CHAPTER XXIV.
THE NIGHT OUT.
The next morning she telephoned to Douglass Converse. In response to her somewhat exacting request, he presented himself at the Sherrod home in the late afternoon. Her manner had impressed him with the fear that something had gone wrong in the little household. They were still the best of friends and he was a frequent, informal visitor. Jud admired him immensely—no one could help liking this tall, good-looking, boyish fellow. In the old days Celeste had known his love for her, but after her marriage there had been no evidence, by word or deed, that she still lived uppermost in his affections. To Douglass Converse, she was the wife of his best friend.
He had seen, with increasing alarm, the change in Jud's manner and appearance. The anxious look in Celeste's eyes was but poorly concealed of late; he feared that all was not well with them. There was no mistaking Jud's attitude toward the world and the genial friends of old. The newspaper men who had been his boon companions a few months before now saw nothing of him. He and Celeste rarely were seen in society, seldom at the theatres and cafés; it was as though they had dropped entirely away from the circle which had known them so well. The excuse that he was busy in his studio was sufficient until even outsiders began to see the change in him. It was impossible to hide the haggardness in his face.
Converse, sitting opposite Celeste in the drawing-room, saw depression under the brave show of cheerfulness in her face. His mind was filled with the possibilities of the moment. Over the telephone she had said that she wanted to see him on a matter of considerable importance. His first unuttered query on entering the hall was: Where is Sherrod? He had expected a greeting from him on the moment of his arrival. Before the short visit was over, Converse was plying himself with scores of silent and unanswerable questions.
"Where is Jud?" he asked, after the first commonplaces.
"At work in the studio," she replied. He noticed the change of tone, but tried to look uninterested.
"He's working a trifle hard these days, isn't he?" he asked, casually. Somehow, he felt relieved on hearing that Jud was at work. He discovered that he had feared—something, he could not define.
"What is he doing, Celeste?"
"Something for the Milwaukee people I was telling you about not long ago. They insist on having the paintings before the first of February."
"Before February? Why, that's—" But he checked the exhibition of surprise and went on with admirable enthusiasm—"That's a surprisingly nice order. It proves that he has made a hit and that the market for his work is immediate."
"But he is working too hard, Douglass," she cried, unreservedly. The look in his eyes changed instantly.
"I was afraid so," he said. Then, eager to dispel any feeling of hesitancy she might have, he broke out, bluntly: "You are very much disturbed about him, aren't you, Celeste? I know you are, but I think you should find some comfort in knowing that the work will soon be completed and you can both run away for a good rest."
"I can't help being worried," she said, in low tones, as though fearing her words might reach Jud's ear in the distant studio. "Douglass, I want to talk with you about Jud. You will understand, won't you? I wouldn't have asked you to come if it were not that I am very much distressed and need the advice and help of some one."
"Isn't it possible that you are needlessly alarmed?" he asked, earnestly. "I'm sure it can be nothing serious. You will laugh at your fears some day."
"I hope you are right. But it doesn't cheer me a bit to talk like that, Douglass. I am not deceiving myself. He is changed, oh, so greatly changed," she cried.
"You—you don't mean to say his—his love—" began Converse. "There—there isn't any danger of—of that?" he substituted.
"No, no! You don't understand me," she said, drearily. "He loves me as much as ever—I know he does. It isn't that. Douglass, we must get his mind off his work. He thinks of—of nothing else." She would have given anything for the courage to tell him what she had seen the day before. Her confidence in this tall friend was sufficient, but she could not acknowledge the pain and terror Jud's tears had brought to her.
"Well, it can't be for long. The work will soon be completed," urged he, knowing as he spoke how futile his words were.
"But it makes me so unhappy," she cried, with a woman's logic.
"Poor girl," he smiled. "Let the poor chap work in peace. It will come out all right. I know him. He's ambitious, indefatigable, eager. His soul is in this work. Just now he is winning his spurs in a new line, and his mind, his heart is full of it. Can't you see it all? Put yourself in his place, with his fine temperament, and see how intensely interested you would be. You would be just as much wrapped up in it as he—just as much enraptured, I might say. Brace up, dear girl; Jud can't help but turn out all right. He's bound to win."
"The trouble is—the trouble is—" She hesitated so long, staring with wide eyes at the grate fire, that he feared she would not continue—"His heart doesn't seem to be in the work at all."
"You mean——?"
"I mean, Douglass, that it is not ambition that inspires him just now. There is something on his mind—something else. Oh, I don't know what it can be, but it is unmistakable. He is not the same—not the same in anything except his love for me."
Converse was silent for a long time, his eyes on her pale face, his mind busy with conjecture.
"I am glad to hear you say that, Celeste," he said at last, a deep sigh escaping involuntarily.
"He works feverishly," she went on, as though he had not spoken. "Of course, he is doing the work well. He never did anything badly. But I know he is positively driving himself, Douglass. There isn't anything like the old inspiration, nothing like the old love for the work."
"I see it all," he said, relief in his voice. "His heart is not in the work, simply because he is doing it for some one else and not for himself. They told him what they wanted and he is simply breaking his neck, Celeste, to get the job off his hands."
"But, listen to me, Douglass," she cried, in despair. "He told me they wanted five pictures—a series of studies from life. The series was to represent five periods in the life of a woman, beginning with childhood and ending in extreme old age. But, Douglass, dear, he is painting landscapes instead."
Converse bit his lip.
"You must have misunderstood him," he managed to say. She shook her head sadly.
"No; he was most precise in explaining the conditions to me the day after his return from Milwaukee. I remember that I was very much interested. The work, you know, upset our plan for going to Florida, and I was quite resentful at first. You can imagine my astonishment when I found that he was doing landscapes and not the figures the order calls for."
Converse was dumb in the face of this indisputable evidence. He could muster up no way to relieve her fears. There could be no reassuring her after what she had seen and he wisely forebore.
"It was very strange," he said, finally. "He must have a reason for the change, and no doubt he has forgotten to speak to you about it."
"I wish I could believe that, Douglass," she sighed. "He likes you. You can help me, if you will."
"With all my heart. Anything in the world, Celeste," he cried.
"Then get him away from his work as much as possible. He won't go out anywhere, you know. I've implored him to go out with me time and again. Douglass, can't you think of some way to—to get him away from himself?"
She was standing beside him, her hand clasping his as it rested on the arm of the chair. Converse looked up into the troubled eyes.
"Tell me what to do, Celeste, and I'll try," he said, earnestly.
"Make him go out with you—go out among the men he used to know and liked so well. I'm sure he likes them still. He'd enjoy being with them, don't you think? He seldom leaves his studio, much less the house. I want you to take him to luncheons and dinners—where the men are. It will get him out of himself, I know. Do, Douglass, do for my sake, make him forget his work. Take him back to the old life in the club, at the cafés—if only for a little while. Don't you understand?"
"You mean—oh, Celeste, you don't mean to say that he is tired of this happiness?" he cried.
"He is unhappy, I'm sure of it. He loves me, I know, but—" She could go no further.
"I know what you mean, Celeste, but you are wrong—fearfully wrong. Poor little woman! God, but you are brave to look at it as you do."
They did not hear Jud as he stopped on the stairs to look down upon them. He saw them and was still. The pain was almost unbearable. There was no jealousy in it, only remorse and pity.
"Ah, if only she belonged to him and not to me," he was thinking. "He is straight as a die, and she would never know unhappiness. He loved her, he loves her still, and she—poor darling, loves me, the basest wretch in all the world."
He closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the stairway. Its creaking attracted the attention of the two in the drawing-room. When he looked again, they were standing and staring at him. Slowly he descended, a mechanical smile forcing itself into his face.
"Hello, Doug," he said. "I thought I heard your voice. Glad to see you."
A quick glance of apprehension passed between Converse and Celeste. Had he heard?
"I just inquired for you, Jud," said Converse, pulling himself together as quickly as possible. "Celeste says you're terribly busy. Don't overwork yourself, old man. I dropped in to say you are to go to a little dinner with me to-night. Some of the boys want to eat something for old times' sake."
The shadow that passed over Jud's face was disconcerting.
"There is nothing else in the way, Jud, dear," Celeste hastened to say. "It would be awfully jolly, I should think."
"Vogelsang says you haven't been in his place for months," added Converse, reproachfully. "You shouldn't go back on a crowd like this, old man. They'll think you're stuck up because you've made a hit."
Sherrod smiled wearily, then pulled his nerves together and made a brave show of being pleased and interested.
"I don't believe they'll accuse me of that, Doug," he said. "They know I'm frightfully busy. Who is to be there?"
Converse, with all his good intentions, had not been foresighted enough to see that he might be asked this natural question. It was impossible to count on any one in particular, and it would be far from politic to mention names and then be obliged to give flimsy excuses if their owners failed to appear.
"Oh, just some of the old crowd," he replied, evasively, even guiltily. Jud's gaze was on the fire in the grate and Converse was thankful for the respite. "They'll be mighty glad to see you again. It doesn't seem right to take you away from Celeste, but we're talking of doing something like this at least once a week."
"Can't you have ladies' night occasionally, as they say at the clubs?" asked Celeste, merrily entering into the spirit of the conspiracy.
"I suppose we could," said Converse, with well assumed reluctance.
"Count me out to-night, Douglass," said Jud, at this juncture. "I'll come down for the next one, but just now I'm——"
"That won't do!" exclaimed Converse, peremptorily. "Work is no excuse. There was a time when you worked a blamed sight harder than you do now, and yet you found time to eat, drink and be merry—I should say, eat and be merry. You go with us to-night. That's all there is about it. I'm not going down and tell the fellows you couldn't come because you had to stay at home and put on a few dabs of paint that don't have to be on before to-morrow. I'll stop for you on my way down at 7:30, and I'll get him home safe and sound and sober, Celeste. Don't worry if he's out after nine o'clock."
"I shan't sleep a wink," smiled Celeste, putting her arm through Jud's and laying her cheek against his shoulder. Sherrod sighed and smiled and said he would be ready when his friend called.
Celeste went to the door with her confederate. She pressed his hand warmly and her eyes seemed to exact a promise that could not be broken.
"Do everything in your power, Douglass," she said, softly.
"He hates to leave you alone, Celeste; that's the worst obstacle to the plan," said Converse, his lips whitening. "But we'll try to make him—to—I was going to say forget, but that would be impossible. He can't forget that you are here and loving him all the time."
Then he was off, confronted by rather arduous conditions. It would be necessary to get together a party of congenial spirits, and it was imperative that it be done in such a way that Jud's suspicion might not be aroused. When his hansom stopped for Jud at 7:30 Converse was thoroughly satisfied with the result of his expedition in search of guests, but he was conscious of a fear that the attempt to take Sherrod "out of himself" would be a failure.
A half-dozen good fellows of the old days had promised to come to Vogelsang's at eight, and, under ordinary circumstances, there was no reason why the night should not be a merry one. It all rested with Jud. Converse was gratified to find his friend in excellent spirits. His eyes were bright, his face was alive with interest. The change was so marked that Converse marveled while Celeste rejoiced.
If he had any doubts at the beginning, they were dispelled long before the night was over. Sherrod's humor was wild, unnatural. To Converse it soon became ghastly. To the others, it was merely cause for wonder and the subject for many a sly remark about the "muchly married man who finally gets a night off."
Going homeward in the hansom, Converse, now convinced that Jud's mind was disordered, asked in considerable trepidation if he really meant to dine out every evening, as he had said to the others at the table. Sherrod's hilarity, worked up for the occasion, had subsided. He was, to the utter bewilderment of his companion, the personification of gloominess. Involuntarily Converse moved away from his side, unable to conquer the fear that the man was actually mad.
"Did I say that?" came in slow, mournful tones from the drooping figure beside him.
"Yes," was all that Converse could reply. Sherrod's chin was on his breast, his arms hanging limply to the seat.
"I don't believe I care much for that sort of thing any more," he said, slowly.
"Why, Jud, I thought you had a bully time to-night," cried Converse, in hurt tones.
Sherrod looked up instantly. After a moment's silence, his hand fell on the other's knee and there was something piteous in his voice when he spoke.
"Did you, old man? How in the world—" here he brought himself up with a jerk—"I should say, how could I help having a good time?" he cried, enthusiastically. "They are the best lot of fellows in the world. I had the time of my life."