It was late in November before Eden found herself in full possession of
her new home. Shortly after the ceremony she had gone to Newport, and
when summer departed she made for Lennox, which she deserted for
Tuxedo. It was therefore not until the beginning of winter that the
brown hollands were removed from her town residence.
During the intervening months she had been wholly content. She had not
led the existence of which at sixteen she had dreamed in the recesses of
her father's library, nor yet such an one as Dugald Maule had had the
ability to suggest. On the other hand, she had for her husband something
that was more than love. She regarded him as one of the coefficients of
the age. Among the rumors which her engagement created was one to the
effect that she was to be used as Open Sesame to doors hitherto closed
to him; and this rumor, like the others, some fair little demon of a
friend had whispered in her ear. But the possibility of such a _quid pro
quo_ had left her undisturbed. If a privilege paltry as that were hers
to bestow, there was indeed no reason why she should begrudge it.
It so happened, however, that she was not called upon to make the
slightest effort in that direction. Everybody discussed the marriage,
and at the wedding, as is usually the case, the front seats were
occupied by those who had said the most in its disfavor. At Newport
there was a fleeting hesitation. But the exclusion of the bride from
entertainments being practically impossible, and moreover, as it is not
considered seemly to invite a wife and overlook a husband, both were
bidden; and to the surprise of many it was discovered that Usselex had
not only as fine an air as many of the foreign noblemen that passed that
way, but that he even possessed a keener appreciation of
conventionalities. Added to this his wealth was reported to be fabulous.
What more could Newport ask? If his origin was more or less dubious,
were there not many whose origins were worse than dubious, whose origins
were _known_? Indeed, not everyone was qualified to throw a stone, and
gradually any thought of stone-throwing was dismissed. His opponents
became his supporters, and after the _villegiatura_ at Lennox and at
Tuxedo no further question was raised.
In returning to town therefore, Eden was wholly content. She had married
a man of whom she was proud, a man who, while subservient to her
slightest wish, had taught her what love might be. Altogether, the world
seemed larger, and she felt fully prepared to do her duty in that sphere
of life to which God had called her.
That sphere of life, she presently discovered, was to be co-tenanted by
her husband's secretary. Usselex had mentioned his existence on more
than one incidental occasion, but after each mention the actuality of
that existence had escaped her; and a week or so after her return to
town she found herself mediocrally pleased at learning that he would
probably be a frequent guest at her dinner-table.
In answer to the query which her eyebrows took on at this intelligence,
Usselex explained that now and then, through stress of business, he was
in Wall Street unable to provide the individual in question with his
fullest instructions, and for that reason it was expedient for him to
have the man of an evening at the house. Immediately Eden's fancy evoked
the confidential clerk of the London stage, a withered bookkeeper, shiny
of garment, awkward of manner, round of shoulder, square of nail,
explosive with figures, and covered with warts, and on the evening in
which the secretary was to make his initial appearance she weaponed
herself with a vinaigrette.
But of the vinaigrette she had no need whatever. The secretary entered
the drawing-room with the unembarrassed step of a somnambulist. His
manner was that of one aware that the best manner consists in the
absence of any at all. His coat might have come from Piccadilly, and
when he found a seat Eden noticed that the soles of his shoes were
veneered in black. In brief, he looked well-bred and well-groomed. He
was young, twenty-three or twenty-four at most. His head was massive,
and his features were pagan in their correctness. The jaw was a
masterpiece; it gave the impression of reservoirs of interior strength,
an impression which was tempered when he spoke, for his voice was low
and unsonorous as a muffled bell. His eyes were of that green-gray which
is caught in an icicle held over grass. And in them and about his mouth
something there was that suggested that he could never be brutal and
seldom tender.
At table he made no remark worthy of record. He seemed better content to
watch Eden than to speak. He ate little and drank less, and when the
meal was done and Eden left him to her husband and the presumable cigar,
she made up her mind that he was stupid.
"He is a German," she reflected; "with such a name as Adrian Arnswald he
must be. H'm. The only German I ever liked was a Frenchman, the author
of the Reisebilder. Well, there seems to be no bilder of any kind in
him." She picked up the _Post_ and promptly lost herself in a review of
the opera. "There," she mused, "I forgot Wagner. After all, as some one
said of the Scotch, you can do a good deal with a German if you catch
him young. Mr. Arnswald does not appear to have been caught in time."
She threw the paper from her and seated herself at the piano. For a
moment her fingers strayed over the keys, and then, in answer to some
evoking chord, she attacked the _Ernani involami_, than which few
melodies are richer in appeal. Her voice was not of the bravura quality,
the lower register was not full, and the staccati notes were beyond her
range; a professor from a conservatory would have disapproved of her
method as he would have disapproved of that of the ruicenor. But then
the ruicenor sings out of sheer wantonness, because it cannot help it;
and so did she.
And as she sang, anyone who had chanced that way would have accounted
her fair to see. Her gown was black, glittered with jet, about her
throat was a string of pearls, her arms were bare, the wrists
unbraceleted, and in her face that beauty of youth and of fragility
which refinement heightens and which eclipses the ruddier
characteristics of the buxom models of the past. An artist might not
have given her a second glance, a poet would have adored her at the
first. And as she still sang, Arnswald entered the room and approached
the piano at which she sat.
She heard his steps and turned at once expectant of Usselex. Then,
seeing that he was alone, "What have you done with my husband?" she
asked.
"Nothing," the young man answered. "Nothing at all. A gentleman, a
customer, I fancy, sent in his card, and I left him to him." He found a
seat and eyed her gravely. "If I disturb you--"
"Oh, you don't disturb me in the least. What makes you look as though
you came from another planet?"
"What makes _you_ look as though you were going to one?"
Mr. Arnswald is passably impertinent, thought Eden; but the expression
of his face was so reassuringly devoid of any non-conventional symptom
that she laughed outright at the compliment. "Do you care for music?"
she asked.
"Surely, Mrs. Usselex."
"Yes, of course. I forgot. All Germans do. Tell me, how long have you
been in this country? How do you come to speak German without an
accent?"
"I was born here, Mrs. Usselex."
"You were born here! I thought you were a German. Why didn't you tell
me?"
"You did not do me the honor to ask."
"But your father was, wasn't he?"
"No, my father was a Russian, I think."
"You think? Why do you say you think? Don't you know? I never knew
anyone so absurd."
"My father died when I was very young, Mrs. Usselex. I do not remember
him."
"But your mother could have told you--"
"If she didn't, Mrs. Usselex, it was because she had a good excuse."
"What was that?"
"She died also."
"Mr. Arnswald, I am sorry. I had no right to ask such thoughtless
questions. My mother died too. I do not remember her either. Truly you
must forgive me." And as she spoke she rose from the piano and reseated
herself at the lounge which she had previously vacated. "Tell me about
yourself," she added. "I am not asking out of idle curiosity."
"You are very good to express any interest, Mrs. Usselex. But really
there is little to tell. I used to live in Massachusetts, in Salem, with
my grand-parents and my sister. You can see Salem from here, and you can
understand what a boy's life in such a place must be. Afterwards I was
sent to school, and later I went abroad. When I returned Mr. Usselex
took me in his office. I have been there ever since. He has been very
kind to me, Mr. Usselex has."
"He says--how is it he puts it?--oh, he says you have the genius of
finance."
"I can only repeat that he is very kind."
To this Eden assented. "Yes, he is that," she said, and hesitated for a
moment. "Tell me," she added. "You said you were fond of music. Will you
go with us on Monday to the opera?"
This invitation was accepted with the same readiness as that with which
it was made. And presently the young man took his leave. When the
portiere fell behind him, Eden felt a momentary uneasiness at the
unpremeditated invitation which she had just extended. One doesn't need
to be a German to be stupid, she mused, and felt sure that her husband
would disapprove. But when she told him he expressed himself as well
pleased.
The next day happened to be Sunday, and on that afternoon Mr. Arnswald
came to pay his dinner-call. Meanwhile Eden's imagination had been at
work. Now imagination is a force of which the action is as varied as
that of volition. There are organizations which it affects like a
dissolvent, there are others which it affects like wine. In some it
needs a spur, in others a curb. Give it an incident for incubator, and
according to the nature of the individual it will soar full-feathered
into space or addle in its own inaction. In Eden its gestation was
always abrupt. With a fact for matrix it developed as rapidly as a spark
mounts into flame. The fact in this instance was Arnswald.
When he left her the night before, she had gone again to the piano, her
fingers had fluttered like butterflies over the keys, then in answer to
some strain, an aria from the _Regina di Golconda_ had visited her--the
_Bel paese, ciel ridente_, which she had hummed softly to herself,
unconscious of any significance in the words. But presently she fell to
wondering about the fair land, the fairer sky which the song recalled.
Something there was that kept telling her that she had met Adrian
before. In his voice she had caught an inflection that was not
unfamiliar to her. In the polar-light of his eyes was a suggestion of
earlier acquaintance. His infrequent gestures brought her the shadow of
a reminiscence. And in his face there was an expression that haunted
her. For a while she struggled with memory. But memory is a magician
that declines to be coerced. Now and then it will pull its victim by the
sleeve, as it had pulled at Eden, yet turn to interrogate and a dream is
not more evanescent. But still she struggled with it. A silence, an
attitude, a combination purely atmospheric had evoked a charm, and
though memory declined to return and undo the spell, still she labored
until at last, conscious of the futility of the effort, or else wearied
by the endeavor, she consoled herself as in similar circumstances we all
of us have done with the mirage of anterior life.
The possibility of recognition she then put behind her, but the man
remained. There was a magnificence about him which disconcerted her, an
air that appealed. In some way his evening dress had seemed an
incongruity. She told herself that he would look better in a silken
pourpoint, and better still in the chlamys-robe of state. She decided
that he needed a dash of color, some swirling plume of red, and fell to
wondering what his life had been. It was evident to her that he had been
gently bred. About him the feminine influence was discernible, one no
doubt which begun at the cradle had continued ever since. In the absence
of a mother there had been someone else, a sister, perhaps, and a
procession of sweethearts to whom he had been swain. But the latter
possibility she presently dismissed. Love-making is the occupation of
those that have none, and Arnswald's hours were seemingly well-filled.
In Salem he might have left a combustible maiden, he might even have
found one in New York, but in that case Eden felt tolerably sure that he
had little time in which to apply the match. And then at once her fancy
took a tangential flight; a little romance unrolled before her--the
mating of Arnswald to some charming girl whom she would herself
discover, and the life-long friendship that would ensue.
On the following afternoon therefore, when the young man put in an
appearance, he was received with unaffected cordiality.
"I have been thinking about you," Eden announced, when he found a seat.
"I am glad you came, I want you to tell me more of yourself."
"I reproached myself for having exhausted your patience last evening,"
he answered.
"Then you deserve to be punished. You go with us to the opera to-morrow,
do you not? Very good, you must dine with us first. There is a friend of
mine whom you will meet there. I want you to like her."
"If she resembles you in any way that will not be difficult."
"He begins well," mused Eden, and a layer of cordiality dropped from
her. But presently she recovered it. Arnswald had been looking in her
face, and the change in its expression had not passed unobserved.
"I mean," he continued, "that there are people that make you like them
at first sight and you, Mrs. Usselex, are one of those people. When I
left you last evening I told myself that you exhaled a sympathy which is
as rare as it is delightful. I have met few such as you. As a rule the
people I have been brought in contact with have been hard and
self-engrossed. You are among the exceptions, and it is the
exception----"
Eden interrupted him. "Now that is nonsense," she said severely. "The
people whom we can like are not as infrequent as all that. Do you mean
to tell me that there is no one for whom you really care?"
Arnswald shook his head and smiled. "No, Mrs. Usselex," he answered, "I
don't mean to say that. There are some for whom I care very much. There
is even one for whom were it necessary I would lay down life itself."
At this Eden experienced a mental start. The possibility of mating him
to some charming girl whom she was herself to discover had suddenly
become remote. But she nodded encouragingly to the confidence.
"Yes," he continued, and into his polar-eyes came a sudden flicker.
"Yes, there is one whom I have recently come to know and who is to me as
a prayer fulfilled. Were I called upon to make a sacrifice for her, no
matter what the nature of that sacrifice might be, the mere doing of it
would constitute a well-spring of delight."
Eden smiled at the dithyramb as were she listening to some fay she did
not see. Arnswald had been looking at her, but now, as though ashamed of
the outburst, he affected a little laugh and dropped back into the
conventional. Presently he rose and took his polar-eyes away. When he
had gone Eden smiled again. "He may have the genius of finance," she
mused, "but he has the genius of love as well."