“Oh, I don’t mind. The evening—well, the evening has been—lovely.” Lewis laughed audibly. Why should she mind! Why had he ever thought she might, and been concerned about it? How should a stepmother’s annoyance tarnish such a meeting and recognition as had come into Petra’s life to-day! The very tone in which she used McCloud’s Christian name showed how things had gone between them.... Neil and Petra.... “My God!” said Lewis into the dark. “Neil and Petra! Was it foreordained?” He felt a powerful impulse to communicate further with Him of whom he had so spontaneously asked the bitter question. He turned over and buried his face in his crossed arms. But he did not know how to go on with the Contact—did not know how to pray. Lewis had been born into the tradition that formal prayers which one has by heart have no functioning quality. One must make up one’s own prayers, for originality is the only guarantee of His creatures’ sincerity the Omniscient will recognize. But Lewis doubted this proud notion now, as he lay here, facing down into the dark, helpless with the anguish of loss. If only there were patterns: sweet, fluent channels of accustomed prayer, through which one could pour one’s blind groping toward fortitude and peace! What was it McCloud had said to God in Lewis’ office this afternoon? That was prayer, certainly,—even though not uniquely and strikingly the boy’s individual invention. “God have mercy on me a sinner.” Yes, that would do. “God have mercy on me a sinner.” Lewis uttered the ancient unoriginal cry-of-all-souls with stark sincerity to God imminent, God transcendent, and added to it, after a long sweet stillness, “It is Your justice. Why did I think Petra was for such as me? Your justice is Your mercy, Lord.”
In the morning Lewis seemed to remember that peace had flowed into the channel his prayer had cut through his dark with a rushing benediction in a sound as of many waters. Peace. Then sleep.
In the weeks that followed, Cynthia Allen gradually came to admit to herself that she had had all her worry for nothing about Lewis’ untoward infatuation for an uninteresting young girl; for the affair—if one could give anything so fleetingly ephemeral such a title—had blown over. She had been silly even to imagine it serious. A person like Lewis, so subtle, so perceptive, could not long be held in thrall to mere physical attraction and youth, with nothing to give it depth. No, Harry had not succeeded in convincing Cynthia of the ineptitude of qualifying passion with “mere.” Harry was a simple soul, really, in everything except finance. You could not expect him to understand a man like Cynthia’s famous brother. Lewis was all intellectual subtlety. First of all, in any contact, he would look for understanding and depth. Passion, when it appeared, would be a by-product of the discovery of his ideal. He was like Anodos in “Phantastes” in that. Cynthia was sure of it. He was not common clay!
For weeks now Lewis had not come out to Meadowbrook. That was hard on the children and on Harry. They were so devoted to him. But Cynthia herself was not the loser. She frequently met him in town for lunch, where she had him much more to herself than she possibly could in the midst of the family. And it was fun gossiping with him, her interesting brother, in undomestic freedom, giving him innumerable anecdotes of the children, telling him what Harry thought of the financial situation between the countries, and in our own country, and of what she herself thought of the latest selections of the book clubs. Cynthia subscribed to all the American book clubs and had recently added an English one to the list.... And sometimes, always in fact, she slipped in gossip of Green Doors; for Green Doors and its inmates fascinated Cynthia increasingly. The life there—the people who came and went—the parties, the talk—all of it was just a degree above anything Cynthia had ever experienced before of sophistication and a “newer, larger liberty of thought and feeling.” The air was electric. She remarked on it often.
Why, even Petra now interested her, rather, and had taken her place as part of the general fascination of all that made Clare’s life so dramatic. For Petra was having a romance; and all the world loves a lover—at least when no relations are involved. It was that attractive young Irishman, Neil McCloud. Petra had picked him up somehow, all on her own, without anybody’s help, it seemed. Cynthia’s curiosity as to the precise how of that had never been satisfied, exactly. But he was forever at Green Doors these days—followed Petra around like a faithful dog—literally. If they weren’t engaged, it was obvious they were the next thing to it. Perhaps they were engaged and were refraining from mentioning it until Edyth Dayton McCloud should return from Switzerland with a divorce in her pocket. Cynthia often imagined to herself—and with some enjoyment—how the snobbish Daytons were going to feel when they woke to the fact that the husband whom Edyth had so casually jilted was marrying Lowell and Clare Farwell’s extraordinarily beautiful daughter. Cynthia imagined that the wedding, when it came, would be at Green Doors, outside, on the terrace or lawn; for Clare had no use for stuffy churches and organized religion, although she was more religious, Cynthia was sure of it, than most so-called pious people. Clare lived her religion without any pretense. She would plan a beautiful wedding. It was pretty wonderful of her, too, to take Neil McCloud in as she had done, without apparent question or hesitation. Petra liked him. Petra admired him. That was enough for Petra’s stepmother. She was ready to like and admire him also. But it was only good luck and no special credit to Petra’s discrimination, Cynthia felt, that nobody could help liking the man. He was a perfect darling.
To-day Lewis himself had taken the trouble to call Cynthia up and ask her to dine with him. And he was being very generous and extravagant, for him; he had brought her to the New World Hotel, the best dining room in the city. It was almost the middle of August, the end of a summer that had been the warmest in Boston’s weather record. Lewis was beginning to show, Cynthia saw, what the strain of the vacationless summer in the city had been. There was a perpetual white line around his mouth, two dark hollows in his forehead, and he was certainly thinner. But—bless him—he appeared to be as interested in herself and her chatter as ever, and as alive to all her interests. About himself and his work he had nothing to say except to tell her, when she asked about it, that his new book was all but finished. The last set of proofs, in fact, would go to the publisher within a few days.
“That’s grand,” Cynthia congratulated him. “All’s well then and the goose hangs high?”
“Oh, yes,” he laughed. “The goose hangs high. They’ve already started arranging in Vienna for the translation. I’ve let Mendel have it. I’ve quite a nice letter from him about it. Came to-day. If he comes over this fall, and he must, I think, may I bring him to Meadowbrook? I should like him to meet you.”
Cynthia was thrilled, naturally. Between her famous brother and Green Doors, her life held all sorts of potentialities these days. It was fun having interests outside and a little beyond mere “Society,” with all its futilities!
“Somebody told me Mr. Malcolm Dayton has come to you for treatment,” Cynthia said, suddenly remembering it. “Clare told me, I think. Not Petra. She’s as secretive with me about office affairs as if I weren’t your sister. Is it true?”