CHAPTER XIX
The concert hall quieted. Conversation hushed.
The White Peacock,[3]sorrowful and majestic, appeared in the faint light. Winding through deep white reeds, brushing through ghostly ferns, he approached. Wading the moon-puddles, breaking the mist with silver feathers, he looked at Deane. Holding his white throat into the stars, moving the fallen petals, he sang to her—sang a clear, demanding song of his remote, pale island. Deane shivered under the soft notes, loosening her gown. The White Peacock, his snowy tail drifting over the moon-flowers, lifted his scarlet eyes—lifted his eyes through clouds and placed each strong tone against her.... The music changed tempo. The white bird screamed shrilly, his bright whistle falling through glissandi of sound. The exquisite melody rose into the wind, hesitated, and dropped murmuring into the white sea.... The White Peacock faded in the fluid light, became distant—Deane, following with her arms the receding shadow.
The music died. People moved in their chairs and thesubdued whispers grew into applause. The mood was broken and Deane touched her eyes. She put on a coat of soft gray fur, adjusted her little tight-fitting blue toque and carelessly pinned back on her collar a small bunch of violets which had fallen to her lap during the concert. As she was rising someone addressed her.
“Then you, too, are fond of modern music?”
Surprised, Deane looked up. Roberts stood before her.
“It was beautiful,” she answered. “Beautiful, and intimate.”
Roberts smiled in appreciation, acutely aware of the faint and lovely perfume of her violets.
“Did you come alone, Deane?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then,” said the adviser, his voice curiously naive and youthful, “let me drive you home. I have my car.”
She stepped into the aisle by his side and as they walked out together the distinguished grace of his movements and the coloring in his cheeks, still flushed by the spell of the music, made Deane conscious of the beauty of a sex that shocked her heart but held her mind; and in this acceptance every light in her hair and eyes acquired luminance until she was betrayed—and Roberts looked, turned blind, and never looked again.
The early darkness of winter had descended and the streets were brightly lit with red and green lights. Snow, falling gently, coated the buildings and walks. The holiday atmosphere—the thought of Christmas, gavethem a feeling of friendliness. They drove over to Fifth Avenue.
All down the broad expanse of the great boulevard swept the Yuletide spirit. The thick streams of people, carrying boxes and parcels wrapped in colored paper, seemed compact—a constant mass instead of one of gigantic fluctuation. At the corners they bumped and jostled each other, frantically trying to retrieve dropped packages, laughing all the while. There they were, pouring their laughter and hustle and gay concern over the Avenue—a huge, comforting block of the world, this infinite throng.
As Deane and Roberts passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral they noticed that the doors of the church had been thrown open—a silent welcome to the holiday crowds. There was an impression of austere immensity; and over the kneeling figures which had sought tranquillity within the sacred vault there shone a great soft radiance, whether from electric lights or candles on the altar, Deane and Roberts did not know.
Farther down the Avenue they could hear the muffled sound of chimes; and as they drew near one of the department stores the sound became more brilliant until they noticed that behind the glass of the one window which ran its entire front length there was nothing but an illusion of depth in a green-blue sky and two large gold bells, swinging slowly back and forth.
Deane turned to Roberts and was astonished to find that he was looking at her instead of the lovely window.
“It is as glorious as that other vault we passed,” she said quietly, amazed at his attitude.
“Yes,” he answered, still regarding her gravely, “and although beauty, to me, is but a dream gone by—a vagrant moment—a motion lost before it’s held—oddly, I find it stationary for one evening.” He paused and added, looking at her fixedly, “Even within a superb commercial painting.”
The chiming now covered the air with invisible shadows. There was an icy wind; and as Deane sensing its fury within the well-heated car, pulled her coat more tightly around her shoulders, Roberts again caught the perfume of the flowers she was wearing, and their fragrance seemed to him to become as audible—to have a resonance and vibration quite as definite as the chimes.
They spoke no more but continued down the Avenue until they came upon a children’s shop with such a pretty charm about it that Roberts stopped the car. For the shop’s display there was a miniature snowstorm—a tiny replica of the one outside which was increasing in density each moment. Amidst the artificial snow within the window were artificial children posed in different attitudes. One small boy had his hand raised against a snowman as though building him. A little girl stood by, just watching. And still another boy was stooped as thoughgathering more snow. The scene was such a dainty one that Roberts looked at it wistfully, with a reserved hunger that seemed to demand release; and Deane, fascinated, clasped her hands together. On the street a ragged boy, walking beside a hulk of a man, stopped for a moment to look quietly, but in silent despair at these happy children who played in the snow and wore such pretty clothes. He stared particularly at the little girl, with her long, blond curls and piquant face and her little dress and coat that were like a dream. But the man, resentful, cuffed the boy’s cheek roughly, pulling him along. The lad cringed. Deane thought she heard him cry out once and turned her face away; while Roberts, who had also witnessed the episode, started the car and drove on swiftly through the storm.
Near the lower part of the Avenue, just before they turned off on Deane’s street, they came upon a Christmas tree which had been set up in the courtyard of a large apartment hotel. The branches of the pine were straight and proud; and instead of the usual strings of many-colored lights which had dressed the other trees along the boulevard, on this, there were dull points of red under the boughs, or brilliant ones of green that stood far out, so awkwardly, that by their very misplacement the tree appeared to be native and uncut. It was without tinsel. There was only the snow. The wind and the shadows did the rest. The unusual reflections dwelt upon Deane’s face and Roberts turned to her impulsively.
“You are beautiful this evening, Deane,” he said.
She looked at him once more and smiled, although she was a bit perplexed. For some time she continued to gaze at him, watching the man, as vivid as the tree itself against the snow. Then abruptly, the notion came to her that his temperament might be flexible, and she lifted her head higher, as though challenging him. Her eyes were sparkling.
Roberts seemed frightened at first at her audacity and turned away in embarrassment. Then, looking back to meet her dancing eyes, he broke into a choppy laugh of singular amusement which Deane echoed. During the rest of the drive they were silent; but there was a tenuous bond of understanding between them; and when they reached Deane’s apartment, Roberts stopped the engine and placed his hand lightly on hers.
“Yes, you are a beautiful and an intricate woman,” he said quietly.
Deane quickly withdrew her hand. She was surprised at the instantaneous feeling of revulsion which came over her. There had been no possessiveness in Roberts’ action—no suggestion of desire or intimacy. It had been the movement of a child. But the contact had chilled her. What was the quality about him that disturbed her now? Could it be a strong jealousy of his interest in Martin? She could see Roberts stiffen in the semi-darkness.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, with hauteur. “My remark was entirely impersonal.”
“I know,” she said gently. Then, annoyed with herself, she added, “I was thinking of Drew. To-night he arrives in France. I wonder if it is snowing there.”
The adviser dropped his shoulders.
“It is snowing everywhere,” he said gravely. And as he assisted Deane out of the car, he repeated, “—everywhere.”
Feeling his wild and plaintive loneliness and his sorrow, Deane stepped quite close to him, resting her gloved hand on his sleeve.
“William!” she murmured softly.
For one moment, their antipodal forces swung into parallel; and, so going, Deane and Roberts smiled together.
When Martin came that evening, Deane said to him at once, “I saw Roberts at the concert and he brought me home in his car. I liked him better than ever before.”
“Well,” Martin was thoughtful, “I can’t say that I like it—oh, you needn’t explain his charm! I’m quite aware of it. But I’m afraid of his mind. I’m afraid of the way it works, and I wish to God he’d get out of the picture. It’s getting a little too uncanny—the way he checks on me.” Martin pulled his chair closer to Deane’s. “I found out that he tried to block my part-time job. Still, with all of it,” he continued, “my attitude toward him remains variable; for underneath his mask lies a real and secret protest. This protest is limitless—and if I’m right,rather beautiful.” Martin laughed shortly. “Odd as it may be, I’m certain that I’m responsible for many of his appearances. His sickness, if heissick, is now abiding in a perfect culture.”
“And what is that?” asked Deane, looking at him with her large eyes.
“A medium of vicious love engendered by myself.”
Deane laughed without restraint.
“Darling,” she said, taking Martin’s face in her hands, “you want to be so awfully bad, don’t you?”
Martin smiled with her and she was satisfied, promptly forgetting the adviser.
“Drew looked very sad when he left, Martin,” she said. “Tell me—did he go just because of you?”
“Deane,” Martin said quite seriously, “we mustn’t keep on thinking that all these forces are created by me.” Martin was pale in the shadows. “That would be a timeless, horrible thought—a possible eternity. Can anything be more terrible than eternity? All this action is separate from myself. Itmustbe. It’s not possible that my demand has been too much!” He was speaking hoarsely when Deane put her arms around him.
“Darling,” she whispered, “I understand. Won’t you love me a little?” By instinct she had given him that temporary haven where the mind of man retreats after being frightened by its own infinite possibilities. Deane’s gentle whisper and her fascinating implication of certain physical contacts quieted his nerves abruptly and he feltas though a sweet fire were crossing his spine. He closed his eyes, and allowing Deane to lead him into the gray-paneled bedroom, he lay back on the sheets, feeling her soft hands stroke his skin until he shivered.
“Delightful boy—delicious boy,” she said, her voice trembling and growing fainter.
Martin tried to speak to her, but his mouth was dry. He lifted his arms and held on to the rail of the bed, trying to pull away from the searing. Then it overcame him. He rolled and pretended to fight, but in his brain there was only an exultant shouting.
As Deane knelt at the foot of the bed she looked down at Martin and thought of the White Peacock; of the Gargoyle; and of their relation to this man; and she felt the lustful brooding of this trilogy which was dominant in her life. Her breasts rubbed against the fine hair of his knees and each touch made her wilder. Pulling at him, she crawled up beside him, her fingernails scratching the sheets. Then, from her throat came a strange cry, a small cry, like the wail of a new-born child.
The snow kept piling against the windshield. Once, Roberts had to get out and wipe it off from the outside. As he stepped back into the car his foot slipped on something. Deane’s violets! He flung them into the snow. In his imagination he saw Martin and Deane together—saw her laughingly repeat their conversation of the afternoon. He visualized Martin’s shrug, and contemptuousremarks. Roberts’ cheeks burned in the dark and he drove more recklessly. At this very moment the woman was probably in Martin’s arms.... Martin, with his sultry gray eyes and tanned face. Martin, outlined like a flame before him.... Roberts breathed the cold wind and spoke aloud. “He deserves nothing but my hatred. If I could make him suffer as he has made me suffer! His picture before me always!—superior, contemptuous and desirable! The night he sat with me in my apartment, fresh from the sea—wind and salt in his eyes and hair, I thought I had found life. My happiness stretched into the horizon of his understanding. Solemn and patient, he spoke to me and laughed with me. Now, he speaks of me, and laughsatme—with her! I can hear him laughing—” Roberts voice rose more fiercely. “He is saying, ‘What?—tried to hold your hand? What the devil would he want with that?’” The irritating, superior tones rang in Roberts’ imagination. “Yes, I can hear them: ‘Poor old Roberts—what a pity—chap must lead an awful life—imagine going around with that handicap—not that there’s any moral application, just a matter of convenience—continually frustrated.’” Roberts pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “The cattle!” he whispered hoarsely. “As if they could understand—as ifanyonecould understand. Damn them—their laughter and their insufferable attitude! Damn their happiness.... Drink it, Roberts!—That I should measure my life in terms of one night! One night with Martin, with hisyoung face and old eyes. With his laughter and his understanding. What agony to be born one night and die the same! Better not to be born at all.... Why, Martin, did you swagger through the door with your flapping dungarees and proud head?... Angels dancing in the eyes that hold only devils now. Such insolence! A bright, beautiful distillation of evil. Martin—the god of selfishness, salt to the desire. A blinding picture that grows with absence. A dust that burns the eyes and chokes the appetite.... Delete the image!—step upon it, crush it only to see it rise anew, more beautiful and vicious than before.” Hot tears distorted Roberts’ vision. He drew his hand across his face angrily. In a flashing, intolerable whiteness, he saw himself swinging on the tapestry of his heritage. “God!” he cried into the night. “Predestination—crucified in the womb!” The image grew more hateful in his mind. The cold wind dried his tears. Slowly his mouth narrowed into a fanatical line. “He has made me suffer. Moving relentlessly, superficially, over people and life—eating life and dripping its tantalizing crumbs from an overstuffed mouth—ruthless and immaculate, he has made me suffer.” Roberts’ face was white in the light from the windshield. White, unsmiling and purposeful.