* * * * *
_Morning, by George! Ten o’clock! He had been asleep all this time! He
would have to hurry and dress now!_
* * * * *
But where was he in regard to Idelle? Oh yes!... How she haunted him
all the time these days! Coulstone, angered at her refusal to come
with him again (she could not bring herself to do that, for all her
religiosity, she said, not caring for him so much any more), but
frightened by the presence of others, had eventually transferred all
his interests from Pittsburgh to G——, and at this very time, on the
ground of some form of virtue or duty—God only knows what!—five years
later, indeed—was here in G—— with his wife and attempting to persuade
her that she ought to give him a divorce in order to permit him to
marry Idelle and so legitimize her child! And he, Garrison, already
married to her! The insanity of mankind!
* * * * *
_He must be hurrying through his breakfast; they would soon be nearing
G—— now ... and he must not forget to stop in at Kiralfy’s when he
reached G—— and buy some flowers for her!_
* * * * *
But Idelle was not to be taken that way. She did not care for J—— C——
any more, or so she said. Besides nothing would cure her varietism
then or now but age, apparently. And who was going to wait for age
to overtake her? Not he, anyhow. Why, the very event that threw her
into his arms—couldn’t he have judged by that if he had had any sense?
Wasn’t that just such another affair as that of Coulstone and old
Candia, only in this case it concerned much younger men—wasters in
their way, too—one of whom, at least, was plainly madly in love with
her, while the other was just intensely interested. Why was it that
Idelle’s affairs always had to be a complex of two or more contending
parties?
_The condition of these washrooms in the morning!_
According to her own story, she had first fallen in love, or thought
she had, with the younger of the two, Gaither Browne, of the Harwood
Brownes here in G—— and then while he was still dancing attendance on
her (and all the while Coulstone was in the background, not entirely
pushed out of her life) young Gatchard Keene had come along with his
motor cars, his yacht, his stable of horses, and she had begun to flirt
with him also. Only, by then—and she didn’t care particularly for him,
either—
_What a crowded breakfast car—all the people of last night, and more
from other cars attached since, probably!_
—she had half promised young Browne that she would marry him, or let
him think she might; had even confessed a part of her past to him (or
so she said) and he had forgiven her, or said it didn’t matter. But
when Keene came along and she began to be interested in him Browne
did not like this new interest in the least, became furiously jealous
indeed. So great was his passion for her that he had threatened to
kill her and himself if she did not give up Keene, which, according to
her, made her care all the more for Keene. When Browne could stand it
no longer and was fearful lest Keene was to capture the prize—which he
was not, of course, Idelle being a mere trifler at all stages—he had
invited her out on that disastrous automobile ride—
_A mere form, eating, this morning! No appetite—due to his troubled
thoughts, of course, these days!_
—which had ended in her being carried into his presence at the Insull
General. Browne must have been vividly in love with her to prefer
to kill himself and her in that fashion rather than lose her, for,
according to her, he had swung the car squarely into the rocks at
Saltair Brook, only it never came out in the papers, and neither Idelle
nor Browne would tell.
_All railway cars seemed so soiled toward the end of a ride like this!_
She professed afterwards to be sorry for Browne and inquired after him
every day, although, of course, she had no sympathy for him or Keene,
either,—for no man whom she could engage in any such contest. She was
too wholly interested in following her own selfish bent. Afterward,
when Keene was calling daily and trying to find out how it really did
happen, and Coulstone was still in evidence and worrying over her
condition (and old Candia also, he presumed—how could he tell whom all
she had in tow at that time?), she refused to tell them, or any of a
half dozen others who came to inquire. Yet right on top of all that
she had encouraged him, Garrison, to fall in love with her, and had
even imagined herself, or so she sneeringly charged, whenever they
quarreled, in love with him, ready to reform and lead a better life,
and had finally allowed him to carry her off and marry her in the face
of them all! What were you to make of a creature like that? Insanity,
on his or her part? Or both? Both, of course.
_Kenelm! They were certainly speeding on! Those four wooden cows in
that field, advertising a brand of butter!_
But she could be so agreeable when she chose to be, and was so
fascinatingly, if irritatingly, beautiful all the time!
There was no doubt, though, that things were now reaching such a
state that there would have to be a change. He couldn’t stand this
any longer. Women like Idelle were menaces, really, and shouldn’t
be tolerated. Most men wouldn’t stand for her, although he had. But
why? Why? Well, because he loved her, that was why, and you couldn’t
explain love. And the other reason—the worst of all—was the dread he
had been suffering of late years of being left alone again if she left
him. Alone! It was a terrible feeling, this fear of being left alone
in the future, and especially when you were so drawn to some one who,
whatever her faults, could make you idyllically happy if she only
would. Lord, how peculiar these love passions of people were, anyhow!
How they swayed one! Tortured one! Here he was haunted all the time now
by the knowledge that he would be miserable if she left him, and that
he needed some one like her to make him happy, a cheerful and agreeable
beauty when she chose to be, fascinating even when she was not, and yet
knowing that he would have to learn to endure to be alone if ever he
was to get the strength to force her to better ways. Why couldn’t he?
Or why couldn’t she settle down and be decent once? Well, he would have
to face this out with her, once and for all now. He wasn’t going to
stand for her carrying on in this fashion. She must sober down. She had
had her way long enough now, by God! He just wasn’t going to pose as
her husband and be a shield for her any longer! No sir, by George.
_Only thirty-eight miles more! If she were not there now, as she
promised!_
Beginning to-day she would have to give him a decent deal or he would
leave her. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t—stand for it any longer. Think of
that last time he had come on from K——, just as he was coming to-day,
and she had agreed to be at home—because he had made her promise before
going that she would—and then, by George, when he got off the train
and walked into the Brandingham with Arbuthnot to telephone, having
just told Arbuthnot that he expected to find her out at the house,
wasn’t she there with young Keene and four or five others, drinking and
dancing?
“Why, there’s your wife now, Garrison,” Arbuthnot had laughingly
jested, and he had had to turn it all off with that “Oh, yes, that’s
right! I forgot! She was to meet me here. How stupid of me!”
Why hadn’t he made a scene then? Why hadn’t he broken things up then?
Because he was a blank-blanked fool, that’s why, allowing her to pull
him around by the nose and do as she pleased! Love, that’s why! He was
a damned fool for loving her as much as he did, and in the face of all
he knew!
_Nearing Shively! Colonel Brandt’s stock-farm! Home soon now! That
little town in the distance, no connection with the railroad at all!_
On that particular occasion, when at last they were in a taxi, she had
begun one of her usual lies about having come downtown for something—a
romper for Tatty—only when he ventured to show her what she was doing
to herself and him socially, that he was being made a fool of, and that
he really couldn’t stand it, hadn’t she flown into the usual rage and
exclaimed: “Oh, all right! Why don’t you leave me then? I don’t care!
I don’t care! I’m bored! I can’t help it! I can’t always sit out in
Sicard Avenue waiting for you!”
In Sicard Avenue. And that on top of always refusing to stay out there
or to travel with him anywhere or to meet him and go places! Think of
that for a happy married life, will you? Love! Love! Yes, love! Hell!
Well, here was Lawndale now, only eighteen miles—that meant about
eighteen minutes from here, the way they were running now—and he would
soon see her now if she was at home. If she only were, just this one
time, to kiss him and laugh and ask about the trip and how he had made
out, and let him propose some quiet dinner somewhere for just the
two of them, a quiet dinner all to themselves, and then home again!
How delightful that would be! Only— No doubt Charles would be at the
station with the jitney, as he always called the yellow racer. He
would have to summon all his ease to make his inquiry, for one had to
keep one’s face before the servants, you know—but then it was entirely
possible that Charles wouldn’t know whether she was home or not. She
didn’t always tell the servants. If she wasn’t there, though—and after
that letter and telegram— Well—now—this time!—by God!—
_Wheelwright! They were running a little later, perhaps, but they
would enter the station nearly on time!_
But take, again, that last affair, that awful scene in the Shackamaxon
at C——, when without his knowing it she had gone down there with Bodine
and Arbuthnot and that wretched Aikenhead. Think of being seen in a
public place like the Shackamaxon with Aikenhead and two such other
wasters (even if Mrs. Bodine were along—she was no better than the
others!), when she was already married and under so much suspicion as
it was. If it weren’t for him she would have been driven out of society
long ago! Of course she would have! Hadn’t General and Mrs. de Pasy cut
her dead on that occasion?—only when they saw that he had joined her
they altered their expressions and were polite enough, showing what
they would do if they had to deal with her alone.
_That brown automobile racing this train! How foolish some
automobilists were!_
Well, that time, coming home and finding her away, he had run down
to C—— on the chance of finding her there—and sure enough there she
was dancing with Aikenhead and Bodine by turns, and Mrs. Bodine and
that free Mrs. Gildas and Belle Geary joining them later. And when
he had sought her out to let her know he was back quite safe and
anxious to see her, hadn’t she turned on him with all the fury of a
wildcat—“Always following me up and snooping around after me to catch
me in something!” and that almost loud enough for all the others to
hear! It was terrible! How could anybody stand for such a thing! He
couldn’t, and retain his self-respect. And yet he had—yes, he had, more
shame to him! But if it hadn’t been that he had been so lonely just
beforehand and so eager to see her, and hadn’t had those earrings for
her in his pocket—thinking they would please her—perhaps he wouldn’t
have done as he did, backed down so. As it was—well, all he could think
of at the moment was to apologize—to his own wife!—and plead that he
hadn’t meant to seem to follow her up and “snoop around.” Think of
that! Hang it all, why hadn’t he left her then and there? Supposing she
didn’t come back? Supposing she didn’t? What of it? What of it? Only—
“_This way out, please._”
Well, here was G—— at last, and there was Charles, well enough,
waiting as usual. Would she be home now? Would she? Perhaps, after
all, he had better not say anything yet, just go around to Kiralfy’s
and get the flowers. But to what end, really, if she weren’t there
again? What would he do this time? Surely this must be the end if she
weren’t there, if he had any strength at all. He wouldn’t be put upon
in this way again, would he?—after all he had told himself he would
do the last time if ever it happened again! His own reputation was
at stake now, really. It depended on what he did now. What must the
servants think—his always following her up and she never being there or
troubling about him in the least?
“_Ah, Charles, there you are! To Kiralfy’s first, then home!_”
She was making him a laughing-stock, or would if he didn’t take things
in hand pretty soon to-day, really—a man who hung onto a woman because
she was young and pretty, who tolerated a wife who did not care for him
and who ran with other men—a sickening, heartless social pack—in his
absence. She was pulling him down to her level, that’s what she was
doing, a level he had never deemed possible in the old days. It was
almost unbelievable—and yet— But he would go in and get the flowers,
anyway!
“_Back in a minute, Charles!_”
And now here was Sicard Avenue, again, dear old Sicard, with its fine
line of trees on either side of its broad roadway, and their own big
house set among elms and with that French garden in front—so quiet
and aristocratic! Why couldn’t she be content with a place like this,
with her present place in society? Why not? Why not be happy in it?
She could be such an interesting social figure if she chose, if she
would only try. But no, no—she wouldn’t. It would always be the same
until—until—
_The gardener had trimmed the grass again, and nicely!_
“No, suh, Mr. Garrison,” George was already saying in that sing-song
darky way of his as he walked up the steps ahead of him, and just as he
expected or feared he would. It was always the way, and always would
be until he had courage enough to leave once and for all—as he would
to-day, by George! He wouldn’t stand for this one moment longer—not
one. “Mrs. Garrison she say she done gone to Mrs. Gildas’” (it might
just as well have been the Bodines, the Del Guardias or the Cranes—they
were all alike), “an’ dat yo’ was to call her up dere when yo’ come in
or come out. She say to say she lef’ a note fo’ yo’ on yo’ dresser.”
Curse her! Curse her! Curse her! To be treated like this all the time!
He would fix her now, though, this time! Yes, he would. This time he
wouldn’t change his mind.
_And the brass on the front door not properly cleaned, either!_
“George,” this to his servant as the latter preceded him into his
room—their room—where he always so loved to be when things were well
between them, “never mind the bags now. I’ll call you later when I want
you,” and then, as the door closed, almost glaring at everything about
him. There in the mirror, just above his military brushes, was stuck a
note—the usual wheedling, chaffering rot she was inclined to write him
when she wanted to be very nice on such occasions as this. Now he would
see what new lying, fooling communication she had left for him, where
he would be asked to come now, what do, instead of her being here to
receive him as she had promised, as was her duty really, as any decent
married woman would—as any decent married man would expect her to be.
Oh, the devil!
_That fly buzzing in the window there, trying to get out!_
What was the use of being alive, anyway? What the good of
anything—money or anything else? He wouldn’t stand for this any longer,
he couldn’t—no, he couldn’t, that was all there was to it! She could
go to the devil now; he wouldn’t follow her any more—never, never,
never!—the blank-blank-blank-blank——! This was the end! This was the
way she was always doing! But never again now, not once more! He’d
get a divorce now! Now, by George, for once he would stand his ground
and be a man, not a social door-mat, a humble beggar of love, hanging
around hat in hand waiting for her favors! Never again, by God! Never!!
Never!!! Only—
_That letter of hers on the dresser there waiting for him, as usual!_
“Dearest Old Judge: This isn’t the real one. This is just a
hundred-kiss one, this. The real one is pinned to your pillow over
there—our pillow—where it ought to be, don’t you think? I don’t want
you to be unhappy at not finding me home, Judgie, see? And I don’t
want you to get mad and quarrel. And I do want you to be sure to
find the other letter. So don’t be angry, see? But call me up at the
Gildas’. I’m dying to see you, dearie, really and truly I am! I’ve
been so lonesome without you! (Yes!) You’re sure to find me out there.
And you’re not to be angry—not one little frown, do you hear? I just
couldn’t help it, dearest! So read the other letter now!
“IDELLE.”
_If only his hands wouldn’t tremble so! Damn her! Damn her! Damn her!
To think she would always treat him like this! To think he was never
to have one decent hour of her time to himself, not one! Always this
running here, there and everywhere away from him, as it were!_
He crumpled up the note and threw it on the floor, then went to the
window and looked out. There over the way at her own spacious door was
young Mrs. Justus just entering her car—a simple, home-loving little
woman, who would never dream of the treacheries and eccentricities
of Idelle; who, if she even guessed what manner of woman she was,
would never have anything more to do with her. Why couldn’t he have
loved a girl like her—why not? And just beyond, the large quiet house
of the Walterses, those profoundly sober people of the very best
ways and means, always so kind and helpful, anxious to be sociable,
of whom Idelle could think of nothing better to say than “stuffy.”
Anything kind and gentle and orderly was just stuffy to her, or dull.
That was what she considered him, no doubt. That’s because she was
what she was, curses on her! She couldn’t stand, or even understand,
profoundly worthy people like the Justuses or the Walterses. (There
was May Walters now at her dining-room window.) And then there were
the Hartleys.... But that other note of hers—what did it say? He ought
to read that now, whether he left or no; but he would leave this time,
well enough!
He turned to the twin bed and from the fretted counterpane unpinned
the second lavender-colored and scented note—the kind Idelle was
always scribbling when she was doing things she shouldn’t. It didn’t
make one hanged bit of difference now what she wrote, of course—only—
He wouldn’t follow her this time; no, he wouldn’t! He wouldn’t have
anything more to do with her ever! He would quit now, lock the doors
in a few minutes, discharge the servants, cut off her allowance, tell
her to go to blazes. He would go and live at a club, as he had so
often threatened before to himself—or get out of G——, as he had also
threatened. He couldn’t stand the comment that would follow, anyhow. He
had had enough of it. He hated the damned city! He had never had any
luck in it. Never had he been happy here, in spite of the fact that he
had been born and brought up here, and twice married here—never! Twice
now he had been treated like this by women right here in this city, his
home town, where everybody knew! Twice he had been made a fool of, but
this time—
_The letter, though!_
“Dearest and best of hubbies, I know you’re going to be disappointed
at not finding me here, and in spite of anything I can say, probably
terribly angry, too. (I wish you wouldn’t be, darling!) But,
sweetheart, if you’ll only believe me this time (I’ve said that before
when you wouldn’t, I know, and it wasn’t my fault, either), it wasn’t
premeditated, really, it wasn’t! Honest, cross my heart, dear, twenty
ways, and hope to die!”
(_What did she really care for his disappointment or what he suffered,
curse her!_)
“Only yesterday at four Betty called up and insisted that I should
come. There’s a big house party on, and you’re invited, of course,
when you get back. Her cousin Frank is coming and some friends of his,”
(_Yes, he knew what friends!_)
“and four of my old girl chums, so I just couldn’t get out of it, nor
would I, particularly since she wanted me to help her, and I’ve asked
her so many times to help us—now, could I?”
Idelle’s way in letters, as in person, was always bantering. To the
grave with Betty Gildas and all her house parties, in so far as he was
concerned, the fast, restless, heartless thing! Why couldn’t she have
been here just this once, when he wanted her so much and had wired and
written in plenty of time for her to be!
But no, she didn’t care for him. She never had. She merely wanted to
fool him along like this, to keep his name, his position, the social
atmosphere he could give her. This whole thing was a joke to her—this
house, his friends, himself, all—just nothing! Her idea was to fool
him along in this way while she continued to run with these other
shabby, swift, restless, insatiable creatures like herself, who liked
cabarets, thés dansants, automobile runs to this, that and the other
wretched place, country house parties, country clubs, country this,
country that, or New York and all its shallow and heartless mockery of
simplicity and peace. Well, he was through. She was always weary of
him, never anxious to be with him for one moment even, but never weary
of any of them, you bet—of seeking the wildest forms of pleasure! Well,
this was the end now. He had had enough. She could go her own way from
now on. Let the beastly flowers lie there—what did he care? He wouldn’t
carry them to her. He was through now. He was going to do what he
said—leave. Only—
He began putting some things in another bag, in addition to the ones he
had—his silk shirts, extra underwear, all his collars. Once and for all
now he wouldn’t stand this—never! Never!