XIX

THE next morning, while I yet slept, she came knocking and rattling

at my door. When I let her in she upbraided me for having it locked,

unmindful of my sleepy excuses that as the street door was generally

open all night it was wisdom to keep one’s apartment firmly closed.

She was in the blue kimono over her nightgown, and when I got back into

bed--for it was too early for breakfast--sat down on the edge of the

couch and told me that she had decided to accept Mrs. Ferguson’s offer

to send her to Europe.

I had expected some move but hadn’t dared to hope for this. It was

impossible to hide my agitation, to wipe the expression of startled

excitement off my face. She paid no attention to me, would not have

noticed if I had fallen flat in a dead faint, so engrossed was she in

her plans. Staring out of the window with narrowed far-seeing eyes, she

developed her program, oblivious of the fact that I was not answering,

more like a person thinking aloud than one consulting another. When

she finally paused, I said hoarsely, afraid to believe it:

“Mrs. Ferguson may have changed her mind. You wouldn’t hear of the

offer when she made it.”

She treated the suggestion as preposterous.

“What an idea! Who ever heard of any woman changing her mind on such a

subject.”

“You’ve changed yours,” I answered faintly.

“I’m different, and besides I’ve changed it for the better. She’ll be

only too glad to send me. Why think of what it means to her! She’ll

be known as the patron of one of the greatest living prima donnas.

That’s a thing that doesn’t happen to everybody. Is the morning paper

down-stairs? I want to see what steamers are leaving this week. I’ll

go as soon as I can get off. Oh, I won’t meet anybody, and it doesn’t

matter if I do.”

The door closed on her and I fell back on the pillows like a marionette

whose wire has broken. Limp as a rag I lay looking up at the ceiling,

and out of my mouth issued a sigh that was almost a groan. It was all I

had power for. The tension snapped, I suddenly felt myself invaded by a

lassitude so deep, so vast that it went to the edges of the world and

lapped over. I would like to have been removed to a far distance and

lain under a tree and watched the leaves without moving or thinking or

speaking. I would like to have stayed in bed and looked at the dusty

circle of cement flowers from which the chandelier hung, for years and

years.

She came hastening back with the paper, tore it apart, and spreading it

on the table read the shipping advertisements. Several steamers were

due to sail within the week. She decided on the best and throwing the

paper on the floor, said briskly:

“I’ll see her about it this morning before she goes out. There’s no

need to bother about it before breakfast. I’ll just take a cup of

coffee down here with you and then go up and dress. Let’s get it now.”

I rose, telling her to set the table while I dressed. She put on

two cups, each trip to the table impeded by the paper, over which

she trampled with loud cracklings, then she gave it up and followed

me, talking. My toilet, performed with mutilated rites owing to its

publicity, took me from room to room, with Lizzie at my heels. When I

shut the door on my bath, she leaned against it and through the crack

gave me her opinion on the rival merits of Paris and Berlin as centers

of musical study.

While I was making the breakfast she stood in the entrance of the

kitchenette, then, squeezing by her with the coffee pot in one hand and

a plate of toast in the other, she did not give me enough room and the

toast slid off the plate and was strewed afar. She picked up a piece

and sat down eating it, her elbows on the table, while I gathered up

the rest. Hot and disheveled I took my place opposite while she watched

me, biting delicately at her toast, benignly beautiful and fresh as a

summer’s morn.

She was stretching her hand for her cup when a disturbing thought made

her pause. She dropped the hand and looked at me in consternation:--her

big trunk was no good, it had been broken three years ago coming from

California.

“Oh, well”--a happy solution occurred to her and she held out her hand

for the cup--“I can borrow one of yours. That large one with the Bagdad

portière over it. I’ll return it as soon as I get there. You don’t mind

loaning it to me, do you, dearest?”

I gave it, warmly, generously, effusively. It wasn’t like giving Mrs.

Bushey the lamp. There was no necessity for diplomatic pressure. I

would have given her my jewels, my miniatures, my last cent in the

bank, my teeth like Fantine, each and all of my treasures, to have her

go. Nobody knows how I wanted her to go. It was not that I had ceased

to love her--I will do that till I die. It was not that I had hopes

Roger would forget her--he may be as faithful as Penelope for all I

know. I was unable to stand any more. I was down, done, ended. I wanted

to creep into my little hole, curl up and lie still. I wanted to look

at the wreath of cement flowers for years. I wanted immunity from the

solving of unsolvable questions, respite from trying to straighten

out what persisted in staying tangled, freedom to regain my poise,

reinstate my conscience, patch up the broken pieces of my heart. An

immovable body had encountered an irresistible force, and though the

immovable body was still in its old place, it had been so scarred

and torn and tattered by the irresistible force that only rest would

restore it.

That was two days ago. In the interim there has been no rest--I have

spent most of the forty-eight hours in taxicabs and at telephones--but

relief is in sight.

Lizzie is going.

It is all arranged. Betty has dispersed the pupils and renewed her

European offer. Between taxicabs she caught me here yesterday and told

me that few women have the privilege of being the patron of one of

the greatest living prima donnas. The privilege sat soberly upon her

and she was going to make herself worthy of it by giving one of the

greatest living prima donnas every advantage that Europe offers.

In the afternoon Lizzie and I went down to the steamship office

and bought her ticket, and then to the banker’s to draw the first

instalment on her letter of credit. It was a royally generous letter

and I said so. Lizzie didn’t think it was too much and went over a list

of expenses to prove it. She is to go to Berlin--Vignorol wanted Paris

but as a dramatic singer she preferred Berlin. I gathered from a casual

remark that Vignorol was hurt at her desertion of him and his country.

But this didn’t trouble her.

“Vignorol! I don’t see that it was so kind of him to want to take me

for nothing. It would have made him. He’s only known here in New York

now and as my teacher he would have been known all over the world.”

The steamer sails the day after to-morrow and this afternoon I sent

up the trunk. I had offered to come in the evening and help her pack

and then backed out. In an offhand manner, as she was sorting piles of

sheet music, she said Roger was coming in after dinner to say good-by.

She seemed engrossed by the music, gave an absent-minded assent when I

said I couldn’t help that night. I could not tell whether she had at

last guessed and was exhibiting unusual tact or whether she was still

unconscious. I knew that every minute of the next day was filled and

it would be Roger’s only chance to see her alone. It was difficult to

imagine him proposing in a room littered with his lady’s wardrobe. But

love is said to find out a way and if a man’s in earnest he can put the

question just as well in a fourth-floor parlor full of clothes, as he

can by moonlight in a bower.

I had been waiting for this interview, braced and steeled for the

announcement. It was the final trial and I was going to go through with

it proudly and stoically if I died the day after. I did not feel quite

as if I should die. Hope springs eternal in the human breast, that’s

why we don’t all, sometime or other, commit suicide. Hope upheld me

now: with a career beckoning she might refuse him. It was but a sickly

gleam. No woman, comprehensible to me, would ever put the greatest

career the world offers before Roger Clements. The hope lay in the fact

that Lizzie was not a comprehensible woman.

With great inward struggle I preserved my pride and stoicism through

the rest of the afternoon. They were still with me when, in the evening

I lay down on the divan bed, whence I can hear all ascending footsteps.

The wreath of cement flowers gradually faded, and the daylight sounds

of the house were absorbed in the evening quiet. Night had possession

of the city for what seemed an endless time when I heard him going up:

from the street, past my floor, up the next flight, and the next, then

the far faint closing of Lizzie’s door. Rigid in the dark I pictured

the meeting--the room with its high blaze of gas, the open trunks and

scattered garments, and Lizzie with her smile and the enveloping beam

of her glance.

It was profoundly still in the back room, only the tiny ticking of

my watch on the table. The old tomcat, who at this hour was wont to

lift up his voice in a nuptial hymn, had gone afield for his wooing.

The parlors and bedrooms in the extensions were quiet, their lighted

windows throwing a soft yellow light into my darkened lair. Our little

bit of the city held its breath in sympathy with me, prone with fixed

eyes, seeing those two in the parlor.

Would he work up to it in gentle gradations, gracefully and poetically

as men did in novels, or blurt it out in one great question which (for

me at least) would have made life blossom as the wood did when Siegmund

sung? They would probably stand--people didn’t sit when such matters

were afoot--and if she said yes would he take her in his arms then and

there? Under the same roof, just two floors above me, they might be

standing now, enfolded, cheek to cheek. Pride and stoicism fell from me

and I pressed my face into the pillow and moaned like a wounded animal.

The watch ticked on. It was evidently not going to be short and

tempestuous. Roger was an unhurried person and he would probably

proffer his suit with dignified deliberation. I was certain, if he was

successful, he’d come in and tell me on the way down. I couldn’t see

him passing my door and not remembering. The place was dark, he might

think I was asleep and go by. I got up and lit the lights, thinking as

I stretched up with the match, that they were signals telling him I was

here, waiting, ready to wish him joy.

Then I looked at the watch--only just nine. He might be hours longer. I

could spend the time in preparation, be ready to meet him with a frank

unforced smile.

I went to the back window and looked up at the stars for courage.

The sky was sprinkled with them--big ones and bright pin points. For

centuries they had been gazing down at the puny agonies of discarded

lovers, unmoved and cynically curious, winking at them in derision.

The thought had a tonic effect. Under its stimulus I straightened my

ancestors, askew after a morning’s dusting, and touched up the bunch of

daffodils on the table. Then the effect began to wear off. I reached

for the watch--twenty minutes past nine.

If she had refused him it would have been done by now. Lizzie wasn’t

one to spare or mince her words. I’d better get ready for him. I

went to the mirror and saw a ghost, and the stars’ stern message was

forgotten. That I should some day be dust was not a sustaining thought

now when I was so much a suffering sentient thing, sunk down in the

midmost of the moment. I brushed some rouge on my cheeks and smiled at

the reflection to see if I could do it naturally. It was ghastly, like

the grimace of a corpse that had expired in torment.

Then suddenly I dropped my rouge and gave a smothered cry--I heard

Lizzie calling my name. For a moment power of movement seemed stricken

from me. I had not thought that she would be the one to tell me. She

called again and I opened the door and went into the hall. Her head was

visible over the banisters.

“Have you got the key of that trunk?” she said. “It’s packed and I want

to lock it.”

It was a ruse to get me up there. Even Lizzie wouldn’t announce an

engagement at the top of her voice down two flights of stairs. I found

the key and mounted, holding to the hand-rail. It seemed a long climb.

When I got to the top I had no breath, though I had gone slowly, and I

trembled so that I was afraid she would notice it, and laid the key on

the table.

The trunk was packed, its lid down, and another, open, with garments

trailing over its sides, stood in the middle of the floor. Round it

lay the unpacked remains of Lizzie’s wardrobe, in mounds, in broken

scatterings, in confused interminglings. If a cyclone had descended on

neat closets and bureau drawers, scooped out their contents, carried it

with a whirling centripetal motion into the center of the room, took a

final churning rush through it and dashed out again, the place could

not have presented a more wildly disheveled appearance.

In an unencumbered corner, an eddy untouched by the cyclone’s wrath,

Roger stood putting on his coat. We looked across the chaos, bowed

and smiled. I knew my smile by heart. Roger’s was something new, rose

no higher than his lips, leaving his eyes somber, I might say sullen.

Lizzie, without words, had snatched up the key and knelt by the trunk.

She looked untidy, hot and rather cross. They certainly had not the

appearance of lovers.

I fell weakly into a chair and awaited revelations. None came. Roger

buttoned his coat, Lizzie made scratching noises with the key. There

was something strained and sultry in the silence. Could she have

refused him? One of the disappointing things about people in real life

is their failure to rise to the dramatic expression fitting to great

moments. Had I been in a play I would have used words vibrating with

the thud of my own heart-beats. What I did say was:

“Have you had a nice evening?”

“Very,” said Roger with a dry note.

“Have we,” murmured Lizzie, busy with the key. “I’m sure I don’t know.

I’ve not had time to say a word to Mr. Clements.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been rather in the way,” he remarked, the dry note a

trifle more astringent.

“Well, the truth is you have,” she answered. “Are you sure this is the

right key, Evie?”

The gleam of hope brightened into a ray. I sat forward on the edge

of the chair looking from Lizzie’s bent back to Roger’s face, which

had reddened slightly and had a tight look about the mouth. I am, by

nature, a shy and modest person, and under normal conditions the last

thing I would do would be to force another’s confidence. But I _had_ to

know. I had to drag the truth out of them if it came with a shriek like

the roots of the fabled mandrake.

“Haven’t you talked _at all_?” I exclaimed, with an agonized emphasis

that might have betrayed me to a child of twelve.

They did not appear to notice it. Roger moved from his corner, picking

his way round a clump of boots that had been whirled near the sofa.

“Talk?” said Lizzie, still engaged with the key. “How can people talk

when they’re packing to go to Europe? There! It’s in and it turns.

Thank goodness the lock’s all right.”

She rose and surveyed the room with an intent frowning glance.

“That,” pointing to the other trunk, “I’ll begin on now and finish

to-morrow. This,” turning to the full one, “is done. I’d better lock it

at once and get it out of the way.”

She turned back to it and gave a series of tentative pushes at the lid

which rose rebelliously over bulging contents.

Nothing had happened! She hadn’t let him speak--he hadn’t dared--no

opportunity had offered? What did it matter how or why? The sickening

thudding of my heart began to grow less. I leaned my elbow on my knees

and my forehead on my hands, feeling at last as if I was going to be

Early Victorian and swoon.

Under the shadow of my fingers I could see Roger’s feet stepping

carefully among the boots. Skirting tangled heaps of millinery, they

arrived at the trunk. I dropped my hands and watched while he addressed

himself to Lizzie’s back.

“Good night.” He stretched out his hand. “Good-by.”

She turned, saw the hand and put hers into it; then, for the first time

smiled, but not with her habitual rich glow.

“Good-by. I’d ask you to stay but there’s really too much to do. I’ve

got to have to-morrow free to finish up in.”

The hands separated and dropped. His back was toward me and I was glad

of it.

“Perhaps we’ll meet again some day.”

“Oh, surely.” The abstraction of her look vanished, her smile flashed

out brilliant and dazzling. “But not here, not this way. You’ll see me

soon in my right place--behind the footlights.”

He murmured a response and moved toward the door. She turned back to

the trunk, pressing on it and then drawing back and pressing again. He

passed me with a low “Good night, Evie,” and I answered in the same

tone.

He was at the door when she ceased her efforts, and drawing herself up

with a deep breath, called peremptorily:

“Come here, Mr. Clements.”

He stopped, the door-knob in his hand.

“What is it, Miss Harris?”

She stood back from the trunk, flushed and irritated.

“Just sit on this trunk, please. It must be locked to-night.”

Her eye on him was as the eye of a general or a subaltern, impersonal,

commanding, imperious.

He met it and stood immovable. In the fifteen years I have known him I

had never seen him look so angry.

“Hurry up,” she said sharply. “I’d ask Evie but she’s not heavy enough.”

He answered with icy politeness:

“Miss Harris, I am very sorry, but I’ve already stayed too long. There

are other men in the house, who will surely only be too happy to sit on

your trunk whenever you choose to command them,” and he opened the door.

“Oh, very well, if you’re going to be so disobliging,” she answered,

angry now in her turn. Then to me: “Come over here, Evie, and help. If

we both press as hard as we can I think we can do it. I don’t care to

wait till the morning. I want this locked now.”

I rose obediently and began to steer my way through the cyclone’s

track. Roger came in, shutting the door with a bang.

“Mrs. Drake’s in no condition to make such exertions. She’s been ill

and oughtn’t to be asked to do such things. Evie, don’t touch that

trunk.”

“That’s perfect rubbish. I’m not asking her to _lift_ it. Come on,

Evie.”

I stopped, looking helplessly from one to the other. They glared at

each other, his face pale, hers red. They seemed on the verge of battle

and I knew what Lizzie was like when her temper was up.

“Oh, don’t fight about a trunk,” I implored.

“I’ve not the slightest intention of fighting about anything,” said

Roger, looking as if, had a suitable adversary been present, he would

have felled him to the ground. “But I won’t have you making efforts

that are unnecessary and that you’re unable to make.”

“You talk like a perfect fool,” said Lizzie, with the flashing eye of

combat I knew so well.

He bowed.

“I’m quite ready to admit it. But as a perfect fool I absolutely refuse

to let you make Mrs. Drake help shut that trunk.”

“Then do it yourself.”

As usual she had the best of it. Roger knew it and bore upon his face

the look of the bear in the pit at whom small boys hurl gibes. When she

saw the symptoms of defeat she began to melt.

“It’ll not take five minutes--just one good pressure on this corner.

There’s a hat box that sticks up and has to be squeezed down.”

With a white face of wrath Roger strode over the clothes and sat on

the trunk. I have never believed that he could be ridiculous, my Roger

hedged round with the dignity that is the Clements’ heritage, but he

was then, boiling with rage, perched uncomfortably on the sloping lid.

A hysterical desire to laugh seized me and I backed off to my chair,

biting my under lip, afraid to speak for fear of exploding into a

screaming giggle.

They were unconscious of anything funny in the situation, one too

angry, the other too engrossed. With a concentrated glance she surveyed

the trunk, directing the bestowal of his weight. When she had finally

got him in the right place, she knelt, key in hand, and in answer to

a curt demand he rose and flopped furiously down. To the protesting

crunching of the hat box, the lid settled and the click of the lock

sounded.

“Done,” she cried triumphantly, falling back in a sitting posture on

the floor.

Roger got up.

“Have I your permission to go?” he asked with elaborate deference.

“You have,” said his hostess, and from the floor looked up with a

bright and beaming face from which every vestige of bad temper had

fled. “Good-by--good luck. And remember, the first performance I give

in New York I expect to see you applauding in the bald-headed row.”

As the door shut on him my laughter came like the burst of a geyser.

Lizzie, still on the floor, looking at me with annoyed surprise, made

it worse. When she asked me in a hostile voice kindly to tell her

what the joke was, it got beyond my control and I became hysterical.

It wasn’t very bad--I always do things in a meek subdued way--but I

laughed and cried when I tried to explain and laughed again.

When she saw there was no use ordering me not to be an idiot, she

got up, grumbling to herself and began on the second trunk. She kept

stepping round me carrying armfuls of clothes, trailing skirts over my

knees, leaning forward from a kneeling posture to jerk blouses, cloaks

and petticoats from the back of my chair. I tried to retreat into

corners, but she worked in wide comprehensive sweeps, wherever I went

coming after me to find something that was under my chair or upon which

I was sitting. Finally she used me as a sort of stand, throwing things

on me and plucking them off, muttering abstractedly as she worked.

I was recovering and she was inspecting a skirt outheld at arm’s length

when she said musingly:

“I hadn’t the least idea Roger Clements was so bad-tempered. He’s just

a self-sufficient cross-grained prig. Gets into a rage when I ask him

to sit on a trunk. I can’t stand that kind of man.”