Dore went to bed at once--not to sleep, for she felt in her mind a cold
clarity that seemed impervious to fatigue, but in order to avoid
conversation with Snyder. She did not at once return over the surprising
moments of the night. From her pillow the flushed clock-face of the
Metropolitan Tower came bulging into the room. She watched it with a
contented numbness of the senses, striving to follow the jerky advance
of the minute-hand, conscious only of the fragrance and pleasure of
the cool bed-linen, dreamily awake, prey to a delicious mental languor.
She asked herself no questions ... she wished no answers. The
emotional self which had so violently awakened within her, overturning
all her mental _qui vive_, returned, but in a gentle warm dominion.
She drew her arm under the pillow ... and her embrace was tightening
about his neck again. She felt herself caught, rudely imprisoned,
struggling--dominated, convulsively yielding. She moved restlessly,
rearranging the pillows--returning impatiently into the illusion,
feeling herself always in his arms.
"The great elemental forces of nature will decide for you," he had
said....
She remembered the words confusedly. She had never quite believed in
these forces ... though often in her lawless imagination she had sought
to comprehend them, never convinced, always puzzled. She had permitted
half stolen embraces, furtive clasps of the hand, wondering, always
disillusioned. She had perceived, it is true, some inexplicable
emotional madness in the men who sought her ... and sometimes roughly it
had repelled her to great distances. This abrupt disorder which she
could call forth with a tone of her voice, a quick lingering glance or a
certain reclining languor, had excited her curiosity. There was a
certain mental exhilaration in it, the cruel teasing of the feline,
playing with its prey. It gave her an excited sense of power ... that
was all. The slightest acquiring advance had roused in her a fury of
resistance.... And now, at last, she knew! This was the force that had
made playthings of men and women, that sent them where they did not wish
to go, that could upset all coldly logical calculations, that gave the
frailest little women irresistible weapons against the strongest men ...
or made them throw all opportunities to the wind and follow
incomprehensible husbands.
She heard the cautious entering of Snyder, and instantly closed her
eyes, breathing deep--a light word would have seemed a sacrilege. She
waited, irritated and nervous, until her room-mate, undressing in the
pale reflections, had noiselessly curled herself on the couch.
What would she have done if he had remained? Now the languor that had
stolen treacherously over her senses was gone, dissipated by the
presence of another human being. Her mind threw itself feverishly on
the problem, encircling it, trying it from a hundred points of view.
What did it mean? Was her liberty, her freedom of action suddenly
jeopardized? And the thought of this overpowering new force made her
violently react ... striving to escape its verity ... just as her body
had whipped around in his arms when they had suddenly closed about her.
What was it frightened her?... the man, or something awakened within
her?
She sat up in bed, her head in her palms, throbbingly awake. What would
have happened if he had stayed?... But he had not stayed--and she had
not allowed him to return. She said it to herself victoriously ...
illogically evading an answer ... momentarily satisfied. And if he came
again? Would there be a new danger?
She sank wearily on her pillow. No ... of that she was sure ... never
again would she be so vulnerable.... It had been the unknown--the thing
she had not believed in--which had taken her by surprise ... unprepared.
Then he had made the mistake of returning. Massingale, strong and
unyielding, had had a fearfully attractive force over her will and her
vanity, but the other ... the Massingale who had returned, was human,
and therefore could be subjected. No!... she would never fear him again!
Did she love him?... She did not know ... at least she insisted that it
could not be so--not all at once--perhaps, later. But she knew
this--that she longed to see him again, to have the dragging night end,
to awaken to the morning and to hear his coming,... to go hurriedly
with him out of the discordant city, somewhere, where it was peaceful
and solitary,... somewhere where they could turn and look in each
other's eyes and know what had happened.
At other moments she said to herself with profound conviction that it
must be love, that that was the way, the only way, that love could come,
overpowering the reason, despite the reason, beating down all reason.
Then if it were love? Would she submit, renounce all her defiantly
proclaimed liberty? Characteristically, she did not answer. Instead, she
projected herself into this submission, and her imagination, volatile as
a dream, whisked her from one fancy to another. She imagined what it
would be like to fill a feverish letter, each night after he had gone,
with all the tender, passionate, jealous, or yearning fancies that he
had left tumultuously stirring in her breast--a letter which she herself
would carry hastily out into the night, running to the letter-box at the
corner, that he might wake to a surprise. And each morning she, too,
would awake to his call, his voice over the telephone. At other times,
sentimentally urged, she visualized him as ill, sadly stricken, herself
at his bedside.
"So, after all, I am going to marry--like all the rest!" she said,
suddenly roused. This one word--"marriage"--pierced through all the
fancied illusions. Marriage--one man; nothing but one man every day,
year in and year out--was it possible? Could she resign herself? No more
excitement, no more gambling with opportunity, no more dramatizing
herself to each new situation, no more luring and evasion, no more
sporting with dull brute strength or matching of wits--nothing but the
expected, the routine--yes, the inevitable commonplace? Could she give
this up--so soon? She rose fiercely against the sacrifice. Never! She
preferred her youth.
All at once a sound broke across the hot flights of her conflicting
fancies. She sat up instantly, bending forward, listening. She had heard
a sob, muffled but unmistakable, from the adjoining room--then another.
She slipped quickly to the floor. Snyder too had risen.
"Be quiet, Snyder. Let me go," she said to her in a whisper, forcing her
back.
She felt her way to the door, and opening it quietly, passed into
Winona's room.
"Who's that?" asked a frightened voice.
"Hush! It's I--Dodo. I heard you," she said, groping. "What's wrong,
Winona?"
But the figure in the bed, without answer, buried itself face down in
the covers, striving to choke back the sobs.
Dore put her arm about her, endeavoring to calm her, wondering and a
little apprehensive.
"But this is frightful! Winona, you mustn't!" she said helplessly.
"Winona, can't you tell me? Can't you speak?"
The girl grasped her hand, pressing it convulsively. Dore waited, seized
by the mystery of the heavy night, the stillness and the little animal
sound of sorrow. Between Salamanders real confidences are rare. What
did she know of this life which only a wall divided from her? A
suspicion flashed into her mind, knowing the perilous ways that
sometimes had to be run. All at once she remembered.
"Winona!" she cried joyfully. "What a fool I am! I've good news! It's
all settled--Blainey to-morrow!" And as the girl, buried in her pillow,
continued to struggle against the sobs, she shook her by the shoulder,
repeating: "Blainey wants to see you; he's giving you a chance. Do you
hear?"
"Chance! Ah, I've had a thousand chances! What's the use!" exclaimed the
girl, twisting in the bed. "It's always the same! Don't I know it--know
it!"
"But you won't throw away this one?"
"Chance! Yes, that's all it is--chance!" she cried uncontrollably. "If I
wasn't such a fool! What's the use of trying, anyhow? It don't make any
difference. Nothing ever does! Ah, I'll give up. I'll go back!" She
continued, repeating herself endlessly, beating the pillow with her
fist; and as she abandoned herself to despair, old errors of speech,
forgotten accents, mingled in her cries. "It ain't right! No, it ain't
right--nothing ever comes of nothing! Nothing works out--nothing! Ah,
no! I'll go back--I'll go back--I'll go back to it!"
"What do you mean? Back to what?"
Winona caught her throat, silenced suddenly.
"Can't you tell me?"
"I'm all right now," said Winona, shaking her head. She disengaged
herself bruskly, sitting up, twisting her fingers in the physical effort
at control. She turned, clutching Dore.
"Did Blainey--he--what did he say?"
Dore, inventing details, building up a favorable incident, exaggerated
the importance, recounted the interview.
"I told him Zeller was after you. You know how he hates Zeller! He's
crazy to steal you! You'll see! Everything will work like a charm--and
the part just for you!"
She continued optimistically pouring out encouragement. Winona allowed
herself to be convinced, grasping at straws. They remained talking
deeply of difficulties and discouragements, always avoiding the
questions that lay below. Once Dore had said tentatively:
"Winona, wouldn't it help you just to talk out everything--tell me
everything? I'd understand. Do trust me!"
But the girl, resisting, answered hastily:
"No! no! Not now! Some day, perhaps."
Dore made no further effort. She drew her arm about her.
"Then let me quiet you," she said softly.
Winona, without resistance, allowed herself to go into her arms. They
ceased speaking, clinging to each other there in the dark, and a strange
sensation came to Dore at the touch of the body clinging to her, these
unseen arms so tenaciously taut: it seemed to her almost that she heard
another voice, mastering her physically and morally, making her
suddenly flexible and without defense, a voice saying:
"Now, stop acting!"
"All right. Better now. I can sleep," said the girl in her arms.
"Thanks."
Dodo rose and went gliding back. Snyder, open-eyed, made no sound. She
was grateful to her for this, divining the reason. Back in her bed,
huddling under the covers, she recalled Winona with a feeling of horror.
To lose one's courage like that--how terrible! And if she herself were
thus to be transformed, if all her indomitable audacity should suddenly
go--
"There's some man back of it all," she said, thinking of Winona. "There
always is a man."
Yet she had been on the point of rapturously hugging the first dream
that had come to her in an uncomprehended moment, of submitting to a
man--the very thought flung her back into intuitive revolt.
"But, if it isn't love, how could he have such power over me? Could
there be such a vertigo without true love? Could such a thing be
possible?" Time and time again she put these questions, finding
different answers. At times she let herself go deliciously, stretching
out her arms, conjuring up that first penetrating embrace. At others,
fiercely aroused, she resisted him with every fiber of her body,
rejecting submission, resolved to combat him, to subordinate him, to
retain always her defiant supremacy, to revenge her momentary defeat by
some future victory.
Neither in the yielding nor in the revolt was there any conviction--no
peace and no calm. What there was, was all disorder, and the insistent
drumming note of his voice, which drew her to him, had in it the
confusion of a fever.
Though she had fallen asleep late, she awoke early, with a start. It was
half past eight by the clock. She rose abruptly on her elbow at a sound
that had startled her from her slumber--the slippery rustle of letters
gliding under the crack of the door. There were two, white and
mysterious against the faded blue of the carpet. She was about to spring
to them when she perceived Snyder watching her. She contained herself
with a violent effort, waiting, with eyes that were averted not to
betray their eagerness, until they were brought to her. She was certain
that he had written, and something within her began to tremble and grow
cold with the suspense of awaiting his first letter. At her first glance
she fell from the clouds. One was in Mr. Peavey's disciplined hand, the
other in Joe Gilday's boyish scrawl, each announcing expected gifts. She
had a sudden weak desire for tears.
"Gee! eggs and cream! Who is the fairy godmother?" said Snyder. "Say,
you must have a wishing-cap!"
"It's Mr. Peavey, bless his heart!" said Dore. At that moment, in her
first exaggerated pang of disappointment, she had an affectionate
inclination to the elderly bachelor. He would not have treated her so,
had the roles been shifted.
"Going to be a habit?"
"Hope so."
"I'm strong for that boy; I like his style!"
Dore smiled; she comprehended the thought. She cast a hasty glance at
Gilday's disordered pages. It was, as she had surmised, the humble
tender of bouquets to come. She dissembled her disappointment as best
she could, seeking excuses. He might have posted his letter after
midnight, from his club. It would come in the late morning mail. Or
perhaps he had preferred to telephone. It must be that! Of course, that
was the explanation. He wished to hear her voice, as she longed for his,
and then they would take rendezvous at once. Yes, he would
telephone--now--at any moment. She glanced again at the clock. Ten long
minutes had elapsed. The excuse so convinced her that she felt a sudden
access of unreasoning happiness, as if already, by some sense, she had
divined his coming.
She had promised over the telephone the night before to pay a morning
visit to Harrigan Blood in the editorial rooms of the _Free Press_, and
then there was the appointment for luncheon with Sassoon. These
acceptances did not disturb her in the least. When anything was offered,
her invariable tactics were to accept--provisionally. For her tactics
were simple, but formed on the basic strategy of the Salamanders:
acceptance that raises hopes, then an excuse that brings tantalizing
disorder, but whets the appetite. To-day she had not the slightest
intention of keeping either appointment. She was only glad that she had
contracted them. It was a little bit of treachery which she would offer
up to Massingale.
She chose her simplest costume--blue, the invariable Russian blouse,
white collar open at the neck, and a bit of red in the slim belt. She
wished to come to him girlish, without artifice. She felt so gaily
elated that she turned tenderly toward the happiness of others. Winona
would sleep until ten at least. She wheeled suddenly, and putting her
arm around Snyder, embraced her. In the confusion, a locket became
entangled in her lace.
"What's that? You've never shown me," she said, catching the chain.
Snyder silently touched the spring. Inside was the face of a child of
four or five.
"Yours?"
"Yes."
"How pretty! What's her name?"
"Betty."
They stood close together, looking at the uncomprehending childish gaze.
"Where is she?"
"With my mother."
"Aren't you going to take her--ever?"
"Never!"
"Why not?" She dropped the locket, glancing at this half woman, half
girl, who continually perplexed her. "She is so sweet--how can you do
without her?"
"Want her to have a home," said Snyder abruptly. She turned, as if the
conversation were distasteful. "Can't be dragging her all over the
continent, can I?"
A great pity came to Dore, that any one should be unhappy in such a
bright world. A fantastic thought followed. She knew only that Snyder
was divorced--a child, a broken home. Yet persons often divorced for the
absurdest reasons; perhaps it had only been a misunderstanding. If she
could reconcile them, bring them together again! She approached the
subject timidly.
"Do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Let me see Betty; bring her here!"
Snyder's agitation was such that she came near pushing over the
coffee-pot.
"You really--you want me to--"
"Yes. Why not? I adore children!"
She continued to watch her, surprised at the emotion she had aroused.
"Yes, she is unhappy--frightfully unhappy!" she thought, and taking
courage, she added: "Snyder, tell me something?"
Snyder shook her head, but, despite the objection, Dore continued:
"You have never told me of him--your husband. Are you sure it couldn't
be patched up? Are you sure you don't care?"
"I don't want to talk about it--it's ended!" said Snyder, so abruptly
that Dore drew back.
"I only asked--"
"Don't want help--don't want to talk!" Snyder broke in, in the same
embittered tone.
"Not to me?" said Dore gently.
Snyder drew a long breath, and turned to her swiftly, with an appealing
look, in which, however, there was no weakness.
Then she laid her finger across her lips.
"Here--breakfast is ready; sit down!"
"Snyder, I don't understand you; you hurt me!" said Dore, opening her
eyes.
The woman stood a moment, locking and unlocking her hands, swinging from
foot to foot.
"Can't help it. You can't make me over. I've got my rut!" She shrugged
her shoulders. "I'm damned unsociable--perhaps I'd better dig out."
"Snyder!" exclaimed Dore, bounding to her side. She took her in her
arms, crying: "Why, it was only to help you!"
"Well, you can't!" said the other, with a forcible shake of her head,
her body stiff against the embrace. And there the conversation ended.
It was after nine, and still no sound at the telephone. Dore began to
feel an uneasy impatience. At any minute, now, certainly he must summon
her. Snyder made an excuse and went out. But she ceased to think of her.
Her thoughts were no longer keen to another's suffering, but sensitive
to her own.
She grew tired of pacing restlessly, and flung herself down on the
couch, her head turned toward the clock, watching it wearily. Why didn't
he telephone--or, at least, come? This sensation of suspense and
waiting, which she had so often dealt out to others, was new to her. It
disarranged her whole self, aroused fierce resentful thoughts in her. He
wished to tantalize her, to draw her on, as he had the night before--to
be cruel, to make her suffer! Well, she too could be cruel. She would do
something to hurt him, too.
"Very well! Now I _will_ go to see Harrigan Blood," she said all at
once, choking with something that was not entirely anger.
And hastily slipping into her coat, she went hurriedly to Ida Summers'
room, awoke her and took her with her.