Howat Penny arrived in town late on the day when he was to dine with
Mariana at the Polders. He entered a taxicab, and was carried smoothly
through the thick, hot air; open electric cars, ladened with damp,
pallid salespeople, passed with a harsh ringing; and the foliage in
Rittenhouse Square hung dusty and limp and still. The houses beyond, on
Nineteenth Street, where the Jannans' winter dwelling stood, were closed
and blankly boarded. The small, provisional entrance before which he
stopped opened, and a servant, out of livery, appeared. "Shall I tell
the driver to return, sir?" he queried; "the telephone is disconnected."
He issued instructions, and, with Howat Penny's bag, followed him into
the darkened house.
The windows of a general chamber on the second floor had been thrown
open; and there he found Mariana's brother. Kingsfrere Jannan was a
young man with a broad white face, shadowed in pasty green, and leaden
eyes. His countenance, Howat knew, masked a keen and avaricious
temperament. He did uncommonly well at auction bridge in the clubs.
Kingsfrere, in a grey morning coat with white linen gaiters and a
relentless collar, nodded and lounged from the room; and Mariana soon
appeared. "Perhaps, Howat," she said, "it would be better if you didn't
dress. I have an idea the Polder men don't."
At the stubborn expression which possessed him she exclaimed sharply,
"If you tell me that the Colonel or Gary Dilkes were always formally
dressed at dinner I think I'll scream." Nevertheless, he had no
intention of relinquishing a habit of years for the Polders, or the
north end of the city; and when, later, he came down into the hall,
where the man stood with his silk hat and cape, Mariana put an arm about
his shoulders. "I wish every one could he as beautiful as yourself," she
told him. They passed the Square, bathed in dusk and the beginning
shimmer of arc lights, went through the flattened and faintly thunderous
arch of a railway, and turned into a broad asphalt street, on which
wide, glistening bulk windows gave place to sombre shops with lurid,
flame-streaked vistas, and continuous residences beyond. Howat Penny
gazed curiously at the tall, narrow dwellings, often a continuous,
similar façade from street corner to corner, then diversified in
elaborate, individual design. All, however, had deep stone steps leading
to the sidewalk, thronged with figures in airy white dresses, coatless
men smoking contentedly; there was a constant light vibration of
laughing voices and subdued calling, and the fainter strains of
mechanical music, the beat of popular marches and attenuated voices of
celebrated singers.
The motor turned suddenly in to the curb, and they got out. The house
before them, like its fellows, was entered from a high flight of red
sandstone steps, and was built of a smooth, soapy green stone, with red
coursings, an elaborate cornice and tiled Italian roof. No one was
sitting outside, although there was a pile of circular, grass-woven
cushions; and Howat sharply rang the bell. A maid in aproned black
admitted them into a narrow hall, from which stairs mounted with a
carved rail terminating in a newel post supporting an almost life-sized
bronze nymph, whose flowing hair was encircled by a wreath of
electrically lit flowers, and who held a dully shining sheaf of
jonquils. There was no other illumination, and Howat Penny discovered in
the obscurity a high mirror bristling with elk horns, on which hung
various hats and outer garments. He stood helpless, apparently, in an
attitude he found impossible to deny himself, waiting to be relieved of
his coverings, when Mariana whispered angrily, "Don't be so rotten,
Howat."
Finally the maid secured his cape, and he was conscious of a stir at the
head of the stairs. Immediately after, a shrill, subdued voice carried
to where he stood. "I told you," it said violently, "... dress suit."
There was an answering murmur, in which he could distinguish, James
Polder's impatient tones. The latter descended, and flooded the hall
with, light from a globe in the ceiling. He was garbed in blue serge and
flannels. "Isabella," he stated directly, belligerently even, "thinks we
ought to change our clothes; but we never do, and I wouldn't hear of--of
lying for effect." Howat Penny's dislike for him pleasantly increased.
Mariana, in rose crêpe with a soft, dull gold girdle and long,
trumpet-like sleeves of flowered gauze, smiled at him warmly. "It is a
harmless pose of Howat's," she explained: "a concession to the ghosts of
the past." She patted the elder on the shoulder.
Above, James Polder ushered them into a room hung with crimson and gilt
stamped paper, an elaborately fretted cherry mantel about the asbestos
rectangle of an artificial hearth, and a multitude of chairs and divans
shrouded in linen. There was an upright, ebonized piano draped in a
fringed, Roman scarf and holding a towering jar of roses, a great,
carved easel with a painstaking, smooth oil painting of a dark man in an
attitude of fixed dignity, and an expensively cased talking machine. The
original, evidently, of the portrait, and a small, rotund woman in mauve
brocade, advanced to meet them. Young Polder said, "My mother and
father. This is Miss Jannan and Mr. Howat Penny."
The latter saw that Mrs. Byron Polder was distinctly nervous; she
twisted the diamonds that occupied a not inconsiderable portion of her
short fingers, and smiled rigidly. "I am very pleased to meet you, Miss
Jannan," she proceeded; "and Mr. Penny too." She held out a hand, then
half withdrew it; but Mariana captured it in her direct palm. "Thank
you," she replied. Byron Polder had a more confident poise; in reality
there was a perceptible chill in his manner. He was a handsome man, with
a cleanly-shaven face, introspective brown eyes and a petulant, drooping
mouth. "You have succeeded in finding your way to my house," he
pronounced enigmatically, gazing at Howat Penny.
It was, Howat thought, just such an ill-bred utterance as he had looked
for from Byron Polder; and he made no effort to mitigate it. He was
conscious of, and resolutely ignored, Mariana's veiled entreaty. "You
don't know my girls," Mrs. Polder continued rapidly. "Here is Isabella,
and Kate will be along for dinner." A tall, bony woman of, perhaps,
thirty-five, in an appalling complication of ribbons and silk, moved
forward with a conventional sentence. In her, Howat's appraisements went
on, virginity had been perpetuated in a captious obsession. They stood
awkwardly silent until James Polder exclaimed, "Good heavens, this isn't
a wax works! Why don't we sit down?" The older woman glanced with a
consuming anxiety at Isabella, and nodded violently toward an exit,
"It's a quarter after seven," she said in a swift aside. Isabella,
correctly disposed on a chair of muffled and mysterious line, resolutely
ignored the appeal.
"I didn't suppose you'd be in the city," she addressed Mariana; "I read
in the paper that you had gone to Watch Hill with Mrs. Ledyard B.
Starr."
"You can see that I'm back," Mariana smiled. "The family, of course, are
at Andalusia, but we have all been in town the past days. I am really
staying with Howat at Shadrach."
"The former location of Shadrach Furnace, I believe," Byron Polder
stated. "Now in ruins." Howat Penny accurately gathered that the other
inferred the collapse not only of the Furnace. He secured the single
glass in his eye and looked deliberately around. Isabella watched him
with a tense interest. Mrs. Polder gave a short, perturbed giggle. "Just
like George Arliss," she told her son. James Polder, on the edge of a
chair, was twitching with repressed uneasiness; he frowned
antagonistically and then gazed appealingly at Mariana. "I have been
introduced to your cousin, Miss Provost," Isabella again took up her
social thread. "A dear friend of mine, a talented actress, gave a
recitation at Miss Provost's request, for suffrage."
"Eliza's splendid," Mariana pronounced.
"Peter Jannan Provost's daughter," Byron Polder added fully. But his
voice indicated that even more, darkly unfavourable, might be revealed.
"Miss Provost has been under arrest." Damn the solemn ass, Howat Penny
thought. "She's been in the jug twice now," Mariana went on cheerfully;
"Kingsfrere had to put up a bond the last time." Mrs. Polder was rapidly
regaining her ease. "Wasn't her mamma scared?" she inquired. "I'd go on
if Isabella was taken up."
"Imagine Isabella!" Jim Polder exploded. "It's quite the thing," that
individual asserted. "Isabella," her mother declared, "it is twenty-five
past seven. I wish you'd go out and see where dinner is." She rose with
an expression of mingled surprise and pain. "Really, mother," she said,
"that is an extraordinary request." Her brother snorted. There was a
sudden muffled clamour of chimes from below, and Mrs. Polder gave a sigh
of relief. "I didn't want it spoiled," she explained, descending; "Jim
would be wild after all his eagerness to have things nice."
The dining room, resembling all the interior, was long and narrow, and
had a high ceiling in varnished light wood. Byron Polder faced his wife
at the opposite end of the table. Howat Penny sat beside Mariana, with
Jim Polder across; Isabella was on her mother's right; and a waiting
place was filled by a dark, surprisingly beautiful girl. "This is Kate,"
Mrs. Polder said proudly. Howat thought he had not seen such a handsome
female for years. She wore a ruffled, transparent crêpe de Chine waist
that clung in frank curves to full, graceful shoulders; her hair was a
lustrous, black coil, and she had sultry, topaz eyes and a mouth
drooping like her father's, but more warmly bowed. Kate Polder met the
direct pleasure of his inspection with a privately conveyed admission
that she understood and subscribed to it. Here, at last, was a girl up
to the standard of old days, the divinity of Scalchi herself. She would
have created a sensation in Delmonico's, the real Delmonico's. Gary and
the Colonel--
"We think they're elegant," Mrs. Polder's voice broke in on his revery.
He looked up and saw a great fish on a huge platter before his host, a
fish in surprising semblance to life, had it not been for the rosettes
of lemon, the green bed, which surrounded it. "Gracious, no," she
answered Mariana's query; "we don't do it home. Mr. Polder has them sent
from a Rathskeller down town. He'll make a meal off one." The latter was
plainly chagrined at this light thrown on his petty appetites. He
assumed an air of complete detachment in the portioning of the dish;
but, at the same time, managed to supply himself liberally. The
conversation was sporadic. Howat Penny found the dinner lavish, and
divided his attention between it and Kate Polder. James and Mariana
addressed general remarks to the table at succeeding intervals. Mr.
Polder gloomed, and Isabella went through the gestures, the accents, of
the occasion with utter correctness. Howat studied Mariana, but he was
unable to discover her thoughts; she was smiling and cordial; and
apologized for losing her slipper. "I always do," she explained. James
Polder hastily rose, and came around to assist her. The dinner was at an
end, and she stood with a slim, silken foot outheld for him to replace
the fragile object of search.
They reassembled above, and Mrs. Polder suggested music. "My son says
you are very fond of good music," she addressed Howat Penny. "I can tell
you it is a lovely taste. We have the prettiest records that come.
Isabella, put on _Hark, Hark, the Lark_." She obediently rose, and,
revolving the handle of the talking machine, fixed the grooved, rubber
disk and needle. Howat listened with a stony countenance to the ensuing
strains. Such instruments were his particular detestation. Mrs. Polder
waved her hand dreamily. "Now," she said, "the _Sextette_, and _The End
of a Perfect Day_. No, Mr. Penny would like to hear _Salome_, I'm sure,
with all those cymbals and creepy Eastern tunes." An orgy of sound
followed, applauded--perversely, he was certain--by Mariana. James, he
saw, was as uneasy as himself; but for a totally different reason. He
gazed at Mariana with a fierce devotion patent to the most casual eye;
his expression was tormented with concern and longing.
"When do you return to Harrisburg?" Byron Polder inquired. "My son," he
went on to Howat Penny, "is a practical iron man. I say iron, although
that is no longer the phrase, because of natural associations. The
present system of the manufacture of steel, as you doubtless know,
evolved from the old Ironmasters, of whose blood James has a generous
share. We look to him to re-establish, er--a departed importance. I need
say no more." His women's anxiety at this trend of speech became
painful. "Play a right lively piece," Mrs. Polder interjected, and an
intolerable cacophony of banjoes followed, making conversation futile.
The evening, Howat Penny felt, was a considerable success; by heaven,
Mariana would never get herself into this! Byron Polder's innuendoes
must have annoyed her nicely. When the mechanical disturbance ceased,
Mrs. Polder said, "I believe that's the bell." Evidently she had been
correct, for, immediately after, a young woman with bright gold hair,
and a mobile, pink countenance unceremoniously entered the room. "Oh!"
she exclaimed, in an instinctively statuesque surprise; "I didn't know
you were entertaining company."
"Come right in, Harriet," Mrs. Polder heartily proclaimed. "Miss Jannan,
Mr. Penny, this is Isabella's friend, Harriet de Barry, a near neighbour
and a sweet girl. She's an actress, too; understudies Vivian Blane; and
is better, lots say, than the lead."
Harriet de Barry made a comprehensive gesture. "I wanted to say good-bye
to you all," she announced. "I am going on tour. Leave at midnight. Just
had a wire from Mrs. Blane." There were polite Polder exclamations,
regret, congratulations; through which the son of the house moodily
gazed at the carpet. "Haven't you anything to say to Hatty?" his mother
demanded. "And after all the passes she sent you." Howat Penny saw
Mariana's gaze rest swiftly on the latest comer's obvious good looks;
and the scrutiny, he was certain, held a cold feminine appraisal. As
they descended to leave Mariana lingered on the stairs with Jim. The
latter closed the door of the public motor with a low, intense mutter;
and, moving away, Howat Penny lit a cigarette with a breath of audible
relief.
"I don't know which I detest most," Mariana declared viciously, "you or
myself."
"You might include that fish," he added plaintively. She gazed at him in
cold contempt, with an ugly, protruding lip. Nothing else was said until
they were in the opened room at the Jannans. Mariana flung herself on a
broad divan, with her narrowed gaze fixed on the points of her slippers.
"Comfortable, isn't it," she addressed him; "this feeling of
superiority?" He placidly nodded, inwardly highly pleased. "I wish I'd
married Jim the first week I knew him, without trying to be so dam'
admirable. Howat, what is it that makes people what they are, and
aren't?" It was, he told her, difficult to express; but it had to do
with inherited associations. "Mrs. Polder is as kind as possible," she
asserted; "and I could see that you were absorbed in Kate."
"Really, Mariana," he protested, "at times you are a little rough. She
is a very fine girl; in fact, reminds me of Scalchi. Old Byron, though,
what--a regular catafalque!" A blundering step mounted to the stair;
Kingsfrere entered and stood wavering and concerned, the collar wilted
and a gaiter missing. "Ought to do something about the front door," he
asserted; "frightful condition, no paint; and full of splinters. Very
plump splinters," he specified, examining a hand. Mariana surveyed him
coolly, thoroughly. "Sweet, isn't he?" she remarked. "Kingsfrere Gilbert
Todd Jannan."
"That's absolutely all," that individual assured her. "Except if you
want to add Sturgeon; some do. Hullow, Howat! Grand old boy, Howat," he
told her. "But if he says I'm drunk, I will tell you one of Bundy's
stories about him. This--this elegant deception tremendous noise with
the song birds." He sat abruptly on a providentially convenient chair.
There, limply, he hiccoughed. "Sweet," Mariana repeated. Kingsfrere
finally rose, and, with a friendly wave, wandered from the room.
"It was good of you to take me, Howat," she told him wearily. "Although,
now, I can see that you went willingly enough. You thought it would cure
me. But of what, Howat--of love? Of a feeling that, perhaps, I'd found a
reason for living?"
A decidedly uncomfortable feeling, doubt, invaded him. He had an
unjustified sense of meddling, of blundering into a paramount situation
to which he lacked the key. He had done nothing debatable, he assured
himself; Mariana's inherent, well--prejudices, couldn't be charged to
him. In the room where he was to sleep the uneasiness followed him. She
was his greatest, his only concern. Howat Penny reviewed his desire for
her, his preference for a Mariana untouched by the common surge of
living. He recalled the discontent, the feeling of sterility, that had
lately possessed him; the suspicion that his life had been in vain. All
his philosophy, his accumulated convictions, were involved; and, tie in
hand, he sat endeavouring to pierce the confusion of his ideas.
He was conscious of a slow change gathering within him; and, in itself,
that consciousness was disturbing. It had a vaguely dark, chill aspect.
He shivered, in the room super-heated by summer; his blood ran thinner
and cold. Howat Penny had a sudden, startling sense of his utter
loneliness; there was absolutely no one, now, to whom he could turn for
the understanding born of long and intimately affectionate association.
Mariana was lost to him in her own poignant affair ... No children. So
many, so much, dead. His countenance, however, grew firm with the
determination that age should not find him a coward. He had always been
bitterly contemptuous of the men that, surfeiting their appetites,
showed at the impotent last a cheap repentance. But he had done nothing
pointedly wrong; he had--the inversion repeated itself--done nothing.