CHAPTER XXVI
Deane answered the telephone nervously. A voice, thin and unsteady, came over the wire.
“Deane? This is Roberts.”
With difficulty Deane restrained a sudden feeling of panic.
The adviser spoke quickly, without waiting for her acknowledgment.
“This is rather unusual, but I assure you the situation is imperative enough to justify its obvious lack of convention.”
Deane’s anxiety increased.
“What situation, Roberts?” she asked.
“A situation so delicate that its discussion by phone is impossible. Won’t you do me the kindness to have dinner with me?” Roberts’ voice had taken on a strange, beseeching quality.
Thoroughly frightened by the implication of drama, Deane tried to remember that she had once been attracted by his intelligence, amused at his suavity. She accepted his invitation.
What could he want of her? She was glad that Martin had gone home. He would never let her meet Roberts ifhe knew. She recalled how frightfully upset Martin had been that morning.
While she was dressing she kept wondering what urgency had prompted the adviser to contact her so quickly after the tragedy. Surely no guilty man would do such a thing. Perhaps Martin and Rio were wrong. Perhaps Roberts wanted to help.... Did he know about that picture of Martin the police had found in Carol’s pocket? Thank God, Martin had had an alibi. Or—did alibis really count!... Poor Carol! Was she responsible for his death? It was true that she had introduced him into this ill-assorted group of men who, more experienced in the conflicting currents of human emotion, could anticipate and often avoid such danger. She remembered little phrases and gestures of Carol which in retrospect seemed touching and child-like. She remembered the day she had gone to lunch with him—his earnest, immature face as he reflected the thoughts and effusions of this man whom she was meeting. What blindness of hers that she had not foreseen an approximate outcome of this relationship! Deane’s eyes were full of tears. She felt the tremendous sorrow of the immaculate woman for the spikes and chains which bind humanity’s certified incompetents. Too, for herself, there were tears of indignation—resentment over being drawn into this formidable unity. She finished dressing and hurried uptown.
In the restaurant, Roberts leaned slightly forward, over the table, his hands together.
“Deane,” he said, “I didn’t ask you to meet me because of Carol’s tragedy. The child was drawn into a significantly dangerous vortex. But it is about this uncompromising whirlpool itself, which may engulf others whom I love, that I want to speak. There is something here—some sinister thing about us that is in deadly earnest. Do you sense it, Deane?”
“Yes, Roberts. Particularly now.”
“Martin,” continued the adviser, “does not appreciate the undercurrent of this danger. It is for this reason—for this one reason I begged you to see me.”
“Yes,” Deane repeated, feeling her skin tighten as it does under a great and hopeless fear.
“I have but one thought in mind—” Roberts proceeded, “Martin’s future. His temperament is one that will not adjust itself to the inevitable.”
Deane’s hand closed over her bag. A swift feeling of revulsion changed as quickly to one of anger.
“The inevitable?” she asked, controlling her voice.
“Yes,” said Roberts. “The inevitable routine of this world. I have it on good authority that he is about to lose his job at Miller’s Typographical. You know his history. He came to me a transient—a common seaman. I found him a good job. I made contacts for him in this respect which he used, or rather abused, with an amazing recklessness. I do not understand his lack of appreciation. But these things are unimportant. Regardless of hisinconsideration, I feel that there is definitely something worth saving.”
“That’s good of you, Roberts,” said Deane, inclining her head a little, the large hat shading her eyes. “Martin would be pleased to know that you consider his regeneration a possibility.”
Roberts’ lips tightened at her irony. His fingers moved constantly over the white tablecloth, touching a cup—a spoon——
“I appeal to you, Deane,” he said finally. “I recognize your influence over him.”
She remained silent.
“Have you no answer?” he asked.
“Of course not.” Deane’s moist, red lips closed tightly.
Roberts picked up a spoon and tapped it nervously on the table.
“I have always respected your antagonism, Deane, but I am somewhat unprepared, just now, to face a personal issue. By coöperating with me, I feel that we can bring about some satisfactory adjustment on the part of Martin that will give him success and happiness.” The adviser waited, quiet and intent.
Deane’s eyes paled, the color fading into clearness. She looked at Roberts abstractedly. To her it seemed that an unhealthy whiteness moved now under his skin. His handsome face seemed trembling, disintegrating and forming anew, misshapen under the pressure of his mind.His cheeks appeared alive with white nerve roots, moving uncertainly, like microscopic serpents. The lens of Deane’s eyes penetrated through flesh into the dark coils of blood, visualizing curiously the spiraling, pallid germ.
Roberts jerked in his chair. He leaned sideways, holding to the table. His cuff brushed a tumbler and a little of the water spilled upon the cloth.
“Deane!” He spoke sharply. “What are you looking at?”
Her eyes grew deeper, lost their transparency.
“I was wondering.”
Roberts’ voice trembled. His words were insecure.
“You were wondering.... You were wondering at what? What are you looking at?”
Deane took her eyes from him.
“Please go on, Roberts.”
He hesitated.
“I was saying—I was saying that you have a remarkable influence over Martin. Doubtless he has told you of our early misunderstanding—a misunderstanding based on the assumption that I was instrumental in having him fired. As an intelligent woman you are probably aware of the fact that he lost his position because he neglected his work. He is not incompetent, but his social program affected his efficiency.”
Deane spoke without looking at him.
“Do you mean that I caused Martin to lose his position?”Her lack of resentment, her cold, unemotional question disconcerted the adviser momentarily.
“Indeed not,” he answered. “Please believe that I have valued and approved his friendships for certain people. Martin tends toward introspection and celibacy. It is most important that he cultivate the social quality. That is why I was so astonished that he should, of a sudden, become so interested in what constitutes society.”
“I do not constitute society, Roberts. I love him.”
Roberts lifted his eyebrows.
“Deane,” he said anxiously, “I hope that you do not believe that I have intended to invade your personal affairs. I am concerned only with Martin’s development. I truly desire his life to be a complete and happy one.”
“Then please tell me what you want.” Deane made an uneasy little gesture.
For one lost moment, Roberts’ pallid cheeks were covered as though by the light of a beautiful, dark flame and he leaned across the table with a desperate, hopeless lust.
“You know what I want, Deane.You have always known.” Now, he was breathless and the color left his face, leaving him whiter and more distraught than before.
Deane sat erect. There was more than anger in her expression. There was the fury and the cruelty of all her sex against what she believed to be the pitiful, crippled shade of themselves—against the mist of a forever-damned kinship which thought as woman thought, desiredwith woman’s desire, and still was mist, without substance, without gratification. Deane’s voice was barely audible.
“Never,” she whispered.
At her expression and her exclamation, Roberts wet his lips and trembled slightly in his chair, gazing at her as though in some enchantment.
“Never?” he asked, in a voice as low as her own, but with the quality of a protesting and bewildered child.
“Roberts!” Deane spoke so sharply that he was shaken from his spell and sat more normally, looking at her now with quiet speculation. “What is it you wish me to do? I see no reason to protract a conversation so unpleasant.”
The adviser met her glance with restraint.
“My motives are misconstrued,” he said slowly. “You will forgive my naive desire to lend Martin my support?”
Again Deane’s eyes dimmed and faded. Catching his own reflection, Roberts’ pallor grew even more death-like. And again he gripped the table, his knuckles white under the transparent skin. In the opalescent mirror of the woman’s eyes he saw his image—saw the pale movement within himself. Deane, her face cruel, drove her thoughts in swift waves, building and clarifying the image until the naked picture of the man and his disease rose clearly in her mind. There was an odor of decay. Roberts half rose from his chair, slipped backinto it, and leaning sideways on the table stared fixedly at her.
Terrified, she arose. In Roberts’ face there was no blood, no expression. His eyes were set and the cords of his throat made ridges in his white neck. Deane put her hands over her eyes. She knew now. Her thoughts raced.... “He killed Carol. He wants to kill me!” ... Without excusing herself she left the restaurant and hurried to a cab.
Roberts, his hands limp on the tablecloth, stared before him. He felt Deane’s movement as she left, but he remained as he was.
“Take your eyes, too!” he said aloud. His voice rose higher. “I say, take your eyes!”
Other diners looked curiously at him, smiling and nodding their heads. A small, dark woman exchanged glances with her escort.
“He’s had plenty,” she said. “I watched him and the woman. They had an argument. The man’s tight.”
Her escort regarded Roberts earnestly.
“I don’t know. It looks as though he has the horrors.”
Roberts gazed steadily at the translucent eyes floating across the table.
“All right, my dear. Stay there,” he said loudly.
The dark woman’s escort glanced at him worriedly and beckoned to a waiter.
“Say, waiter, there’s a chap over there with the jitters. He needs looking after.”
The waiter approached Roberts warily.
“Is there something you wish, sir?” he said, deferentially.
Roberts still watched the eyes. He stood up and spoke quietly.
“Very well, I shall go. You remain here.” Turning to the waiter, “My hat, quickly.”
Outside, the adviser hailed a taxi, climbed in unsteadily and directed the driver to his apartment.
Dropping his coat on the divan in the living room, he went hurriedly to the mirror and stared into it. The light on the glass wavered, a shadow appeared, and Deane’s eyes, large and transparent, materialized before him. Roberts cried out sharply.
“I told you to stay!”
He jerked around, went to a chair, sat on the edge of it and put his head in his hands, rocking gently on his toes.
“My God, Martin!—to think that I could have loved you! After all, Devaud, you’re nothing but a sailor. A hostile, bestial—” Roberts’ head jerked back and he jumped to his feet, breathing heavily. “Deane,” he panted, “you’re in this room! It won’t help to try and hide. I can locate you by your eyes. They’re in that glass there.” He pointed. “You think you know my secret. It’s a lie! It’s a dream, and you’re a lie!” He leanedagainst the chair, his cheeks darkening. “I’ll find Martin. Martin will be fair.... Martin—you always liked me. You didn’t deserve a job.... Take her away, Martin! I want to sleep. I can’t sleep while she’s hiding here.” He stopped speaking, a crafty expression changing his face. Tiptoeing into the bathroom, he pulled the mirror from the cabinet and holding it under his arm, crept back to the living room.
Approaching the larger glass which hung at the end of the room, he quickly drew the other mirror from under his arm and held it so that the two of them reflected into each other. Then, bursting into short, sobbing laughter, he shook the smaller glass furiously.
“There! Look at yourself! You’re sick, too!” His laughter became fiercer until his body rocked from its violence. Suddenly he stiffened. The mirror dropped from his hands, the glass splintering, and Roberts fell.