CHAPTER XI
A million dollars for the Serbian cause! The newspapers came out with the news in bold head-lines, and interest in Danilo and his fiancée grew keen again. It seemed incredible that a sane person could have given a million dollars to any cause and withhold his name! It was a method of procedure that was neither modern nor business-like nor sound, and after the fury and fun of speculation had died the daily press grew a bit peevish at their balked opportunity to exploit the donor. And not only had a million dollars been left like a love-child at the door-step of charity, but there had been no provision made for the manner of its disbursement. Dr. George Danilo was to have absolute and discretionary power in spending this huge sum, and nothing further appeared to be suggested or demanded.
Only one person ventured to hint to Claire Robson that they were in possession of the secret, and this one person was Nellie Holmes.
"You can't fool me, Robson!" Nellie said, searching Claire with her shrewd, kindly eyes. "I know who slipped that million dollars into the poor-box. It was friend Stillman. You don't have to tell me! And it ain't because he cares a whoop about Serbia or Dr. George Danilo, Esquire, either."
Claire paled and then flushed. "Really, Nell, you mustn't! That isn't fair to...."
"Fair nothing! Danilo must have two eyes and a nose, and if...."
Claire cut her short with a quick gesture. "You don't understand. Danilo doesn't know. I mean, I never have told him that ... that I even knew Ned Stillman."
A low whistle escaped Nellie Holmes. "My God! Robson, but you were a fool!"
"I know, but I mean to soon. As soon as I...."
"Look here, Robson, it's too late now! You'll just have to take a chance. There are some things that cold storage improves, but a secret like that ain't one of them. Now, with Billy it would be different. He'd take my word because he knows that there are some things I wouldn't be mean enough to lie about. But your friend ... well, he's in love up to his eyes. And a man like that is dangerous. It wouldn't take much to bring him up to boiling-point. And you'd better not turn on the blue-flame at this stage of the game."
But Claire was determined that she would get free of this figurative blood-clot which was paralyzing her will, and that night when Danilo came home she made up her mind to speak out. It was one of the nights when Danilo had denied all other demands, so that he might have dinner with Claire, and after the coffee she settled back in her seat and said:
"You have really never told me who gave that million dollars."
"But you know?"
"Well, after a fashion. It.... I presume it was Stillman."
This was not as she had planned the scene and she had a feeling that she was making slight progress.
"Yes, you are right! I have never had anything in my life so touching! Isn't it wonderful, Claire? This is a tribute to me, you understand. After all, he can have no real interest in Serbia."
She drew back in her seat. His face was eager and full of simple faith and enthusiasm.
"It is very curious," Danilo went on. "He could have given it to some other cause. He is very fond of Belgium, for instance. But he picked Serbia. Are you not proud of me, Claire?"
He held his hand out to her across the table. She gave him her fingers and he pressed them warmly.
"Why do you not tell me that you are proud of me?" he insisted, as she stared at him with silent, almost frightened eyes. "Do you not think that a man who can inspire the gift of a million dollars for his native land has reason to be conceited?"
"Every reason ... every reason," she forced herself to murmur.
"And, as you say in America, it is a very good ad. Why, checks are simply pouring in! And there is to be a concert given next week. I was talking to some of the ladies about it to-day. One of them knew you well. She said you played accompaniments for her last winter. Mrs.... Mrs...."
"Mrs. Condor?" Claire asked, faintly.
"Yes, that is her name! She is going to open the program. And she was saying how nice it would be if you would consent to play for her. You know I never would have thought of that. I told her yes! Of course! You would be delighted."
Claire stared. Lily Condor's audacity was arresting enough in all conscience, but Danilo's calm disposition of the matter rankled. Had it not occurred to him that she might have something to say about such an arrangement?
"Well, really, you know," she began to stammer, in spite of a wish to give her words an air of finality. "I don't think that I...."
"Nonsense!" he returned, genially. "It has all been decided upon. In fact, we have had the announcements put in the hands of the printer already. Mrs. Condor said you had played the same program before, so what was the use in delaying? Remember," he finished, with a laugh, "you are to be my wife, and in my country the first thing a wife learns is obedience."
It was impossible for her to explain her objections—they involved too many issues—and she could not discuss Danilo's viewpoint without seeming to be turning an inconsequential matter to very serious account. But she did gather courage to say:
"Next time I wish you would speak to me before you make plans of that kind."
Danilo frowned.
Lily Condor again! Claire pondered this unexpected circumstance all next day. She had been hearing scraps of gossip from time to time concerning the lady through Nellie Holmes, enough to indicate that her social position was bordering on total eclipse. Capturing Danilo's patronage was a daring and characteristic stroke, but Claire felt that Lily knew that any such move was essentially futile. Was Mrs. Condor indulging a mere whim or was a subtle revenge back of her latest move?
Claire had quickly abandoned all hope of denying her services in the face of Danilo's obvious displeasure. But the prospect of having to face the situation filled her with dread. There was no telling where the issue would lead. What if Mrs. Condor were to acquaint Danilo with the secret which Claire had been withholding? Nellie Holmes was right, as usual—there were some things that cold storage did not improve. It was too late now to indulge in the selfish luxury of a confession.
She felt sorry, too, in a way, for Lily Condor. There was a pathetic note in the lady's very boldness. After all, what did it matter? Mrs. Condor had lived a hard, reckless life, but who could say what spiritual pressure had driven her down the barren highway of her pitiless pleasures? For Claire had learned another thing, one must have wealth to be a spendthrift, and she was discovering that the greatest spiritual bankrupts were those who had the courage to dare magnificently and lose. And so she sat down and wrote Lily Condor a little note, which read:
I understand that I am to play for you next week. When shall I see you and talk over the program?
And on the same night she wrote to Ned Stillman:
I must see you and have a talk—perhaps for the last time.
Three days later she met Stillman at mid-afternoon in an obscure Italian restaurant near the foot of Columbus Avenue. She had been somewhat humiliated by the prospect of this covert meeting, but when the final moment came she felt suddenly calm. As in the old days, his presence engendered confidence. He threw out a golden circle of light like some mellow lamp that disdained a searching brilliance, but was content to soften rather than to betray the secrets of its surroundings.
He ordered coffee and a pale amber liqueur and for a few moments they talked about things that were of the least possible moment. He seemed a little older, a little less suave and assured; it was as if the hands of his spirit were trembling a trifle as they lifted life's cup.
"I have wanted to see you," he said, finally, when the stock of subterfuge was exhausted. "There were so many things that remained unsaid."
"Perhaps it was as well," she faltered.
He touched her hand. "Ah no! There is such a thing as a corroding silence.... I have learned in the past months!"
He, too! She felt her pulses quickening, but she could not speak, she could only clench her fist under the impulsive pressure of his fingers.
"What are your plans for the future?" she asked, suddenly.
He shrugged. "I had hoped to get away into the thick of it.... But it seems that my duty is to stick by the home guns. Or, at least, so they tell me. That's gratifying, of course ... to know that one accomplishes the appointed task. The armies must be fed, and California is an opulent storehouse. There's lots to do here.... Still.... Well, you understand, don't you?"
"Yes.... I think I do. I've heard you've done magnificently. And I've felt proud of you because, after all, in a way, we started on that road together."
He leaned forward. "It was you who first inspired it.... And I've been tremendously grateful. I've thrown down a rotten card or two in the course of it all ... but it isn't always easy to play a straight, clean game. But now that everything is over and you ... you are going to try your luck with the very best fellow in the world. It was hard for me to figure it that way at first, but when I saw it right ... well, I wanted to help in some way ... to do something really big for you both."
"That million dollars to the cause," she assented. "That was magnificent. Danilo is touched ... you must know that."
He swept the table with an impatient gesture. "Ah yes, I suppose he is ... but it isn't the personal tribute I should have liked ... for you.... Forgive me for speaking this way! But to-day for the last time ... surely you will let me say a few things that are near my heart. That last night we were together—alone—well, that was a dangerous moment for me. There are times when a man lifts up the precious cup that holds his ideal and brings it crashing down into shattered fragments on the floor. I raised my glass high that night for its destruction, and you ... you.... Ah, well, I'm getting a bit too poetical ... but you know!... The point is I want you to absolve me ... to wash me clean ... to forget that night."
She stirred slightly. "I have the same favor to ask," she murmured. "When you met me at the Ithaca ... my words to you were all very unworthy.... And I have put you since in an awkward position. It's hard for me to explain just why I haven't told Danilo.... I suppose some day I shall ... but now, well, I've decided to let it rest as it is for the present. It's all absurd and pointless and feminine.... But Danilo is different! One can't tell him certain things, easily."
He drew his liqueur-glass toward him and looked down into its amber depths with the air of a man catching his breath.
"Different!..." he returned, musingly. "Yes, you are right. He is a flame that warms everything that comes in contact with him. But I fancy he can wither, too."
"Yes, he can.... That's the reason why...."
He looked at her squarely.
"Claire ... do you mind if I call you 'Claire'?... I am afraid we are playing with fire."
It was past six o'clock when Claire left the restaurant. The warm spell of June was over, and a high ocean fog was drifting in on the breath of the west wind. People hurried by muffled in overcoats and furs, their straw hats incongruously accenting the almost wintry gloom. But Claire was in no mood to take account of wind and weather.
This last intimate meeting with Stillman was full of irony. For the first time they had met and talked of what was close to their hearts with perfect frankness, and it was to be the last time! He had even spoken about his dead wife, in a perfectly natural, simple way, as if Claire had known her all her life.
They had said farewell while the waiter was busying himself clearing away their empty glasses. It seemed better so. But as Stillman took her hand he said:
"Try not to forget me, Claire—completely."
"I shall never forget," she answered.
She left him standing there while the waiter bowed over the generous tip which lay upon the stained table-cloth.... At the door she turned for a last look. He was smiling at her, but it was a twisted smile.... She opened the door and went out....
When she arrived home Danilo was standing in the hall, slipping on his overcoat. She had a fear that he would make some comment about her late home-coming, but he said nothing—he merely nodded to her as he reached for his hat. She stood puzzled at his silence; there was something ominous about it, and her brain started guiltily as she thought, "Could it be possible that he has seen us together this afternoon?"
She began to take off her wraps. "Are ... are you going out?" she asked.
He stared at her. "Yes."
"Some one is ill.... I mean have you a sudden call?"
"Yes."
She did not know why she persisted in questioning him.
"You will be out late, then?"
"Yes.... I may not come home at all."
She moved nearer. The hall light struck him squarely. His look frightened her. There was not a bit of color in his face, and his lips were thinned as upon that first night when he had risen in his seat at the Café Ithaca and betrayed his love for her.
"What is the matter?" she demanded, with desperate boldness. "You.... Something must have gone wrong?"
He started back as if she had struck him a blow. "It is nothing. I am not feeling well. That Serbian relief is getting on my nerves.... Money, money pouring in ... and they do not care about the cause, either! It is just the fashion, that is all!... Bah! Sometimes I hate the whole pretense!... I would like to find one honest person!"
She shrank back. He walked past her quickly and he began to descend the stairs. Half-way down he halted and called up to her:
"Your friend, Mrs. Condor, was in to see me to-day.... She will be here to-morrow to talk over the program."
Claire ran to the head of the stairs. But the door slammed decisively.
"Your friend, Mrs. Condor," Claire mused. "What a nasty tone!"