“He gimme this ruby ring I wear. If you come to see me at my place I’ll
show you his pitcher. Me and him’s gonna git married when I kin save
enough to furnish wit’.”
Good God! thought Wilfred again. “Does he know?” he asked.
Angela’s big, good-humored face was momentarily disfigured by a scowl.
“What the hell is it to you? . . . Aw, . . . fergit it! . . . What you
look at me like that for? Come on.”
But Wilfred stood still. His feet were weighted down.
“What you waiting for? What’s the matter wit’ me, you look like that?
Come on. . . .”
Wilfred went towards the bed like an automaton. He looked at her. After
all there was nothing astounding in her unveiling. It was just a human
body, the complement to his own; one was instinctively familiar with it.
He recognized dispassionately that it was a generous, comely woman’s
body, without blemish. He was reminded of fruitfulness; it was a body
fit for Ceres, for Eve. What lovely, dimpling hollows! what a magical
texture in woman’s skin!—But it didn’t seem to matter. What mattered
terribly, and made him tremble, was the strangeness of the soul that
inhabited this woman’s body, sending him such queer intimations through
her eyes, all the while her tongue was so glib and matter-of-fact. Their
bodies might press together as one, but their souls were sundered by an
immensity of space. . . . How piteous!
“What you look at me like that for, fella?”
* * * * *
Once more Wilfred stood in front of the bureau with one hand upon it,
his head lowered. Angela was busy in the corner behind him. He did not
feel that anything of moment had happened to him. He was not
changed. . . . Was _that_ all? . . . But, no! He had failed; that’s what
it meant. He was not human enough to take fire and burn in the beautiful
human way. He was just a sort of figment of a man; an hallucination. He
fulfilled himself only in imagination. Faced with reality, he dissolved.
A dreadful fear gripped him. It was like falling through space. His hand
tightened hard on the edge of the bureau, as if to convince himself that
here was a real flesh and blood hand gripping palpable matter. . . . The
edge of the bureau was blackened by many cigarette burns. The men who
had laid those cigarettes down, _their_ bodies had burned!
The girl came, and passed an arm around his shoulders. “You’re a
wonderful fella!” she murmured. “I like you.”
Oh, yes! thought Wilfred. Flattery is a part of her business.
On the hand that lay on the bureau, Wilfred sported an antique ring of
no great value. She turned it round on his finger. “Give it to me for a
keepsake, fella,” she whispered cajolingly.
Wilfred thought: She knows that normal men have a moment of tenderness
now. But not me. I feel nothing. He shook his head, and drew away from
her.
“Don’t you like me?”
“You’re all right!” said Wilfred.
She tried to wheedle more money out of him. Wilfred shook his head.
“Well, will you come to see me again?”
“Sure!” said Wilfred.
She slipped a card into his hand. “That’s my home address. It’s nicer
there than these Raines Law joints. If you come in the afternoon I can
give you more time. . . .”
Wilfred walked home, musing. His brain was active and cool. From a point
at a little distance outside himself, he surveyed the scene in the hotel
bedroom, and grinned. The girl’s attitude had been absolutely right of
course. Matter-of-fact was the only thing to be under those
circumstances. It was he, who had played the mountebank. . . . What
comical little insects human beings were! . . . Well, it had been a
richly humorous experience, and it had taught him a lot. He was glad it
had happened. . . . But never again! Might as well make up his mind to
it, that he was different in that respect from other men.
Inside the door of his own room, another mood was lying in wait for him.
He loved that room; everything in it had been chosen by himself. It was
on the ground floor at the back of what had been a fine dwelling in its
day. There was a noble fireplace with a mantel of black marble. The
fire, burning low, filled the room with comfortable warm shadows. Desire
struck into Wilfred’s breast like a dagger.
Ah! if there was a dear girl waiting _here_ for me! he thought. One
whose heart I knew, and who knew my heart! How sweet before the fire to
take her in my arms and kiss her neck; to . . . .
Wilfred’s veins were full of molten fire then; his head whirled giddily.
He burst out laughing. Here you are at your imaginings again . . . !
V
Joe Kaplan was walking up lower Broadway, hugging himself within an
expensive overcoat. Catching sight of his shining eyes and wreathed lips
in a mirror, he thought: Picture of a man who enjoys life! Well,
everything was going fine with him. He put down his feet deliberately,
for it suited his humor to affect the solid air of an established man of
thirty-five—but his heels were light.
Passing the Union Trust Building, his attention was attracted by a
slender figure, who, with self-consciously averted head, sought to hurry
by him unseen. Joe caught the man’s shoulder and swung him around.
“Bristed!” he cried. “How are you!”
The other, held in Joe’s grip, showed his teeth painfully; scowled;
turned red; said nothing. Joe saw that he would have liked to strike
him, but was too civilized. Six or seven years older than me, thought
Joe; but a child in my hands! One of those white-headed boys with rich
blue eyes like a picture—and like a picture, with nothing behind it.
But this pup had one merit; he had not yelped when he was held up by his
tail.
“Come and have lunch with me,” said Joe.
“Thanks, I don’t care to,” said Bristed stiffly.
“What the hell!” said Joe. “That’s ancient history. . . . I was just
thinking about you. Or rather, I was casting about in my mind for
somebody like you. You lost out through me once; well, now you got a
chance to make through me.”
“I’ve had quite enough of you,” said Bristed bitterly.
“Don’t be a fool. Come and have a good lunch with me at the Savarin.
That commits you to nothing.”
Bristed’s blue eyes sought out Joe’s black ones. “You know I think
you’re a scoundrel,” he said quietly.
Joe was not in the least put out. “That’s all right,” he said laughing.
“Now you’ve put yourself on record, there’s no reason you shouldn’t take
a lunch off me.”
“All right. I’ll come,” said Bristed.
They continued up the street together. Joe warmed on the outside by the
overcoat; and inside, by the sense of well-being, discussed the
morning’s news of the Street. Bristed said nothing. Joe, without ever
looking at him, was aware how he was biting his lip, and darting painful
and envious looks like adders’ tongues at Joe’s profile. Joe had that
effect on young men. It stimulated him. This young man gave Joe no
concern. A slack-twisted skein, he was thinking; I could sell him out
twice over, and still he wouldn’t be able to stand out against me, if I
wanted to use him again.
Once inside the expensive restaurant, Bristed began to lose something of
his pinched air. This is like coming home to him, thought Joe. The
_maître-d’hotel_ remembered him. “How do you do, Mr. Bristed. It is a
long time since we have had the pleasure of seeing you.”
“Yes, I’ve been travelling,” said Bristed carelessly.
Joe rubbed his upper lip to hide a grin.
Joe ordered a choice little meal, and a bottle of Johannisberger.
Bristed was impressed, but would not show it. Joe was becoming an adept
in menu cards; and was prouder of this accomplishment than of his
greatest coup on the Street. He himself, never over-ate; there were too
many swollen paunches surrounding him down-town. He liked too well, the
feeling of being twenty-three and on his toes. Besides, he went in for
other pleasures.
When at last they lighted up their Eden perfectos, Joe said: “Gosh! when
I was a brat in Sussex street, I never expected to be burning these!”
Bristed betrayed no interest in his reminiscences. “What do you want of
me this time?” he asked bluntly.
“Keep your shirt on,” said Joe coolly. “This is not financial. I’m
already making money faster than I can hire safety-deposit boxes.”
“What is it then?”
“I’m going into society.”
Bristed laughed unpleasantly.
Joe did not mind, because it was not assured laughter. Bristed knew
quite well that Joe _could_ go into society if he wanted to. “There’s
plenty of society already open to me,” Joe went on; “but I’ll have
nothing short of the best. The real top-notch. I’ve got money enough
already to support the position; and in a few years, if I live, I’ll be
one of the big half dozen of this burg.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Bristed bitterly. “You’re marked for it. . . .
Do you think I am able to help you get into society?”
“None better,” said Joe. “Your father, and his father before him were in
the forefront.”
“Sure!” said Bristed. “My grandfather had the distinction of making
money, and my father of spending it. But what have I got?”
“The family name,” suggested Joe.
“Sure! And an old house on Thirty-sixth street that we can’t afford to
heat properly in the winter; and where my mother and sister do their own
housework.”
“But the best society in New York is open to you, if you had the money
to take your place in it. The old society. That’s what I have my eye
on.”
“And where are we going to get the money?” asked Bristed.
“From me.”
“No! by God!” said Bristed. “We haven’t fallen as low as that!”
“Go ahead!” said Joe smiling. “Shoot off your fine sentiments, and then
we’ll get down to business.”
Bristed became incoherent in his indignation. “What do you think I am?
Do you think I’d lend my mother and sister to. . . . There are some
things you don’t understand smart as you are. Ah! I’m not going to talk
to you. . . !” He stood up.
“Sit down,” said Joe quietly. “You can always turn me down, you know.
Only a fool turns down a proposition before he hears it.”
Bristed sat down looking rather like a fool.
“Now, briefly,” said Joe, “without any skyrockets or red fire, what is
the objection?”
“Do you think we’re going to foist you off on our friends . . . ?”
“Easy!” said Joe. “There’s not going to be any foisting. You ought to
know me. Wherever I go, I stand on my own bottom. I say to everybody:
Eight years ago I was a dirty little ragamuffin on Sussex street. My
father and mother made their living sewing on pants for a contractor.
When I was hungry I stole things off the pushcarts to get me a meal.”
“It pays to tell that, eh?” sneered Bristed.
“You’re dead right, it pays,” said Joe. “The idea it suggests to the
other person is: Look how far he’s risen! I never made any pretences.
Don’t have to. That’s how I get along. People think it’s original.
Everybody likes me except those who have lost money through me. If you
could only see it, it’s your fine sentiments that keep you down. Bet
your grandfather wasn’t troubled with them.
“Take this scheme that I propose—you wouldn’t exactly have to beat the
drum for me, you know. I’m fairly notorious. The Boy Wonder of the
Street. Folks high and low are curious to have a look at me. I’d be a
social asset instead of a liability. I’ve noticed that family, blue
blood and all that, don’t cut as much ice as they used to. Those people,
having bored each other stiff, are now beginning to look around for a
little outside entertainment . . . Of course I could climb up anyhow.
But I don’t care to take the trouble to lay a regular campaign. Prefer
to begin at the top . . . I like the girls up there,” he added grinning;
“they’re so damned independent. Like me!”
“Damn you!” said Bristed under his breath.
“Keep the change!” said Joe cheerfully . . . “How much would it take to
keep up your house in good style?”
“It’s not a big house,” muttered Bristed. “Ten thousand a year.”
“I’ll make it twelve thousand,” said Joe. “And what’s more, I’ll settle
a good round sum on your mother in the beginning, so that when I no
longer need you, she wont be left flat.”
“And what would we have to do, exactly, to earn it?” asked Bristed,
sneering.
“Just have me to your house, and have your friends there to meet me.
After that I stand or fall by my own efforts.”
“Everybody would know where the money came from.”
“And why the Deuce shouldn’t they know? That’s what people like you
can’t see! Tell the truth about the whole affair. Tell everybody. Then
they’d begin to respect you . . . There’d be a lot of benefits to you in
addition to the twelve thou. If you and your folks took your rightful
place, you’d have a chance to look around yourself, eh? and . . .”
“No thanks!” said Bristed violently.
“Oh, of course you wouldn’t sell yourself,” said Joe dryly. “But she
might be a damn fine girl, though rich. It _has_ happened. I tell you
straight, Bristed, it’s your only chance. You haven’t got the guts to
make good in the rough and tumble of the Street. You’re too gentlemanly.
Then there’s your sister . . .”
“By God . . . !” said Bristed with burning eyes.
“Keep your hair on,” said Joe coolly. “That is not a part of my plans.”
“Don’t you mean to marry?” sneered Bristed.
“If I do, I shall look higher,” said Joe, facing him down. “. . .
However, I mean to thoroughly canvass the field first. I don’t want
money of course. I mean to marry a girl of the very highest position who
hasn’t got too much. But she’s got to be a regular top-notcher!”
“I won’t have anything to do with it!” said Bristed.
“Put it before your family,” said Joe, undisturbed. “You owe them that.
Tell them the worst you know about me. If they want to look me over
before committing themselves, all right. Then if they turn me down, why
that’s all right, too. I can easy find somebody else.”
“Well, I’ll tell them,” said Bristed. “But I’ll advise them against it.”
“That’s all right, old man,” said Joe. “I have confidence in the ladies.
They are always realists.”