She was terribly excited. What would he think when he saw her now? He must help her—he must! It was her last hope.
Punctually at four, the boy knocked.
“A gentleman downstairs.”
She shrunk away—she couldn’t see him.
“He says you expect him.”
With a strong effort she controlled the impulse to send the man away.
“Show him up.”
Hippolyte looked curiously at Julie, not grasping what had happened to her. She was embarrassed, didn’t know what to say; then she slipped off her cap and let her hair down. It fell to the bottom of her dress. He gasped and broke into a shower of compliments. His admiration was evidently sincere. Julie’s spirits rose; it was not all over.
“My hair turned white when I was ill. I want it restored to its natural color; I can give you the shade—”
“Mais non! Madame, it is quitele dernier cri—weare bleaching the hair now, but we couldn’t do it like this, Madame. Your hair will be the sensation; it needs a little tonic oil and massage.” Then he looked at her again. “Madame is long indisposed?”
“Yes, I have been in the house all winter.”
“Madame needs fresh air and the Swedish treatment—the beauty will come back; put yourself in my hands, and you will see!”
The Wednesday agreed on, arrived. Floyd left the house without seeing Julie; he was getting used to that; the entire morning she would be occupied with the boy, always in a wrapper with that disfiguring cap on her. She bathed, dressed, undressed the child like a professional nurse. Floyd protested in vain.
On the way downtown he telephoned the house.
“Is Madame awake yet?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“Connect me with her room, will you?”
Julie called “Hello.” He thought her voice had more life in it than usual.
“Julie, do you remember I was to ask Colonel Garland to dinner tonight, but if you are still against it, I can postpone it.”
“Oh, no! The dinner is ordered.”
“Thank you.”
He dropped the receiver with a guilty feeling.Perhaps he had been too harsh. He didn’t know what to do about her; he was quite helpless; life was becoming unbearable.
Colonel Garland greeted Floyd with delight. He was talking to a tall man in his private office who came up and shook hands.
“You don’t remember me, Mr. Garrison?”
Floyd took in the tired face, the dark-rimmed eyes, the deep lines.
“Yes, I do! Are you still ‘sweating blood’ for money?”
“No, I’m sweating blood to keep it.”
“Have you any left?”
“A few drops, but I’ll be bled white if this goes on.”
He laughed mirthlessly, said “So-long,” and left.
The Colonel looked after him, speaking with a touch of pity and contempt.
“That fellow made a million during the War; it’s been going the other way for some time, and—he’s got a handsome, extravagant wife. Now—if we pull down those old shanties near the river, and build up big warehouses—”
“No! no! I’m not a wrecker; they bring enough for my modest wants.”
“That’s just what your father said twenty years ago. You’re getting very much like him.”
Floyd didn’t take that as a compliment. The men of twenty years ago were a century behind the times. Then, rather timidly, hoping for a refusal, he said:
“Will you come and take pot-luck with me tonight? My wife’s not well; she can’t join us—I must find some congenial occupation. We’ll talk it over.”
The Colonel was all animation.
“Politics! We need young men. We’ve got a job on our hands to rebuild the world.”
Late in the afternoon they went to the Republican Club for a cocktail from the Colonel’s private stock. There were the usual jokes about Prohibition being a good law—for others. On alighting from the car, Floyd was surprised to see the soft red gleam of the colored glass fixture over the porch. The filmy lace window curtains through which the light shone were not there when he left the house that morning; before he could take out his latch key, the door was swung open. The Jap in spotless white smiled a welcome; they entered the parlor—
“By God,” cried the Colonel, “this is something like. A beautiful color, that velvet.”
Floyd smiled. “Mulberry, they call it.”
The chairs, the sofa with its cushions, were like old friends; he saw again those well-loved water colors; his mother looking down at him, and through the door, the glimpse of a beautifully set dinner table—a picture covered for a long time, once more in the light.
Julie came swiftly toward them, extending her hand to the Colonel. She was in a state of excitement, like an actress who makes her début in a newrôle. Her color came and went. A crescent of black plaster deepened the darkness of her eyes. The despised hair revenged itself with its beauty; it was mounted in shining, rippling masses on the top of her head. She wore a soft white gown, embroidered with seed pearls, a train of gold sweeping the ground. Her arms and neck were free of ornament; in her corsage a large red American Beauty rose. At dinner she kept up a flow of small talk accentuated by soft glances, winning smiles. The Colonel listened as if every word were a new truth, the usual platitudes taking on a mysterious significance. He was sixty, held himself very erect, could easily be taken for ten years younger, and he loved the ladies.
Floyd was silent, trying to overcome a queer feeling. Was this gracious, smiling woman his wife? Was he sitting at his own table? Who was he, anyhow? The Colonel’s stentorian voice with its agreeable Southern accent broke in on his confused mental condition.
“If you will permit me to tell you how much I admire your perfect taste in dress. You know what suits you—an inspiration to powder your hair.”
“Oh,” laughed Julie, “it’s not powdered, it’s natural. It runs in our family to turn gray early. My father was white at twenty-one.”
The gallant Colonel turned this to his credit.
“My dear Mistress Garrison, Nature has been your Fairy Godmother; she has waved her wandover your head, bestowing one charm more, the gift of original beauty.”
The evening passed quickly in light persiflage, Floyd listening as if he were in the auditorium of a theatre. At the door the Colonel gave one look back. He could have fought a duel for her.
“We haven’t had a chance to talk business,” said Floyd.
“Who could, with such a radiant vision before us?” laughed the Colonel. “Come down to the office.”
Floyd went back to Julie.
“Thank you for making such a sacrifice.” It sounded foolish, but he didn’t know what to say.
She came closer to him. He was afraid to touch her; she was like a strange woman in his house. That soft sensual smile set him on fire. She slid into his arms; he kissed her neck, hair, her lips; she let herself be adored. His love had been ideal in those early wonderful days of his marriage. He reverenced his wife; he was afraid to repel her. He had heard of some men whose wives hated them for their lack of consideration. Julie laughed at his innocence. He often wondered if she appreciated being his first love; he couldn’t answer that now, after four years. He ceased trying to probe her soul; he worshipped her body.
In the physical intoxication of the next few months, he forgot all his plans for future activity.Love can be a despot or a liberator; Floyd was in chains again.
When it was known the Garrisons had “come back,” they were deluged with invitations.
“Do you want to go?”
“Of course, what’s the use of Paris gowns if I can’t make the other women green?” She was in good humor now, caressed, spoilt, every wish fulfilled. He gave her a new car, a gorgeous thing fitted up like a boudoir, trying to shake off a sickening consciousness that he was buying her favors. He pulled wires for a box at the opera (it was an achievement to get one); she rewarded him with a long kiss; he developed a prodigality which astounded the Colonel.
“You’re going it, my boy. You’re beyond your income.”
“Oh, sell something,” laughed Floyd. “I must have money.”
The Colonel didn’t like the flippant answer, the restless way. He wasn’t quite certain, but it seemed once or twice the boy had been drinking. He had noticed since Prohibition many sober men had taken to drink; psychologically interesting, the resistance to personal restraint....
The opening night of the opera, Julie was the centre of attraction. She had taken the family jewels out of the safe deposit. A great cluster ofdiamonds set in antique silver shone on her velvet bodice of old wine, a glittering aigrette in her hair which was no longer an old gray—treatment had changed it into the mat silver which one sees on the head of a marble statue, with life added to its charm. She stood in the box in her velvet wrap; Floyd took it off with a feeling of excitement. He felt the sensation she created; he was running a blooded mare for the first prize.
Maud sat in front with Tom Dillon. She had played her last trump in the game of matrimony. It: wasn’t a King now, but a Knave who cared for her; she was sure of that. For the rest, she looked into her mirror and saw her future; it spelt wrinkles.
“Who is that gorgeous creature?”
“Don’t you know your friend Julie Garrison?” She put up her lorgnette.
“What has she done with her hair?”
“Bleached it. Catch up, Maudy. A celebrated cocotte in Paris has made white hair the rage; she looks like one, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, she does—wonderful. I always said Julie had great possibilities; there’s something about her that attracts men. Look at Martin.”
He was standing against a post opposite the box. His eyes fastened on Julie, his mouth twisted into a derisive smile; the Colonel was there pouring out his usual compliments. Men were coming in and out, old club friends of Floyd’s, all eager to renew their acquaintance. Julie’s illness had upset all hiscalculations, but there was one cause for satisfaction: she had wantedhim,hehad saved her, she belonged tohim, not Floyd. He was waiting for a propitious moment; she must tell Floyd the truth. He waited because he was not sure of her; after a long siege of fever, the blood cools off.
He dropped in one day at Hippolyte’s Parlor—he went there now to hear about Julie. “Madame was going to have a dinner party,”—he had made a supreme effort. The phenomenon of her hair had given him a great deal of thought. He was in his way a scientist; the psychic side of it interested him. “You must see her superb hair; it suits her to perfection. It gives the last touch of that ‘Je ne sais quoi’ which she lacked. It was caused in my opinion by some intense subconscious passion.” Martin bent over eagerly. “A psychic power which acts like the eruption of a volcano; it tears her, agonizes her, she struggles with it, is not quite able to translate it—yet— Her husband is a nice fellow,mais vous savez, Puritanism, the narrow path; he’ll never deceive her, nor pardon her if she deceives him. That little house is no frame for a woman like her. She needs life, sparkle, passion—Voila tout!”
During the next few months Hippolyte’s mademoiselle brought now and again a deep red rose, and set it in an exquisite glass vase on Julie’s dressing table. Julie asked no questions; her eyes glistened. She furtively put the rose to her lips; then she’d sit for hours under the hands of the Frenchwoman, massage, electric treatment, hot—cold, until her body exhaled an indefinable intoxicating perfume....
Maud and Tom made their way to the Garrison box. Julie, with a keen woman’s look, saw at once that Maud’s gown, jewelry, furs, were no longer imitations. Tom was evidently embarrassed and hung back. Floyd rather liked him; he was genuine; he didn’t disguise the fact that he was a rotter. He said, “I’m no good; take me as I am, or not at all.”
“What have you been doing all this time?”
“Oh! nothing much,” laughed Maud, “shopping, house hunting, getting married; we didn’t announce it, it wasn’t worth while.” Floyd grasped Tom’s hand.
“I couldn’t get her, any other way, so we called on the Judge—We’ve been married six weeks; so far it’s all right—I’m going to buy a house and put it in her name—If I don’t behave myself, she can kick me out.”
Maud was sitting in front with Julie, talking over joining the young matrons and giving a series of dinners.
Suddenly she said:
“Have you seen Martin Steele lately?”
“I’ve been ill a long time.”
“He’s here tonight.”
“Yes, I saw him standing at the back.”
“He looks awful, doesn’t he?”
Julie didn’t answer. Maud said afterwards toher husband: “Julie was always different from the rest of us; she was queer tonight, didn’t hear a word I said. I’m certain she’s not all there.”
As they were going out, they passed Martin.
“Come with us to the dancing club. Tom’s sure to take too much; you can help me get him home.”
Martin went, but it was Tom who had to take Martin home, abusingly drunk, fighting like a beast.
That night Julie had dreams, and talked in her sleep. She flung her arms around Floyd.
“I’m so glad you love me just the same.” Floyd was a happy man. He had finished his breakfast and was looking out of the front window, waiting for his wife to awaken.
“Floyd, Floyd.”
He went up the stairs three at a time.
She held out her arms to him.
“Floyd, we must move away from here; the street is getting impossible.” A crash of falling timbers next door strengthened her position.
“Julie! This is our home; you know how I love it. How can you ask me such a thing?”
He was losing his temper; she was on the verge of tears, and last night when he held her in his arms, he swore—they all do at those times.
“I’ll do anything for you, anything, but my home is a part of me; you don’t realize how I love it.”
“More than me?” She was pouting now, like a child.
“Oh, no!—different—you won’t ask me to leave it, will you?” It was pathetic, the appeal in the man’s voice.
“But I also loved my home; I left it for you.”
He was about to say, “It’s not the same. The roots of my life are here; you are an alien.” He didn’t want to offend her; then he went down to see the Colonel, and mentioned with much embarrassment that the street was getting unbearable.
“Yes, it’s very unhealthy for your wife and child to inhale all that dust. We’ve secured a house.”
“Oh, have you? My wife didn’t tell me.”
“No, she wanted to give you an agreeable surprise. It’s on Park Avenue. We’ve rented it for the winter.” He didn’t add, with the privilege of buying; that was to be kept secret. He liked to be in conspiracy with Julie against her husband.
“It’s perfection; we’ve secured it with servants, wine cellar, everything complete.”
Floyd went home and compromised with Julie. The furnished house for the winter only; he was grateful she had not insisted on going to a fashionable hotel!—A camp in the mountains for the summer, and in the autumn when the street was built up, to return to the old home. Julie was satisfied with the bargain. The house would be impossible shut in on both sides; the walls were cracking; everything was going to pieces. She would never go back.
Floyd stood at the door of the car waiting for the “bunch” to come down—the boy, the nurse, thePekinese, countless bags, dress suit cases, last-minute bundles, and—Julie very much excited. She had gone back for the little glass vase which had been forgotten. He was physically tired, mentally agonized; he cast one look back and jumped into the car. He had a peculiar feeling: he was the automobile; Julie was driving.
The house in Park Avenue was the very last word; Floyd had to confess that. The walls tinted a cold gray, the light coming from invisible corners, telephones, a radio-cabinet, china closets hidden behind panels; the entire floor could be made into a dancing hall by pushing the doors into the wall; no fireplace, very little furniture, meals rolled in ready to serve by the “haughty” Swede hired with the house, everything cooked “à la mode” by a chef, also hired with the house.
Julie was hysterical with joy; she had been all her life the victim of antiques; this was all so exquisitely modern. Floyd thought with intense longing of his little home; he vowed to himself he would not desert it; he’d go there every day and read his evening paper.
The house-warming was to be a brilliant affair. Maud with her restless activity schemed various plans for a sensational success. Tom sampled the cellar; it was perfection. Floyd was dispatchedhere, there, and everywhere; Julie sat back and gave the others carte blanche.
“Don’t consult me,” she said; “you three will do it all right.”
On the day of the dinner, Julie had been the entire afternoon in the hands of Hippolyte’s skilled lieutenants. He himself was to come later and give her hair the last touches.
True to his resolve, Floyd had spent his afternoons in the little house, reading his paper; but he was beginning to feel a superstitious dread when he put the key in the door. That day the room seemed unbearably chilly; he lit the fire with great difficulty. The wood piled up in a basket was damp, it sputtered awhile, gave out sighs as if it were in pain. Soon the fretful flame died out. He couldn’t read, looked at his watch, and went home.
The perfume from his wife’s room pervaded the house. His room was on the floor above—they had become fashionable. He saw less and less of Julie, she had no time for him; she was wrapped up in herself, her looks, her gowns; vanity had developed in her to such an extent it staggered him; she sought admiration, was a slave to style, adopting the daily change no matter how extreme; a night at home was unbearable to her; he dragged himself along; he wasn’t jealous of the crowd of men always around her; but it wouldn’t look well for the husband to be absent.
He hadn’t seen Martin for a very long time. He was sure Julie had forgotten him, she couldn’t loveanyone but herself; he pulled himself up; he mustn’t think that way. He remembered her as a girl, so yielding, so sweet. Illness changes the character of people sometimes. He must be patient with her; but life had become very hard; the nights were spent in carousing. He didn’t know what to do with his days until Julie woke up—and he was only thirty.
He dressed and went down to his wife’s door—his Mecca; it was open. Hippolyte, with a strand of her hair over his shoulder, was bending down talking confidentially. Floyd abominated him; a man who could make a fortune out of the vanity of women was despicable; but most fortunes are directly or indirectly made out of the vanity of women.
“Floyd, come in, I’ve such news for you. I’ve sold our house.”
“What house?”
“Our little house, to Hippolyte.”
“You’re mad.”
Julie gave him a quick surprised look, and got rid of Hippolyte.
“Floyd, you shouldn’t speak to me like that before Hippolyte; he’ll tell the next customer we quarrel.” There was a suspicion of tears.
“Julie! you’re mad! quite mad! What the devil can he do with our house?”
“He’ll make a fortune out of it, if he follows my advice; the first floor will be a fine Colonial tea room; the old furniture and our kitchen coppers willbe just the thing; the second floor, a beauty parlor; and above, in your father’s workshop, a Turkish bath.”
And she could sit there calmly and say such things.
The Colonel came in early, poured out a volley of compliments which put her in good humor. She whispered to him.
“I’ve won; he’s getting used to it.”
The dinner was delayed until past ten, waiting for Maud and Tom who arrived with profuse apologies. Tom had been running all day from one shop to another trying to find a string of beads for Maud.
“Costly things, those glass beads,” said Tom. “Reminds me of the squaws up in the Reservation, when I was travelling with whiskey; they had them around the waist, neck, legs, through the ears and nose, and by God! they thought they were in full dress.”
When the dancing commenced, Julie was surrounded; she was the prettiest woman in the room, and a wonderful dancer. Floyd, in the next room among some loose fellows, was drinking heavily. The sedans werenotordered back; chauffeurs gossip among themselves, and after twelve, the guests were going “slumming.” Taxis were engaged—Masks and dominos were put on in the hall, one not knowing who the other was; Maud had done the pairing—she saw to it that husband and wife did not meet. Tom was to have Julie, Maud selected Floyd;hewouldn’t make love to her.
The masked figures in dominos slipped past the sentinel at the door; he was the devil who was sending souls to Hell that night.
Floyd wanted to fight everybody, then broke down and blubbered; Tom had a fellow feeling, put him in a chair, and told the haughty Swede to look after him. At the door he got mixed up in the crowd, found himself with someone in a taxi. A pair of soft lips met his, he shouted for joy.
“Maudy! where’s Julie?”
She laughed. “Oh, she’s in very good company.” She nestled up to him. “Don’t think of her, only ourselves. Let’s make believe we’re not married.”
The taxis were speeding downtown. Julie took off her mask, leaned back; she was excited, warm from dancing. Her companion bent over her. She looked into flaming eyes.
“Julie!”
That hour in Martin’s arms, she forgot her husband, her child, herself; promised him everything. This time, he swore, she should keep her word.
Floyd had an insane desire to smash things. He threw a bottle of wine into the glass and china on the table, overturning the electric candles; the fuse burnt out, putting the room in darkness. He laughed hysterically. He was on a ship, in a terrible storm, the ground was slipping away, billows were rising on all sides.
“Hey there, steward, damn it, where’s my cabin?”
The haughty Swede lifted him like a child, carried him into the elevator which took them up to the servants’ quarters, unlocked a small door at the extreme end of the hall; it was an unused room, with one lamp hanging from the ceiling. He put Floyd on the sofa, lit the lamp, and carefully shut the door—he didn’t want the “master’s” ravings to be heard. The caterer’s men were still in the house. Some might inform; a raid would lose him his place.
When Floyd awoke, the lamp sputtered in fitful gleams. His head was like lead, his tongue parched; there was a sense of deep humiliation, waves of shame, higher than the ocean. He looked about the room. It was in disorder—boxes piled up in a corner, a large desk strewn with papers; at the door stood the Swede.
“Where am I? Whose room is this?”
“This is a room we keep closed, sir.”
“Why?”
“The master killed himself here, the mistress locked the door and gave me the key; she ordered me not to open it until she came again. She didn’t come.”
“Where is she?”
“In Paris, sir.”
“He killed himself and she went to Paris?”
“Yes sir, shot himself. He was a fine man, sir, a very fine man. When I came in to announce dinner,he was lying on that sofa where you are, the blood pouring out.”
Floyd was on his feet, quite sober now. There were heavy dark stains on the gray rep. The man answered Floyd’s questioning look.
“That’s blood, sir, and this and this.” The gray rug was stained in dark red; there were splashes of it on the white wall.
“Why did you put me in here?”
“Because the house was full of strange people. I didn’t want them to see you like that.”
“Thank you, I’m much obliged to you.”
“Shall I bring you a little whiskey and soda?”
“No thank you, I’m not a drinker.”
“I see that, sir,” said the man. “A cup of strong black coffee will set you all right.”
“Thank you.”
Floyd looked about the room. On the desk there was a box half filled with cigars, stationery, postage stamps, everything just as the unhappy man had left them. The Swede came in with some strong black coffee which Floyd swallowed.
“Colonel Garland told me to give you this when you came to.” It was a large legal envelope; Floyd took it mechanically, flung it on the desk.
“When you are ready, sir, I’ll lock up here.”
Floyd stood fascinated. It was the only room in that big house that meant something more than wood—marble—The desk was littered, the pigeon-holes stuffed with papers, the deep armchairs, theheavy draperies belonged to former days, the man must have had trouble with his wife about it; she had put him and his “old sticks” in the garret.
The legal envelope was lying on the desk where he had thrown it. He took out a typewritten document. The little house was in his wife’s name. The Colonel had suggested it as a wedding gift. “It was only a matter of form, it was the custom for a man to put the home in the wife’s name,” Floyd laughingly assented. What did it matter? All he had was hers, himself included. Here it was in black and white, sold on easy terms to Hippolyte; at the bottom was written in her large clear hand, Julie Abravanel Gonzola Garrison; she had done it without consulting him; she had the right.
The monotonous voice of the Swede broke the silence.
“He was a very fine man, sir—and a liberal man. She was a beauty; that’s her picture.”
On the desk was a colored print of a woman in bridal costume, all lace, satin-orange blossoms, an enormous bouquet half hiding her face; it was like the wax models one sees in a show window.
The Swede took a photo out of his pocket and handed it to Floyd.
“This is the master; I asked him for it the night before he died. I was very fond of him,” his voice broke.
Floyd knew that care-lined face: “The man who sweated blood.” He shivered. He tried to pullhimself together; the horror of it struck him down. He staggered against the desk; on it lay an open letter, crushed together, as if thrown there in haste; his eye caught unconsciously what was written.
It’s over. I’ve made superhuman efforts; everything is gone. I was afraid to tell you the last time you demanded money, throwing up to me I hadn’t made good. I told you this house would ruin us, but you didn’t care! What’s the good of a man who can’t pay out? I’ve begged and begged; this is the last time! You said you couldn’t be poor, and there are others. That’s always in my ears! I see now what a fool I’ve been! I’ve spent my best years scheming for money, and you took it and flung it in the air. I’ve had nothing from my life! nothing! It’s too late to commence again. Come back! Come back!
It’s over. I’ve made superhuman efforts; everything is gone. I was afraid to tell you the last time you demanded money, throwing up to me I hadn’t made good. I told you this house would ruin us, but you didn’t care! What’s the good of a man who can’t pay out? I’ve begged and begged; this is the last time! You said you couldn’t be poor, and there are others. That’s always in my ears! I see now what a fool I’ve been! I’ve spent my best years scheming for money, and you took it and flung it in the air. I’ve had nothing from my life! nothing! It’s too late to commence again. Come back! Come back!
Floyd shuddered. He looked again at the blood stains; he saw the man with a pistol in his hand. It wasn’t a fair exchange—his soul for her body. He sat in the big chair; that other man must have crouched there with the pistol in his hand. He had usurped a sanctuary, bought with money what another had built with blood.
“I’m ready to lock up the room, sir.”
He staggered to his feet, thrust the legal envelope in his pocket, went downstairs and into the street.
The sedans rolled up and down the avenue. People stepped out in front of brilliantly lit residences, a happy care-free crowd, or were they like him, a lie?
He moved mechanically, elbowing his way through the mass of theatre-goers, gradually getting down into the business district, quiet, dark. He stood before his old home, huddled together as if shrinkingaway from the giant buildings on either side, unlocked the door; there was an odor like a crypt. He struck a match, lit the half-burnt candle on the hall stand, held it high, peering into the corners, through open doors, taking in every well-known detail—the straight-back mahogany chairs covered with mulberry velvet, the “tidies.” He could see the shuttle in his mother’s delicate fingers dancing in and out of the white thread—the rag rugs made by his grandmother. People were hunting for them in little country villages; antiquarians were reproducing them by thousands; but these werehisrags. He went slowly up the narrow stairs; the creaking of the boards used to anger him when his mother was ill. He looked out at the desolate garden through little glass panes, just large enough for a boy’s face. He saw himself again gloating over the first snow-storm, running down to the cellar for his sled, his feet dancing impatiently whilst Prudence tied the soft warm shawl she had knitted for him about his head and neck.
He stopped at the first landing. The old clock was covered with dust; he found the key inside, wound it, set it right; its ticking echoed through the house; it seemed to him like a human thing whose heart had stopped for fright, then commenced to beat again in glad relief. He opened the door of the bedroom. Here he had brought his bride, here his boy was born, here he had watched Martin holding his wife in his arms. On the dressing-table was a faded rose; it fell to pieces in his hand. He wentup to his father’s workshop; the images took on life in the flicker of the candle light—the Negro, the Italian shoe boy, his mother clasping him in her arms, an unfinished bust of his father, Rip Van Winkle with his head smashed—he took it all in; a life picture, the background stretching out in the full sunlight of generations, an old landscape. He was framed in it—he himself—that self, simple, sentimental, ideal, old-fashioned—the self that was not cynical, reckless, material, and all the things we call “modern.” He scented the smell of fallen plaster, felt the shaking of timbers; the wreckers had him under the hammer, destroying his foundations.
The table was littered with old newspapers and rags used in modelling; he stood for a moment motionless, like a man offering a sacrifice on the altar of his domestic gods, then he dropped the candle. Little flames started here, there, grew bigger; the illumination cast a glow over his mother’s face. She smiled at him. He shut the door, groping his way downstairs; at the gate he stopped to listen to the clear chime of the clock as it struck one, two, three....
There was no trace of the night orgy in the Park Avenue mansion. He went up to his wife’s room; she was in bed sleeping quietly. The soft-shaded lamp which burnt through the night—she had a horror of darkness—cast a soft rosy glow. “Was this beautiful creature lying there, his wife? No!No!—a legalized mistress, and he, a sensualist.”
In that moment passion burnt up in him—the body of love, the Idol, fell in ashes. He took the bill of sale from his pocket, put it beside her on the bed, then went slowly up to his room, shut the door, and burst into a loud laugh.
The next morning at breakfast he read the press headings.
“The old Garrison homestead destroyed by fire, a total loss, on account of Mr. Garrison’s neglect to renew the insurance. Fire caused by a cigarette or cigar stump thrown carelessly from one of the tall adjacent buildings. The house was a tinder box. Fortunately, the family had moved to their palatial residence on Park Avenue.”
He marked the notices with red pencil, and sent them up on his wife’s breakfast tray. He heard the maid knocking, and Julie’s voice saying “Come in.” He could see her opening the papers, reading the marked lines; there was a loud cry and a heavy fall; he went up quickly. She was lying on the floor rigid, the paper clutched in her hand; it was impossible to bring her to. He telephoned for Dr. McClaren, who came at once. Floyd told him about the fire in a few words.
“It must have been a great shock to her,” said the doctor.
“I don’t know,” answered Floyd. The doctor looked at him curiously, then went into Julie’s room.
He brought her to, insisted on her resting that day in bed, and said to Floyd, “She’ll be all right. There’s no cause for worry; I’ve seen her like that before.”
Julie believed with all her superstitious, secretive soul, that her hair turning white had been a punishment for giving in to her suppressed passion for Martin; and last night in that very hour of burning joy their house was in flames. “What did it mean? What was that unseen revengeful Power preparing for her?—perhaps another blow, a physical deformity?”
With a cry of terrible fear, she sprang out of bed, locked the door, stood before the long mirror examining herself closely, not like a beautiful woman exulting over her reflected beauty, but with the fear of a guilty soul seeking the brand of further punishment. “What now? What now?” Her body was spotless, like white marble with a delicate tracery of blue veins. She gave a long sigh of relief.
The reporters besieged the house. Floyd had the agony of seeing himself, his wife, his child in every newspaper. The weeklies had colored prints of the beautiful Mrs. Garrison. “She might have stepped out of a picture,” “a living Greuze,” “the grace of a French Dame de Salon,” “the Art of Conversation lives again”—then the Russian players arrived.
Julie did not get over the shock. Her nerves,always abnormal, snapped; she sank into a state of melancholy.
Floyd went up to her room one morning to tell her he wouldn’t be home to dinner; she was still in bed, crouching among the pillows.
“Are you waiting for Hippolyte?” There was a touch of irony in his voice.
“I’ve sent him away. I don’t want him any more.” Then she broke into sobs.
Floyd was glad to get that “shame” out of the house. Julie was beginning to mope again; she needed fresh air; he would look for a camp in the Adirondacks for the summer.
Julie brooded about her promise to Martin; the revulsion had set in as usual; she was again the mother, the conventional wife. She was afraid of his anger; she must keep away from him. All sorts of horrors took form in her diseased mind.
The clock struck twelve. The boy had gone to the Park with the nurse, a French girl, who spoke little English; they were late. She saw the child run over by a car, lying mangled under the wheels; she was in a paroxysm of fear, a distracted, neurasthenic woman.
“Mamma, see what I’ve got.”
She caught the boy in her arms, passionately kissing his eyes, his mouth, his hair, a handsome fellow, big for his age, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Mamma, Mamma!”
He took from Mademoiselle a beautiful, perfectly equipped motor boat.
Mademoiselle explained: “A big dark Monsieur ‘belhomme’ gave it to Joseph.” He said he was his Uncle Martin. He taught him to float and sink it. She couldn’t get the child away, that’s why they were so late. The boy took the boat to pieces and put it together again, with great dexterity. He was uncommonly intelligent.
“See, Mamma, this is the cabin.”
He pressed a spring which opened a little door in the bottom of the boat; within lay a neatly folded paper; the handwriting was Martin’s. Mademoiselle took the boy away, looking back furtively with her French comprehension at Madame. A few lines, begging, commanding her to come with the boy the following day.
She knew she would go; she couldn’t stay away. He would hold Joseph in his arms; she would take his kisses from the boy’s lips; her eyes gleamed. She would go; it would end as it must. She was lost! Hopelessly lost! She went to the Park every day for a week, leaving the maid at home; the boy was always there sailing his boat.
One day Martin took him up suddenly, pressed him in his arms, kissed him again and again. Julie looked on, the blood leaping into her face. They wereherkisses. Then the boy put his arms around Martin, whispering, “I love you, Uncle Martin,” and fell asleep. Martin carried him to the car,motioned Julie to get in first, laid the child beside her, covered him up with the rug, then spoke in low tones of suppressed pain.
“You committed a crime against me, Julie. That boy should have been mine!”
All night and the next day, Julie had one of those terrible headaches; Floyd couldn’t bear her moans of pain....
Dr. McClaren took off his coat and goloshes, stopping on the spiral staircase to admire the beautiful colored glass windows. He found Julie crouching in a chair, her hands icy, her eyes roving restlessly.
“My dear Madame, I’m sorry to see you in this nervous state. What is it, tell me? I can’t help you unless I know! Is it your husband?”
“No, he is too good.”
“The boy, then?”
“No.”
“What is troubling you? Tell me.”
“Day and night I have a terrible fear that something dreadful is going to happen; I’ve had it often, but controlled it with a strong effort. Since the night of the fire it has come back with terrible force. I suffer tortures.”
“When you go out, do you feel as if someone were following you to do you harm?”
“Yes, yes,” she had her eyes fixed on the boat. It seemed to have a terrible fascination for her.
The doctor took the boat from the table, turningit over in his hands. He was thoughtful—puzzled.
“How perfectly they make these toys.”
“Yes, it floats and sinks like a real motor boat.” The suggestion gave the doctor an idea.
“Do you like the water?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Wouldn’t you like to take a long sea trip, to Europe, for instance?”
“I would like it very much.”
“I’ll speak to your husband about it.”
“No, no, I don’t want him.”
“You want to go without him?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward to catch her words which came in low gasps. “I want to—to slip away without anybody knowing. If you can persuade Floyd to let me go alone!—you’ll find him at his club.”
The doctor dropped off at the club that day and spoke to Floyd. He was sitting in the window gazing idly at the green square opposite; what Floyd saw there were flames mounting higher and higher; wherever he went they followed him, scorching him; the world was one great funeral pyre; the flames were drawing him in.
“Your wife is slipping back into the old condition of melancholia; we must prevent that.”
“Doctor, I do all I can.”
When he suggested a trip to Europe, Floyd gave a quick cry.
“No! no! I couldn’t!”
“I want her to go alone.” The same look of relief he had seen on Julie’s face. A pity; married so short a time. “I would like Miss Mary to go with her, but she is always so busy.”
Floyd was on his feet.
“She’ll go if I ask her; I’m sure she will.”
Miss Mary was at home in her little flat on the East Side of downtown. The cry of a newly born child came through the window. She smiled; her ears distinguished the sex. A girl fretted, wailed in a high-pitched, nagging tone; a boy fought, bellowed. Yes, this was a girl. Mary wondered how many men she would make miserable; that would depend on her face. What children men are! They marry a complexion, teeth, eyes. When they get at the woman, it’s too late. Some kick over the traces; most of them remain in harness from a sense of honor. The patience married people have with each other is wonderful, considering they are like dice thrown together by accident.
She thought of the Garrisons, and drew two lines on a piece of paper—one a parallel—that stood forhim; he thought in straight lines. The other, broken with angles—that wasshe. She wondered if he understood that mysterious side of his wife. She saw his eyes, always trying to look happy, his sensitive mouth trying to say pleasant things. A knockat the door startled her; there he stood surrounded by the bare-footed little devils of the neighborhood. They had piloted him up the dark stairs. A little gold-head slipped her hand in his. He bent down and kissed her dirty face; then he distributed all his small change amongst them and shut them out.
“I’ve had a time finding you, Miss Mary. I’ve never been in this neighborhood before.”
“You should get acquainted with it; it’s more interesting than Park Avenue.”
“Poverty is terrible.”
“No, it’s wonderful; it keeps people human. But here there is no poverty; the people earn their living.”
“Such as it is.” He looked around the room. There was a cot in an alcove, a few chairs, a table, a shelf of books, and she smiling at him.
“You’re not feeling well, Mr. Garrison.”
“Oh! I’m well enough, but the springs are giving way.”
“We must brace them up.”
“Impossible, they are broken.”
“Then we’ll have to get you new springs.”
How young she was, how happy, and the bare room; here was—no ego that wants and wants—always taking, never giving—no expectations, no disappointment; Selflessness—that’s what kept her so buoyant.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, if you will.”
Then he told her of Julie’s relapse and the prescribed sea voyage.
“Dr. McClaren wants her to go without me; he thinks it will be better for her. You know her so well; what is your opinion?”
“Your wife is organically healthy, but there are pathological conditions—a radical change might do her good.”
She avoided his eyes; he was disappointed, but what else could she say?
He bent a little nearer.
“Miss Mary, if you will go with her, my mind would be at rest.”
She sat silent a moment.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot; I’ve pledged myself.”
“You are engaged?”
She laughed, clapping her hands like a child.
“To be married, you mean? Oh! no! I shall never marry.”
He laughed with her, like a boy.
“Not if you fall terribly in love?”
“Not even then!” Her eyes shone defiantly. “I’ve made a promise to myself, and I won’t be a deserter.”
“A promise to yourself?”
“Yes, don’t you, sometimes?”
“No.”
“You should, or life would become too accidental; we would be terribly tossed about.”
“That’s what’s happening to me. I am looking for some occupation, but I don’t want to get into a treadmill. The people toil at business, pleasure—they do the same thing day after day, year after year. Life is a habit, a deadening monotony.”
She drew up her knees, clasped her hands over them, bent forward. She was a quaint little thing; he had never known anyone like her. She spoke slowly, with difficulty; the words she had at her command couldn’t adequately express her thoughts.
“Life is a gift, not a habit. Every day we do the same things, but they must bring us something new in the doing. I’ve often thought, in the quiet of the sick room, what a privilege it is that I could sit there and help, when all the millions and billions of spirits are crowding the universe, and can’t get into life; I’m so gladIam put into a body—so happy, so thankful.”
“I have never thought it a privilege to live, never thought of life as a gift.”
“We depend too much on people and things to make us happy; we shouldn’t! Our happiness depends on no one but ourselves.”
He knew what she meant. Julie had colored his life for a time; now it was grey.
“I’ve never thought of it that way.”
She came nearer with a touch of eagerness.
“You will, won’t you?”
He answered simply:
“Yes, I will—”
Then she went to the table and took up one of a pile of opened letters.
“I have pledged myself to something which will take all my time, all my strength, and that isn’t very much.”
“No,” said Floyd.
“Nursing is gradually becoming a money-making trade. During the War, women seeking adventure with little knowledge were extravagantly paid. Now money is no longer easy, but prices remain high. Only people of means can afford a trained nurse; there is a great need. You don’t know how sick people are neglected for want of care. I am trying to bring together earnest women of all classes; there are so many who want to do something, and don’t know how. I have appeals from all over the country—piteous cries from women whose lives are empty; their school will be the bedside of the poor. You don’t know how quickly they learn, when their heart is in it. They pledge themselves to go wherever they are called, without regard to payment, like the nuns in the early days of Christianity. We are getting together a fund to pay their living. When they are not working they will study, we will have our own home, our own hospital. It has only been whispered, but you have no idea how easy it is to get money.” She showed him a letter signed by a well-known millionaire, who guaranteed a large sum. “There are many rich women eager to join us, who are seeking for something better, something noblerin their lives—you don’t know—you don’t know!”
No, he didn’t know!
“I feel very small, annoying you with my personal affairs when you are doing such great things.” He made his way to the door. Life was hopeless again.
“Wait.”
She was agitated, she couldn’t let him go like that; because—she loved him. She knew it now. A wave of gladness rushed through her. She had loved everybody all her life, but this love was like a wonderful magic touch—transporting her into some distant fairy world. She stood by the window; he saw the light on her face.
“I think I can manage it. I want to go to London to the headquarters of the Salvation Army, to Zurich, to confer with the Red Cross Sisters; if your wife will go with me, it will not be neglecting my duty.”
He grasped her hand. “Thanks, thanks. I’ll never forget this, never.”
He saw the blood surging up to her temples, receding, leaving her white. Her eyes were longing, pleading; they sought his. She was beautiful; his heart gave a great bound. He stood looking, looking, stammered something, then turned and went out.
The next few days he was kept busy about the cabins, rugs, passports, exchange. There was a feeling of warmth. He saw Mary standing there with that look in her face; he saw the woman for the firsttime. How wonderful she was! What a wife she would make! He hoped she wouldn’t marry. No man was good enough. He found himself thinking too much about her; then he went and bought something costly for Julie. He refused to stay alone in the house with that French woman. He coaxed Bridget back to take care of the boy while his wife was away. He wondered why Julie didn’t write to her friends.
“I don’t want anyone to know I am going.”
“Not even Maud Dillon?”
“They’ve moved away somewhere.”
He hadn’t seen Tom about town as usual. How people disappear when their money is gone and nobody misses them.
The car was waiting at the door. Julie, with a throb of pride, took the boy once more in her arms. The child was beautiful in his velvet suit and lace collar.
“You won’t forget me, Joseph?”
“No, Mother.”
She placed her photograph on the table beside his little bed.
“You will say good night to me? I will hear it. I will say good night to you; you will hear it.”
“Yes, Mother.” She put the worn Hebrew prayer book in his hands.
“You will read the prayer I taught you, every morning, every evening?”
“Yes, Mother.” The boy’s eyes fixed on her facegrew deeper; there was a psychic connection between them. She went back to her own childhood. She saw an old man, with that book in his hand, his face lit with religious fervor.
“Julie, you will say the prayer I taught you, every morning, every evening?”
“Yes, Grandfather.” She had kept her promise.
The steamer sailed. Mary remained on deck to get a last glimpse of the solitary man standing on the wharf. Julie gave Floyd’s flowers to the steward to put on the dining table; there was a bouquet of exquisite red roses in her cabin. When they landed she wore one in her corsage.
The earth was thirsty; it poured down for three days, a slow soaking rain. Martin thought it would never stop. He walked along the lake in the Park regardless of his dripping hat. He was aching to see the boy again, to hear him say in his mother’s soft voice, “I love you, Uncle Martin.” What a mess he had made of his life; now he must steal what rightly belonged to him. He exulted in his power over Julie. Her illness was a fatality; it was her mother’s dead hand that had struck her daughter down to save her from him. A shiver ran through him; why was he so superstitious? He didn’t believe in anything—but sometimes a peculiar feeling took hold of him; there was another life farback, a mystery—something intangible. He walked hours in the rain—fighting invisible forces, cursing the conditions of his life; it all resolved itself back to the same determination. She had promised to go with him; she must keep her word.
Towards evening he rang the side-door bell at Hippolyte’s, hoping to get some news of her. The dark-skinned valet whisked off his coat, dried his dripping hair and neck, and preceded him into the Turkish room behind the shop. It was Hippolyte’s hour of rest before the night’s activity; he was lying on a divan, a picturesque figure, in a loose red silk robe. He waved Martin a welcome with his small white hand, the diamond, set in platinum on his finger, flashing rose color in the soft electric glow of the pervading red.
“Sapristi, Monsieur Steele. I was thinking of you.”
Martin dropped down in a deep chair, stretched out his legs. The aroma of coffee and a whiff of perfumed opium lent a sense of warmth to his chilled body.
“Of me? Are you in trouble again?”
His pipe-dream-visions changed into the cold reality of a check book; he had often helped the man out of his financial difficulties, he earned enormous sums, but the overhead expenses were fabulous.
“The money is nothing; it comes in and goes out like the tide. I am at the end, the compass changes.We must in Life watch for the Warning. We must train our ear to detect the direction of the wind.”
“You are superstitious?”
“We all are, if we knew its true meaning. Superstition is an intense sense of the Invisible.”
Martin drank the strong Turkish coffee, puffing at his chibouk. The man was a “hairdresser,” but that didn’t matter; Martin had no sense of class.
“My time in this business will soon be over. I was the only one for years when it was an ‘elite’ profession. Now it is vulgarized like everything else. There is a clever Russian woman who is taking all my customers; do you know why? The husbands are jealous.”
Martin laughed—he understood that; he would never allow this fascinating, purring Greek to maulhiswife about.
“Mon ami, I know what you are thinking; you are wrong. They talk a great deal about the immorality of the American woman. It is not so—and it is a shame that it is not so. The French woman is honest; she have her husband, her lover; he has his wife, his mistress. Marriage is a success in France; they do not go about divorcing themselves. Here marriage is a failure, because every woman, young, middle age, old, talk of love!—it is only talk!—mon ami, talk! talk!—but shedonothing! nothing! Why! because she is afraid; the fear is in her blood from the old times in America, the fear of the ‘Scarlet Letter.’ Oh! she can love,Mon Dieu! and if byaccident there is just a little false step, she make a scene, her relatives make a scene, the press make a scene, everybody make a scene. Oh! your Hawthorne did not know what harm he was doing to the future women of his country. The French authors knew better. La nouvelle Heloise—Camille, the heroines of de Maupassant, have set the women of France a glorious example.”
Martin smiled. The fellow was clever, insolent.
“Do you know how it will end?”
“No, my imagination doesn’t take me any farther.”
“Bah!—it is easy, she will go back to the pale face and the straight hair. You will see the little Puritan again. They have already forbid us the wine, the splendid opium, the tobacco, silk stockings, cosmetics, love—the whole nation will go to bed at nine o’clock—and their money will choke them.”
Martin laughed, but the man was very serious; he put his hand on Martin’s shoulder.
“Mon ami, you have been good to me. You know the Figaro has the soul of an artist; I am going to be good to you. I am going to tell you something you do not know; Mrs. Garrison will sail Saturday for England, without her husband.”
The Garrison “shanties,” near the river, were kept in as good condition as possible, but time andrats gnawed at their foundations. On one of these the passer could read, with some difficulty, the faded letters of an old sign, “Martin Steele and Son, Established 1830.”
Since Mr. Steele’s death, the business had been carried on by a Mr. Waldbridge, who knew and followed the old conservative methods of the defunct Steeles. Young Mr. Steele was expected to take his father’s place as head of the firm, but he stayed away, took what money he wanted, a ridiculously small amount for a man of his means, leaving the surplus in the business. Waldbridge had written several times asking him to come down and look over the books. Finally, he appeared. He was a mystery to Mr. Waldbridge; all the young business men of the day were eager speculators. He had expected new ideas, a business revolution; but no such things happened. He would sit about, watch closely the proceedings, but made no suggestions. His visits grew less and less frequent.
“What does he do with himself?” thought Mr. Waldbridge. “He doesn’t gamble. He’s never seen at the races or baseball games. His name has never been connected with women. What kind of a man is he?”
Martin sat opposite him in the private office, flung his soft hat on the floor, crossed his long legs; his hair was disarranged, his face a yellow pallor; his clothes hung loosely, he was very thin. His “appearance” struck Mr. Waldbridge as very un-American—hehimself being an Erie Road commuter with all the proud consciousness of a one hundred per cent Nationalism.
He spoke cautiously of the hard times and unsatisfactory business conditions. They had advanced money on large stocks of merchandise; there was nothing to do but to hold on. If they forced the sale, it would mean enormous losses.
“Yes, I know,” interrupted Martin impatiently. “We couldn’t go on gorging money at that rate; we’d have to vomit it up sometime. No stomach could hold it; that’s what we’re doing now. Some people die suddenly from it; we’ll have a lingering end.”
Waldbridge laughed uneasily, really a very unpleasant young man.
“I hope we will weather it. I’ve been discounting—and—”
Martin interrupted again—discounting meant nothing to him—although he was flying some moral “kites” on his own account.
“Do whatever you like; I’m out of it.”
Waldbridge rose to his feet.
“What do you mean?”
“You can take my father’s name down.”
“If you liquidate the business now, it will mean disaster.”
“I have no interest in it. I am leaving New York.”
Then Waldbridge broke down. It was terrible, a long-established, respected firm—wreckage—purewreckage; that word seemed to have a fatal significance in Martin’s life.
“Can I count on, say, ten thousand a year for ten years?”
Julie was luxuriously inclined, because her heart had been empty. He would take her away from cities; they would live somewhere quietly in the country.
Waldbridge smiled. “You can always have that and more if you want it.”
Then Martin did a wonderful thing, so wonderful it left Waldbridge speechless, staring at him. Was the man mad? There was a taint of insanity in the family.
Martin read his thoughts.
“I’m thirty-two years old, and I know what I am doing. I want you to turn this business into a company; every man in it, from the lowest to the highest, must have his share. You, of course, will be the head of the firm. Get a good lawyer and do it legally. You’ll have your work, every mother’s son of you, to get the old hulk out of the mud; if you do, you’re entitled to the spoils.”
“And the capital?” gasped Waldbridge.
“I told you what I want, the rest I’ll leave in business; you can’t go on without it, can you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the use of talking about it.”
He held out his hand; Waldbridge grasped it, trying to stammer out his gratitude, but Martin wasgone. He dashed out of the place, threw himself into a taxi.
“Uptown.”
The New York chauffeur is accustomed to indefinite addresses. He looked back at the man with his hat pulled over his eyes, crouching in a corner. “A bloke who had lost his wad.” Then he wondered if it was a defaulter or a gunman—some of them looked like perfect gentlemen. He drove uptown, entered the Park. There he stopped. He was hungry; that guy in the corner could sleep all day.
“Where to?”
Martin, pitched forward by the sudden jolt, glared at him.
“The Waldorf.”
He sprang up the stairs three at a time, too nervous to wait for the elevator, looked around the room, which was in disorder; his man couldn’t keep it tidy. Martin flung everything about.
He would take nothing with him but a dress suit case. He caught sight in the corner of an old box covered with deerskin, tied together with a thick rope; he had taken it from the garret after his grandfather’s death, but had never opened it. He untwisted the knots, one after the other. It was a hard job. It hurt his fingers. He took out a pair of mountain boots, goat’s leather, with large nails in the soles. Martin looked down at his feet; they would fit him. He pulled out an old woollen shirt, a pair of corduroy trousers, a felt hat with a greenfeather, a bright colored vest, and red handkerchiefs. There was a small chamois bag with strange coins, Swiss money—Martin examined them curiously; a pack of old letters, a photograph of a young boy and girl, a cow, and a high mountain at the back. That mountain fascinated him; he looked at it long, intensely. The raw boy and girl in Swiss dress were his grandparents. Martin thought of his mother. On the back of the card there was something printed which he made out with difficulty: “Val Sinestra.” He had never heard the name. He put everything back in the trunk and roped it; the idea came suddenly: he would take it with him, to Switzerland.