The Descent of Man and Other Stories Read online

  “Oh, a past—if she’s serious—I could rake up a past!” he said with a laugh.

  “So I suggested: but she has her eyes on his particular portion of it. She insists on making it a test case. She wanted to know what you had done to me; and before I could guess her drift I blundered into telling her.”

  Thursdale drew a difficult breath. “I never supposed—your revenge is complete,” he said slowly.

  He heard a little gasp in her throat. “My revenge? When I sent for you to warn you—to save you from being surprised as I was surprised?”

  “You’re very good—but it’s rather late to talk of saving me.” He held out his hand in the mechanical gesture of leave-taking.

  “How you must care!—for I never saw you so dull,” was her answer. “Don’t you see that it’s not too late for me to help you?” And as he continued to stare, she brought out sublimely: “Take the rest—in imagination! Let it at least be of that much use to you. Tell her I lied to her—she’s too ready to believe it! And so, after all, in a sense, I sha’n’t have been wasted.”

  His stare hung on her, widening to a kind of wonder. She gave the look back brightly, unblushingly, as though the expedient were too simple to need oblique approaches. It was extraordinary how a few words had swept them from an atmosphere of the most complex dissimulations to this contact of naked souls.

  It was not in Thursdale to expand with the pressure of fate; but something in him cracked with it, and the rift let in new light. He went up to his friend and took her hand.

  “You would do it—you would do it!”

  She looked at him, smiling, but her hand shook.

  “Good-by,” he said, kissing it.

  “Good-by? You are going—?”

  “To get my letter.”

  “Your letter? The letter won’t matter, if you will only do what I ask.”

  He returned her gaze. “I might, I suppose, without being out of character. Only, don’t you see that if your plan helped me it could only harm her?”

  “Harm her?”

  “To sacrifice you wouldn’t make me different. I shall go on being what I have always been—sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do you want my punishment to fall on her?”

  She looked at him long and deeply. “Ah, if I had to choose between you—!”

  “You would let her take her chance? But I can’t, you see. I must take my punishment alone.”

  She drew her hand away, sighing. “Oh, there will be no punishment for either of you.”

  “For either of us? There will be the reading of her letter for me.”

  She shook her head with a slight laugh. “There will be no letter.”

  Thursdale faced about from the threshold with fresh life in his look. “No letter? You don’t mean—”

  “I mean that she’s been with you since I saw her—she’s seen you and heard your voice. If there is a letter, she has recalled it—from the first station, by telegraph.”

  He turned back to the door, forcing an answer to her smile. “But in the mean while I shall have read it,” he said.

  The door closed on him, and she hid her eyes from the dreadful emptiness of the room.

  THE QUICKSAND

  I

  AS Mrs. Quentin’s victoria, driving homeward, turned from the Park into Fifth Avenue, she divined her son’s tall figure walking ahead of her in the twilight. His long stride covered the ground more rapidly than usual, and she had a premonition that, if he were going home at that hour, it was because he wanted to see her.

  Mrs. Quentin, though not a fanciful woman, was sometimes aware of a sixth sense enabling her to detect the faintest vibrations of her son’s impulses. She was too shrewd to fancy herself the one mother in possession of this faculty, but she permitted herself to think that few could exercise it more discreetly. If she could not help overhearing Alan’s thoughts, she had the courage to keep her discoveries to herself, the tact to take for granted nothing that lay below the surface of their spoken intercourse: she knew that most people would rather have their letters read than their thoughts. For this superfeminine discretion Alan repaid her by—being Alan. There could have been no completer reward. He was the key to the meaning of life, the justification of what must have seemed as incomprehensible as it was odious, had it not all-sufficingly ended in himself. He was a perfect son, and Mrs. Quentin had always hungered for perfection.

  Her house, in a minor way, bore witness to the craving. One felt it to be the result of a series of eliminations: there was nothing fortuitous in its blending of line and color. The almost morbid finish of every material detail of her life suggested the possibility that a diversity of energies had, by some pressure of circumstance, been forced into the channel of a narrow dilettanteism. Mrs. Quentin’s fastidiousness had, indeed, the flaw of being too one-sided. Her friends were not always worthy of the chairs they sat in, and she overlooked in her associates defects she would not have tolerated in her bric-a-brac. Her house was, in fact, never so distinguished as when it was empty; and it was at its best in the warm fire-lit silence that now received her.

  Her son, who had overtaken her on the doorstep, followed her into the drawing-room, and threw himself into an armchair near the fire, while she laid off her furs and busied herself about the tea table. For a while neither spoke; but glancing at him across the kettle, his mother noticed that he sat staring at the embers with a look she had never seen on his face, though its arrogant young outline was as familiar to her as her own thoughts. The look extended itself to his negligent attitude, to the droop of his long fine hands, the dejected tilt of his head against the cushions. It was like the moral equivalent of physical fatigue: he looked, as he himself would have phrased it, dead-beat, played out. Such an air was so foreign to his usual bright indomitableness that Mrs. Quentin had the sense of an unfamiliar presence, in which she must observe herself, must raise hurried barriers against an alien approach. It was one of the drawbacks of their excessive intimacy that any break in it seemed a chasm.

  She was accustomed to let his thoughts circle about her before they settled into speech, and she now sat in motionless expectancy, as though a sound might frighten them away.

  At length, without turning his eyes from the fire, he said: “I’m so glad you’re a nice old-fashioned intuitive woman. It’s painful to see them think.”

  Her apprehension had already preceded him. “Hope Fenno—?” she faltered.

  He nodded. “She’s been thinking—hard. It was very painful—to me, at least; and I don’t believe she enjoyed it: she said she didn’t.” He stretched his feet to the fire. “The result of her cogitations is that she won’t have me. She arrived at this by pure ratiocination—it’s not a question of feeling, you understand. I’m the only man she’s ever loved—but she won’t have me. What novels did you read when you were young, dear? I’m convinced it all turns on that. If she’d been brought up on Trollope and Whyte-Melville, instead of Tolstoi and Mrs. Ward, we should have now been vulgarly sitting on a sofa, trying on the engagement-ring.”

  Mrs. Quentin at first was kept silent by the mother’s instinctive anger that the girl she has not wanted for her son should have dared to refuse him. Then she said, “Tell me, dear.”

  “My good woman, she has scruples.”

  “Scruples?”

  “Against the paper. She objects to me in my official capacity as owner of the Radiator.”

  His mother did not echo his laugh.

  “She had found a solution, of course—she overflows with expedients. I was to chuck the paper, and we were to live happily ever afterward on canned food and virtue. She even had an alternative ready—women are so full of resources! I was to turn the Radiator into an independent organ, and run it at a loss to show the public what a model newspaper ought to be. On the whole, I think she fancied this plan more than the other—it commended itself to her as being more uncomfortable and aggressive. It’s not the fashion nowadays to be good by stealth.”

  Mrs. Quent
in said to herself, “I didn’t know how much he cared!” Aloud she murmured, “You must give her time.”

  “Time?”

  “To move out the old prejudices and make room for new ones.”

  “My dear mother, those she has are brand-new; that’s the trouble with them. She’s tremendously up-to-date. She takes in all the moral fashion-papers, and wears the newest thing in ethics.”

  Her resentment lost its way in the intricacies of his metaphor. “Is she so very religious?”

  “You dear archaic woman! She’s hopelessly irreligious; that’s the difficulty. You can make a religious woman believe almost anything: there’s the habit of credulity to work on. But when a girl’s faith in the Deluge has been shaken, it’s very hard to inspire her with confidence. She makes you feel that, before believing in you, it’s her duty as a conscientious agnostic to find out whether you’re not obsolete, or whether the text isn’t corrupt, or somebody hasn’t proved conclusively that you never existed, anyhow.”

  Mrs. Quentin was again silent. The two moved in that atmosphere of implications and assumptions where the lightest word may shake down the dust of countless stored impressions; and speech was sometimes more difficult between them than had their union been less close.

  Presently she ventured, “It’s impossible?”

  “Impossible?”

  She seemed to use her words cautiously, like weapons that might slip and inflict a cut. “What she suggests.”

  Her son, raising himself, turned to look at her for the first time. Their glance met in a shock of comprehension. He was with her against the girl, then! Her satisfaction overflowed in a murmur of tenderness.

  “Of course not, dear. One can’t change—change one’s life….”

  “One’s self,” he emended. “That’s what I tell her. What’s the use of my giving up the paper if I keep my point of view?”

  The psychological distinction attracted her. “Which is it she minds most?”

  “Oh, the paper—for the present. She undertakes to modify the point of view afterward. All she asks is that I shall renounce my heresy: the gift of grace will come later.”

  Mrs. Quentin sat gazing into her untouched cup. Her son’s first words had produced in her the hallucinated sense of struggling in the thick of a crowd that he could not see. It was horrible to feel herself hemmed in by influences imperceptible to him; yet if anything could have increased her misery it would have been the discovery that her ghosts had become visible.

  As though to divert his attention, she precipitately asked, “And you—?”

  His answer carried the shock of an evocation. “I merely asked her what she thought of you.”

  “Of me?”

  “She admires you immensely, you know.”

  For a moment Mrs. Quentin’s cheek showed the lingering light of girlhood: praise transmitted by her son acquired something of the transmitter’s merit. “Well—?” she smiled.

  “Well—you didn’t make my father give up the Radiator, did you?”

  His mother, stiffening, made a circuitous return: “She never comes here. How can she know me?”

  “She’s so poor! She goes out so little.” He rose and leaned against the mantelpiece, dislodging with impatient fingers a slender bronze wrestler poised on a porphyry base, between two warm-toned Spanish ivories. “And then her mother—” he added, as if involuntarily.

  “Her mother has never visited me,” Mrs. Quentin finished for him.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Mrs. Fenno has the scope of a wax doll. Her rule of conduct is taken from her grandmother’s sampler.”

  “But the daughter is so modern—and yet—”

  “The result is the same? Not exactly. She admires you—oh, immensely!” He replaced the bronze and turned to his mother with a smile. “Aren’t you on some hospital committee together? What especially strikes her is your way of doing good. She says philanthropy is not a line of conduct, but a state of mind—and it appears that you are one of the elect.”

  As, in the vague diffusion of physical pain, relief seems to come with the acuter pang of a single nerve, Mrs. Quentin felt herself suddenly eased by a rush of anger against the girl. “If she loved you—” she began.

  His gesture checked her. “I’m not asking you to get her to do that.”

  The two were again silent, facing each other in the disarray of a common catastrophe—as though their thoughts, at the summons of danger, had rushed naked into action. Mrs. Quentin, at this revealing moment, saw for the first time how many elements of her son’s character had seemed comprehensible simply because they were familiar: as, in reading a foreign language, we take the meaning of certain words for granted till the context corrects us. Often as in a given case, her maternal musings had figured his conduct, she now found herself at a loss to forecast it; and with this failure of intuition came a sense of the subserviency which had hitherto made her counsels but the anticipation of his wish. Her despair escaped in the moan, “What is it you ask me?”

  “To talk to her.”

  “Talk to her?”

  “Show her—tell her—make her understand that the paper has always been a thing outside your life—that hasn’t touched you—that needn’t touch her. Only, let her hear you—watch you—be with you—she’ll see…she can’t help seeing…”

  His mother faltered. “But if she’s given you her reasons—?”

  “Let her give them to you! If she can—when she sees you….” His impatient hand again displaced the wrestler. “I care abominably,” he confessed.

  II

  On the Fenno threshold a sudden sense of the futility of the attempt had almost driven Mrs. Quentin back to her carriage; but the door was already opening, and a parlor-maid who believed that Miss Fenno was in led the way to the depressing drawing-room. It was the kind of room in which no member of the family is likely to be found except after dinner or after death. The chairs and tables looked like poor relations who had repaid their keep by a long career of grudging usefulness: they seemed banded together against intruders in a sullen conspiracy of discomfort. Mrs. Quentin, keenly susceptible to such influences, read failure in every angle of the upholstery. She was incapable of the vulgar error of thinking that Hope Fenno might be induced to marry Alan for his money; but between this assumption and the inference that the girl’s imagination might be touched by the finer possibilities of wealth, good taste admitted a distinction. The Fenno furniture, however, presented to such reasoning the obtuseness of its black-walnut chamferings; and something in its attitude suggested that its owners would be as uncompromising. The room showed none of the modern attempts at palliation, no apologetic draping of facts; and Mrs. Quentin, provisionally perched on a green-reps Gothic sofa with which it was clearly impossible to establish any closer relations, concluded that, had Mrs. Fenno needed another seat of the same size, she would have set out placidly to match the one on which her visitor now languished.

  To Mrs. Quentin’s fancy, Hope Fenno’s opinions, presently imparted in a clear young voice from the opposite angle of the Gothic sofa, partook of the character of their surroundings. The girl’s mind was like a large light empty place, scantily furnished with a few massive prejudices, not designed to add to any one’s comfort but too ponderous to be easily moved. Mrs. Quentin’s own intelligence, in which its owner, in an artistically shaded half-light, had so long moved amid a delicate complexity of sensations, seemed in comparison suddenly close and crowded; and in taking refuge there from the glare of the young girl’s candor, the older woman found herself stumbling in an unwonted obscurity. Her uneasiness resolved itself into a sense of irritation against her listener. Mrs. Quentin knew that the momentary value of any argument lies in the capacity of the mind to which it is addressed, and as her shafts of persuasion spent themselves against Miss Fenno’s obduracy, she said to herself that, since conduct is governed by emotions rather than ideas, the really strong people are those who mistake their sensations for opinions. Viewed in this light,
Miss Fenno was certainly very strong: there was an unmistakable ring of finality in the tone with which she declared,

  “It’s impossible.”

  Mrs. Quentin’s answer veiled the least shade of feminine resentment. “I told Alan that, where he had failed, there was no chance of my making an impression.”

  Hope Fenno laid on her visitor’s an almost reverential hand. “Dear Mrs. Quentin, it’s the impression you make that confirms the impossibility.”

  Mrs. Quentin waited a moment: she was perfectly aware that, where her feelings were concerned, her sense of humor was not to be relied on. “Do I make such an odious impression?” she asked at length, with a smile that seemed to give the girl her choice of two meanings.

  “You make such a beautiful one! It’s too beautiful—it obscures my judgment.”

  Mrs. Quentin looked at her thoughtfully. “Would it be permissible, I wonder, for an older woman to suggest that, at your age, it isn’t always a misfortune to have what one calls one’s judgment temporarily obscured?”

  Miss Fenno flushed. “I try not to judge others—”

  “You judge Alan.”

  “Ah, he is not others,” she murmured, with an accent that touched the older woman.

  “You judge his mother.”

  “I don’t; I don’t!”

  Mrs. Quentin pressed her point. “You judge yourself, then, as you would be in my position—and your verdict condemns me.”

  “How can you think it? It’s because I appreciate the difference in our point of view that I find it so difficult to defend myself—”

  “Against what?”

  “The temptation to imagine that I might be as you are—feeling as I do.”

  Mrs. Quentin rose with a sigh. “My child, in my day love was less subtle.” She added, after a moment, “Alan is a perfect son.”