The Complete Works of Stephen Crane (101 page)

“Eh?” said Hollanden. “Oglethorpe? Oglethorpe? Why, he’s that friend of the Fanhalls! Yes, of course, I know him! Deuced good fellow, too! What about him?”

“Oh, nothing, only he’s coming here to-morrow,” answered Hawker. “What kind of a fellow did you say he was?”

“Deuced good fellow! What are you so —— Say, by the nine mad blacksmiths of Donawhiroo, he’s your rival! Why, of course! Glory, but I must be thick-headed to-night!”

Hawker said, “Where’s your tobacco?”

“Yonder, in that jar. Got a pipe?”

“Yes. How do you know he’s my rival?”

“Know it? Why, hasn’t he been —— Say, this is getting thrilling!” Hollanden sprang to his feet and, filling a pipe, flung himself into the chair and began to rock himself madly to and fro. He puffed clouds of smoke.

Hawker stood with his face in shadow. At last he said, in tones of deep weariness, “Well, I think I’d better be going home and turning in.”

“Hold on!” Hollanden exclaimed, turning his eyes from a prolonged stare at the ceiling, “don’t go yet! Why, man, this is just the time when —— Say, who would ever think of Jem Oglethorpe’s turning up to harrie you! Just at this time, too!”

“Oh,” cried Hawker suddenly, filled with rage, “you remind me of an accursed duffer! Why can’t you tell me something about the man, instead of sitting there and gibbering those crazy things at the ceiling?”

“By the piper — —”

“Oh, shut up! Tell me something about Oglethorpe, can’t you? I want to hear about him. Quit all that other business!”

“Why, Jem Oglethorpe, he — why, say, he’s one of the best fellows going. If he were only an ass! If he were only an ass, now, you could feel easy in your mind. But he isn’t. No, indeed. Why, blast him, there isn’t a man that knows him who doesn’t like Jem Oglethorpe! Excepting the chumps!”

The window of the little room was open, and the voices of the pines could be heard as they sang of their long sorrow. Hawker pulled a chair close and stared out into the darkness. The people on the porch of the inn were frequently calling, “Good-night! Good-night!”

Hawker said, “And of course he’s got train loads of money?”

“You bet he has! He can pave streets with it. Lordie, but this is a situation!”

A heavy scowl settled upon Hawker’s brow, and he kicked at the dressing case. “Say, Hollie, look here! Sometimes I think you regard me as a bug and like to see me wriggle. But — —”

“Oh, don’t be a fool!” said Hollanden, glaring through the smoke. “Under the circumstances, you are privileged to rave and ramp around like a wounded lunatic, but for heaven’s sake don’t swoop down on me like that! Especially when I’m — when I’m doing all I can for you.”

“Doing all you can for me! Nobody asked you to. You talk as if I were an infant.”

“There! That’s right! Blaze up like a fire balloon just because I said that, will you? A man in your condition — why, confound you, you are an infant!”

Hawker seemed again overwhelmed in a great dislike of himself. “Oh, well, of course, Hollie, it — —” He waved his hand. “A man feels like — like — —”

“Certainly he does,” said Hollanden. “That’s all right, old man.”

“And look now, Hollie, here’s this Oglethorpe — —”

“May the devil fly away with him!”

“Well, here he is, coming along when I thought maybe — after a while, you know — I might stand some show. And you are acquainted with him, so give me a line on him.”

“Well, I should advise you to — —”

“Blow your advice! I want to hear about Oglethorpe.”

“Well, in the first place, he is a rattling good fellow, as I told you before, and this is what makes it so — —”

“Oh, hang what it makes it! Go on.”

“He is a rattling good fellow and he has stacks of money. Of course, in this case his having money doesn’t affect the situation much. Miss Fanhall — —”

“Say, can you keep to the thread of the story, you infernal literary man!”

“Well, he’s popular. He don’t talk money — ever. And if he’s wicked, he’s not sufficiently proud of it to be perpetually describing his sins. And then he is not so hideously brilliant, either. That’s great credit to a man in these days. And then he — well, take it altogether, I should say Jem Oglethorpe was a smashing good fellow.”

“I wonder how long he is going to stay?” murmured Hawker.

During this conversation his pipe had often died out. It was out at this time. He lit another match. Hollanden had watched the fingers of his friend as the match was scratched. “You’re nervous, Billie,” he said.

Hawker straightened in his chair. “No, I’m not.”

“I saw your fingers tremble when you lit that match.”

“Oh, you lie!”

Hollanden mused again. “He’s popular with women, too,” he said ultimately; “and often a woman will like a man and hunt his scalp just because she knows other women like him and want his scalp.”

“Yes, but not — —”

“Hold on! You were going to say that she was not like other women, weren’t you?”

“Not exactly that, but — —”

“Well, we will have all that understood.”

After a period of silence Hawker said, “I must be going.”

As the painter walked toward the door Hollanden cried to him: “Heavens! Of all pictures of a weary pilgrim!” His voice was very compassionate.

Hawker wheeled, and an oath spun through the smoke clouds.

“Where’s Mr. Hawker this morning?” asked the younger Miss Worcester. “I thought he was coming up to play tennis?”

“I don’t know. Confound him! I don’t see why he didn’t come,” said Hollanden, looking across the shining valley. He frowned questioningly at the landscape. “I wonder where in the mischief he is?”

The Worcester girls began also to stare at the great gleaming stretch of green and gold. “Didn’t he tell you he was coming?” they demanded.

“He didn’t say a word about it,” answered Hollanden. “I supposed, of course, he was coming. We will have to postpone the
mêlée
.”

Later he met Miss Fanhall. “You look as if you were going for a walk?”

“I am,” she said, swinging her parasol. “To meet the stage. Have you seen Mr. Hawker to-day?”

“No,” he said. “He is not coming up this morning. He is in a great fret about that field of stubble, and I suppose he is down there sketching the life out of it. These artists — they take such a fiendish interest in their work. I dare say we won’t see much of him until he has finished it. Where did you say you were going to walk?”

“To meet the stage.”

“Oh, well, I won’t have to play tennis for an hour, and if you insist — —”

“Of course.”

As they strolled slowly in the shade of the trees Hollanden began, “Isn’t that Hawker an ill-bred old thing?”

“No, he is not.” Then after a time she said, “Why?”

“Oh, he gets so absorbed in a beastly smudge of paint that I really suppose he cares nothing for anything else in the world. Men who are really artists — I don’t believe they are capable of deep human affections. So much of them is occupied by art. There’s not much left over, you see.”

“I don’t believe it at all,” she exclaimed.

“You don’t, eh?” cried Hollanden scornfully. “Well, let me tell you, young woman, there is a great deal of truth in it. Now, there’s Hawker — as good a fellow as ever lived, too, in a way, and yet he’s an artist. Why, look how he treats — look how he treats that poor setter dog!”

“Why, he’s as kind to him as he can be,” she declared.

“And I tell you he is not!” cried Hollanden.

“He is, Hollie. You — you are unspeakable when you get in these moods.”

“There — that’s just you in an argument. I’m not in a mood at all. Now, look — the dog loves him with simple, unquestioning devotion that fairly brings tears to one’s eyes — —”

“Yes,” she said.

“And he — why, he’s as cold and stern — —”

“He isn’t. He isn’t, Holly. You are awf’ly unfair.”

“No, I’m not. I am simply a liberal observer. And Hawker, with his people, too,” he went on darkly; “you can’t tell — you don’t know anything about it — but I tell you that what I have seen proves my assertion that the artistic mind has no space left for the human affections. And as for the dog — —”

“I thought you were his friend, Hollie?”

“Whose?”

“No, not the dog’s. And yet you — really, Hollie, there is something unnatural in you. You are so stupidly keen in looking at people that you do not possess common loyalty to your friends. It is because you are a writer, I suppose. That has to explain so many things. Some of your traits are very disagreeable.”

“There! there!” plaintively cried Hollanden. “This is only about the treatment of a dog, mind you. Goodness, what an oration!”

“It wasn’t about the treatment of a dog. It was about your treatment of your friends.”

“Well,” he said sagely, “it only goes to show that there is nothing impersonal in the mind of a woman. I undertook to discuss broadly ——

“Oh, Hollie!”

“At any rate, it was rather below you to do such scoffing at me.”

“Well, I didn’t mean — not all of it, Hollie.”

“Well, I didn’t mean what I said about the dog and all that, either.”

“You didn’t?” She turned toward him, large-eyed.

“No. Not a single word of it.”

“Well, what did you say it for, then?” she demanded indignantly.

“I said it,” answered Hollanden placidly, “just to tease you.” He looked abstractedly up to the trees.

Presently she said slowly, “Just to tease me?”

At this time Hollanden wore an unmistakable air of having a desire to turn up his coat collar. “Oh, come now — —” he began nervously.

“George Hollanden,” said the voice at his shoulder, “you are not only disagreeable, but you are hopelessly ridiculous. I — I wish you would never speak to me again!”

“Oh, come now, Grace, don’t — don’t —— Look! There’s the stage coming, isn’t it?”

“No, the stage is not coming. I wish — I wish you were at the bottom of the sea, George Hollanden. And — and Mr. Hawker, too. There!”

“Oh, bless my soul! And all about an infernal dog,” wailed Hollanden. “Look! Honest, now, there’s the stage. See it? See it?”

“It isn’t there at all,” she said.

Gradually he seemed to recover his courage. “What made you so tremendously angry? I don’t see why.”

After consideration, she said decisively, “Well, because.”

“That’s why I teased you,” he rejoined.

“Well, because — because — —”

“Go on,” he told her finally. “You are doing very well.” He waited patiently.

“Well,” she said, “it is dreadful to defend somebody so — so excitedly, and then have it turned out just a tease. I don’t know what he would think.”

“Who would think?”

“Why — he.”

“What could he think? Now, what could he think? Why,” said Hollanden, waxing eloquent, “he couldn’t under any circumstances think — think anything at all. Now, could he?”

She made no reply.

“Could he?”

She was apparently reflecting.

“Under any circumstances,” persisted Hollanden, “he couldn’t think anything at all. Now, could he?”

“No,” she said.

“Well, why are you angry at me, then?”