sure. His conscious mind probably asserts itself, now and then. The
unconscious--I really can’t say. Still, before you and Mr. Walling
came he spoke in Swedish several times. And that’s the unconscious. He
forgot his Swedish years ago. Been in this country ever since eighteen
sixty-eight. But he spoke Swedish quite correctly and very fast. I’m a
Swede. It surprised me.”
“Indeed,” said Olive and shivered before his science, cool, weary, not
much interested.
The doctor looked at his watch, murmured, “Twelve thirty,” and tossed
his cigarette in the fire. He observed, “But the old gentleman’s in
no pain. The reversion’s very interesting. He was talking to some
one about Augustin Daly. Very interesting.” The clipped, brisk voice
denied the least interest. The doctor went from the library as Olive
heard wheels halt outside. This couldn’t be Gurdy. She looked through a
window and recognized her maid paying a taxicab driver. The black and
yellow taxicab trembled behind a car entirely black and windowless; the
undertaker awaited Carlson’s body. Olive drew the curtains across the
glass, shook herself and went down to speak with her maid.
“Margot hadn’t come back from her dinner when you came away, Lane?”
“No, m’lady. Such a noosance getting the luggage to the station, down
there.... Might I have some tea in your pantry, Mr. Collins?” the woman
asked Mark’s butler as Olive turned away. These two would sit in the
butler’s pantry drinking tea and discussing deaths. Olive went up the
soft stairs and into Carlson’s bedroom behind the library. She entered
an immutable group. The two nurses sat in a corner. The doctor examined
one of the framed, old photographs that pallidly gleamed on the walls
made brown by the lowered light. Mark stood with his hands clutching
the white bedfoot. His black seemed to rise supernatural from the
floor. He was taller, thinner. He glared at the stretched length of his
patron. To Olive the dying man appeared more like an exhumed Pharaoh
than ever. The yellow head was unchanged. She had a dizzy, picturesque
fancy that his eyes might open, that he might speak in some unknown,
sonorous dialect of the Nile. As she dropped a hand beside Mark’s
fingers on the rail the old man spoke without breath in a sound of torn
fabric yet with an airy, human amusement. “All right, Mister Caz’nove.
Don’t git flustered. I’ll tell Miss Morris.”
Mark writhed. The plastron of his shirt crackled. He gripped Olive’s
arm and drew her from the room. In the hall he panted, “Augustin
Daly’s prompter--a Frenchman--I guess he meant Clara Morris.” But in
the cooler hall, away from the insufferable bed, he was ashamed. This
was bad behaviour, unmanly, ridiculous. He smiled timidly at Olive who
suddenly put her hands on his face and kissed him.
“I talked to Gurdy. He’ll be here as soon as he can, dear.”
“Thanks. Got to go back.” Mark sighed, “You go to bed, though.”
“No.”
Mark didn’t want her to go to bed. He smiled and went back to his
watch. Odious time passed. The smell of cigarettes crept from the
walls and the furniture. Carlson had smoked many thousands here. One
of the nurses clicked a string of beads. The tiny cross was silver and
lustrous as it swung. The beads seemed amethyst. What good did the
woman think she was doing? But she had liked Carlson. She was praying
for his soul and Carlson thought he had a soul. Let her pray. The
amethyst flicker soothed Mark, took his eyes from the bed. The voice
surprised him with his name.
“Mark.”
“Yessir.”
“It’s a poor house. Rain....”
Mark’s throat was full of dry fire. He gripped the rail, waiting. But
the voice did not come again. After four the doctor nodded. One nurse
yawned. The Irishwoman fell gently on her knees under the large, signed
photograph of Ada Rehan in the frilled, insolent dress of Lady Teazle.
Olive led Mark quickly from the room into the library. He pressed his
hands on his eyes. He wouldn’t cry over this. Carlson had too often
called him a crybaby, a big calf.
“Dear Mark.”
“Oh ... can’t be helped.--God, I did want him to see the Walling! Won’t
be any funeral. Body goes straight to Sweden.... He’s left Gurdy and
Margot some money.... Awful kindhearted.... Lot of old down and out
actors’d come here. Gave ’em money. Awful kind to me.... No reason.”
His husky speech made a chant for his old friend. Olive’s eyes filled.
He was childish in his woe, charming. She wished that he’d weep so she
could fondle the red hair on her shoulder. This would hurt his pleasure
in the new theatre and the splendid play. The butler came in after the
heavy, descending motion of men on the stairs was over and the dull
wheels had rolled off from the curb. He brought a small, gold capped
bottle and two glasses on his tray.
“Doctor Lundquist said to bring this up, sir.”
The champagne whispered delicately in the glasses and washed down the
muffling, dry taste from Mark’s tongue. He smiled at Olive and said,
“Dunno what I’d have done without you bein’ here.” What a brave woman!
Her daughter had died swiftly of pneumonia before Olive could reach
her. Her son had been blown to pieces.
“I’m glad Gurdy didn’t get here,” she said, “He’s seen quite enough of
death and he was fond of Mr. Carlson.”
“Of course. Fonder than Margot was. Bein’ a man, though, he never
showed it so much.”
Olive hoped that Margot would never tell him how she disliked the old
man’s coarseness, his manifold derisions. She said, “But go to bed,
Mark. You really should. These things strain one.”
“Awful. They packed me off to Aunt Edith’s when mamma died. First time
I ever saw any one I liked.... Frohman was drowned. Clyde Fitch died in
France. Good night, Olive.”
He wished she would kiss him again and watched her pass up to her
rooms. Then he went to bed, without thinking, and slept. He slept
soundly and woke slowly into warm, luxurious sun that mottled the blue
quilt. He said, “Hello, brother,” to Gurdy who leaned on the dresser
between the windows, solemn and grieved in a dark suit, his pale hair
ruffled and gay with light. Gurdy must be cheered up. “Well, you
missed it. He didn’t have a pain. When did you get here?”
“A while ago. I--dad’s here.”
“Eddie? Well, that’s good of him.”
Bernamer came about the bed and dropped a hand on Mark’s chest. He said
nothing, but grinned and sat down. His seemly clothes and cropped head
made him amazingly like Gurdy. Mark beamed at both of them. “Had your
breakfast?”
“Hell, yes,” said Bernamer, “Had two. Got some coffee in Philadelphia
and then Lady Ilden made us eat somethin’ when we got here.”
Mark swung out of bed and ordered Gurdy, “Tell ’em to bring me up some
coffee in the library, sonny. Oh, Margot ain’t got here?”
“Yes, she’s here,” said Gurdy and quickly left the room.
The sun filled his showerbath. Mark cheered further, babbled to his
brother-in-law while he shaved and wondered what Bernamer had talked
about to Olive at breakfast.
“Oh, we just talked,” said the farmer, curtly, “Nice kind of woman.”
He leaned in the door of the bathroom and rolled a cigarette in his
big, shapely hands. Now that he had five hired men his hands were
softer and not so thick. A fine, quiet man, full of sense.
“Awful good of you to come up, Eddie. I ain’t makin’ a fool of myself.
The old man was eighty. It’s a wonder he lasted as long.”
“Better get some coffee in you, bud. You look run down.”
“Been workin’ like a horse, Eddie.”
Mark knotted his tie, took Bernamer’s arm and hugged it a little,
walking into the library. Olive dropped a newspaper and told him he
looked “gorgeous” in a weary voice, then poured coffee into his cup on
the low stand by a large chair close to the fire. She was smoking. The
vapour didn’t hide yellowish hollows about her eyes.
“No, I didn’t sleep well, old man. Rather fagged.”
“We waked you up pretty early,” said Bernamer, “Sit down, bud, and
drink your coffee.”
Mark lounged in the deep chair. Bernamer asked Olive if she had liked
Washington but stood patting Mark’s shoulder and rather troubled the
drinking of coffee. Gurdy came down the blue rug with some mail.
“Look and see if there’s anything important, sonny. Probably ain’t....
Hello, sister!”
Margot roamed down the library in a black dress. But she paused yards
from his stretched hand and frowned incomprehensibly. Gurdy turned at
the desk with a letter against his grey coat. Margot said, “I suppose
Gurdy’s told you.”
Gurdy thrust his jaw up toward the ceiling. Olive rose with a flat,
rasping “Margot” and Bernamer hissed, his fingers tight on Mark’s
shoulder. Mark set down his coffee cup and looked at them all.
“Oh, no one’s said anything?” Margot put a knee on a small chair and
stroked the velvet back. “Well, we’d better get it over. I was turned
out of the hotel in Philadelphia last--”
“Shut up,” said Bernamer, “Shut your mouth!”
She went on, staring at Mark, “I’m going to marry him as soon as he
can get a divorce, dad.... No use trying to lie about it. I belong to
Cosmo and--and that’s all.” She passed a hand over her mouth. Then her
bright slippers twinkled as she walked out of the room. Mark blinked
after her. Something had happened. He looked up at Bernamer whose face
was rocky, meaningless. Gurdy ran to Mark and spoke in gasps, beating a
fist on his hip.
“Russell called me at the farm about two--Dad went down with me.--We
talked to the manager--We bribed him.--Russell gave the hotel detective
a check for a thousand dollars--”
“I guess they’ll keep their mouths shut,” said Bernamer, “Told
’em they’d each get another check in six months if we didn’t hear
nothin’.--Now it ain’t so bad, bud. Margot says this feller can get a
divorce from Cora Boyle--He was gone and we didn’t see him. It might be
worse.”
“Stop hittin’ your leg, Gurd. You’ll hurt yourself,” said Mark.
He rose and began to walk up and down the tiles of the hearth. One of
his hands patted the front of his coat. His face was empty. He seemed
wonderfully thin. Olive watched him in terror of a cry. Gurdy and his
father drew off against the shelves of still books. Bernamer commenced
rolling a cigarette. After a while Mark said, “It’s the way I was
brought up, Olive.”
“Oh, Mark, try to--to see her point of view. She loved him. She sees
something we don’t--It’s--”
“Sure. That’s so.--Oh, you’re right.”
He walked on, aware of them watching, helpless. Things passed and
turned in his head. He was being silly, old-fashioned. Ought to collect
himself. Ought to do something for Gurdy who wouldn’t have her, now.
Get the boy something to do. Get his mind off it. “Call the office,
sonny. Tell them to close ‘Todgers Intrudes.’ Give the company two
weeks’ pay. Have Hamlin write checks--Didn’t try to thrash this Rand,
did you?”
“We didn’t see him. He’d gone.”
“That’s good. Call the office.”
The boy went to the telephone, far off on its desk and began to talk
evenly. Mark stumbled over to Bernamer and mumbled, “Keep him busy.
Awful jolt for him, Eddie. Takes it fine.”
“He ain’t in love with her, bud.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Set down, bud. Better drink--”
“No.--Ain’t been any saint, myself. Girls are different.--Maybe he’s a
nice fellow.--Took it nice about the play being closed.--I’m all right,
Olive. Sort of a shock.”
He walked on. Then he was too tired to walk and Bernamer made him sit
in the chair by the hearth. He stared at the blue rug and it seemed
to clear his head. He became immobile, watching a white thread. The
world centred on this wriggle of white on the blue down. He lapsed into
dullness, knowing that Gurdy stood close to him. He should think of
things to say, consolations. The boy must be in tortures. He was dull,
empty.
Bernamer beckoned Olive. They went out of the library and the farmer
shut the door without jarring the silver handle. Olive found herself
dizzy. She said, “You have something to--”
“Let’s get downstairs where I can smoke. You’re sick. This is as bad on
you--”
He helped her downstairs into the drawing room and was gone, came back
with water in which she tasted brandy. The big man lit his cigarette
and spoke in a drawl like Mark’s but heavier.
“I don’t understand this business. The little fool says she’s been in
love with this feller a long time--a couple of years. He ain’t made
love to her ’til last night. Well?”
“I don’t understand it any more than do you. I’m--horrified. I knew she
admired his acting. He’s handsome. Very handsome.”
The man nodded and his blue eyes were gentle on her. He drawled, “Why
the hell didn’t he stay and face the music? The manager told him to get
out. Mr. Russell says he just packed up and left.--I can’t make this
out. Margot had Mr. Russell waked up because she hadn’t any money to
come home with.”
“I must talk to her.... Why did we leave her there?”
“You thought she’d got sense enough to know better. It ain’t your
fault. I got to go home because I don’t want the family to know about
this. But there’s something damn funny in it.--Will you please get it
out of Mark’s head that Gurdy’s in love with that girl? Make him feel
better.”
“I’ll do all I can.”
He said in scorn, “She ain’t worth fussin’ with,” and held the door
open. Olive shivered, passing the library where there was no sound.
She climbed to Margot’s room and found the girl sitting on the edge of
the sunny bed, still, smiling.
“You must be very tired, darling.”
The red lips a little parted. Margot said, “Oh ... no,” in a soft
whisper. The faint noise died in the sun like the passage of a moth.
Olive stood fixed before the sleek tranquillity of the black hair
and the contented face. The restless stirring was gone. She smiled
in beautiful contentment. The gold cord which was the girdle of this
velvet gown hung brilliant and rich about the straight body. The sunny
room made a shell of colour for the figure. The hair had a dazzling
margin against the windows. She was untroubled, happy.
Olive dragged at her own girdle, biting her lips. She asked, “Where is
Mr. Rand, dear?”
“He was coming to New York today,” Margot said in the same voice.
She lifted an end of the trailing gold, then let it fall. She seemed
asleep, lost in a visible dream. But she roused and spoke, “He’s loved
me ever so long, Olive. I didn’t know....” and was still again. Olive
choked before this happiness, turned and went down the stairs. There
was no use in artifice, reasoning. Mark must accept what was done.
His good sense would come back, the shock would ease into regret. His
convention was outraged, of course. It was dreadful to see him in
pain. Olive thrust back her own pain, a vast and weary disappointment.
This wasn’t the man for the girl. This was senseless. She entered the
library and Mark raised his face from the long stare at the floor,
dreading Margot.
“Oh,” he said, “it ain’t your fault, Olive. Don’t cry.--I’m bein’ a
fool.”
He rose and walked again, began a circular tramp about the room. He
passed through a whispering tunnel, completely black. He was marching
in the dark and knew that Olive and Gurdy watched him, that Bernamer
came into the room with his hat in a hand. Yet he walked in blackness.
He would go mad of this! She had lied to him. She had thrown herself
to a married man. Well, girls did that. Things were changing. People
did queer things. He was jealous for Gurdy, that was the trouble. He
had wanted her married to Gurdy. She had said such good things of
Gurdy.--All this time she’d been lying. She was in love with this pink,
married actor.--The talk would roll among the restaurants, in the
offices. People would laugh. Awful names! All the other noises would
slacken and fail in this whispering. They would sneer when the Walling
opened.--She couldn’t care anything for him or she wouldn’t have lied.
Gurdy didn’t lie. Mark tore himself out of the black whispering and
went to take Gurdy’s sleeve.
“Don’t you mind, sonny. She--she’d ought to have told you she liked
this--”
“Oh, Mark, I don’t care about her.”
“All right to say that--but don’t you mind.”
Bernamer came across the room and took Mark in his arms. He said, “Now,
bud, don’t upset yourself. I got to go home. The fam’ly don’t know
nothin’. I shan’t say a word.--What you do is this. Get hold of Cora
Boyle and give her money to let this feller divorce her, see? That’ll
save talk and trouble.”
“That’s right, Eddie. Yes, good idea.”
Bernamer hugged him and left the room. Mark’s head cleared. There was
no black tunnel. Eddie was right. He must make the best of this. It
could be hushed up. Women like Cora needed money for clothes. He nodded
to Gurdy, “You’ll never be any smarter than your dad, son. Ain’t he a
nice fellow, Olive?”
“Of course, dear.”
“And I’m bein’ a fool. I know it. Only there’s lots of men that feel
like I do about these kind of things.--One o’clock.--You and Gurdy have
some lunch.”
Olive said, “Mark, would you like to talk to her?”
He cried, “No!--I--might say something. You folks go have lunch.” They
went away and at once he wanted them back, walked the floor with
his hands clenched. He was afraid that Margot might come in, now. He
dreaded seeing her. He wished her out of the house and away. The wish
bit him. He had been fooled. He had to love her, help her. Couldn’t she
go away? To the farm, where no one knew and--But they might find out.
They would shrink from her as bad. They weren’t knowing and tolerant
like Bernamer. He mustn’t stop loving her or let her see that he was
hurt. Nothing eased him. The afternoon lagged along. Gurdy played the
piano downstairs. Gurdy and Olive drifted in, out, consoling him. It
was sunset. A van full of boxes went slowly past the house and the
shadows on the pine were amethyst. Some friend of Gurdy’s came calling
in a yellow, low car that turned ochre as the light failed. Its lamps
made ovals on the street as it drove away.--He mustn’t let this sour
the boy.--In the darker room the whispering began again. It might be
the blood in his ears. Gurdy brought him up dinner and white wine.
Olive came afterwards and tried to make him eat, lit all the soft
lamps. He drank some wine and smoked a cigarette.
“Gurdy takes it well, doesn’t he?”
“Perhaps he didn’t care as much as you think, Mark.”
Mark laughed, “Awful cool outside. No, he’s bein’ brave to--cheer me
up. And I feel better, honest.... My God, Olive, if that woman wants to
make a scandal!”
“Don’t think of it, Mark.”
He was tired of thinking. He said, “I’ll try not to,” and smiled at
Gurdy coming in. But he now thought of Cora Boyle.--Perhaps she liked
Rand, wouldn’t give him up. He examined the rosy face, the trim grey
suits. Yellow haired. Perhaps these dark women liked yellow haired men
best. He was afraid of Cora. She could lie to her friends and make
things worse. He stared at a lamp a long time and his mind fell dull
again.
“Mark, it’s after ten. Go to bed,” said Olive, “Please, old man.”
“You folks go.--Not sleepy.”
They left him. He was lonely. He sat by the hearth and lit a cigarette.
Above him there was a slow noise of Gurdy strolling about, getting
undressed. The ripple of little sounds kept Mark company, then deserted
him. Mark shuddered in the peace of the lit room. Something worse would
happen. What? He must save Gurdy more pain. The boy was too young for
this. Mark’s throat ached suddenly and he began to weep, spent in his
chair. The lamps of the room swelled like luminous pearls melting and
through the mist came Gurdy in white pyjamas that flapped.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Mark! Bed!”
“I’m scared,” said Mark, gulping, “Gurd, I’m scared of Cora. Suppose
she likes him? Suppose she won’t let go of him? She’s bad tempered,
sonny. You don’t know her.--It’s the talk--the talk. People ain’t as
broad minded as you and Olive think. The women, especially.--And she’s
a young girl.... It ain’t like she was one of these women that’ve been
divorced three or four times.... If Cora makes a fuss--”
Gurdy pulled him up out of the chair and gently shook him. “You must
come to bed.”
“All right.--Making a fool of myself.... Only, you’re in love with her.
It’s hard on you.”
“I’m not in love with her, Mark!”
Mark thought this a splendid sort of lie but he shivered. “Somethin’
else might happen. I feel.... Come and get me in bed, son.”
He became limply ashamed of himself. Gurdy helped him to strip and he
found the boy buttoning his jacket for him as he sat on the edge of
his bed. He watched the long, wiry fingers at work on the buttons and
the holes of the blue silk. The cold linen of the pillow caressed his
neck. He smiled, wanting Gurdy to stay there until he fell asleep. The
doorbell rang with a steady and ripping insistence.
“Damn,” said Gurdy and went into the hall where the cold air mounting
from the opened door chilled his bare feet. The butler ascended like a
shadow on the white wainscot.
“A Mr. Fuller, sir.”
“He can’t see Mr. Walling. He’s asleep.”
“He says he must see Mr. Walling, Mr. Gurdy.” The butler held out
his salver. Gurdy read the card, Henry Fuller. Fuller and Marcovicz,
Attorneys at Law. Under the engraving was pencilled, “For Miss Boyle.”
Gurdy walked down the stairs into the drawing room. A burly man in a
furred coat was standing by the Siennese cabinet running a thumb over
the smooth panel of its little door. The light made his grey hair
glisten slickly. He turned a broad, pleasing face on Gurdy and nodded.
“Sorry to get ’round here so late at night. Pretty important I should
see Mr. Walling right away.”
“That’s absolutely impossible. He’s ill and in bed. I’m--”
“Oh ... you’re his nephew, ain’t you? Mister--Bernamer?”
“Yes.”
The man nodded and undid his coat. He wore a dinner jacket with a
fluted shirt. Gay stones were blue in the soft pleats of the bosom.
He stated, “I’m from Miss Boyle--legal representative. You tell Mr.
Walling that Miss Boyle’s willing to not bring an action against Miss
Walling--Understand what I mean?”
“Yes.”
The lawyer continued his air of genial discretion, getting a paper
from some pocket. “Miss Boyle’s willing to overlook this business in
Philadelphia and not sue her husban’ or Miss Walling provided that
this play’s brought into New York by New Year’s Day and Mr. Rand is
featured--name in electric lights and so on. Soon as the play’s opened
in New York she’ll live with her husban’ again. Condonation, see? And--”
“Blackmail,” said Gurdy.
The genial man went on, “I’ve got a memorandum, here. All Mr. Walling’s
got to do is sign it. I’ll read it. N’York City, November eighteenth,
nineteen hundred nineteen. My dear Miss Boyle, In pursuance of our
agreement I promise you that ‘Todgers Intrudes’ will be presented in
New York City before January first, nineteen twenty and that Mr. Rand
will be featured in the usual manner. Yours very truly.--All he has to
do is to put his name to that and there you are.”
Gurdy hated this fellow. He rubbed a foot on the carpet and sighed,
then asked, “What’s the good of this? It’s a bad play. It’ll fail. Why
does Miss Boyle want this?”
“Don’t ask me. Yes, I hear it’s a bum show. I guess she wants her
husban’ featured. I don’t know.”
“If Mark--if Mr. Walling won’t sign this?”
“Then Miss Boyle’ll bring her action in the morning. There’s no
defence, either, Mr. Bernamer. Miss Boyle’s got a written statement
from Mr. Rand and testimony from his valet.”
Gurdy was sick, now. An unconquerable tremor made the muscles of his
back rigid. It was a trap. Margot was caught in a trap. He said,
“Blackmail.”
“No. Miss Boyle’s foregoin’ a legal right to bring her action. She
ain’t askin’ a cent of money. There’s lots of ladies wouldn’t be so
easy to settle with. Better see what Mr. Walling says, hadn’t you?”
For a second Gurdy stood hopeless. Then he said, “It’s a dirty trick,”
and took the paper. But he should keep cool. He smiled and inquired,
“You say you’ve got a written statement from Mr. Rand--”
“Got a copy with me. Like to read it?”
Gurdy glanced at the transparent typed sheet. He shook his head and
walked up stairs. Mark picked up the note as Gurdy dropped it on the
blue quilt, read it frowning. Then he flushed and his mouth contracted
hideously. He whispered, “Old trick! Happens all the time. I ought to
have known what’d happen.... Gimme a pen, sonny.” He signed his full
name, Mark Henderson Walling. There couldn’t be any more pain, after
this. He shut his eyes and fell through warm darkness. He could not
sleep but he must rest. He slept.