CHAPTER X
Meanwhile, among the countless war charities that loomed upon the local horizon the name of Serbia began to be heard. There had been fêtes and kermesses for starving Belgians, and lectures on Poland, and concerts for English widows and orphans, and grand-opera benefits for the Italians, but so far Serbia seemed to have made either a very faint outcry or to have been pushed into the background by more spectacular petition. But an erstwhile famous dancer adopting the famous Red Cross cap and gown in the interest of Danilo's birthplace, there began to be a decided interest in that little country. A permanent organization for Serbian relief was formed, and Danilo was made president.
There followed accounts in the daily press about Danilo; his picture was published; his name even wandered into the social columns. Then, one day, when news was slack and space abundant, an enterprising female reporter discovered that Danilo's father had been a descendant of a famous Serbian king, or archbishop, or some such imposing creature, and Danilo's reputation, social and professional, was made. It seemed that civilization, although perfectly ready to dispense with the empty formulas of state, was still hovering with a certain fascination about the flickerings from the untrimmed lamps of the nobility. It appeared that any descendant of royalty must of necessity have a romance hidden away in the folds of his figurative ermine, and so it was not long before Danilo's secret was made public, in a good half-column of social chatterings, together with a photograph of the bride-elect. Suddenly San Francisco seemed to have discovered, or rather the press did for it, that Miss Claire Robson was "talented, accomplished, and a pronounced favorite of the younger set." Claire, reading the glowing account, remembered that brides always were "pronounced favorites with the younger set," whenever through accident or design their names became mixed with the socially elect. And not only was she herself all these things, but her mother before her "had been a member of the exclusive Southern set of the 'seventies," and her two aunts, Mrs. Thomas Wynne and Mrs. Edward Ffinch-Brown, were still "most prominent in social activities." Altogether the alliance was the most distinguished and romantic affair imaginable. Only one figure in the drama came out indifferently, and that was Claire's father. Claire was merely the daughter of the late Mr. William Robson, and the recital of this melancholy fact was accomplished with the haste of a regretful discretion.
Danilo was as pleased as a child.
"See," he would cry to Claire, "we are in the paper again! That is a fine thing for Serbia! Now San Francisco will know that such a place exists."
Every day for a week there was fresh gossip concerning Claire in the newspapers. Quite in the American fashion, not even the glamour of Danilo's ancestors could secure for him the amount of space given to the woman he was to marry. The discovery was made that Miss Robson was "a talented musician ... a pianist of no mean ability ... a familiar figure to concert-goers ... an enthusiastic Red Cross worker...." Indeed, it transpired that she offered her talents gratuitously upon the altar of charity. In spite of the money spent upon a distinguished musical education, she asked nothing better than to turn her abilities to the account of the distressed. It went without saying that she was in perfect sympathy with her prospective husband's plans for the relief of his native land, so much so that she was scorning all pre-nuptial entertainment so that her time might be free for the broader demands of philanthropy. It was all very smart and entertaining, and the real facts of the case were concealed with a dexterous skill. It would, of course, have been the height of impropriety to set in the column of a young bride's virtues the facts that she had supported an invalid mother for six strenuous months, that she had served her employers well, that she was modest and virtuous, and withal courageous in the face of adversity! No, the truth would have made dull reading for the rank and file who snatch romance and fiction between gulps of morning coffee.
But the public's interest in kings and archbishops, and Serbian relief, and Claire Robson went the way of all satisfied curiosity, and just at the moment when it seemed that Danilo had ceased to be of any concern this same enterprising reporter made another discovery. Danilo's father may have sprung from a line of kings, but his mother was a product of the backbone of every nation—the common people. Now there were more columns of interesting speculation. Democracy came into its own. Here was an alliance between exclusive privilege and fundamental rights, abstractions made flesh by the glib vagaries of the daily press. And the result, of course, was Danilo, a sort of demigod who had combined all the virtues of both classes. Chief among the items of interest, the most incredible to a democratic community, seemed to be the fact that his same Danilo was not only unashamed of his peasant stock, but proud of it. But then, he had been basking in the warmth of the free and untrammeled institutions of America for at least five years, and he had learned, no doubt, to revise his standards. Indeed, it was due to the influence of American life, to say nothing of his charming American bride-to-be, that he was bending all his endeavors toward a rehabilitated Serbia. And it was hinted that there was even a possibility that this adopted son of the Golden West might one day sit in the presidential chair of an enlightened and enfranchised Serbian state. With this burst of tentative prophecy, the hectic imaginings of the daily press concerning George Danilo, Claire Robson, and their ancestors went out like a spent candle.
But the dust raised by all this journalistic flight lingered long after the bustle and noise of the performance had subsided. Danilo sensed it in an ever-widening circle of wealthy patients, and Claire in a rush of interested visitors. Almost her first caller proved to be her pastor, Doctor Stoddard. He came in one Saturday afternoon. Miss Proll had returned home early, and the living-room was a confusion of dressmaking, so Claire ushered the reverend gentleman into the dining-room. Almost the first thing that engaged his attention was the holy image and swinging lamp before it that Danilo had set up on his name-day. He walked over and examined it rather cautiously. Then he sat down with the air of one determined to meet the devil without delay or compromise.
"The gentleman you are to marry," he said, looking squarely at the icon as he spoke, "I presume he is ... I take it that he is of a different faith."
"Doctor Danilo is a Greek Catholic," Claire answered.
There was an awkward pause in which it appeared that Doctor Stoddard was marshaling all his wits for a serious encounter. Finally he said:
"I hope he is not insisting on your partaking of his communion."
"We have never even discussed the thing. Really, I hardly know what his views are. As a matter of fact, it makes no difference."
"Makes no difference!... Why, my dear Miss Robson, it would seem to me that it ought to make a very great difference. You don't mean to say that you would sacrifice every conviction upon the altar of love?"
Claire, who had been standing, took a seat. "My dear Doctor Stoddard, have you really ever met a woman seriously in love?"
The gentleman coughed and began to polish his finger-nails upon the glossy surface of his coat-sleeve.
"I have been in the ministry for over thirty years." He stopped a moment, measuring Claire for a supreme thrust as he finished with a certain pompous satisfaction. "And you forget, Miss Robson, I am myself a married man!"
Here was simple, conceited, masculine faith again! Claire could not restrain a smile as she changed the subject. But it came to her as she did so that there was something at once pathetic and terrible about so bland an assurance. She thought of Stillman and quite unconsciously she found herself mentally repeating:
"I must tell Danilo in the morning."
Doctor Stoddard continued to make other polite inquiries, but in the end the original question came to the fore again.
"I hope," he hazarded, upon leaving, "that you will ponder seriously the spiritual side of your marriage. One should think twice before deserting the faith of one's fathers. I cannot fancy that Doctor Danilo will expect you to make the supreme sacrifice of being married out of your own fold."
After he had gone she felt uncomfortable. She had lost all sense of the authority with which Doctor Stoddard felt himself invested, but in an intangible way he did remain the symbol of those things unseen which made faith in life possible. And somehow his presence revived the old hopes as well as the exquisite spiritual fears of childhood. She had not been trained to refresh a soul wearied by sophistication by the simple act of lighting a taper before a holy image, and she knew that this never could be her portion. But Doctor Stoddard's presence itself gave her a very real idea of what Danilo had felt when he had set up his little name-day altar in the Robson dwelling. One could deny the precise terms of one's inbred faith, but it would still remain the most tangible clue to a larger hope—the slender thread which guided one through the maze.
Only one other person raised the question of what form of ceremony Claire had decided upon for her wedding, and curiously enough that person was Nellie Whitehead Holmes.
"I say, Robson," she flung out one day, "I hope you ain't going to stand for any three-ringed circus stuff when you get hitched. Just you insist on a straight old-fashioned get-away ... in plain English."
Claire made no reply and, Nellie, searching her friend's face sharply, said, with no attempt to conceal her panic:
"You ain't thinking of changing your religion, are you?"
Claire smiled. "Well, why not? I'm changing my name. And after all...."
"Claire Robson, don't be a fool!... Why, I wouldn't change my religion for the best man in the world!"
"No? And just what is your religion, Nell?"
"Why, I'm an Episcopalian! You ought to know that! You went to my wedding. You didn't think Holmes had any say about that, did you? Well, I guess not! No, sirree, I wouldn't change my religion for anything!"
Danilo was very busy now and Claire really saw little of him. He took an early breakfast, almost on the run, and it was seldom that he came in at the dinner hour. But somehow the atmosphere of the Robson flat was tremulous with his presence.
The month of June passed, unusually clear and unusually warm for early summer in San Francisco. Claire never remembered a time when she had been busier. There was the housework to do and sewing to be accomplished and her mother to attend to. Not that Mrs. Robson was making any great demands, but Claire found herself surrendering every spare moment to the invalid. At such times Claire had a shuddering sense of keeping a watch for the coming of that thief which was to rob her of the last link binding her to her old life. It was plain that Mrs. Robson was failing fast. Complications were developing, the end could not be far off.
At night she took long walks while Miss Proll sewed feverishly. The old gray city was like an old intimate friend and she was saying good-by to it as passionately as if it had been a warm and living personality. She would stand for long stretches upon the heights, watching the twilight lay its cloak gently upon the town's curving limbs. And as night came on apace, the hills would twinkle with the shameless gauds of evening. What a wanton, fascinating city it was! And how she loved it!... All her life she had taken it for granted, as one takes for granted the familiar things that grow commonplace by constant association. And yet for all this new-found appreciation of her native city, she longed to leave it, she wanted to hold the memory of its beauty as an ever-living thing, and she was afraid to trust to the narrowing vision of bitter years. Sometimes in these glowing moments she thought of Stillman, trying to dismiss the picture of his face, sneering and cold before the realization that she was soon to be lost to him forever. She had not seen him since that night when Danilo had invited him to dinner at the St. Francis. He had recovered his old genial manner after the first lapse, but she knew that the flimsy robes of pretense were at best an indifferent covering for the wounds which were staining his pale contentment. She did not like to remember that evening. It smacked of subterfuge and unworthiness.
She should have told Danilo—she must tell him to-morrow—that was the thought that flashed over her every time she came face to face with the question. But somehow to-morrow never came.
"I must tell him to-morrow!... I must tell him to-morrow!" It became a stereotype formula which she repeated as one repeats a monotonous prayer in the hope of dulling a keen sensation of guilt. She was in the grip of one of those simple situations that grow complicated, through concealment. That was the trouble, it was almost too simple, and she could find no convincing argument to explain why she had been silent so long.
During the days when the papers had been full of her engagement to Danilo she found her heart beating anxiously every time she opened the newspaper to the society column. What if a hint of her friendship for Stillman were to be blazoned forth there? It was just as likely that some such airy fiction as this would grace the feast of gossip:
"Miss Robson is an unusually graceful dancer and she and Mr. Ned Stillman were the sensation of the St. Francis supper dancers all last season."
If it were so curiously awkward to approach Danilo with the truth at first hand, what could she say if, hearing the facts of the case from other sources, Danilo were to suddenly demand an explanation? She could not say:
"It never occurred to me that it would matter...." Or, "I really didn't think you would be interested."
One night Danilo came home, his lips parted in flushed pleasure, his black eyes glowing.
"Have you heard what has happened? Somebody has donated a million dollars to the Serbian cause."
"Somebody?" echoed Claire, but her heart stood still as she said it.
"Well, it is not for general publication, but of course you can guess who has done this thing.... There is only one man in San Francisco who would do it."
Claire said nothing. But the old determination seized her.
"Now, I must tell him in the morning!" she thought.
But when next morning came Danilo had risen early and departed.