Yet her marriage had realized in almost every particular what she
had--so much younger--planned. The early suggestion, becoming through
constant reiteration a part of her knowledge, had been followed and
accomplished; and, as well, her later needs were served. Linda told
herself that, in a world where a very great deal was muddled, she had
been unusually fortunate. And this made her angry at her pervading lack
of interest in whatever she had obtained.
Other women, she observed, obviously less fortunate than she, were
volubly and warmly absorbed in any number of engagements and pleasures;
she continually heard them, Arnaud's connections--the whole superior
society, eternally and vigorously discussing servants and bridge, family
and cotillions, indiscretions and charities. These seemed enough for
them; their lives were filled, satisfied, extraordinarily busy. Linda,
for the most part, had but little to do. Her servants, managed with
remote exactness, gave no trouble; she had an excellent woman for the
children; her dress presented no new points of anxiety nor departure ...
she was, in short, Arnaud admitted, perfectly efficient. She disposed of
such details mechanically, almost impatiently, and was contemptuous, no
envious, of the women whose demands they contented.
At the dinners, the balls, to which Arnaud's sense of obligation both
to family and her took them against his inclination, it was the
same--everyone, it appeared to Linda, was flushed with an intentness she
could not share. Men, she found, some of them extremely pleasant, still
made adroit and reassuring efforts for her favor; the air here, she
discovered, was even freer than the bravado of her earlier surroundings.
This love-making didn't disturb her--it was, ultimately, the men who
were fretted--indeed, she had rather hoped that it would bring her the
relief she lacked.
But again the observations and speculation of her mature childhood, what
she had heard revealed in the most skillful feminine dissections, had
cleared her understanding to a point that made the advances of hopeful
men quite entertainingly obvious. Their method was appallingly similar
and monotonous. She liked, rather than not, the younger ones, whose
confidence that their passion was something new on earth at times
refreshed her; but the navigated materialism of greater experience
finally became distasteful. She discussed this sharply with Arnaud:
“You simply can't help believing that most women are complete idiots.”
“You haven't said much more for men.”
“The whole thing is too silly! Why is it, Arnaud? It ought to be
impressive and sweep you off your feet, up--”
“Instead of merely behind some rented palms,” he added. “But I must say,
Linda, that you are not a very highly qualified judge of sentiment.”
He pronounced this equably, but she was conscious of the presence of an
injury in his voice. She was a little weary at being eternally condemned
for what she couldn't help. Any failure was as much Arnaud Hallet's as
hers; he had had his opportunity, all that for which he had implored
her. Her thoughts returned to Dodge Pleydon. April was well advanced,
and he had written that he'd be back and see them in the spring. Linda
listened to her heart but it was unhastened by a beat. She would be very
glad to have him at hand, in her life again, of course.
Then the direction of her mind veered--what did he still think of her?
Probably he had altogether recovered from his love for her. It had been
a warm day, and Arnaud had opened a window; but now she was aware of a
cold air on her shoulder and she asked him abruptly to lower the sash.
Linda remembered, with a lingering sense of triumph, the Susanna Noda
whom Dodge had left at a party for her. There had been a great many
Susannas in his life; the reason for this was the absence of any
overwhelming single influence. It might be that now--he had written of
the change in the subjects of his work--such a guide had come into his
existence. She hoped she had. Yet, in view of the announced silliness of
women, she didn't want him to be cheaply deluded.
He was an extremely human man.
But she, Linda, it seemed, was an inhuman woman. The days ran into weeks
that added another month to spring; a June advanced sultry with heat;
and, suddenly as usual, a maid at the door of her room announced
Pleydon. It was five o'clock in the afternoon, she had to dress, and she
sent him a message that he mustn't expect her in a hurry. She paused in
her deliberate preparations for a long thoughtful gaze into a mirror;
there was not yet a shadow on her face, the trace of a line at her eyes.
The sharp smooth turning and absolute whiteness of her bare shoulders
were flawless.
At first it appeared to Linda that he, too, had not changed. They were
in the library opening into the dining-room, a space shut against the
sun by the Venetian blinds, and faintly scented by a bowl of early tea
roses. He appeared the same--large and informally clad in gray flannels,
with aggressive features and sensitive strong hands. He was quiet but
plainly happy to be with her again and sat leaning forward on his knees,
watching her intently as she chose a seat.
Then it slowly dawned on her that he had changed, yes--tragically.
Pleydon, in every way, was years older. His voice, less arbitrary,
had new depths of questioning, his mouth was more repressed, his face
notably sparer of flesh. He was immediately aware of the result of her
scrutiny. “I have been working like a fool,” he explained. “A breath of
sickness, too, four years ago in Soochow. One of the damnable Asiatic
fevers that a European is supposed to be immune from. You are a miracle,
Linda. How long has it been--nearly eight years; you have two children
and Arnaud Hallet and yet you are the girl I met at Markue's. I wanted
to see you different, just a little, a trace of something that should
have happened to you. It hasn't. You're the most remarkable mother
alive.”
“If I am,” she returned, “it is not as a success, or at least for me.
Lowrie and Vigné are healthy, and happy enough; but I can't lose myself
in them, Dodge; I can't lose myself at all.”
He was quiet at this, the smoke of his cigarette climbing bluely in a
space with the aqueous stillness of a lake's depths. “The same,” he went
on after a long pause; “nothing has touched you. I ought to be relieved
but, do you know, it frightens me. You are relentless. You have no
right, at the same time, to be beautiful. I have seen a great many
celebrated women at their best moments, but you are lovelier than any.
It isn't a simple affair of proportion and features--I wish I could hold
it in a phrase, the turn of a chisel. I can't. It's deathless romance in
a bang cut blackly across heavenly blue.” He was silent again, and Linda
glad that he still found her attractive. She discovered that the misery
his presence once caused her had entirely vanished, its place taken
by an eager interest in his affairs, a lightness of spirit at the
realization that, while his love for her might have grown calm, no other
woman possessed it.
At the dinner-table she listened--cool and fresh, Arnaud complained,
in spite of the heat--to the talk of the two men. By her side Elouise
Lowrie occasionally repeated, in a voice like the faint jangle of an old
thin piano, the facts of a family connection or a commendation of the
Dodges. Arnaud really knew a surprising lot, and his conversation with
Pleydon was strung with terms completely unintelligible to her. It
developed, finally, into an argument over the treatment of the acanthus
motive in rococo ornament. France was summoned against Spain; the
architectural degrading of Italy deplored.... It amazed her that any one
could remember so much.