alone. I hope you know just how strong he is, that's all."
She was a little puzzled—and interested.
"I hope I do; but I wish you would explain."
I turned toward her quickly.
"I mean this. You and he are very different. He cares for you, of course. It was to be expected, because you're everything that he is not. Whatever you are, Jerry will be serious. And you can't bind the characters of two strong people together without mutilating one or the other, or perhaps both. Jerry will believe everything you tell him and continue to believe it unless you deceive him. He's ingenuous, but I hope you won't underestimate him."
She fingered the leaves of a rose, but her eyes under their lids were looking elsewhere.
