Back Aa

Lion and the Unicorn

Close

Miss Cavendish stood up to go, and arranged her veil before the mirror above the fireplace. “I come here very often to tea,” she said. “It’s very kind of you,” said Carroll. He was at the open window, looking down into the street for a cab. “Well, no one knows I am engaged to Reggie,” continued Miss Cavendish, “except you and Reggie, and he isn’t so sure. SHE doesn’t know it.” “Well?” said Carroll. Miss Cavendish smiled a mischievous kindly smile at him from the mirror. “Well?” she repeated, mockingly. Carroll stared at her and laughed. After a pause he said: “It’s like a plot in a comedy. But I’m afraid I’m too serious for play-acting.” “Yes, it is serious,” said Miss Cavendish. She seated herself again and regarded the American thoughtfully. “You are too good a man to be treated the way that girl is treating you, and no one knows it better than she does. She’ll change in time, but just now she thinks she wants to be independent. She’s in love with this picture-painting idea, and with the people she meets. It’s all new to her—the fuss they make over her and the titles, and the way she is asked about. We know she can’t paint. We know they only give her commissions because she’s so young and pretty, and American. She amuses them, that’s all. Well, that cannot last; she’ll find it out. She’s too clever a girl, and she is too fine a girl to be content with that long. Then—then she’ll come back to you. She feels now that she has both you and the others, and she’s making you wait: so wait and be cheerful. She’s worth waiting for; she’s young, that’s all. She’ll see the difference in time. But, in the meanwhile, it would hurry matters a bit if she thought she had to choose between the new friends and you.” “She could still keep her friends, and marry me,” said Carroll; “I have told her that a hundred times. She could still paint miniatures and marry me. But she won’t marry me.” “She won’t marry you because she knows she can whenever she wants to;” cried Marion. “Can’t you see that? But if she thought you were going to marry some one else now?” “She would be the first to congratulate me,” said Carroll. He rose and walked to the fireplace, where he leaned with his arm on the mantel. There was a photograph of Helen Cabot near his hand, and he turned this toward him and stood for some time staring at it. “My dear Marion,” he said at last, “I’ve known Helen ever since she was as young as that. Every year I’ve loved her more, and found new things in her to care for; now I love her more than any other man ever loved any other woman.” Miss Cavendish shook her head sympathetically. “Yes, I know,” she said; “that’s the way Reggie loves me, too.” Carroll went on as though he had not heard her. “There’s a bench in St. James’s Park,” he said, “where we used to sit when she first came here, when she didn’t know so many people. We used to go there in the morning and throw penny buns to the ducks. That’s been my amusement this summer since you’ve all been away—sitting on that bench, feeding penny buns to the silly ducks—especially the black one, the one she used to like best. And I make pilgrimages to all the other places we ever visited together, and try to pretend she is with me. And I support the crossing sweeper at Lansdowne Passage because she once said she felt sorry for him. I do all the other absurd things that a man in love tortures himself by doing. But to what end? She knows how I care, and yet she won’t see why we can’t go on being friends as we once were. What’s the use of it all?” “She is young, I tell you,” repeated Miss Cavendish, “and she’s too sure of you. You’ve told her you care; now try making her think you don’t care.” Carroll shook his head impatiently. “I will not stoop to such tricks and pretence, Marion,” he cried impatiently. “All I have is my love for her; if I have to cheat and to trap her into caring, the whole thing would be degraded.” Miss Cavendish shrugged her shoulders and walked to the door. “Such amateurs!” she exclaimed, and banged the door after her. Carroll never quite knew how he had come to make a confidante of Miss Cavendish. Helen and he had met her when they first arrived in London, and as she had acted for a season in the United States, she adopted the two Americans—and told Helen where to go for boots and hats, and advised Carroll about placing his plays. Helen soon made other friends, and deserted the artists, with whom her work had first thrown her. She seemed to prefer the society of the people who bought her paintings, and who admired and made much of the painter. As she was very beautiful and at an age when she enjoyed everything in life keenly and eagerly, to give her pleasure was in itself a distinct pleasure; and the worldly tired people she met were considering their own entertainment quite as much as hers when they asked her to their dinners and dances, or to spend a week with them in the country. In her way, she was as independent as was Carroll in his, and as she was not in love, as he was, her life was not narrowed down to but one ideal. But she was not so young as to consider herself infallible, and she had one excellent friend on whom she was dependent for advice and to whose directions she submitted implicitly. This was Lady Gower, the only person to whom Helen had spoken of Carroll and of his great feeling for her. Lady Gower, immediately after her marriage, had been a conspicuous and brilliant figure in that set in London which works eighteen hours a day to keep itself amused, but after the death of her husband she had disappeared into the country as completely as though she had entered a convent, and after several years had then re-entered the world as a professional philanthropist. Her name was now associated entirely with Women’s Leagues, with committees that presented petitions to Parliament, and with public meetings, at which she spoke with marvellous ease and effect. Her old friends said she had taken up this new pose as an outlet for her nervous energies, and as an effort to forget the man who alone had made life serious to her. Others knew her as an earnest woman, acting honestly for what she thought was right. Her success, all admitted, was due to her knowledge of the world and to her sense of humor, which taught her with whom to use her wealth and position, and when to demand what she wanted solely on the ground that the cause was just. She had taken more than a fancy for Helen, and the position of the beautiful, motherless girl had appealed to her as one filled with dangers. When she grew to know Helen better, she recognized that these fears were quite unnecessary, and as she saw more of her she learned to care for her deeply. Helen had told her much of Carroll and of his double purpose in coming to London; of his brilliant work and his lack of success in having it recognized; and of his great and loyal devotion to her, and of his lack of success, not in having that recognized, but in her own inability to return it. Helen was proud that she had been able to make Carroll care for her as he did, and that there was anything about her which could inspire a man whom she admired so much, to believe in her so absolutely and for so long a time. But what convinced her that the outcome for which he hoped was impossible, was the very fact that she could admire him, and see how fine and unselfish his love for her was, and yet remain untouched by it. She had been telling Lady Gower one day of the care he had taken of her ever since she was fourteen years of age, and had quoted some of the friendly and loverlike acts he had performed in her service, until one day they had both found out that his attitude of the elder brother was no longer possible, and that he loved her in the old and only way. Lady Gower looked at her rather doubtfully and smiled. “I wish you would bring him to see me, Helen” she said; “I think I should like your friend very much. From what you tell me of him I doubt if you will find many such men waiting for you in this country. Our men marry for reasons of property, or they love blindly, and are exacting and selfish before and after they are married. I know, because so many women came to me when my husband was alive to ask how it was that I continued so happy in my married life.” “But I don’t want to marry any one,” Helen remonstrated gently. “American girls are not always thinking only of getting married.” “What I meant was this,” said Lady Gower, “that, in my experience, I have heard of but few men who care in the way this young man seems to care for you. You say you do not love him; but if he had wanted to gain my interest, he could not have pleaded his cause better than you have done. He seems to see your faults and yet love you still, in spite of them—or on account of them. And I like the things he does for you. I like, for instance, his sending you the book of the moment every week for two years. That shows a most unswerving spirit of devotion. And the story of the broken bridge in the woods is a wonderful story. If I were a young girl, I could love a man for that alone. It was a beautiful thing to do.” Helen sat with her chin on her hands, deeply considering this new point of view. “I thought it very foolish of him,” she confessed questioningly, “to take such a risk for such a little thing.” Lady Gower smiled down at her from the height of her many years. “Wait,” she said dryly, “you are very young now—and very rich; every one is crowding to give you pleasure, to show his admiration. You are a very fortunate girl. But later, these things which some man has done because he loved you, and which you call foolish, will grow large in your life, and shine out strongly, and when you are discouraged and alone, you will take them out, and the memory of them will make you proud and happy. They are the honors which women wear in secret.” Helen came back to town in September, and for the first few days was so occupied in refurnishing her studio and in visiting the shops that she neglected to send Carroll word of her return. When she found that a whole week had passed without her having made any effort to see him, and appreciated how the fact would hurt her friend, she was filled with remorse, and drove at once in great haste to Jermyn Street, to announce her return in person. On the way she decided that she would soften the blow of her week of neglect by asking him to take her out to luncheon. This privilege she had once or twice accorded him, and she felt that the pleasure these excursions gave Carroll were worth the consternation they caused to Lady Gower. The servant was uncertain whether Mr. Carroll was at home or not, but Helen was too intent upon making restitution to wait for the fact to be determined, and, running up the stairs, knocked sharply at the door of his study. A voice bade her come in, and she entered, radiant and smiling her welcome. But Carroll was not there to receive it, and instead, Marion Cavendish looked up at her from his desk where she was busily writing. Helen paused with a surprised laugh, but Marion sprang up and hailed her gladly. They met half way across the room and kissed each other with the most friendly feeling. Philip was out, Marion said, and she had just stepped in for a moment to write him a note. If Helen would excuse her, she would finish it, as she was late for rehearsal. But she asked over her shoulder, with great interest, if Helen had passed a pleasant summer. She thought she had never seen her looking so well. Helen thought Miss Cavendish herself was looking very well also, but Marion said no; that she was too sunburnt, she would not be able to wear a dinner-dress for a month. There was a pause while Marion’s quill scratched violently across Carroll’s note-paper. Helen felt that in some way she was being treated as an intruder; or worse, as a guest. She did not sit down, it seemed impossible to do so, but she moved uncertainly about the room. She noted that there were many changes, it seemed more bare and empty; her picture was still on the writing-desk, but there were at least six new photographs of Marion. Marion herself had brought them to the room that morning, and had carefully arranged them in conspicuous places. But Helen could not know that. She thought there was an unnecessary amount of writing scribbled over the face of each. Marion addressed her letter and wrote “Immediate” across the envelope, and placed it before the clock on the mantelshelf. “You will find Philip looking very badly,” she said, as she pulled on her gloves. “He has been in town all summer, working very hard—he has had no holiday at all. I don’t think he’s well. I have been a great deal worried about him,” she added. Her face was bent over the buttons of her glove, and when she raised her blue eyes to Helen they were filled with serious concern. “Really,” Helen stammered, “I—I didn’t know—in his letters he seemed very cheerful.” Marion shook her head and turned and stood looking thoughtfully out of the window. “He’s in a very hard place,” she began abruptly, and then stopped as though she had thought better of what she intended to say. Helen tried to ask her to go on, but could not bring herself to do so. She wanted to get away. “I tell him he ought to leave London,” Marion began again; “he needs a change and a rest.” “I should think he might,” Helen agreed, “after three months of this heat. He wrote me he intended going to Herne Bay or over to Ostend.” “Yes, he had meant to go,” Marion answered. She spoke with the air of one who possessed the most intimate knowledge of Carroll’s movements and plans, and change of plans. “But he couldn’t,” she added. “He couldn’t afford it. Helen,” she said, turning to the other girl, dramatically, “do you know—I believe that Philip is very poor.” Miss Cabot exclaimed incredulously, “Poor!” She laughed. “Why, what do you mean?” “I mean that he has no money,” Marion answered, sharply. “These rooms represent nothing. He only keeps them on because he paid for them in advance. He’s been living on three shillings a day. That’s poor for him. He takes his meals at cabmen’s shelters and at Lockhart’s, and he’s been doing so for a month.” Helen recalled with a guilty thrill the receipt of certain boxes of La France roses—cut long, in the American fashion—which had arrived within the last month at various country houses. She felt indignant at herself, and miserable. Her indignation was largely due to the recollection that she had given these flowers to her hostess to decorate the dinner-table. She hated to ask this girl of things which she should have known better than any one else. But she forced herself to do it. She felt she must know certainly and at once. “How do you know this?” she asked. “Are you sure there is no mistake?” “He told me himself,” said Marion, “when he talked of letting the plays go and returning to America. He said he must go back; that his money was gone.” “He is gone to America!” Helen said, blankly. “No, he wanted to go, but I wouldn’t let him,” Marion went on. “I told him that some one might take his play any day. And this third one he has written, the one he finished this summer in town, is the best of all, I think. It’s a love-story. It’s quite beautiful.” She turned and arranged her veil at the glass, and as she did so, her eyes fell on the photographs of herself scattered over the mantelpiece, and she smiled slightly. But Helen did not see her—she was sitting down now, pulling at the books on the table. She was confused and disturbed by emotions which were quite strange to her, and when Marion bade her good-by she hardly noticed her departure. What impressed her most of all in what Marion had told her, was, she was surprised to find, that Philip was going away. That she herself had frequently urged him to do so, for his own peace of mind, seemed now of no consequence. Now that he seriously contemplated it, she recognized that his absence meant to her a change in everything. She felt for the first time the peculiar place he held in her life. Even if she had seen him but seldom, the fact that he was within call had been more of a comfort and a necessity to her than she understood. That he was poor, concerned her chiefly because she knew that, although this condition could only be but temporary, it would distress him not to have his friends around him, and to entertain them as he had been used to do. She wondered eagerly if she might offer to help him, but a second thought assured her that, for a man, that sort of help from a woman was impossible. She resented the fact that Marion was deep in his confidence; that it was Marion who had told her of his changed condition and of his plans. It annoyed her so acutely that she could not remain in the room where she had seen her so complacently in possession. And after leaving a brief note for Philip, she went away. She stopped a hansom at the door, and told the man to drive along the Embankment—she wanted to be quite alone, and she felt she could see no one until she had thought it all out, and had analyzed the new feelings. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2