Will's season closed early. My own promised to run well into the summer
months. Will's return was marked by a happier frame of mind and a
corresponding good humour. He had been re-engaged for the coming year,
and the fact that his maternal grandmother had recently died and left
him a small legacy, which would be made over to him during the summer,
relieved his mind of the worry over money matters which had been
oppressing him. With characteristic prodigality he invested in a
complete new wardrobe--to be paid for when the legacy arrived. Also he
contemplated buying a motor-car, though I endeavoured to point out to
him that a trip abroad would be a better investment, if spend his money
he must.
It was well along in June when--with a silent _Te Deum_--I saw the
notice posted. One of those periods of tropical heat had descended upon
New York and brought the run of the opera to an abrupt close. It was a
welcome relief to be allowed to remain at home for days at a time. I
set about to refurnish my summer wardrobe. With the acquisition of an
automobile still pending in his mind, Will spent much of his time away
from home, trying out various makes of cars.
It was during one such week-end hejira that John Gailbraith returned
from abroad. He had only that morning disembarked, and after settling
himself in a downtown hotel had come to call on us. I hailed his advent
with delight. Our long talks, the exchange of ideas, his alert mind
refreshed and stimulated my own. Will once laughingly remarked that I
had developed into a veritable human question mark. But in no other way
could I induce our friend to talk about himself or his art. He had
travelled much and when once started on the subject would retail his
experiences in foreign lands. My interest was kept on the _qui vive_.
Then there was his work and achievement. Long were the discussions and
criticisms of the "Super-creation" and the thoughts and ideas which had
led to its conception.
As yet, I had not been inclined to resume my own work which my son's
death had caused me to lay aside. Now, under the influence of my
master's encouragement and sympathy, the old ambition quickened. As the
summer progressed we came to see a great deal of John Gailbraith.
Indeed, he became a part of our daily life. A genuineness which made
itself felt, a cleanliness of mind and speech, together with a quiet
humour and a gift of sympathetic understanding, endeared him to his
friends. Will shared my feeling, else he had not thrown us so
continuously together.
"John Gailbraith is one of the few men in the world to whom I would
entrust my wife's honour," he had said one day. I had chided Will for so
repeatedly throwing me upon our friend for amusement or companionship.
It had become a common thing for Will to hail his friend thus: "Old man,
if you haven't anything better to do to-night, take my missus out to
dinner, will you? I have an engagement to hear a play read," or, "I say,
Jack old boy, look after the missus while I'm away. I've been asked to
go on a motor-trip for a few days and I know it's punishment to drag the
poor girl along." (Parenthetically Will rarely asked me to join him on
these motor-trips.) It was on such an occasion that I had reproved Will
for saddling John Gailbraith with a responsibility which may not have
been to his liking. "There may be other friends to whom he may wish to
devote himself; besides is it wise that I be seen so continually in his
company and without my husband? You know how malicious the world is.
People will say----"
"O, Hell! I believe with Bernard Shaw: 'They say--what do they say? Let
them say!' People will always find something to criticize. So long as I
am satisfied it's nobody's business. I'm not afraid, girlie, of anyone
taking you away from me." And he dismissed the subject.
My husband not only encouraged the idea of my working under the guiding
hand of the sculptor but developed an enthusiasm which quite took away
my breath. In one of his impulsive moods he rented a studio from an
artist member of the Players' Club, who was planning to go abroad for a
year. "It's just the thing she needs; something to occupy her mind.
Besides, any little pleasure I can throw her way is coming to her, after
the way she stood by when I was down on my luck. It isn't every wife who
can support her husband, is it, old man?" And Will slipped his arm
about my shoulders with an amused wink. He was in high humour these
days.
There was a great scrubbing and cleaning before I pronounced the studio
habitable. Will said I was not a true artist. I failed to find art and
dirt synonymous or mutually connotating each the other.
The building which housed the studio was in a small street or, more
properly, an area-way in the vicinity of lower Fifth Avenue within a
stone's throw of Washington Square. John Gailbraith said it was his
favourite part of the city. It came to be mine. Sometimes, after we had
taken luncheon at a near-by restaurant, we would stroll in the square or
sit on one of the benches. Our lounging neighbours were interesting
studies in real life. John would point out the various foreign types and
compare them with their countrymen on their native heath. At other times
I would have our recently acquired cook-lady prepare a dainty lunch
basket, which I carried to the studio, and at the noon-hour, while John
made the tea, I laid the table. Here we would linger, absorbed in the
discussion which with passing days grew more frank and intimate. I no
longer felt cramped or warped. Expansion had become an almost
measurable sensation. During our vari-toned _pour-parler_, one subject
was by seemingly tacit consent taboo. No reference or allusion was ever
made to my conjugal affairs. Whatever John Gailbraith thought or knew
concerning Will's peccadillos, he gave no intimation. It was not
possible that he had not heard of my husband's various _liaisons_. In
fact, Will, himself, made no attempt to conceal the attentions of
certain women who rang up at his home under flimsiest pretence. He joked
lightly about their indiscretions and commented on the fact that he "was
getting to be the real thing in the way of a matinee idol." The period
following upon my son's death when Will had devoted himself to me with
something of the sweetness of our early married life was short-lived.
And if I closed my eyes and ears to the recurring lapses of his fidelity
it was because I still hoped that some day he would need my love.
Whether John Gailbraith believed there was an understanding between my
husband and me I could only surmise. To have him regard me in the light
of a complaisant wife gave me many uncomfortable moments, yet I could
not touch upon the subject. The truth lovingly told is that I came
nearer to being happy during those summer months than I had been
for--how many years had passed since Will and I had set up housekeeping
in the little furnished flat of halcyon days?...
When Will's absence from home became more frequent and of long duration
I exerted myself to greet his return with a pleasant word and a serene
face. And if, sometimes, I felt John's eyes upon me--those great gray
eyes with large iris and the black fringed lids--I strove the harder to
dissemble.
Sometimes Will would swoop down on us with a noisy party in tow and
insist upon an impromptu dinner in the workshop. The suggestion was
invariably hailed with delight by the women, who regarded the studio as
an open sesame to forbidden fruit and free speech, while to the men it
connoted models in the nude and bacchanalia.
On one occasion Will brought his star to see the minute whirling figure
the sculptor had but recently completed in refutation of the criticism
that his work was effective only in large design. Posing as a
_connoisseur_, the lady had expressed the wish to see John's work. I
think I hated her at first glance. There was something snake-like even
in the movement of her body and in the craning of her long, thin neck
from which a sharp jaw projected. She fascinated while she repelled.
Being temperamentally reserved in the presence of strangers--and the
lady temperamentally interested in the opposite sex--I had an
opportunity to study her. My scrutiny was not unobserved. Indeed, she
was always conscious of self, though apparently not self-conscious.
In the act of taking her leave she stopped quite suddenly and addressed
herself to me: "And so you are _Meesus_ Hartley.... What fine eyes you
have ... such ... what _ees_ the word? Yes, tangled, tangled depths ...
and the shadows!... If I were a man I should make love to _Meesus_
Hartley...." She shot a glance at John Gailbraith, then dropped her lids
over her eyes. But the suggestion was not lost. It was not meant to be.
"Madame has a pleasing way of expressing herself," I drawled, meeting
the much affected wide baby stare of her orbs with a like expression.
Suggestion is insidiously effective. From the moment my husband's star
had dropped the seed--thoughtlessly or maliciously, who shall say?--it
took root. The calm surface over which I had been gliding during the
past months ruffled and disturbed my equilibrium. The old _camaraderie_
between John Gailbraith and me gave way to self-consciousness on my
part. I felt what I imagined might have been the sensation which
overwhelmed Mother Eve after eating of the Tree of Knowledge. For the
first time during our intercourse I looked upon John Gailbraith as
man--myself, woman. I caught myself expecting, anticipating, parrying
any indication on his part which might be construed as a prelude to
tenderness. My attitude became constrained, unnatural; his, more
gracious, gentle, tactful. Perhaps he analyzed my mood as the natural
result of gossip which connected my husband's name with that of the
"star." That he pitied me heaped coals of fire upon my head--and his. I
was glad of the opportunity which took him to Washington in response to
a letter from a prospective patron and left me to myself.
With mathematical precision I questioned myself: Why should I permit the
insinuations of a not disinterested woman to mar a friendship which had
become dear to me and which I had hoped to retain all my life? Was
friendship between persons of opposite sex not possible? Can there be
no relationship between man and woman disassociated from sex? Had this
man by look or word professed other than friendship for me? Had I
professed or felt any emotion other than which I indicated? Then why
permit the bond to be severed by a wholly suppositious breach? I
resolved that upon John's return to the city I should take up the thread
where I had left off. There was consolation in the determination.
The time had arrived when I was to begin the nude of Boy in marble. It
was to be my winter's work and I was eager to be well advanced with it
before John went abroad again. I looked forward to his going with
genuine regret. More and more Will had estranged himself from me:
whether deliberately or not I was not prepared to answer. The relentless
examination continued. What was it which held me to my husband? Did I
still love him despite his infidelities, his ever-increasing neglect and
selfishness? Or was it the tender memories of our youthful love at whose
altar I worshipped, feeding the smouldering embers with incense of
bruised and crushed illusions? Might I not, after all, with patience,
devotion, tolerance and a single-heartedness of purpose lead his
wandering steps back to me? If life was barren now, what should it be
without him? No, I must find my solace in my pride in him; must squeeze
what comfort I might in helping him on to success; always with the
hope--hope!--the promise-crammed!
It had become a custom of mine to carry my perturbation of heart and
mind to my boy's grave; there, in the silence and the nothingness of
life, to find a balm and fortitude. It was upon such a mission I set out
one day late in September. Under the early autumn haze the meadows lay
carpeted with golden rod and fleecy lace of the Queen's handkerchief.
Soothed by this tryst with my loved one I returned to town prepared to
take up the battle. Arriving at the Grand Central Station I decided to
telephone to Will's club with the hope of finding he had returned during
my absence. Stopping to pay the toll I glanced listlessly around the
waiting-room. A familiar figure caused me to start forward, then draw
back. There, coming through the station was my husband and his "star."
From the handbags he carried--one of which I recognized as his--it was
evident that they had come direct from the train. I recalled that Will
had mentioned the fact that the star had recently bought a country
residence. And, too, it recurred to me that, when on Saturday night Will
had telephoned me that he was at a Turkish bath and would remain there
all day, his voice had a far-away sound to it, as if the message were at
long distance. Sunday and Monday had passed with no word from him. I now
understood where he had been.... I watched them drive away in a
hansom.... Then I took a car home.