IV

If Evylyn's beauty had hesitated an her early thirties it came to

an abrupt decision just afterward and completely left her. A

tentative outlay of wrinkles on her face suddenly deepened and

flesh collected rapidly on her legs and hips and arms. Her

mannerism of drawing her brows together had become an

expression--it was habitual when she was reading or speaking and

even while she slept. She was forty-six.

As in most families whose fortunes have gone down rather than up,

she and Harold had drifted into a colorless antagonism. In

repose they looked at each other with the toleration they might

have felt for broken old chairs; Evylyn worried a little when he

was sick and did her best to be cheerful under the wearying

depression of living with a disappointed man.

Family bridge was over for the evening and she sighed with

relief. She had made more mistakes than usual this evening and

she didn't care. Irene shouldn't have made that remark about the

infantry being particularly dangerous. There had been no letter

for three weeks now, and, while this was nothing out of the

ordinary, it never failed to make her nervous; naturally she

hadn't known how many clubs were out.

Harold had gone up-stairs, so she stepped out on the porch for a

breath of fresh air. There was a bright glamour of moonlight

diffusing on the sidewalks and lawns, and with a little half

yawn, half laugh, she remembered one long moonlight affair of her

youth. It was astonishing to think that life had once been the

sum of her current love-affairs. It was now the sum of her

current problems.

There was the problem of Julie--Julie was thirteen, and lately

she was growing more and more sensitive about her deformity and

preferred to stay always in her room reading. A few years before

she had been frightened at the idea of going to school, and

Evylyn could not bring herself to send her, so she grew up in her

mother's shadow, a pitiful little figure with the artificial

hand that she made no attempt to use but kept forlornly in her

pocket. Lately she had been taking lessons in using it because

Evylyn had feared she would cease to lift the arm altogether, but

after the lessons, unless she made a move with it in listless

obedience to her mother, the little hand would creep back to the

pocket of her dress. For a while her dresses were made without

pockets, but Julie had moped around the house so miserably at a

loss all one month that Evylyn weakened and never tried the

experiment again.

The problem of Donald had been different from the start. She had

attempted vainly to keep him near her as she had tried to teach

Julie to lean less on her--lately the problem of Donald had been

snatched out of her hands; his division had been abroad for three

months.

She yawned again--life was a thing for youth. What a happy youth

she must have had! She remembered her pony, Bijou, and the trip

to Europe with her mother when she was eighteen---

"Very, very complicated," she said aloud and severely to the

moon, and, stepping inside, was about to close the door when she

heard a noise in the library and started.

It was Martha, the middle-aged servant: they kept only one now.

"Why, Martha!" she said in surprise.

Martha turned quickly.

"Oh, I thought you was up-stairs. I was jist---"

"Is anything the matter?"

Martha hesitated.

"No; I---" She stood there fidgeting. "It was a letter, Mrs.

Piper, that I put somewhere.

"A letter? Your own letter?" asked Evylyn.

"No, it was to you. 'Twas this afternoon, Mrs. Piper, in the last

mail. The postman give it to me and then the back door-bell

rang. I had it in my hand, so I must have stuck it somewhere. I

thought I'd just slip in now and find it."

"What sort of a letter? From Mr. Donald?"

"No, it was an advertisement, maybe, or a business letter. It was

a long narrow one, I remember."

They began a search through the music-room, looking on trays and

mantelpieces, and then through the library, feeling on the tops

of rows of books. Martha paused in despair.

"I can't think where. I went straight to the kitchen. The

dining-room, maybe." She started hopefully for the dining-room,

but turned suddenly at the sound of a gasp behind her. Evylyn had

sat down heavily in a Morris chair, her brows drawn very close

together eyes blanking furiously.

"Are you sick?"

For a minute there was no answer. Evylyn sat there very still and

Martha could see the very quick rise and fall of her bosom.

"Are you sick?" she repeated.

"No," said Evylyn slowly, "but I know where the letter is. Go

'way, Martha. I know."

Wonderingly, Martha withdrew, and still Evylyn sat there, only

the muscles around her eyes moving--contracting and relaxing and

contracting again. She knew now where the letter was--she knew

as well as if she had put it there herself. And she felt

instinctively and unquestionably what the letter was. It was long

and narrow like an advertisement, but up in the corner in large

letters it said "War Department" and, in smaller letters below,

"Official Business." She knew it lay there in the big bowl with

her name in ink on the outside and her soul's death within.

Rising uncertainly, she walked toward the dining-room, feeling

her way along the bookcases and through the doorway. After a

moment she found the light and switched it on.

There was the bowl, reflecting the electric light in crimson

squares edged with black and yellow squares edged with blue,

ponderous and glittering, grotesquely and triumphantly ominous.

She took a step forward and paused again; another step and she

would see over the top and into the inside--another step and she

would see an edge of white--another step--her hands fell on the

rough, cold surface--

In a moment she was tearing it open, fumbling with an obstinate

fold, holding it before her while the typewritten page glared out

and struck at her. Then it fluttered like a bird to the floor.

The house that had seemed whirring, buzzing a moment since, was

suddenly very quiet; a breath of air crept in through the open

front door carrying the noise of a passing motor; she heard faint

sounds from upstairs and then a grinding racket in the pipe

behind the bookcases-her husband turning of a water-tap---

And in that instant it was as if this were not, after all,

Donald's hour except in so far as he was a marker in the

insidious contest that had gone on in sudden surges and long,

listless interludes between Evylyn and this cold, malignant thing

of beauty, a gift of enmity from a man whose face she had long

since forgotten. With its massive, brooding passivity it lay

there in the centre of her house as it had lain for years,

throwing out the ice-like beams of a thousand eyes, perverse

glitterings merging each into each, never aging, never changing.

Evylyn sat down on the edge of the table and stared at it

fascinated. It seemed to be smiling now, a very cruel smile, as

if to say:

"You see, this time I didn't have to hurt you directly. I didn't

bother. You know it was I who took your son away. You know how

cold I am and how hard and how beautiful, because once you were

just as cold and hard and beautiful."

The bowl seemed suddenly to turn itself over and then to distend

and swell until it became a great canopy that glittered and

trembled over the room, over the house, and, as the walls melted

slowly into mist, Evylyn saw that it was still moving out, out

and far away from her, shutting off far horizons and suns and

moons and stars except as inky blots seen faintly through it. And

under it walked all the people, and the light that came through

to them was refracted and twisted until shadow seamed light and

light seemed shadow--until the whole panoply of the world became

changed and distorted under the twinkling heaven of

the bowl.

Then there came a far-away, booming voice like a low, clear bell.

It came from the centre of the bowl and down the great sides to

the ground and then bounced toward her eagerly.

"You see, I am fate," it shouted, "and stronger than your puny

plans; and I am how-things-turn-out and I am different from your

little dreams, and I am the flight of time and the end of beauty

and unfulfilled desire; all the accidents and imperceptions and

the little minutes that shape the crucial hours are mine. I am

the exception that proves no rules, the limits of your control,

the condiment in the dish of life."

The booming sound stopped; the echoes rolled away over the wide

land to the edge of the bowl that bounded the world and up the

great sides and back to the centre where they hummed for a moment

and died. Then the great walls began slowly to bear down upon

her, growing smaller and smaller, coming closer and closer as if

to crush her; and as she clinched her hands and waited for the

swift bruise of the cold glass, the bowl gave a sudden wrench and

turned over--and lay there on the side-board, shining and

inscrutable, reflecting in a hundred prisms, myriad, many-colored

glints and gleams and crossings and interlaces of light.

The cold wind blew in again through to front door, and with a

desperate, frantic energy Evylyn stretched both her arms around

the bowl. She must be quick--she must be strong. She tightened

her arms until they ached, tauted the thin strips of muscle under

her soft flesh, and with a mighty effort raised it and held it.

She felt the wind blow cold on her back where her dress had come

apart from the strain of her effort, and as she felt it she

turned toward it and staggered under the great weight out through

the library and on toward the front door. She must be

quick--she must be strong. The blood in her arms throbbed dully

and her knees kept giving way under her, but the feel of the cool

glass was good.

Out the front door she tottered and over to the stone steps, and

there, summoning every fibre of her soul and body for a last

effort, swung herself half around--for a second, as she tried to

loose her hold, her numb fingers clung to the rough surface, and

in that second she slipped and, losing balance, toppled forward

with a despairing cry, her arms still around the bowl . . . down

. . .

Over the way lights went on; far down the block the crash was

heard, and pedestrians rushed up wonderingly; up-stairs a tired

man awoke from the edge of sleep and a little girl whimpered in a

haunted doze. And all over the moonlit sidewalk around the

still, black form, hundreds of prisms and cubes and splinters of

glass reflected the light in little gleams of blue, and black

edged with yellow, and yellow, and crimson edged with black.