This was all clear. But the general terms of the article bewildered David. Why, in the face of the obvious conclusion, this note of frenzied worry, of desperate pleading? The people surely could be left to choose between happiness and squalor, between life and death. And why these paid announcements of the Tammany candidates—these arguments in their favor alongside indictments which made it probable to David that Tammany would poll no single vote? The article was full of contradictions of the sort that had twisted this last month of his life into a question-mark. Mr. Croker, breathlessly returned from England, found his Tammany a ruin anda dream: yet “efforts will be made to elect the Citizen’s Union ticket such as have never been attempted in the century-old fight against Tammany, the City’s incubus.” The people had enjoyed three years of almost paradisal amelioration; yet “it must not be believed that Tammany’s old tricks of getting the people—appealing to their hearts and stomachs—have been forgotten.” Mayor Strong was the idol of the poor; yet “the old cry of corporate control and a ‘rich men’s ticket’ has been raised.” The puzzles spread out into the past. The article concluded with a brief historic sketch of this Tammany-monster that in ways so foul brooded upon the people. “The study of Tammany makes it clear,” one sentence went, “that it can never be reformed. The Tiger can not change his stripes. Tammany means and has ever meant a single, evil thing.” Yet, to David’s dumb amazement!—several of the old crusaders who had ousted Tweed and killed Tammany in the “sixties” were a year later officers in Tammany Hall! Here was a great Reform Governor and Presidential nominee—in Tammany Hall; and the present presiding financial genius of the City’s projected Subway system. While there, in a corner of that very page, heading a committee of social knights who had pledged body and bank to hold Tammany at bay was the man—yes, the very same name of the man—who had been Tweed’s lawyer, who haddefendedTweed when he was caught rifling the City.
David sat struggling with all this as well as the spirit of Sunday dinner permitted him to do so. In his town, he had heard disparagements of Tammany. He had always confounded it with the National Democratic Party. He remembered how they had heckled Jo Cleary, the machinist in the shop who was a Democrat.
“Well, what if TammanyisDemocratic? Do you think your bunch of silk-stocking Republicans is any better? They’re both of ’em crooks. Here’s the difference. If youare broke, you kin get ten dollars through the front door of Tammany: and you kin get a boot through the back door of the other Party.”
David recalled that there had been silence after this reply. He was in no mood for thinking it all out. He knew only that Jo Cleary had straight sharp eyes and that he had always trusted him, found reason, in more immediate matters, to believe him. Cleary was full of strangeness. He wanted Ireland to be independent: he got drunk with telling regularity, each Saturday night. When he was drunk, he was jolly. He would sing pathetic minor songs of suffering with laughter in his voice and wild flourishing arms.
“D’ye see?” he’d shout, “This is how we keeps ’em down. ‘Down, down, with the pigs, ha, ha!’”
When he was sober, Cleary was morose and a good workman. David knew enough to feel the pathos in his drunken jollity. It was a thing, unlike all these about him, he instinctively understood. It was a thing, among others, that made him mark Cleary’s sober words and give them credence.
So David stirred against the Sunday paper. He was glad, when Lois stood there in the door to take him away from the vice of thinking.
“There’s some people downstairs, David, just dying to meet you. Will you come?”
While he looked up at her, she was still. She felt the flattery of his warm eyes. She was slender and sweet, with her bent body leaning against the jamb. She seemed to David a glowing creature, a product so desirable that the world which brought her forth must be perfect also. And Lois saw him, clouding in his chair, trying to rouse himself to the business below: she liked the brash vividness of his clumsy body, the naïve confession in his face of all that spoke in his heart. She half realized that this freshness did not grow in the sheltered rooms of the City: she regretted it.
David followed her downstairs.
He felt as he stepped in that they were looking at him and that they must have stopped abrupt from talking of him. It was as if one voice had spoken and were now cut off. Yet David had heard no word.
He was being introduced. He saw that his business friend, Duer Tibbetts, was in the group. He gathered that these were his parents and his sister. They and the Deanes were all knit together. He was outside. He had the sense of an aperture, laboriously open, slowly sucking him in. He felt himself resisting.
There were words; he answered enough he presumed. Mr. Tibbetts told him that his uncle was already hopeful of his success; Mrs. Tibbetts invited him to dinner. The young girl was beside Lois. They were faintly apart: a mere quarter-note out of harmony. This introduced a tremor into the heavy rhythm of the room. David liked it. Instinctively, he moved toward the two girls. In the dissonance of their atmosphere he found himself: the group receded into its individual components.
He observed in Mr. Tibbetts an air of aloofness, of studied condescension that was half nature and half inspired by David. Duer imitated him, he saw now that Duer always imitated his father: he was a depleted pattern of Mr. Tibbetts. Mrs. Tibbetts talked most easily. “I am Cousin Laura,” she announced with a confidence that showed how fully her habit was command, “and this is Cousin John.” She was a very thin lady with a bobbing adam’s-apple. She was clad in glimmering blue satin and her feet were slippered not so slenderly as to conceal their astounding inharmonious width. David saw the height of her cheekbones and the scooped boniness between her nose and her mouth. She was a type familiar to him in New England.
In all the families he had yet come to know, the womenwere spokesmen. The men burst on occasion from brooding silence into cantankerous volubility. David was not surprised when Mr. Tibbetts began a speech.
It was different, however. It came from between thin lips. It left the broad complacent countenance unmoved. It had none of the weight and breadth and clarity of this man’s wide open collar and of his wide white vest. It seemed very little to come forth from so voluminous a frock-coat. Mr. Tibbetts talked; David could not altogether keep his eyes from the cylindrical cuffs and the crinkly patent-leather shoes. These seemed the proper focus of attention, as in other cases the speaker’s eyes.
Mr. Tibbetts was saying that it was a great joy to have a new young member of the family. He said this several times. He seemed to be talking down to David: to be choosing emphatic, monosyllabic words: to be repeating his welcome for each bright button on his waistcoat. David knew that Mr. Tibbetts could have spoken better. He recalled now that this was his uncle’s lawyer, was a great lawyer, had his portrait occasionally in the papers.
“Duer tells me you are already friends. I am glad. He will help you downtown. You must help each other. I’ll tell you how. Have a race. See who can do the best work. Who can work hardest. That’s not a bad idea, eh? You two—having a race—spurring each other on to new efforts. Racing each other to the goal of hard and successful work. Do you understand what I mean? All life is a race. Ever thought of that? All life is a race. You two men must help each other in the spirit of friendly Competition....”
It was plain that Mr. Tibbetts loved this conception of his. He caressed it. He rubbed it up and down. He could not let it go. David, standing there, counted the buttons on his waistcoat.
Mrs. Deane spoke: “Why don’t you young people run along upstairs?”
Automatically, Lois, Miss Tibbetts and the two boys rose from their chairs. It was as if they were being thrust away by a sated creature. David could feel the swift rushing of the current of attention from him. The single eye was turned away: the single word knew him not. He was nothing.
He saw these men and women, sure, satisfied; he felt a certain cruelty in their assurance and in their satisfaction. He was closer to the girls. Muriel had not budged from her seat. In Duer was a certain mingling of movement and of motive. Duer was changing his status. Muriel had changed already. She had qualified and been absorbed. She was one of the possessors, one with this generation which had achieved. Duer was on the way. David saw something like a royal whim in the intensity of the brief interest of these elders. They had looked at him as possible food, as a possible new adhesion to their body. They had not remotely thought of him as a separate human being with heart and mind and soul of his own. In a way poignant, however vague, David felt this, felt further the meaning of their swift disposal after the appeasement of interest. Here, at last, he discerned a Group. He knew that in its elemental consciousness he must be either a good thing for its increase, or a bad thing altogether....
Upstairs another sudden shift in mood and stress.
Duer all at once was middle-aged and weightily silent. He looked on the two girls with a forebearing reticence. He had left a part of himself—a longing part—downstairs. A part of the group downstairs—the complacent part—he was trying sturdily to carry on.
Lois and his sister were hard to impress. Their bright indifference outshone his drab and manufactured ease. A certain sublime comfort lay beneath Duer’s manifest disapprovalof their gayety. It said: “Time is with me. Wait until you are women, as I am a man. My way wins.”
Lois placed Miss Tibbetts before him with a ceremonial air.
“Fay is myvery bestfriend. So you two must be friends, too: for my sake.... Kiss!”
He obeyed joyously. He liked the spirit of this. He felt its unregeneracy. Already, though he knew it not, he was arrayed against the informing tide of this life about him. And when he was near a girl whom he liked, much of David’s inhibitions melted away.
Duer made his advance. He needed an ally against the flippancy of these girls, these girls about whom he would have said: “They know nothing about life: they know nothing about Business.”
“Well, how go things?” he swaggered, throwing up his head with a nonchalance that was belied by the keen worry of his eyes. “Satisfied with McGill?”
David retreated. “Sure,” he avoided an answer.
Duer knew that in such gatherings as now downstairs men must talk politics and business while the mentally segregated ladies discussed servants and dress. Duer had the passion of conforming. Life to him was an exclusive club to which he yearned to belong. Service was a means toward being voted in. He had all the fervor of a mediæval page grasping for spurs. But David was miserable in this intruding sense of fitness. He liked the anarchy of Lois more. He was curious about this girl whom Lois loved. He had nothing to say to Duer.
So the four joined a circle from which Duer spiritually retired. David did not know how to skate. Lois and Fay already lived the delight of teaching him. The Rink would be open soon. They argued the kind of skates he should buy.
“And if you fall,” said Lois forbiddingly.
“Oh, he will fall. Beginners always do.”
“Well, never you mind. We’ll pick you up. Won’t we, Fay? We’ll take care of you.”
She seemed almost tender. Then her hard giggle.
“No one shall laugh at you either,” Fay declared.
“No one except us,” said Lois.
The thought came to David that he would have preferred her saying: “No one except me.” But it was plain these two hunted together. David found it hard to understand their likeness.
“Children! Children! Come now. We’re going.” The voice of Mrs. Tibbetts strode through the house. Duer was the quickest to respond.
David and Lois were alone.
The brief packed hour had stirred the early world of David, had made it glow again. Their spirits had been high together. Now, somehow, they sat in gloom. They realized that in their lightness there had been combat. Looking at each other, they felt the burden of those below advancing heavily upon them.
“Why do you love Fay so much?”
“Because she’s a dear.” Lois was not on the defensive because of Fay. She had more intelligence than her answer. She deemed the question worthy of no better. She sought the solace of a different subject.
David kept silent, and looked at Lois and thought of Fay.
He saw Fay quite clearly. Fay was dark, regular of feature, beautiful even. Her face was hard. It had none of the free loveliness of sixteen years. It roused in David passion more nearly than affection, the need to dominate rather than to help. David saw her straight mouth, her veiled eyes, the squareness of her forehead: he tried to remember that she had laughed and joked with Lois, was delightful snubbingher solemn brother. Her lively brightness seemed strange to her immobile face.
“Besides, Lois is her chum, and look at Lois!” he argued with himself and he looked. He knew that her tenderness was like an early yellow violet. He set aside his first forbidding instinct about Fay. He forgot it, altogether....
In contemplation of each other, these two were like two worlds, each with its atmosphere and its teeming life and its fires, each with its intense exclusive consciousness, thrust suddenly close out of the silences of Space. They felt the indefeasible Past that summed their difference: its involute progression of separate thought and deed reaching from the mist of their beginnings. They were separate: Nothing was between them. Yet they were being drawn together.
When Lois came down to breakfast, David was gone. There was just time to kiss her father as he trudged back into the dining room, hatted and overcoated, smoking hard at the day’s first cigar. Mr. Deane’s true genius for system was at work even at half past eight. When he reached his train at Fiftieth Street, his cigar was done. It was a smaller cigar than he smoked later in the day.
“Well, good-by.” He stood in the doorway. Lois jumped from her chair and threw her arms about his neck and kissed him. She loved her father. It was somewhat a maternal love. She knew that he was rather the defensive and serviceable member of the household.
One day, she visited her father at his offices downtown. She walked a bit fastidiously through the murky sales-department on the ground floor where the bright yellow oak and the beveled glass and the shadows under long tables depressed her. She saw men moving about in shirt-sleeves: grimy boys that ambled in and out of doors whose jaws seemed busier with gum than their slack minds with business. They led her to a spiral iron stair through whose slatted steps she couldsee the bowed heads below of men at desks and women bent over papers. It had appeared to her first that this was a hostile world, she was frightened to have come upon it.
On the narrow steps, she gave way to a girl—not much older than herself in years—but very old as if she lived in a harder world than Lois, a world that wore one more away, that sapped the flower of cheeks and the laughter of eyes and parched the bloom of a girl’s hair. She noticed all this, stepping aside so that the girl might pass. She moved, apologetic, fearful, strangely ashamed. She saw the hard paper cylinders serving this girl as sleeves. In the lifeless golden hair she saw that a pencil was stuck. She felt guilt. But Lois had no power to plumb her impulse: it went. She was in her father’s private office and a new pride swiftly scurried away the mist of that strange encounter.
Here—she felt it at once—here her father was master! A new light by which to see him.
At home her mother ruled him. Muriel flouted him when he obtruded upon the most idle of her ways. He seemed glad, as of a privilege, to hold Lois on his knees, after Sunday breakfast, and spoil her with promises of trinkets, bribing for kisses and smiles. Also, at home he was weary, a depleted man. He had little ways of confessing his weakness and although Lois was not so analytic as to gauge them consciously, their accumulation brought its impress to her mind. He lost his temper. He bore treading on, was silent, then suddenly he lost his temper. He cried aloud about his power, that his will was final:hewas the head of the household: not Muriel, not Muriel—he. Lois felt the whisper against these over-protestations.
Here was a party to which a not too well established youth had invited Muriel. The youth was calling for her in a carriage himself had hired.
“You aren’t going in that carriage,” said Mr. Deane.
Muriel was struck silent. She retreated before the sudden quiet of his authority. Slowly gathering herself, she matched him.
“And why not, please?” Her voice was compressed in her throat.
“Why not?” her father burst forth. “Because I don’t want you to. I don’t allow any young whippersnapper who wants, to take my daughter in a hired carriage. We have a carriage of our own, haven’t we? Isn’t it good enough? Send your young man a message to countermand his rig and you may go.”
Muriel stood there, swaying a bit, lowering on him.
“I’ll do no such thing. Make him think I’m a child who cant go out in any carriage but my Papa’s? The whole thing is too silly——”
“Very well. Then stay at home.”
Muriel broke into tears.
“I won’t,” she cried. “I’ll go. I never heard of such a thing. It’s stupid. What have you got all of a sudden against Alfred? Why should you ask me to insult him so? If he prefers to order his own cab....”
She stood there and wept and moved not at all, save for the stamping of her feet. Her father paced the room, far less contained.
“I have said what I meant.” Stopping short, he joined the issue. “And you will obey. So long as you are in my house, I am to be obeyed, do you hear? You ain’t married yet.”
He left the room. Muriel went to the dance in her father’s carriage. But Lois knew how clearly, in the light of the ensuing days, the victory was with her sister. Muriel kept aloof, frigid. She waged a perpetualguerillaon her father. Soon he began to bribe and to cajole for a return to favor. He bought her an armlet she had several months ago expressed the wish for. He had said it was too expensive. “Out of the question.” He took her to theater with a strainedgusto of good will and to supper after. He spoke to her with a nervous smile that exclaimed his suppliance. And Muriel accepted all, gave nothing. She wore his armlet and in no way acknowledged the life and feeling of the harried man who waited for thanks as for a reprieve. On his return each evening to his house, she managed some little way to hold him frozen in discomfort. On the occasion of another dance, he said:
“Muriel, my dear—I just wanted to know—are you using the carriage to-night, or is your escort taking care of that? I just wanted to know, you see—because if so, I might use Henry myself. There’s a conference I——”
“I have made no other arrangements.”
“Oh, well, that is all right, my dear. I can get a cab. I—I just wanted to know, you see....”
Having completely and ignominiously surrendered, he beamed at his daughter. Muriel smiled back.
Here: Lois was ensconced in a deep armchair of bronzed leather. She was examining her little feet that lay in a rich Turkish rug. A knock at the door.
“Come in,” said her father without looking up.
A young man, the symbol of subservience, stepped in.
He placed a group of papers before Mr. Deane, who did not look at him. He stepped back, threw up his head and waited.
Mr. Deane raced through the papers. He marked annotations. He grunted.
“You’ll have to see Mr. McGill about this”: the young man agilely stepped forward to ascertain which paper it was, and agilely subsided. “All right. Let Mr. Marton attend to the tax.”
He returned the papers to the young man, for the first time saw him.
“Here,” he smiled. “Why don’t you two greet each other?”
Duer Tibbetts moved jerkily forward and took his cousin’s hand. But the bondage of the room’s authority was strong on him. He seemed weighed down by this sense of special dispensation. Social talk was impossible in the august presence. He was soon gone.
Another five minutes of chat, another knock. This time a girl appeared with papers. The same subdued alertness, the same gingerly respect. Mr. Deane pressed a button. A boy bobbed in.
“Take Miss Deane to her carriage.” The boy fell back as if to flatten himself into the wall, while she passed him. Her father got up.
“Well, my dear. I am afraid I am too busy now”; in this splendid easy manner he dismissed her....
This transfiguration of her father into a man of power was a sharp new knowledge. But in the more persuasive color of her home, its lines grew faint. It soon withdrew into the limbo of things remote, scarce real, hence scarce remembered. It had little application to her world uptown. In consequence, it had no effect.
Lois left school in time for lunch. It was to be her last year at school. The lunches would go on.
Seated at the wide round table with Muriel and her mother, she instinctively inquired into her own future freedom: and in this mood studied them. She studied their dress; she studied their activities. She absorbed their judgments and their pleasures.
She was sixteen. A spirit of gayety and candor danced in her heart. But she had no knowledge to build a mansion for it: to train and cherish it: to give it weapons wherewith to confront the world. It was dancing, this unblemished spirit, dancing itself to death. For it was daughter of the sun, and it breathed no fresh air: it had been born careless and frailand all about it walls of convention: it was starved and forced to feed upon itself.
“I promised to go and have tea with poor Mrs. Dent.”
“Since when,” asked Muriel, “is Mrs. Dent ‘poor’?”
“Don’t you remember she has just lost her husband?”
“Oh, yes.” Muriel remembers.
Her mother goes on. “Do you think, dear, you can drop me there on your way to the Selby’s?”
“I don’t really see how I’ll have time, Mamma. I must take a rest after lunch. I promised to call for Aline King.”
“Can’t Aline get there without you?”
“I promised her, Mamma.”
Mrs. Deane will take the street-car. She does not like to squander money on cabs.
“You haven’t forgotten that you are going shopping with me, to-morrow morning. You promised me.”
“I saw just the loveliest hat, just to-day, Mamma, at Bertrande’s. I am having it sent home to you. I’m sure it will suit you. Then, we needn’t go shopping. I must write to Clarice sometime. I thought I’d sleep late to-morrow and write before lunch. She is getting a divorce, you know.”
Lois knew already the inwardness of marriage. There was much talk of this at the luncheon table. She had the right contempt for the girls who married unmoneyed men for love: for the men who risked their future—their finances—in alliance with unmoneyed girls: and for the novels she read where love was extolled and the sentimental match defended. These books were—well—for reading. Novels and stories were indulgences like red and emerald peppermints after dessert. They lied.
And Lois knew already the inwardness of friendship. Muriel and her mother had friends. They kissed them and flattered them and entertained them. At the luncheon table they discussed them. No one but was a tissue of deceptions, of selfishness, of deceit. Their morals were largely obstacles they were forever dodging. They flirted—with fops or fools. They angled—for goldfish. They were miserable at home. One was none too anxious to have children. One was none too faithful to her husband. All of them were none too good at all.
Immediately after lunch, Florence was to call for Muriel and take her for a walk. Florence was violently trying to win the King boy whose father had nearly a million. But it was hopeless because Mabel—mutual friend—had told Muriel all about it andshewas secretly engaged to Clifford King. Oh, Aline wouldn’t know! Clifford was bored by Aline. Muriel and Mabel had had a good laugh over Florence—poor child—such antics.
“She really loves him, you know.” Muriel smiles complacently. This is an interesting if somewhat superfluous detail in her wish to wed him. Mrs. Deane nods, mildly concerned.
Later: “Hello, Florence dearest. I was so afraid you’d be late....”
Indeed, Lois knew already the inwardness of life. Life was, in the patriarchal term, a “business proposition.” Out of the arcana of the past her intellect could summon the picture of a free land peopled by striving men and women. This land was America. Its freedom meant the opportunity of all “to get along”: to become rich. Men achieved this in business, women in marriage. The sublime distinction of America was that no castes interfered with business, and no classes with marriage.... Sharply there emerged from this hallowed field one man and one woman. The man was her father. He had grown rich by being quick and clever. The woman was her mother. She had grown rich by being sensible, by seizing her chance. Romance in their lives was a hidden function, if it existed at all. It was bound up with the mysteries of birth and sex. These things took care of themselves.
The important thing for Lois, since she was a woman, layin the need of being sensible. Lois knew what this meant. She knew as well the proportional insignificance of her own girlish impulses. Lois loved to play, loved to be loyal to a friend, would have loved to love a man. But these were part of her childhood, and childhood was a special state. Its needs were indulgences one must outgrow. Childhood was of the same dim category as art and stories. It wasn’t true. It was “make-believe.” It lied. Muriel had already cast it aside like her short dresses. Lois was aware she was carrying it a bit too far and too long. She was sixteen and in ankle skirts and her braids were already gathered on her head. She deemed herself brave and a trifle foolish to be so frolicsome at sixteen. She was unswervingly confident of knowing how to change at the needed moment. Meanwhile, she felt herself slightly inferior in the things that held her and in the moods she loved. The rule of life was to harden the present into a mold for the future. Yet Lois could not resist pouring herself still into immediate and short-lived moments: giving herself to emotions that must have no future. The gay spirit still danced fast. Inexorably, from without, the things she learned bore inward, seeped downward, stifled the things she had merely always felt. Her acquired consciousness was a slow acid mist that would eat away the stir and laughter of her birth. The gay spirit danced fast, though it was dancing to death.
All this was Lois. All this was drawing, with her and in her, near to David. With David the stalwart muteness of the years that inclosed him with his mother: the sting and the song of his father: the drowsy stir of the Town not yet awakened, not yet awakened to its death in the crash of the industrial Age.
Two little teeming worlds, spying each other, craving each other across the Nothing....
David and Thomas Rennard had agreed on an evening byletter. They were going to dine together, and then to theater. Tom waited in the lights of a Broadway chop-house.
He would not know the man he met: this he knew. He stood quite still and gauged the crowds. The heavy strokes of their passing fell against his measured life. They separated him as he stood there from the thoughts and fruits of his growing. Tom stood graceful and free as few men do. His weight was equal on both feet: his arms were unpropped: his back curved subtly in rhythm with his head. Only in the faint peer of his eyes was there defect. Tom was nearsighted. He did not admit this. He wore no glasses, despite the advice of doctors. His best friends had no inkling that when he recognized them, distant, on the street, it was not by sight of their features but by knowledge of the accents of their walk.
The crowds flayed him with dull black strokes and Tom was separate from his first months in the City. He twined this with thoughts of David. It was different of course. David must have found a ready welcome in the house of his uncle. Tom knew of Anthony Deane: his name was that of a big-hearted, well-liked merchant. Tom had come with no reception, no one to remake and to keep him. He thought of a stone fallen in a wind-shattered sea, how it sank with no slightest added tremor of wave and no sign from the swinging heavens. He knew what the City had done upon him. The terracing steel had rivetted his eyes and writhed him. The clamor of this world had soon enticed him from the call of his old thoughts. Old dreams were outrun by the faëry of the City.
He stood naked there, and emptied among millions. Cornelia was distant with her cold hand in his. But he was more alive than he had been. He knew this, because his nudity was not stark. It was encased in a great trembling. It was cold with a great hunger for warmth. A fire of will stirred in him: darted from him out and became vision among the millions.He had seen. He saw that these millions also were naked and forlorn from themselves. No one was at home in the City: no one was himself in the City! Tom had found himself smiling, known himself strong. He was naked no longer.He was clothed in the knowledge of the nakedness of others.... At once he had looked at his hands and found money. He prospered. But Tom knew that this light from within himself which played about among the darkness of men and brought him the strength of knowledge could not go forth from him and stay in him as well. When it was away, outside, doing his work Success, he was unlit himself.
Would he find David still shivering in his new nakedness? Tom remembered the distinction between them.
“No,” he said aloud: “he’ll be thinking there’s darkness and confusion all about, in the blinding blare of his own light. And blaming it all on himself.”
He winced, suddenly finding it cold. The dark pupils of his eyes distended, the mouth drew downward over the lower lip, the skin was taut on his cheek-bones. Then a recovering spark in his eyes illumed their warm particles of bistre, the defiant smile of his mouth pointed upward.
The lamps of the restaurant façade fell over Tom and bathed him. He had the sudden pain of feeling himself a black spot in warm blaze. He moved aside to shadow. He stepped out, and grasped David’s hand.
A coachman stood at the corner beside his horse. Idly he flapped his arms—a habit caught from the cold winters—against the musty broadcloth of his coat. He saw the two young men in the light. Their profiles were sharp. An eager alert young man and a drowsy one, passive before him. A clear laugh and a muffled laugh that followed always. The coachman turned to his horse: “Well, young feller, have some oats?” He prodded his soft nose. The other two were gone.
Three houses stood far separate in the City. The house of the Deanes where the old world of David dissolved into a frantic chaos: the house of the Company in whose gathered fires his new world formed from the running welter: the house on whose top floor lived Thomas Rennard. These houses threw a vivid stirring like the glow of lamps. The spheres of their activity converged. As they burned and moved, a myriad other burnings rose and met them, intermingled and transfused them. A single light, drenching the City. It fell like an eye upon these two talking: it fell with the same singleness upon each spot where men and women were, where men and women loved. From each spot came a glow, from the myriad glows rose back again the transfusing fire, deeper than consciousness, more real than the separate lives which fueled it, as the glow of coal is deeper and more real than the black coal itself. But through the brightness was a vibrancy: and where David and Tom sat, had they been wise enough to follow its receding lines, their vision must have reached back to the three houses. From other spots the grain of the light traced back to other sources. From these sources forth again to farther ones.... To a white cottage in the Eastern village, to the leaning plains of Ohio. Thence again away to beneath the hearts of two dead women stirring there, quiet—still—once more outward—perhaps to find each other behind the sun. Close, there: and here at the chop-house table seeking to be close.
David and Tom, together, were not on Broadway but at Cornelia’s studio. The studio had swung to place under their feet; Broadway lurched on, the footing of others.
Cornelia had not mentioned again her wish to meet Tom’s new friend. It was not necessary. The relation between them was too intimate for that. Tom knew when she was thinking of this: Cornelia knew when Tom had understood her.
“Well, how was the dinner, brother?”
“Are you busy next Sunday afternoon?”
“No.”
“I told Markand you were anxious to meet him. He is in a state of perturbation I hope won’t interfere with his royal job of clerking.”
“Oh, I am glad. But—how was the dinner?”
“You are the first artist he will have met. I have told him about us. Cornelia, you must wear something brighter than that Russian thing. Will you? The sandals will do. Stockings under them, however. A little more air in the meshes of your hair. Yes? Why not that green silk blouse with the orange smocking. I want him to see you’re an artist in some outward visible sign.”
“And the work——?” Cornelia looked at her clays.
“I am afraid he is not quite up to these.”
“Oh, nonsense, Tom!” His sister turned on her couch, her favorite seat. She tucked a foot beneath her and laughed. “To hear you talk, one would think the boy was dull—or that my art was inscrutably profound.”
“He’s not dull. I was amazed last night....”
“At last, the dinner!”
“I was amazed at the bright muddle he’s in. I tell you, he’s inquiring and inquiring. It’s glorious! He told me the Spanish-Cuban question was not a mere matter of relief for thereconcentrados! ‘There’s something else beside Principle,’ he announced.”
“Whereupon, I am sure, you added: ‘The same’s true of the Monroe Doctrine.’”
“If I had, it would have shocked him. I did not. His new searching eye has not yet reached that sacrosanct past. I was in no mood to startle him, Cornelia. I felt different. I like David Markand. I respect him. What if he has the usual illusions? In his soul, they are no longer the smugknock-kneed lies I hate. They become true: at least, beautiful. My facts seem shoddy and ugly—and lying, in the warm glow of his faith.”
They were silent both. Tom did not often speak so tenderly.
“Wait and see,” he concluded.
“I see already,” said his sister.
So David came.
He was to leave at once after the Sunday dinner: push his way through the depleted Sabbath City: he was to ring the bell on the brass-plate markedRennard, come up three dusty stairs and find them waiting through the door that made two worlds of the black hall and the bright room.
“I am so glad to see you!” Cornelia had him at once in hand. He looked very tall beside her sharp slightness. She took his hat and his coat.
“Do sit down.” David was anxious to look everywhere about him, to touch all these mysteries with the warmth of his eyes so that they might be cold and strange no longer. He did not quite dare. He kept looking near Cornelia: then, with still greater ease, toward Tom. In this his sensitivity was clear. A glance was an intimate gesture, a visit, to David. He could not comfortably look at what he did not already comfortably know.
“Tom has told me not half enough about you. Just enough,” she smiled, “to make me know it was not half enough.”
Tom apprehensively tested his new friend. His gladness at seeing David understand Cornelia released his worry into laughter.
“Oh,” said David, “it is just the same in my case with what Mr. Rennard has said about you.” He looked at the little cast between the windows and blushed: he folded his hands and looked at them.
Tom remained silent. There was no need of talking: andalthough he talked much it was deeply true that Tom talked only when he had need of talking. He was comfortable now. He lit a cigarette, and lay prone, propped by his arms, on the window-seat; he let the conversation of the two go over him and smoked.
“You know,” Cornelia said, “we are not New Yorkers either.”
David met her eyes. “Your brother told me about how you ran away.”
Cornelia was silent. What could she say to swell the room’s slow freedom?
“My case”—David went on—“I am so different. I always lived with my mother and then she died. And then my uncle took me—took me really in charge. That is why I came. I have never done anything because I wanted to, really—that I can remember. Except perhaps work in the bicycle shop. Mother wanted me to stay longer at school. But—” he looked at his hands again and stopped, then met Cornelia squarely with a smile, “the truth is mother said to me: ‘Do as you please, son.’ And—and I was bored by school. My best friend, Jay Leamy—he worked at Mr. Devitt’s also.”
“You never told me that,” said Tom.
“He didn’t stay my best friend. I guess that’s why. I guess I was a better friend than he.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Cornelia.
“Well—it was natural. He was ten years older than I. He got married. He got a better job at the Arms factory just outside Town. We didn’t see each other so much after that. He sort of lost interest.”
Cornelia laughed. “I think that’s a little hard!” She did not want this word. She was sure “hard” was an ultimate wrong word for David Markand. She was vague in her misgiving. “Probably, his wife and—he had children? Well, they must have left him far less time.”
“It is not a question of time, is friendship?” David asked.
“Well, left him far less——” Why did Cornelia find this difficult? “Lessemotionperhaps. I can understand that. With a wife and children.”
“It would not have made any difference with me,” said David simply.
Tom was leaning over. “Perhaps you don’t know what it means to have a wife and children.”
“I know what it ought to mean to have a friend.”
“Are you sure?” said Tom.
“After we had shared so many thoughts, don’t you see?”
“You must be capable of deep friendship,” Cornelia thought aloud.
Tom was somehow crossed by her remark. He lay back once more, brooding. The talk was easy now between the other two. So easy that even silence did not disquiet them. Tom seemed far away.
Out of a silence, David asked: “Is that sort of friendship rare?”
Cornelia, not knowing, did not answer.
“If it is rare,” said Tom, “there must be something wrong with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The good things in the world are common. Sunlight: moonlight.”
“Mother and I were that sort of friends,” said David.
“I hope Tom and I are also,” laughed Cornelia.
David looked at her close. She was a woman who made beautiful things. That was her life. It seemed to David she was not so very different from many women he had known who were nothing but mothers. She was not pretty. It never occurred to David that she could be less than beautiful. So he accepted her.
A vague questioning flew through his mind like a scarf ofcloud: Were things in the world that had different names so different after all? Artists and mothers, friends and mothers, sunlight and mothers.... The questioning faded.
It was good in this room.
Cornelia felt the trace of his mood on her flesh, found a warm pleasure in talk with this earnest boy whose mind could touch truth without the stiff proddings of the clever. It seemed to Cornelia that David was steadfastly strong like a tree.
Tom jumped out of his smoky silence and brewed coffee. They threw cushions on the floor. They laughed a bit at David’s awkwardness at squatting. These shadows in the room were good. Tom came forward now. The ease of his revery and of his listening had distilled some new disquiet. He needed to get at David.
He would have said: “How little this boy knows himself! What passion lies behind this dream of friendship! What will the world do when he goes asking impossible treasures?” The thought gave him worry. He would have said: “The City will not make him. Thanks for that. But break him, break him, perhaps.” The fear made him urgent: David must be flexible with his terrible strength. His spoken words were: “I am reminded of a story——”
“There was a man.” Tom did not know what he was going to say. His head swam. He was suddenly tired and full of power. He wanted, not sleep, but dream—— “who loved his friend. This man loved his friend and a woman came into his life whom he loved also. He asked for her in marriage, she gave her promise. So he went to his friend and told him. And the friend cried: ‘Do not wed her. Remain with me!’ And the man said: ‘I love this woman but you are my friend. I remain with you.’ He dismissed the woman whom he loved.
“Now, thereafter, all was sorrow in the home of the man and his friend. One night as the man slept an angel came to him. The angel said: ‘Thou who art so loyal to thy friend,name a wish and it is granted.’ The man, half-unknown to himself, cried out: ‘Make a miracle! Make one my friend and my lover. Then I may be loyal and yet be happy.’ The angel smiled. ‘So it is already.’ The angel disappeared.”
Tom paused. A sudden discomfort came upon his face. He pushed back to his tale as to haven: “...at once the man awoke. He found himself in his bed. He remembered the angel’s visitation. He believed it. He ran to the sleeping chamber of his friend, expecting to behold a miracle. It was his friend, his unchanged friend who slept there. The man cursed and smote his breast. Then a great light came to him. He understood. He returned, both loyal and happy.”
David sat there.
This Cornelia understood. Tom was on one of his moody jaunts and away. She had sat there watching as a girl on a fence might watch a horseman gallop past in dust and hoof-thud. She recoiled as he swung in too near.
Tom laughed. “Come! You need some more coffee,” to David. “You are half asleep. I can’t get along without coffee. Can you? The world is so much a dream, one’s sense of fitness makes one go to sleep beholding it. I find I can do endless work, with endless cups of coffee. I wonder who invented coffee. A shame, isn’t it, that the true benefactors of the human race are nameless. The Gods tied Prometheus to a rock and set a vulture on him, for giving us fire. The other saviors of life they have made nameless.”
He skipped nimbly from parable to fun: from apostrophe to laughter. David found himself loving the mere exercise of following his new friend. It was like a cross-country run with an agile pathman. Over brook and rock he tried to leap with him. No time to look and to consider. The way was nothing, the leaping everything.
The story was forgotten. It was shivered away in the pelt of Tom’s succeeding words.
Cornelia was silent. She was pensive. She had stopped listening to Tom. When he went galloping like this, he was running away from something deep in himself. She knew. He would take this thing within him he needed to escape and toss it far and rush after it. Let him rush.
There was David laughing. Tom no longer needed to smoke cigarettes. David was glowing near his finger-tips.
Coffee was gone. Night had come up from the street like incense of incantation. It curled its way into the room, it subdued the flame of the room to a warm ash.
Tom lighted a lamp. No one spoke. A golden ray filtered about the table. It left them in shadows. David got up to leave.
“I was so happy to be here,” he said.
Cornelia clasped his hand deeply in her own. It was warm. She found it hard to speak. “Boy!” her heart sang to him. She managed to say: “You must come soon again.” ... “And again and again.” Her heart had the last word.
Tom took David down through the dark halls where gas-jets shivered like emprisoned birds. He was not happy with this last silence of Cornelia. It was as if she had said: “Why do you bring a guest here and then insult him and not let him even know that this is what you have done?”
His eyes were hot, the hand that took David’s was cold.
“Good-by,” he said, “I hope we are going to be—friends?”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed David....
David walked under swaying houses. They were aburst with broken flame. He walked among scattered men and women driven with unbelieving will and eyes unseeing toward these fires—toward fires that meant love to them and warmth. It was the evening before work: the breach in the dull circle of toil. Hearts were released. Blood surged in vain encouragement through the habit-hardened lives of the workers. Men and women were floods of longing torrenting the streets.... David walked under the spread wings of his own sweet mood. Life was full. Full of the play of voices and of bodies: full of adventure. Life was the mystery of finding....
No one else was at home, that evening. Anne brought early tea to Lois and to David.
“It isourhouse to-night,” Lois was playful.
A strange exhilaration still sang and worked in him. He looked at the girl who had shared those sweltering nights: he looked at Lois flattering his new ease. It all seemed right to David. It was right that Anne had been there to take. He smiled on her masterfully. The girl was fearful lest the young Miss understand. But we can bring to our minds through intuition only such thoughts our minds have words for. The remote amour was an unthought-of, an impossible thing to Lois. Anne’s own senses, feeling this as they groped forward, again came to rest.
She waited on them with a sweet dignity. It was so plain she was a woman. A woman was a creature whose life was nourished by herself. A creature free of the world. David felt this, as they sat munching at table. It was the quiet serving girl who made him think of woman. With her blood she nurtured. In her womb, at her breast, with her hands, forever her own mute spirit giving men food. Woman was the true master of life: the sourceless god.
David looked at Lois. A faint chill went through him. It seemed to him that Lois was not quite woman. She was less herself, than this waiting servant. He felt her need of sustenance, her lack in this of godhood.
Anne helped her to cake. There she was cutting the cake, simply—sublimely? Lois was above the table like a flower. He thought of the strength of Anne’s abandon: of the wise strength of her withdrawal. Wisdom and strength—for him! Cornelia came also. She, too, was more woman. Alreadythere was lodged the seed of dissolution in his heart for Lois, before the climax of his caring.
Upstairs, he went far toward it. Lois’ arm was about him, the air of her body stabbed his blood: he forgot his comparisons. He was quite sure he loved Lois. They sat so close together, and often she placed her cheek against his lips. He saw the fine tautness of her body hiding beneath the flimsy frock it wore. He desired her body. He desired to break its tautness.
“Is it wrong, Lois dear, to love one’s cousin? Because I love you very much.”
“It is extremely proper.”
A fire had been fanned in him that afternoon: fanned by Cornelia. It burned for Lois.
He viced her shoulders in his hands and looked at her, as one stiffens before a leap. His hands slipped upward to her head. The thrill of her skin and her flesh flowed through his hands like blood. He held her face. He wanted to tell her how he loved her. His own face came nearer, it was like a death and a birth: a frenzy of change.
She thrust her head downward, his mouth sank in the mesh of her hair behind her ear.
He was panting. “Why don’t you let me kiss you—as Imust?”
Lois withdrew her body. Her mood was not changed.
“Don’t be silly, David. I can’t let you kiss me, that way.”
He was silent. He did not gainsay her. He wanted to hide his face. Something started up in his breast and beat against his breathing, hurt him.
Not the denial of the kiss. It was the sudden pierce of her insensitiveness. She had not cared to understand how he cared for her. And when he had longed for her mouth, her mood had not changed!
If only it had! If only she had been moved—though it was in denial.
He had at times believed he saw her little body stir with passion when he was near her. But so faintly, so containedly. Never a doubt of her control. Something she tasted in exquisite moderation and enjoyed. In her denial she was cool. It was as if her hunger for a closer kiss were a question answered in her catechism: one she knew all about: one she had learned the answer of by rote.
There she was smiling, chatting. She had already forgotten. He looked away and heard the mutterings of his pain that she could be smiling, chatting.
With dull head David went to his work.
He loved Lois and rebelled against his love. She gave him no ground on which to hate her. Always his love was watching, watching for a pause in which to whisper: “See? You do her injustice. She is not hard and flippant. She is young and unknowing. She does not feel a deeper love. How much sun can a bud hold in its tight petals?”
She was not different. She sought him out. She allowed him no escape. One day, she said:
“Why don’t you kiss me any more?”
David took her hand and kissed that, tenderly, hopelessly. Lois laughed. She thought he was teasing her. She fell in with his little game.
Work was already a tune David knew by heart. Fortunately, since his head was dull. The year approached its scintillant climax. And David’s head was dull and his heart was heavy.
One bitter cold day he stepped out for his lunch.
When he could he lunched alone. It was a problem of avoiding Duer Tibbetts whom he emphatically did not like, but who went on blandly liking David. It surprised Davidhow little his own attitude and his inner mood affected his relations with that blossoming gentleman of affairs. It was almost as if, in the reality of their business and family connections, so slight a thing as personal taste must fade away, did not count. He had often lunched with other boys in the office—the sort who Duer said were not “their sort.” He liked them, until he began in this very approach to have discomfort in their friendship. Since the bursting of his wound with Lois he sought to be alone. He was equally surprised by the sensitive response of these others. They felt his aloofness in the office: they honored it. They were different indeed from Duer.
He walked toward the cluttered food-pen where the waitresses sweated visibly at the arm-pits. Here lunch cost him only twenty cents. The place was at least clean, and the food good. The eggs for instance, and the butter—details that meant much for David. He sat huddled at a long porcelain board. From whirling waitresses in white the dishes fell with clamorous approximation near his place. In the rear was an endless catatonic beat of crockery and voices. The whole place roared like the shatter of a mighty loom that wove the calls of women into the brittle shower of china, the glint of knives into the shuffle of feet. David sat and took his food and held his big arms tight to his body. The fresh air as he left gave him the cumulated picture.
This day he heard a clear voice at his side speak his name in the cold street.
He turned: there was Miss Lord.
Caroline Lord held a higher place in Deane and Company than any other woman. These were days before the spread of advertising agents. Miss Lord was in charge of the correspondence department. She had a little office of her own, and a male assistant and a stenographer. She was known as a remarkable woman.
“How do you do, Mr. Markand?” She had evidently overtaken David and now they were walking together.
He saw her casually in and out of the long packed room where David fumbled figures and papers. She was a remote business detail of this still strange world. One day, Tibbetts dragged him into her little office and introduced him. He remembered the way she sat on her desk and chatted cannily and bit at a pencil. The smile of her white teeth was beyond the reach of David’s comfort. He was glad to get away.
Here she was being affable again.
“I presume you were going to lunch, Mr. Markand?”
He noticed that she kept step with him. She was a big and capable woman.
“Y—yes,” he admitted.
“Do you like your work? Perhaps you are tired at night. Am I right? Oh, never worry about that. When you get used—more used to it, it will take less out of you.”
They had passed his eating place. What should he do? He began cursing himself. It was so wide in him that he did not want to invite her to lunch. In her, that this was precisely what she expected. He was a reed before her silent pressure. There she was talking, as if they had an hour to be together.
“We were up on the Palisades last Sunday. You must really have some of your friends take you——” David fumbled in his pocket. His fare downtown that morning had broken his last dollar. He had a way of not keeping much of his money with him. It seemed a risky thing to do in a wild City. His pocket held ninety-five cents! Lunch for two at a decent restaurant was a catastrophe that simply could not be! She was trudging along: subtly pushing him toward Broadway. The lunch-places of the rich were near.
“Doubtless you have a lunch engagement ...?”
“No. But....” He stopped, she stopped. He blushed and she smiled.
“No? Well then, we might have a bite together.”
Why could he never lie? How he despised himself!
“I—I can’t, Miss Lord. I have only ninety-five cents.”
He felt naked before her. A lady should blush and go away when one stood naked before her. There was Miss Lord laughing: swinging her weight back joyously on one heel the better to observe him.
“Oh, isn’t it always a joke when we find ourselves short? I understand so well. Won’t you bemyguest, Mr. Markand?”
She tilted her head back. David noticed how small her bonnet was above the mass of her hair. “You know,” she went on, “it was really my invitation after all.”
“Oh—I—no—I.” Her light mood was an added weight.
She was quick to understand and to redispose her forces. “Then you must permit me to lend you five dollars. There now. I’ll be offended if you don’t.” She dug in her bag and held out a bill. “Why should you discriminate against a fellow?”
David paused long enough to try to see with what he thought her generous eyes the foolish panic he was in. He gathered himself. They both laughed. He took the bill.
“It is good of you,” he said.
“And of you,” she answered.
She was silent and meek while the waiter took the order. He was gone. She began.
She talked methodically. She chose her specific subject and cribbed him in it. It was plain that Caroline Lord detested vagueness and abhorred disorder. No wide fields to roam and to be lost in. Miss Lord was managing this lunch. Before long she bored him.
In the emptiness of this, he could retreat a bit and see her.
She was a handsome woman. Her age was beyond David’s knowing. He would have called her new, rather than young. She was well-kept.
“I saw a play last night I am sure would have interested you.The Blue Daisy. Have you seen it?”
He said, No.
“Do you go to the theater much?”
He said, No, again.
Miss Lord followed her plan. She had a catalogue of non-essential subjects: art, politics, life:—the sort to be served at amicable luncheons. She had already done books.
“Why—it’s the story of two brothers. Let me see, what is their name?Daysplaings—Gass-tongandRah-ool Daysplaings. There’s the eldest who has a beautiful estate in Normandy. The young one is sort of a poet, a dreamer, you know—wanders about, mostly with his brother’s wife while——”
David knew he was going to hear the entire story. She was a handsome woman.
There were no curves in her face. Her chin was square and her mouth was straight. The poise of her forehead was straight and the look of her eyes was square.
“Well, you can imagine what happened then. But it didn’t. The idea was there. That is bad enough. The husband was quite right, I think....”
Miss Lord was a pattern of symmetry: a study in balance and rule.
Her body was not angular. She sat very straight in her chair. “Then, the curtain falls.” She was tall, and sitting she topped David. “The way it was acted had a good deal to do....” She came forward a little. Her hands were half shut and flanked her head. Her arms were two columns propping some splendid official building.
“Of course,” she was saying, “that sort of thing seems tobe common in France. They’re a decadent race, you know. Clever, though!”
Yes: her body was indeed not angular like her face. Her arms were ample. David could see the suggestion of flesh bursting the plain white sleeves. Her bosom was voluptuously full. Were these not feminine curves, these suave rounded masses? He felt the solidity of Miss Lord more somehow than her sex. Sex is an aura, not a form. Women understand this best. But a certain lack puzzled David. It was strange for him to sit so close to this lovely woman and not feel her lovely: to see her flawless and be unwarmed.
“‘Oh,’ the Irishman pointed, ‘she’s an Irish bull.’”
He should have laughed at this joke. He was full of the pain of Lois. Suddenly, he was thinking of Lois.
“And what do you say,” it was the first question she had asked him in many minutes, “to Tammany’s victory! After three years of splendid reconstruction?”
It was part of Miss Lord’s program to discuss politics. Miss Lord was no “crank on women’s rights,” as she put it. That was too serious a view of the thing. Above all, or under all, she wanted you to know that she was a woman: she wanted you to treat her as a woman. But a strong, wise woman. One who could, unblushing, talk of adultery in a French play or of the degradation of a Tammany campaign.
“Why,” David answered, “I don’t know. I can’t understand. If all these things were true about Tammany Hall.... There must be something else behind it all: somereasonwhy Van Wyck was elected.”
Miss Lord smiled. This was his opinion: a fledging’s she could take with indulgence. She wanted no more of it. Now she could deliver her own. She started.
David was thinking of Lois. Little lovely Lois. Why must his mind fill so compellingly with Lois, when he lunched with Miss Lord?
“The thing is, you see, the people do not think. Catchwords and Sunday picnics win them over. Really, popular government——”
This woman. That girl. Could two creatures be more different? Why then the idea of a comparison. Did they have something, did they lack something in common?
“... so far at least a failure.”
Their ideaswereone. Here was Miss Lord trying to conceal the impression that she earned her living: trying with might and main to be like Lois. An older, more settled, equally virginal Lois?
He half-closed his eyes. It did not matter. Such subtle things as eyes half-closed were beyond Miss Lord. Beyond Lois? He heard her voice. “The City had to pay ten cents a-piece for coat-hooks! A-piece! When you can buy themanywhereretail for a nickel.” He heard her voice. It was so unlike her stalwart strapping body that he had not noticed it until now when his half-shut eyes saw less. Miss Lord’s voice was high, was girlish! It too had that ring which, though David knew no such rule, goes with an emotionally empty life. Wise, cool Miss Lord. Did she have really more of the wine of feeling than pampered Lois? Was she more alive, after all?
She was earning her living. While Lois lolled at teas, and waited for her début. Earning one’s bread—David knew what that meant, in the world. It meant the heights and the depths. It meant nobility. The man who earned his bread was a man: the man who did not was less than a woman.... Did it really mean these things?
He had earned his living since he was fifteen years old. For five years done this; for five years thought nothing about it, thought nothing about the world. That was strange. He had loafed three weeks near an idle lake and a world was born. Was earning one’s bread perhaps a trick of the hand, likeplacing the spokes in a wheel? What had the droning hours in the shop brought to him? Did he not go out into the breathing fields and watch his mind stir to expand? Until there had been three weeks of this and his mind had expanded. He liked work. Was it perhaps a trifle like a drug that one gets used to, that eases one off from the world? Here he was, juggling with steamship deliveries and tinkering accounts. Brainier work than welding handle-bars? Life could not be this. Perhaps this wise woman who earned her living did not know life after all.
At least, she did not know him. She had bored him: she was boring him now. David felt he knew her somewhat. He was not boring her....
“It has been such fun, Mr. Markand. After all, we can’t get along, can we, without fresh points of view? They mean success in business. Not plodding counts, you will find: always the fresh point of view....”
Her judgments were cleaner-cut than his. A rubber-stamp is dear. What lay, in truth, behind the patter of her phrases: “France is corrupt but clever.” “People vote according to picnics and catchwords.” “After all, there is somethingclean, somethingbigwhich America stands for, that no other country can rival”?
Lois also had her occupation. She received no salary for it: she was apprenticed to it still. She would get her place in the world, if she pursued it well. It too would mean money and ease and position. She too was going through a trick that was far from the free winds of living. Did not both these women belong to Deane and Company?
He loved Lois. He said to himself he loved her. This woman he did not love. So he saw her clearly. Let him swing this clear-seeing back into the dim place of his heart that hurt! It was impossible. He could not diminish Lois after all. The result of his effort was to dispose him morepleasantly toward Miss Lord. Here he was smiling at her with a new attention that a less wise woman might have been wise enough to mistrust....
He came away with a gnawing sense of doubt. He was heart-sick more deeply than ever. Miss Lord and his cousin were creatures of a single world. They performed different parts of a single service. Both of them were supposed to uphold the prestige of this system that made money and spent it: to submit to its standards of deed and thought, to further its dominions. For this, Miss Lord had her wages, Lois her keep.
He too!He too had been taken in for service! For service rendered he too would receive the means of sustaining life. David had seen a coat-of-arms heralding a strange device on the façade of a great commercial building. It had puzzled him. He had forgotten it. Now he recalled it and understood it. He marveled at its telling word. It had said: “Spend me and defend me.”
A great fright was being born in David....