To New York Mr. Saltus went, returning to San Diego in less than three
months. He was still thin and nervous and had done no writing at all. In
the interval, the penetrating influence of his philosophy had done its
work, and he was taking the matter of his own evolution seriously.
Allusions to Jean or the incident of the broken glass, were like burning
raw flesh.
It was mid-winter when he returned, but no one would have suspected it from
the June-like sunshine and roses. Taking long walks with Toto, with whom he
loved to play hide-and-seek, he would go off for hours, resting in Balboa
Park on the return trip.
In speaking of this afterward to Miss G----, she said that Mr. Saltus had
looked so ill upon his return to New York that she thought he was in for a
nervous breakdown. In the circumstances, the peace and quiet of San Diego
were very restful to him.
Then the question of the future presented itself again, and he asked:--
"When are you going to absorb me?" That was the way he jestingly put it.
And then he asked:--
"Where shall we live?"
"California or London," I told him. "If one could combine the attractions
of the two,--the climate of the former and the culture and comfort of the
latter, heaven would not seem so vague a place. Take your choice, but New
York--_jamais!_"
Mr. Saltus hated New York also,--hated clubs, although one had been more or
less his headquarters for years. The old members of it were all dead, and
he was not a man to make new friends. Barring the convenience of a club it
was a horror to him. It was then agreed that he should return to the East,
arrange his affairs and meet me in Montreal, where we would take the leap
into matrimony and sail to England direct.
An incident occurred toward the end of March, shortly before Mr. Saltus
left for New York, which indicated, more than anything else, how radical
had been the change in him. We were invited for tea at the home of a
friend, Mrs. Butler. As her home was at a distance from the center of the
city it was decided that I should take a trolley, while for the benefit of
the exercise, Mr. Saltus would walk with Toto. Before separating however,
he accompanied me to the fifth floor of a shop, where I made a few
purchases. Reaching the street I left him with the assurance that he would
rejoin me again in twenty minutes at Mrs. Butler's house. Toto, as usual,
was a few feet in front of us, and, as it afterward developed, was unaware
of the exact spot where we divided forces. It was over in a minute. I
jumped into a trolley and disappeared.
Mrs. Butler's was reached. The twenty minutes doubled and redoubled, yet
look as one might no sign of man or dog could be seen. That something had
happened,--to the dog most likely,--seemed probable. It was a tense
waiting. The rapid twilight of the south was closing like a fan, when,
silhouetted against the distant skyline, a pygmy, preceded by an animated
dot, developed into a man and a dog.
It was a tale with no wag that he poured into my ears.
"When you left and jumped into the trolley," he said, "I became suddenly
aware that I was alone. Toto had vanished. Inquiries were futile and
fruitless. No one had seen her. She appeared to have dematerialized in a
flash. I went to both the hotels and to all the places where we were in the
habit of stopping. The result was the same."
"And what then?"
"I stood in the middle of the street and wowed. I was sure that Totesy Babe
had been killed or stolen. It was horrible. I could not face you alive."
It would have taken courage without a doubt.
"What did you decide to do,--run away?"
"No,--I thought of that, but to run, meant out of your life. To return
without Toto would amount to the same thing. It was a case of 'Which way I
fly is hell.... Infinite wrath and infinite despair.' There was no
alternative but the Bay for me. Living, even if I remained in your life,
Toto would have stood forever between us. Dead, you would think kindly of
me and mourn for me also. It was the lesser evil."
"And then?"
"It seemed too bad to be true. A last hope remained. Returning to Marston's
where we had separated, I questioned the door man. Yes, he had seen a black
and white dog going in alone over an hour ago. The elevator man came next.
He had let a dog off at the fifth floor, supposing she accompanied a
customer. The mystery became less opaque. Toto was sitting under the
counter where she had seen you last. The shop was closing and the
assistants were puzzled what to do, as she refused to move and bared her
teeth when any one came near her."
There was no faking his seriousness. Mr. Saltus was in a state of collapse.
The way he reacted to this episode made whole the broken glass, and put a
sponge over the incident forever.
In a week or so, arrangements being made for us to meet and be married in
Montreal, he returned to the East. The Montreal idea had merits. As we had
decided to live under British laws it was as well to be married under them.
Mr. Saltus' former matrimonial knots had been tied in New York and Paris.
He wanted to try a new place for luck. Owing to his divorce from Helen Read
he could not be married in New York State in any event. Besides, he wanted
to avoid a thing which loomed like a menacing monster in his
path,--publicity. The newspapers had been none too lenient over his first
offense. With the attempt to secure a divorce from his second wife, all the
past had been resurrected and flung in his face in none too complimentary a
way. His imagination visualized the headlines over a third marriage.
"Saltus Lures Third Victim to the Altar." "Bluebeard Put to Blush." "At the
Close of a Misspent Life Saltus Takes Third Wife to Nurse Him in His
Declining and Reclining Years."
Spring merged into summer. Letters from Mr. Saltus, then in New York,
inquiring when we should meet in Montreal, suggested also that we should
sail from there direct to England.
An incident occurring at this time was so vital and far-reaching in my
estimation that an indefinite postponement of our marriage seemed the only
solution. I wrote him to that effect,--wrote also that I contemplated a
trip to China and the far East. This was not done on impulse or in anger,
and knowing that I was not given to threats, and that my reasons were
substantial, Mr. Saltus took it like a death-blow. Four days journey apart,
he was powerless to get to me before I could carry it into effect.
Telegrams stormed in. Though upsetting in the extreme, they were
unanswered. Self-preservation lifting its head again, suggested retreat. It
was a mirage however. A preservation excluding him would have been
momentary only, for wherever I might hide I knew he would find me if he
spent his life in the search. The hand holding the fold of my frock held it
still. His last telegram, so characteristic that it is given here, broke
down my resistance:--
Miss Marie Giles,
The Woodward,
Los Angeles, California.
Am wiring fifth time. If you have any affection for Snipps don't let it be
in vain. Try send some helpful message, only send it quick. If not Snipps
goes under. This is the last despairful cry of love and grief eternal. God
bless you little girl.
E.
[Illustration: Fac-simile of Telegram sent to Marie Saltus]
That broke me up entirely. A wire that I would start for Montreal at a
certain date, was followed by my arrival there. Mr. Saltus was at the
station. He was still thin but looking better. With a foresight scarcely to
be expected he had arranged everything for our accommodation at the Windsor
Hotel, dog included, and an application had been sent to the Board of
Agriculture and Fisheries to take Toto into England. Over the details of
our marriage however he had struck a snag. It was our desire to have the
ceremony performed in the Roman Catholic Church, a form in which I had been
educated. The ritual of the Church appealed very strongly to Mr. Saltus, as
he believed it contained not only all the beauty and mysticism of the
ancient mysteries but to his mind all the beauty and truth of Christianity
as well. Owing to technicalities over his first marriage, and some
uncertainty regarding baptism, this was found to be impossible. It was a
severe disappointment to us both. A civil marriage was then decided upon.
That, too, was out of the question. The Province of Quebec being under
ecclesiastical law, we appeared to have struck an impasse, and a trip to
Toronto seemed inevitable.
It was the middle of August and the heat was frightful. I told Mr. Saltus
to make any arrangements he pleased provided I did not have to run around
myself.
The following day he came up to me in Dominion Square, where I was sitting
for a breath of air, reading a detective story, with Toto lying at my feet.
"Come along,--we are going to get married," he said, "and we have only time
to walk to the church comfortably."
Mr. Saltus was never behindhand when he had decided to go anywhere. When
starting to catch a train one could be sure that an hour at least would be
spent at the station, while he walked restlessly to and fro fuming at the
slowness of the clock.
"Let me go to the hotel to change my frock, and get rid of this detective
story," I said.
"Change nothing. Come along as you are. You can put on all the frills after
you cremate me,--if you have the courage to try it again."
He began pulling on my arm. It was nothing if not casual. After all, Toto
was not concerned over our looks, and there was no one else but the
clergyman, to whom we were complete strangers. Up Dorchester Street we
sauntered. We were half an hour ahead of time as it was. Mr. Saltus fumbled
in his pocket and brought out a ring. That was the most amusing and least
expected part of it all. Time and again he had expressed himself on the
subject of wedding rings with scorn. To him they appeared to be symbols of
eternity between people for whom an eternity of misunderstanding was at
that moment beginning. His views were my own. No symbol of servitude would,
I had often remarked, weigh down a finger of mine. He handed it to me in
silence, and in silence I looked at it, an unobtrusively thin band of gold
with our initials, and the date and the word "Eternamente" inside. Smiling,
I returned it and said nothing.
"It's going to hurt me cruelly if you won't wear it," he said at last. "I
know I have made fun of such things, but this is my last wedding, and this
is different. It means something more than I supposed a marriage could." He
broke off and inquired, "By the way, what are you going to do with Babe
when we get to the church?"
Toto was trotting along a few feet in front of us.
"Take her to the wedding, of course. She can sit between us."
"However lightly you may be taking this, it's a serious affair to me," he
said, "and much as I love her I don't think it the thing to take a dog into
a church."
"What isn't the thing for her isn't the thing for me, either," he was told.
"You can have both of us, or neither. Speak up."
We walked on a bit, and then looking at each other we began to laugh.
"I'll put on your symbol of servitude and Babe goes to our wedding,--what
do you say?"
"Right-O," Mr. Saltus agreed with a laugh. "It's the usual thing,--a mother
accepting life-long punishment for the sake of her child."
We were at the door of the church then. Dr. Scott, who was substituting
that summer at the American Presbyterian Church, met us with his witnesses,
and giving the dog even a more cordial welcome than ourselves, performed a
brief ceremony. Only when it was over did we realize that the detective
story was still in my hand. It is to be hoped that Dr. Scott believed it a
prayer book.
Unexpected events rearranged our plans. We did not sail from Montreal, but
six weeks later I went from New York, and Mr. Saltus joined me in London in
January. Thereafter during the next two years Mr. Saltus crossed and
recrossed the ocean as if it were a ferry, living in an apartment hotel
when in New York and when in London wherever I happened to be stopping.
It was in the spring of 1914 when upon returning from a winter in Algeria
and joining Mr. Saltus on the return route, I agreed to try the experiment
of housekeeping. A maisonette in Nevile Street, Onslow Gardens, was the
result of our search. For two such absent-minded and non-observing people,
impatient of petty details, to attempt anything practical was braver than
wise. English servants do not venture suggestions unasked. There were meals
when I remembered to order them. Sometimes there was too much, and more
often nothing at all. On these occasions it was convenient to live between
the Brompton and Fulham Roads. I was always apologetic and distressed when
we had to go out for a meal, but Mr. Saltus' remarks were invariably the
same:--
"I hate practical women. Any fool can feed my body. I never expected you to
develop into a housekeeper and I would hate you if you did. Smile and be
yourself."
There are not many men who would say that--on an empty stomach. A
cook-housekeeper came to our rescue at last. Mr. Saltus was writing a
series of articles for Harper's Bazaar at the time,--ultra-feminist
articles. They were called "The Reflections of Floraline Schopenhauer." The
writing of them amused and interested him very much. It was not creative
work. It was a new figure on which to drape the ideas, witticisms and
epigrams he had stored up in a note-book; and they were amazingly clever.
In discussing them and women in general, I remembered his friend of the Los
Angeles days and said:
"Did you never hear what became of that clever girl? It's queer that you
lost all track of her."
"No," he said, "I believe she went to France to live."
The subject dropped there. With his obsessing fear of the possibility of
unpleasantness, added to the memory that he had denied all knowledge of her
when in San Diego, he would not, or could not, face the fact--simple
enough if he had not complicated it for himself--that the friendship had
continued. He might have told me that he had seen her again in New York and
coached her a bit in writing, where, with her clever pen and unusual
ability, she had forged ahead into a position of great responsibility.
Having once more the comfortable background of a home, Mr. Saltus took up
his studies in occultism, spending hours in the Theosophical Library in
Tavistock Square poring over the "Pistis Sophia." That again opened up
vistas and visions of a far-reaching character. From the Theosophical
Headquarters it was but a step to the British Museum, and the holy of
holies where rare books are loaned to responsible students within the
enclosure. This spot was always the Mecca toward which Mr. Saltus
gravitated.
Leaving our apartment about eleven o'clock each morning, he would take a
'bus to Piccadilly Circus, and walk the rest of the way to Museum Street.
On the return trip he walked all the way, trying to get in better physical
trim through exercise.
Coming home one day he made the first allusion to the twinges in his legs
which increased rapidly in both inconvenience and pain.
"I'm getting to be a good-for-nothing old scoundrel," he announced at
dinner one night. "I, who used to walk from Los Angeles to Hollywood with
ease, am in for something. I cannot understand what causes the pain and
discomfort in my legs. I'm ready for the ashcan. You will never get a hat
for me."
"Don't you believe it. If you have any fears concerning your value I will
get up a sale and auction you off."
"I don't want to be auctioned off. Men are scarce in England and a fat
woman might bid me in. Even if you want to get rid of me, Babe wants me."
"Neither you nor Babe need distress yourselves. Your absence will not be
prolonged. The fat woman will drop you back on the door-step as damaged
goods and I can auction you off all over again. It will be an endless
procedure."
Joking with me was a diversion that Mr. Saltus loved. We were always living
with imaginary people concerning whom he would ask hypothetical questions.
One was as follows:--
"What would you do if a fat woman came in with a bag in her hand, and tried
to put me in it and take me away?"
"'Madame,' I would say, 'if you are trying to steal my little Snippsy, let
me assure you, that though men may be scarce, hats are more so. A smart
autumn model in exchange is my price.'"
At that Mr. Saltus would exclaim:--
"I would not go. I would scream and bite her, and she would be glad to let
me drop."
"Not at all," I always replied, "for I would tell her that you have been
expecting hydrophobia all these years and it has at last shown itself.
Then she would carry you off to the lethal chamber with all speed."
That remark always called forth a series of "Wows" in various keys. This
story with variations was gone over and over, and as a rule was followed by
one from me. Mr. Saltus was disappointed when it was not.
"What would you do," I asked, "if, upon going into your study you found a
giant elemental sitting at your desk tampering with your copy?"
Woe to the typist who had the temerity to change even a comma in Mr.
Saltus' work. It was enough to incite him to murder.
"I would go mad,--seize the elemental and my vibrations alone would tear
him to atoms."
"But suppose he was an all-powerful elemental,--a black magician, and he
said that he was going to edit everything you wrote in the future?"
"Then," Mr. Saltus always said, "I would rush to the window, open it and
jump out into the fourth dimension in the akasha."
The episode of the elemental ended there till the next telling. So much of
Mr. Saltus' life had been sad and unsatisfying that the desire to dip for a
time into make-believe was soothing and diverting to him. It was a region
in which we spent many an hour.