I
Julie consented to go out with Horace one Sunday to see the young
couple, although she was something more than reluctant. She was
conscious of being an irreproachable woman and wife, so that when she
wanted Lionel for herself, it was in a perfectly respectable way. She
really _needed_ him. Horace was forty, stout, and what this daughter of
a “Cattle King” amazingly called “bourgeois.” As a husband he had
advantages, such as money and complaisance and inferiority, but as a
playmate, he wouldn’t do at all. Lionel was required for sweetness and
light. She had always enjoyed quarrelling with him. She had liked to
humiliate him, because she had secretly looked upon him as a superior
being. She was disgusted with him for marrying.
She sat back in the limousine and talked petulantly about it to Horace.
She had, of course, made the best of herself, looked her very loveliest,
to make Lionel discontented and his wife miserable if possible. She was
in white, a white serge frock and a small white toque from which floated
a long wine-red veil. It gave her a sort of Oriental look, with her dark
skin and immense, brilliant eyes. She knew Lionel would appreciate the
effect.
“What’s the creature like?” she asked.
“Not pretty,” said Horace. “Dowdy, quiet little thing.”
“But _why_? I can’t understand it. There’s something damn queer about
it, Horace. He was crazy about that other girl, and at least she was
good-looking. How did this one get hold of him? Of course he’s an awful
fool; anyone could make a monkey of him, but still--a dowdy woman! That
_is_ a mystery! And right after his being engaged to that other one!”
“He seems very happy,” said Horace. He was determined to make the best
of this business.
“Lord!” cried Julie, “They don’t live _here_!”
The motor had stopped before a very small house of unstained shingles,
an unfinished looking little house, standing in a row of similar houses
in a quite select residential park of the cheaper sort. One knows what
that implies; the sun-baked street lined with stripling trees that give
no shade; not a fence, not a hedge, every porch occupied and public as
the sidewalk, the children in white Sunday shoes, everything glaring,
immeasurably common, and cheap, sweltering in the July sun.
“Does he really live in this hole?” she asked.
“They haven’t much money,” said Horace, apologetically.
“Then give them some, for Heaven’s sake, and get that poor boy away from
here!”
She jumped out, aware that everyone on every porch was watching her,
walked along the tiny path and up the front steps. Minnie at once opened
the door, and behind her stood Lionel.
Minnie, outwardly polite and modest, was absorbed in her inspection of
Julie; she didn’t know what she was saying, or hear a word that was said
to her for a few moments. She formed an instantaneous opinion of her,
judged her “fast” and “vulgar,” and led her into the little
sitting-room. She knew this was going to be a grave encounter; she saw
that domestic virtues would have little significance in those eyes.
“Would you like to come upstairs to take off your hat?” asked Minnie.
“No thanks,” she answered, carelessly, without turning her head. “Li,
you’ve got awfully thin. Don’t you eat enough? Have you got a good
cook?”
“I’m the cook,” said Minnie, with her wide, bright smile, “I hope I’m a
good one.”
“Rather!” cried Lionel. “She’s a wonder, Julie.”
“Is she?” said Julie. “That’s nice. I’ve never met a cook before.”
Now that was warning enough; it was a challenge and not a subtle one
either. But no one ventured to pick up her gage; certainly not Horace or
Lionel, they were terrified. Not Minnie; she was very wary of such an
adversary.
Julie’s careless glance swept the sober little figure from head to foot.
“Let’s see your doll’s house, Li,” she said. “It’s the smallest thing
I’ve ever seen.”
He got up, reluctantly. She really was a bit too--too obvious. He
thought perhaps he’d speak to her, tactfully. And yet it was so good to
see her, and her beauty and vividness, a breath from a vanished life. He
couldn’t help a feeling of kinship with her, which was not loyal to
Minnie. He saw so plainly how the house must look to her, and how Minnie
appeared. Understood what she was thinking.
He led her into the dining-room, furnished with a proper little “set” of
light oak, the stupidest sort of room, neither pretty nor comfortable.
He opened and hastily closed the door of the kitchen, which was
evidently not prepared for inspection; then he took her upstairs to see
three small bedrooms, with cheap white iron beds.
She stopped him in the doorway of the last of these distressing rooms
and put her hands on his shoulders, looking into his face with her
wonderful eyes.
“Oh, you fool of a boy!” she said, “How could you! How long do you think
you’re going to stand this!”
“Julie,” he assured her, solemnly, “I’ve never been so happy before in
my life.”
It was true. In this ugly little place, in the midst of increasing and
pressing worry over money, he had been content. He had believed that he
had returned to something simpler and better than his old life. He
didn’t recognise it as a degradation. That is indeed the Minnie method.
She had drugged him, stupefied him with a sort of low comfort. Only now,
with Julie beside him, did doubts begin to arise.
Julie stared at him.
“I don’t believe it,” she said, bluntly, “You’re not going to pretend
you’re fond of that awful dowdy little----”
“I say, Julie! You’re----”
“Be honest, then. I’m awfully sorry for you. Can’t you get a divorce or
something?”
“I’m not joking, Julie. She’s my wife, and I--really I can’t tell you
what I think of her----”
“I’ll tell you what _I_ think of her. She’s a nasty, sneaky,
hypocritical devil. I could see it at once. She’s----” Julie cast about
for an expression, “She’s like a bad nun.”
“Stop it, Julie! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Rot! _You_ ought to be ashamed of yourself, to be tricked by such a
cheap little humbug.”
They were interrupted by Horace coming upstairs in profound distress.
“Hush!” he whispered, “You can be heard!”
“What the devil do I care?” demanded Julie.
“Can’t you behave like a lady?” he asked, still in a whisper.
Her famous temper began to heat.
“A lady!” she cried, “You wouldn’t know a lady if you saw one, any of
you. A fine lot! A fat old money-grubber like you, and a grafter like
Lionel, and that slut downstairs! I certainly must be on my best
behaviour here.”
The manners acquired in the city had dropped away, revealing the older,
truer self, the violent and reckless daughter of the “Cattle King,” the
spoiled princess of a primitive community. She had plenty to say, she
put her hands on her slim hips and attacked them all with vigour,
thoroughly enjoying herself. She wanted to score off Minnie, and she
did. And Minnie had to pretend not to hear. This was the sort of woman
she couldn’t cope with, a woman she feared.
Horace tried to remonstrate.
“Shut up, Horace,” she said, briskly, “The creature’s a ----. Can’t you
see the condition she’s in, and they haven’t been married a month?”
That silenced everyone.
“Now,” she said, at last, “I’m going. Come on, Horace!”
“Not till you apologise to Lionel’s wife,” he said, weakly.
“Oh, give her a cheque,” said Julie, “that’s the kind of apology _she_
wants. Come on!”
She went out of the house like a whirlwind, with her long veil floating
behind her, and sprang into the car to wait for her husband, looking
about at the citizens rocking on their porches with her brilliant,
insolent eyes.
“Oh, come on!” she called out to Horace, who was lingering in an effort
to propitiate his hosts. “Let’s get out of this damned hole!”
She startled and shocked the entire select neighbourhood, as she had
intended. And produced the desired effect of bringing Horace out at
once. They spun away, driven by a chauffeur who couldn’t keep a grin
from his face, leaving behind them astonishment, wrath and excitement.