DOMINICK COMES HOME
Three days after the return of the Cannons, Dominick Ryan also came
home. He had answered Berny’s letter the day the Cannons left, a few
hours after that interview with the Bonanza King, in which, driven to
bay by the old man’s questions, he had torn the veil from his married
life.
After that there was a period of several hours when he sat in his room
thinking over what had happened. It seemed to him that he had played
a dastardly part. He saw himself a creature of monumental, gross
selfishness, who had cajoled a young girl, in a moment of softness
and sentiment, into an action which had done nothing but distress and
humiliate her. He, who should have been the strong one, had been weak.
It was he who should have seen how things were going; he, the married
man, who had allowed himself to feel and to yield to a love that ought
to have been hidden for ever in his own heart.
He felt that it would be a sort of expiation to go back to his wife.
That was where he belonged. Rose must never again cross his path, have
a place in his thoughts, or float, a soft beguiling image, in his
memory. He had a wife. No matter what Berny was, she was the woman he
had married. She had not deceived him. It was he who had done her a
wrong, and he owed her a reparation.
In his raw state, his nerves still thrilling with the memory of that
moment’s embrace, he saw Berny from her own point of view. He lost
the memory of the complacent mistress in the picture of the unloved
wife, on whose side there was much to be said. Morbidness colored his
vision and exaggerated his sense of culpability. If she had an ugly
temper, had it not been excited, fed and aggravated by the treatment
she had received from his family? If they had maintained a different
attitude toward her, the poor girl might have been quite a pleasant,
easy-going person. In all other ways she had been a good wife. Since
their marriage, no other man had ever won a glance from her. She had
often enough assured Dominick of that fact, and he, for his part, knew
it to be true. She had struggled to keep a comfortable home on their
small income. If she was not congenial to him--if her companionship was
growing daily more disagreeable--was it all her fault? He had known her
well before he married her, six months of the closest intimacy had
made him acquainted with every foible of her character. It was no story
of a youth beguiled and deceived by a mature woman in the unequal duel
of a drawing-room courtship.
Her letter intensified his condition of self-accusation, chafed and
irritated his soreness of shame till it became a weight of guilt. It
also stirred afresh the pity, which was the strongest feeling he had
for her. It was the tenderest, the most womanly letter, Berny had
ever written him. A note of real appeal sounded through it. She had
humiliated herself, asked his pardon, besought of him to return. As he
thought of it, the vision of her alone in the flat, bereft of friends,
dully devoid of any occupation, scornful of her old companions,
fawningly desirous of making new ones who refused to know her, smote
him with an almost sickening sense of its pitifulness. He felt sorry
for her not alone because of her position, but because of what she was,
what her own disposition had made her. She would never change, her
limitations were fixed. She would go on longing for the same flesh-pots
to the end, believing that they represented the highest and best.
Berny had realized that her letter was a skilful and moving production,
but she did not know that it was to gain a hundredfold in persuasive
power by falling on a guilty conscience. It put an end to Dominick’s
revolt, it quenched the last sparks of the mutinous rage which had
taken him to Antelope. That same afternoon in his frigid bedroom at
the hotel, he answered it. His reply was short, only a few lines. In
these he stated that he would be back on the following Saturday, the
tenderness of his injured foot making an earlier move impossible.
The letter reached Berny Friday and threw her into a state of febrile
excitement. Her deadly dread of Dominick’s returning to his family had
never quite died out. It kept recurring, sweeping in upon her in moods
of depression, and making her feel chilled and frightened. Now she knew
he was coming back to her, evidently not lovingly disposed--the letter
was too terse and cold for that--but, at any rate, he was coming home.
Once there, she would set all her wits to work, use every art of which
she was mistress, to make him forget the quarrel and enter in upon a
new era of sweet reasonableness and mutual consideration.
She set about this by cleaning the house and buying new curtains for
the sitting-room. Such purifications and garnishments would have
agreeably impressed her on a home-coming and she thought they would
Dominick. In the past year she had become much more extravagant than
she had been formerly, a characteristic which had arisen in her from a
state of rasped irritation against the restricted means to which Mrs.
Ryan’s rancor condemned her. She was quite heavily in debt to various
tradespeople; and to dressmakers and milliners she owed sums that
would have astounded her husband had he known of them. This did not
prevent her from still further celebrating his return by ordering a new
dress in which to greet him and a new hat to wear the first time they
went out together. How she was to pay for these adornments, she did
not know nor care. The occasion was so important that it excused any
extravagance, and Berny, in whose pinched, dry nature love of dress was
a predominant passion, was glad to have a reason for adding new glories
to her wardrobe.
On the Saturday morning she went out betimes. Inquiry at the railway
office told her that the train which connected with the branch line
to Rocky Bar did not reach the city till six in the evening. She
ordered a dinner of the choicest viands and spent part of the morning
passing from stall to stall in the market on Powell Street spying about
for dainties that might add a last elaborating touch to the lengthy
menu. The afternoon was dedicated to the solemn rites of massaging,
manicuring, and hair-waving at a beauty doctor’s. On an ordinary
occasion these unwonted exertions in the pursuit of good looks would
have tired her, but to-day she was keyed to a pitch where she did not
notice small outside discomforts.
Long before six she was dressed, and standing before the mirror in her
room she laid on the last perfecting touches with a short stick of
hard red substance and a circular piece of mossy-looking white stuff,
which she rubbed with a rotary motion round and round her face. Her new
dress of raspberry pink crape betrayed the hand of an expert in its
gracefully-falling folds and the elegance with which it outlined her
slim, long-waisted shape. Her artificially-reddened hair waved back
from her forehead in glossy ripples; her face, all lines and hollows
rubbed from it, looked fresh and youthful. With the subdued light
falling on her through the silk and paper lamp shades, she looked a
very pretty woman, the darkness of her long brilliant eyes thrown into
higher relief by the whiteness of her powdered face.
She was tremulously nervous. Every sound caused her to start and
move to that part of the parlor whence she could look down the long
passageway to the stair-head. Large bunches of greenery were massed
here in the angles of the hall and stood in the corners of the
sitting-room. Bowls filled with violets and roses were set on the table
and mantelpiece, and the scent of these flowers, sweet and delicate,
mingled with the crude, powerful perfume that the woman’s draperies
exhaled with every movement. At intervals she ran into her bedroom,
seized the little, round, soft wad of white and rubbed it over her
face with a quick concentric movement, drawing her upper lip down as
she did so, which gave to her countenance with its anxious eyes an
exceedingly comical expression.
It was nearly seven o’clock when the bell rang. With a last hasty look
in the glass, she ran down the passageway to the stair-head. It was
necessary to descend a few steps to a turn on the stairs from whence
the lever that opened the door could be worked. As she stood on the
small landing, thrown out in bright relief by a mass of dark leafage
that stood in the angle of the wall, the door opened and Dominick
entered. He looked up and saw her standing there, gaily dressed, a
brilliant, animated figure, smiling down at him.
“Ah, Berny,” he said in a quiet, unemotional voice, “is that you?”
It was certainly not an enthusiastic greeting. A sensitive woman
would have been shriveled by it, but Berny was not sensitive. She had
realized from the start that she would probably have to combat the
lingering surliness left by the quarrel. As Dominick ascended, her
air of smiling welcome was marked by a bland cheery unconsciousness
of any past unpleasantness. She was not, however, as unconscious as
she looked. She noted his heaviness of demeanor, the tired expression
of his lifted face. He came up the stairs slowly, not yet being
completely recovered, and it added to the suggestion of reluctance, of
difficult and spiritless approach, that seemed to encompass him in an
unseen yet distinctly-felt aura.
As he rose on a level with her, she stretched out her hands and, laying
them on his shoulders, drew him toward her and kissed him. The coldness
of his cheek, damp with the foggy night air, chilled the caress and she
drew back from him, not so securely confident in her debonair, smiling
assurance. He patted her lightly on the shoulder by way of greeting and
said,
“How are you? All right?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” she answered with brisk, determined sprightliness.
“You’re the one to ask about. You walk stiff, still. How are your feet?”
She was glad to turn her eyes away from his face. It looked very tired,
and the slight smile with which he had greeted her stayed only on his
lips and did not extend to his fatigued eyes. He was evidently angry
still, angry and unforgiving, and that he should be so, when she was
so anxious to forget the ugly episode of the quarrel and be gay and
friendly again, dashed her spirits and made her feel unsure of herself
and upset. She was determined, however, to show him that she had
forgotten all about it, and as he turned the angle of the stairway she
thrust her hand inside his arm and walked up beside him. They might
have been a happy married couple, reunited after an absence, slowly
coming up the stairs together arm in arm.
A few minutes later they were seated opposite each other at dinner.
The little table glowed and gleamed, all Berny’s bravery of silver and
glass mustered for its adornment. The choice and delicate dinner began
with a soup that Dominick especially liked, a fact which Berny hoped
he would notice and mention. She was one of those women who have an
unfailing memory for what people like to eat; a single expression of
preference would remain in her mind for years. Dominick and she had not
lived together for a month before she knew everything in the way of
food he liked or disliked. When she was annoyed with him, or especially
bitter against his mother, she would order nothing but dishes that
he did not care for, and when she was in a more friendly mood, as
to-night, she would take pains and time to arrange a menu composed
of those he preferred. He usually did not notice these rewards and
punishments, but Berny always thought he did and was “too stubborn,” as
she expressed it to herself, to show that he was affected by them.
She observed to-night that he neither remarked, nor seemed to relish
his food, but she made no comment, talking on in a breathless, lively
way, asking questions of his trip, his accident, and the condition of
his feet, as though there were no mortifying recollections connected
with the cause of his sudden departure. Her only indication of
embarrassment was a tendency to avoid anything like a moment of silence
and to fly from one subject to another. Dominick answered her questions
and told her of his wanderings with a slow, careful exactness. Save in
the freezing of his feet, which matter he treated more lightly than it
deserved, he was open with her in recounting the small happenings of
what he called “his holiday,” from the time of his walk from Rocky Bar
to the day of his departure from Antelope.
They had progressed through the fish to the entrée when her questions
passed from his personal wanderings and adventures to his associates.
She had been very anxious to get to this point, as she wanted to know
what degree of intimacy he had reached with the Bonanza King. Several
times already she had tried to divert the conversation toward that
subject, but it had been deflected by the young man, who seemed to
find less personal topics more to his taste. Now she was advancing
openly upon it, inquiring about the snow-bound group at Perley’s, and
awarding to any but the august name for which her ears were pricked
a perfunctory attention. It was part of the natural perversity of
man that Dominick should shy from it and expend valuable time on
descriptions of the other prisoners.
“There was an actor there,” he said, “snowed in on his way to
Sacramento, a queer-looking chap, but not bad.”
“An actor?” said Berny, trying to look interested. “What did he act?”
“Melodrama, I think. He told me he played all through the northwest and
east as far as Denver. The poor chap was caught up there and was afraid
he was going to lose a Sacramento engagement that I guess meant a good
deal to him. He was quite interesting, been in the Klondike in the
first rush and had some queer stories about the early days up there.”
Berny’s indifferent glance became bright and fixed under the steadying
effect of sudden interest.
“Been in the Klondike?” she repeated. “What was his name?”
“Buford, James Defay Buford. He’d been an actor at the opera house at
Dawson.”
“Buford,” said Berny, turning to place a helping of pease on the plate
the Chinaman held toward her. “I never heard of him. I thought perhaps
it might have been some actor I’d seen play. I’d like to know an actor
in private life. They must be so different.”
She ladled a second spoonful of pease on to her own plate, and as she
began to eat them, said,
“It must have been interesting having the Cannons up there. When I read
in the paper that they were up at Antelope too, I was awfully glad
because I thought it would be such a good thing for you to get to know
the old man well, as you would, snowed in that way together.”
“I knew him before. My father and mother have been friends of his for
years.”
“I know that. You’ve often told me. But that’s a different thing. I
thought if he got to know you intimately and liked you, as he probably
would”--she glanced at him with a coquettish smile, but his face was
bent over his plate--“why, then, something might come of it, something
in a business way.” She again looked at him, quickly, with sidelong
investigation, to see how he took the remark. She did not want to
irritate him by alluding to his small means, anyway on this night of
reconciliation.
“It would be so useful for you to get solid with a man like Bill
Cannon,” she concluded with something of timidity in her manner.
Despite her caution, Dominick seemed annoyed. He frowned and gave his
head an impatient jerk.
“Oh, there was nothing of that kind,” he said hurriedly. “We were just
snowed in at the same hotel. There was no question of intimacy or
friendship about it, any more than there was between Judge Washburne
and me, or even the actor.”
Berny was exceedingly disappointed. Had the occasion been a less
momentous one she would have expressed herself freely. In her mind she
thought it was “just like Dominick” to have such an opportunity and let
it go. A slight color deepened the artificial rose of her cheeks and
for a moment she had to exert some control to maintain the silence that
was wisdom. She picked daintily at her food while she wrestled with her
irritation. Dominick showed no desire to resume the conversation, and a
silence of some minutes’ duration rested over them, until she broke it
by saying with a resolute cheerfulness of tone,
“Rose Cannon was there too, the paper said. I suppose you got to know
her quite well?”
“I don’t know. I saw a good deal of her. There was only one
sitting-room and we all sat there. She was there with the others.”
“What’s she like?” said Berny, her curiosity on the subject of this
spoiled child of fortune overcoming her recent annoyance.
“You’ve seen her,” he answered, “you know what she looks like.”
“I’ve never seen her to know who she was. I suppose I’ve passed her on
the streets and at the theaters. Is she cordial and pleasant, or does
she give herself airs because she’s Bill Cannon’s daughter?”
Dominick moved his feet under the table. It was difficult for him to
answer Berny’s questions politely.
“She doesn’t give herself the least airs. She’s perfectly simple and
natural and kind.”
“That’s just what I’ve heard,” his wife said, giving her head an
agreeing wag. “They say she’s just as easy and unassuming as can be.
Did you think she was pretty when you saw her close to?”
“Really, Berny, I don’t know,” answered the victim in a tone of goaded
patience. “She looks just the same close to as she does at a distance.
I don’t notice people’s looks much. Yes, I suppose she’s pretty.”
“She has blonde hair,” said Berny, leaning forward over her plate
in the eagerness of her interest. “Did it look to you as if it was
bleached?”
He raised his eyes, and his wife encountered an unexpected look of
anger in them. She shrank a little, being totally unprepared for it.
“How should I know whether her hair was bleached or not?” he said
sharply. “That’s a very silly question.”
Berny was quite taken aback.
“I don’t see that it is,” she said with unusual and somewhat stammering
mildness. “Most blonde-haired women, even if they haven’t bleached
their hair, have had it ‘restored.’”
Dominick did not answer her. The servant presented a dish at his elbow
and he motioned it away with an impatient gesture.
Berny, who was not looking at him, went on.
“What kind of clothes did she wear? They say she’s an elegant dresser,
gets almost everything from Paris, even her underwear. I suppose she
didn’t have her best things up there. But she must have had something,
because the papers said they’d gone prepared for a two weeks’ trip.”
“I never noticed anything she wore.”
“Well, isn’t that just like you, Dominick Ryan!” exclaimed his wife,
unable, at this unmerited disappointment, to refrain from some
expression of her feelings. “And you might know I’d be anxious to hear
what she had on.”
“I’m very sorry, but I haven’t an idea about any of her clothes. I
think they were always dark, mostly black or brown.”
“Did you notice,” almost pleadingly, “what she wore when she went out?
Mrs. Whiting, the forelady at Hazel’s millinery, says she imported a
set of sables, muff, wrap and hat, for her this autumn. Hazel says it
was just the finest thing of its kind you ever laid your eyes on. Did
she have them up there?”
“I couldn’t possibly tell you. I don’t know what sables are. I saw
her once with a fur cap on, but I think it belonged to Willoughby, an
Englishman who was staying there, and used to have his cap hanging on
the pegs in the hall. It’s quite useless asking me these questions. I
don’t know anything about the subject. Did you wind the clock while I
was away?”
He looked at the clock, a possession of his own, given him in the days
when his mother and sister delighted to ornament his rooms with costly
gifts and in which he had never before evinced the slightest interest.
“Of course, I wound it,” Berny said with an air of hurt protest.
“Haven’t I wound it regularly for nearly three years?”
This brought the subject of Rose Cannon to an end and she was not
alluded to again during the dinner. The conversation reverted to such
happenings in the city as Berny thought might interest her husband,
and it seemed to her that he was more pleased to sit and listen to her
chatter of her sisters, the bank, the theaters, and the shops, than to
dilate any further on his adventures in the snow-bound Sierra.
When the dinner was over, they returned to the front of the flat,
where next to the parlor there was a tiny hall-room fitted up as
a smoking-room and den. It was merely a continuation of the hall,
and “the cozy corner” which Berny had had a Polk Street upholsterer
construct in it, occupied most of the available space, and crowded such
visitors as entered it into the corners. It had been Berny’s idea to
have this room “lined with books” as she expressed it, but their joint
possessions in this line consisting of some twenty-five volumes, and
the fact that the contracted space made it impossible to accommodate
both the books and the cozy corner, Berny had decided in favor of the
latter. She now seated herself on the divan that formed the integral
part of this construction, and, piling the pillows behind her, leaned
luxuriously back under the canopy of variegated stuffs which was
supported by two formidable-looking lances.
Dominick sat in his easy chair. He always smoked in this room and read
the papers, and presently he picked them up from the table and began
to look them over. The conversation languished, became spasmodic, and
finally died away. Berny, leaning back on the cushions, tried several
times to revive it, but her husband from among the spread sheets of
the evening press answered her with the inarticulate sounds of mental
preoccupation, and sometimes with no sound at all, till she abandoned
the attempt and leaned back under the canopy in a silence that was not
by any means the somnolent quietude of after-dinner torpor.
The clock hands were pointing to half-past nine when a ring at the bell
was followed by the appearance of the Chinaman at the door, stating
that the expressman had come with Mr. Ryan’s valises. Dominick threw
down his papers and left the room. As Berny sat silent, she could hear
the expressman’s gruff deep voice in the hall and the thuds of the
valises as he thumped them down at the stair-head. Dominick answered
him and there were a few more remarks, followed by the retreating
sound of the man’s heavy feet on the stairs and the bang of the hall
door. She sat looking at the clock, waiting for her husband to return,
and then as he did not come and the hall seemed singularly quiet she
leaned forward and sent an exploring glance down its dim length.
Dominick was not there, but a square of light fell out from the open
doorway of his room.
“Dominick,” she called, “what are you doing?”
He came to the door of the room in his shirt-sleeves, a tall figure
looking lean and powerful in this closer-fitting and lighter garb.
“I’m unpacking my things, and then I’m going to bed.”
“Oh!” she answered with a falling inflection, leaning forward, with her
elbows planted on her knees, craning her neck to see more plainly down
the narrow passageway. “It’s only half-past nine; why do you want to go
to bed so early?”
“I’m tired, and it will take me some time to get these things put away.”
“Can I help you?” she asked without moving.
“No, thanks. There’s nothing much to bother about. Good night, Berny,”
and he stepped back into the room and shut the door.
Berny sat as he had left her for a space, and then drew back upon the
divan and leaned against the mound of pillows. She made the movement
charily and slowly, her face set in a rigidity of thought to which
her body seemed fixed and obedient. She sat thus for an hour without
moving, her eyes staring before her, two straight lines folded in the
skin between her brows.
So he was still angry, angry and unforgiving. That was the way she
read his behavior. The coldness that he exhaled--that penetrated even
her unsensitive outer shell--she took to be the coldness of unappeased
indignation. He had never before been just like this. There was a
something of acquired forbearance and patience about him--a cultivated
thing, not a spontaneous outward indication of an inner condition of
being--which was new to her observation. He was not sulky or cross; he
was simply withdrawn from her and trying to hide it under a manner of
careful, guarded civility. It was different from any state she had yet
seen him in, but it never crossed her mind that it might be caused by
the influence of another woman.
He was still angry--that was what Berny thought; and sitting on the
divan under the canopy with its fiercely-poised lances she meditated on
the subject. His winning back was far from accomplished. He was not as
“easy” as she had always thought. A feeling of respect for him entered
into her musings, a feeling that was novel, for in her regard for her
husband there had previously been a careless, slighting tolerance
which was not far removed from contempt. But if he had pride enough
to keep her thus coldly at arm’s length, to withstand her attempts at
forgiveness and reconciliation, he was more of a man than she thought,
and she had a harder task to handle than she had guessed. She did not
melt into anything like self-pity at the futility of her efforts,
which, had Dominick known of them, would have seemed to him extremely
pathetic. That they had not succeeded gave her a new impetus of force
and purpose, made her think, and scheme with a hard, cool resolution.
To “make up” and gain ascendancy over Dominick, independent and proudly
indifferent, was much more worth while than to bully Dominick, patient,
enduring, and ruled by a sense of duty.