Love in a Cloud: A Comedy in Filigree

She parted her lips to speak, then restrained herself, and altered her manner. She turned at bay, but she adopted Jack's own tactics.

"You are right," she said. "I understand that the Count is only acting according to the standards he's been brought up to. May hasn't that consolation. I'm sure I don't see, if you don't mind my saying so, on what ground she is going to contrive any sort of an excuse for her husband."

"She'll undoubtedly be so fond of him," Jack retorted with unabashed good-nature, "that it won't occur to her that he needs an excuse. May hasn't your Puritanical notions, you know. Really, I might be afraid of her if she had."

It was a game in which the man is always the superior of the woman. Women will more cleverly and readily dissemble to the world, but to the loved one they are less easily mocking and insincere than men. Alice, however, was plucky, and she made one attempt more.

"Of course May might admire you on the score of filial obedience. It isn't every son who would allow his mother to arrange his marriage for him."

"No," Jack responded with a chuckle, "you're right there. I am a model son."

She stopped suddenly, and turned on the sidewalk in quick vehemence.

"Oh, stop talking to me!" she cried. "I will go into the first house I know if you keep on this way! You've no right to torment me so!"

The angry tears were in her eyes, and her face was drawn with her effort to sustain the self-control which had so nearly broken down. His expression lost its roguishness, and in his turn he became grave.

"No," he said half-bitterly, "perhaps not. Of course I haven't; but it is something of a temptation when you are so determined to believe the worst of me."

She regarded him in bewilderment.

"Determined to believe the worst?" she echoed. "Aren't you engaged to May Calthorpe?"

He took off his hat, and made her a profound and mocking bow.

"I apparently have that honor," he said.

"Then why am I not to believe it?"

He looked at her a moment as if about to explain, then with the air of finding it hopeless he set his lips together.

"If you will tell me what you mean," Alice went on, "I may understand. As it is I have your own word that you are engaged; you certainly do not pretend that you care for May; and you know that your mother made the match. You may be sure, Jack," she added, her voice softening a little only to harden again, "that if there were any way of excusing you I should have found it out. I'm still foolish enough to cling to old friendship."

His glance softened, and he regarded her with a look under which she changed color and drew away from him.

"Dear Alice," he said, "you always were a brick."

She answered only by a startled look. Then before he could be aware of her intention she had run lightly up the steps of a house and rung the bell. He looked after her in amazement, then followed.

"Alice," he said, "what are you darting off in that way for?"

"I have talked with you as long as I care to," she responded, the color in her cheeks, and her head held high. "I am going in here to see Mrs. West. You had better go and cheer up May."

Before he could reply a servant had opened the door. Jack lifted his hat.

"Good-by," said he. "Remember what I said about believing the worst."

Then the door closed behind her, and he went on his way down the street.

That the course of true love never ran smooth has been said on such a multitude of occasions that it is time for some expert in the affections to declare whether all love which runs roughly is necessarily genuine. The supreme prerogative of young folk who are fond is of course to tease and torment each other. Alice and Jack had that morning been a spectacle of much significance to any student in the characteristics of love-making. Youth indulges in the bitter of disagreement as a piquant contrast to the sweets of the springtime of life. True love does not run smooth because love cannot really take deep hold upon youth unless it fixes attention by its disappointments and woes. Smooth and sweet drink quickly cloys; while the cup in which is judiciously mingled an apt proportion of acid stimulates the thirst it gratifies. If Jack was to marry May it was a pity that he and Alice should continue thus to hurt each other.

XX

THE FAITHFULNESS OF A FRIEND

The friendship between Jack Neligage and Dick Fairfield was close and sincere. For a man to say that the friendships of men are more true and sure than those of women would savor of cynicism, and might be objected to on the ground that no man is in a position to judge on both sides of the matter. It might on the other hand be remarked that even women themselves give the impression of regarding masculine comradeship as a finer product of humanity than feminine, but comparisons of this sort have little value. It is surely enough to keep in mind how gracious a gift of the gods is a genuine affection between two right-hearted men. The man who has one fellow whom he loves, of whose love he is assured; one to whom he may talk as freely as he would think, one who understands not only what is said but the things which are intended; a friend with whom it is possible to be silent without offense or coldness, against whom there need be no safeguards, and to whom one may turn alike in trouble and in joy – the man who has found a friend like this has a gift only to be outweighed by the love of her whose price is far above rubies and whose works praise her in the gates. Such a friendship is all but the most precious gift of the gods.

To evoke and to share such a friendship, moreover, marks the possession of possibilities ethically fine. A man may love a woman in pure selfishness; but really to love his male friend he must possess capabilities of self-sacrifice and of manliness. It is one of the charms of comradeship that it frankly accepts and frankly gives without weighing or accounting. In the garden of such a friendship may walk the soul of man as his body went in Eden before the Fall, "naked and not ashamed." He cannot be willing to show himself as he is if his true self have not its moral beauties. It may be set down to the credit both of Dick and of Jack that between them there existed a friendship so close and so trustful.

Even in the closest friendships, however, there may be times of suspension. Perhaps in a perfect comradeship there would be no room for the faintest cloud; but since men are human and there is nothing perfect in human relations, even friendship may sometimes seem to suffer. For some days after the announcement of Jack's engagement there was a marked shade between the friends. Jack, indeed, was the same as ever, jolly, careless, indolent, and apparently without a trouble in the world. Dick, on the other hand, was at times absent, constrained, or confused. To have his friend walk in and coolly announce an engagement with the girl whose correspondence had fired Dick's heart was naturally trying and astonishing. Dick might have written a bitter chapter about the way in which women spoiled the friendships of men; and certain cynical remarks which appeared in his next novel may be conceived of as having been set down at this time.

More than a week went by without striking developments. The engagement had not been announced, nor had it, after the first evening, been mentioned between the two friends. That there should be a subject upon which both must of necessity reflect much, yet of which they did not speak, was in itself a sufficient reason for a change in the mental atmosphere of their bachelor quarters, which from being the cheeriest possible were fast becoming the most gloomy.

One morning as Dick sat writing at his desk, Jack, who since breakfast had been engaged in his own chamber, came strolling in, in leisurely fashion, smoking the usual cigarette.

"I hope I don't disturb you, old man," he said, "but there's something I'd like to ask you, if you don't mind."

Dick, whose back was toward the other, did not turn. He merely held his pen suspended, and said coldly: —

"Well?"

Jack composed himself in a comfortable position by leaning against the mantel, an attitude he much affected, and regarded his cigarette as if it had some close connection with the thing he wished to say.

"You remember perhaps that letter that I gave you from May?"

Dick laid his pen down suddenly, and sat up, but he did not turn.

"Well?" he said again.

"And the other letters before it?"

"Well?"

"It has occurred to me that perhaps I ought to ask for them, – demand them, don't you know, the way they do on the stage."

Dick said nothing. By keeping his back to his chum he missed sight of a face full of fun and mischief.

"Of course I don't want to seem too bumptious, but now I'm engaged to Miss Calthorpe – "

He paused as if to give Fairfield an opportunity of speaking; but still Dick remained silent.

"Well," observed Jack after a moment, "why the dickens don't you say something? I can't be expected to carry on this conversation all alone."

"What do you want me to say?" Fairfield asked, in a tone so solemn that it was no wonder his friend grinned more than ever.

"Oh, nothing, if that's the way you take it."

"You knew about those letters when I got them," Fairfield went on. "I read them to you before I knew where they came from."

"Oh, my dear fellow, hold on. You never read me any but the first one."

"At any rate," rejoined Dick, obviously disturbed by this thrust, "I told you about them."

"Oh, you did? You told me very little about the second, and nothing about the third. I didn't even know how many you had."

Fairfield rose from his seat, thrust his hands into his pockets, and began to pace up and down the room. Jack smoked and watched.

"Look here, Jack," Dick said, "we've been fencing round this thing for a week, and it's got to be talked out."

"All right; heave ahead, old man."

Fairfield stopped in his walk and confronted his friend.

"Are you really fond of Miss Calthorpe, Jack?"

"Oh, I don't object to her; but of course the marriage is for purely business reasons."

"You're not in love with her?"

"Not the least in the world, old man," Jack responded cheerfully, blowing a ring of smoke and watching it intently as it sailed toward the ceiling. "But then she doesn't love me, so there's no bother of pretending on either side."

The color mounted in Dick's cheeks.

"Do you think it's the square thing to marry a young girl like that, and tie her up for life when she doesn't know what she's doing?"

"Oh, girls never know what they are doing. How should they know about marriage in any case? The man has to think for both, of course."

"But suppose she shouldn't be happy."

"Oh, I'll be good to any girl I marry. I'm awfully easy to live with. You ought to know that."

"But suppose," Dick urged again, "suppose she – "

"Suppose she what?"

"Why, suppose she – suppose she – she liked somebody else?"

Jack looked shrewdly at Dick's confused face, and burst into a laugh.

"I guessed those letters were pretty fair," he burst out, "but they must have been much worse than I even suspected!"

"What do you mean?" stammered Dick.

"Mean? Oh, nothing, – nothing in the world. By the way, as the matter relates to my fiancée, I hope you won't mind my asking if she's written to you since our engagement."

"Why – "

"Then she has written," pronounced Jack, smiling more than ever at the confusion of his friend. "You haven't the cheek to bluff a baby, Dick. I should hate to see you try to run a kelter through."

"She only wrote to say that she was glad the Count didn't write 'Love in a Cloud,' and a few things, you know, that she wanted to say."

Jack flung the end of his cigarette away and stepped swiftly forward to catch his chum by the shoulders behind. He whirled Dick about like a teetotum.

"Oh, Dick, you old fool," he cried, "what an ass you are! Do you suppose I'm such a cad as really to propose to marry May when she's fond of you and you're fond of her? It doesn't speak very well of your opinion of me."

Dick stared at him in half-stupefied amazement for an instant; then the blood came rushing into his cheeks.

"You don't mean to marry her?" he cried amazedly.

"Never did for a minute," responded Jack cheerfully. "Don't you know, old man, that I've sold my polo ponies, and taken a place in the bank?"

"Taken a place in the bank!" exclaimed Dick, evidently more and more bewildered. "Then what did you pretend to be engaged to her for?"

"Confound your impudence!" laughed Jack, "I was engaged to her, you beast! I am engaged to her now, and if you're n't civil I'll keep on being. You can't be engaged to her till I break my engagement!"

"But, Jack, I don't understand what in the deuce you mean."

"Mean? I don't know that I meant anything. I was engaged to her without asking to be, and when a lady says she is engaged to you you really can't say you're not. Besides, I thought it might help you."

"Help me?"

"Of course, my boy. There is nothing to set a girl in the way of wishing to be engaged to the right man like getting engaged to the wrong one."

Dick wrung his friend's hand.

"Jack," he said, "I beg your pardon. You're a trump!"

"Oh, I knew that all the time," responded Jack. "It may comfort you a little to know that it hasn't been much of an engagement. I've been shamefully neglectful of my position. Now of course an engaged man is supposed to show his ardor, to take little liberties, and be generally loving, you know."

Dick grew fiery red, and shrank back. Jack laughed explosively.

"Jealous, old man?" he demanded provokingly. "Well, I won't tease you any more. I haven't so much as kissed her hand."

Dick's rather combative look changed instantly into shamefacedness, and he shook hands again. He turned away quickly, but as quickly turned back again once more to grasp the hand of his chum.

"Jack Neligage," he declared, "you're worth more than a dozen of my best heroes, and a novelist can't say more than that!"

"Gad! You'd better put me in a novel then," was Jack's response. "They won't believe I'm real though; I'm too infernally virtuous."

A knock at the door interrupted them, and proved to be the summons of the janitor, who announced that a lady wished to see Mr. Fairfield.

"Don't let her stay long," Jack said, retreating to his room. "I can't get out till she is gone, and I want to go down town. I've got to order the horses to take my fiancée out for a last ride. It's to break my engagement, so you ought to want it to come off."

XXI

THE MISCHIEF OF A FIANCÉ

The lady proved to be Alice Endicott. She came in without shyness or embarrassment, with her usual air of quiet refinement, and although she must have seen the surprise in Dick's face, she took no notice of it. Alice was one of those women so free from self-consciousness, so entirely without affectations, yet so rare in her simple dignity, that it was hard to conceive her as ever seeming to be out of place. She was so superior to surroundings that her environment did not matter.

"Good-morning, Mr. Fairfield," she said. "I should apologize for intruding. I hope I am not disturbing your work."

"Good-morning," he responded. "I am not at work just now. Sit down, please."

She took the chair he offered, and came at once to her errand.

"I came from Miss Calthorpe," she said.

"Miss Calthorpe?" he repeated.

"Yes. She thought she ought not to write to you again; and she asked me to come for her letters; those she wrote before she knew who you were."

"But why shouldn't she write to me for them?"

"You forget that she is engaged, Mr. Fairfield."

"I – Of course, I did forget for the minute; but even if she is, I don't see why so simple a thing as a note asking for her letters – "

Alice rose.

"I don't think that there is any need of my explaining," she said. "If I tell you that she didn't find it easy to write, will that be sufficient? Of course you will give me the letters."

"I must give them if she wishes it; but may I ask one question first? Doesn't she send for them because she's engaged?"

"Isn't that reason enough?"

"It is reason enough," Dick answered, smiling; "but it isn't a reason here. She isn't engaged any more. That is, she won't be by night."

Alice stared at him in astonishment.

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

"I mean that Jack never meant to marry her, and that he is going to release her from her engagement."

"How do you know that?"

"He told me himself."

They stood in silence a brief interval looking each other in the face. Fairfield was radiant, but Miss Endicott was very pale.

"I beg your pardon," she said presently. "Is Mr. Neligage in the house?"

"Yes; he's in his room."

"Will you call him, please?"

Fairfield hesitated a little, but went to call his chum.

"Miss Endicott wants to speak to you," he said abruptly.

"What does she want?"

"I haven't any idea."

"What have you been telling her?"

The necessity of answering this question Dick escaped by returning to the other room; and his friend followed.

"Jack," Alice cried, as soon as he appeared, "tell me this moment if it's true that you're not to marry May!"

He faced her stiff and formal in his politeness.

"Pardon me if I do not see that you have any right to ask me such a question."

"Why, I came to ask Mr. Fairfield for May's letters because she is engaged to you, and he told me – "

She broke off, her habitual self-control being evidently tried almost beyond its limit.

"I took the liberty, Jack," spoke up Fairfield, "of saying – "

"Don't apologize," Neligage said. "It is true, Miss Endicott, that circumstances have arisen which make it best for May to break the engagement. I shall be obliged to you, however, if you don't mention the matter to her until she brings it up."

Alice looked at him appealingly.

"But I thought – "

"We are none of us accountable for our thoughts, Miss Endicott, nor perhaps for a want of faith in our friends."

She moved toward him with a look of so much appeal that Dick discreetly turned his back under pretense of looking for something on his writing-table.

"At least," she said, her voice lower than usual, "you will let me apologize for the way in which I spoke to you the other morning."

"Oh, don't mention it," he returned carelessly. "You were quite justified."

He turned away with easy nonchalance, as if the matter were one in which he had no possible interest.

"At least," she begged, "you'll pardon me, and shake hands."

"Oh, certainly, if you like," answered he; "but it doesn't seem necessary."

Her manner changed in the twinkling of an eye. Indignation shone in her face and her head was carried more proudly.

"Then it isn't," she said. "Good-morning, Mr. Fairfield."

She went from the room as quickly as a shadow flits before sunlight. The two young men were so taken by surprise that by the time Dick reached the door to open it for his departing caller, it had already closed behind her. The friends stared a moment. Then Jack made a swift stride to the door; but when he flung it open the hall without was empty.

"Damn it, Dick," he ejaculated, coming back with a face of anger, "what did you let her go off like that for?"

"How in the world could I help it?" was all that his friend could answer.

Jack regarded Dick blackly for the fraction of a second; then he burst into a laugh, and clapped him on the shoulder.

"I beg your pardon, old man," he said, as cheerily as ever. "I'm going off my nerve with all these carryings on. If you hadn't written that rotten old novel of yours, we shouldn't have had these continual circuses."

He went for his hat as he spoke, and without farther adieu took his way down town. Men in this peculiar world are to be envied or pitied not so much for their fortunes as for their dispositions; and if outward indications were to be trusted, Jack Neligage was one of those enviable creatures who will be cheerful despite the blackest frowns of fate. From indifference or from pluck, from caring little for the favors of fortune or from despising her spite, Jack took his way through life merrily, smiling and sunny; up hill or down dale as it chanced he followed the path, with a laugh on his lip and always a kindly greeting for his fellow travelers. This morning, as he walked out into the sunlight, handsome, well-groomed, debonaire, and jocund, certainly no one who saw him was likely to suspect that the world did not go smoothly with him. Least of all could one suppose that his heart or his thought was troubled concerning the favor or disfavor of any woman whatsoever.

Jack in the afternoon took May for a drive. The engagement had thus far been a somewhat singular one. Jack had been to see May nearly every day, it is true, but either by the whimsical contrivance of fate or by his own cunning he had seldom seen her alone. She either had callers or was out herself; and as no one but Mrs. Neligage and Alice knew of the engagement there was no chance for that sentiment which makes callers upon a lady feel it necessary to retreat as speedily as possible upon the appearance of her acknowledged lover. So well settled in the public mind was the conviction that Jack was in love with Alice Endicott, that nobody took the trouble to notice that he was calling on May Calthorpe or to get out of his way that he might be alone with her. This afternoon, in the face of all the world, in a stylish trap, on the open highway, they were at last together without other company.

Had not the mind of May been provided with an object of regret and longing in the person of Fairfield, there might have been danger that Jack would engage her fancy by sheer indifference. Any girl must be puzzled, interested, piqued, and either exasperated or hurt according to her nature, when the man to whom she is newly betrothed treats her as the most casual of acquaintances. If nothing else moved her there would be the bite of unsatisfied curiosity. To be engaged without even being able to learn by experience what being engaged consists in may well wear on the least inquisitive feminine disposition. The fiancé who does not even make pretense of playing the lover is an object so curious that he cannot fail to attract attention, to awake interest, and the chances are largely in favor of his developing in the breast of his fair the determination to see him really aroused and enslaved. Many a woman has succumbed to indifference who would have been proof against the most ardent wooing.

"Well, May," Jack said, smiling upon her as they drove over the Mill Dam, "how do you like being engaged?"

She looked at him with a sparkle in her eyes which made her bewitching.

"I don't see that it's very different from not being engaged," she said.

"It will be if you keep on looking so pretty," he declared. "I shall kiss you right here in the street, and that would make folks talk."

The color came into her cheeks in a way that made her more charming still.

"Now you color," Jack went on, regarding her with a teasing coolness, "you are prettier yet. Gad! I shall have to kiss you!"

His horses shied at something at that instant, and he was forced to attend to them, so that May had a moment's respite in which to gather up her wits. When he looked back, she took the aggressive.

"It is horrid in you to talk that way," she remarked. "Besides, you said that I needn't kiss you until I wanted to."

"Well, I didn't promise not to kiss you, did I?"

"How silly you are to-day!" she exclaimed. "Isn't there anything better to talk about than kissing?"

Jack regarded her with a grin; a grin in which, it must be confessed, there was something of the look with which a boy watches a kitten he is teasing.

"Anything better?" repeated he. "When you've had more experience, May, perhaps you won't think there is anything better."

May began to look sober, and even to have the appearance of feeling that the conversation was becoming positively improper.

"I think you are just horrid!" she declared. "I do wish you'd behave."

He gave her a respite for some moments, and they drove along through the sunlight of the April afternoon. The trees as they came into the country were beautiful with the buds and promise of nearing summer; the air soft with that cool smoothness which is a reminder that afar the breeze has swept fragments of old snowdrifts yet unmelted; the sky moist with the mists of snow-fields that have wasted away. All the landscape was exquisite with delicate hues.