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Paradise Garden by George Gibbs

G >> George Gibbs >> Paradise Garden




A worried look came into Jack's face, but he shrugged his shoulders.

"Let him. It's time. We can't do anything."

"We might try."

"What?"

"Go there before damage is done, bring him home."

"And make ourselves ridiculous."

"Oh, that--! I don't care."

"Well, _I_ do. You've got to let this problem work itself out, Pope.
It's gone too far. He's on the brink of disillusionment. Let it come,
no matter how or what."

"But violence--!"

"Let it come. Better a violence which may cure than this quiet madness
that is eating his soul away."

"But Lloyd! Jerry's strength! He might kill the brute."

"Don't fear. If the man would fight Jerry might do him damage. But
he'll run, Pope. You can't kill a bounder. The breed is resilient."

"I'm afraid."

"You needn't be. This is the turning point of his affair."

"Perhaps. But in which way will it turn?"

"Wait."

I was helpless. Against my own judgment I did as he bade. We waited.
We sat upon the terrace for awhile with the ladies, Jack reading
aloud. Una made no comment upon Jerry's absence and gave no sign of
her prescience of anything unusual, except the frequent turning of her
head toward the house or toward the paths within the range of her
vision, as though she hoped every moment that Jerry might appear. The
shadows lengthened. Jack challenged the girl to a game of tennis and
even offered to play in the double court against us both, but neither
of us was willing. I think she knew where Jerry had gone and, like me,
was frightened. It was a miserable afternoon. As the dinner hour
approached the ladies retired to dress and I gave a sigh of relief. In
my anxious state of mind the burden of entertaining them had weighed
heavily upon me. It had occurred to me that Una's mother might have
thought it strange that Jerry should have left them so suddenly
without excuses, for he owed them an explanation at least. I think
some inkling of an unusual situation had entered Mrs. Habberton's
mind, for when dinner was nearly over and her host had not appeared,
she made a vague remark about a letter that had come in the morning
which might oblige her to curtail her visit, a tactful anticipation
of any situation which might make their stay impossible. The evening
dragged hopelessly and the ladies retired early, while at the foot of
the stair I made some fatuous remark about Jerry's possibly having
been summoned to town. The "good-nights" were said with an excess of
cheerfulness on Una's part and my own which did nothing to conceal
from either of us the real nature of our anxiety.

Jack and I smoked in the library, discussing every phase of the
situation. The coming of night without a word or a sign from the boy
had made us both a prey to the liveliest fears. Something had happened
to Jerry--What? He had been wild, determined. I could not forget his
look. It was the same expression I had seen at Madison Square Garden
when he had made his insensate effort to knock Clancy out--a narrow
glitter of the eyes, brute-keen and directed by a mind made crafty by
desperation. Weary of surmises, at last we relapsed into silence,
trying to read. Jack at last dozed over his book and, unable longer to
remain seated, I got up, went outside and walked around the house
again and again. The garage tempted me. Jerry's machine was inside.
Unknown to Jack I would go myself to Briar Hills and see Miss Gore.
She would know.

There was a light in the window. I turned the knob and entered. As I
did so someone stooping rose and faced me. It was Jerry, a terrible
figure, his clothes torn and covered with dirt, his hair matted and
hanging over his eyes, which gleamed somberly out of dark circles. He
had a wrench in his hand. For a moment in my timidity and uncertainty
I thought him mad and about to strike me with it. But he made no move
toward me and only hung his head like a whipped dog.

"_You_, Roger?"

"What has happened. Jerry?"

"Nothing. Don't ask."

"But Jack and I have been sitting up for you. We've been worried."

"I know. But it couldn't be helped. Just don't ask me anything,
Roger."

I was glad enough to have him safe and apparently quite sane. I don't
know why I should have considered his sanity at that moment of
peculiar importance unless because my own mind had been all the
afternoon and evening so colored with the impression of his last
appearance. I had become so used to the sense of strain, of tension in
his condition of mind, that the quiet, rather submissive tone of his
voice affected me strangely. It seemed almost as if the disease was
passing, that his fever was abated.

"I won't ask you anything, if you don't like, but I think you'd better
come to the house and get a hot bath and to bed."

He remained silent for a long moment.

"I'm not going to the house, Roger. I'm going--"

He paused again.

"Going! Where?" I asked.

"I don't know just yet. Away from here, from New York--at once."

"But I can't let you go without--"

He held up his hand and I paused.

"Don't talk, Roger," he said quickly. "Don't question and don't talk.
It won't do any good. I had hoped I shouldn't see you. I was
waiting--waiting until the lights went out."

"But I couldn't."

"Please!" he said quietly, and then went on.

"I was going to get some things and go during the night. Now you'll
have to help me. Tell Christopher to pack a bag--just a clean suit and
linen--and bring it here--And--and that's all." He held out his hand
with a sober smile. "Good-by, Roger," he finished.

"But I can't let you go like this."

"You've got to. Don't worry. I'm all right. I'm not going to make a
fool of myself--or--or drink or anything. I've got to be alone--to do
some thinking. I'll write you. Good-by."

"But Una! What shall I say?"

"Una!" He turned away and bent his head. "My God!" he said and then
repeated the words below his breath, almost like a prayer, and then,
turning, with a wild gesture, "Tell her anything, Roger. Say I'm all
right but I can't see her. Say I had a telegram--called West on a
Railroad matter--anything. Now go."

He caught me by the hand with a crushing grip while he pushed me
toward the door.

"You will not--?"

"I'm all right, quite. Don't fear for me. I'll come back--soon. Now
go, old chap. I'll wait for Christopher here. Hurry, please."

He spoke kindly but sharply. I could see that argument was of no
avail. His mind was made up and with Jerry that was final. Whatever
had happened--and from his appearance I suspected a soul-wrenching
struggle--he was at least for the present physically safe and entirely
sane. But it was with serious misgivings that I slipped past the
somnolent Jack and upstairs to Jerry's room, where I found Christopher
and together we packed a bag, descending by the back stairs, where I
took the bag from Christopher's hand and sent him to bed.

In a moment I was in the garage with Jerry.

"Oh, _you_--!" he frowned.

"Let me go with you at least as far as town," I pleaded.

"No," gruffly. "No one." He threw the bag into the car and clambered
quickly in.

"Here, your cap," I said, handing it to him. Our fingers met. He
grasped mine until they pained me.

"Forgive me, Roger. I don't mean to be unkind. You're too good to me."

"Jerry, you fool!" I cried, my eyes wet.

He had started the machine and when I opened the door he moved slowly
out.

"Good-by, old Dry-as-dust," he called with a wave of the hand and a
rather sinister smile.

"For God's sake no drink, Jerry!" I whispered tensely.

"I promise," he said solemnly. "Good-by!"

And while I watched, he swept noiselessly around the drive and was
soon lost in the blur of the trees below.

I walked slowly toward the terrace in the shadow of the trees, deep in
bewilderment. What should I say to Una? Half unconsciously I glanced
up at her window, the corner one over the terrace. Something white
stirred and I thought I heard a sound, a faint sound, and then a
strangling hush.




CHAPTER XXV

THE MYSTERY DEEPENS


But all other considerations were as nothing beside the mystery of
Jerry's manner and appearance, and his sudden flight filled me with
the gravest fears. What had he done at Briar Hills, what horrible
thing? Could it be that the boy had--? I shrank in dismay from the
terrible thought that came into my mind. I went hurriedly into the
house and without ceremony waked the sleeping Jack. He aroused himself
with difficulty but when I told him what had happened he came quickly
to life.

"You--you're sure you're not mistaken?" he asked, still bewildered.

"Haven't I told you that I saw the boy with my own eyes, that
something dreadful has happened today at Briar Hills and that he's
flying from the results of it? Come, Jack. We must go there at once."

"By all means," he said, springing up with an air of decision. "My
car," and then as we started for the garage, "you don't mean to say
that you believe the boy has--?"

The terrible words would not come. The mere thought of mentioning them
frightened him as they had done me.

"How can I tell?" I said irritably.

"God knows," he muttered miserably. "Violence--but not--not that."

"Hurry," I muttered. "Hurry."

In a moment we were in the car, rushing through the night toward the
lower gate. Briar Hills was not more than four miles from the Manor as
the crow flies, but fully twelve by the lower road. Jack wasted no
time and we sped along the empty driveways of the estate at a furious
pace. The cool damp air of the lowlands refreshed and stimulated us
and we were now keenly alert and thinking hard. The lodge gates were
kept open now and we went roaring through them and out into the
country roads where the going was not so good. Neither of us had dared
to repeat our former questions which were still uppermost in our
minds. The topic was prohibitive and until we knew something silence
were better.

It couldn't have been more than twenty minutes, twenty-five at the
most, before we reached the gates of the Van Wyck place, though it
seemed an age to me. Then at my suggestion Jack slowed down and we
went up the drive as quietly as possible. I don't know what we
expected to see when we got there, but the sight of the house with
lights burning in the windows here and there did something to reassure
us. After debating a plan of action we drove boldly up to the house
and got out. The front door upon the veranda was wide open but there
was no sound within or without. Jack was for dashing in at once and
searching the premises but I took him by the arm.

"Wait," I said, "listen."

Somewhere within I thought I made out the sound of footsteps. "At
least someone is about. Where's the bell? We'll ring."

I found it and though the hour was late a maid answered. She came to
the door timidly, uncertainly, as though a little frightened.

"This is Mr. Canby," I explained. "I would like to see Miss Gore,
please."

"I don't know, sir," she paused and then: "Wait a moment. I'll see--"
and went upstairs.

We had been prepared for a wait but Miss Gore appeared almost
immediately. She came down calmly, and asked us into the drawing-room.

"I was expecting you," she said with great deliberateness, "and
wondered if you'd come."

"Then something--something _has_ happened," I broke in hurriedly.

"I don't know what, exactly," she said. "I can't understand. I've
thought several things--"

"Is Channing Lloyd here?" I asked excitedly.

"No. He was here to luncheon and went out with Marcia, but he didn't
come back--to the house, I mean."

"But you know that he has been seen--since?"

I asked the question in terror and trembling.

"Oh, yes," she said. "One of the gardeners saw him and--"

"And Marcia?" I questioned again.

She pointed upward, where we were conscious again of the steadily
moving footsteps.

"She's upstairs in her room."

I think the gasps of relief that came from each of us at this welcome
news must have given Miss Gore the true measure of our anxiety, for a
thin smile broke on her lips.

"Thank God," I said feelingly. "Then they're safe. What has happened,
Miss Gore? Can you tell me? Jerry has gone, fled from Horsham Manor.
We feared--the worst."

"I don't know what has happened, Mr. Canby," she admitted. "But it's
very strange. I will tell you what I know. Marcia and Mr. Lloyd went
out together after luncheon, not in a motor but afoot. I was in the
garden in the afternoon cutting roses for the dinner table when I saw
a figure skulking near the hedge which leads to the main drive. I
wasn't frightened at all, for Dominick, the man who attends to the
rose garden, was nearby, but the man's actions were queer and I sent
the gardener to inquire. He went and I followed, curiously. Dominick
cut across behind the hedges and came out on the lawn quite near the
man, who walked with his body slightly inclined and one arm upraised
and bent across his face, his hand holding a red handkerchief. I could
make out his figure now. I remembered the suit of shepherd's plaid
that Channing Lloyd had been wearing. There is no doubt of his
identity, for Dominick confirmed me. It was Mr. Lloyd."

"But what was he bending over for?" I asked.

"I can't imagine. When Dominick spoke to him, he merely cursed the man
and went on."

"Curious," said Jack thoughtfully.

"Isn't it? I can't make it out at all."

"And Marcia?" I asked.

"She came back much later. I didn't see her for she rushed into her
room and locked the door. She's there now. I've tried to get to her.
But she won't let me in, won't even answer me. Listen," and she
pointed upward. "She's been doing that for hours. I've taken her food.
She won't eat or reply. Nothing except, 'Go,' or 'Go away.' I'm at my
wit's ends. I seem to be sure, Mr. Canby, that Jerry--"

"Yes," I put in. "You're right, Jerry--was here. Something has
happened."

"But what?" she asked.

"He saw them together in the red motor."

"Kissing," put in Jack rather brutally.

"Ah," she said composedly. And then, "Ah, yes, I see, but why Lloyd's
curious behavior and Jerry's flight?"

"It's very mysterious."

"Yes, very." Here she rose as with a sudden sense of responsibility
and brought the interview to an end. I think she read farther than I
did. "At all events we know that they are all alive," she said with a
smile. "Perhaps no great damage is done after all."

It seemed as though she were trying to deceive herself or us, but we
made no comment, presently taking our departure.

It was not until many months later that I learned what had happened on
that dreadful day. Jack Ballard and the Habbertons left Horsham Manor
the following afternoon and it was many weeks before I saw Una in New
York, for some instinct had restrained me; not until some time after I
had Jerry's first letter, just a few lines written from somewhere in
Manitoba, merely telling me that he was in good health and asking me
not to worry. But brief as it was, this message cheered me
inexpressibly.

I could not bring myself to go to Briar Hills again, but managed a
meeting with Miss Gore, who told me that Marcia was in a more than
usually fiendish temper most of the time--quite unbearable, in fact.
She was going away to Bar Harbor, she thought, and the certainty of
Miss Gore's tenure of office depended much upon Marcia's treatment of
her. They had quarreled. To be a poor relation was one thing, to be a
martyr another.

She couldn't understand Marcia's humor, moody and irascible by turns,
and once when Miss Gore had mentioned Jerry's name she flew into a
towering rage and threw a hair brush through a mirror--a handsome
mirror she particularly liked.

Jerry's affair with Marcia was ended. There could be no possible doubt
about that. Further than this Miss Gore knew nothing. It was enough. I
was content, so content that in my commiseration I held her hand
unduly long and she asked me what I was going to do with it, and not
knowing I dropped it suddenly and made my exit I fear rather
awkwardly. What could I have done with it? A fine woman that, but
cryptic.

It was June when Jerry left, not until midwinter that he returned to
Horsham Manor. He was very much changed, older-looking, less
assertive, quieter, deeper-toned, more thoughtful. It was as though
the physical Jerry that I knew had been subjected to some searching
test which had eliminated all superfluities, refined the good metal in
him, solidified, unified him. And the physical was symbolic of the
spiritual change. I knew that since that night in July the world had
tried him in its alembic with its severest tests and that he had
emerged safely. He was not joyous but he seemed content. Life was no
longer a game. It was a study. Bitter as experience had been, it had
made him. Perfect he might not be but sound, sane, wholesome. Jerry
had grown to be a man!

But Jerry and I were to have new moments of _rapprochement_. As the
days of his stay at the Manor went on, our personal relations grew
closer. He spoke of his letters to Una and of hers to him, but his
remarks about her were almost impersonal. It seemed as though some
delicacy restrained him, some newly discovered embarrassment which
made the thought of seeing her impossible and so he did not go to pay
his respects to her. Indeed, he was content just to stay at the Manor
with me. It seemed that the bond between us, the old brotherly bond
that had existed before Jerry had gone forth into the world, had been
renewed. I would have given my life for him and I think he understood.
He was still much worried and talked of doing penance. Poor lad! As
though he were not doing penance every moment of his days! I know that
he wanted to talk, to tell me what had happened, to ask my advice, to
have my judgment of him and of her. But something restrained him,
perhaps the memory of the girl he had thought Marcia to be, that
sublimated being, in whose veins flowed only the ichor of the gods,
the goddess with the feet of clay. I told him that she had been at Bar
Harbor with Channing Lloyd and that Miss Gore had told me that the two
were much together in town.

"Oh, yes," he said slowly, "I know. They're even reported engaged.
Perhaps they are."

There was a long silence. We were sitting in the library late one
night, a month at least after he had returned, reading and talking by
turns.

"She wasn't worthy of you. Jerry," I remarked.

"No, that's not true," he said, a hand shading his eyes from the
lamplight. "It would be a poor creature that wouldn't be worthy of
such a beast as I. But she tried me, Roger, terribly."

"She tempted you purposely. It was a game. I saw it. But you, poor
blind Jerry--"

"Yes, blind and worse than blind, deaf to the appeals of my
friends--you and--and Una, who saw where I did not. Marcia had
promised to marry me, Roger, to be my wife. Do you understand what
such a promise meant to me then? All ideals and clean thoughts. I
worshiped her, did not even dare to touch her--until--Oh, I kissed
her, Roger. She taught me--many things, little things, innocent they
seemed in themselves at the time, but dangerous to my body and to my
soul. I knew nothing. I was like a new-born babe. My God! Roger--if
only you had told me! If you had told me--"

"I couldn't then, Jerry," I said softly. "It would have been too late.
You wouldn't have believed--"

"No," he muttered, "you're right. I wouldn't have believed anything
against her at the time or found a real meaning in the truth. She
could have done no wrong. Then I saw her kissing that fellow--you
remember? I think the change came in me then, my vision. I seemed to
see things differently without knowing why. Rage possessed me, animal
rage. I saw red. I wanted to kill."

He rose and paced the length of the room with great strides.

"I mustn't, Roger. I can't say more. It's impossible."

I was silent. A reaction had come.




CHAPTER XXVI

DRYAD AND SATYR


Little by little the story came from him. Perhaps I urged him but I
think the larger impelling motive to speak was his conscience which
drove him on to confession. He needed another mind, another heart, to
help him bear his burden. And the years had taught him that the
secrets of his lips were mine. I could be as silent, when I chose, as
a mummy. He had not named me old Dry-as-dust for nothing.

It seems that when Jerry left us at the Manor that afternoon and took
to the woods he had no very clear notion of what he was going to do.
All that he knew was that he could not bear the sight or touch or
hearing of his fellow beings, least of all of those of us who were
kind to him. In fact, he had no very clear notion of anything, for his
brain was whirling with terrible grinding, reiterating blows like
machinery that is out of order. What thoughts he had were chaotic,
mere fragments of incidents, and conversations jumbled and mostly
irrelevant. But the vision of the figures in the automobile dominated
all. I am sure that he was mentally unsound and that his actions were
instinctive. He walked furiously, because walk he must, because
violent physical exercise had always been his panacea, and because the
very act of locomotion was an achievement of some sort. After awhile
he found himself running swiftly along the paths that led to the
Sweetwater, and then following the stream through the gorge in the
hills, leaping over the rocks until he reached the wall and the broken
grille. There he paused for a moment and tried to reason with himself.
But he found that he could not think and that his legs still urged him
on. They were bent on carrying him to Briar Hills, he knew that much
now, and that he had no power to stop them. The violence of his
exercise, he said, had cleared the chaos from his brain and only the
vision of the red automobile remained, Marcia's roadster. He knew it
well. Had he not driven it? There was no mistake. It crossed his
disordered brain that red for a machine was a frightful color, a
painful color it seemed to him, and he wondered why he hadn't thought
that before. Red, blood color, the color that seemed to be in his eyes
at that very moment. All the trees were tinged with it, the rocks,
even the pools in the brook, around the edges especially--and they had
always seemed so cool, so very cool.

He leaped down the rocks and before he realized it had crawled under
the broken railing and was in the forest beyond. He did not run now
but walked quickly and with the utmost care over fallen tree-trunks
and rocks, avoiding the paths and seeking the deep woods, still moving
ever nearer to his goal. He made a wide detour around the Laidlaws'
place and went half a mile out of his way to avoid the sight of some
farmers working in an open field. As he neared Marcia's land he grew
more crafty, even crawling upon his hands and knees across a clearing
where there was little cover. He had no notion as yet of what he was
going to do when he got there except that he hoped to find the girl
and Lloyd together.

He saw the house at last and the garden, from a distance. The house
had a red roof. Red again! It glared horribly in the afternoon
sunlight. He turned his head so that he might not look at it and moved
stealthily around a stone wall toward the woods beyond the
garden--Marcia's woods, pine woods they were, their floor carpeted
with brown needles where he and she had used to go and walk of an
afternoon to the rocks by Sweetwater Spring, the source of the stream,
they said, which Jerry had named the "blushful Hippocrene," the
fountain of the Muses who met there to do Marcia, their goddess,
honor.

Marcia, _his_ goddess. And Chan Lloyd! _Would_ they be there? He hoped
so. The whole success of his venture seemed to depend upon seeing them
together. It was her favorite spot. She had led Jerry to believe that
the crevice among the rocks by the spring, a natural throne sculptured
by nature, was his, his only, and that he was her king. That had
always seemed a very beautiful thought to Jerry. She used to sit at
his feet, her arms upon his knees, look up at him and tell him of his
dominion over her and all the world; her "fighting-god" he had once
been, and then again her Pan, and she a dryad or an oread.

Jerry crept nearer, stealthily. He had learned the craft of the woods
years ago, and made no sound. He stalked that grove with the keenness
of a deerslayer, moving around through the undergrowth until he was
quite near the rocks. He could hear no voices as yet, but something
told him that they must be there. It was a very secluded spot; it
would have been a pity to have had to go on to the house where Miss
Gore and the servants would hear and see. He crawled on his hands and
knees, approaching slowly and with some pains. He still heard no
sound, but at last reached a ridge of rock within a few feet of the
spring and heard voices, lowered, guilty voices they seemed to him. He
peered cautiously over. They were there, side by side on the rocky
ledge.

Jerry told me that at this moment he seemed suddenly to grow strangely
calm. The noises in his head had ceased and he felt a curious sense of
quiet exaltation. He couldn't explain this. I think it was a purely
mental reaction after many months of spiritual coma. He got to his
feet and even before they heard the sounds of his footsteps he stood
before them.

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