Martin looked down at her bright sandals. She was wearing a deep blue
hostess gown, nearly the color of the evening sky. A burnished cross,
held by a woven cord, fell from her throat and lay between her breasts,
and again Martin saw the silver within her hair as mast lights over the
water.
She picked up a cigarette and lit it for him. Around the tip, the moist
red paste from her lips left a scarlet ring. She put the cigarette in
Martin’s mouth.
“Yes,” he said, holding the smoke in his lungs, “I’ve seen Roberts. But
he has no place up here.”
Deane looked at him strangely.
“He disturbs me, Martin. I don’t like him.”
“He disturbs, me, Deane. He wanted me to have dinner with him to-night.
When I told him I had an engagement he knew it was with you. One wheel in
his brain spins on an eccentric.”
“What can he do?”
“He can kill the copper goose—cause me to lose my job. And it’s all
wrong. We like each other. We should have been good friends. I admire
him. He has a mind, and my brand of humor. The first time I saw him at
that Relief place I was attracted to him. I wanted to know him better.”
“But couldn’t you see that he was—different?”
“You call it ‘different.’ Roberts calls it temperamental.’ Rio would call
it——” He stopped.
“Rio! Who is Rio?”
“Oh. Rio? He was a shipmate. An individual. Sometime I’ll tell you
what I know about him.... But to get back. I did know that Roberts was
different. I believe I knew it the first time I saw him. It didn’t
interfere with my admiration for him. I was lonely. Hard work on ships
had surfeited me with the physical. I didn’t hesitate at the specter of
consequences—although I did anticipate them. I believed that I could
handle them. I couldn’t. You see, Roberts was convinced that I, too, was
‘temperamental.’”
Deane made an impatient gesture.
“He had no reason to think that.”
“Perhaps he did,” said Martin thoughtfully. “Perhaps he had a combination
of reasons. First of all, I took no pains to hide my interest in him.
Perhaps he misunderstood the motive. And then, there are gestures and
expressions that are open to suspicion. The line of demarcation in such
friendships seems variable. Roberts wanted me to belong to his group,
and whether the misconstruction was artificial or genuine, he arrived at
a conclusion. Tell me what you know about him, Deane.” He turned to her
impulsively.
“Then I must tell you of his mother, Martin. She was as luxuriant as
himself and more. She was pure crystal with the same high febrile cheeks,
but an attitude so strong that I always felt his should be less. I’m
sure though, that no one could touch her but himself—at least, I felt she
swept along in an invulnerable carriage of glass, indifferent to any but
her son. William Roberts finds his coloring from her, and his bearing,
and his remarkable beauty; for,” Deane observed in reminiscence, “he
wears a tie or scarf the way she wore her pearls, as though they were a
part of her throat. They were glorious pearls—a small dark strand with a
diseased, slow luster, indistinct in tone, but so inseparable from her
body that when her skin assumed the radiance we see in Roberts, they
followed her as though they loved her. What her husband meant to her
before his death seemed of little importance; for her life, so obviously,
was contained in Roberts’ glance, his frown, or contradictory expression.
These two were more like complementary figurants intent upon each other
in their mutual demand than like a mother and son. That he adored her
showed in every action—from the way he placed her shawl—” Deane looked
at Martin briefly, “from the gentle manner with which he drew her shawl
over her exquisite, proud shoulders (it was like a caress!) to his
affectionate concern over trivialities—her slightest expression, or even
guarded undertones that no one knew except themselves. Once, I saw them
when he became aware of a woman speaking—I knew it was without intent—and
then I saw his mother’s strength. She never moved—no line of her face
changed; but everything in the room became alive and hard. To me, it
seemed that the tender pearls around her throat turned into steel. The
woman who had been speaking with Roberts became confused, faltered, and
he seemed ready to rise from his chair. But at this, his mother smiled
faintly and spoke graciously to the other woman. It was all right,
apparently; but I was chilled and felt ever so glad when the party broke
up. Shortly after that, Martin, the mother died, and I am sure that part
of Roberts went with her.” Deane was speaking intensely, with a fixed,
unusual look toward Martin which he accepted steadily. Since he would not
speak, she made a curious remark. “This, you knew, Martin—not the way I
told it; but you knew.”
“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, I knew.” He turned from her, staring out of the
window into the darkness.
The doorbell rang.
“It’s Drew,” said Deane. “No one else would come here at this
time——unless——” she looked at Martin, and for a moment seemed to be less
assured. Then she lifted her head. “No! _He_ wouldn’t—Roberts wouldn’t
dare! I’d better answer.”
Drew entered and kissed Deane lightly on the cheek.
“You’re lovely,” he said, holding her arm affectionately and extending
his left hand to Martin who, embarrassed, knew of nothing but to squeeze
the delicate, closed fingers.
Drew smiled faintly and sat down, crossing his slender legs.
“I just left Ella, poor girl,” he said, with a sigh. “She wouldn’t have a
doctor. So she called me.”
Deane looked at him in surprise.
“Ella sick? Why, she seemed very well last night. Should I see her?”
“I shouldn’t bother,” said Drew, smiling faintly again. “I gave her a
bromide and devotedly held her hand till she went to sleep. She’ll be all
right in the morning.”
“But what happened?” insisted Deane.
Drew leaned forward and spoke more seriously.
“I’m glad both of you left when you did,” he said. “Roberts drank
consistently—a thing he’s never done before, and left in a stagger,
vowing he would never see Ella again. He spoke rather madly in his
apartment, too. I stayed with him most of the night.” Drew sighed once
more. “Of course, both of you are to blame.”
“It’s ridiculous!” said Deane, her dark eyes brilliant with anger. “Is
Roberts out of his mind?”
Drew did not answer, but settling back in his chair, took from his pocket
a gold cigarette case inlaid with an exquisite Mosaic design in various
metals, opened it, and without offering its contents to the others,
selected a rather bulky cigarette which he lit at once, before returning
the case to his pocket. A singularly aromatic odor was first noticed
by Martin. He looked at Drew in surprise. Then a wisp of smoke floated
toward Deane who wrinkled her nose.
“One of your disgusting cigarettes,” she said. “I don’t see why you smoke
them.”
“It’s a beautiful herb,” replied Drew contentedly. “Martin understands
it.”
“Of course,” said Martin.
“Will you smoke?” Drew inquired of him, reaching for the case once more.
Martin smiled slowly and shook his head.
“But I can see it in your eyes,” persisted Drew.
Deane looked at Martin excitedly, then turned to the other.
“Please, Drew, don’t ever offer Martin hashish.”
“Ah!” said Drew, slightly amused. “So you know!” Then, taking a long,
deep draw on the cigarette, he let the smoke escape in little puffs from
his mouth and nose. His attitude became more languorous. The timbre of
his voice changed and he sighed. “A quiet night,” he said. “My lovely
friends.... You _are_ lovely, aren’t you?” he continued, speaking
carefully.
“Yes,” answered Martin, studied and frowning. “Lovely.”
Deane reached over impulsively and laid her hand on Drew’s.
“Won’t you put it out, darling?” she pleaded. “I hate to insist, but it
gives me a feeling of——”
“Of apprehension,” supplied Drew, rising slowly and slowly crossing the
room to the open window. He tossed out the half-smoked cigarette, then
returned, partly on his tiptoes.
“I wish you wouldn’t smoke like this,” said Deane quite urgently. “It
gives you bad dreams. You hate yourself, too.”
Drew raised his hand with a listless movement.
“Later—perhaps. But now everything is very sweet.” He smiled dreamily.
“This clarity, after my extreme confusion, forgives an old sin. An
image!—memories unfolding that bring a figure more alive than you.... A
splendid figure.... Burning with clandestine color.... Unfaithful!... He
tried, though, more than I....” Drew leaned back again, resting his head
against the chair. His lips were partly open and there was a flush of
pleasure upon the high oval of his cheek.
Deane arose without a word and went into the kitchen. Martin imagined
that she was making coffee. As the aroma came into the living room, Drew
opened his eyes, looked at Martin and shivered.
“A good awakening,” he said, smiling nervously.
“Yes,” said Martin. “The cigarettes are mild.”
“Too mild,” said Drew. “I should have eaten the salve, but I was afraid.
I was nervous from spending last night with Roberts. It was terrible to
see him act the way he did. He cried out once. It was like a bellow.”
Feeling slightly dizzy, Drew stopped talking for a moment and wiped his
forehead.
Martin waited quietly.
“This evening,” Drew continued, “I went to my bedroom and took the
jar from my cabinet, holding it as though it contained radium. I was
uncertain, as I always am on approaching this Nirvana; but to-night I was
afraid. As I removed the lid, exposing the ointment, its ungodly musk
affected my breathing. There was something sinister in its appearance.
I peered deeply into it, and the jelly seemed to glow and change from a
dark green to a paler color. It trembled and faded to a lighter shade,
and stayed that way. Then the odor poured afresh into my nostrils. I felt
staggered and closed the lid.” Drew shivered again, then relaxed in his
chair, while Martin watched him.
Deane brought in three steaming cups of coffee. Martin drank his
hurriedly, taking the hot liquid in large swallows. Drew sipped his,
while Deane’s remained untouched.
Seized with excitement after this fresh stimulant, Drew arose suddenly,
put down his cup, turned to Deane and said, “I must go. And I know you
will understand, Deane, if I ask Martin to leave with me.” With feverish
haste he put on his coat and Martin, with an expressive look at Deane,
followed him from the apartment.
As Deane fastened the door after them she leaned upon it for a moment,
her forehead resting against the panel, her small hands tightly closed.
* * * * *
Drew and Martin walked swiftly up the street, for the cold night breeze
whipped in from the Atlantic. Martin turned down the brim of his hat and
put his hands into the pockets of his topcoat. Drew looked around at him.
“Would you like to be at sea to-night?” he asked.
“I was just thinking about it,” answered Martin. “There isn’t a bad night
on land but that I think of the men on ships.”
The air seemed to exhilarate Drew and he spoke again, enthusiastically.
“Will you answer a rather intimate question, Martin?”
“If I can.”
“Well, don’t be angry. But are all the stories that seamen tell—I mean
the tall tales—just fancy, or are they mostly true?”
“That’s a trade secret,” said Martin thoughtfully, noticing that Drew’s
classical manner had become more feminine since they had left Deane’s.
Then, as though suddenly changing his mind, he added, “Yes, Drew. Most
of them are true. You don’t have to exaggerate or romance about the sea.
It gives you a bellyful whether you want it or not. Of course, all the
adventures that sailors tell about probably didn’t happen to them. But
they happened some place and to someone. I have a good collection of
tales I’ve swapped, and I couldn’t tell you right now the true ones from
the borrowed.”
Drew took Martin by the sleeve and they came to a halt. There was a
curious, understanding expression in Drew’s eyes.
“I like you very much,” he said. “Please don’t misunderstand me, Martin,
but I think a great deal of you. I’d like to know you better—to have your
friendship.”
“You have my friendship, Drew.” Martin held out his hand and was
surprised at the other’s firm, steady clasp.
Drew nodded his head in the direction of a subdued, blue glow on the
opposite corner.
“There’s a cocktail lounge,” he said, “where once in a while I go when
I’m tired of routine. I’ve never taken anyone there before, but I’d like
you to come with me this evening. It’s very quiet—a place where one can
rest or think as he desires. Will you?”
“I’d be glad to,” Martin answered simply, still wondering at Drew’s
eagerness.
A waiter hurried to them as they entered.
“Mr. Noland,” he said, bending his head slightly before Drew. Then,
glancing at Martin with mild, respectful curiosity, he led the two men to
a small booth in a remote corner of the lounge where he received their
order and left quietly.
Martin was attracted by the room—its lighting, the suggestion of
avidity. Directly across from them, and near the wall, a fountain sent
up a soft golden spray from its center, around which individual columns
of multi-colored water rose and fell. A mural, hung just behind the
fountain, caught its indiscreet fires. There, the lights blended into a
seeming gradation of silver fungus until only the sharp blue antlers of a
stag, at the top of the painting, stood out thirstily over the water.
Martin looked away from the fountain. Drew was watching him with a
reflective expression, with such a gentleness foreign to men’s eyes
that Martin was immediately intent. For there, in Drew, he saw the
central, fine equation between his friend and savage, weeping Lesbos.
The two united, defying by extreme cunning and deceitful fingers a
dogmatic scythe of science which uses the symbol X for one impossible of
definition. And what he saw beneath, caused Martin to tremble and lean
back in his seat, with his heart beating faster as though the secret had
been upon his lips or in his mind. However, that fever which comes upon
a man as he sights dimly before him the object of his life’s search—the
feeling that it might kill if the secret was discovered, left him
suddenly. Vaguely he knew that he had touched the edge of it, and that
was all. In one way he was glad that the revelation had not come to blind
him. He was not ready. Nor could he, by any trick he knew, even follow.
There were years before him, other trails to entice him, so he argued.
And as he opened his eyes, rather painfully, Drew, concerned and full of
question, brought him round again to sanity, and not a mind deliberately
drugged by the spin and shuttle of the fountain’s aimless _carrousel_.
The waiter came at this moment and set the glasses upon the table. Even
the man’s crisp, white hair seemed a part of the scheme of the lounge,
Martin thought. Fancies, ridiculous and uncalled-for, occurred to him in
succession until he wished that he could stay quiet forever with Drew,
whom he trusted most of all in this irrepressible hysteria. However, the
waiter withdrew quickly enough, resting his hazel eyes only for a moment
upon Martin, who spoke to Drew with a restrained irritation.
“Was this intended?” he asked. “It seems, Drew, to be something planned.”
He waved his hand impulsively. “All this,” he continued, “is native
to you and unfamiliar to me. It has—it has a quality—” Martin stopped
talking.
Drew picked up his drink.
“I suppose it does have what you say, or suggest,” he answered. “I’ve
felt it many times. But it was not defined to me before to-night. I
came here to rest, because it was restful; but I shall never come here
again, because you have given it a suggestion of intimate life which is
offensive. It wasn’t planned at all, Martin, and I was never native until
you said so.” Drew leaned forward frowning, puzzled. “What kind are you?”
he asked. “You, Martin, could vulgarize the very Church.” He sipped his
drink, although Martin left his own glass untouched. “Prosaic as it may
be,” Drew went on, “it is not myself with whom I’m concerned. It isn’t
myself, or Roberts, or even you that I am most deeply worried about.
It’s Deane.” He lifted a finger, decisive, commanding. “In her you have
found sweetness, tenderness and passion—a physical, well trained animal.
Don’t speak!” He held his finger warningly again as Martin’s brooding
shoulders straightened. “You’ve talked uncannily enough, Martin, to
make even me wonder. I love your thoughts—the upside down philosophy
that makes me laugh when I believed I could never laugh again. But
Martin, you surely won’t abuse this powerful—yes, this beautiful gift
with Deane. Don’t misunderstand me, I beg of you once more. It isn’t
evil, Martin, to use a weapon at your command. It isn’t really that
you’re a devilish anti-Christ, as I first thought.” Drew lowered his
voice, speaking almost frantically. “It may be that you are even Christ
himself. You have your Cross and finally you’ll rest there. For you are
no more invulnerable than the Man on Calvary, who under pressure—under
striated clouds asked for an end of it. Is there anyone _you_ can ask
in that intolerable moment?” Drew wiped his forehead, drank deeply and
spoke again, although he avoided Martin’s flaming eyes. “I repeat,” he
persisted, “‘that intolerable moment!’ And it matters very little whether
you consider me a fanatical, abusive priest, or—” and now the spray from
the fountain seemed to lean toward Drew. Heavy lines of moisture which
he failed to notice, covered his forehead. “Martin,” he said, “I know
Deane. I love her ‘in my fashion.’ I—I too, was taken from a medium of
ordinary happiness into this rarefied, spiritualistic land you understand
so well.” Unable to speak further, Drew brushed his handkerchief across
his eyes and placed his hands upon the table. To his astonishment—almost
to his grief, he saw them tightly gripped by Martin, who seemed to hover
over him, transfigured....
They got up and put on their coats. With surprise, they noticed that the
shutters of the lounge were drawn and that the bar was untended. Alone in
a corner, the white-haired waiter sat dozing. Drew pressed a bill into
the hand of the sleepy attendant and opened the door himself. Out in the
street the wind was blowing harder than ever and a pale green light clung
like a heavy paste to the eastern horizon.
_CHAPTER VIII_
Martin left the typographical plant. He thought he was a funny one. Being
fired made him feel a little childish. It might be hurt or anger, or
it might be something more esoteric. He didn’t know. But his face was
colorless and his eyes gleamed unnaturally.
“I guess it isn’t anything to sigh and fret about, ‘dear boy,’” he said.
“It was Roberts, of course; and I can’t buck him. This city’s even more
of a machine than I had thought.” He walked until he was thirsty, went
into a restaurant and had two cups of coffee. Then he walked some more.
He stopped in at another restaurant and tried to eat. He couldn’t.
So he had a third cup of coffee and decided to call up Roberts. The
conversation was pertinent.
“It’s Martin Devaud. Is Mr. Roberts there?”
“Hello, Martin. It’s myself.”
“I’m fired. May I see you this evening?”
“Come at six.”
“Right.” And they hung up.
Martin continued to walk. His throat was dry and he yawned frequently.
As evening approached he grew more and more nervous. Several times he
lost his bearings and with some difficulty he found Roberts’ street. In
the elevator, which was warm and a little close, he tried to keep himself
from shivering.
Roberts was dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, starched, but
open at the collar. He greeted Martin extravagantly, then seeing his
pallor, so unnatural, he brought out whisky and soda.
Martin held up his hand.
“No soda,” he said.
Roberts’ eloquent features absorbed at once the harshness of Martin’s
despair. He understood. Nevertheless, propriety made him ask, “Straight?
That’s dangerous.”
“Straight, please. And it’s not half so dangerous just now for me as
being sober.”
Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
“You may take the bottle, if you care to, and lie down with it,” he
answered petulantly.
Martin looked him straight in the eyes.
“A drink will suffice,” he said.
Roberts flamed and quieted and the color came again.
Martin smiled a little maliciously as he watched him.
“What a story, or picture!—if you wept in all that brilliance!” he said
calmly.
Roberts poured his own glass to the brim with whisky and drank it before
he answered. His eyes were hot—completely without modulation.
“Drink yours!” he commanded, pouring another.
Martin took the glass to the window and threw it, whisky and all, into
the street.
“May it kill!” he said, whiter-faced than ever.
“You talked to me once of melodrama,” said Roberts acidly. “I’ve never
seen it so rampant, so unorthodox, so uncontrolled. I’ve had enough! Tell
me—tell me—or by God!——”
“I want to know if you had me fired,” said Martin, simply.
Roberts became placid at once. He waved his slender hands and,
half-closing his eyes, smiled patronizingly.
“Surely you do not—” he began, when Martin cut him off.
“Surely, hell. I wondered. I thought it was probable.”
Roberts still watched him from under his lids.
“I don’t understand.”
“I said I’m fired.”
“Well?”
“I want to know why.”
Roberts folded his hands. It was almost a gesture of dismissal.
“I talked with your employer, Mr. Jackson,” he said. “The conversation,
I must say, was disappointing. He told me frankly that your work of late
had been lax.” Roberts cleared his throat. “I’ve been somewhat afraid of
that. You can’t burn the candle at both ends, Martin. The social and the
economic won’t mix.”
“Roberts—save your platitudes for a darker night!” Martin was glaring at
him. “So that was really it! You intimated as much at one time.”
Roberts went over to him, touching the back of Martin’s hand with
indescribable tenderness.
“Are you tired enough now, my friend, to have a drink with the one man in
the world who sees you in your entirety?” he asked.
“Yes. I’ll drink,” said Martin wearily, leaning back in a chair and
closing his eyes. He took the glass from Roberts, holding it loosely, and
drank from it without thinking.
Roberts now put his hand on Martin’s head.
“I have given my time to place you,” he said gently. “You would not
rebuke me for that.”
Martin felt the lassitude of the whisky, of the words; yet some
fundamental stroke of his own blood kept him from acceptance. He seemed
to hear a bold, ancestral cry, and sat straighter.
“You’re modern, Roberts. You have a modern sword.”
“I’ve never hurt you, Martin. I’ve tried to help.”
“Of course. But your body is too demanding.”
“Meaning?——”
“I won’t fence. I’ve seen an ugly mind—an inexpensive one.”
“Devaud,” said Roberts, in a sharp, clear voice, “you don’t belong among
civilized people. One can’t talk to you decently without your making an
unpleasant issue. You’re a confounded savage and worse, because you
have the instruments of this superficial world, too. And all of your
cruelty—yes, you’re cruel!—and I suppose all of your vices are tucked
under your fine exterior. No wonder Deane is intrigued! But if she could
see you just as I see you now, with that brutish look in your eyes,
then——”
Martin interrupted him.
“Don’t mention her name,” he said, in a low, moody voice.
Roberts moved away from him quickly.
“Martin—did you make this appointment to build, or to destroy?”
“Neither. I just wanted you to know that my understanding belongs to you.”
“Then it’s the only thing that belongs to me.” Roberts spoke bitterly.
“Martin! For the last time I ask you to forget a cycle that has brought
you only unhappiness.”
Martin got out of his chair.
“You should never try to be clever with me, Roberts. I respect the frank
demands of the body. Petty intrigues disgust me. Your intricate desires
have overruled your intelligence. As an invert I respected you. As a
subverter I find you intolerable.”
Roberts walked toward him, motioning, his head shaking. His shining black
hair fell across his face which had turned from red to a lurid purple.
The white part of his eyes took on the same color. His appearance was
that of some monster in a fable.
“I’ll—” he said, “I’ll not—I’ll not—” his head bobbed up and down. “I
will never let you——”