Among the old brocades with which the room was fitted and which,
together with the silver bed and the enamelled faience, gave it an
earlier century air, Cassy stood before a cheval-glass.
She was properly dressed. Her costume, light cloth, faintly blue, was
exquisitely embroidered. Beneath it was lingerie of the kind which, it
is said, may be drawn through a ring. Behind and between was Cassy, on
whose docked hair sat a hat that was very unbecoming and therefore
equally smart.
A moment before she had thanked and dismissed Emma. Emma was the maid.
With a slant of the eye, that said and suppressed many things, Emma had
gone.
Through the open windows came the call of birds, the smell of fresh
turf. A patch of sky was visible. It was tenderly blue. There was a
patch too of grass that showed an asparagus green.
From the mirror Cassy went to a table and, from a jade platter, took a
ring. It was made of six little hoops each set with small stones. She
put it on. The platter held other rings. There was a sapphire,
inch-long, deep and dark. She put that on. There was also an Australian
opal and an Asian emerald, the latter greener than the grass. She put
these on. Together with the wedding-ring they made quite a show. Too
much of a show, she thought.
Like the costume, the hat, like other costumes, more hats and box after
box of lingerie, they had all surprisingly dumped themselves, there, at
her feet, the day after the wedding. The bundle, which she had brought
with her, she had found very useless and so awkward that she would have
given it to Emma, had it not seemed unsuited to a young person
manifestly so fine. Since then it had been tucked away in a cupboard,
safely out of sight.
That was just five days ago, a brief eternity, during which life seemed
to be driving her headlong to some unimagined goal. Until the evening
previous she had had barely a moment. But on that evening, Paliser, who
was dining at the Austens', had given her a few hours to herself.
Now, on this afternoon, he was again in town.
The air was very still. Afar, a train bellowed, rumbled, died away. From
the garage came the bark of a dog, caught up and repeated on the
hillside beyond. On the lawn, a man in an apron was at work. Otherwise
the air was still, fragrant, freighted with spring.
Cassy, turning from the table, went to the mirror again and tilted the
hat. However unbecoming, it was certainly smart, and Cassy wondered what
her father would think of Mrs. Monty Paliser.
In the spaciousness of the name, momentarily she lost herself. It is
appalling to be a snob. But there are attributes that pour balm all over
you. In the deference of the bored yet gracious young women who, with
robes et manteaux, had come all the way from Fifth Avenue, there had
been a flagon or two of that balm. In the invariable "Thank you, mem's"
of the Paliser personnel there had been more. It is appalling to be a
snob. There are perfumes that appeal.
Then also, particularly after Harlem, the great, grave, silent house had
a charm that was enveloping, almost enchanted. Apparently uncommanded,
it ran itself, noiselessly, in ordered grooves. Cassy fancied that
somewhere about there must be a majordomo who competently saw to
everything and kept out of the way. But she did not know. In her own
rooms she was now at home, as she was also at home in the state chambers
on the floor below. In regard to the latter, she had an idea--entirely
correct, by the way--that at Lisbon, the royal palace--when there was
one--could not have been more suave. But the rest of the house was as
yet unexplored, though in regard to the upper storey she had another
idea, that there was a room there close-barred, packed with coffins.
The idea delighted her. In this Palace of the White Cat it was the note
macabre, the proper note, the note that synchronised the circumambient
enchantments. In the historical nights of which Perrault told, the
princess had but a gesture to make, the offender sank dead. At once a
bier was produced, the corpse was hurried away, and the veils of charm
restored fell languorously.
Yet, in that historical epoch, there subsisted--perhaps as a reminder of
the vanities even of fairyland--the rose-leaf suggestively crumpled. The
crumple affected Cassy but far less than she had expected. Paliser had
been very gentlemanly. He had deferred to her in all things, agreed with
her about everything, and though none the less he always had his own
way, yet the pedestal was so obvious that if she had not known otherwise
she might have thought herself continuously upon it.
The crumple was not there, or at least only such crumple as she had
naturally awaited. The discomfort of the leaf consisted in the fact that
married she was not mated, that she did not love him, and probably never
could.
Now, as she tilted her hat, the spaciousness of the name recurred to
her. Its potentialities she had considered before she accepted it, but
only because of her father. The idea that it would lift him out of the
walk-up, out of Harlem and cold veal, was the one excuse for her voyage
to Cytherea. The voyage had been eminently respectable. Undertaken with
full ecclesiastical sanction, Aphrodite and her free airs had had
nothing to do with it. None the less it was to Cytherea that she had
gone--and to Lampsacus also, for all she and her geography knew to the
contrary.
Now, though, in tilting her hat, the disreputable beauty of the land was
forgotten. She was in another and a fairer realm. A modern garden of the
Hesperides lay about her. She saw herself distributing the golden fruit.
The mirror showed her a red-crossed Lady Bountiful in an ambulance, in
two ambulances, in a herd of ambulances, at the front. There was no end
to the golden fruit, no end to his father's money, no end to the good he
might allow her to do.
The picture so delighted her that she flushed and in the emotion of it
two tears sprang to her eyes that were not of the crying kind.
She dried them, telling herself that if he framed the picture, she could
love him, and she would.
It would be all so perfect, not the loving, but the giving, the joy of
giving, the joy of always giving, of giving with both hands, of just
shovelling it out and keeping at it, of never saying "No," of saying,
"Yes, and here is more and here is more," of saying, too, "Don't thank
me, it is for me to thank you." What joy ever was there, or ever will
be, that can compare to that!
Why, I'm crazy, she thought, and thought also, he never will but he
might, he could and if he should----
Then at once the Paliser of the Savile Row clothes and the St. James's
Street boots, the Paliser of the looking-glass hair and the Oxford
voice, assumed the hue and stature of a deva. Love him! It would be
something higher. It would be worship!
She made a face. It was sheer nonsense. He had an allowance which,
obviously, was very liberal and with which he was liberal enough. Unlike
many rich men he was not close. But to fancy him beneficent was
laughable. Cassy could not imagine him in the role of Lord Bountiful.
Then too there was something queer about him. He hated to be alone.
There are people who kill silence and he was one of them. He was always
talking. Cassy could not understand it. To be silent with any one
procures an intimacy which talk cannot supply. Moreover solitude was as
necessary to her and as refreshing as her bath. Silence and solitude he
could not endure. She tilted her nose and went to the window.
That night they were to go to the opera. But in a moment she was to
motor in and see her father. Since she put Harlem behind her, she had
wondered and worried about him. The condition of his heart was hazardous
and she had been told that any excitement might be fatal. She had
worried over that, over his sudden rages at tradespeople, and she had
been fearful lest Mrs. Yallum, the janitress, who spoke no known tongue,
had, instead of being of use, only enraged him further.
She would see to it, though. It was for that she was going in. As yet
she had no money. But there were the rings and one more or one less,
what did it matter? Of the lot she preferred the string of hoops. It was
quaint, there was nothing philistine about it and probably it had not
cost so very much. The emerald was different. It was a stone that would
please any woman with plenty of money and a modicum of taste. Probably
it had cost a thousand on Fifth Avenue, in which case it would fetch a
hundred on Broadway. Or if not, then the sapphire would. Either or both
she would hock very willingly. But not the hoop-ring and not the opal,
unless she had to, and if Paliser, who apparently noticed nothing and
saw everything, asked concerning them, why then she would out with it.
Her father was a beggar! Did he expect her to let him starve? But what
on earth do you suppose I married you for? For yourself? Take a walk. I
sold myself for bread--and butter, and you can fork them over.
At the possibility of any such conversation--and of such language!--she
flushed afresh and again called herself a fool. There could be no such
conversation. Paliser would never question. He was too indifferent The
consciousness comforted, precisely as, a moment before, the picture of
herself shovelling gold had moved her to tears.
Then absently she found herself looking in the garden where the aproned
man was at work. But it was Lennox that she saw. Again and again since
the wedding-evening, when Paliser had told her of the unscrambled eggs,
she had wondered about the broken engagement. On that evening she had
felt that she had taken the wrong road and had lost her way. The feeling
was momentary. If Lennox had never been engaged, the result would have
been the same. Not once had he so much as said boo! He had not even
looked it. At table, on the wedding-evening, the unscrambled eggs had
not tasted very good, but reflection had salted them and since then, in
reviewing the matter, it had occurred to her that it was none of her
business.
Now as she looked out on the garden she wondered whether he had cared
very greatly for this girl, for if he had, what then did she mean by
throwing over a man who was too good for her, too good for anybody?
She sighed and absently looked again at the gardener. He was bending
down, occupied in planting something. Since she had first noticed him he
had half-circled a parterre and she was about to telephone and ask if
the car were ready when he straightened, turned, extracted a pipe and
attempted to light it.
The air was very still, there was no breeze, but the match was
ineffective. On his trousers, with a backward movement, he struck
another match and raised it to the bowl. The flame, faintly blue,
mounted and, with it, a curl of smoke. But it was not Cassy or, more
exactly, it was not her objective self, that saw it. It was her
subjective self that registered and afterward reproduced that momentary
and entirely commonplace incident. What the objective Cassy saw was not
the flame or the smoke or the pipe, but the hand that held the match. It
was thumbless. Many hands are. From the hand she looked at the man's
face and gave a little scream, instantly suppressed.
But her mouth twitched, she tried to swallow and she experienced, what
was new to her, an odd sensation in the epiglottis. She did not remember
that she had ever been what is called sick at the stomach, none the less
she realised that she was on the point of becoming so. Like the little
scream, she choked it back. But the immanence of nausea stifled her, and
she sat down on a brocade-covered chair.
Her hand had gone to her throat and though almost at once the sensation
subsided, she held it there. The gold bands of the rings that were
pressed against her throat cooled it, but the palm of the hand was wet.
Unconscious of that, she was unaware that she could not think. A crack
on the head makes you dizzy and into her dizziness a somnolence had
entered. The somnolence dulled all the cells of the brain save one and
that one cell, vehemently active, was inciting her to some effort,
though to what she did not know.
"I must get up," she presently told herself and told it once more.
In the repetition of the words there was the effect of a spray. The
irritability of the one active cell subsided, that of the others was
aroused. Somnambulism ceased. The entire brain awoke. But the truth had
not yet fully permeated all the cerebral convolutions and the fact that
it had not, manifested itself in the melodramatic phrase which, a week
previous, Lennox had uttered, which all have uttered, all at least
before whom the unforseen has sprung.
"It is impossible!"
She got up, went to the window, looked again. There was no impossibility
there, no doubt even, or the peradventure of one. There was only the
ineluctable truth. The aproned man disclosed it. His thumbless hand had
held the book. From his mouth, in which there was a pipe, had come the
benediction. He was Dr. Grantly. That was the ineluctable truth, the
truth which already perhaps she had intercepted in the land of Beauty
and Horror.
The first sight of it had sickened. Now the physical effect had gone.
But the nausea in passing had been replaced by another sensation,
deadlier, equally human, that made her red and hot, blurred her eyes,
set her quivering, shook her, put her thoughts on fire, vitriolised her
with hate.
Nietzsche said that a woman's ability to hate is in proportion to her
inability to charm. The brute omitted to add that a woman's ability to
charm corresponds to her evolution.
There was nothing evolved about Cassy then. She had lapsed back into the
primitive. Like Armide, she could have burned the palace that enchanted
her. None the less, she did nothing. To do nothing may be very
important. The inactivity saved her. During it, the vitriol vaporised;
the hate fell by. She was still trembling, her hands were unsteady, but
the fever was departing, the crisis had passed, the primitive had slunk
back into the cellars of the subconscious, and, in the chair, to which
without knowing it she had returned, she faced it.
Without, some one knocked and, getting no answer, accepted the
invitation as most people do.
"Beg pardon, Mrs. Paliser. The car is at the door."