it is not a simple matter to record in any detail the violent emotional reaction through which peter now passed. peter had the gift of creative imagination, the egotism to drive it far, and, for background, the character of a theatrical chameleon. of these qualities, i have always believed that the egotism predominated. he could appear dignified, even distinguished; he could also appear excitable, ungoverned. either would be peter.
nothing that had happened hitherto in his life had excited him as had the events of this evening. the excitement was, indeed, greater than he could bear. it set his imagination blazing, and there was among peter's intricate emotional processes no hose of common sense adequate to the task of subduing the flames. he stood, breathless, quivering, at the window, looking out over the dim square, exulting to the point of nervous exhaustion. he walked the floor. he laughed aloud. finally, his spirit went on around the emotional circle through a high point of crazy happiness to an equally crazy despondency. more time passed. the despondency deepened. she had made stipulations. he was not to see her again. if it should be necessary to communicate, he was to write. she had been kind about it, but that was what she had said. yes, she had been kind, but her reaction would come as his had. she would hate him. necessarily. hy was to that extent right.
he sat on the couch (where she had sat), held the paper in shaking hands and stared wildly into the dying fire. thoughts, pictures, were now racing through his mind, in a mad tangle, hopelessly confused. one notion he laid hold of as it went by... she had been his guest—here in his rooms. she had trusted herself with him. he had violated the trust. if he permitted a man to do such a thing in one of his plays, it would be for the purpose of exhibiting that man as a cad at least—probably as a villain. the inference was clear. any audience that peter was capable of mentally projecting would instantly, automatically, accept him as such. peter himself knew no other attitude. and now to find himself guilty of this very act brought the final bewilderment.
so he, peter, was a cad at least—perhaps a villain.
and then, at the lowest ebb of his reaction, his imagination set to work building up grotesque plans for a new different life. all these plans were out of the conventional stuff of his plays; all were theatrical. they had to do with self-effacement and sacrifice, with expiation, with true nobility. there was a moment when he considered self-destruction. if you think this wholly fantastic, i can only say that it was peter. another notion was of turning explorer, becoming a world's rough hand, of meeting hardship and privation. he pictured himself writing sue manly letters, once a year, say. he would live then in her memory not as a cad or villain, but (perhaps) as a man who had been broken by a great love. then, in reminiscent moments, as when she saw a log fire burning low, she would think tenderly of him. she might even sigh.... and he tried to think out acceptable devices for leaving his money in her hands. for he must see the nature film through.
he had just finished deciding this when hy lowe came.
had peter been less preoccupied, he would have noted that hy was unusually silent. as it was, conscious only that the atmosphere of magical melancholy had been shattered when the door opened, peter undressed, put out the gas lamp and went to bed, his bed being the very couch on which she had curled up while he read the scenario. he knew that sleep would be impossible, but he felt that he should make every possible effort to control himself. hy was fussing about in the bedroom.
after a while—a long while—he heard hy come tiptoeing into the room and stand motionless.
“what the devil do you want!” cried peter, starting up, all nerves.
“just wanted to make sure you weren't asleep.” and hy chuckled breathlessly.
“quit your cackling! what do you want?”
“let me sit down, pete. damn it. i've got to talk—to somebody. pete, i'm crazy. i'm delirious. never mind what i say. oh, my boy. my boy, you don't know—you can't imagine!... she's the darling of the gods, peter! the absolute darling of the absolute gods!”
“is that any reason why you should come driveling all over my room at this time of night?”
“wait, pete—serious now. you've got to stand by me in this. the way i've stood by you once or twice. to-day was friday, wasn't it? or am i crazy?”
“both.”
“then it's to-morrow! i'm just trying to believe it, pete, that's all.”
“believe what?”
“look here—you've got to know, and protect me if any unexpected thing should come up. we're going on a little trip, peter.” hy was solemn now, but his voice was uncertain. “betty and i, pete. to-morrow. on the night boat.”
peter was silent. hy stood there for what seemed rather a long time, then suddenly bolted back into the bedroom. in the morning he was less expansive, merely asking peter to respect his confidence. which request peter gloomily resented as he resented hy's luck. the fortunate young man then packed a hand-bag and hurried off to breakfast at the club.
peter tried to work on an empty stomach, but the effort gave him a headache, so he made himself a cup of coffee.
he walked the streets for a while with increasing restlessness; then, to soothe his nerves, went to the club and listlessly read the magazines. at noon he avoided his friends, but managed to eat a small luncheon. at two o'clock he went out aimlessly and entered the nearest moving-picture theater. at five he wandered back to the club and furtively asked the telephone boy if there' had been any messages for him. there had not.
he permitted himself to be drawn into a riotous game of kelly pool. also he permitted himself a drink or two.
during the evening, i regret to note, he got himself rather drunk and went home in a taxicab. this was unusual with peter and not successful. it intensified his self-consciousness and his sorrow, made him even gloomier. but it did help him to sleep.
he was awakened, just before nine o'clock on sunday morning, by the banging of a door. then hy, dusty, bedraggled, haggard of face, rushed in and stared at him.
peter decided it was a dream and rolled over.
hy shook him. “for god's sake, pete!” he cried. how hoarse he was! “where is she? have you heard anything?”
peter was coming awake.
“god, pete, i'm crazy! don't you understand—she wasn't on the boat. must have got the wrong one. oh, it's awful!... i walked that deck nearly all night—got off way up the river and came back to new york with the milk cans. something terrible may have happened.”
peter sat up.
“it seems to me,” he said, rubbing his tousled head, “that i remember something—last night—”
hy waited, panting.
“look on the desk. didn't i bring up a note or something and lay it there?”
hy was on the desk like a panther. there was a note. he tore it open, then thrust it into peter's hands, crying hoarsely, “read it!”—and dropped, a limp, dirt-streaked wreck of a man, into the morris chair.
this was the note:
“henry, i'm not going. i hope this reaches you in time. please understand—forgive if you can. you won't see me again. b.”
peter read it again, thoughtfully; then looked up. his own none-too-clear eyes met hy's distinctly bloodshot ones.
“and what do you think of that!” cried hy. “what do you think of that!... damn women, anyway! they don't play the game. they're not square.”... he was clenching and unclenching his hands. suddenly he reached for the telephone.
but just as his hand closed on it, the bell rang.
hy snatched up the receiver. “yes!” he cried shortly—“yes! yes! he lives here. wait a moment, please. it's for you, fete.”
peter sprang out of bed and hurried to the instrument.
“yes,” said he, “this is mr. mann.”
“peter, it's sue—sue wilde.”
“oh—hello! i was going to call up myself in a few minutes. how have you been?”
“not awfully fit. this constant rehearsing seems to be on my nerves, or something.”
there was a pause. hy went off into the bedroom to get out of his travel-stained clothes.
“i wanted to say, peter—i've been thinking it all over—”
peter braced himself.
“—and i've come to the conclusion that you are right about that southern trip. it really isn't necessary.”
“i'm glad you feel that way.”
“i do. and we must make zanin see it as we do.”
“we'll try.”
another pause. then this from peter—
“busy to-day?”
“i ought to be. are you?”
“no. can't work. wish we could do something.”
“i'd like some air—to get away from the streets and that stuffy theater. what could we do?”
“i'll tell you what you need, child—just the thing! we'll run down to one of the beaches and tramp. pick up lunch anywhere. what do you say?”
“i'll do it, peter. call for me, will you?... and oh, peter, here's an odd thing! betty packed up yesterday while i was out and went home. just left a note. she has run away—given up. going to marry a man in her town. he makes gas engines.”
peter started the coffee machine, smiling as he worked. a sense of deep utter calm was flowing into his harassed spirit, pervading it.
he went into the bedroom and gazed with tolerant concern at the downcast hy.
“the trouble with you, my boy,” he began, then paused.
“what's the trouble with me?” growled hy.
“the trouble with you, my boy, is that you don't understand women.”
