_At the sixth gate, the warden stripped her; he took the rings from her
feet, the rings from her hands_....
I
Ulick earnestly pondered the character of Mona. Their long
conversations about the world, the flesh, and the devil revealed, as in
a mirror, her soul. She was essentially a pure girl, because she saw no
evil in life. Nature was her sole standard. A pantheist in petticoats.
She was as severe in her strictures upon prudish women as her mother
was in her judgments upon the contemporaneous girl. Ulick called it an
inverted dogmatism. But, then, he reflected, scratch any woman and you
come on a squaw; only the squaw is truer to type than the modern woman.
He noted, too, the gradual encroachment upon his time, his spirit,
of Mona. Her tenacity alarmed him. She said nothing about marriage;
that side of the question never obtruded. Mona was a free-thinker à
outrance; a law unto herself. She seemed to be without the prejudices
of her sex. She didn't interest herself in the woman-question, which
she believed was purely an individual one. Let each woman agitate for
herself. Let her revolt be within four walls. Let every tub stand on
its own bottom. The most refractory male is always forced to lower
his standard before the conquering arms of woman. Rabelais--or is
it Balzac?--calls it by its true name: the glue-pot of love. Walt
Whitman goes him one better. Nevertheless, Ulick detected signs of the
tyrannical female in her perpetual hovering about him. Even of the most
tender, flower-like women one might say: This is the shrew Shakespeare
drew. Every woman is a potential shrew, he decided, and Ophelia would
have been no exception if she had married Hamlet. All men are born to
be henpecked. Celibates, whether priests or laymen, are not exempted
from this primal curse. If it isn't a female relative then it's a
housekeeper, a cook or a laundress. Down-trodden women are to blame for
their supine attitude. Let them fly the flag of revolt. The men will
soon surrender.
Finally, one spring afternoon in the park, they settled these burning
problems of humanity and were strolling by the swan-boats when they
were hailed by Dora, who, to the critical eye of Ulick, had never been
prettier. She accosted the couple quite unabashed.
"Hello, Jewel!" she cried, as she smiled at Mona, who returned the
smile, and thought that Ulick might have kept his pet name for her
benefit. Ulick was embarrassed only a moment. He expected to see
fur fly and when nothing happened he introduced the girls in formal
fashion. Mlle. Dora, Mlle. Mona. Et voilà tout! As a foreigner their
introduction revolted his taste. Some hazy idea born of the notion that
here in America the social lines were not so rigidly marked, had forced
him into a false position. He looked around him. He was fearful that
acquaintances might see the absurd group: the harlot and the mistress.
What to do now! Mona saved the situation by her aplomb. She chatted
with Dora, who, as soon as she was put on a level with the other
woman, began to exhibit signs of discomfort. Her native insouciance
had prompted her to hold up Ulick merely to annoy Mona. This manoeuvre
failing she had to fall back into her own rank, which she did,
precipitately.
"Well, I must be goin'," she said. "Pleased to have met you
Miss--Mademoiselle--I forget. Jewel's French names give me a
grouch--Miss Mona." She made a little curtsey. "Ulick, I live in the
same apartment. I'm a regular homebody. So run up, whenever you have a
night free--that is if your sweetheart will let you. You don't mind me,
Jewel and me are such old friends." She flitted away. Mona had smiled
sweetly. Ulick was wrathful. It was Dora's method of revenge because of
his prolonged absence; he hadn't seen her since the night of his tiff
with Paul. He hastened to apologize for the contretemps. Mona didn't
mind, so she told him. She only registered her feelings in an ironical
aside: "Charming friend of yours, Miss Dora." Then they talked of other
things.
Living as husband and wife, they pooled their intimacies and discussed
life as if they spent it in domestic seclusion. They almost did. Only
at dinner time did Mona go home. She had said nothing of Ulick to her
parents, nor had she asked Ulick to call. That puzzled him. Certainly
she was not ashamed of him. She paraded herself everywhere with him.
They often met Alfred, who now took their friendship as a matter of
course. He teased them, asking if the day had been announced, but he
seldom visited the Maison Felicé. He told Ulick that he had finer fish
to fry, and taunted him with being a sentimentalist.
"Not that Mona isn't a superior girl. She is wonderful. But you are
more wonderful. You, of all men, to fall in so speedily. I'm afraid,
Jewel, you will make a sorry husband. You should have remained in
Paris. And what will our dear old Easter, the celebrated Wagner singer,
Istar, say when she hears that her young man has deserted her?" At
Easter's name Ulick's brow wrinkled. His only answer was "Qui sait?"
... One afternoon in early summer Mona visited Ulick. He was looking
from his window at a flock of pigeons on the roof of the dining-room.
As soon as Mona entered he noted her blithe June air, but the
expression of her eyes evoked autumnal cemeteries. "What's up, little
mamma?" he asked as he embraced her. She buried her head in his breast.
"I'm out of breath, Jewel," she panted. "I think mother followed me
today. She has been spying on me most curiously for the past month. I
wonder if she suspects?" "She wouldn't be a woman if she didn't. You
give her lots of reasons to suspect--" he added, and at once regretted
having spoken. Mona withdrew her arms and going to the couch sat down
and incontinently burst into tears. In a moment Ulick was consoling
her. She enjoyed a copious weeping, and drying her eyes she took him
into her confidence.
No, there couldn't be the slightest doubt.... Three months had passed.
Nothing! Perhaps her mother had been keeping tabs. Prudent mothers
do, and if her darling old mumsey was innocent of the world's ways,
she possessed the common-sense of the average woman, more sense, in
fact, than her dear father, always dreaming over chess or metaphysical
problems. Although for months he had been expecting just such news
Ulick couldn't repress a long whistle; then he gave her a bear-hug.
She nestled, closed her eyes with a sigh of profound contentment. He
studied her face. There were violet bruises under her eyes, and her
features had become measurably meagre. Her high cheek-bones showed
more saliently. Her plump body felt softer to his touch. Good God!
She was enceinte, and there sat the pair of them without a sense
of guilt, shame, or worriment over the future. Modern? Disgusting!
Gently releasing her he began to pace the floor. She watched him.
She was perfectly content. There is no tomorrow for such love. The
pain in store for her, the world's censure, the shock to her poor
parents, the outraged pride that would be Milt's--none of these things
mattered now. She would in due time become a mother. She was in the
family-way--homely, eloquent phrase, for some girls the abomination
of desolation, whether married or single; for Mona a clear title to
happiness. Oh! the joys of motherhood. A live lump of flesh in her
bosom. Her flesh and Jewel's! What matters a ring, a bit of parchment,
a ceremony? Nature, generous, glorious Nature, had performed this
miracle in her behalf. She had in the recesses of her being created
life. Illegitimate? There are no such monsters. All babies are
legitimate and bastards are sometime more beautiful. In the fulness of
her heart, from which the mouth speaketh, she uttered all these ideas
to her lover, and he smiled, too; was he not above vulgar prejudice!
Marry her? Of course, in the twinkling of an eye, when she wished. She
was too proud, too happy to mention the odious word. Wait till baby
was born; that was the only thing that mattered. What could count in
comparison with that magnificent fact--a healthy boy baby! Mona fairly
snuggled in Ulick's arms. Her eyes were wet with maternal ecstacy. No
nymphomania in this darling woman, thought Ulick.
Nevertheless, he began to take the affair more tragically. Suppose
her parents would cast her off! Suppose that Milt would avenge her
dishonour! Suppose that she died in accouchement! Suppose--she stayed
his mouth and called him a croaking raven. Suppose anything, for
that matter. Milt didn't count. He wouldn't be home at the time--she
computed on her fingers--and as to her parents, she hadn't made up her
mind on any plan of action. She knew that she couldn't or wouldn't,
come out flatly now with the truth. That way would be disaster. How
could she go away and write those dear little unworldly people? That
would be cowardice. No, whatever course she would adopt, she must
remain near her father and mother. She must shock them, also console
them. Refusal of their forgiveness she did not anticipate. Only--only,
one obstacle loomed ahead--their treatment of her Jewel, of the father
of her beloved unborn child. Supposing she gave birth to twins! Grane
and Shamus! What a paradise life would be! At once she saw herself
playing with her babies in her Ebony Tower, converted into a nursery,
a super-nursery for their super-babies, she playfully told him. He
couldn't view the case so disinterestedly.
"Yes, but darling girl, the chief bother to me is what will your
parents say--or do--to me? I'll only be a commonplace seducer in their
eyes. Old-fashioned people can't shed their prejudices as snakes shed
their skins. I fear a big row. Naturally, we must get married--at
once; Mona, immediately!" He said this but his words lacked steam and
sincerity to the acute ear of the girl. She felt assured that he saw
no other girl save her, yet she knew young men, knew Ulick, knew that
his hell of good intentions was often paved with fickle promises. Let
matters take their natural course without undue meddling. After baby
was born it would be time enough to discuss matrimony. That she was
challenging by her unusual conduct worldly judgments she knew. Never
cross a bridge till you reach one. Oh! her baby, her baby boy, her
Shamus--maybe her Grane, her little white Wagnerian pony. She laughed.
He resumed his futile rambling round the room. An idea, a disagreeable
idea, was crystallizing. Why not? Other women have undergone the
peril. After several shaky beginnings, he finally compromised with
his conscience by whispering in her ear. She blushed. Then repulsing
him she exclaimed, No! And he had never expected such decision from a
girl of her easy-drifting nature. "And you born a Roman Catholic!" she
sorrowfully concluded. Ruefully he acquiesced. There was no way out.
Abortion is the resort of assassins. What else? Matrimony would solve
the question. Then Mona could possess her soul in peace. She could
have her baby, to be sure, a few months ahead of time, but she could
look her world in the eye. There was further palaver, nothing decided
upon. She embraced Jewel and went home in a taxi, because, as she told
herself, she must not take any chances. Already she felt life within
her; her breakfasts she got rid of in a summary fashion, as she was
too nauseated to swallow them. Tea she could manage. Eggs--ugh! The
symptoms were classic, her case normal. But never would she consent to
destroy sentient life. No such via dolorosa was in store for her.
A few weeks later just as Ulick was leaving to "cover" the first night
of "The Lady With the Lace Legs" at the Empire, he was intercepted by
Madame Felicé, whose kindly face wore a worried expression: "Monsieur
Invern, you are demanded on the telephone. Il y en a quelque chose de
grave pour vous. I hope your young lady, cette charmante fille, Mlle.
Mona, is not so ill as they say. Mais dépêchez-vous, cher Monsieur!
On vous attend." Ulick took up the receiver. A woman's voice asked in
quavering accents: "Is this Mr. Invern?" "Yes." "This is Mrs. Milton,
Mona's mother. You know where we live, yes? Please come up at once.
Mona is ill--very ill--she may not last through the night. You know
what's the matter. Oh! Do come! She asks for you whenever the pains
allow her. Don't fear coming, Mr. Invern. Her father understands.
Only--hurry--for God's sake hurry!" At his side the Madame had clearly
heard every word. But what mattered that? She was hugely tolerant.
She wasn't a gossip. And now she was most sympathetic. While he rang
up his newspaper she sent out for a taxi. He soon finished with his
night editor. He felt ill. Couldn't the city department get someone to
cover the operetta? Besides, he was only obliging his confrère, the
music-critic who had a poker party on at his house. Music was not in
Ulick's bailiwick. The affair was soon settled. Fifteen minutes later
he was ringing at the Milton's.