# The Blind Bow-boy/Chapter 8

The next day began for Campaspe about one o'clock in the afternoon. The sun was high and bright, but the atmosphere was refreshingly cool; it was one of those charming days with a gentle sea breeze which alternate with sultry, humid weather in any New York summer. Campaspe sipped her coffee in bed, and glanced over her mail. There were letters from her two boys who were passing the summer with their grandfather at Southampton. These she opened first. Esme had caught a blue-fish and Basil wanted a cowboy's suit with chaps, a red-flannel shirt, a sombrero, and a lariat. Both of them desired to see their mother. Wasn't she coming down? She tapped an envelope against her open lips as she thought of her sons. Campaspe loved her children, and occasionally she had them with her. It was constitutional of her, however, to believe that she was only doing her best for others when she entirely pleased herself. She had decided, quite wisely, events had proved, not to leave New York again this summer. In the fall she would see the boys before she went to Europe and they were sent to boarding-school. It was ​better so. Boys, she felt, developed more rapidly and more individually if they did not live too much with their parents. Their grandfather, she knew, would permit them to do anything they wanted to do, and she was satisfied that this was the only way to bring children up successfully. Cupid, to be sure, went down to Southampton about twice a month. He was romantically attached to his sons and cherished a father's conventional ideas, but he, as much as their grandfather, could be depended upon not to interfere with their wishes. He wanted them to love him, and Campaspe felt certain that he would never thwart their desires for fear of sacrificing that love. Ironically enough, the boys loved their mother more than they did their father. This, in a way, justified her course of action; not that Campaspe ever sought justification for her acts, but sometimes it gave her a certain human amount of pleasure to realize that she was right. . . . Later, in boarding-school, there would be interference, of course, but that was external interference of the kind the boys might afterwards expect in life and consequently good for them; it had nothing to do with the family.
The next letter she opened was from Laura, who was spending the summer in the Berkshires. She, too, wanted Campaspe to join her. All the world, it would seem, was calling for Campaspe, but this was invariably true, she realized, when one was enjoying oneself. It was only when one felt lonely ​and bored that nobody asked one to do anything or to go anywhere. The thought came to Campaspe that she was seldom lonely, seldom bored nowadays. Only in her extreme youth had she experienced these and kindred unpleasant emotions. She had a practical nature; she hated the ineffectual. She had conquered fear; she conquered any feeling that annoyed or troubled her. She had mastered a formula for handling life, made life her slave, and this formula infrequently failed her.
After her bath, she donned a dressing-gown of pale green crêpe de chine, purfled in silver frogs, their legs extended in queer swimming postures, and sat down before her little writing-desk.
Dear Laura, she wrote:
You are bored in the Berkshires. I am amused in New York. Why should I go to you. Return, rather, to me. I know, of course, you can't or won't. You always consider the feelings of your children or your husband and, as a consequence, always keep them unhappy or uncomfortable. If you lived your own life, they would adjust their lives to yours. I suppose, as a matter of fact, that you are living your own life, doing what you really want to do, just as much as I am. People who suffer usually like to suffer and talk about it. There is Wilson Goodward, for instance, always complaining about his hard knocks, his consistently bad luck, always insisting that nothing ever comes out right for him. He likes to suffer and he likes to talk about his suffering. It is his way of making himself important. He cannot impose his personality on others in ​any positive way, he cannot work his will with life, and so he employs negative tools. Naturally, I don't mean all this for you. What I really think about you is that you are domestic, that you love your family, and that you adore excursions into the country with them, but before your more sophisticated friends, Laura, you feel ashamed of your true emotions and you believe it is necessary to apologize for your natural feelings. In time, probably, you will cease to do this and begin to lecture me as, perhaps, I seem to be lecturing you now! But I am not, really. I am merely chattering, as I would chatter if you were here. I am too happy to give advice to any one. . . . I am deliriously happy!
Such a summer! Ronald is here—you know, the Duke of Middlebottom; at least, you have heard me speak of him. He's done such an amusing thing: taken a town house in New York in July to transfer the London season here. At least that's what he says he has been doing; I think he may have other reasons for being here. At any rate, he has carried his masked purpose far enough to give New York a July "opera season." Only one night, but what an opera! It really wasn't an opera at all, but there was music, which Bunny wrote, thereby convincing me that he is a genius. There was one moment when all veils were rent. You should have seen Mrs. Pollanger! But all of them sat naked, just as they will again in hell. That was my moment: I felt that Bunny, unconsciously, had done that for me. Certainly, nobody else appreciated it. It made no impression whatsoever on the person he thought he had done it for. She is a snake-charmer, or was for a day or so, really the most unusual and nicest child—she is nearly seventeen—I have ever met. She follows her in​stincts, actually follows them; not the way I do, consciously and scrupulously, after years of trying to do something else, but involuntarily, automatically, and she has done so from birth, I should imagine. . . . I have had great fun teaching her how to dress, how to walk, how to speak, not too apparently; just a hint here and a hint there, which she accepts and takes advantage of, makes her own, so to speak, only too greedily. She is a born duchess, natural like a duchess—never alarmed lest she be doing something that others will consider wrong or in bad taste—and, consequently, an aristocrat, entirely free from vulgarity. For you know it is my belief that only those are vulgar who make pretensions to be what they are not. Perhaps you would consider her vulgar. Some day, it is entirely possible, I may consider her vulgar myself. I can see her in the future, driving past me without bowing, when she reaches a sncial station in life which she regards as higher than mine. At present, she is only concerned with love, but she will doubtless go beyond that. She will be disappointed and disillusioned by love, as all of us are some time or other, and she will probably marry a rich man and live unhappily ever after, because, au fond, she is an animal, and she will only be happy so long as she lives like an animal, naturally and a little libidinously. She is just through with Bunny, who adores her.
And that brings me to Paul, who is the only person I never really worry about. Paul is so good and kind and amusing and helpless and lucky. At present, he is being taken care of by a rich and eccentric old gentleman, who has put his son in Paul's charge, for a new kind of education. Harold Prewett—that is the boy's awful name—is, I should imagine, undergoing a course in worldliness. His ​father must believe that he is a prig. Harold is by no means a prig. He is a boy with fine instincts, who has been compelled by circumstances, as I see it, to lead a secluded life. Paul's way of living, and mine, do not suit him at all, and I think he must be very unhappy. He is not, however, as dependent upon fate as Paul. Harold is still young; some day he will assert himself. Indeed, even while I am writing these words, it has occurred to me that it may be his father's grim intention to develop the boy's character in this ruthless fashion so that he will assert himself the sooner. How, where, or when, I have no idea. But this is one of the reasons I have no wish to leave New York. I cannot afford to miss the scène à faire.
There are, I have discovered, and I insert the discovery parenthetically for what it may be worth, two kinds of people in this world, those who long to be understood, and those who long to be misunderstood. It is the irony of life that neither is gratified.
I am perfectly frank with you, dear Laura, always; there seems to be no other reason for writing long letters. You know that I seek my thrills in a curious, vicarious way. You know that what befalls others is of more interest to me than what befalls myself. Indeed, you must be aware by now that I do not care to have anything happen to me at all. If I can prevent it, things never do happen to me, and I can prevent it. I have even arranged it so that I do not suffer physical pain when it is inconvenient for me.
This is a very long letter about matters in which you will, conceivably, take only a vague interest, but I am clearing my mind for the day, revealing myself to myself, revolving my ideas so that I may the more fully enjoy them. ​Now that I have written this letter, indeed, there seems no real occasion for sending it, but I will not deprive you of such small amusement as you may derive from a perusal of its pages.
love from your,
Campaspe.
Having finished the letter and addressed the envelope, Campaspe dipped her fingers into a shallow bowl of water-lilies that stood on the desk and with the moistened tips wet the gum of the envelope and pressed the flap closed. Leaving the letter for Frederika to post, she rose and descended to the garden.
Campaspe's garden, at the rear of the house, was enclosed in high brick walls on which were trained espaliered fruit-trees. Dwarf shrubs forced their miniature trunks between the mossy crevices of the flagstones of various sizes and colours that paved the ground. Over these a quaint tortoise of considerable size and incredible age, named Aglaë, wandered in a disconsolate manner. There were a few comfortable chairs and, in one corner, under the shade of a spreading crab-apple tree, a table. In the opposite corner rose a rococo fountain which Campaspe, entranced at first sight, had purchased in an antiquary's shop in Dresden. This fountain gave the atmosphere to the whole place. On a low pedestal, in the midst of a semi-circular pool, a marble Eros, blindfold, knelt. His bow drawn taut, the god was about to discharge an arrow at ​random. Beneath him, prone on the marble sward, a young nymph wept. The figures were surrounded by a curving row of stiff straight marble narcissi, the water dripping from their cups into the pool below, in which silver-fish played.
Charmed by the sun and the contradictory coolness of the day—nature, she had noted, could be as contradictory and perverse as life itself—, Campaspe, propped up against cushions, lay back in a comfortable chaise-longue. Frederika had followed her with a pile of books, which she placed on a table by the side of her mistress, but, for the moment, Campaspe did not disturb these. She closed her eyes and half-dreamed in the bliss of her security. She hoped that no one would call. She had too much to think about. Campaspe enjoyed being alone. In fact, it was essential to her happiness that she be alone for at least a part of every day, occasionally for the whole day, and sometimes for a period of two or three days. It was during these self-imposed isolations that she most thoroughly enjoyed the hours in which she was not alone. Retrospection, revery, was her pleasure, her desire, her vice. She had no other. Yet, today, she did not give orders that she was not receiving.
She picked up one of the books, a novel by Waldo Frank, of which she conned the title with some diso may. She had bought it under the impression that it was called Darkey Mothers. She was not interested in the true title. Nevertheless, she opened ​the book and read a sentence or two. Then, with some impatience, she tossed the volume aside. Why, she wondered, did authors write in this uncivilized and unsophisticated manner? How was it possible to read an author who never laughed? For it was only behind laughter that true tragedy could lie concealed, only the ironic author who could awaken the deeper emotions. The tragedies of life, she reflected, were either ridiculous or sordid. The only way to get the sense of this absurd, contradictory, and perverse existence into a book was to withdraw entirely from the reality. The artist who feels the most poignantly the bitterness of life wears a persistent and sardonic smile. She remembered the salubrious remark of a character in Andre Salmon's La Negrésse du Sacré Cœur: There is only one truth, steadfast, healing, salutary, and that is the absurd. This book was mush, as sentimental, she felt, as a book by Gene Stratton-Porter—she chose a name at random, realizing that she did not know much about Gene Stratton-Porter except what she had read in the newspapers. This extremely heavy attempt on the part of Waldo Frank to take life seriously was just as sentimental as the attempt of Gene Stratton-Porter to take life, well as she found it. She recalled Georg Kaiser's sardonic play, From Morn to Midnight. How much higher it loomed in her consciousness, how much more lingering the sting, than plays which, on the surface, appeared to be more bitter, plays such as Dreiser's ​The Hand of the Potter, for Kaiser had laughed at his puppets. On n'apprend qu'en s'amusant, according to Sylvestre Bonnard, and she remembered Nietzsche's defence of the music of Carmen: It approaches lightly, nimbly, and with courtesy. It is amiable. It does not produce sweat. What is good is easy; everything divine runs with light feet: the first proposition of my Æsthetics. . . . How delightful the scene in Kaiser's play in which the German grandmother dies because her son leaves the house before eating his dinner! It had never happened before. What a comment on German character! And ten times as powerful as if the scene had been presented as something to cry over. One could shed tears to be sure, but not in behalf of the grandmother. One wept for her nation. She mentally decided that Hilaire Belloc's The Mercy of Allah gave a much better picture of a modern millionaire, because the book was good-humoured, satirical, and allegorical, than the more solemn performances of W. L. George in Caliban and Theodore Dreiser in The Financier. It was this same lack of humour, this sentimental adherence to a rigid point of view which in her eyes spoiled Three Soldiers. There was something to be said for such a book, undoubtedly, but you could not say that it was written for a sophisticated audience. No, in a different sense, it was written for the stupid, unsophisticated crowd, just as Rupert Hughes's books were written for that crowd. Only Hughes wrote ​to please the crowd and Dos Passos to annoy it. And such sophisticated souls as were delighted with Three Soldiers were delighted merely because the crowd was annoyed. An artist, she said to herself, would leave this crowd indifferent.
She closed her eyes again . . . and lighted a fresh cigarette. As she exhaled the first ring of smoke a fable related by Babbalanja in Herman Melville's marvellous Mardi came into her mind: Midni was of opinion that daylight was vulgar; good enough for taro-planting and travelling, but wholly unadapted to the sublime ends of study. He toiled by night; from sunset to sunrise poring over the works of the old logicians. Like most philosophers, Midni was an amiable man; but one thing invariably put him out. He read in the woods by glow-worm light; insect in hand, tracing over his pages, line by line. But glow-worms burn not long: and in the midst of some calm intricate thought, at some imminent comma, the insect often expired, and Midni groped for a meaning. Upon such an occasion, Ho, Ho, he cried; but for one instant of sunlight to see my way to a period! But sunlight there was none; so Midni sprang to his feet, and parchment under arm, raced about among the sloughs and bogs for another glow-worm. Often, making a rapid descent with his turban, he thought he had caged a prize; but nay. Again he tried; yet with no better success. Nevertheless, at last he secured one, but hardly had he read three lines ​by its light, when out it went. Again and again this occurred. And thus he for ever went halting and stumbling through his studies and plunging through his quagmires after a glim.
A book, Campaspe considered, should have the swiftness of melodrama, the lightness of farce, to be a real contribution to thought. Every time, had said the Rabbi Moses Maimonides, you find in our books a tale, the reality of which seems impossible, a story which is repugnant both to reason and common sense, then be sure that tale contains a profound allegory, veiling a deeply mysterious truth; and the greater the absurdity of the letter the deeper the wisdom of the spirit. How could anything serious be hidden more successfully than in a book which pretended to be light and gay? Plot was certainly unimportant in the novel; character drawing a silly device. Anybody could do it. It was like character acting: give a man a beard and a few trick phrases and gestures and you have created a masterpiece. How easy it would be, for example, to put the Duke in a book: his stuttering, his neglected finger nails, and the man would rise before the reader's eyes. Justification? Preparation? In life we never know anything about the families and early lives of the people we meet; why should we have to learn all about them in books? Growth of character in a novel was nonsense. People never change. Psychology: the supreme imbecility. The long and complicated analyses that serious ​writers give us merely define the mental limitations of these writers. The Bible, The Thousand and One Nights, and Don Quixote certainly were not psychological novels. . . . As for Ulysses . . . Works like Ulysses are always out of date. At first too modern, they soon grow old-fashioned. The very group that is most enthusiastic about Ulysses today will be the first to spurn it tomorrow.
She lit another cigarette, reflecting on the words of Clive Bell, who had said that in the best work of Nicolas Poussin the human figure is treated as a shape cut out of coloured paper to be pinned on as the composition directs. That was the right way to treat the human figure; the mistake lay in making these shapes retain the characteristic gestures of classical rhetoric. She glanced towards the pile of books again. There were, she noted with a new regret, if no surprise, no books by Ouida in the pile, and she suddenly became aware of the fact that only a book by Ouida would satisfy her present mood. Ouida, who had not written for posterity, realizing, no doubt, that the public of fifty years hence would be no keener intellectually than her coeval public. Ouida was entertaining. Her approach was satisfactorily unpretentious. She wrote about high life, the very rich—and who wanted to read about any other kind of life? Certainly not the rich, or the middle classes, or the poor . . . Neither the rich nor the poor were interested in reading about the poor except in the form of the Cinderella legend ​and that had been done too often. . . . Ouida's characters had amusing adventures; they were cut out of coloured paper to be pinned on as the composition directed. I think, Campaspe began to reason, that Waldo Frank should read Ouida. I wonder if he ever has. But she apprehended that Waldo Frank would not understand or appreciate the work of Louise de la Ramé, and so a reading would have no effect on his own future writing. It was characteristic of Campaspe that she began to feel a little sorry for Waldo Frank.
Two white doves floated down from the blue and settled on the fountain, one on the curly head of Eros, the other on a stiff narcissus stem. She listened to their soft cooing and watched their graceful movements. She recalled the case of the prisoner in the death-house at Sing Sing, who had undergone an operation for appendicitis two days before the hour set for his execution. Skilled surgeons had been rushed from New York to save his life so that he would not die and "cheat the chair," as the New York Times put it. There also lingered in her hospitable memory the story of the derelict who had been fed by the Y. M. C. A. The secretary of a branch of that organization had offered the fellow regular meals and employment if . . . IF he would put himself completely in the hands of the Y. M. C. A. and profess a belief in God. The man had refused, she recalled with delight. Nothing remained to him but his free will, and he ​proposed to keep that. But the Y. M. C. A. secretary, instead of regarding this stand as an indication of character, wept over this wolf lost to God. These anecdotes, typical press-cuttings from the news of the day, were, in their essence, comic arraignments of our civilization, or so Campaspe considered them. An attempt to trump up tears for the victims would always fail with a sophisticated audience, but when ridicule was aimed at the real offender, modern democracy or the church, a sense of tragic irony ensued. Something might even happen, although she was extremely dubious about this. It could hardly be expected that the best surgeons would be rushed to Sullivan Street to save the life of a poor Italian baby who had no intention of cheating the chair. Campaspe had a savage hatred of cruelty. She watched animal acts at the circus with the constant, but still ungratified, hope that the beasts would kill their trainers.
She lighted another cigarette. The doves had long since flown away. Aglaë, the tortoise, was reposing, the weight of his years weighing down his shell. Soft purple shadows in lacework fell athwart the flagstones. . . . Considering the heroines of modern fiction, reviewing their qualifications, Campaspe decided that Savina Grove and Mrs. Hurstpierpoint were the only two she would invite to call on her. They had lived their lives, not very amusing lives, perhaps, but at least their own. She remembered Idalia with pleasure. Idalia, though of ​another age, might come too. She must send to Brentano's for the book and reread it. Did Brentano's still keep the works of Ouida in stock? she wondered. Beyond question the serious books of Ouida were the best antidote she could think of for the serious books of this generation. At least, they were written in the grand manner. . . . Campaspe was enjoying her revery and her face changed expression for the worse as she saw Frederika emerging from the house. Her approach portended callers.
Mr. Moody is in the salon.
Oh! Paul. Campaspe was relieved. Bring tea, Frederika, and send him out.
Iced tea?
No, hot today. . . . And wait! Take these books in.
She pushed the rejected pile towards Frederika, who gathered them into her arms and retreated. Leaning back in her chair, almost recumbent, gazing at the azure sky through the rent canopy of leaves, Campaspe blew smoke rings lazily upwards. Glancing down, as Paul came through the door, she was aware at once that something had happened. His face wore a harassed expression and there were deep circles underneath his eyes. These, however, might be after-effects due to the Duke's opera.
'paspe, have you seen Harold? Paul was breathless.
Harold? No. What's happened to Harold? ​She was interested to discover that she felt a vague alarm.
Gone. Disappeared.
What do you mean?
I called him up this afternoon. Drains told me. The hall-boy reports that he came in last night, but went out again immediately. I questioned Drains further. He knew the reason for Harold's departure. When he got home he found Zimbule occupying his bed.
Campaspe smiled. The girl is not without guile, but I hadn't thought she would do that . . . Yet, she said she would.
She did. Drains gave her the key. His father . . .
That horrible father! Campaspe exclaimed in a tone of disgust. What is he trying to do to the boy?
I am beginning to wonder myself. Even Drains feels a little contrite. You see, he likes Harold.
You can't help liking him. . . . Have you been to Ronald's?
Yes. One of the Ceylonese sent me up to the bathroom. Ronald was immured there, lustily singing Old black Joe. . . . I interviewed him through the door. He knew nothing about Harold.
What has Drains done?
Nothing. He has strict orders not to appeal to Mr. Prewett for help in emergencies. Besides, it is obvious that the boy has merely run away to ​escape Zimbule. . . . I thought he might be here.
He'd sooner go to you, she mused, still blowing rings of grey smoke.
No, in some way he connects me with this plot. Of course, I don't know the first thing about it, but he doesn't know that. . . . He trusts you.
I'm fond of him, Campaspe remarked simply.
Frederika came back into the garden with the tea-tray which she deposited on the table, and Campaspe filled two cups, offering one to Paul, with a napoleon.
You don't suppose . . . he burst out suddenly, and then hesitated, appalled by the thought.
No, I don't, Paulet, she replied. He will turn up. I am not really disturbed when I consider his reason for leaving. Zimbule terrified him; that's all. He's probably gone toa hotel. He has plenty of money?
Heaps.
They talked a little longer. Paul, much too nervous to remain seated, walked up and down the narrow enclosure, finally taking his departure with the suddenness of his arrival.
The sun was sinking; the shadows on the flagstones had turned to deep indigo. Campaspe drank in the warm-cool air with delight. The scene was about to be played, the scene for which she had waited. The rebellion had broken out. Instinctively, she had felt the truth when she wrote Laura. Frederika came back into the garden.
​Mr. Prewett came some time ago, madame. He has been waiting in the salon until Mr. Moody went away.
Harold! Send him out, Frederika, and bring another cup.
If harassed described Paul's appearance, Harold looked absolutely haggard. His hair was awry; his cheeks were ashen; his eyes bloodshot. He still wore his evening clothes and it was apparent that he had not been to bed.
I hope you'll excuse my appearance, he began. I shouldn't have come, but I had to. . . . He was almost fierce . . . I had to.
I'm glad, Harold, she said.
I asked Frederika if you were alone; I've been waiting. . . . You are the only person I can talk to, Mrs. Lorillard. I haven't any friends.
Campaspe, please.
Campaspe, he repeated after her. I'm through, he began again with renewed, withal somewhat shrill, determination. My father can go to hell. I don't give a damn about his money. I'll live the way I want to from now on. I'll . . . Do you know what's happened?
I can guess.
Some one has . . . ?
Zimbule told Bunny that she was spending the night with me, but she wouldn't let me drive her home.
What are they trying to do to me, Campaspe: ​Drains and my father? They have some plan. . . . I am to do whatever I please, but constantly they are suggesting. . . .
But, Harold, as you have your father's word that you can do what you like, why don't you take advantage of it?
What I like is impossible. Campaspe, I must tell you! I must tell some one! Then, incoherently, he poured out the story of his meeting with Alice, and what had happened subsequently, but he refrained from mentioning her name.
Campaspe listened, enraptured, masking her too eager interest behind the smoke of her cigarette. It seemed too impossibly romantic to be real. It had happened, however. Of that the boy's manner left no loophole for doubt. When he had concluded his narrative, she paused for a moment before she said:
Obviously, the thing to do is to find some one who knows the girl, and who will introduce you properly.
But who? he asked desperately. Who? Whom do I know that would know people like that, conventional, respectable people? He flushed. I beg your pardon. I . . .
Enjoying his discomfiture, she was at the same time amused by his point of view.
I understand, she said, but perhaps you don't. It is barely possible, she began and then broke off. Presently, looking at him intently and sympathetic​ally, she suggested, Suppose you tell me the girl's name.
There was another pause, during which Campaspe had time to perceive how altogether miserable the boy was. He appeared to be almost ready to cry. Was he trying to make up his mind whether he could trust her? Would she, she knew he was asking himself, prove to be another illusion? At last he spoke, almost in a whisper and in a tone which bestowed an accolade upon the name.
Alice Blake.
Campaspe, sitting bolt upright, pouring tea, dropped the pot crashing into the delicate Sevres cup beneath. The scalding water flooded the table, unnoticed by her. Falling back against the cushions, she began to laugh, a loud, pealing mirthless laugh, a more than terrifying laugh. Harold bent over her.
What is it, Campaspe? What is the matter?
She stopped laughing as suddenly as she had begun.
I think, Harold, she said very quietly, that I am acquainted with the lady. The name, however, may not be uncommon. Do you know where she lives?
56 East Thirty-seventh Street.
She is my sister, Campaspe announced.
Not altogether without sympathy, she watched the blood mount to the boy's face, but her sympathy was mingled with another emotion. She could ​understand how horrible the idea seemed to him. This news apparently struck him as the direst blow that had yet fallen. Some moments elapsed before he was able to speak, and she made no effort to hurry him. Rather, by her manner, by her poise, by her ease, she indicated an opportunity for the pause.
Your sister! With varying emphasis, he repeated her words again almost in a whisper: Your sister!
How can that be? you are asking yourself. How can her father be mine? It is very simple. My father has no control whatever over me. When I came of age I inherited money left in trust for me by my grandmother, but even before that I was free, because I married when I was sixteen. I see very little of Alice now, but I can see her when I wish to. As a matter of fact, my sons are visiting their grandfather at Southampton, and Alice is with him too. I can send for her. . . .
Send for her! Would he never be able again to think out a sentence of his own?
Yes, if you want her sent for. Certainly. Her voice was dead in quality.
Would you? . . . His manner was eager, yet almost tearful.
How tragic, she thought again, is youth. How much youth suffers unnecessarily.
Whenever you like. She spoke calmly, evenly.
He rose to this: Now!
​Now? She appeared to ponder. Today? I could telephone, she mused, but, on the whole, I think it's better to write. You must give me three days. In three days I'll bring you and Alice together in this garden.
Three days! He was crestfallen again.
After all, dear boy, you've already waited weeks. What are three days more?
You know best, my dear, dear friend.
She regarded him curiously, weighing him.
Are you . . . She began, and then shifting her phrase, went on, Do you want to marry her?
If she will . . . at once!
Oh! she will.
You think . . .
I am certain of it.
How can I thank you?
Don't thank me, Harold.
Another problem had arisen in his mind.
Where shall I wait the three days?
Go home, of course. It's absurd for you to wander about in those clothes. Now that you know what you are going to do you can handle Drains. Besides, after last night, I have an idea Drains won't bother you any more.
Campaspe had awakened to some show of enthusiasm again. She was making plans. Get some money together, she went on. You will need it. Alice is accustomed to spending all she wants to spend. You must go somewhere and we—you and ​I—must decide where. Alice has no initiative. I have it—Campaspe's eyes glowed with a ruddy fire—; I own a tiny cottage at Provincetown on Cape Cod. I've never been there myself. I bought it as an investment for an adventure. This, I fancy, is the adventure. Take it. After you are through with it, I'll sell it.
To us?
If you want it, I'll give it to you. I can't use it twice. The bloom will be off.
I love her! Harold cried. If you knew how much I love her, Campaspe!
I'm sure you do, my boy, and in three days you shall see her. Come back to this garden and you will find her here.
He rose, kissed her hand quite spontaneously, although it was the first time in his life he had ever done such a thing, and took his departure. Seized with a new nervousness, Campaspe got up and walked about. Her whole body was glowing and vibrating with joy, and her smile rippled into laughter. The situation was too perfect. Only one more scene was required to end the act and bring down the curtain. That scene, she was now aware, was about to be played, and, consequently, she was in no way astonished when Frederika presently informed her that Zimbule was waiting in the salon. Nor was she unprepared for the black garb, the wholly woebegone appearance of the snake-child, as she slowly emerged from the house and de​scended the flagstones to meet Campaspe, who was standing near the fountain.
Campaspe clasped her hand. I know, dear Zimbule, she said. Harold has just been here.
The girl threw her arms about Campaspe's neck, her yellow head drooping, and gave way to a passionate fit of sobbing.
I'm too late! she cried.
Rather, too early, corrected Campaspe. He will want you later when you don't want him.
He told you . . .
He told me nothing. Paul was here before him, and Paul had seen Drains.
Where's Harold now?
He went home.
Zimbule made a movement towards the door. I'll follow him!
Campaspe gently caught the girl's arm.
No, dear Zimbule, you won't do that. It would do no good. The boy is in love.
Zimbule stared hard at Campaspe.
With you?
No, with my sister.
Zimbule, looking straight into Campaspe's eyes, could not doubt that she told the truth.
Did you know this last night? she demanded.
I learned it for the first time five minutes ago.
Are you going to help them?
Yes.
Against me?
​It's no good, Zimbule. You know what happened last night. Harold means it.
The girl sank into a chair and began to sob again, making a good deal of superfluous noise, Campaspe thought, and yet she was sorry for the child, and considered Harold a fool for not perceiving how infinitely superior was this lithe, little animal to her silly sister. He had made a stupid choice, but it was not her habit to interfere with other people's choices. Under the circumstances, however, she decided at once that she must keep the girl by her. Such tempestuous natures were capable of suicide. Campaspe was so entirely contented with life in general and her own participation in it in particular that it also occurred to her that she might go so far as to do something for Cupid. She infrequently dined at a public restaurant, more seldom still did she attend the theatre. It pleased Cupid to do these things, which to her were merely dull. Her imagination supplied her with so much better material than such casual experiences could give her. More and more she was finding it futile to leave her garden. In time, she began to believe, all the external life she needed would come to her. But tonight she might make an exception. Rapidly, she planned a dinner at the Claremont, and an evening at some musical show. She rang for Frederika.
Is Mr. Lorillard in the house?
He came in half an hour ago, madame. He is in his room dressing.
​Ask him to come out here, Frederika. She turned to the snake-child again. Zimbule, do stop crying. You don't want to go back to Bunny?
The child vigorously shook her head.
Then stay to dinner with us, and spend the night here.
She put her hhand tenderly on the girl's head, and she knew that Zimbule would stay.
Presently Cupid appeared, a little alarmed, obviously wondering what was up. He looked rather pompous in his fat, small way. Campaspe noted that he was losing his hair.
Hello, 'paspe, do you want to see me?
Yes, Cupid, I do. This is Miss O'Grady. Zimbule bowed her head but did not offer her hand. She's dining with us, and going to the theatre.
To the theatre! Cupid was very much astonished.
Certainly. Why not?
But you usually . . . I have an engagement, but I'll break it. Whenever you want me, you know I'm here.
Why was every one so pathetic today? She remembered that Paul had once asked her why she had married, and she had answered that everybody should marry at least once, and he had insisted. But why Cupid? and she had replied, He's the very man I should have married. How true! she thought now with a smile.
​The dinner, on the verandah of the Claremont, was rather solemn. Zimbule ate little and did not talk at all. Cupid made a determined effort to entertain his wife. He had, she could see, caught a false strand of hope, and had woven dreams for himself out of it; she did not disillusion him. She was kind and gracious and even amusing. She did not try to draw Zimbule into the conversation. The girl, she was sure, would be happier quiet. Occasionally, even while she chattered, she gazed across to the lights on the black river and thought her own thoughts.
It was late when they had finished dinner, too late, she decided, to use their seats for the Follies, and she suggested that they drop into a Negro revue at the Forty-eighth Street Theatre for a half-hour or so. An amazing mulatto woman, Edith Wilson, who sang a song entitled. He may be your man but he comes to see me sometimes, held her attention for a few moments. Presently, she became aware that Cupid was finally awake to Zimbule's beauty. He was the last to observe just what was most obvious to others, she reflected. They drove home.
Escorted by Frederika, Zimbule slipped off at once to her room. Cupid, rather awkwardly, attempted to seize Campaspe's hand.
No, Cupid, don't misunderstand. . . .
The poor little man was ridiculous in his dejection.
​I like you, you know, she added. . . . Good-night.
At the first landing, she peeped over the banisters for a glimpse of the pitiful figure standing alone below, and then she continued on her way upstairs. Before her desk she wrote a short note to her father, and sent Frederika with it to the nearest post-box on Irving Place. Then she went to Zimbule's room and tapped gently on the door.
Come in!
The child was lying nude on the bed, lovely in her despair as she had been the night before in her joy.
Are you feeling better, dear Zimbule?
Worse.
Do you want anything?
You know damn well what I want.
The girl began to cry again and Campaspe, sitting on the edge of the bed, bending over her, found it difficult to quiet her. She began to stroke the girl's head. Silently, her hand glided back and forth. Quite suddenly, a strange thing happened. Zimbule, Campaspe observed, had fallen into a deep sleep. She stole back on tiptoe to her own chamber. Frederika was waiting for her and, with her maid's assistance, she prepared for bed.
I shall not read tonight, Frederika. Put out the lights . . . and good-night.
Good-night, madame.
​That night Campaspe dreamed a curious dream. She found herself walking in her bare feet on a bed of oyster-shells, but the sharp edges made no impression on her tender soles. Presently, and inexplicably, she seemed to be lying in a nest of silken cushions, which stung her soft flesh like a thicket of nettles. Now a butterfly flew past her, and appeared to be beckoning her to follow. Rising, she ran after the butterfly through a great open doorway into a wide Moorish court, in the centre of which a blindfold, curly-headed Eros, carved in marble, appeared about to discharge an arrow aimed at no target. Her senses swerved in a curious state of transition: she touched Burgundy; she smelled purple; she heard vervain; she tasted space; she saw the chord of B flat minor.
A thick cloud settled down over the court, but through its veils she caught glimpses of shadows, approaching and receding. When she followed them, they glided back, and when they followed her, she ran away from them. The shadows were nude and wore masks. One of them, a woman, lifted her mask and Campaspe recognized Zimbule, Zimbule with a great green letter flaming on her breast. Campaspe raised her hand, her palm towards the vision, and it disappeared.