Tristrem hesitated a second, and would have fled. He was in one of those moods in which the noise and joviality of pleasure-seekers are jarring even to the best-disposed. While he hesitated he saw a figure rising and beckoning from a table on the lawn. And as he stood, uncertain whether or no the signals were intended for him, the figure crossed the intervening space, and he recognized Alphabet Jones.
“Come and have a drink,” said that engaging individual. “You’re as solemn as a comedian. I give you my word, I believe you are the only sober man in the place.”
“Thank you,” Tristrem answered; “I believe I do not care for anything. I only came to ask—By the way, have you been here long?”
“Off and on all summer. It’s a good place for points. You got my card, didn’t you? I wanted to express my sympathy at your bereavement.”
“You are very kind; I—”
“But what’s this I hear about you? You’ve bloomed out into a celebrity. Everybody is talking about you—everybody, men, women, and children, particularly the girls. When a fellow gives away a fortune like that! Mais, tu sais, mon cher, c’est beau, c’est bien beau, ça.” And to himself he added, “Et bien bête.”
Already certain members of immediate groups had become interested in the new arrival, and it seemed to Tristrem that he heard his name circulating above the jangle of the waltz.
“I am going to the hotel,” he said. “I wish you would walk back with me. I haven’t spoken to a soul in an age. It would be an act of charity to tell me the gossip.” Tristrem, as he made this invitation, marvelled at his own duplicity. For the time being, he cared for the society of Alphabet Jones as he cared for the companionship of a bum-bailiff. Yet still he lured him from the Casino and led him up the road, in the hope that perhaps without direct questioning he might gain some knowledge of Her.
As they walked on Jones descanted in the arbitrary didactic manner which is the privilege of men of letters whose letters are not in capitals, and moralized on a variety of topics, not with any covert intention of boring Tristrem, but merely from a habit he had of rehearsing ready-made phrases and noting their effect on a particular listener. This exercise he found beneficial. In airing his views he sometimes stumbled on a good thing which he had not thought of in private. And as he talked Tristrem listened, in the hope that he might say something which would permit him to lead up to the subject that was foremost in his mind. But nothing of such a nature was touched upon, and it was not until the cottage was reached that Tristrem spoke at all.
“The Raritans have gone, I see,” he remarked, nodding at the cottage as he did so.
“Yes, I see by the papers that they sailed yesterday.”
“You don’t mean to say they have gone to Europe. I thought—I heard they were going to Lenox.”
“If they were, they changed their plans. Miss Raritan didn’t seem up to the mark when she was here. In some way she reminded me of a realized ideal—the charm had departed. She used to be enigmatical in her beauty, but this summer, though the beauty was still there, it was no longer enigmatical, it was like a problem solved. After all, it’s the way with our girls. A winter or two in New York would take the color out of the cheeks of a Red Indian. Apropos de bottes, weren’t you rather smitten in that direction?”
“And you say they have gone abroad?” Tristrem repeated, utterly unimpressed by the ornateness of the novelist’s remarks.
“Yes, sir; and were it not that our beastly Government declines to give me the benefit of an international copyright, I should be able to go and do likewise. It’s enough to turn an author into an anarchist. Why, you would be surprised—”
Jones rambled on, but Tristrem no longer listened. The position in which he found himself was more irritating than a dream. He was dumbly exasperated. It was his own inaction that was the cause of it all. If he had but bestirred himself sooner! Instead of struggling against that which every throb of his heart convinced him was false, he had dawdled with the impossible and toyed with apostils of grief. At the first obstacle he had turned aside. Where he should have been resolute, he had been weak. He had taken mists for barriers. A child frightened at its own shadow was never more absurd than he. And Viola—it was not surprising that the color had deserted her cheeks. It was no wonder that in his imbecile silence she had gone away. It was only surprising that she had not gone before. And if she had waited, might it not be that she waited expectant of some effort from him, hoping against hope, and when he had made no sign had believed in his defeat, and left him to it. There was no blame for her. And now, if he were free again, that very liberty was due not to his own persistence, but to chance. Surely she was right to go. Yet—yet—but, after all, it was not too late. Wherever she had gone he could follow. He would find her, and tell her, and hold her to him.
Already he smiled in scenes forecast. The exasperation had left him. Whether he came to Narragansett or journeyed to Paris, what matter did it make? The errand was identical, and the result would be the same. How foolish of him to be annoyed because he had not found her, in garlands of orange-blossoms, waiting on
