It was exactly as if they could say "Neither of us has anything: we
shall be poor together"--just as delightful that they should be rich
instead. It gave them the same communion of adventure. Yet when Anson
got leave in April, and Paula and her mother accompanied him North, she
was impressed with the standing of his family in New York and with the
scale on which they lived. Alone with Anson for the first time in the
rooms where he had played as a boy, she was filled with a comfortable
emotion, as though she were pre-eminently safe and taken care of. The
pictures of Anson in a skull cap at his first school, of Anson on
horseback with the sweetheart of a mysterious forgotten summer, of Anson
in a gay group of ushers and bridesmaid at a wedding, made her jealous
of his life apart from her in the past, and so completely did his
authoritative person seem to sum up and typify these possessions of his
that she was inspired with the idea of being married immediately and
returning to Pensacola as his wife.
But an immediate marriage wasn't discussed--even the engagement was to
be secret until after the war. When she realized that only two days of
his leave remained, her dissatisfaction crystallized in the intention of
making him as unwilling to wait as she was. They were driving to the
country for dinner, and she determined to force the issue that night.
Now a cousin of Paula's was staying with them at the Ritz, a severe,
bitter girl who loved Paula but was somewhat jealous of her impressive
engagement, and as Paula was late in dressing, the cousin, who wasn't
going to the party, received Anson in the parlor of the suite.
Anson had met friends at five o'clock and drunk freely and indiscreetly
with them for an hour. He left the Yale Club at a proper time, and his
mother's chauffeur drove him to the Ritz, but his usual capacity was not
in evidence, and the impact of the steam-heated sitting-room made him
suddenly dizzy. He knew it, and he was both amused and sorry.
Paula's cousin was twenty-five, but she was exceptionally naïve; and at
first failed to realize what was up. She had never met Anson before, and
she was surprised when he mumbled strange information and nearly fell
off his chair, but until Paula appeared it didn't occur to her that what
she had taken for the odor of a dry-cleaned uniform was really whiskey.
But Paula understood as soon as she appeared; her only thought was to
get Anson away before her mother saw him, and at the look in her eyes
the cousin understood too.
When Paula and Anson descended to the limousine they found two men
inside, both asleep; they were the men with whom he had been drinking at
the Yale Club, and they were also going to the party. He had entirely
forgotten their presence in the car. On the way to Hempstead they awoke
and sang. Some of the songs were rough, and though Paula tried to
reconcile herself to the fact that Anson had few verbal inhibitions, her
lips tightened with shame and distaste.
Back at the hotel the cousin, confused and agitated, considered the
incident, and then walked into Mrs. Legendre's bedroom, saying: "Isn't
he funny?"
"Who is funny?"
"Why--Mr. Hunter. He seemed so funny."
Mrs. Legendre looked at her sharply.
"How is he funny?"
"Why, he said he was French. I didn't know he was French."
"That's absurd. You must have misunderstood." She smiled: "It was a
joke."
The cousin shook her head stubbornly.
"No. He said he was brought up in France. He said he couldn't speak any
English, and that's why he couldn't talk to me. And he couldn't!"
Mrs. Legendre looked away with impatience just as the cousin added
thoughtfully, "Perhaps it was because he was so drunk," and walked out
of the room.
This curious report was true. Anson, finding his voice thick and
uncontrollable, had taken the unusual refuge of announcing that he spoke
no English. Years afterward he used to tell that part of the story; and
he invariably communicated the uproarious laughter which the memory
aroused in him.
Five times in the next hour Mrs. Legendre tried to get Hempstead on the
phone. When she succeeded, there was a ten-minute delay before she heard
Paula's voice on the wire.
"Cousin Jo told me Anson was intoxicated."
"Oh, no...."
"Oh, yes. Cousin Jo says he was intoxicated. He told her he was French,
and fell off his chair and behaved as if he was very intoxicated. I
don't want you to come home with him."
"Mother, he's all right! Please don't worry about----"
"But I do worry. I think it's dreadful. I want you to promise me not to
come home with him."
"I'll take care of it, mother...."
"I don't want you to come home with him."
"All right, mother. Good-by."
"Be sure now, Paula. Ask some one to bring you."
Deliberately Paula took the receiver from her ear and hung it up. Her
face was flushed with helpless annoyance. Anson was stretched asleep out
in a bedroom up-stairs, while the dinner-party below was proceeding
lamely toward conclusion.
The hour's drive had sobered him somewhat--his arrival was merely
hilarious--and Paula hoped that the evening was not spoiled, after all,
but two imprudent cocktails before dinner completed the disaster. He
talked boisterously and somewhat offensively to the party at large for
fifteen minutes, and then slid silently under the table; like a man in
an old print--but, unlike an old print, it was rather horrible without
being at all quaint. None of the young girls present remarked upon the
incident--it seemed to merit only silence. His uncle and two other men
carried him up-stairs, and it was just after this that Paula was called
to the phone.
An hour later Anson awoke in a fog of nervous agony, through which he
perceived after a moment the figure of his uncle Robert standing by the
door.
"... I said are you better?"
"What?"
"Do you feel better, old man?"
"Terrible," said Anson.
"I'm going to try you on another bromo-seltzer. If you can hold it down,
it'll do you good to sleep."
With an effort Anson slid his legs from the bed and stood up.
"I'm all right," he said dully.
"Take it easy."
"I thin' if you gave me a glassbrandy I could go down-stairs."
"Oh, no----"
"Yes, that's the only thin'. I'm all right now.... I suppose I'm in
Dutch dow' there."
"They know you're a little under the weather," said his uncle
deprecatingly. "But don't worry about it. Schuyler didn't even get here.
He passed away in the locker-room over at the Links."
Indifferent to any opinion, except Paula's, Anson was nevertheless
determined to save the débris of the evening, but when after a cold
bath he made his appearance most of the party had already left. Paula
got up immediately to go home.
In the limousine the old serious dialogue began. She had known that he
drank, she admitted, but she had never expected anything like this--it
seemed to her that perhaps they were not suited to each other, after
all. Their ideas about life were too different, and so forth. When she
finished speaking, Anson spoke in turn, very soberly. Then Paula said
she'd have to think it over; she wouldn't decide to-night; she was not
angry but she was terribly sorry. Nor would she let him come into the
hotel with her, but just before she got out of the car she leaned and
kissed him unhappily on the cheek.
The next afternoon Anson had a long talk with Mrs. Legendre while Paula
sat listening in silence. It was agreed that Paula was to brood over the
incident for a proper period and then, if mother and daughter thought it
best, they would follow Anson to Pensacola. On his part he apologized
with sincerity and dignity--that was all; with every card in her hand
Mrs. Legendre was unable to establish any advantage over him. He made no
promises, showed no humility, only delivered a few serious comments on
life which brought him off with rather a moral superiority at the end.
When they came South three weeks later, neither Anson in his
satisfaction nor Paula in her relief at the reunion realized that the
psychological moment had passed forever.