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  IV

 

  "Wealth," observed the poet, waving his heavy white hand, "is a figureof speech, Mr. Wayne. Only by the process of elimination can one arriveat the exquisite simplicity of poverty--care-free poverty. Even a singlepenny is a burden--the flaw in the marble, the fly in the amber ofperfection. Cast it away and enter Eden!" And joining thumb andforefinger, he plucked a figurative copper from the atmosphere, tossedit away, and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief.

  "But--" began Wayne uneasily.

  "Try it," smiled the poet, diffusing sweetness; "try it. Dismiss allthoughts of money from your mind."

  "I do," said Wayne, somewhat relieved. "I thought you meant for me tochuck my securities overboard and eat herbs."

  "Not in your case--no, not in your case. _I_ can do that; I have doneit. No, your sacred mission is simply to forget that you are wealthy.That is a very precious thought, Mr. Wayne--remain a Croesus and forgetit! Not to eliminate your _wealth_, but eliminate all _thought_ of it.Very, very precious."

  "Well, I never think about things like that except at a directors'meeting," blurted out the young fellow. "Perhaps it's because I've neverhad to think about it."

  The poet sighed so sweetly that the atmosphere seemed to drip with thesaccharine injection.

  "I wish," ventured Wayne, "that you would let me mention the subject ofbusiness"--the poet shook his head indulgently--"just to say that I'mnot going to foreclose." He laid a packet of legal papers in the poet'shand.

  "Hush," smiled Guilford, "this is not seemly in the house beautiful...._What_ was it you said, Mr. Wayne?"

  "I? I was going to say that I just wanted--wanted to stay here--be yourguest, if you'll let me," he said honestly. "I was cruising--I didn'tunderstand--Briggs--Briggs--" He stuck.

  "Yes, Briggs," softly suggested the poet, spraying the night air withmore sweetness.

  "Briggs has spoken to you about--about your daughter Vanessa. You see,Briggs is my closest friend; his happiness is--er--important to me.I want to see Briggs happy; that's why I want to stay here, just to seeBriggs happy. I--I love Briggs. You understand me, don't you, Mr.Guilford?"

  The poet breathed a dulcet breath. "Perfectly," he murmured. "Thecontemplation of Mr. Briggs' happiness eliminates all thoughts of selfwithin you. By this process of elimination you arrive at happinessyourself. Ah, the thought is a very precious one, my young friend, forby elimination only can we arrive at perfection. Thank you for thethought; thank you. You have given me a very, very precious thought tocherish."

  "I--I have been here a week," muttered Wayne. "I thought--perhaps--mywelcome might be outworn----"

  "In the house beautiful," murmured the poet, rising and waving his heavywhite hand at the open door, "welcome is eternal." He folded his armswith difficulty, for he was stout, and one hand clutched the legalpapers; his head sank. In profound meditation he wandered away into theshadowy house, leaving Wayne sitting on the veranda rail, eyes fixed ona white shape dimly seen moving through the moonlit meadows below.Briggs sauntered into sight presently, his arms full of flowers.

  "Get me a jug of water, will you? Vanessa has been picking these and shesent me back to fix 'em. Hurry, man! She is waiting for me in thegarden." Wayne gazed earnestly at his friend.

  "So you have done it, have you, Stuyve?"

  "Done what?" demanded Briggs, blushing.

  "It."

  "If you mean," he said with dignity, "that I've asked the sweetest girlon earth to marry me, I have. And I'm the happiest man on the footstool,too. Good Heaven, George," he broke out, "if you knew the meaning oflove! if you could for one second catch a glimpse of the beauty of hersoul! Why, man of sordid clay that I was--creature of club and claretand turtle--like you----"

  "Drop it!" said Wayne somberly.

  "I can't help it, George. We were beasts--and _you_ are yet. But my baseclay is transmuted, spiritualized; my soul is awake, traveling, toilingtoward the upward heights where hers sits enthroned. When I think ofwhat I was, and what you still are----"

  Wayne rose exasperated:

  "Do you think your soul is doing the only upward hustling?" he saidhotly.

  Briggs, clasping his flowers to his breast, gazed out over them atWayne.

  "You don't mean----"

  "Yes, I do," said Wayne. "I may be crazy, but I know something," withwhich paradox he turned on his heel and walked into the moonlit meadowtoward that dim, white form moving through the dusk.

  "I wondered," she said, "whether you were coming," as he stepped throughthe long, fragrant grass to her side.

  "You might have wondered if I had not come," he answered.

  "Yes, that is true. This moonlight is too wonderful to miss," she addedwithout a trace of self-consciousness.

  "It was for you I came."

  "Couldn't you find my sisters?" she asked innocently.

  He did not reply. Presently she stumbled over a hummock, recovered herpoise without comment, and slipped her hand into his with unconsciousconfidence.

  "Do you know what I have been studying to-day?" she asked.

  "What?"

  "That curious phycomycetous fungus that produces resting-spores by theconjugation of two similar club-shaped hyphae, and in which conidia alsooccur. It's fascinating."

  After a silence he said:

  "What would you think of me if I told you that I do not comprehend asingle word of what you have just told me?"

  "Don't you?" she asked, astonished.

  "No," he replied, dropping her hand. She wondered, vaguely distressed;and he went on presently: "As a plain matter of fact, I don't know much.It's an astonishing discovery for me, but it's a fact that I am not yourmental, physical, or spiritual equal. In sheer, brute strength perhaps Iam, and I am none too certain of that, either. But, and I say it to myshame, I can not follow you; I am inferior in education, in culture, infine instinct, in mental development. You chatter in a dozen languagesto your sisters: my French appals a Paris cabman; you play anyinstrument I ever heard of: the guitar is my limit, the fandango myrepertoire. As for alert intelligence, artistic comprehension, abilityto appreciate, I can not make the running with you; I amoutclassed--hopelessly. Now, if this is all true--and I have spoken thewretched truth--_what_ can a man like me have to say for himself?"

  Her head was bent, her fair face was in shadow. She strayed on a littleway, then, finding herself alone, turned and looked back at him where hestood. For a moment they remained motionless, looking at one another,then, as on some sweet impulse, she came back hastily and looked intohis eyes.

  "I do not feel as you do," she said; "you are very--good--company. I amnot all you say; I know very little. Listen. It--it distresses me tohave you think I hold you--lightly. Truly we are _not_ apart."

  "There is but one thing that can join us."

  "What is that?"

  "Love."

  Her pure gaze did not falter nor her eyes droop. Curiously regardinghim, she seemed immersed in the solution of the problem as he hadsolved it.

  "Do you love me?" she asked.

  "With all my soul--such as it is, with all my heart, with every thought,every instinct, every breath I draw."

  She considered him with fearless eyes; the beauty of them was all hecould endure.

  "You love me?" she repeated.

  He bent his head, incapable of speech.

  "You wish me to love you?"

  He looked at her, utterly unable to move his lips.

  "_How_ do you wish me to love you?"

  He opened his arms; she stepped forward, close to him.

  Then their lips met.

  "Oh," she said faintly, "I did not know it--it was so sweet."

  And as her head fell back on his arm about her neck she looked up at himfull of wonder at this new knowledge he had taught her, marvelous,unsuspected, divine in its simplicity. Then the first delicate blushthat ever mounted her face spread, tinting throat and forehead; she drewhis face down to her own.

  The poet paced the dim veranda
, arms folded, head bent. But his glancewas sideways and full of intelligence as it included two vague figurescoming slowly back through the moon-drenched meadow.

  "By elimination we arrive at perfection," he mused; "and perfection issuccess. There remain six more," he added irrelevantly, "but they'reyoung yet. Patience, subtle patience--and attention to the littlethings." He pinched a morsel of air out of the darkness, examined it andreleased it.

  "The little things," he repeated; "that is a very precious thought....I believe the sea air may agree with me--now and then."

  And he wandered off into his "den" and unlocked a drawer in his desk,and took out a bundle of legal papers, and tore them slowly, carefully,into very small pieces.