During Beatrice's house party, at which twenty or so equally Gorgeous
Girls and their husbands were quartered in the Villa Rosa, while a
string orchestra danced them further along the road toward nervous
prostration each night, a fire ignited in the offices of the O'Valley
Leather Company.
Steve's office and Mary's adjoining room were damaged by water rather
than by the slight blaze itself and during an enforced recess from
work both Mary and Steve found that a fire in an office building may
cause a loss of time from routine yet be a great personal boon.
The day following the accident, Steve having been summoned at midnight
to view the flames, Mary came to the office to try to rescue the files
and sweep aside the debris.
"Nothing is really hurt, but they always mess things up," Steve said,
coming to the doorway to hold up a precious record book. "See this? I
wonder why they always leave such a lot of stuff to clear away. Now
the whole extent of damage is the destroying of that rickety side
stairway that is never used and could have been done away with long
ago. Some boys, playing craps and smoking, left the makings of the
fire and before it touched these rooms there was water poured into the
whole plant. As a consequence, we have a three-day vacation and
instead of having the side stairs torn down I'm in line for a chunk of
insurance."
"Even the tea isn't spilled from my caddy," Mary answered; "Look."
"Wonder what they used this side stairway for? It was rickety when I
bought the place." He looked at the blackened remains of steps.
"I don't know," Mary answered, absent-mindedly. She could have added
that whenever she looked at those stairs or their closed door she saw
but one thing--Steve on his wedding day as he came stealing up to ask
about the long-distance telephone call, aglow with happiness and
dreams. For her own reasons, therefore, Mary did not regret the
destruction of the side stairs.
"They've shoved this cabinet over as if they had a special antagonism
to it," he was saying, righting a small piece of furniture containing
mostly Mary's papers. "There--not hurt, is it? Do the drawers open?"
He began pulling them out, one after another. The last refused to
open.
"What's in this one--it blocks the spring?"
Mary tried her hand at it. "Something wedged right at the edge. I'm
sure I don't see what it can be. I never used that drawer for anything
but----"
At their combined jerk the drawer came flying into space, and with it
the remains of a white cardboard box with the monograms of B. C. and
S. O. entwined by means of a cupid and a tiny wreath of flowers. Dried
cake crumbs lay in the bottom of the drawer. It was the Gorgeous
Girl's box of wedding cake which Mary Faithful had found on her desk.
Neither spoke immediately. Finally Mary said: "I suppose that's as bad
an omen as to break a mirror under a ladder on Friday the thirteenth.
Now shall I have the men sweep the office out? There is no reason we
cannot get to work to-morrow."
"Wait a moment about sweeping out offices and going to work," Steve
insisted. "If you want to break the hoodoo you have just brought on
yourself by smashing up wedding cake--let me talk and act as high
priest."
She shook her head. "You promised, and you've been true-blue--don't
spoil it. Besides, it can do no good."
"I want to ask a question," he insisted. "I'm not going to break faith
with you or take advantage of knowing what you told me. I shall always
try to appreciate the honour done me, no matter if I am unworthy. I
want to ask a question in as impersonal a way as if I wrote in to a
woman's column." He tried to laugh.
"Ask away." Mary sat down in the nearest chair, the broken cardboard
box at her feet.
"Why is it that a man can honestly be in love with the woman he
marries and yet in an amazingly short time find himself playing the
cad in feeling disappointed, discontented, utterly lacking affection?
It's a ghastly happening. Why is it he saw no handwriting on the wall?
I am not stupid, Mary, neither am I given to inconstancy--I've had to
struggle too much not to have my mind made up once and for all time.
Why didn't I see through this veneer of a good time that these
Gorgeous Girls manage to have painted over their real selves? Why did
I never suspect? And what is a man to do when he discovers the
disillusionment? You see it all, there's no sense in not admitting
it--why do I find myself ill at ease, now tense, now irritable over
trifles, now sulky, despondent--as plainly sulky and despondent as a
wild animal successfully caged and labelled, which must perforce stay
put yet which will not afford its spectators the satisfaction of
walking wistfully from cage corner to cage corner and yowling in
unanswered anguish!"
"Is it as bad as that?" she asked, softly.
He nodded as he continued: "I sometimes feel the way the monkish
fraternity did at Oxford when they claimed 'they banished God and
admitted women.' I want a man-made world, womanless, without a single
trace of romance or a good time. Not right, is it? Sometimes I think
I'll crack under the pretense, go raving mad and scream out the whole
miserable sham under which I live--and every time I indulge myself in
such a reverie I find myself writing Beatrice an extra check and going
with her to this thing or that, steel-hammer pulses beating at my
forehead and a languor about even the attempt at breathing."
Mary would have spoken but he rushed ahead: "I like this fire, this
debris. Most people would curse at it--it's real and rather common,
sort of plain boiled-dinner variety. It gives me an excuse to take
time off from the eternal frolic. I'm glad when there's a strike or a
row and I dig out of town to stay in a commercial hotel. I have to get
away from the whole tinsel show. And yet it was what I wanted, was
willing to play modern Faust to any Wall Street Mephistopheles----"
"And you are sure it wasn't a Mephistopheles?"
"Of course not--for that much I can draw a deep breath and give
thanks--it was my own luck."
"Other times, other titles," she murmured.
"One time you told me what you thought of the future of American
women, the all-round good fellows of the world--do you remember? I
wish you had not told me. It's just another thing to irritate. I'm
driven mad by trifles--I'm starved for a big tragedy; that's the way
this craving for a fortune and a good time is playing boomerang. I'm
so infernally weary of hearing about the cut-glass slipper heels of
some chorus girl and so hungry to hear about a shipwreck, a new creed,
a daring crime that----"
"You foolish, funny boy," she said, taking pity on his involved
analysis, "don't you see what you have done? It's quite the common
fate of get-rich-quick dreamers; you merely symbolized your goal by
Beatrice Constantine, she stood for the combined relationships of
wife, comrade, lady luxury--and you captured your goal, and the
greater effort ceased. You have had time to examine your prize in
microscopic fashion. It isn't at all what you intended--but it is
quite what you deserve. No one can make a lie serve for the truth--at
all times and for an indefinite period. There is bound to come a
cropper somewhere--usually where you least expect it. And you lied to
yourself in the beginning, a passive sort of falsehood, in merely
refusing to see the truth and groping for the unreal. You had to
justify your race for wealth, so you said, 'Oho, I'll love a
story-book princess and let that be my incentive. Story-book
princesses are expensive lovelies and you have to have money bags to
jingle before their fair selves!' So you became more and more
infatuated with the fairy-book princess who happened to be in your
pathway--and it was Beatrice. She made you feel that anything your
slightly mad and quite unrealizing young self might do was proper.
Just as the boy with a new air rifle deliberately sets up a target to
shoot away at because the savage in him must justify hitting something
besides the ozone, so you have merely wooed and won your own falsehood
and disillusionment."
"You say it rather neatly; but that isn't all. The thing is that I'm
not game enough to go on and take the punishment. Are you surprised?"
"No. But are you prepared to give up the thing which won her?"
"My money? I've thought of it." He folded his arms and began walking
up and down the littered, water-soaked office. "Would you like me any
better?" he asked, tenderly.
Mary's eyes grew stormy. "If the men go to work at once we can have
the rugs sent to the cleaner's and put down old matting for a
temporary covering--and I can go ahead taking inventory," was her
answer.
"I see," Steve made himself respond. "Well--I didn't trespass very
much," he whispered as he passed her to leave the building.
* * * * *
Beatrice regarded the fire as an amusing happening and before Steve
realized what was being done she had proposed that Gaylord refurnish
the office in an arts-and-crafts fashion. It had long seemed to her a
most inartistic and clumsy place and when Steve refused her offer and
told her that a splint-bottomed chair and a kitchen chair were his
office equipment some years ago she sent for Gaylord on her own
initiative and told him to beard the lion in the den to see if he
could win Steve to the cause of painted wall panels typifying
commerce, industry, and such, and crippled beer steins and so on as
artistic wastebaskets.
There had never been an active feud between Gaylord and Steve; it was
always that hidden enmity of a weak culprit toward a strong man.
Neither had Trudy been able to win Steve by her Titian curls,
baby-blue eyes, and obese compliments. In fact, Gaylord had avoided
Steve the last year. He was the one Beatrice called upon to play with
her, he accompanied her shopping, even unto the milliner's, and had
been in New York one time when Beatrice had gone down to see about
buying a moleskin wrap. Not even Trudy knew that he had actually
adopted a monocle and squired Beatrice round in state.
So he approached Steve with the attitude of "I hate you and am only
waiting to prove it but meanwhile I'll play off the friend lizard no
matter how painful."
But after a few "my dear fellows" and "old dears" and gibes about the
disordered office with its prosaic chairs and Mary Faithful, quite
flushed and plain looking as she dashed round giving orders, Gaylord
found himself being neatly set outside on the curbstone and told to
remain in that exact position.
"I hate this decorating business," Steve said in final condemnation.
"I agree with my father-in-law that when a man approaches me with a
book of sample braids and cretonnes under his arm I feel it only
righteous that he be shot at sunrise--and now you know how strong you
stand with me. I don't mind Beatrice having her whirl at the thing. A
new colour scheme as often as she has a manicure; that's different.
But my office stays as I wish it and you can't rush in any globes of
goldfish and inkstands composed of reclining young females with their
little hands forming the ink cup, while a single spray of cherry
blossoms flourishes over the hook I hang my hat and coat upon. Oh, no,
trot back to your boudoirs and purr your prettiest, but stop trying to
tackle real men."
Gaylord's one-cylinder brain had become more efficient by dint of
daily sparring with his wife. So he retorted: "She is going to make
you a present of it--your birthday gift, I understand. Does that alter
the case?"
Steve looked at him with an even wilder frown. "Tell her to build a
bomb-proof pergola for herself and mark it for me just the same. When
we redecorate round here it takes Miss Faithful about a half hour to
plan the show. Good-bye, Gay, I'm awfully rushed. Thanks just as
much."
Gaylord sauntered outside, smiling, apparently as if he accepted the
entire universe. But his one-cylinder brain harboured an unpleasant
secret which concerned Steve. Gaylord knew that Steve had not reckoned
with his enemies and that he was in no condition to begin doing so
now. Constantine was no longer at the helm, fearless, respected, and
dominating. Steve was quite the reckless egotist, out of love with his
wife, mentally jaded, and weary of the game--and his enemies surmised
all this in rough fashion and were making their plans accordingly. How
wonderful it would be if certain catastrophes did happen. How lucky
Beatrice had her own income! She would never cease ordering bomb-proof
pergolas or bird cages carved from rare woods.
The next day--before Beatrice and Steve had a chance to argue the
matter out to a fine point--Mark Constantine had a stroke. It was like
the sudden crashing down of a great oak tree which within had been
hollow and decayed for some time but to all exterior appearances quite
the sturdy monarch. Without warning he became first a mighty thing
lying day after day on a bed, fussed over and exclaimed over and
prayed over by a multitude of people. Then he assumed the new and
final proportions of a childish invalid--his fierce, true grasp of
things, his wide-sweeping and ambitious viewpoint narrowed hastily to
the four walls of the sick room. Instead of the stock-market
fluctuation bringing forth his "Gad, that's good!" or oaths of
disapproval, the taste of an especially good custard or the way the
masseuse neglected his left forearm were cause for joy or grief.
Life had suddenly changed into the monotonous and wearing routine of a
broken, lonesome old man who had plenty of time to think of the past
with his wife Hannah, recalling incidents he had not recalled until
this dull, long day arrived. And after reaching many conclusions about
many things Constantine was forced to realize that no one particularly
cared for or sought out his opinions. He was placed in the category of
all fallen oaks--someone who would have one of the largest funerals
ever held in the city. And friends murmured that for Bea's sake they
hoped it would not be long.
But it was to be long--for with the tenacity of purpose he had always
exhibited Constantine readjusted himself to the narrow realm of four
walls. His former tyranny toward the business world was now exercised
toward his daughter and son-in-law, his sister and his attendants. He
resolved to live--or exist--just as long as life was possible, to
vampire-borrow from those about him all the vitality that he could, to
have every care and comfort and every new doctor ever heard of called
in to attend him; he now said he wished to live as many years as God
willed. There was a God, now that he was partially paralyzed, a very
real God, to whom he prayed in orthodox fashion. He wanted to keep
remembering the past with Hannah, to shed the tears for her death
which he had never taken the time to shed, to decide what it was that
had been so wrong in his life in order that his death and hereafter
might be very properly right.
Aunt Belle had taken this new affliction after the fashion of a Mrs.
Gummidge. It affected her worse than any one else, first because the
ridicule and fault-finding to which her brother had always treated her
were tripled in their amount and quality, and yet as she was dependent
upon this childishly weak brother she must endure the treatment.
Secondly, she was reminded that her age was somewhat near Mark
Constantine's age and perhaps a similar fate lay in store for her.
Lastly, it tied her down--propriety demanded that someone be in the
sick room a share of the time and certainly Beatrice had no intention
of undertaking the responsibility.
Steve had acted as Aunt Belle fancied he would act, genuinely
concerned over the catastrophe and seeking refuge with this tired old
child a greater share of the time. By degrees Aunt Belle left Steve to
play the role of comforter and companion, since no nurse ever stayed
at the Constantine bedside for longer than a fortnight. So she was
allowed to gambol about in her pinafore frocks and high-heeled shoes,
wondering if her brother had made a fair will, taking into account the
fact that a woman is only as old as she looks--and with a tidy fortune
who knows what might happen after the proper mourning period?
Beatrice had been prostrated at the news. For two days she stayed in
bed and sobbed hysterically. Then she was prevailed upon to see her
father and to take the sensible attitude of preparing for a long
siege, as Steve suggested.
"How cold-hearted it sounds--a long siege!" she reproached.
"But it is true. He will not die--he will live until that splendid
vitality of his has been snuffed out by a careless law of rhythm, so
you may as well buck up and run in to see him every day and then go
about as usual."
"A sick room drives me wild. I wish I had taken a course in practical
nursing instead of the domestic-science things."
Steve did not answer.
"I can't bear to think of it. It's like having life-in-death in the
very house. Oh, Steve, can't you talk him into going to a sanitarium?
They'd have so many interesting kinds of baths to try!"
"He won't mind your parties, if that is what is bothering you. The
only thing he asks is to be left in peace in his room with plenty of
detective stories and plenty of medical attention, and he won't know
if you dance the roof off. But if you really want to hasten the end
send Gay up there with plans for remodelling his room--it will either
kill or cure," he laughed.
"I must do something to help me forget and make it easier for him,"
she said, soberly. "I'm going to try a faith healer--not because I
believe in them but because I don't want to leave any stone unturned.
I think a new interest would help papa. Would you try adopting a child
or my taking up classical dancing in deadly earnest?" She was quite
sincere and emotionally wrought up as she came up to him and laid her
head on his shoulder.
"Oh, I'd take up classical dancing," he advised.
She gave a sigh of relief. "Yes, it's what I really think would be the
best. I will dance on the lawn so papa can watch me."
He gave vent to his father-in-law's favourite expletive, "Gad!" under
his breath.
He did not add what was an unpleasant probability: that, having to
assume full responsibility of affairs, there were likely to be
astonishing complications. Crashed-down oak trees are quite helpless
concerning their enemies, reckoned upon or otherwise, and Steve, who
had never taken count of his foes, would be called upon to meet them
all single-handed.