Cassy sat in the kitchen. Before her were a cheque and a letter. The
letter was from the theatre-man. The cheque was Dunwoodie's. The cheque
begged to be cashed, the letter begged her to call.
During the night she had gone looking along an avenue where there were
houses with candid windows from which faces peered and smiled. But it
was not for these that she was looking and she awoke in a tempest of
farewells.
Now, across the court, in the kitchen opposite, were two inoffensive
beings. On that evening when her father had made her cry, they had
seemed unreal. On this forenoon their baseless appearance persisted. But
their unreality was not confined to them. Their kitchen, the court, the
building shared it. They were all unreal, everything was, except one
thing only, which perhaps was more unreal than all things else.
She looked at the letter and from it at the cheque. The day before, on
returning from the shower of millions that had caught and drenched her
in Broad Street, she was not entirely dry. The glisten of the golden
rain hung all about her. None the less on reaching the walk-up she
forgot it. There were other matters, more important, that she had in
mind. But only a philosopher could be drenched as she had been and
remain unaffected. The bath is too voluptuous for the normal heart. On
its waters float argosies crimson-hulled, purple-rigged, freighted with
dreams come true. You have but a gesture to make. Those dreams are
spaniels crouching at your feet. At a bath not dissimilar but
financially far shallower, Monte Cristo cried: "The world is mine!" It
was very amusing of him. But though, since then, values have varied, a
bagatelle of ten millions is deep enough for any girl, sufficiently deep
at least for its depths to hold strange things.
At those things, strange indeed and yet not unfamiliar, Cassy beckoned.
In their embrace she saw herself, as Jones had pictured her, going
about, giving money away, strewing it full-handed, changing sobs into
smiles. The picture lacked novelty. Often she had dreamed it. Only
recently, on the afternoon just before the clock struck twelve, just
before the gardener lit his pipe and the mask had fallen, only then,
and, relatively, that was but yesterday, she had promenaded in it. It
was a dream she had dreamed when a child, that had haunted her girlhood,
that had abided since then. It was the dream of a dream she had dreamed
without daring to believe in its truth. Now, from the core of the web
that is spun by the spiderous fates, out it had sprung. There, before
her eyes, within her grasp was that miracle, a rainbow solidified,
vapour made tangible, a dream no longer a dream but a palette and a
palette that you could toss in the air, put in the bank, secrete or
squander, a palette with which you could paint the hours and make them
twist to jewelled harps. No more walk-up! Good-bye, kitchy! Harlem,
addio! The gentleman with the fabulous nose could whistle. Vaudeville,
indeed! She could buy the shop, buy a dozen of them, tear them down,
build them up, throw them into one and sing there, sing what she liked,
when she liked, as she liked. Yes, but for whom? God of gods, for whom?
A local newspaper bears--or bore--a sage device: La nuit porte conseil.
That night, on her white bed, in her black room, Cassy sought it. But
the counsel that night brings is not delivered while you toss about.
Night waits until you sleep. Then, to the subjective self that never
sleeps, the message is delivered. It may be fallible, often it is and,
in our scheme of things, what is there that is not? Yet in any dilemma
bad advice may be better than none. Then, without transition, the black
room changed into an avenue where faces peered and smiled. It was not
though for these that she was looking, but for her way. It must have
been very narrow. Though she looked and looked she could not find it.
Yet it was near, perhaps just around the corner. But in some manner, she
could not reach it. Sleep sank her deeper. When she awoke, there it was.
Now as she sat in the kitchen, before which, in the kitchen opposite,
bundles of baseless appearances came and went, she began counting her
wealth on her fingers. Youth! Up went her thumb. Health! The forefinger.
Lungs! The second finger. Not being a fright! The fourth. How rich she
was! But was there not something else? Oh, yes! Sadly she smiled. A
clear conscience! She had forgotten that and that came first. Youth,
health, lungs, looks, these were gamblers' tokens in the great roulette
of life. In the hazards of chance at any moment she might lose one or
all, as eventually she must lose them and remain no poorer than before.
But her first asset which she had counted last, that was her fortune,
the estate she held by virtue of a trust so guardedly created that if
she lost one mite, the whole treasure was withdrawn.
On the washtub--covered admirably with linoleum--at which she sat, were
the cheque for a thousand dollars and the bid from the vaudeville man.
The bid, she knew, meant money. But the cheque would beggar her.
She drew breath and sat back. From above a filter of sunlight fell and
told her it was noon. Across the court the bundles of baseless
appearances transformed themselves into a real woman, an actual child.
The kitchen in which they moved, the house in which they dwelled were no
longer the perceptions of a perceiver. They also were real. So, too, was
life.
An hour and Mr. Purdy's pasty face turned feebly red. He stammered it.
No, unfortunately, Mr. Dunwoodie was out. Would Mrs. Paliser wait? In
Mr. Dunwoodie's private office? And the 'Herald' perhaps or the
'Times'--or--or----
Everything there, Broad Street to boot, the Stock Exchange included, Mr.
Purdy was ready and anxious to offer.
No, Mrs. Paliser would not wait--and mentally she thanked her stars for
it. But would Mr. Purdy do something for her?
Would he! The brave spirit of Talleyrand must have animated that sickly
young man. If what Mrs. Paliser desired were possible it would be done:
if impossible, it was done already.
Cassy gave him the rare seduction of her smile. She also was
entertaining an emotion or two. She had not at all known where she would
find the strength to confront and confute a grandmotherly old ruffian.
But luck was with her. He was out.
So very good of Mr. Purdy then and would he please give Mr. Dunwoodie
this cheque and say she's sorry she can't accept it or the other money
either? She had said she would, but, really, it was not intended for
her. Supposing she took it. She would feel like a thief in a fog.
Exactly that. A thief in a fog. No, she couldn't. Couldn't and wouldn't.
Just as grateful though to Mr. Dunwoodie. Her regrets to him and a
thousand thanks.
"And good-day, Mr. Purdy. I thank you also."
Mr. Purdy, flushing feebly, saw her to the door, saw her to the hall
without. There, while he waited with her for a descending lift, a silk
hat that had just come from a malachite bench, alighted from an
ascending one. Immediately the other lift took her.
"Who was that?" the hat's owner alertly asked.