WhenViolet Melrose had said to Susy Branch, the winter before in New York: “But why on earth don’t you and Nick go to my little place at Versailles for the honeymoon? I’m off to China, and you could have it to yourselves all summer,” the offer had been tempting enough to make the lovers waver.
It was such an artless ingenuous little house, so full of the demoralizing simplicity of great wealth, that it seemed to Susy just the kind of place in which to take the first steps in renunciation. But Nick had objected that Paris, at that time of year, would be swarming with acquaintances who would hunt them down at all hours; and Susy’s own experience had led her to remark that there was nothing the very rich enjoyed more than taking pot-luck with the very poor. They therefore gave Strefford’s villa the preference, with an inward proviso (on Susy’s part) that Violet’s house might very conveniently serve their purpose at another season.
These thoughts were in her mind as she drove up to Mrs. Melrose’s door on a rainy afternoon late in August, her boxes piled high on the roof of the cab she had taken at the station. She had travelled straight through from Venice, stopping in Milan just long enough to pick up a reply to the telegram she had despatched to the perfect housekeeper whose permanent presence enabled Mrs. Melrose to say: “Oh, when I’m sick of everything I just rush off without warning to my little shanty at Versailles, and live there all alone on scrambled eggs.”
The perfect house-keeper had replied to Susy’s enquiry: “Am sure Mrs. Melrose most happy”; and Susy, without further thought, had jumped into a Versailles train, and now stood in the thin rain before the sphinx-guarded threshold of the pavilion.
The revolving year had brought around the season at which Mrs. Melrose’s house might be convenient: no visitors were to be feared at Versailles at the end of August, and though Susy’s reasons for seeking solitude were so remote from those she had once prefigured, they were none the less cogent. To be alone—alone! After those first exposed days when, in the persistent presence of Fred Gillow and his satellites, and in the mocking radiance of late summer on the lagoons, she had fumed and turned about in her agony like a trapped animal in a cramping cage, to be alone had seemed the only respite, the one craving: to be alone somewhere in a setting as unlike as possible to the sensual splendours of Venice, under skies as unlike its azure roof. If she could have chosen she would have crawled away into a dingy inn in a rainy northern town, where she had never been and no one knew her. Failing that unobtainable luxury, here she was on the threshold of an empty house, in a deserted place, under lowering skies. She had shaken off Fred Gillow, sulkily departing for his moor (where she had half-promised to join him in September); the Prince, young Breckenridge, and the few remaining survivors of the Venetian group, had dispersed in the direction of the Engadine or Biarritz; and now she could at least collect her wits, take stock of herself, and prepare the countenance with which she was to face the next stage in her career. Thank God it was raining at Versailles!
The door opened, she heard voices in the drawing-room, and a slender languishing figure appeared on the threshold.
“Darling!” Violet Melrose cried in an embrace, drawing her into the dusky perfumed room.
“But I thought you were in China!” Susy stammered.
“In China... in China,” Mrs. Melrose stared with dreamy eyes, and Susy remembered her drifting disorganised life, a life more planless, more inexplicable than that of any of the other ephemeral beings blown about upon the same winds of pleasure.
“Well, Madam, I thought so myself till I got a wire from Mrs. Melrose last evening,” remarked the perfect house-keeper, following with Susy’s handbag.
Mrs. Melrose clutched her cavernous temples in her attenuated hands. “Of course, of course! I had meant to go to China—no, India.... But I’ve discovered a genius... and Genius, you know....” Unable to complete her thought, she sank down upon a pillowy divan, stretched out an arm, cried: “Fulmer! Fulmer!” and, while Susy Lansing stood in the middle of the room with widening eyes, a man emerged from the more deeply cushioned and scented twilight of some inner apartment, and she saw with surprise Nat Fulmer, the good Nat Fulmer of the New Hampshire bungalow and the ubiquitous progeny, standing before her in lordly ease, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette between his lips, his feet solidly planted in the insidious depths of one of Violet Melrose’s white leopard skins.
“Susy!” he shouted with open arms; and Mrs. Melrose murmured: “You didn’t know, then? You hadn’t heard of his masterpieces?”
In spite of herself, Susy burst into a laugh. “Is Nat your genius?”
Mrs. Melrose looked at her reproachfully.
Fulmer laughed. “No; I’m Grace’s. But Mrs. Melrose has been our Providence, and....”
“Providence?” his hostess interrupted. “Don’t talk as if you were at a prayer-meeting! He had an exhibition in New York... it was the most fabulous success. He’s come abroad to make studies for the decoration of my music-room in New York. Ursula Gillow has given him her garden-house at Roslyn to do. And Mrs. Bockheimer’s ball-room—oh, Fulmer, where are the cartoons?” She sprang up, tossed about some fashion-papers heaped on a lacquer table, and sank back exhausted by the effort. “I’d got as far as Brindisi. I’ve travelled day and night to be here to meet him,” she declared. “But, you darling,” and she held out a caressing hand to Susy, “I’m forgetting to ask if you’ve had tea?”
An hour later, over the tea-table, Susy already felt herself mysteriously reabsorbed into what had so long been her native element. Ellie Vanderlyn had brought a breath of it to Venice; but Susy was then nourished on another air, the air of Nick’s presence and personality; now that she was abandoned, left again to her own devices, she felt herself suddenly at the mercy of the influences from which she thought she had escaped.
In the queer social whirligig from which she had so lately fled, it seemed natural enough that a shake of the box should have tossed Nat Fulmer into celebrity, and sent Violet Melrose chasing back from the ends of the earth to bask in his success. Susy knew that Mrs. Melrose belonged to the class of moral parasites; for in that strange world the parts were sometimes reversed, and the wealthy preyed upon the pauper. Wherever there was a reputation to batten on, there poor Violet appeared, a harmless vampire in pearls who sought only to feed on the notoriety which all her millions could not create for her. Any one less versed than Susy in the shallow mysteries of her little world would have seen in Violet Melrose a baleful enchantress, in Nat Fulmer her helpless victim. Susy knew better. Violet, poor Violet, was not even that. The insignificant Ellie Vanderlyn, with her brief trivial passions, her artless mixture of amorous and social interests, was a woman with a purpose, a creature who fulfilled herself; but Violet was only a drifting interrogation.
And what of Fulmer? Mustering with new eyes his short sturdily-built figure, his nondescript bearded face, and the eyes that dreamed and wandered, and then suddenly sank into you like claws, Susy seemed to have found the key to all his years of dogged toil, his indifference to neglect, indifference to poverty, indifference to the needs of his growing family.... Yes: for the first time she saw that he looked commonplace enough to be a genius—was a genius, perhaps, even though it was Violet Melrose who affirmed it! Susy looked steadily at Fulmer, their eyes met, and he smiled at her faintly through his beard.
“Yes, I did discover him—I did,” Mrs. Melrose was insisting, from the depths of the black velvet divan in which she lay sunk like a wan Nereid in a midnight sea. “You mustn’t believe a word that Ursula Gillow tells you about having pounced on his ‘Spring Snow Storm’ in a dark corner of the American Artists’ exhibition—skied, if you please! They skied him less than a year ago! And naturally Ursula never in her life looked higher than the first line at a picture-show. And now she actually pretends... oh, for pity’s sake don’t say it doesn’t matter, Fulmer! Your saying that just encourages her, and makes people think she did. When, in reality, any one who saw me at the exhibition on varnishing-day.... Who? Well, Eddy Breckenridge, for instance. He was in Egypt, you say? Perhaps he was! As if one could remember the people about one, when suddenly one comes upon a great work of art, as St. Paul did—didn’t he?—and the scales fell from his eyes. Well... that’s exactly what happened to me that day... and Ursula, everybody knows, was down at Roslyn at the time, and didn’t come up for the opening of the exhibition at all. And Fulmer sits there and laughs, and says it doesn’t matter, and that he’ll paint another picture any day for me to discover!”
Susy had rung the door-bell with a hand trembling with eagerness—eagerness to be alone, to be quiet, to stare her situation in the face, and collect herself before she came out again among her kind. She had stood on the door-step, cowering among her bags, counting the instants till a step sounded and the door-knob turned, letting her in from the searching glare of the outer world.... And now she had sat for an hour in Violet’s drawing-room, in the very house where her honey-moon might have been spent; and no one had asked her where she had come from, or why she was alone, or what was the key to the tragedy written on her shrinking face....
That was the way of the world they lived in. Nobody questioned, nobody wondered any more—because nobody had time to remember. The old risk of prying curiosity, of malicious gossip, was virtually over: one was left with one’s drama, one’s disaster, on one’s hands, because there was nobody to stop and notice the little shrouded object one was carrying. As Susy watched the two people before her, each so frankly unaffected by her presence, Violet Melrose so engrossed in her feverish pursuit of notoriety, Fulmer so plunged in the golden sea of his success, she felt like a ghost making inaudible and imperceptible appeals to the grosser senses of the living.
“If I wanted to be alone,” she thought, “I’m alone enough, in all conscience.” There was a deathly chill in such security. She turned to Fulmer.
“And Grace?”
He beamed back without sign of embarrassment. “Oh, she’s here, naturally—we’re in Paris, kids and all. In a pension, where we can polish up the lingo. But I hardly ever lay eyes on her, because she’s as deep in music as I am in paint; it was as big a chance for her as for me, you see, and she’s making the most of it, fiddling and listening to the fiddlers. Well, it’s a considerable change from New Hampshire.” He looked at her dreamily, as if making an intense effort to detach himself from his dream, and situate her in the fading past. “Remember the bungalow? And Nick—ah, how’s Nick?” he brought out triumphantly.
“Oh, yes—darling Nick?” Mrs. Melrose chimed in; and Susy, her head erect, her cheeks aflame, declared with resonance: “Most awfully well—splendidly!”
“He’s not here, though?” from Fulmer.
“No. He’s off travelling—cruising.”
Mrs. Melrose’s attention was faintly roused. “With anybody interesting?”
“No; you wouldn’t know them. People we met....” She did not have to continue, for her hostess’s gaze had again strayed.
“And you’ve come for your clothes, I suppose, darling? Don’t listen to people who say that skirts are to be wider. I’ve discovered a new woman—a Genius—and she absolutely swathes you.... Her name’s my secret; but we’ll go to her together.”
Susy rose from her engulphing armchair. “Do you mind if I go up to my room? I’m rather tired—coming straight through.”
“Of course, dear. I think there are some people coming to dinner... Mrs. Match will tell you. She has such a memory.... Fulmer, where on earth are those cartoons of the music-room?”
Their voices pursued Susy upstairs, as, in Mrs. Match’s perpendicular wake, she mounted to the white-panelled room with its gay linen hangings and the low bed heaped with more cushions.
“If we’d come here,” she thought, “everything might have been different.” And she shuddered at the sumptuous memories of the Palazzo Vanderlyn, and the great painted bedroom where she had met her doom.
Mrs. Match, hoping she would find everything, and mentioning that dinner was not till nine, shut her softly in among her terrors.
“Find everything?” Susy echoed the phrase. Oh, yes, she would always find everything: every time the door shut on her now, and the sound of voices ceased, her memories would be there waiting for her, every one of them, waiting quietly, patiently, obstinately, like poor people in a doctor’s office, the people who are always last to be attended to, but whom nothing will discourage or drive away, people to whom time is nothing, fatigue nothing, hunger nothing, other engagements nothing: who just wait.... Thank heaven, after all, that she had not found the house empty, if, whenever she returned to her room, she was to meet her memories there!
It was just a week since Nick had left her. During that week, crammed with people, questions, packing, explaining, evading, she had believed that in solitude lay her salvation. Now she understood that there was nothing she was so unprepared for, so unfitted for. When, in all her life, had she ever been alone? And how was she to bear it now, with all these ravening memories besetting her!
Dinner not till nine? What on earth was she to do till nine o’clock? She knelt before her boxes, and feverishly began to unpack.
Gradually, imperceptibly, the subtle influences of her old life were stealing into her. As she pulled out her tossed and crumpled dresses she remembered Violet’s emphatic warning: “Don’t believe the people who tell you that skirts are going to be wider.” Were hers, perhaps, too wide as it was? She looked at her limp raiment, piling itself up on bed and sofa, and understood that, according to Violet’s standards, and that of all her set, those dresses, which Nick had thought so original and exquisite, were already commonplace and dowdy, fit only to be passed on to poor relations or given to one’s maid. And Susy would have to go on wearing them till they fell to bits—or else.... Well, or else begin the old life again in some new form....
She laughed aloud at the turn of her thoughts. Dresses? How little they had mattered a few short weeks ago! And now, perhaps, they would again be one of the foremost considerations in her life. How could it be otherwise, if she were to return again to her old dependence on Ellie Vanderlyn, Ursula Gillow, Violet Melrose? And beyond that, only the Bockheimers and their kind awaited her....
A knock on the door—what a relief! It was Mrs. Match again, with a telegram. To whom had Susy given her new address? With a throbbing heart she tore open the envelope and read:
“Shall be in Paris Friday for twenty-four hours where can I see you write Nouveau Luxe.”
Ah, yes—she remembered now: she had written to Strefford! And this was his answer: he was coming. She dropped into a chair, and tried to think. What on earth had she said in her letter? It had been mainly, of course, one of condolence; but now she remembered having added, in a precipitate postscript: “I can’t give your message to Nick, for he’s gone off with the Hickses—I don’t know where, or for how long. It’s all right, of course: it was in our bargain.”
She had not meant to put in that last phrase; but as she sealed her letter to Strefford her eye had fallen on Nick’s missive, which lay beside it. Nothing in her husband’s brief lines had embittered her as much as the allusion to Strefford. It seemed to imply that Nick’s own plans were made, that his own future was secure, and that he could therefore freely and handsomely take thought for hers, and give her a pointer in the right direction. Sudden rage had possessed her at the thought: where she had at first read jealousy she now saw only a cold providence, and in a blur of tears she had scrawled her postscript to Strefford. She remembered that she had not even asked him to keep her secret. Well—after all, what would it matter if people should already know that Nick had left her? Their parting could not long remain a mystery, and the fact that it was known might help her to keep up a presence of indifference.
“It was in the bargain—in the bargain,” rang through her brain as she re-read Strefford’s telegram. She understood that he had snatched the time for this hasty trip solely in the hope of seeing her, and her eyes filled. The more bitterly she thought of Nick the more this proof of Strefford’s friendship moved her.
The clock, to her relief, reminded her that it was time to dress for dinner. She would go down presently, chat with Violet and Fulmer, and with Violet’s other guests, who would probably be odd and amusing, and too much out of her world to embarrass her by awkward questions. She would sit at a softly-lit table, breathe delicate scents, eat exquisite food (trust Mrs. Match!), and be gradually drawn again under the spell of her old associations. Anything, anything but to be alone....
She dressed with even more than her habitual care, reddened her lips attentively, brushed the faintest bloom of pink over her drawn cheeks, and went down—to meet Mrs. Match coming up with a tray.
“Oh, Madam, I thought you were too tired.... I was bringing it up to you myself—just a little morsel of chicken.”
Susy, glancing past her, saw, through the open door, that the lamps were not lit in the drawing-room.
“Oh, no, I’m not tired, thank you. I thought Mrs. Melrose expected friends at dinner!”
“Friends at dinner-to-night?” Mrs. Match heaved a despairing sigh. Sometimes, the sigh seemed to say, her mistress put too great a strain upon her. “Why, Mrs. Melrose and Mr. Fulmer were engaged to dine in Paris. They left an hour ago. Mrs. Melrose told me she’d told you,” the house-keeper wailed.
Susy kept her little fixed smile. “I must have misunderstood. In that case... well, yes, if it’s no trouble, I believe I will have my tray upstairs.”
Slowly she turned, and followed the housekeeper up into the dread solitude she had just left.
Thenext day a lot of people turned up unannounced for luncheon. They were not of the far-fetched and the exotic, in whom Mrs. Melrose now specialized, but merely commonplace fashionable people belonging to Susy’s own group, people familiar with the amusing romance of her penniless marriage, and to whom she had to explain (though none of them really listened to the explanation) that Nick was not with her just now but had gone off cruising... cruising in the AEgean with friends... getting up material for his book (this detail had occurred to her in the night).
It was the kind of encounter she had most dreaded; but it proved, after all, easy enough to go through compared with those endless hours of turning to and fro, the night before, in the cage of her lonely room. Anything, anything, but to be alone....
Gradually, from the force of habit, she found herself actually in tune with the talk of the luncheon table, interested in the references to absent friends, the light allusions to last year’s loves and quarrels, scandals and absurdities. The women, in their pale summer dresses, were so graceful, indolent and sure of themselves, the men so easy and good-humoured! Perhaps, after all, Susy reflected, it was the world she was meant for, since the other, the brief Paradise of her dreams, had already shut its golden doors upon her. And then, as they sat on the terrace after luncheon, looking across at the yellow tree-tops of the park, one of the women said something—made just an allusion—that Susy would have let pass unnoticed in the old days, but that now filled her with a sudden deep disgust.... She stood up and wandered away, away from them all through the fading garden.
Two days later Susy and Strefford sat on the terrace of the Tuileries above the Seine. She had asked him to meet her there, with the desire to avoid the crowded halls and drawing-room of the Nouveau Luxe where, even at that supposedly “dead” season, people one knew were always drifting to and fro; and they sat on a bench in the pale sunlight, the discoloured leaves heaped at their feet, and no one to share their solitude but a lame working-man and a haggard woman who were lunching together mournfully at the other end of the majestic vista.
Strefford, in his new mourning, looked unnaturally prosperous and well-valeted; but his ugly untidy features remained as undisciplined, his smile as whimsical, as of old. He had been on cool though friendly terms with the pompous uncle and the poor sickly cousin whose joint disappearance had so abruptly transformed his future; and it was his way to understate his feelings rather than to pretend more than he felt. Nevertheless, beneath his habitual bantering tone Susy discerned a change. The disaster had shocked him profoundly; already, in his brief sojourn among his people and among the great possessions so tragically acquired, old instincts had awakened, forgotten associations had spoken in him. Susy listened to him wistfully, silenced by her imaginative perception of the distance that these things had put between them.
“It was horrible... seeing them both there together, laid out in that hideous Pugin chapel at Altringham... the poor boy especially. I suppose that’s really what’s cutting me up now,” he murmured, almost apologetically.
“Oh, it’s more than that—more than you know,” she insisted; but he jerked back: “Now, my dear, don’t be edifying, please,” and fumbled for a cigarette in the pocket which was already beginning to bulge with his miscellaneous properties.
“And now about you—for that’s what I came for,” he continued, turning to her with one of his sudden movements. “I couldn’t make head or tail of your letter.”
She paused a moment to steady her voice. “Couldn’t you? I suppose you’d forgotten my bargain with Nick. He hadn’t—and he’s asked me to fulfil it.”
Strefford stared. “What—that nonsense about your setting each other free if either of you had the chance to make a good match?”
She signed “Yes.”
“And he’s actually asked you—?”
“Well: practically. He’s gone off with the Hickses. Before going he wrote me that we’d better both consider ourselves free. And Coral sent me a postcard to say that she would take the best of care of him.”
Strefford mused, his eyes upon his cigarette. “But what the deuce led up to all this? It can’t have happened like that, out of a clear sky.”
Susy flushed, hesitated, looked away. She had meant to tell Strefford the whole story; it had been one of her chief reasons for wishing to see him again, and half-unconsciously, perhaps, she had hoped, in his laxer atmosphere, to recover something of her shattered self-esteem. But now she suddenly felt the impossibility of confessing to anyone the depths to which Nick’s wife had stooped. She fancied that her companion guessed the nature of her hesitation.
“Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to, you know, my dear.”
“No; I do want to; only it’s difficult. You see—we had so very little money....”
“Yes?”
“And Nick—who was thinking of his book, and of all sorts of big things, fine things—didn’t realise... left it all to me... to manage....”
She stumbled over the word, remembering how Nick had always winced at it. But Strefford did not seem to notice her, and she hurried on, unfolding in short awkward sentences the avowal of their pecuniary difficulties, and of Nick’s inability to understand that, to keep on with the kind of life they were leading, one had to put up with things... accept favours....
“Borrow money, you mean?”
“Well—yes; and all the rest.” No—decidedly she could not reveal to Strefford the episode of Ellie’s letters. “Nick suddenly felt, I suppose, that he couldn’t stand it,” she continued; “and instead of asking me to try—to try to live differently, go off somewhere with him and live, like work-people, in two rooms, without a servant, as I was ready to do; well, instead he wrote me that it had all been a mistake from the beginning, that we couldn’t keep it up, and had better recognize the fact; and he went off on the Hickses’ yacht. The last evening that you were in Venice—the day he didn’t come back to dinner—he had gone off to Genoa to meet them. I suppose he intends to marry Coral.”
Strefford received this in silence. “Well—it was your bargain, wasn’t it?” he said at length.
“Yes; but—”
“Exactly: I always told you so. You weren’t ready to have him go yet—that’s all.”
She flushed to the forehead. “Oh, Streff—is it really all?”
“A question of time? If you doubt it, I’d like to see you try, for a while, in those two rooms without a servant; and then let me hear from you. Why, my dear, it’s only a question of time in a palace, with a steam yacht lying off the door-step, and a flock of motors in the garage; look around you and see. And did you ever imagine that you and Nick, of all people, were going to escape the common doom, and survive like Mr. and Mrs. Tithonus, while all about you the eternal passions were crumbling to pieces, and your native Divorce-states piling up their revenues?”
She sat with bent head, the weight of the long years to come pressing like a leaden load on her shoulders.
“But I’m so young... life’s so long. What does last, then?”
“Ah, you’re too young to believe me, if I were to tell you; though you’re intelligent enough to understand.”
“What does, then?”
“Why, the hold of the things we all think we could do without. Habits—they outstand the Pyramids. Comforts, luxuries, the atmosphere of ease... above all, the power to get away from dulness and monotony, from constraints and uglinesses. You chose that power, instinctively, before you were even grown up; and so did Nick. And the only difference between you is that he’s had the sense to see sooner than you that those are the things that last, the prime necessities.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Of course you don’t: at your age one doesn’t reason one’s materialism. And besides you’re mortally hurt that Nick has found out sooner than you, and hasn’t disguised his discovery under any hypocritical phrases.”
“But surely there are people—”
“Yes—saints and geniuses and heroes: all the fanatics! To which of their categories do you suppose we soft people belong? And the heroes and the geniuses—haven’t they their enormous frailties and their giant appetites? And how should we escape being the victims of our little ones?”
She sat for a while without speaking. “But, Streff, how can you say such things, when I know you care: care for me, for instance!”
“Care?” He put his hand on hers. “But, my dear, it’s just the fugitiveness of mortal caring that makes it so exquisite! It’s because we know we can’t hold fast to it, or to each other, or to anything....”
“Yes... yes... but hush, please! Oh, don’t say it!” She stood up, the tears in her throat, and he rose also.
“Come along, then; where do we lunch?” he said with a smile, slipping his hand through her arm.
“Oh, I don’t know. Nowhere. I think I’m going back to Versailles.”
“Because I’ve disgusted you so deeply? Just my luck—when I came over to ask you to marry me!”
She laughed, but he had become suddenly grave. “Upon my soul, I did.”
“Dear Streff! As if—now—”
“Oh, not now—I know. I’m aware that even with your accelerated divorce methods—”
“It’s not that. I told you it was no use, Streff—I told you long ago, in Venice.”
He shrugged ironically. “It’s not Streff who’s asking you now. Streff was not a marrying man: he was only trifling with you. The present offer comes from an elderly peer of independent means. Think it over, my dear: as many days out as you like, and five footmen kept. There’s not the least hurry, of course; but I rather think Nick himself would advise it.”
She flushed to the temples, remembering that Nick had; and the remembrance made Strefford’s sneering philosophy seem less unbearable. Why should she not lunch with him, after all? In the first days of his mourning he had come to Paris expressly to see her, and to offer her one of the oldest names and one of the greatest fortunes in England. She thought of Ursula Gillow, Ellie Vanderlyn, Violet Melrose, of their condescending kindnesses, their last year’s dresses, their Christmas cheques, and all the careless bounties that were so easy to bestow and so hard to accept. “I should rather enjoy paying them back,” something in her maliciously murmured.
She did not mean to marry Strefford—she had not even got as far as contemplating the possibility of a divorce but it was undeniable that this sudden prospect of wealth and freedom was like fresh air in her lungs. She laughed again, but now without bitterness.
“Very good, then; we’ll lunch together. But it’s Streff I want to lunch with to-day.”
“Ah, well,” her companion agreed, “I rather think that for a tête-à-tête he’s better company.”
During their repast in a little restaurant over the Seine, where she insisted on the cheapest dishes because she was lunching with “Streff,” he became again his old whimsical companionable self. Once or twice she tried to turn the talk to his altered future, and the obligations and interests that lay before him; but he shrugged away from the subject, questioning her instead about the motley company at Violet Melrose’s, and fitting a droll or malicious anecdote to each of the people she named.
It was not till they had finished their coffee, and she was glancing at her watch with a vague notion of taking the next train, that he asked abruptly: “But what are you going to do? You can’t stay forever at Violet’s.”
“Oh, no!” she cried with a shiver.
“Well, then—you’ve got some plan, I suppose?”
“Have I?” she wondered, jerked back into grim reality from the soothing interlude of their hour together.
“You can’t drift indefinitely, can you? Unless you mean to go back to the old sort of life once for all.”
She reddened and her eyes filled. “I can’t do that, Streff—I know I can’t!”
“Then what—?”
She hesitated, and brought out with lowered head: “Nick said he would write again—in a few days. I must wait—”
“Oh, naturally. Don’t do anything in a hurry.” Strefford also glanced at his watch. “Garcon, l’addition! I’m taking the train back to-night, and I’ve a lot of things left to do. But look here, my dear—when you come to a decision one way or the other let me know, will you? Oh, I don’t mean in the matter I’ve most at heart; we’ll consider that closed for the present. But at least I can be of use in other ways—hang it, you know, I can even lend you money. There’s a new sensation for our jaded palates!”
“Oh, Streff... Streff!” she could only falter; and he pressed on gaily: “Try it, now do try it—I assure you there’ll be no interest to pay, and no conditions attached. And promise to let me know when you’ve decided anything.”
She looked into his humorously puckered eyes, answering. Their friendly smile with hers.
“I promise!” she said.
Thathour with Strefford had altered her whole perspective. Instead of possible dependence, an enforced return to the old life of connivances and concessions, she saw before her—whenever she chose to take them—freedom, power and dignity. Dignity! It was odd what weight that word had come to have for her. She had dimly felt its significance, felt the need of its presence in her inmost soul, even in the young thoughtless days when she had seemed to sacrifice so little to the austere divinities. And since she had been Nick Lansing’s wife she had consciously acknowledged it, had suffered and agonized when she fell beneath its standard. Yes: to marry Strefford would give her that sense of self-respect which, in such a world as theirs, only wealth and position could ensure. If she had not the mental or moral training to attain independence in any other way, was she to blame for seeking it on such terms?
Of course there was always the chance that Nick would come back, would find life without her as intolerable as she was finding it without him. If that happened—ah, if that happened! Then she would cease to strain her eyes into the future, would seize upon the present moment and plunge into it to the very bottom of oblivion. Nothing on earth would matter then—money or freedom or pride, or her precious moral dignity, if only she were in Nick’s arms again!
But there was Nick’s icy letter, there was Coral Hicks’s insolent post-card, to show how little chance there was of such a solution. Susy understood that, even before the discovery of her transaction with Ellie Vanderlyn, Nick had secretly wearied, if not of his wife, at least of the life that their marriage compelled him to lead. His passion was not strong enough—had never been strong enough—to outweigh his prejudices, scruples, principles, or whatever one chose to call them. Susy’s dignity might go up like tinder in the blaze of her love; but his was made of a less combustible substance. She had felt, in their last talk together, that she had forever destroyed the inner harmony between them.
Well—there it was, and the fault was doubtless neither hers nor his, but that of the world they had grown up in, of their own moral contempt for it and physical dependence on it, of his half-talents and her half-principles, of the something in them both that was not stout enough to resist nor yet pliant enough to yield. She stared at the fact on the journey back to Versailles, and all that sleepless night in her room; and the next morning, when the housemaid came in with her breakfast tray, she felt the factitious energy that comes from having decided, however half-heartedly, on a definite course.
She had said to herself: “If there’s no letter from Nick this time next week I’ll write to Streff—” and the week had passed, and there was no letter.
It was now three weeks since he had left her, and she had had no word but his note from Genoa. She had concluded that, foreseeing the probability of her leaving Venice, he would write to her in care of their Paris bank. But though she had immediately notified the bank of her change of address no communication from Nick had reached her; and she smiled with a touch of bitterness at the difficulty he was doubtless finding in the composition of the promised letter. Her own scrap-basket, for the first days, had been heaped with the fragments of the letters she had begun; and she told herself that, since they both found it so hard to write, it was probably because they had nothing left to say to each other.
Meanwhile the days at Mrs. Melrose’s drifted by as they had been wont to drift when, under the roofs of the rich, Susy Branch had marked time between one episode and the next of her precarious existence. Her experience of such sojourns was varied enough to make her acutely conscious of their effect on her temporary hosts; and in the present case she knew that Violet was hardly aware of her presence. But if no more than tolerated she was at least not felt to be an inconvenience; when your hostess forgot about you it proved that at least you were not in her way.
Violet, as usual, was perpetually on the wing, for her profound indolence expressed itself in a disordered activity. Nat Fulmer had returned to Paris; but Susy guessed that his benefactress was still constantly in his company, and that when Mrs. Melrose was whirled away in her noiseless motor it was generally toward the scene of some new encounter between Fulmer and the arts. On these occasions she sometimes offered to carry Susy to Paris, and they devoted several long and hectic mornings to the dress-makers, where Susy felt herself gradually succumbing to the familiar spell of heaped-up finery. It seemed impossible, as furs and laces and brocades were tossed aside, brought back, and at last carelessly selected from, that anything but the whim of the moment need count in deciding whether one should take all or none, or that any woman could be worth looking at who did not possess the means to make her choice regardless of cost.
Once alone, and in the street again, the evil fumes would evaporate, and daylight re-enter Susy’s soul; yet she felt that the old poison was slowly insinuating itself into her system. To dispel it she decided one day to look up Grace Fulmer. She was curious to know how the happy-go-lucky companion of Fulmer’s evil days was bearing the weight of his prosperity, and she vaguely felt that it would be refreshing to see some one who had never been afraid of poverty.
The airless pension sitting-room, where she waited while a reluctant maid-servant screamed about the house for Mrs. Fulmer, did not have the hoped-for effect. It was one thing for Grace to put up with such quarters when she shared them with Fulmer; but to live there while he basked in the lingering radiance of Versailles, or rolled from chateau to picture gallery in Mrs. Melrose’s motor, showed a courage that Susy felt unable to emulate.
“My dear! I knew you’d look me up,” Grace’s joyous voice ran down the stairway; and in another moment she was clasping Susy to her tumbled person.
“Nat couldn’t remember if he’d given you our address, though he promised me he would, the last time he was here.” She held Susy at arms’ length, beaming upon her with blinking short-sighted eyes: the same old dishevelled Grace, so careless of her neglected beauty and her squandered youth, so amused and absent-minded and improvident, that the boisterous air of the New Hampshire bungalow seemed to enter with her into the little air-tight salon.
While she poured out the tale of Nat’s sudden celebrity, and its unexpected consequences, Susy marvelled and dreamed. Was the secret of his triumph perhaps due to those long hard unrewarded years, the steadfast scorn of popularity, the indifference to every kind of material ease in which his wife had so gaily abetted him? Had it been bought at the cost of her own freshness and her own talent, of the children’s “advantages,” of everything except the closeness of the tie between husband and wife? Well—it was worth the price, no doubt; but what if, now that honours and prosperity had come, the tie were snapped, and Grace were left alone among the ruins?
There was nothing in her tone or words to suggest such a possibility. Susy noticed that her ill-assorted raiment was costlier in quality and more professional in cut than the home-made garments which had draped her growing bulk at the bungalow: it was clear that she was trying to dress up to Nat’s new situation. But, above all, she was rejoicing in it, filling her hungry lungs with the strong air of his success. It had evidently not occurred to her as yet that those who consent to share the bread of adversity may want the whole cake of prosperity for themselves.
“My dear, it’s too wonderful! He’s told me to take as many concert and opera tickets as I like; he lets me take all the children with me. The big concerts don’t begin till later; but of course the Opera is always going. And there are little things—there’s music in Paris at all seasons. And later it’s just possible we may get to Munich for a week—oh, Susy!” Her hands clasped, her eyes brimming, she drank the new wine of life almost sacramentally.
“Do you remember, Susy, when you and Nick came to stay at the bungalow? Nat said you’d be horrified by our primitiveness—but I knew better! And I was right, wasn’t I? Seeing us so happy made you and Nick decide to follow our example, didn’t it?” She glowed with the remembrance. “And now, what are your plans? Is Nick’s book nearly done? I suppose you’ll have to live very economically till he finds a publisher. And the baby, darling—when is that to be? If you’re coming home soon I could let you have a lot of the children’s little old things.”
“You’re always so dear, Grace. But we haven’t any special plans as yet—not even for a baby. And I wish you’d tell me all of yours instead.”
Mrs. Fulmer asked nothing better: Susy perceived that, so far, the greater part of her European experience had consisted in talking about what it was to be. “Well, you see, Nat is so taken up all day with sight-seeing and galleries and meeting important people that he hasn’t had time to go about with us; and as so few theatres are open, and there’s so little music, I’ve taken the opportunity to catch up with my mending. Junie helps me with it now—she’s our eldest, you remember? She’s grown into a big girl since you saw her. And later, perhaps, we’re to travel. And the most wonderful thing of all—next to Nat’s recognition, I mean—is not having to contrive and skimp, and give up something every single minute. Just think—Nat has even made special arrangements here in the pension, so that the children all have second helpings to everything. And when I go up to bed I can think of my music, instead of lying awake calculating and wondering how I can make things come out at the end of the month. Oh, Susy, that’s simply heaven!”
Susy’s heart contracted. She had come to her friend to be taught again the lesson of indifference to material things, and instead she was hearing from Grace Fulmer’s lips the long-repressed avowal of their tyranny. After all, that battle with poverty on the New Hampshire hillside had not been the easy smiling business that Grace and Nat had made it appear. And yet ... and yet....
Susy stood up abruptly, and straightened the expensive hat which hung irresponsibly over Grace’s left ear.
“What’s wrong with it? Junie helped me choose it, and she generally knows,” Mrs. Fulmer wailed with helpless hands.
“It’s the way you wear it, dearest—and the bow is rather top-heavy. Let me have it a minute, please.” Susy lifted the hat from her friend’s head and began to manipulate its trimming. “This is the way Maria Guy or Suzanne would do it.... And now go on about Nat....”
She listened musingly while Grace poured forth the tale of her husband’s triumph, of the notices in the papers, the demand for his work, the fine ladies’ battles over their priority in discovering him, and the multiplied orders that had resulted from their rivalry.
“Of course they’re simply furious with each other—Mrs. Melrose and Mrs. Gillow especially—because each one pretends to have been the first to notice his ‘Spring Snow-Storm,’ and in reality it wasn’t either of them, but only poor Bill Haslett, an art-critic we’ve known for years, who chanced on the picture, and rushed off to tell a dealer who was looking for a new painter to push.” Grace suddenly raised her soft myopic eyes to Susy’s face. “But, do you know, the funny thing is that I believe Nat is beginning to forget this, and to believe that it was Mrs. Melrose who stopped short in front of his picture on the opening day, and screamed out: ‘This is genius!’ It seems funny he should care so much, when I’ve always known he had genius—and he has known it too. But they’re all so kind to him; and Mrs. Melrose especially. And I suppose it makes a thing sound new to hear it said in a new voice.”
Susy looked at her meditatively. “And how should you feel if Nat liked too much to hear Mrs. Melrose say it? Too much, I mean, to care any longer what you felt or thought?”
Her friend’s worn face flushed quickly, and then paled: Susy almost repented the question. But Mrs. Fulmer met it with a tranquil dignity. “You haven’t been married long enough, dear, to understand... how people like Nat and me feel about such things... or how trifling they seem, in the balance... the balance of one’s memories.”
Susy stood up again, and flung her arms about her friend. “Oh, Grace,” she laughed with wet eyes, “how can you be as wise as that, and yet not have sense enough to buy a decent hat?” She gave Mrs. Fulmer a quick embrace and hurried away. She had learned her lesson after all; but it was not exactly the one she had come to seek.
The week she had allowed herself had passed, and still there was no word from Nick. She allowed herself yet another day, and that too went by without a letter. She then decided on a step from which her pride had hitherto recoiled; she would call at the bank and ask for Nick’s address. She called, embarrassed and hesitating; and was told, after enquiries in the post-office department, that Mr. Nicholas Lansing had given no address since that of the Palazzo Vanderlyn, three months previously. She went back to Versailles that afternoon with the definite intention of writing to Strefford unless the next morning’s post brought a letter.
The next morning brought nothing from Nick, but a scribbled message from Mrs. Melrose: would Susy, as soon as possible, come into her room for a word, Susy jumped up, hurried through her bath, and knocked at her hostess’s door. In the immense low bed that faced the rich umbrage of the park Mrs. Melrose lay smoking cigarettes and glancing over her letters. She looked up with her vague smile, and said dreamily: “Susy darling, have you any particular plans—for the next few months, I mean?”
Susy coloured: she knew the intonation of old, and fancied she understood what it implied.
“Plans, dearest? Any number... I’m tearing myself away the day after to-morrow... to the Gillows’ moor, very probably,” she hastened to announce.
Instead of the relief she had expected to read on Mrs. Melrose’s dramatic countenance she discovered there the blankest disappointment.
“Oh, really? That’s too bad. Is it absolutely settled—?”
“As far as I’m concerned,” said Susy crisply.
The other sighed. “I’m too sorry. You see, dear, I’d meant to ask you to stay on here quietly and look after the Fulmer children. Fulmer and I are going to Spain next week—I want to be with him when he makes his studies, receives his first impressions; such a marvellous experience, to be there when he and Velasquez meet!” She broke off, lost in prospective ecstasy. “And, you see, as Grace Fulmer insists on coming with us—”
“Ah, I see.”
“Well, there are the five children—such a problem,” sighed the benefactress. “If you were at a loose end, you know, dear, while Nick’s away with his friends, I could really make it worth your while....”
“So awfully good of you, Violet; only I’m not, as it happens.”
Oh the relief of being able to say that, gaily, firmly and even truthfully! Take charge of the Fulmer children, indeed! Susy remembered how Nick and she had fled from them that autumn afternoon in New Hampshire. The offer gave her a salutary glimpse of the way in which, as the years passed, and she lost her freshness and novelty, she would more and more be used as a convenience, a stop-gap, writer of notes, runner of errands, nursery governess or companion. She called to mind several elderly women of her acquaintance, pensioners of her own group, who still wore its livery, struck its attitudes and chattered its jargon, but had long since been ruthlessly relegated to these slave-ant offices. Never in the world would she join their numbers.
Mrs. Melrose’s face fell, and she looked at Susy with the plaintive bewilderment of the wielder of millions to whom everything that cannot be bought is imperceptible.
“But I can’t see why you can’t change your plans,” she murmured with a soft persistency.
“Ah, well, you know”—Susy paused on a slow inward smile—“they’re not mine only, as it happens.”
Mrs. Melrose’s brow clouded. The unforeseen complication of Mrs. Fulmer’s presence on the journey had evidently tried her nerves, and this new obstacle to her arrangements shook her faith in the divine order of things.
“Your plans are not yours only? But surely you won’t let Ursula Gillow dictate to you?... There’s my jade pendant; the one you said you liked the other day.... The Fulmers won’t go with me, you understand, unless they’re satisfied about the children; the whole plan will fall through. Susy darling, you were always too unselfish; I hate to see you sacrificed to Ursula.”
Susy’s smile lingered. Time was when she might have been glad to add the jade pendant to the collection already enriched by Ellie Vanderlyn’s sapphires; more recently, she would have resented the offer as an insult to her newly-found principles. But already the mere fact that she might henceforth, if she chose, be utterly out of reach of such bribes, enabled her to look down on them with tolerance. Oh, the blessed moral freedom that wealth conferred! She recalled Mrs. Fulmer’s uncontrollable cry: “The most wonderful thing of all is not having to contrive and skimp, and give up something every single minute!” Yes; it was only on such terms that one could call one’s soul one’s own. The sense of it gave Susy the grace to answer amicably: “If I could possibly help you out, Violet, I shouldn’t want a present to persuade me. And, as you say, there’s no reason why I should sacrifice myself to Ursula—or to anybody else. Only, as it happens”—she paused and took the plunge—“I’m going to England because I’ve promised to see a friend.” That night she wrote to Strefford.
Stretchedout under an awning on the deck of the Ibis, Nick Lansing looked up for a moment at the vanishing cliffs of Malta and then plunged again into his book.
He had had nearly three weeks of drug-taking on the Ibis. The drugs he had absorbed were of two kinds: visions of fleeing landscapes, looming up from the blue sea to vanish into it again, and visions of study absorbed from the volumes piled up day and night at his elbow. For the first time in months he was in reach of a real library, just the kind of scholarly yet miscellaneous library, that his restless and impatient spirit craved. He was aware that the books he read, like the fugitive scenes on which he gazed, were merely a form of anesthetic: he swallowed them with the careless greed of the sufferer who seeks only to still pain and deaden memory. But they were beginning to produce in him a moral languor that was not disagreeable, that, indeed, compared with the fierce pain of the first days, was almost pleasurable. It was exactly the kind of drug that he needed.
There is probably no point on which the average man has more definite views than on the uselessness of writing a letter that is hard to write. In the line he had sent to Susy from Genoa Nick had told her that she would hear from him again in a few days; but when the few days had passed, and he began to consider setting himself to the task, he found fifty reasons for postponing it.
Had there been any practical questions to write about it would have been different; he could not have borne for twenty-four hours the idea that she was in uncertainty as to money. But that had all been settled long ago. From the first she had had the administering of their modest fortune. On their marriage Nick’s own meagre income, paid in, none too regularly, by the agent who had managed for years the dwindling family properties, had been transferred to her: it was the only wedding present he could make. And the wedding cheques had of course all been deposited in her name. There were therefore no “business” reasons for communicating with her; and when it came to reasons of another order the mere thought of them benumbed him.
For the first few days he reproached himself for his inertia; then he began to seek reasons for justifying it. After all, for both their sakes a waiting policy might be the wisest he could pursue. He had left Susy because he could not tolerate the conditions on which he had discovered their life together to be based; and he had told her so. What more was there to say?
Nothing was changed in their respective situations; if they came together it could be only to resume the same life; and that, as the days went by, seemed to him more and more impossible. He had not yet reached the point of facing a definite separation; but whenever his thoughts travelled back over their past life he recoiled from any attempt to return to it. As long as this state of mind continued there seemed nothing to add to the letter he had already written, except indeed the statement that he was cruising with the Hickses. And he saw no pressing reason for communicating that.
To the Hickses he had given no hint of his situation. When Coral Hicks, a fortnight earlier, had picked him up in the broiling streets of Genoa, and carried him off to the Ibis, he had thought only of a cool dinner and perhaps a moonlight sail. Then, in reply to their friendly urging, he had confessed that he had not been well—had indeed gone off hurriedly for a few days’ change of air—and that left him without defence against the immediate proposal that he should take his change of air on the Ibis. They were just off to Corsica and Sardinia, and from there to Sicily: he could rejoin the railway at Naples, and be back at Venice in ten days.
Ten days of respite—the temptation was irresistible. And he really liked the kind uncomplicated Hickses. A wholesome honesty and simplicity breathed through all their opulence, as if the rich trappings of their present life still exhaled the fragrance of their native prairies. The mere fact of being with such people was like a purifying bath. When the yacht touched at Naples he agreed since they were so awfully kind—to go on to Sicily. And when the chief steward, going ashore at Naples for the last time before they got up steam, said: “Any letters for the post, sir?” he answered, as he had answered at each previous halt: “No, thank you: none.”
Now they were heading for Rhodes and Crete—Crete, where he had never been, where he had so often longed to go. In spite of the lateness of the season the weather was still miraculously fine: the short waves danced ahead under a sky without a cloud, and the strong bows of the Ibis hardly swayed as she flew forward over the flying crests.
Only his hosts and their daughter were on the yacht—of course with Eldorada Tooker and Mr. Beck in attendance. An eminent archaeologist, who was to have joined them at Naples, had telegraphed an excuse at the last moment; and Nick noticed that, while Mrs. Hicks was perpetually apologizing for the great man’s absence, Coral merely smiled and said nothing.
As a matter of fact, Mr. and Mrs. Hicks were never as pleasant as when one had them to one’s self. In company, Mr. Hicks ran the risk of appearing over-hospitable, and Mrs. Hicks confused dates and names in the desire to embrace all culture in her conversation. But alone with Nick, their old travelling-companion, they shone out in their native simplicity, and Mr. Hicks talked soundly of investments, and Mrs. Hicks recalled her early married days in Apex City, when, on being brought home to her new house in Aeschylus Avenue, her first thought had been: “How on earth shall I get all those windows washed?”
The loss of Mr. Buttles had been as serious to them as Nick had supposed: Mr. Beck could never hope to replace him. Apart from his mysterious gift of languages, and his almost superhuman faculty for knowing how to address letters to eminent people, and in what terms to conclude them, he had a smattering of archaeology and general culture on which Mrs. Hicks had learned to depend—her own memory being, alas, so inadequate to the range of her interests.
Her daughter might perhaps have helped her; but it was not Miss Hicks’s way to mother her parents. She was exceedingly kind to them, but left them, as it were, to bring themselves up as best they could, while she pursued her own course of self-development. A sombre zeal for knowledge filled the mind of this strange girl: she appeared interested only in fresh opportunities of adding to her store of facts. They were illuminated by little imagination and less poetry; but, carefully catalogued and neatly sorted in her large cool brain, they were always as accessible as the volumes in an up-to-date public library.
To Nick there was something reposeful in this lucid intellectual curiosity. He wanted above all things to get away from sentiment, from seduction, from the moods and impulses and flashing contradictions that were Susy. Susy was not a great reader: her store of facts was small, and she had grown up among people who dreaded ideas as much as if they had been a contagious disease. But, in the early days especially, when Nick had put a book in her hand, or read a poem to her, her swift intelligence had instantly shed a new light on the subject, and, penetrating to its depths, had extracted from them whatever belonged to her. What a pity that this exquisite insight, this intuitive discrimination, should for the most part have been spent upon reading the thoughts of vulgar people, and extracting a profit from them—should have been wasted, since her childhood, on all the hideous intricacies of “managing”!
And visible beauty—how she cared for that too! He had not guessed it, or rather he had not been sure of it, till the day when, on their way through Paris, he had taken her to the Louvre, and they had stood before the little Crucifixion of Mantegna. He had not been looking at the picture, or watching to see what impression it produced on Susy. His own momentary mood was for Correggio and Fragonard, the laughter of the Music Lesson and the bold pagan joys of the Antiope; and then he had missed her from his side, and when he came to where she stood, forgetting him, forgetting everything, had seen the glare of that tragic sky in her face, her trembling lip, the tears on her lashes. That was Susy....
Closing his book he stole a glance at Coral Hicks’s profile, thrown back against the cushions of the deck-chair at his side. There was something harsh and bracing in her blunt primitive build, in the projection of the black eyebrows that nearly met over her thick straight nose, and the faint barely visible black down on her upper lip. Some miracle of will-power, combined with all the artifices that wealth can buy, had turned the fat sallow girl he remembered into this commanding young woman, almost handsome at times indisputably handsome—in her big authoritative way. Watching the arrogant lines of her profile against the blue sea, he remembered, with a thrill that was sweet to his vanity, how twice—under the dome of the Scalzi and in the streets of Genoa—he had seen those same lines soften at his approach, turn womanly, pleading and almost humble. That was Coral....
Suddenly she said, without turning toward him: “You’ve had no letters since you’ve been on board.”
He looked at her, surprised. “No—thank the Lord!” he laughed.
“And you haven’t written one either,” she continued in her hard statistical tone.
“No,” he again agreed, with the same laugh.
“That means that you really are free—”
“Free?”
He saw the cheek nearest him redden. “Really off on a holiday, I mean; not tied down.” After a pause he rejoined: “No, I’m not particularly tied down.”
“And your book?”
“Oh, my book—” He stopped and considered. He had thrust The Pageant of Alexander into his handbag on the night of his Bight from Venice; but since then he had never looked at it. Too many memories and illusions were pressed between its pages; and he knew just at what page he had felt Ellie Vanderlyn bending over him from behind, caught a whiff of her scent, and heard her breathless “I had to thank you!”
“My book’s hung up,” he said impatiently, annoyed with Miss Hicks’s lack of tact. There was a girl who never put out feelers....
“Yes; I thought it was,” she went on quietly, and he gave her a startled glance. What the devil else did she think, he wondered? He had never supposed her capable of getting far enough out of her own thick carapace of self-sufficiency to penetrate into any one else’s feelings.
“The truth is,” he continued, embarrassed, “I suppose I dug away at it rather too continuously; that’s probably why I felt the need of a change. You see I’m only a beginner.”
She still continued her relentless questioning. “But later—you’ll go on with it, of course?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” He paused, glanced down the glittering deck, and then out across the glittering water. “I’ve been dreaming dreams, you see. I rather think I shall have to drop the book altogether, and try to look out for a job that will pay. To indulge in my kind of literature one must first have an assured income.”
He was instantly annoyed with himself for having spoken. Hitherto in his relations with the Hickses he had carefully avoided the least allusion that might make him feel the heavy hand of their beneficence. But the idle procrastinating weeks had weakened him and he had yielded to the need of putting into words his vague intentions. To do so would perhaps help to make them more definite.
To his relief Miss Hicks made no immediate reply; and when she spoke it was in a softer voice and with an unwonted hesitation.
“It seems a shame that with gifts like yours you shouldn’t find some kind of employment that would leave you leisure enough to do your real work....”
He shrugged ironically. “Yes—there are a goodish number of us hunting for that particular kind of employment.”
Her tone became more business-like. “I know it’s hard to find—almost impossible. But would you take it, I wonder, if it were offered to you—?”
She turned her head slightly, and their eyes met. For an instant blank terror loomed upon him; but before he had time to face it she continued, in the same untroubled voice: “Mr. Buttles’s place, I mean. My parents must absolutely have some one they can count on. You know what an easy place it is.... I think you would find the salary satisfactory.”
Nick drew a deep breath of relief. For a moment her eyes had looked as they had in the Scalzi—and he liked the girl too much not to shrink from reawakening that look. But Mr. Buttles’s place: why not?
“Poor Buttles!” he murmured, to gain time.
“Oh,” she said, “you won’t find the same reasons as he did for throwing up the job. He was the martyr of his artistic convictions.”
He glanced at her sideways, wondering. After all she did not know of his meeting with Mr. Buttles in Genoa, nor of the latter’s confidences; perhaps she did not even know of Mr. Buttles’s hopeless passion. At any rate her face remained calm.
“Why not consider it—at least just for a few months? Till after our expedition to Mesopotamia?” she pressed on, a little breathlessly.
“You’re awfully kind: but I don’t know—”
She stood up with one of her abrupt movements. “You needn’t, all at once. Take time think it over. Father wanted me to ask you,” she appended.
He felt the inadequacy of his response. “It tempts me awfully, of course. But I must wait, at any rate—wait for letters. The fact is I shall have to wire from Rhodes to have them sent. I had chucked everything, even letters, for a few weeks.”
“Ah, you are tired,” she murmured, giving him a last downward glance as she turned away.
From Rhodes Nick Lansing telegraphed to his Paris bank to send his letters to Candia; but when the Ibis reached Candia, and the mail was brought on board, the thick envelope handed to him contained no letter from Susy.
Why should it, since he had not yet written to her?
He had not written, no: but in sending his address to the bank he knew he had given her the opportunity of reaching him if she wished to. And she had made no sign.
Late that afternoon, when they returned to the yacht from their first expedition, a packet of newspapers lay on the deck-house table. Nick picked up one of the London journals, and his eye ran absently down the list of social events.