Thus in a few words, he sketched the passing of one epoch and its
succession by another. The day of the small private enterprise in the
Town had passed, succeeded by the day of the great corporation.
Everything was owned now by capitalists, by stockholders who never saw
the Mills, to whom the workers of the Flats were little more than
mythical creatures, animated engines without minds or souls, whose only
symbol of existence was the dividend twice a year. Machines they were
... machines ... dim machines ... not in the least real or human.
Most of the tale Willie omitted. He did not tell of the monkey-faced
little man who came to the Town representing the Amalgamated. Nor did he
tell of the monkey-faced man’s address to the Chamber of Commerce in
which he talked a great deal of Jesus and declared that religion was
what the world most needed, religion and a sense of fellowship between
men. He did not tell of how the Amalgamated broke the strike by buying
all the wretched houses and turning out the strikers, men, women and
children. He omitted the blacklisting, the means by which the strikers
were prevented from obtaining work elsewhere. He did not observe that
the power which money gave Judge Weissman, himself and his mother, was
as nothing compared to the power of the Amalgamated--a vast incalculable
power founded upon gold and the possession of property. Nor did he say
that the passing of the Mills had killed Mrs. Julis Harrison ... a thing
which was as true as truth. These things were to him of no importance.
He was now simply “an average citizen” minding his own business.
All Willie said was, “When mother died, the old crowd went out of it for
good.”
In the drawing-room Ellen had been completely captured by the concerto.
She was playing it all over again, from beginning to end, rapturously,
savagely. Schneidermann lay among the cushions of the divan, his lean
figure sprawled languidly, his dark eyes closed.
“And what do you do now?” asked Lily. “You must do something to occupy
yourself.”
Willie’s plump face brightened. “I have a farm,” he said. “I raise ducks
and chickens.” A slow smile crept over Lily’s face. “It’s a success
too,” he continued. “You needn’t laugh at it. I make it pay. Why, I made
this trip on last year’s profits. And I have a great deal of fun out of
it.” He smiled again with an air of supreme contentment. “It’s the first
time I’ve ever done what I wanted to do.”
Lily regarded him with a faint air of surprise. It may have been that
she guessed then for the first time, that he was not after all a
complete fool. He, too, like Ellen, like herself, even like Irene, had
escaped in spite of everything.
They had been talking thus for half an hour when Ellen, followed by Paul
Schneidermann, joined them. Willie stood up nervously.
“Paul,” said Lily, “Mr. Harrison--Mr. Harrison, Monsieur Schneidermann.”
They bowed. “You are both steel manufacturers,” she added with a touch
of irony, “You will find much in common.”
Willie protested. “No longer,” he said. “Now I am a farmer.”
“And I,” said Schneidermann, “have never been. I am a musician....”
Ellen laughed scornfully and he turned to her with a curious blushing
look of self-effacement, “Perhaps,” he said, “dilettante is a better
word.”
For a time they talked--the stupid, polite conversation that occurs
between strangers; and then, the proprieties satisfied, Ellen and Paul
drifted quickly back into the realm of music. Lily devoted herself to
Willie Harrison.
“It was too bad,” he remarked, “about the house at Cypress Hill.”
Lily leaned forward on the table holding up one white wrist to shield
her eyes from the light of the candles. “Yes,” she said. “I’m sorry ...
sentimentally, I suppose. I should never have gone back to it. It was
perfectly useless to me. But I’m sorry it’s gone. I suppose it, too, was
changed.”
“You would never have known it,” said Willie. “It was completely black
... even the white trimmings.” He leaned forward confidentially. “Do you
know what they say? They say in the Town that some one was hired to burn
it, so that you would be willing to sell.”
For a moment Lily remained silent. Her hand trembled a little. She
looked across at Ellen to see whether she had been listening. Her cousin
was plainly absorbed in her argument.
“They can have it now,” said Lily, with an intense bitterness. “I
begrudge them even the taxes I have to pay on it. But they’ll have to
pay a good price,” she added quietly. “I’ll squeeze the last cent out of
them.”
It was the end of their conversation, for Willie glancing at his watch,
announced that he must leave. Lily accompanied him up the long stairs to
the unpretentious door. There he hesitated for a moment on bidding her
good night.
“You have changed,” he said. “I can see it now.”
Lily smiled vaguely, “How?”
He fell to fumbling with the ruby clasp. “I don’t know. More calm, I
think.... You’re not so impatient. And you’re like a Frenchwoman....
Why, you even speak English with an accent.”
“Oh, no, Willie ... I’m not like a Frenchwoman. I’m still American.
There’s a good deal of my mother in me. I’ve realized it lately. It’s
that desire to run things. You understand what I mean.... Perhaps it’s
because I’m getting to the age where one can’t live upon the food of
youth.” She laughed suddenly. “We Americans don’t change. What I mean is
that I’m growing old.”
Willie shook hands politely and went out, leaving Lily in the doorway to
watch his neat figure, silhouetted against the glow of light from the
Café des Tourelles, until he reached the corner and disappeared.
It was the last time she ever saw him so it was impossible for her to
have known the vagaries of his progress after he left the door of Numero
Dix. Yet this progress held a certain interest. At the corner of the Rue
Franklin, Willie hailed with his umbrella a passing taxicab and bade the
driver take him to an address in the Rue du Bac. It was not the address
of the American Hotel; on the contrary it designated a three story house
with a café on the first floor and lodgings above. In one of these lived
a discreet lady who frequented the Louvre by day and employed Art as a
means of making the acquaintance of quiet gentlemen hanging about the
fringes of tourist parties. Indeed, she could have written an
interesting compendium on the effect of art and Paris upon the behavior
of soberly dressed, mousy gentlemen.
For Willie, with the death of his mother and the passing of the Mills,
had begun to live ... in his own awkward timid fashion, to be sure ...
but none the less he had begun to live.
As he sped on his way in the crazy taxicab, it became more and more
evident that his mood was changed by the encounter with Lily. He sat
well back in the cab, quietly, immersed in the thought. The dim white
squares, empty and deserted now; the flamboyant houses of the section
near the Étoile, the light-bordered Seine, the tall black skeleton of
the Eiffel Tower ... all these things now left him, for some strange
reason, unmoved. They swept by the windows of the cab unnoticed. Willie
was thinking of something else.
As the taxi turned into the ghostly spaces of the Place de la Concord,
Willie stirred himself suddenly and thrust his head out of the window.
“Cocher! Cocher! Chauffeur!” he cried suddenly in atrocious French.
“Allez a l’hotel Americain.”
The mustachioed driver grunted, turned his cab, and sped away once more
as if pursued by the devil; and presently he pulled up before the
American Hotel, a respectable hostelry frequented by school teachers and
temperance workers.
An hour later he lay chastely in his own bed, awake and restless in the
dark, but still innocent. And in the Rue du Bac the sophisticated lady
waited until long after midnight. At length, after cursing all
Americans, she took her lamp from the window and went angrily to bed.