CHAPTER XV
When Deane opened the door Rio was standing there. He bent his head a little as the light from the room beyond fell upon him. He looked at the back of his wrist where an ugly scab, ripped by a loose strand of cable, seemed an offensive sight in front of this woman. He tried to cover up the wound with his cap. It was such a painful moment as he stared at his great crude hands that Deane moved instinctively toward him. She saw the hurt, shamed child in him, but more than that, within the tense breach she saw the man. Rio’s arms, which now hung by his side as though he were disgraced, fascinated her, then became repellent by her very daintiness. Yet she ventured still further. What a wide cloth across his wrist! And why the heavy jaw and painted muscles of his neck—dark by one edge and golden by his collar!... What a tie!—so hideous, that clarified the purpose in his eyes! For now he was looking down at her.
“Close,” he said in a low voice. “Very close,” he repeated, remembering the urge, the fomenting inspiration when he had left her before. In his eyes Deane had the appearance of a small, dark seal. It was more than theshimmering under her dress—more than a watery sea movement of her hips that led him on until he touched her. As he held her by the arm her black velvet gown fell sharply away from her throat, and he looked for the first time at her breasts. The maturity, the obvious, sleek movement contained within her resembled his own feeling now. He lowered his head. Deane closed the door and clasped her hands behind his neck. His lips were burning her unbearably. She tried weakly to brush them off.
“I can’t help it,” she almost cried. “I can’t.”
Rio took his face away from her throat and laid his hands upon her thighs. Without effort he lifted her high above him. He was calm. There was no note of hysteria in his voice, only a slight tension of his muscles. Then he said, “Spit!” turning his face sideways so that he could feel it better. “Two dogs,” he repeated intensely. “Spit!”
Held like a doll above him—understanding his meaning, accepting the fact of her treachery, Deane turned as wild as the awakened animal beneath her. She knew that she was floating, knew that she was full of hatred for Martin and not Rio. She opened her little red mouth and spat against Rio’s cheek—once, twice, three times!—until she was breathless. And Rio, grim, lost again from his friend, lowered her and shook her by the hair until they came together squarely and the dull sound of illicit kisses moaned through the empty corridor.
When Rio released her they stood apart, looking ateach other with only Deane’s breath and the metallic drops upon his cheek as a memory. Then Rio sighed and wiped his face with the cuff of his sleeve.
“Whatever kind of God there is,” he said, “I’m damned!NowI’ve showed Martin the kind I am!” he continued as if to himself. “He’s crazy—he’ll know.... And as for you,” Rio turned to the woman once more and whispered fiercely, “you’re a black witch.”
Deane was leaning against the wall, still breathing heavily. She made no attempt to answer and Rio continued.
“We better go in now and face him,” he said. “It’s the first time in my life I been ashamed like this.”
“I’ve kissed a fool,” replied Deane in a soft voice, “and I don’t want to stand here any longer with him!” She bit her lips. “Mr. Roberts will be glad to see you. Come on in.” She opened the door.
“I’ll come,” said Rio, following her.
Martin heard his voice and stood up.
“Hello, Rio,” he called. “That was a short trip.”
Without speaking, Rio went to him. Then he looked around, frowning, saw Roberts, saw the young man he had met in the hall and another, a stranger. Martin watched him with a puzzled expression.
“What the devil?” he asked.
Deane interrupted.
“I believe you know Mr. Roberts, Rio,” she said.
Rio turned in the adviser’s direction, shrugged his shoulders and nodded.
“I know him, Mrs. Idara.”
Roberts was sitting at the far end of the room. The north light from the window was so severe that it formed a blue overshadow on his dark hair and outlined his proud face in a series of sharp angles, unnoticed by any but Deane. He arose and bowed stiffly, his lips set.
Carol had been watching the newcomer intently all the while and now at this cue from Roberts, he skirted two chairs and smilingly eager, held out his hand to Rio who looked amused.
“My name is Stevens,” he said. “Carol Stevens.” Rio pulled his hand away but Carol continued. “I know why you boys look like sailors.” He glanced at Martin, then back at Rio. “You both do, you know. You get so nice and tan. My goodness!—but you travel so! It’s simply romantic, isn’t it, Deane?” he added, still staring at Rio.
“Yes,” Deane answered, preoccupied, her hand to her hair. “It is romantic, Carol.” She turned to Drew who was standing patiently by his chair, a rather vacant expression on his face.
Rio looked at the immaculate, slender fellow sourly when he was introduced. Drew, however, gestured in mild acknowledgment, maintaining his appearance of abstraction. Then deliberately he stepped forward and reachedfor a short, thick cigarette on the small end-table where Rio, partly leaning, had placed his hand. The cigarette glowed unnaturally as Drew touched a match to it, and he looked straight into the eyes of the sailor which were now even with his own. Then, as the two men stood there face to face, Drew’s lips parted slightly and the smoke curled in a heavy roll from his mouth. When the dense vapor disappeared, he smiled unevenly, and with eyes lowered, returned to his chair where he leaned upon it gracefully, one slim hand upon its back.
Martin watched the fantastic play in a stolid, philosophic mood, coldly regarding Rio’s frightened look.
Deane became uneasy.... “What was Drew’s secret action that had accomplished such an unthinkable expression upon Rio’s face. Was it,” she reminded herself, “the smoke?—or Drew’s protective anger based on his uncanny knowledge of her own affair beyond the door?—or was his melancholy fury a safekeeping just for Martin!”
Roberts had begun to cough violently. With each paroxysm he held a handkerchief closely to his lips. Deane went to him but he waved at her with petulance.
“I’m all right,” he answered in reply to her question of concern. “It’s this strangulation! Damn such an affair!” he said irritably and sat down. “I don’t understand it, and I don’t want to,” he added, and immediately went off into another seizure of coughing. The others stood around him anxiously, not knowing what to do.
“Oh, please sit down,” said Deane, throwing herself on the divan and waving her pretty arms in little, indecisive movements.
Rio and Carol obeyed her, but Martin hurried into the kitchen and Drew, still pensive, continued to lean upon the back of his chair, watching Roberts as though but vaguely aware of his predicament. Martin returned with a glass of water and putting his arm around the adviser’s shoulders, held the glass to his lips, trying to get him to swallow between spasms. Gradually the spell quieted and Roberts looked up at his friend. Then he took the glass from the other’s hand and gulped the rest of the water.
“I’d like another,” he said, wiping his eyes.
Martin nodded, took the glass and returned to the kitchen. When he came back Roberts accepted the drink more slowly.
“Will you please hold your arm the way it supported me before?” he asked, looking again at Martin, this time with a rather contemptuous smile.
Martin put his hands in his pockets and stared out of the window, his eyes the color of the gray, low-sweeping clouds.
The adviser watched him for a moment, then put down the tumbler of water almost untouched. With a half suspicious expression he now looked around at the others.
“No,” he said distinctly, “I’m not afflicted. And Drew, this isn’t hysteria, so stop thinking of that.”
“I know,” agreed Drew, nodding his head.
“Let me make some tea,” suggested Deane, as spiritedly as she could.
For a moment the adviser was gentle.
“No, Deane,” he said. “You shouldn’t bother. You see,” he smiled somewhat wanly, “everything is stimulated enough.”
“Of course,” said Drew. “It’s getting too late anyway.”
Across from them, Carol’s head seemed to pivot around the side of his chair like the brass plate of a revolving door.
“Of course, dear,” he repeated. “It’s getting too late.” Then with a slithering movement, his head spun slowly round again and he could be heard faintly whispering, “It will soon be cocktail time ... cocktail time.”
Roberts shuddered.
“That should settle it,” said Martin. He lit a cigarette and looked at Rio. “But it won’t. Do you have anything to add about tea, sailor?”
“No, by heaven!” exclaimed Rio. “What I have to say ain’t about tea. Of all the people and talk I ever seen—” He had started to rise when Deane stopped him.
“Tell us about your trip, Rio,” she said. “Where did you go?”
He hesitated, but finally sat down on the edge of his chair, looking sullen.
“A little banana town. In South America,” he answered at last.
“Santa de Marina?” asked Martin, looking interested.
“Yeah,” said Rio.
Martin turned to the others and spoke proudly.
“Rio took his own ship into that harbor once.”
“So Rio was a master!” observed Roberts. Then, staring at the floor, he said with a cruel abstractness, “Yes, the sea is relentless. Many derelicts seek my aid on land when they find deep water too deep.”
“That’s true,” declared Martin instantly. “And many landlubbers are drowned becausetheycan’t step a mudpuddle. But they are not even derelicts. They’re just old bags. Of course,” he said, turning round, “you’re a derelict, Rio. But Mr. Roberts wasn’t thinking of you. I’m sure of that.”
Rio was watching Roberts with such dreadful intensity that when Martin finished, the adviser’s head snapped back like that of a toy.
Carol shifted about in his chair and stretched his legs. He felt the confused streams in the room, and it made him restless.
“That’s right,” said Rio, still watching Roberts intently. “He didn’t mean me. Once he made a mistake and I saved him from a derelict. Maybe the fellow let him go just so he could try it again some time. That thing you said about the mudpuddle is right, too, Martin. I’d think Mr. Roberts would be afraid. But he ain’t, Martin.”
Roberts did not hear all of this. He remembered those bitter eyes and hands too clearly.
Carol broke in.
“I wish I could talk likeyoutalk,” he said, addressing Martin. “I think you have the most—well, the mostexcitingthings to say.” His face was pink and moist.
Rio grinned wickedly.
“He’s an exciting man, Carol. That’s why he says exciting things,” he declared, emphasizing his words with a sly nod of approval.
Roberts looked distastefully about him. “My God! This!—all over again!” he thought.
But Carol continued, beaming, “I knew a boy in Chicago that was almost the same way as you, Martin. Every one of us boys said it must have been a trick. He could just turn everything into the best time. And my!—he was handsome! I think he was a bouncer at some cafe. And strong—Oooooh!” Carol adjusted his yellow tie and his eyelids fluttered.
Martin felt increasing annoyance at Rio’s persistent grin.
Still Carol went on blindly. “I’d like to work the way you do, Martin, and get oil and things on me from those machines. And that linotype you operate!” he continued. “I’d justlovethat!” He put his hands flat on his trousers. “Imagine,” he said, turning to Deane at last, “having one of those big things to play with!”
Rio laughed openly, and Roberts turned away in disgust; but Martin said, “That’s right, Carol. We’ll have a talk one day, all by ourselves.” He went over to Rio. Hedidn’t say anything. He didn’t need to say anything. But he cursed him with his eyes, and with a vagrant motion of his lips.
“What is it?” Rio asked him.
Martin replied coldly, “You’re a fundamentalist. I can tell it from the expression on your face.” Then he went to the door. Before he closed it behind him he looked back. “It’s taken me nearly thirty years to get this picture,” he said, and he was gone.
Rio stared at the door where Martin had left.
“There goes a clever lad,” he said. “He knows us well.” He turned to Roberts and glared at him. “He knows you well, indeed. I’d hate to be you. I can see the black days. And,” he added, laughing, “he knows me, all right—but, he don’t know himself. He’ll whip himself to death.” At the word “whip,” Rio had hesitated. Although the room was cool, he started sweating. Without even saying good-by to Deane, he put on his cap, quickly went outside and slammed the door so hard that the floor shook.
“Thank heaven,” said Roberts quietly. “Humanity is maintained—the anthropoids have gone—civilization stands. Let them yell into space and beat their knuckles on drums made of their own skins. But pray God, they yell in the forest and not here. Thank heaven for Society!—even if it is covered by a fool’s cap,” he continued, watching Carol. Turning his eyes to the ceiling and then to Deane, he added incoherently, “We have been shown our destiny. Our portraits, painted by savages,hang on Olympus.... I hope, Deane, that you are not disturbed by the painting, or,” he said, bowing, “by your destiny.” He breathed deeply, painfully. His shoulders were bowed, his face whiter. “You must excuse me,” he said. He walked to the door, opened it, walked out and closed it gently.
Drew also went to Deane and spoke so that Carol could not hear.
“A strange afternoon, little sister,” he said, bending over her affectionately. Then he turned around. “I’m holding a drag to-morrow night, Carol. I’d like to have you come.”
Carol’s eyes sparkled.
“Oh, Drew, I’d love it! To think!—I can come in drag!”
Drew restrained an impulse to pet the boy who was regarding him delightedly, as in some glorious enchantment.
“There is a sort of radiance about him,” he thought, half smiling at himself for thinking it. But as he left, Drew took Deane’s hand once more. “Don’t see Roberts until I talk with you,” he whispered. Deane nodded her head and Drew went into the hall.
Carol twisted his cigarette holder, put in a cigarette and lit it grandly.
“Isn’t he sweet?” he said. “Martin’s sweeter, though.... But the others!” he added with disdain. “Of course, you have your own life, Deane, so I won’t ask you whyyou tolerate such people about.” He sighed gratefully. “But isn’t it nice, dear, to be alone? I never could stand vulgarness. I’m really quite surprised at Mr. Roberts to let himself be upset by—” Carol thought hard, but couldn’t quite understand what he was talking about. He smiled gently though, and continued, “—to be upset by—well—just everything.” He leaned back against his chair and put his feet up on another. That was well said. He could tell from the way Deane looked that it had affected her.
Deane regarded the smiling, piggish face.
“Sometimes, Carol,” she said, thoughtfully, “I don’t understand, either.”
The night became darker and the lamps inside softened Carol’s features. Deane tried to rest. It was good to be away from men for awhile. Even Drew was difficult at times. She unfastened one of her stockings. Carol smoked and smiled and nodded his head at the wall. This was as it should be.
Suddenly, to Deane, came the sickening realization that both Carol and herself were thinking of the same man.