On a mild, bright afternoon, Elaine and Wilfred ran down the steps of
the Sturges house, and turned east. Wilfred had enjoined Elaine to dress
plainly; and she was wearing a severe tweed coat, and an inconspicuous
hat bound round with a veil. Thus clad, her brave air was more apparent
than ever. Wilfred’s heart beat high. Leaving behind them the big house
which typified Elaine’s crowded exotic life, he felt for the first time
that he had her to himself. Looking at her, he thought: It is impossible
that Joe could reach his grimy paw so high! As usual, I have been
tormenting myself without reason.
“Now elucidate the mystery,” said Elaine. “Where are we going?”
“Into the East Side,” said Wilfred. “My stamping-ground.”
“Slumming?” she asked, running up her eyebrows.
“No, indeed!” said Wilfred quickly.
“Well, I’m thankful for that. I’m no slum angel. . . . But why should we
go there then? It’s not done.”
“I haunt the East Side for my own benefit, not for the East-Siders’,” he
said. “I want to show you something real for once.”
“You funny man!” said Elaine. “I suppose you think you are sincere in
this nonsense.”
Wilfred laughed.
“I warn you it is useless to expect me to be born anew.”
“I don’t,” he said quickly. “This is no deep-laid plot. Your life
suffocates me. I am never myself in it. I wanted to have you once where
I could breathe: to drag you down to my level if you like. It’s only for
an hour. It won’t injure you permanently.”
“I am not afraid of being injured,” she said a little affronted.
“You are afraid of being changed, though.”
“Not at all!” she said stiffly. . . . “Still, I don’t see why I have to
be dragged through the slums. I shan’t like it.”
“Oh, your conventional nose will turn up at the smells, and your eyes
avert themselves from the dirt,” said Wilfred; “but there is a grand
streak of commonness in you if one could only get at it.”
Elaine looked at him a little startled.
“Instead of a young lady of fashion you ought to have been a camp
follower of the Revolution,” he went on. “I can see you shaking the
Tricolor and yelling for blood!”
She liked this picture, and showed her white teeth. “You have the
silliest notions about me!” she said scornfully.
They made their way through St. Mark’s Place and East Tenth street to
Tompkins Square. This neighborhood, still suggesting 1860, with its
plain brick tenements of low height, and old-fashioned store-fronts was
a favorite haunt of Wilfred’s. It was still Irish-American New York,
with the descendants of the original be-Jasus bhoys standing on the
corners. It had the appeal of something doomed; for the old stores here
and there were erupting in showy modern fronts; and the Jews were
creeping in from the South.
Elaine did not get the special character of the streets, but any comely
individual interested her. There was a stalwart young teamster unloading
his dray, who, confident of his manhood, glanced sideways at Elaine with
daring, mirthful eyes.
“What charming, wicked eyes!” murmured Elaine, after they had passed.
Wilfred felt a little crushed. His eyes were not wicked.
Proceeding farther east, they turned up-town, following always the last
street on the edge of the Island. Wilfred found these forgotten streets
full of character; the utilitarian steam-roller had not flattened them
out. Actually, in the summer-time, spears of grass could be seen pushing
up between the cobble-stones. There was a group of deserted buildings
falling into ruin; and a little general store whose aspect had not
changed since the days when New York was pure American; there was a
smithy, which, lacking only a spreading chestnut tree, might have been
transported entire from up-state. There was a yard piled with junk,
which would have been fascinating to pick over; and there were high
board fences with padlocked gates concealing mysteries. The inhabitants
of the scattered dwellings in these last streets stared at the intruders
like mountain folk.
He tried enthusiastically to convey it all to Elaine.
Looking at him with a quizzical eye, she asked: “Would you like to live
over here?”
“What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Wilfred. “Isn’t it refreshing
after the awful sameness of the other streets?”
Elaine peered dubiously through a filthy archway leading into a dank,
paved court. “Well, I don’t know,” she said; “I like a place that I
know.”
Farther up-town, they came to a wide waterside street which had lately
been laid off on made ground. On the river side a row of big new piers
had been built, sticking out into the river. As yet no sheds covered
them; and it was one of the few places in the water-engirdled town
Wilfred pointed out, where one could see the water from the street. The
great shipping interests had still to take possession of the piers;
consequently a confused throng of humble craft were tied up there;
including canal-boats; sailing-lighters (which had once been called
periguas); little old steam-boats laid up for the winter; and a rigged
ship or two, waiting for a charter. Many of these vessels revealed
family life on board. The open piers were heaped with rough cargo that
would take no damage from the elements. The whole made a scene
irresistibly entangling to the eye.
On the landward side a raw building or two had been run up alongside the
new street to house the inevitable saloon with its colored glass and
gingerbread work; but for the most part the vista was of coal-yards, and
yards for the storage of wagons at night. These were backed by the side
walls of the tall new tenements in the cross streets—not so new but
that the white paint was scaling off the bricks, and the fire-escapes
rusting. From every floor of the tenements extended lines of flapping
clothes affixed to tall poles in the rear. Looking through between the
backs of the houses, one beheld a very blizzard of linen. The sun was
preparing to descend behind the tenement houses, and over across the
wide river, the ugly factories of the Greenpoint shore (no longer
green!) were sublimated by his horizontal rays.
Wilfred looked around him with a kindling eye. Elaine, glancing at him
askance, said:
“Interesting if not beautiful.”
“Oh, I’ve quit worrying about what constitutes beauty!” said Wilfred.
“All I know is, this _bites_ me. It’s because it sums up my town; the
flapping clothes; the collection of queer craft; they could be of no
other town; it’s New York!”
Crossing one of the streets leading away from the river, they saw a
crowd assembling before the gates of a coal-yard. Little boys appeared
from nowhere, running and crying in an ecstacy:
“Somep’n t’ matteh! Somep’n t’ matteh!”
“The rallying cry of New York!” murmured Wilfred. Anticipating ugliness,
he took hold of Elaine’s arm to draw her on; but she resisted.
“Let’s see what it is,” she said.
Wilfred had no recourse but to follow her into the side street.
Two burly young men out of the coal-yard were fighting. It was a serious
affair. Greasy with coal-dust, their faces dehumanized, there was
nevertheless a dignity in the fighting look; hard, wary and intent. One
was a mere lad; a young bull, with round head sunk between his brawny
shoulders, and a remarkable mane of crisping black hair. The other, some
years older, was cooler and warier; not without grace. How vain this
one’s efforts! Though he was no older than Wilfred, on the plane of
savagery his day was already passing; it was marked under his eyes. He
might beat the lad now; but the lad would beat him next year. They were
well-matched; they sparred smartly; and broke away clean; just the same
there was a savage fury behind their blows.
Wilfred was a little sickened. Yet he had the envious feeling that these
simple brutes possessed a key to life that had been taken from him,
without any other being supplied. The younger man received a blow on the
mouth that drew blood. He indifferently swept the back of his hand
across his mouth, leaving a hideous smear. Had Wilfred been alone, he
would have wished to see the affair to a conclusion, though he could not
have borne to watch it continuously. His eyes would bolt, and have to be
forced back. Now, with Elaine beside him, he was in distress, thinking
of her womanhood exposed to such a sight.
“Come on! Come on!” he whispered urgently.
She turned a look of scorn on him. “You wanted me to see something
real,” she said. “Can’t you stand it?”
“I was thinking of you,” he murmured.
She seemed to have increased in height; and her face wore a hard, bright
look; in fact, a reflection of the look on the coal-blackened faces. She
is of them; not of me! Wilfred thought sadly. She had not lost the
simple key of life—the heroic key; and alas! he was no hero. He no
longer saw the fight. Before his mind’s eye rose a picture of himself
and Elaine yoked together and hopelessly opposed. Every advantage would
be hers. It would be fatal for him to marry a woman with that strain in
her, he thought; and at the same time his desire for her was increased
tenfold, by reason of her savage, bright eyes.
There was no conclusion to the battle. A cry of “Cheese it, the cop!”
was raised; and the two combatants, bolting through the ring that
surrounded them, disappeared within the coal-yard. The spectators were
left standing at a loss. A blue-coated officer approached with dignity
from the river front.
“Hey! Move on there, youse!” he cried, disdaining to enquire into the
cause of the gathering.
The people reluctantly made a pretence of moving this way and that; but
scarcely left the spot. The bluecoat, with his Olympian air, went on a
little way, and then came back again.
Still Elaine would not be drawn away. She saw a knot of people excitedly
discussing the affair; and coolly elbowed her way in, leaving Wilfred to
follow at her skirt.
“Hey! Move on! didn’t I tell yez!” commanded the officer, heading for
the group; and dispersing it with strong outward thrusts of his
forearms. The elegant Elaine was thrust aside with the rest. Up to this
moment nobody had taken any particular notice of her; but the policeman,
observing her dress, looked her up and down with amazement. He did not,
however, address her. Wilfred suffered acutely. Elaine, ignoring the
officer, fell into step beside a girl who seemed to be the source of
information, and Wilfred walked beside Elaine, feeling as ineffective as
a toddling child.
“What started it?” asked Elaine, avidly interested.
The girl was a meager little thing, not more than sixteen years old. Her
thin jacket was mended crookedly; her shoes ran over at the heel. She
wore a big black lace hat, which projected far beyond her pompadour like
a fan. She was not at all averse to talking. It was her moment.
Everybody was trying to walk alongside her, pressing close to hear; some
in front walking with heads over their shoulders; all mouths open.
“T’at utter fella,” she said; “I mean t’ old fella; he’s too fresh, he
is. He t’inks he’s t’ hull t’ing! Me guyl friend, she lives next door to
t’ coal-yard, see? and he’s all a time flirtin’ wit’ her at t’ winda.
Just to show off to t’ utter fellas in t’ yard what a hell of a fella
_he_ was, understand?”
“Sure, I understand,” said Elaine.
“Well, it was all right until he begun to holler up at her,” the girl
went on. “Then me friend’s old woman, she got sore, see? If he’d come up
to her respectable in the street, like, she’d a gone out wit’ him,
maybe—but to holler up at t’ winda like t’at!”
“No,” said Elaine; “it’s not done!”
“You’re right! It ain’t done! . . . So I says to my friend, I says, I’d
stop by the yard when he was in on his cart, and I’d tell him real nice,
to cut it out, see? And I did ast him just as polite, to cut it out, and
he begun to get fresh wit’ me. An t’en t’ black-headed young fella he
come in on his cart, and he up and tells t’ utter fella to cut it out.
And t’ utter fella, I mean t’ old fella, he begins to cuyse. Such
language! And me standin’ right t’ere all a time! T’en t’ black-headed
young fella, he soaked him one, and t’ey went outside to settle
it. . . . T’at old fella, he’s t’ bully of t’ hull yard. But he’d a got
hisn to-day if t’ cop hadn’t a come. T’ black-headed boy’ll lay him out
cold, yet!”
“He’s a handsome lad,” said Elaine.
“He is so, lady! And strong! My! He ain’t but nineteen year old,
neit’er.”
“Shall you see him again?”
“Oh, he kin allus find me if he wants me,” she said with a toss of the
lace hat. “I don’t live far.”
At the corner, the group broke up, and Wilfred was able to draw Elaine
away at last. In his mind he was confused and bitter. Elaine scorned
these people; yet she was able to talk to them without
self-consciousness; he loved them, and could not. All his explorations
on the East Side were conducted in silence. Not only was his tongue
tied, but he knew he had an aloof air which prevented people from
addressing him.
Elaine guessed what was passing in his mind. She said with a smile: “You
see I am closer to them than you are.”
Wilfred said nothing.
“These people interest you, because they are strange to you,” she
presently went on. “They are not strange to me. Just people. . . . All
the same, I’m glad my great-great-grandfather made a lot of money! . . .
Wilfred, if you lived over here, you’d spend your time walking up and
down Fifth avenue, looking in the rich peoples’ windows, and dreaming
about _their_ lives!”
It’s true! thought Wilfred. She has her own fire, and doesn’t have to
bother; but I can only go about warming myself at the fires of others!
* * * * *
They reached one of the little terraces on the East River cliffs. Elaine
swung herself up on the parapet that closed the end of a cross street;
while Wilfred standing below her, leaned his elbows on the stone. Off to
his left ran a little street of brownstone houses a block long, with
back yards dropping over the cliff. Darkness was falling; no one was in
sight. Elaine drew the tweed coat more closely around her.
“Light a cigarette for me,” she said. “If anybody comes, I’ll hand it
back.”
Wilfred’s lips caressed the cigarette as it left them. Fascinated, he
watched Elaine’s cool fresh lips close upon the same spot. How sweet
that vicarious kiss! He ventured to move closer to her; and at the touch
of her body, a momentary benediction descended on his agitated
breast—momentary, because he had that to say which would destroy it
forever.
“Well, has it been a success?” he asked.
They had walked fast, and the flags were up in Elaine’s cheeks. “The
walk, yes!” she said quickly. “But as for your East Side! . . . Well, I
prefer the middle.” She shrugged good-naturedly. “I’m not a snob. I know
these people are every bit as good as I am; but I don’t feel any call to
herd with them.”
“Oh well, let them go!” said Wilfred, smiling. (How useless this ordeal!
But he had resolved upon it. As soon as it was dark, he had vowed.)
Elaine, glancing at him through her lashes, moved away ever so slightly.
The move was not lost on Wilfred, but he stubbornly held to his purpose.
Looking out over the river, Elaine said quickly: “This view makes up for
any amount of East Side!”
Wilfred, thankful for the respite, followed her glance. The stream was
like a magical beam of twilight in the dark. It seemed to be the source
of its own blue, darkling radiance. The fading sky held no such
poignancy. The river was both still and subtly perturbed; like a smooth
breast swelling upon inaudible sighs; like a quiet face working with
obscure passions. Out in the middle rose the crouching black rocks off
the point of Blackwell’s Island; the island itself, appeared, pointing
out of the obscurity like a gigantic black forefinger. On it rose the
inhuman prison buildings. Architects are always successful in designing
prisons, Wilfred thought. Further to the left, and high against the sky
sprang the vast cantilever bridge, a rumbling portent of the Age of
Machines.
Wilfred put his yearning hand upon hers. She snatched her hand away.
“Oh, Wilfred! not _that_!”
“Elaine, will you marry me?” he whispered.
“Oh!” she breathed crossly. “You know very well I don’t love you!”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then why on earth . . . ?”
“I wanted you to know that I loved you.”
“I knew it. I am not blind.”
“But I was forced to tell you . . . because it was so difficult.”
“Oh, you ridiculous man! . . . I couldn’t possibly fall in love with a
man like you!”
“I know it,” he murmured, while the iron entered slowly into his soul.
“You knew it all along,” she said. “You are no fool. I was glad to have
you come to see me, you’re so intelligent. But I wondered why you
continued to come.”
“I couldn’t help myself.”
Elaine said no more, but looked out over the river, kicking her heel
impatiently against the stone of the parapet. How deeply grateful
Wilfred was, to be spared her pity. How prompt and honest had been her
response—like all her responses to life. While he backed and filled! He
was not even sure at this moment that he wanted to marry her. Was there
not a feeling of relief amidst all his pain? . . . Ah! if he might only
hold her close, close in his arms and stop thinking!
He said: “You’ll catch cold if you continue to sit here.”
Lifting herself on her hands, she sprang down.
“We’ll have to walk a bit before we can hope to find a taxi,” said
Wilfred.
“What’s the matter with the car-line?”
“All right. The nearest is on Second Avenue.”
They walked away from the river in a constrained silence. This was
harder for Elaine to bear than for Wilfred. After awhile she burst out
crossly:
“Oh, bother! You’ve spoiled everything!”
Wilfred smiled. “No,” he said. “You get me wrong. I am not bitter,
because I expected nothing.”
“I think that’s just an attitude,” she said, looking at him shrewdly.
“Oh well, you’ll see—if you don’t cast me off.”
She impulsively slipped her hand through his arm. “Oh, Wilfred, I _do_
want you for a friend!” she said. “I have nobody to talk to but you.”
Wilfred was very happy. He thought without bitterness: I suppose I am a
poor-spirited creature. Thankful for small favors. He said: “Why not?
That thing is cleared away now. There are no bars between us. That’s why
I spoke.”
“You have already given me three different reasons for speaking,” she
remarked acutely.
Wilfred laughed. “All true! Life is not so simple!”
“You’re a funny man!”
“You know nothing about men,” said Wilfred. “You only recognize one
quality in men. You want me for your friend, yet you despise me because
I am willing to come in on that basis.”
“Not despise!” she said quickly.
“Well, supply your own word.”
“I don’t mind if you scold me,” she said with unexpected humility.
Wilfred laughed again, not very mirthfully. “I can be honester with you
now,” he said. “I have nothing to lose.”
She stopped. “I’ll put your friendship to the test at once,” she said
abruptly. “Let’s not go home. Let’s walk for miles and miles. Have
dinner out.”
“Oh, _will_ you!” cried Wilfred in delight.
“Well! . . . you’re easily consoled,” she said dryly.
“I can’t help but be happy when you are beside me!”
She dropped his arm.
They turned Northward again. They went down hill under the bridge
approach, and alongside the towering gas tanks. The next stage was
marked by East River Park, with its row of fancy little brick houses,
circa 1888; then through Pleasant avenue, a raw thoroughfare, belying
its name; and finally through the secluded streets around the Northeast
corner of the island, lined with gaily-painted wooden dwellings like a
village. Not until they had reached the plaza where the red trolley cars
start for the Bronx, did Elaine confess to being tired and hungry.
“Have you got enough money?” she asked like a boy.
Wilfred nodded. “We’ll get on the El. and ride back to Sixty-Seventh
street,” he said. “There is a restaurant on Third avenue called Joe’s,
famous in its way; I expect it’s like no place you have ever been in.”
The neighborhood was not prepossessing; and neither was Joe’s; a
common-looking place with two rows of long tables, ended against the
wall, like a Bowery restaurant.
Elaine looked about her with bright eyes. “I have never eaten in such a
place,” she said. “I shall love it!”
“It’s not really as bad as it looks,” said Wilfred. “The commonness is
deliberate. It is designed to attract those who appreciate good food,
but do not like to put on style.”
“What a good idea!” said Elaine.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Wilfred. “Joe is a little discouraged. Style
seems to be in the ascendant; and good living on the wane!”
“I can plant my elbows on the table, and slump down anyhow,” said
Elaine. “Do you think they will allow me to smoke?”
“We’ll hazard it.”
Wilfred insisted on ordering champagne.
“How silly in such a place!” objected Elaine.
“Oh, no!” he said. “Joe is prepared for it. . . . Besides champagne has
a special virtue. It puffs one up.”
* * * * *
Elaine pushed her plate away. “Wonderful food!” she said. “I’m as full
as a tick!”
She lit a cigarette. There was no interference. Nearly all the other
diners had left now. Wilfred was sitting opposite her with a smile
etched around his lips; gazing at her with half-veiled eyes of pleasure.
Elaine’s look at him became quizzical.
“Why shouldn’t I be happy?” he said reading her thought. “To-night I
have had the best of you. Our walk together in the dark; our confidence
in each other. If I were your husband I could have nothing better.”
Elaine’s smile broadened; and he perceived that she regarded this as
mere sentimentalizing. Well, it didn’t matter now. He smiled on. He made
no attempt to explain that his exquisite happiness was due to the fact
that his heart was big and soft with pain. Impossible to convey such
things in words.
“Besides, I have confessed myself to you,” he added. “I need hide no
longer.”
“You are hiding things from me now!” she said.
“Things, but not myself.”
While she quizzed him, something was working behind it. Her eyes fell.
“I wish I could be happy . . . like that,” she murmured.
An apprehension of worse to come struck through Wilfred. “You must feel
something the same as I,” he said quickly.
“Something,” she said. “You’re a dear!”
The word chilled Wilfred. He hastened past it. “But not content?” he
asked.
“Happiness seems to me to leave a bad taste in the mouth,” said Elaine,
affecting lightness.
An exclamation of dismay was forced from Wilfred. “Oh!” Obscurely he had
felt that Elaine was unhappy; but this forced it on his consciousness.
He was thrown into confusion. He could scarcely conceive the possibility
of pitying the glorious Elaine. She suffering too—but not for him!
Still . . . fellows in pain! Compassion welled up in his breast.
Compassion is most due to the strong, he felt.
“That’s just a phase,” he said quickly. “You knew the feeling of
ridiculous happiness when you were a child.”
“Oh yes,” she said, “and later than that. That feeling is natural to
me.”
“It will come back.”
“I wonder!”
“There’s a cloud over your sun at the moment; that’s all.”
“What do you mean?” she asked with a hard look, jealous of her secret.
It intimidated Wilfred. “I was only speculating,” he said, his eyes
trailing away. Inwardly he was in a panic. Was it Joe? . . . It could
not be Joe. . . . But he knew that it _was_ Joe! The thought was like
the recurrence of a madness. He fought against it blindly. . . . She had
not succumbed. She was fighting. Something must be done to help her!
. . .
Elaine said, gloomily resting her chin on her palm: “Nobody can help
anybody else, really. Each of us has his own particular hell.”
“People _could_ help one another if they were sufficiently honest,”
Wilfred insisted. “It requires a terrifying honesty. Once or twice in a
lifetime, maybe . . . I’ve been helped.”
Elaine’s look upon him was scarcely flattering. It said: Your case is
hardly the same as mine!
Something must be done! Something must be done! the panic-stricken voice
cried within Wilfred. He despaired of finding the right words to say. He
said nothing.
“When you’re faced by a serious problem, should you listen to your heart
or your head?” asked Elaine, flicking the ash off her cigarette.
“To both,” he answered.
“That’s merely silly,” she said with curling lip. “If they’re warring
voices.”
Wilfred flushed. “I was wrong,” he said. “It’s confusing. . . . I never
can speak without thinking. You should listen to your heart always.”
“Ah!” she said, with the air of one who had caught him out. “Then you
believe that passion should override everything; all considerations of
prudence; everything!”
Wilfred felt his lips growing tight. “Passion does not always come from
the heart,” he said. “As I understand it.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is infatuation.”
At that word Elaine ran up her eyebrows in two little peaks; but Wilfred
somehow found the courage to face her out. A silence succeeded, which
shook him badly. A gush of foolish, emotional speech filled his mouth
like warm blood. He grimly swallowed it, waiting.
“Suppose one experienced a violent passion,” asked Elaine, with a casual
air which concealed nothing from the man who loved her, “how on earth
would one know whether it was love or infatuation?”
“By the quality of the object,” he said quickly. “If it was
worthy. . . .”
“That’s nonsense!” she said scornfully. “If you were infatuated you
would think the object was glorious anyhow.”
Wilfred shook his head. “That’s where the heart comes in. No matter how
blinded we may be, we each have a voice in our breasts that whispers the
truth. Only we don’t want to listen.”
“You must have a well-trained little prompter!” said Elaine.
He looked at her. He could bear her gibes. He held his tongue, waiting
for the right word.
She said: “I’d have to have some surer guide than mysterious inner
voices.”
“That’s easy,” said Wilfred quickly. “If your passion is for a worthy
object you feel proud; if it is not worthy, you suffer like the devil.”
“I wasn’t talking about _my_ passion,” said Elaine laughing; but her
long-lashed eyes were dreadfully haunted.
“Oh, sure!” said Wilfred, grinning like a man on the rack. “That’s just
the clumsy English language!” . . . Why can’t we speak out! he cried to
himself; I love her so!
“Well, having got thus far,” said Elaine with a sprightly air that was
almost more than he could bear; “having recognized that one is the
victim of an infatuation, how is one to set about curing oneself?”
Wilfred shook his head helplessly.
“What! has the doctor no remedy to offer?”
“Leave it to time,” he murmured.
“That might work in the case of an elastic nature,” said Elaine. “One of
those natures that snaps easily in and out of entanglements. But there’s
another kind; stubborn.”
Wilfred could not speak. Something inside him was pressing up, and he
could not force it back. It was stopping his throat; he struggled for
breath. . . .
“Anyhow,” said Elaine, raising her chin, “I don’t admit your absolutes
of love and infatuation. What’s the difference between them? It’s all in
the point of view. It’s not the object that matters, but the feeling!”
The constriction within Wilfred suddenly broke. He heard with a feeling
of surprise, a low, shaken voice issuing from between his lips. “Oh,
Elaine! you couldn’t! He’s rotten! I am not quick to discover evil in
people. But this man is altogether evil. . . . Never mind about his
life. I expect he’s told you; he always does. What he’s done doesn’t
matter. It is what he is! Your nature is clear and open; you _must_ feel
it . . . !”
Elaine after a quick glance of astonishment, listened with curving lips.
“Of whom are you speaking?” she asked.
“You know,” he said, suddenly dashed.
There it was out! He need not have been so terrified, because Elaine was
equal to the situation. She shrugged. “Oh well, it’s no secret that Joe
and I are pals. I should hardly come to you for a testimonial of his
character.”
Her remote glance, full of pain, assured him that her inner self was
listening to his words. It enabled him to bear her scorn. “Worse than
positive evil,” he said. “It’s a sort of ghastly sterility. He’s a
monster! He cannot feel anything.”
“Oh, I assure you, you are wrong about that,” said Elaine with her
tormented and contemptuous smile.
“Lust,” he said very low, not able to look at her then.
“Well?” she said simply.
Wilfred was struck dumb by that query. Why not lust? Well . . . why not
. . . ?
In a moment he went on: “You must not think that I am merely jealous. I
have no hopes. If Joe had never existed, you would not have cared for
me. Remember too, that I’ve known him for ten years. This is not
something that has sprung into my mind since I learned that you. . . .
You _must_ believe that I am honest! I love you! If it was anybody else
but him. . . . I haven’t seen Joe but about half a dozen times in my
life. From the first he has represented to me the principle of evil;
that which destroys us! I have seen how he debauches everyone with whom
he comes in contact. He calls to the evil in the natures of others. He
goes on unharmed because he feels nothing. The thought that he might
obtain a hold on you, a permanent hold. . . . Oh God! it won’t bear
speaking of! It is too horrible. . . .”
He jumped up as if he were about to run out of the place.
“Steady!” whispered Elaine. “People are looking. . . .”
He dropped into his chair; his startled eyes darting around.
After a silence, she said sullenly: “This is just emotional stuff.” She
turned her cheek on her palm, half averting her face from him. “. . .
Anyhow, I’m not engaged to him.”
“I know the nature of the spell he exerts over you,” Wilfred went on
more calmly. “I have seen it working; I have felt it myself in a
different way. It is horrible and irresistible—yes, and delicious, too.
Delicious! I say this, because I must force you to see that I
understand. I don’t blame you for feeling it. . . . You think that I’m
something less than a man—Oh, well, never mind about me! . . . But I
want you to know that I never put you on any silly pedestal. I love you
because you’re warm and human, and of the same flesh as me. I don’t
blame you. . . .”
“Thanks!” drawled Elaine. Her eyes were hidden from him.
“. . . I don’t see how you’re going to resist it. A pure and passionate
woman! But marriage. . . . Oh, God! . . .”
“What’s the alternative?” she murmured.
“Give yourself to him,” said Wilfred quickly.
Elaine jerked her head up, staring at him in pure amazement.
“That startles you?” he asked somberly.
“Not the suggestion,” she said. “I’m no bread and butter miss. But that
it should come from you . . . !”
“Oh, leave me out of it! Look on me as a sort of disembodied
voice. . . . It would be better than marriage, wouldn’t it?”
No answer from Elaine.
“This thing is strong only when you oppose it. Give in to it, and you’ll
discover its insignificance. . . .”
Elaine looked at him startled; then closely hid her eyes again.
“. . . Bad morality, but good commonsense,” said Wilfred with a jangling
laugh.
Elaine said in her casual voice: “They say that infatuation grows on
what it feeds upon.”
“I don’t mean for a night,” he said bluntly. “Go away with him. Stay
with him as long as you want. He could not take anything from you that
mattered, if you were not bound. . . .”
She gave no sign.
“He might reject your offered sacrifice,” Wilfred went on grimly.
“Marriage with you is what he wants. It would be a fine thing for him.
You’d have to insist. . . .” Wilfred’s voice began to shake. “Ah, do not
fight yourself until you are worn out! Beware of that fatal moment of
weariness, when you are willing to give into anything!”
“Would you take me when I came back?” asked Elaine in an ironical voice
without looking at him.
“Like a shot!—if you wanted me. However, I have no illusions about
that. . . .”
Elaine laughed shakily, and bestirred herself. “What a lot of nonsense
I’m letting you talk!” she said in an insincere voice. “One would think
I only had to get on a train with a man to solve all problems! The Lord
knows, I’m not squeamish; but after all, society is organized on a
certain basis; and I’m not prepared to. . . .”
“Now who’s a coward!” cried Wilfred, facing her down. “You have accused
me of it often enough—by implication. But at least I will face things
. . . even this! . . . What do you want? The sanction and blessing of
society on such a thing?”
She shook her lowered head. “Not really,” she said very low. “It’s just
that I doubt the efficacy of your remedy. . . .” Then lower still: “I
think . . . that you underrate the strength of such a feeling . . . in a
woman . . . well, in me!”
“Perhaps I do,” he said with a dreadfully sinking heart. “I am not pure.
I never was pure. . . . But, Elaine, not marriage! . . . Oh, not
marriage . . . !”
“Come on,” she said. “The waiters are fidgeting. They want to close.”