An Officer and a Lady and Other Stories

The Strong Man

The poet was locked in his room and Mrs. Mannerlys, his hostess, had the key. Probably she had read somewhere of the method adopted by Lady Gregory to get work out of Yeats; but still Mrs. Mannerlys was capable of having thought it up for herself. Her cousin, the poet, was a lazy fellow who would not drive himself to work, so in the interests of literature she had taken him out to her country place and shut him up for four hours every day, first removing all books and placing fresh pens and paper on a table at the window.

... Where his muscles swelled.

And will and force and courage: ever dwelled.

Therein his strength; until he saw and heard her;

Then his heart trembled, and all his strength was weakness.

“Impossible,” thought the poet disgustedly. “It sounds like Vers Libre. I’ll have to take the line out. But it’s exactly what I want to say: ‘Then his heart trembled, and all his strength was weakness.’ It’ll have to be chopped up, but ‘weakness’ must have a strong pause. It’s enough to drive you mad.”

He threw his pen on the table and walked to the window, where he stood looking down into the garden and on the long, sloping lawn with great shade trees and here and there a clump of shrubbery or low laca bushes. Further away he could see the tennis court and the lake and three or four figures of people moving about, one of them in the act of launching a boat. He watched them a little while without being conscious of what he saw, then his gaze slowly traveled back toward the house. And then, in the garden almost directly beneath his window, his eye caught the light from a spot of blue in a hammock swung beneath two trees. It was a woman’s dress.

The eyes of the poet quickened, and he softly opened the window and leaned across the sill, but the woman’s face remained hidden behind the end of the hammock. The poet left the window and went to the door and turned the knob.

“Oh, it’s locked,” he said stupidly, as though he had not known it before. He raised his hand to knock on the panel, then let it fall after a moment’s hesitation and returned to the window. Stopping only for a glance at the spot of blue in the hammock, he clambered onto the sill and swung himself out, catching the farther edge of the shutter. There he hung for a moment, twenty feet above the ground, then with a quick, agile movement he threw his body sharply to one side and wrapped his legs and arms around a drainpipe five feet away, while the shutter banged against the side of the house with a loud noise and a cry of surprise and alarm came from below. The poet slid easily down the drain pipe to the ground and began dusting off his clothes.

“Good heavens!” came a voice from the hammock. “It’s a wonder you didn’t kill yourself!”

The poet looked up quickly with an expression of the keenest disappointment. What he saw was a young woman of twenty-three or four with rather ordinary brown hair, a clear, high brow, fine dark eyes and a full pleasant face divided in the middle by a delicately thin nose. Not a displeasing sight, surely; but the poet’s tone was certainly one of displeasure as he took a step forward and observed:

“Oh, it’s you. Where did you get that dress?”

“Why, I... well, I’m not surprised. I’ve often said you’re crazy.”

“What right have you got to wear that dress?”

“Well! It’s ‘a poor thing, but mine own.’ It came from Herbert, on Fifth Avenue, if you must know. And now, my dear Paul, perhaps you’ll explain why you’ve taken to climbing through windows to slide down drainpipes and ask your lady friends where they buy their clothes.”

The poet grunted, seated himself on the grass beside the hammock and hugged his knees.

“It deceived me,” he said dismally.

“I thought it was someone else. Dress exactly the same. And I wanted to speak to her, and Helen had me locked in the room, so I came that way. It was all for nothing, and now I can’t get back. Got a cigarette?”

“It’s Kitty Vreeland,” said the young woman with a laugh. “But where is your poet’s observation? See these stripes? Kitty hasn’t any. And the cut is entirely different.”

“I can’t help it; I’m not a costume designer. Anyway, I couldn’t see from the window. What day is today?”

“Friday.”

“Is she coming? Helen wouldn’t tell me.”

“No. She’s spending a week at Newport.” The young woman added maliciously, “And I believe Massitot is there, too.”

“I don’t care,” replied the poet indifferently, “as long as she’s not here. I just wanted to look at her. Who’s coming?”

“I don’t know — Helen’s usual crowd.”

“Wortley, Townsend, Crevel?”

“I suppose so.”

“And Richard the Great?”

“I really don’t know. Oh, it would be absurd to pretend not to know who you mean. Only it’s ridiculous.”

“Of course.” The poet looked up amusedly at the little frown on her brow, then smiled softly to himself. “Of course it’s ridiculous. Really he’s no greater than any of the others, only he thinks he is, and it’s the same thing. You see, Janet, you must look at it as he does. At twenty-seven he set out to do a certain thing, and at the end of six years he is nearer his goal than most men can get in a lifetime. He has made lots of money, and he has developed a power. He is a strong man, measured by the requirements of the modern arena. What if he is conceited in his strength? So is every man who has any. So am I.”

“But why do you say all this to me?”

“Because you ought to hear it. I see things. I am a poet. I won’t be one much longer, because I’m beginning to get clever, and that is fatal. It’s my accursed laziness. I was composing today, and I had Richard Gorrin in mind.

... until he saw and heard her,

Then his heart trembled, and all his strength was weakness.’ ”

“Good heavens! Not Richard the Great!”

“Certainly.”

“But that’s impossible!”

“By no means.”

“You don’t know him, my dear Paul.”

The sudden note of bitterness in her tone caused him to look up at her, and his glance was so quick and unexpected that he caught the smile, equally bitter, on her lips, before she had time to erase it. He looked away again, and his expression of amusement gave way to one of thoughtfulness.

“You don’t understand,” he said, presently. “I don’t mean that his strength turns into weakness. The contrary. When his heart trembles with love his weakness is his real strength. It’s a good thing we’re such old friends, Janet. No man likes to explain his verses.”

“Especially when they’re absurd.”

“Absurd!”

“I mean, in this particular instance. You don’t know Mr. Gorrin. He is all strength. He has no weakness.”

Again the bitter note; and something else — was it wistfulness, regret, sorrow? Not exactly, perhaps, but something very like it.

“Of course!” cried the poet, leaping to his feet. “Of course! That’s it! I should have seen it before! The trouble is, Janet, you’re too intellectual. You need a grain more of womanish intuition. No, don’t pretend with me. Don’t you think I see things? Don’t you think I know when a woman’s in love? Only I couldn’t understand—”

“Paul... please—”

“No, no, no! And you think Richard Gorrin is all strength. How funny! I can see him now; I can hear him, with his offers to protect and cherish. How funny! There’s a great deal too much strength about, Janet. You’re as bad as he is. I really think I must change that line to something more comprehensive.”

“Paul, I am positively going in unless—”

“No, you’re not. Wait a minute, I want to think. One thing, of course, would be very simple — I don’t know — I may try it — yet, I will! It will be very funny, and it will prove I’m right. It’s a good thing we’re old friends, Janet; you won’t mind my experimenting.”

The poet paused to brush back his hair into a semblance of order, approached the hammock so that he stood directly in front of her, and bowed formally.

“Miss Beaton,” he said, “will you marry me?”

“Well! Really—”

“No, you must answer ‘yes.’ Of course you don’t want to, but neither do I, and I’ll break it off tomorrow. A poet never keeps a promise anyway, and I’m not in love with you, so you may know I shan’t hold you to it. Will you marry me? Say yes. It’s an experiment. Will you marry me?”

The lady’s lips were parted in an amused smile.

“Yes, my dear poet,” she said.

“You will?”

“Yes.”

“Good!” He took her hand and kissed the fingers. “Then that’s understood. We’re engaged. You’ll see I’m right. And now, of course, you want to be left alone to think; they always do. As for me, I’ve got two hours till dinner to repair that infernal line, and in forty minutes the train arrives with Richard the Great and the rest of them. I will retire with my newfound happiness; and by the way, Janet, next time you camp out under my window wear a different dress. It’s confusing.”

And so he left her.

Four hours later Miss Janet Beaton was back again in the hammock. It was night now, and all you could see of the shade trees was a great mass of dark blotches against the starlight in the sky, save where a shaft of yellow rays fell here and there from a window of the house. It was a cool, fresh evening in early June, and Miss Beaton had wrapped a mantle about her shoulders to keep off the dew.

Around a corner of the house, from a distance, sounded the faint cries and bursts of laughter of those who were playing tennis under the electric lights on the courts; others of the weekend guests had taken boats on the lake. Miss Beaton had managed with some difficulty to separate herself from the crowd, and had sought refuge here to think. She lay back in the hammock looking up at a lighted window — the same window through which the poet had clambered that afternoon, and behind which he was sitting now, tinkering with words.

“It was very silly,” mused the lady in an undertone. “I had no idea he meant to tell everyone. And if he really thought that Richard Gorrin could be jealous — but how childish! He didn’t mean that at all. Anyway, it was amusing to see their faces—”

She stopped and raised her head quickly, then as quickly dropped it again. Someone had suddenly appeared around the corner of the house, a dim form in the semi-darkness, calling her name.

“Miss Beaton! I say, Miss Beaton!”

Janet lay silent. The figure advanced and stopped in the path of light from a window. It was that of a tall, vigorous-looking man, not much over thirty, with a strong, expressive, agreeable face and straight, determined carriage.

“Miss Beaton!” he repeated, moving forward.

She saw that he was coming toward the hammock, so she sat up and said calmly:

“Well. Here I am.”

He approached and stood above her.

“Ah! I thought you were coming to the lake. You said—”

“I changed my mind.”

“But couldn’t you have told us—”

“I called, but you were too far ahead.”

He did not reply, but walked to a nearby tree for a garden stool, which he brought back and placed beside the hammock. Then he seated himself and lit a cigar.

“I don’t want to keep you away,” said Janet presently.

“Away from what?”

“The lake — the others.”

He grunted, puffing his cigar. There was silence for several minutes, during which Janet leaned back in the hammock giving thanks that it was too dark for him to see her face plainly; it is easier to talk when you do not have to control your expression and your voice at the same time. Suddenly Gorrin rose to his feet and threw the cigar on the ground with an impatient gesture.

“Look here,” he said abruptly, “what is this nonsense about you and Duval?”

Janet, looking up at the lighted window behind which the poet sat, smiled to herself, and her heart was filled with gratitude toward him. He had been wrong, but he had given her dignity — and yes, there could be no doubt that he had foreseen this very question. It was the question of a strong man, of a man who wins by strength. As for the reply—

“Nonsense?” she repeated, in a tone of polite inquiry.

“Yes. Of course it’s nonsense. You don’t expect me to believe you really intend to marry him?”

“Why not?”

“For several reasons. One is, he’s a dreamer, a dallier; you’re too intelligent. Another, you are going to marry me.”

Janet raised herself to lean on her elbow.

“Now you are talking nonsense,” she said quietly.

“No, I’m merely repeating the truth. You’ve heard it before.”

Gorrin took a step nearer the hammock.

“Look here, Janet, you’re a sensible woman, why play with serious questions? Why will you try to postpone the inevitable? Answer this: did you tell me once, not a year ago, that you loved me?”

“Oh,” said Janet impatiently, “are you going to begin that again?”

“Yes, I’m going to begin that. You did tell me you loved me. Why? You say, because you thought you did. But you’re intelligent; you don’t make such an admission lightly. You must have loved me. And I loved you. I love you now. But you won’t promise to marry me. I ask you why? You say I don’t really love you. You say I am too strong to need you, therefore I can know nothing of love.”

“No, I said—”

“Pardon me. It would be idle to deny my strength. I use it every day, in everything I do. I am a strong man; that’s why I can’t fall before you on my knees like a poet and talk sweet. It isn’t in me. And as I have told you many times, with that strength I am going to win you. Don’t mistake me. It was not jealousy that brought me here to ask you about that fool Duval. But accidents may happen to anyone, and I wish to guard against them. That is why I want to know what this nonsense means. Why did Duval tell us tonight that you have promised to marry him? It’s absurd, anyway. It is not done that way.”

Janet was thinking. She was asking herself: after all, are these words dictated by strength? And she felt the answer in her heart; it trembled within her. How blind she had been! She was doubly glad now that her face could not be seen clearly, for her eyes were moist. She felt ashamed of herself, of her womanliness, or lack of it, not to have known before. Only she must make sure. No mistakes now. So, summoning all her courage and cunning, she made her tone light, almost impersonal, as she said:

“But you forget that Paul is a poet. He does everything differently.”

“Bah! What is it — a wager?”

“A little more—” Janet raised herself, “a little more, and you will offend me. Really. I mean that, Mr. Gorrin.”

He looked up quickly at the new seriousness in her tone.

“But what am I to believe? I do not mean to offend. You and Duval have been — you are like brother and sister. You know him too well. It’s absurd. You would never marry so useless, so incapable—”

“Mr. Gorrin!”

He stopped.

“This afternoon,” said Janet quietly, “I promised to marry Paul Duval.”

“I know, but—”

“That is all.”

“You promised to marry him?”

“Yes.”

He straightened up, and it was with an entirely new voice that he said:

“Janet, you’re not really serious?”

She stirred and moved her head to look at him.

“What a pity,” she said, “that you will continue to delude yourself.”

“Delude myself? I am not in the habit—”

“Yes, you are. You are, Mr. Gorrin. After all, I can’t expect you to believe unless I explain. Yes, a year ago I said I loved you. No matter why — I don’t know. Then I saw I had been mistaken. I began to know you, better than you know yourself. You have asked me many times to marry you. Why?”

“Because I love you.”

“Very well, but why?”

“Why — of course — to have you, to protect and cherish you, to defend you—”

“Defend me from what?”

“From the world.”

“Well, you see, that’s just it; I don’t want anyone to defend me from the world. But the real reason is that you’re spoiled. You want me as a child wants a cookie. That’s where your strength deceives and betrays you, and where it will fail you. Some day you will really fall in love, and then see what your strength amounts to. As for me, I am engaged to Paul — and you regard it as a joke. That is why I am trying to explain to you, so you won’t annoy me any more.”

“Annoy you! Janet—”

“Yes, annoy me. You have done so for months. Your belief in yourself has been so certain! So pitiful. So childlike and Byronesque. For a time it was amusing; it has become a nuisance. And now that I am engaged to Paul it must end. He is up there in his room now. Shall I call him down to satisfy you?”

She stopped, expecting an outburst. These were strong words for a Richard Gorrin to swallow. But he was silent. She could not see his face plainly in the darkness, but she was aware somehow of its tenseness, of its expression of white astonishment. No, he would not show his rage; he was too strong for that. She found herself wondering how she had happened to hit on the word “Byronesque”; how keenly it would cut him! Yes, no doubt he would turn and go without a word. She shivered. What horrible thing was this she was doing to herself? Paul had been wrong, wrong, wrong!

Suddenly Gorrin spoke.

“You are making a mistake, Janet—”

A curious thing happened. He had begun in almost his usual tones, firm, sure, decided; but as he pronounced her name an odd sound came from his throat, as though he had suddenly choked, and he stopped. A little quiver ran up from Janet’s heart, and she thought to herself, “If I could only see his face, I would know!”

“I have had no thought of offending you,” said Gorrin, finding his voice again. “It hurts me to have you say that. I have honestly thought all the time that you were in love with me, and I—”

“And so you bullied me,” she interrupted.

“I am sorry you think me capable of that.”

“It’s true. You bullied me. I admit I deliberately led you on, because I thought you needed the lesson. And — it amused me. But now — now that Paul and I — it must stop. Take your strength somewhere else, Mr. Gorrin.”

“Janet, I love you.”

She trembled from head to foot. He had never said it like that before. But that was not enough.

“Mr. Gorrin,” she said, “you are talking to an engaged woman.”

Then she bit her lip. How silly to have used that conventionally heroic phrase! But he did not notice.

“I can’t help it. I love you.”

“No — I must not listen—”

“You will listen! No, I don’t mean that — I only mean I can’t believe — yes — you must listen! Do you think I’m going to let you go? You accuse me of feeling secure in my strength! I do! As for him, I don’t give that for him. Nor for anyone else. You’re mine. Yes, you see now, Janet, what it means to me. It is simply that I must have you, and he — he is not to be thought of — he—”

He stopped. Janet had suddenly twisted herself about in the hammock so that she faced the lighted window above, and called in a clear, loud voice:

“Paul!”

Gorrin turned instinctively. Almost at once the shade flew up, then the window was opened, and the poet leaned out with his hands on the sill, peering into the darkness.

“Paul, are you busy?”

“What — who — oh, Janet? Why — yes — no.”

“I’m coming up.”

“All right. I dare you.”

Janet slipped out of the hammock to the ground as the window was closed above.

“You see, Mr. Gorrin, I won’t listen—” she began, then stopped short with astonishment at sight of his face. It was pale with stupefaction and amazement, but it was drawn and tight, too, like that of a man who has suddenly encountered some unexpected and overwhelming catastrophe and is using all his strength to keep from crying out in misery.

“My God,” he murmured, “you actually meant it — you mean to — Janet—”

She could not bear it a moment longer, so without a word she went swiftly past him to the walk and around that to the door of the house. At the corner she turned, but she could not see him near the hammock. Then she entered the hall and ran swiftly up the stairs and down the corridor, and knocked on a door at the end. It was opened immediately.

As soon as the poet saw her face he whistled expressively, and a smile appeared on his lips.

“Ah,” he said, “I take it you were not alone down there. I thought I discerned a dim and massive form on the greensward.” He stepped aside to allow her to pass. “Come in.”

“No,” she replied hurriedly, “I can’t. I just wanted — he is down there. Oh Paul, you were right! I was a silly girl. I guess I’m talking like one. I’m going — but wait — first, we’re not really engaged, you know. That is — what am I saying? — I don’t want to be.”

“What!” exclaimed the poet reproachfully. “You want to break our engagement!”

“Yes. That is — we never were engaged — I just wanted—”

“Indeed! Janet, you wound me. You even break my heart. You ruin my life. It was distinctly understood—”

“Silly!” cried Janet.

She stepped forward, raised herself and kissed him.

“There!” she cried, and turned and left him.

She went back down the stairs even faster than she had come up. But in the lower hall she slackened her pace, and when she reached the porch she came to a stop; and she felt a warm flush pass over her whole body so that the roots of her hair tingled. She stood still for a moment, then moved forward again, but slowly and as if reluctantly. She found herself again on the path that led to the garden; then the thought came, “What if he is not there?” and her step quickened. She turned the corner of the house, straining her eyes — No, she could not see him.

Still she went forward, and it seemed to her that her feet made a frightful commotion on the gravel. She was quite close now, and was just thinking that he had certainly gone, when a curious noise reached her ears, like the sound of someone choking or snoring, but not quite that. It was an odd, unprecedented noise. Then she saw that there was something in the hammock. Her heart pounded in her breast. She approached on tiptoe and saw him lying there, face down, his shoulders shaking convulsively and strange sounds coming from his throat.

Richard the Great was crying.

Her heart stopped beating, and it seemed to swell in her bosom and fill her with an overpowering, delicious warmth as she stooped down and placed her cheek against his and murmured his name.