Chapter 9

Only thirty-eight miles more! If she were not there now, as she promised!

Beginning to-day she would have to give him a decent deal or he would leave her. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—stand for it any longer. Think of that last time he had come on from K——, just as he was coming to-day, and she had agreed to be at home—because he had made her promise before going that she would—and then, by George, when he got off the train and walked into the Brandingham with Arbuthnot to telephone, having just told Arbuthnot that heexpected to find her out at the house, wasn’t she there with young Keene and four or five others, drinking and dancing?

“Why, there’s your wife now, Garrison,” Arbuthnot had laughingly jested, and he had had to turn it all off with that “Oh, yes, that’s right! I forgot! She was to meet me here. How stupid of me!”

Why hadn’t he made a scene then? Why hadn’t he broken things up then? Because he was a blank-blanked fool, that’s why, allowing her to pull him around by the nose and do as she pleased! Love, that’s why! He was a damned fool for loving her as much as he did, and in the face of all he knew!

Nearing Shively! Colonel Brandt’s stock-farm! Home soon now! That little town in the distance, no connection with the railroad at all!

On that particular occasion, when at last they were in a taxi, she had begun one of her usual lies about having come downtown for something—a romper for Tatty—only when he ventured to show her what she was doing to herself and him socially, that he was being made a fool of, and that he really couldn’t stand it, hadn’t she flown into the usual rage and exclaimed: “Oh, all right! Why don’t you leave me then? I don’t care! I don’t care! I’m bored! I can’t help it! I can’t always sit out in Sicard Avenue waiting for you!”

In Sicard Avenue. And that on top of always refusing to stay out there or to travel with him anywhere or to meet him and go places! Think of that for a happy married life, will you? Love! Love! Yes, love! Hell!

Well, here was Lawndale now, only eighteen miles—that meant about eighteen minutes from here, the way they were running now—and he would soon see her now if she was at home. If she only were, just this one time, to kiss him and laugh and ask about the trip and how he had made out, and let him propose some quiet dinner somewherefor just the two of them, a quiet dinner all to themselves, and then home again! How delightful that would be! Only— No doubt Charles would be at the station with the jitney, as he always called the yellow racer. He would have to summon all his ease to make his inquiry, for one had to keep one’s face before the servants, you know—but then it was entirely possible that Charles wouldn’t know whether she was home or not. She didn’t always tell the servants. If she wasn’t there, though—and after that letter and telegram— Well—now—this time!—by God!—

Wheelwright! They were running a little later, perhaps, but they would enter the station nearly on time!

But take, again, that last affair, that awful scene in the Shackamaxon at C——, when without his knowing it she had gone down there with Bodine and Arbuthnot and that wretched Aikenhead. Think of being seen in a public place like the Shackamaxon with Aikenhead and two such other wasters (even if Mrs. Bodine were along—she was no better than the others!), when she was already married and under so much suspicion as it was. If it weren’t for him she would have been driven out of society long ago! Of course she would have! Hadn’t General and Mrs. de Pasy cut her dead on that occasion?—only when they saw that he had joined her they altered their expressions and were polite enough, showing what they would do if they had to deal with her alone.

That brown automobile racing this train! How foolish some automobilists were!

Well, that time, coming home and finding her away, he had run down to C—— on the chance of finding her there—and sure enough there she was dancing with Aikenhead and Bodine by turns, and Mrs. Bodine and that free Mrs. Gildas and Belle Geary joining them later. And when hehad sought her out to let her know he was back quite safe and anxious to see her, hadn’t she turned on him with all the fury of a wildcat—“Always following me up and snooping around after me to catch me in something!” and that almost loud enough for all the others to hear! It was terrible! How could anybody stand for such a thing! He couldn’t, and retain his self-respect. And yet he had—yes, he had, more shame to him! But if it hadn’t been that he had been so lonely just beforehand and so eager to see her, and hadn’t had those earrings for her in his pocket—thinking they would please her—perhaps he wouldn’t have done as he did, backed down so. As it was—well, all he could think of at the moment was to apologize—to his own wife!—and plead that he hadn’t meant to seem to follow her up and “snoop around.” Think of that! Hang it all, why hadn’t he left her then and there? Supposing she didn’t come back? Supposing she didn’t? What of it? What of it? Only—

“This way out, please.”

Well, here was G—— at last, and there was Charles, well enough, waiting as usual. Would she be home now? Would she? Perhaps, after all, he had better not say anything yet, just go around to Kiralfy’s and get the flowers. But to what end, really, if she weren’t there again? What would he do this time? Surely this must be the end if she weren’t there, if he had any strength at all. He wouldn’t be put upon in this way again, would he?—after all he had told himself he would do the last time if ever it happened again! His own reputation was at stake now, really. It depended on what he did now. What must the servants think—his always following her up and she never being there or troubling about him in the least?

“Ah, Charles, there you are! To Kiralfy’s first, then home!”

She was making him a laughing-stock, or would if he didn’t take things in hand pretty soon to-day, really—a man who hung onto a woman because she was young and pretty, who tolerated a wife who did not care for him and who ran with other men—a sickening, heartless social pack—in his absence. She was pulling him down to her level, that’s what she was doing, a level he had never deemed possible in the old days. It was almost unbelievable—and yet— But he would go in and get the flowers, anyway!

“Back in a minute, Charles!”

And now here was Sicard Avenue, again, dear old Sicard, with its fine line of trees on either side of its broad roadway, and their own big house set among elms and with that French garden in front—so quiet and aristocratic! Why couldn’t she be content with a place like this, with her present place in society? Why not? Why not be happy in it? She could be such an interesting social figure if she chose, if she would only try. But no, no—she wouldn’t. It would always be the same until—until—

The gardener had trimmed the grass again, and nicely!

“No, suh, Mr. Garrison,” George was already saying in that sing-song darky way of his as he walked up the steps ahead of him, and just as he expected or feared he would. It was always the way, and always would be until he had courage enough to leave once and for all—as he would to-day, by George! He wouldn’t stand for this one moment longer—not one. “Mrs. Garrison she say she done gone to Mrs. Gildas’” (it might just as well have been the Bodines, the Del Guardias or the Cranes—they were all alike), “an’ dat yo’ was to call her up dere when yo’ come in or come out. She say to say she lef’ a note fo’ yo’ on yo’ dresser.”

Curse her! Curse her! Curse her! To be treated likethis all the time! He would fix her now, though, this time! Yes, he would. This time he wouldn’t change his mind.

And the brass on the front door not properly cleaned, either!

“George,” this to his servant as the latter preceded him into his room—their room—where he always so loved to be when things were well between them, “never mind the bags now. I’ll call you later when I want you,” and then, as the door closed, almost glaring at everything about him. There in the mirror, just above his military brushes, was stuck a note—the usual wheedling, chaffering rot she was inclined to write him when she wanted to be very nice on such occasions as this. Now he would see what new lying, fooling communication she had left for him, where he would be asked to come now, what do, instead of her being here to receive him as she had promised, as was her duty really, as any decent married woman would—as any decent married man would expect her to be. Oh, the devil!

That fly buzzing in the window there, trying to get out!

What was the use of being alive, anyway? What the good of anything—money or anything else? He wouldn’t stand for this any longer, he couldn’t—no, he couldn’t, that was all there was to it! She could go to the devil now; he wouldn’t follow her any more—never, never, never!—the blank-blank-blank-blank——! This was the end! This was the way she was always doing! But never again now, not once more! He’d get a divorce now! Now, by George, for once he would stand his ground and be a man, not a social door-mat, a humble beggar of love, hanging around hat in hand waiting for her favors! Never again, by God! Never!! Never!!! Only—

That letter of hers on the dresser there waiting for him, as usual!

“Dearest Old Judge: This isn’t the real one. This is just a hundred-kiss one, this. The real one is pinned to your pillow over there—our pillow—where it ought to be, don’t you think? I don’t want you to be unhappy at not finding me home, Judgie, see? And I don’t want you to get mad and quarrel. And I do want you to be sure to find the other letter. So don’t be angry, see? But call me up at the Gildas’. I’m dying to see you, dearie, really and truly I am! I’ve been so lonesome without you! (Yes!) You’re sure to find me out there. And you’re not to be angry—not one little frown, do you hear? I just couldn’t help it, dearest! So read the other letter now!“Idelle.”

“Idelle.”

If only his hands wouldn’t tremble so! Damn her! Damn her! Damn her! To think she would always treat him like this! To think he was never to have one decent hour of her time to himself, not one! Always this running here, there and everywhere away from him, as it were!

He crumpled up the note and threw it on the floor, then went to the window and looked out. There over the way at her own spacious door was young Mrs. Justus just entering her car—a simple, home-loving little woman, who would never dream of the treacheries and eccentricities of Idelle; who, if she even guessed what manner of woman she was, would never have anything more to do with her. Why couldn’t he have loved a girl like her—why not? And just beyond, the large quiet house of the Walterses, those profoundly sober people of the very best ways and means, always so kind and helpful, anxious to be sociable, of whom Idelle could think of nothing better to say than “stuffy.” Anything kind and gentle and orderly was just stuffy to her, or dull. That was what she considered him, no doubt. That’s because she was what she was, curses on her! She couldn’t stand, or even understand, profoundly worthy people like the Justuses or the Walterses. (There was May Walters now at her dining-room window.) Andthen there were the Hartleys.... But that other note of hers—what did it say? He ought to read that now, whether he left or no; but he would leave this time, well enough!

He turned to the twin bed and from the fretted counterpane unpinned the second lavender-colored and scented note—the kind Idelle was always scribbling when she was doing things she shouldn’t. It didn’t make one hanged bit of difference now what she wrote, of course—only— He wouldn’t follow her this time; no, he wouldn’t! He wouldn’t have anything more to do with her ever! He would quit now, lock the doors in a few minutes, discharge the servants, cut off her allowance, tell her to go to blazes. He would go and live at a club, as he had so often threatened before to himself—or get out of G——, as he had also threatened. He couldn’t stand the comment that would follow, anyhow. He had had enough of it. He hated the damned city! He had never had any luck in it. Never had he been happy here, in spite of the fact that he had been born and brought up here, and twice married here—never! Twice now he had been treated like this by women right here in this city, his home town, where everybody knew! Twice he had been made a fool of, but this time—

The letter, though!

“Dearest and best of hubbies, I know you’re going to be disappointed at not finding me here, and in spite of anything I can say, probably terribly angry, too. (I wish you wouldn’t be, darling!) But, sweetheart, if you’ll only believe me this time (I’ve said that before when you wouldn’t, I know, and it wasn’t my fault, either), it wasn’t premeditated, really, it wasn’t! Honest, cross my heart, dear, twenty ways, and hope to die!”

(What did she really care for his disappointment or what he suffered, curse her!)

“Only yesterday at four Betty called up and insisted that I should come. There’s a big house party on, and you’reinvited, of course, when you get back. Her cousin Frank is coming and some friends of his,”

(Yes, he knew what friends!)

“and four of my old girl chums, so I just couldn’t get out of it, nor would I, particularly since she wanted me to help her, and I’ve asked her so many times to help us—now, could I?”

Idelle’s way in letters, as in person, was always bantering. To the grave with Betty Gildas and all her house parties, in so far as he was concerned, the fast, restless, heartless thing! Why couldn’t she have been here just this once, when he wanted her so much and had wired and written in plenty of time for her to be!

But no, she didn’t care for him. She never had. She merely wanted to fool him along like this, to keep his name, his position, the social atmosphere he could give her. This whole thing was a joke to her—this house, his friends, himself, all—just nothing! Her idea was to fool him along in this way while she continued to run with these other shabby, swift, restless, insatiable creatures like herself, who liked cabarets, thés dansants, automobile runs to this, that and the other wretched place, country house parties, country clubs, country this, country that, or New York and all its shallow and heartless mockery of simplicity and peace. Well, he was through. She was always weary of him, never anxious to be with him for one moment even, but never weary of any of them, you bet—of seeking the wildest forms of pleasure! Well, this was the end now. He had had enough. She could go her own way from now on. Let the beastly flowers lie there—what did he care? He wouldn’t carry them to her. He was through now. He was going to do what he said—leave. Only—

He began putting some things in another bag, in addition to the ones he had—his silk shirts, extra underwear, all his collars. Once and for all now he wouldn’t stand this—never! Never!

Only—

As he fumed and glared, his eye fell on his favorite photo of Idelle—young, rounded, sensuous, only twenty-four to his forty-eight, an air and a manner flattering to any man’s sense of vanity and possession—and then, as a contrast, he thought of the hard, smiling, self-efficiency of so many of her friends—J—— C——, for one, still dogging her heels in spite of him, and Keene, young and wealthy, and Arbuthnot—and who not else?—any one and all of whom would be glad to take her if he left her. And she knew this. It was a part of her strength, even her charm—curse her! Curse her! Curse her!

But more than that, youth, youth, the eternal lure of beauty and vitality, her smiling softness at times, her geniality, her tolerance, their long talks and pleasant evenings and afternoons. And all of these calling, calling now. And yet they were all at the vanishing point, perhaps never to come again, if he left her! She had warned him of that. “If I go,” she had once said—more than once, indeed—“it’s for good. Don’t think I’ll ever come back, for I won’t.” And he understood well enough that she would not. She didn’t care for him enough to come back. She never would, if she really went.

He paused, meditating, biting his lips as usual, flushing, frowning, darkening—a changeable sky his face—and then—

“George,” he said after the servant had appeared in answer to his ring, “tell Charles to bring the jitney around again, and you pack me the little brown kit bag out of these others. I’m going away for a day or two, anyhow.”

“Yes, suh!”

Then down the stairs, saying that Idelle was a liar, a wastrel, a heartless butterfly, worthy to be left as he proposed to leave her now. Only, once outside in his car with Charles at the wheel, and ready to take him wherever he said, he paused again, and then—sadly— “To the Gildases, and better go by the Skillytown road. It’s the shortest!”

Then he fell to thinking again.

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