|AT about two o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday in early September
Sue Wilde opened a letter from the Worm.
Before dropping on the stiff walnut chair Sue had closed the door;
ruffled by the feeling that it must be closed, conscious even of guilt.
For it was a tenet of Aunt Matilda's, as of Mrs. Wilde's, that a
woman should not sit down before mid-afternoon, and not then on
Mondays, Wednesdays or Saturdays. And here her bed was not yet made.
“Dear Sue (so the letter ran)--Herewith my check for the September rent.
Sorry to be late. I forgot it.”
The letter sank to her lap. Pictures rose--memories. She saw the
half-furnished little apartment on Tenth Street, in the heart of the old
Village where she had spent the two busiest, most disturbing, yet--yes,
happiest years of her life.
“There's a little news, some of which I can't tell you. Not until I
know--which may be by the time this reaches you. In that case, if the
news is anywhere near what I'm fool enough, every other minute, to hope,
I shall doubtless be rushing post haste to see you and tell you how it
all came about. I may reach you in person before this letter does. At
present it is a new Treasure Island, a wildly adventurous comedy of
life, with me for the hero--or the villain. That's what I'm waiting to
be told. But it's rather miraculous.”
It was like Henry Bates to write mysteriously. He was excited; or he
wouldn't be threatening to come out. It had been fine of him to keep
from coming out. He hadn't forced her to ask it of him. She knew he
wanted to. Now, at the thought that he almost certainly was coming, her
pulse quickened.
There was a sound in the hall, a cautious turning of the door-knob.
Flushing, all nerves and self-consciousness, she leaped up, thrust the
letter behind her, moved toward the bed that had not yet been made.
The shyly smiling face of a nine-year-old girl appeared.
“Oh, is it you, Miriam!” breathed Sue.
“And Becky. _If_ we were to come in--”
“Come along and shut the door after you.”
The children made for the closet where hung certain dancing costumes
that had before this proved to hold a fascination bordering on the realm
of magic. Sue resumed her letter.
“Zanin is part of the news, Sue. He seems to have hit on prosperity.
There are whispers that the great Silverstone has taken him up in
earnest, sees in him the making of a big screen director. Z. himself
told me the other night at the Parisian that he is going to put on a
film production that will make _The Dawn of an Empire_ and his own (and
your) Nature look like the early efforts of an amateur.
“There's still another piece of news I'm bursting with. I can't believe
you don't know. But you haven't asked--haven't mentioned it in your
letters. And Zanin told me he was wholly out of touch with you. It is
hard to believe that you don't know it. For this bit of news is about
you. The other that I spoke of first, is about me--a smaller matter.
Lord, but you have buried yourself. Sue! You certainly went the whole
thing.
“Zanin, by the way, and that Belgian girl--Heléne something or other;
you know, works in pastels, those zippy little character portraits, and
dancing girls (didn't she do you, once?)--well, they're inseparable. It
bothers me a little, seeing them always together at the Muscovy and
the Parisian and Jim's. After all the stirring things you and he did
together. She has spruced him up a lot, too. She's dressing him in color
schemes--nice earthy browns and greens. Yes, J. Z. dresses amazingly
well now. He has picked up a little money in these new business
connections of his. But I resent the look of it--as if he had forgotten
you. Though if he hadn't I should be crudely, horribly jealous.
“If I do come out I'll do my best to look respectable. Tell you
what--I'll put on the good suit I had made especially to propose to you
in. Remember? The time I lost my nerve and didn't say the words. Haven't
worn it since, Sue. And the hat--shoes--cane. I'll wear 'em all! No one
could be more chastely 'suburbaniacal' than Henry Bates will appear on
this significant occasion. Even the forbidding aunt will feel a dawning
respect for the erstwhile Worm--who was not a Worm, after all, but a
chrysalis, now shortly to emerge a glittering, perfect creature.
“Think not unkindly of your abandoned Villager,
“Henry B.”
At the ending she chuckled aloud. The letter had carried her far
from the plain room in a rather severe little house which in its turn
conformed scrupulously in appearance to the uniformity that marked the
double row of houses on this suburban street. They were all eyes, those
houses.
She tried to reconstruct a mental picture of that remarkable costume of
the Worm's. But it was difficult to remember; she had seen it only the
once, months ago, back in the spring. Would he look overdressed? That
would be worse than if he were to wear the old bagging gray suit, soft
collar and flowing tie--and the old felt hat. For the Street might think
him one of her mysteriously theatrical acquaintances from the wicked
city, in which event a new impetus would be given to the whispering that
always ran subtly back and forth between the houses that were all eyes.
There was other chuckling in the room. The two children stood before
her--Miriam, the elder, a big-eyed girl with a fluff of chestnut hair
caught at the neck with a bow; Becky, small for her seven years, with
tiny hands and feet and a demure mouth. Miriam had about head and
shoulders the Spanish scarf that Sue had worn in Zanin's Carmen ballet
at the Crossroads; Becky had thrust her feet into the red leather boots
of Sue's Russian costume. When they found their half-sister's eye upon
them the two giggled irresistibly.
Sue felt a warm impulse to snatch them both up in her arms. But she
sobered. This was old ground. Mrs. Wilde, as the wife and widow of an
evangelical minister, felt strongly against dancing. Sue had promised to
keep silent regarding this vital side of her own life.
Becky shuffled humorously to Sue's knee. Miriam came to her side, leaned
against her shoulder, and gently, admiringly stroked her thick short
hair, now grown to an unruly length but still short enough to disclose
the fine outline of Sue's boyish yet girlish head.
“Tell us about the time you were a movie actress.” This from Miriam.
Sue, dispirited, shook her head. “You must take off those things,
children., Put them back in the closet. Your mother wouldn't like it if
she saw you.”
Instead of obeying, Miriam leaned close to her ear and whispered: “I've
seen movies. Yesterday with the girls--after school. There was a wild
west one, _Clarice of the Canyon_, and a comedy where he falls through
the ceiling and all the plaster comes down on the bed and then the bed
goes through another ceiling and all. It was awfully funny.”
Sue mentally cast about her for guidance in the part she had promised
to play. She deliberately frowned. “Does your mother know about it,
Miriam?”
The girl, bright-eyed, shook her head.
“Then it was wrong.”
Miriam still watched her, finally saying: “Do you know why I told you?”
Sue, feeling rather helpless, shook her head.
“Because I knew you wouldn't tell on me.”
Sue pursed her lips.
She heard a voice from the stair landing, Aunt Matilda's voice.
“Sue!” it called--“Sue! Some one to see you!”
The Worm, surely! She sprang up, smoothed her shirt-waist before the
mirror, tried to smooth her unmanageable hair. Her color was rising. She
waited a moment to control this.
“Sue! Come down!”
She passed her aunt on the stairs and was detained by a worn hand.
“It's a man,” whispered the older woman--“one of those city friends
cf yours, I take it. Looks like a Jew. Goodness knows what people
will think! As if they didn't have enough to talk about already,
without--this!”
Sue shook off her hand and ran down the stairs, oblivious now to her
color as to the angry flash in her striking green eyes. It was Zanin,
of course---of all men! What if he had heard! In Greenwich Village there
was none of the old vulgar race prejudice. Zarin was in certain respects
the ablest man she had ever known. But there was no possibility that he
could be understood, even tolerated, in this house on the Street.
She found him on the front porch where Aunt Matilda had left him. And
for an instant, before extending her hand, she stared. For there stood
the new Zanin--perceptibly fuller in face and figure, less wildly eager
of eye, clad in the earthy brown suit that had so impressed the Worm,
with a soft gray-green shirt that might have been flannel or silk or
a mixture of the two, and a large bow tie and soft hat of a harmonious
green-brown.
He smiled easily, thoughtfully down at her as he took her hand. Then she
felt him, more sober, more critical, studying her appearance.
“Well, Sue,” he observed--this was indeed a calm, successful-appearing
Zanin--“you're not looking so fit as you might.”
She could say nothing to this.
“Dancing any?”
“No. None.” She was wondering what to do with him. The choice appeared
to lie between the stuffy parlor and this front porch. Within, the
household would hear every word; out here the eyes of the Street would
watch unrelentingly. With an impassive face and a little shrug, she
remarked, indicating a stiff porch chair--
“Sit down, Jacob.”
“I'll take this,” said he, dropping down on the top step in the most
conspicuous spot of all. And he smiled at her.
“You can't guess what brings me, Sue. First, I want you to run in town
this evening.”
She shook her head, slowly.
“You'd better. It's an unusual event. It wouldn't do to miss it.”
Her eyes wandered toward the hall behind the screen door, then off to
the row of wooden houses across the street.
“Nevertheless,” said she, “it's going to be missed, Jacob.”
He studied her. “I'm debating with myself whether to tell you about
it, Sue. Though it's a wonder you don't know. Haven't you followed the
papers?”
Again she shook her head.
“I'm wondering, though,” she observed: “from the way you are talking,
and from something Henry Bates said in a letter that came to-day--if it
isn't the Nature film.”
“That's it,” said he. “First performance tonight. Really don't you
know?”
“Not a thing. Jacob.”
“Why, our old friend Silverstone is in on it. He bought out the
Interstellar interest. We're featuring it. At a two-dollar house,
Sue--think of that! _The Dawn of an Empire_ is nowhere. Unless it falls
flat--which it won't!--there'll be a bit of money in it for all of us.
What do you say now, eh!”
“Money?” mused Sue, incredulous.
“Regular money--even for the small interest you and Peter and I hold.
But that's only the beginning. Listen here now, Sue! A little time has
gone by. You've hidden yourself out here--let your spirit sag--so I
suppose you may find some difficulty in grasping this. But the Nature
film is you, child. You're half famous already, thanks to the way
we're letting loose on publicity. You're going to be a sensation--a
knock-out--once the blessed public sees that film. Remember this: just
because you decided to be another sort of person you haven't become that
other person. Not for a minute! The big world is tearing right along at
the old speed and you with it. With it? No--ahead of it! That's what our
old _Nature_, that you worked so hard on, is doing for you right now.
Can you grasp that?”
“Oh, yes,” said she listlessly, “I grasp it all right. But you're
wrong in saying it is me. I am another person. Jacob--I couldn't go to
see that film.”
“Couldn't see it?”
“No.” Her lips were compressed.
“But, Sue--that's outrageous! It's fanatical!”
“Maybe it is. I can't help it,”
“You mean the frankness--the costuming--”
She pressed her hands over her eyes. “And people from here will be
slipping in to see it--sneaking in when they think their neighbors won't
see them--and seeing me on exhibition there! And they will whisper. Oh,
the vulgarity of it!... Jacob, don't talk about it. I can't! Please!”
He studied her, through narrowed eyes. “The poor kid _is_ going through
it!” he thought. “I had no idea!” Deliberately, with the coldness, the
detachment, of his race, he considered the problem. At length he said:
“I'll tell you my main errand, Sue. I've got an enormous new production
on. It's in my hands, too, as director. Silverstone gives me carte
blanche--that's his way. Big man. Now I've got an eye in my head. I've
seen our _Nature_ run off. And I happen to know that the big movie star
of to-morrow, the sensation of them all, is Miss Sue Wilde. You don't
realize that, of course. All right! Don't try to. But do try to get
_this_. I want you for my new production. And I can offer you more money
than you ever saw in all your life. Not two thousand a week, like Mabel
Wakeford, but a lot. And still you'll be cheaper to my company than
women not half so good who have built up a market value in the film
business. It will be a bargain for us. I brought out a contract ready
for you to sign. Salary begins to-morrow if you say the word. Would you
like to read it over?”
Her hands were still over her eyes. She shook her head.
Instead of pressing his business he went on quietly studying her. He
studied the house, too; and the street. After a time he consulted a
time-table and his watch.
“Sue,” he said then, “I'm disappointed.”
“I'm sorry, Jacob.” She looked up now and threw out her hands. “But you
couldn't understand. I couldn't look at that film, at myself doing those
things. It's a thing that's--well, Jacob, it is repellent to me now.
It's a thing I wish I hadn't done. I thought I believed it--your theory
of freedom, naturalness, all that. I don't believe it. But all the
same I'm on record there. The most conspicuous girl in the United
States--from what you say--'
“Easily that, Sue. By to-morrow.”
“--picturing a philosophy I don't believe in. I've been daring almost
to forget it. Now you're bringing it home to me. It is branded on me
now. God knows what it is going to mean! Of course it will follow me
into my home here. And you know what people will think and say--these,
people”--she indicated the orderly street with a sweep of a fine arm
and hand--“they'll think and talk of me as a girl who has done what no
decent girl can do and stay decent--”
She stopped, choking. He was still coolly observing her.
“Yes,” he said again, “I'm disappointed. I'm afraid it's just as well
for you to give up. You've lost something, Sue.”
He rose. And she let him go in silence; stood looking after him until he
disappeared around the corner. Then she went up to her room.
The children were still there, serenely happy in unheard-of mischief.
They had all her dancing clothes spread out on the bed.
She closed the door. The girls giggled nervously; she hardly saw them.
She lifted up the Russian costume and fingered the bright-colored silk.
Dreams came to her mind's eye. She looked at the little boots of red
leather.
“I wonder,” she murmured.
“Please dance for us,” begged Miriam shyly, at her side. She hardly
heard.
She moved to the side of the room, then leaped out in that bounding,
crouching Russian step. She was stiff, awkward. She stepped back and
tried it again.
The children laughed in sheer excitement and clapped their hands.
Becky tried to imitate the step, fell over and rolled, convulsed with
laughter, on the floor.
The door opened and Mrs. Wilde stood on the threshold. She was a tall
thin woman, all in black, with a heavy humorless mouth, pallid skin,
flat pouches under her eyes.
“Miriam! Becky!” she cried. “Come here instantly!”
Becky got up. The two children, crestfallen, between sulkiness and a
measure of fear, moved slowly toward the door. The mother stood aside,
ushered them out, then confronted the younger woman. There was a tired
sort of anger in her eyes. The almost impenetrable egotism of her
widowhood had been touched and stirred by the merry little scene.
“You hold your promises lightly,” she said.
Sue bit her lip, threw out her hands. “It isn't that--”
“Then what is it?” Mrs. Wilde moved into the room and closed the door.
“I don't quite see what we are to do, Sue. I can't have this sort of
temptation put before them right here, in their home. You know what I
have taught them and what I expect of them. You know' I wish to be kind
to you, but this isn't fair. He--he...” She carried a handkerchief,
heavily bordered with black. This she pressed to her eyes.
A hot temper blazed in Sue. She struggled with it. Sharp words rushed to
her tongue. She drove them back.
It occurred to her that she must be considerate; the woman's life had
been torn from its roots, what mind she had was of course overwhelmed.
Sue stood there, her hands clenched at her sides, groping desperately
for some point of mental contact with the woman who had married her
father--forgetting that there had never been a print of mental contact.
Suddenly she recalled a few hot phrases of the Worm's, spoken in regard
to this very matter of her attempt to confine her life within this
gloomy home--“It's Puritan against Cavalier--both right, both wrong!
It's the Greeks against the Greatest of Jews--both right, both wrong!
Beauty against duty, the instinct to express against the instinct to
serve--both right, both wrong!”... Was Henry Bates right? Was the gulf
between her natural self and this home unbridgeable? Motionless, tense,
she tried, all in an instant, to think this through--and failed. A wave
of emotion overwhelmed her, an uprushing of egotism as blind as the
egotism of the woman in black who stood stiffly against the closed
door. It was a clash--not of wills, for Sue's will was to serve--but of
natures.