It was an evening Martin would never forget.
His suggestion that they should dine at Delmonico's and go to the
Empire to see Ethel Barrymore, accepted with avidity, had stirred Joan
to immediate action. She had hailed a taxi, said, "You'll see me in an
hour, Marty," and disappeared with a quick injunction to have whatever
she bought sent home C.O.D.
It was actually two hours before he saw her again. He thanked his stars
that he had enough money in the bank to meet the checks that he was
required to make out in quick succession. Joan had not wasted time, and
as she got into the car to drive away from that sandwich house of
excited servants, two other milestones had been left behind. She was in
a real evening frock, and all the other things she had bought were silk.
They drove straight home from the theater. Joan was tired. The day had
been long and filled with amazements. She was out in the world at last.
Realization had exceeded expectation for the first time in history.
The sand-man had been busy with Martin's eyes too, but he led the way
into the dining room with shoulders square and chin high and spring in
his blood. This was home indeed.
"What a tempting little supper!" said Joan. "And just look at all these
flowers."
They were everywhere, lilacs and narcissi, daffodils, violets and
hothouse roses. Hours ago he had sent out the almost unbelieving
footman for them. Joan and flowers--they were synonymous.
She put her pretty face into a great bowl of violets. "You remembered
all my little friends, Marty," she said.
They sat opposite each other at the long table. Martin's father looked
down at Martin's wife, and his mother at the boy from whom she had been
taken when his eager eyes came up to the level of her pillow. And there
was much tenderness on both their faces.
Martin caught the manservant's eyes. "Don't wait," he said. "We'll look
after ourselves."
Presently Joan gave a little laugh. "Please have something yourself.
You're better than a footman. You're a butler."
His smile as he took his place would have lighted up a tunnel.
"I like Delmonico's," said Joan. "We'll often dine there. And the play
was perfectly splendid. What a lot of others there are to see! I don't
think we'll let the grass grow under our feet, Marty. And presently
we'll have some very proper little dinner parties in this room, won't
we? Interesting, vital people, who must all be good-looking and young.
It will be a long time before I shall want to see anyone old again.
Think what Alice Palgrave will say when she comes back! She'll
underline every word if she can find any words. She wasn't married till
she was twenty."
And presently, having pecked at an admirable fruit salad, just sipped a
glass of wine and made close-fitting plans that covered at least a
month, Joan rose. "I shall go up now, Marty," she said. "It's twelve
o'clock."
He watched her go upstairs with his heart in his throat. Surely this
was all a dream, and in a moment he would find himself rudely and
coldly awake, standing in the middle of a crowded, lonely world? But
she stopped on the landing, turned, smiled at him and waved her hand.
He drew in a deep breath, went back into the dining room, put his lips
to the violets that had been touched by her face, and switched off the
lights. The scent of spring was in the air.
"Come in," she said, when presently, after a long pause, he knocked at
her door.
She was sitting at a gleaming dressing table in something white and
clinging, doing her hair that was so soft and brown and electrical.
He dared not trust himself to speak. He sat down on the edge of a sofa
at the foot of the bed and watched her.
She went on brushing but with her unoccupied hand gathered her gown
about her. "What is it, Marty?" she asked quietly.
"Nothing," he said, finding something that sounded curiously unlike his
voice.
She could see his young, eager face and broad shoulders in the
looking-glass. His hands were clasped tightly round one knee.
"I've been listening to the sound of traffic," she said. "That's the
sort of music that appeals to me. It seems a year since I did my hair
in that great, prim room and heard the owls cry and watched myself grow
old. Just think! It's really only a few hours ago that I dropped my
suit-case out of a window and climbed down the creeper. We said we'd
make things move, didn't we?"
"I shall write to your grandfather in the morning," said Martin, with
almost comical gravity and an unconscious touch of patronage. How
childlike the old are to the very young!
"That will be nice of you," answered Joan. "We'll be very kind to him,
won't we? There'll be no one to read the papers to him now."
"He was a great chap once," said Martin. "My father liked him awfully."
She swung her hair free and turned her chair a little. "You must tell
me what he said about him, in the morning. Heigh-ho, I'm so sleepy."
Martin got up and went to see if the windows were all open. "They'll
call us at eight," he said, "unless you'd like it to be later."
Joan went to the door and opened it and held out her hand. "Eight's
good," she said. "Good night, Marty."
The boy looked at the little open hand with its long fingers, and at
his wife, who seemed so cool and sweet and friendly. What did she mean?
He asked her, with an odd catch in his voice.
And she gave him the smile of a tired child. "Just that, old boy. Good
night."
"But--but we're married," he said with a little stammer.
"Do you think I can forget that, in this room, with that sound in the
street?"
"Well, then, why say good night to me like this?"
"How else, Marty dear?"
An icy chill ran over Martin and struck at his heart. Was it really
true that she could stand there and hold out her hand and with the
beginning of impatience expect him to leave a room the right to which
had been made over to him by law and agreement?
He asked her that, as well as he could, in steadier, kinder words than
he need have used.
And she dropped her hand and sighed a little. "Don't spoil everything
by arguing with me, Marty. I really am only a kid, you know. Be good
and run along now. Look--it's almost one."
The blood rushed to his head, and he held out his hands to her. "But I
love you. I love you, Joany. You can't--you CAN'T tell me to go." It
was a boy's cry, a boy profoundly, terribly hurt and puzzled.
"Well, if we've got to go into all this now I may as well sit down,"
she said, and did. "That air's rather chilly, too." She folded her arms
over her breast.
It was enough. All the chivalry in Martin came up and choked his anger
and bitterness and untranslatable disappointment. He went out and shut
the door and stumbled downstairs into the dark sitting room and stood
there for a long time all among chaos and ruin. He loved her to
adoration, and the spring was in his blood; and if she was young, she
was not so young as all that; and where was her side of the bargain?
And at last, through the riot and jumble of his thoughts, her creed of
life came back to him, word for word: she took all she could get and
gave nothing in return; and "Who cares?" was her motto.
And after that he stood like a man balanced on the edge of a precipice.
In cold blood he could go back and like a brute demand his price. And
if he went forward and let her off because he loved her so and was a
gentleman, down he must go, like a stone.
He was very white, and his lips were set when he went up to his room.
With curious deliberation he got back into his clothes and saw that he
had money, returned to the hall, put on his coat and hat, shut the door
behind him and walked out under the stars.
"All right, then, who cares?" he said, facing toward the "Great White
Way." "Who the devil cares?"
And up in her room, with her hand under her cheek like a child, Joan
had left the world with sleep.