Hearing the maid tap lightly on her door for the third or fourth time,
Ulrica uttered a semiconscious “Come.” It was her usual rising hour but
to-day she was more depressed than usual, although the condition was
common enough at all times. The heavy drag of a troubled mental state
was upon her. Was it never to end? Was she never to be happy again?
After several weeks of a decidedly acceptable loneliness, during which
Harry had been in the west looking after his interminable interests, he
was about to return. The weariness of that, to begin with! And while
she could not say that she really hated or even disliked him deeply (he
was too kind and considerate for that), still his existence, his able
and different personality, constantly forced or persuaded upon her, had
come to be a bore. The trouble was that she did not truly love him and
never could. He might be, as he was, rich, resourceful and generous to
a fault in her case, a man whom the world of commerce respected, but
how did that avail her? He was not her kind of man. Vivian before him
had proved that. And other men had been and would be as glad to do as
much if not more.
Vivian had given all of himself in a different way. Only Harry’s
seeking, begging eyes pleading with her (after Vivian’s death and
when she was so depressed) had preyed upon and finally moved her to
sympathy. Life had not mattered then, (only her mother and sister), and
she had become too weary to pursue any career, even for them. So Harry
with his wealth and anxiety to do for her—
(The maid entered softly, drew back the curtains and raised the
blinds, letting in a flood of sunshine, then proceeded to arrange the
bath.)
It had been, of course, because of the magic of her beauty—how well
she knew the magic of that!—plus an understanding and sympathy she
had for the miseries Harry had endured in his youth, that had caused
him to pursue her with all the pathetic vehemence of a man of fifty.
He was not at all like Vivian, who had been shy and retiring. Life
had seemed to frighten poor Vivian and drive him in upon himself in
an uncomplaining and dignified way. In Harry’s case it had acted
contrariwise. Some men were so, especially the old and rich, those
from whom life was slipping away and for whom youth, their lost youth,
seemed to remain a colored and enthralling spectacle however wholly
gone. The gifts he had lavished upon her, the cars, the jewels, this
apartment, stocks and bonds, even that house in Seadale for her sister
and mother! And all because of a beauty that meant so little to her now
that Vivian was gone, and in the face of an indifference so marked that
it might well have wearied any man.
How could she go on? (She paused in her thoughts to survey and follow
her maid, who was calling for the second time.) Though he hung upon her
least word or wish and was content to see her at her pleasure, to run
her errands and be ever deferential and worshipful, still she could not
like him, could barely tolerate him. Before her always now was Vivian
with his brooding eyes and elusive, sensitive smile; Vivian, who had
never a penny to bless himself with. She could see him now striding
to and fro in his bare studio, a brush in one hand, or sitting in his
crippled chair meditating before a picture or talking to her of ways
and means which might be employed to better their state. The pathos!
“_I cannot endure that perfume, Olga!_”
In part she could understand her acceptance of Harry after Vivian
(only it did not seem understandable always, even to her), for in her
extreme youth her parents had been so very poor. Perhaps because of her
longings and childish fears in those days she had been marked in some
strange way that had eventually led her to the conviction that wealth
was so essential. For her parents were certainly harassed from her
sixth to her thirteenth years, when they recovered themselves in part.
Some bank or concern had failed and they had been thrown on inadequate
resources and made to shift along in strange ways. She could remember
an old brick house with a funereal air and a weedy garden into which
they had moved and where for a long time they were almost without food.
Her mother had cried more than once as she sat by the open window
looking desolately out, while Ulrica, not quite comprehending what it
was all about, had stared at her from an adjacent corner.
“_Will madame have the iris or the Japanese lilac in the water?_”
She recalled going downtown once on an errand and slipping along shyly
because her clothes were not good. And when she saw some schoolgirls
approaching, hid behind a tree so they should not see her. Another
time, passing the Pilkington at dinner-time, the windows being open and
the diners visible, she had wondered what great persons they must be
to be able to bask in so great a world. It was then perhaps that she
had developed the obsession for wealth which had led to this. If only
she could have seen herself as she now was she would not have longed
so. (She paused, looking gloomily back into the past.) And then had
come the recovery of her father in some way or other. He had managed
to get an interest in a small stove factory and they were no longer so
poor—but that was after her youth had been spoiled, her mind marked in
this way.
And to crown it all, at seventeen had come Byram the inefficient. And
because he was “cute” and had a suggestion of a lisp; was of good
family and really insane over her, as nearly every youth was once she
had turned fourteen, she had married him, against her parents’ wishes,
running away with him and lying about her age, as did he about his. And
then had come trying times. Byram was no money-maker, as she might have
known. He was inexperienced, and being in disfavor with his parents
for ignoring them in his hasty choice of a wife, he was left to his
own devices. For two whole years what had she not endured—petty wants
which she had concealed from her mother, furniture bought on time and
dunned for, collectors with whom she had to plead not to take the stove
or the lamp or the parlor table, and grocery stores and laundries and
meat-markets which had to be avoided because of unpaid bills. There
had even been an ejectment for non-payment of rent, and job after job
lost for one reason and another, until the whole experiment had been
discolored and made impossible even after comfort had been restored.
“_I cannot endure the cries of the children, Olga. You will have to
close that window._”
No; Byram was no money-maker, not even after his parents in far-distant
St. Paul had begun to help him to do better. And anyhow by then,
because she had had time to sense how weak he was, what a child, she
was weary of him, although he was not entirely to blame. It was life.
And besides, during all that time there had been the most urgent
pursuit of her by other men, men of the world and of means, who had
tried to influence her with the thought of how easily her life could
be made more agreeable. Why remain faithful to so young and poor a
man when so much could be done for her. But she had refused. Despite
Byram’s lacks she had small interest in them, although their money
and skill had succeeded in debasing Byram in her young and untrained
imagination, making him seem even weaker and more ridiculous than he
was. But that was all so long ago now and Vivian had proved so much
more important in her life. While even now she was sorry for Harry and
for Byram she could only think of Vivian, who was irretrievably gone.
Byram was successful now and out of her life, but maybe if life had not
been so unkind and they so foolish——
“_You may have Henry serve breakfast and call the car!_”
And then after Byram had come Newton, big, successful, important,
a quondam employer of Byram, who had met her on the street one day
when she was looking for work, just when she had begun to sense how
inefficient Byram really was, and he had proved kind without becoming
obnoxious or demanding. While declaring, and actually proving, that he
wished nothing more of her than her good-will, he had aided her with
work, an opportunity to make her own way. All men were not selfish. He
had been the vice-president of the Dickerson Company and had made a
place for her in his office, saying that what she did not know he would
teach her since he needed a little sunshine there. And all the while
her interest in Byram was waning, so much so that she had persuaded him
to seek work elsewhere so that she might be rid of him, and then she
had gone home to live with her mother. And Newton would have married
her if she had cared, but so grieved was she by the outcome of her
first love and marriage that she would not.
“_The sedan, yes. And I will take my furs._”
And then, living with her mother and making her own way, she had been
sought by others. But there had been taking root and growing in her
an ideal which somehow in the course of time had completely mastered
her and would not even let her think of anything else, save in moments
of loneliness and the natural human yearning for life. This somehow
concerned some one man, not any one she knew, not any one she was
sure she would ever meet, but one so wonderful and ideal that for
her there could be no other like him. He was not to be as young or
unsophisticated as Byram, nor as old and practical as Newton, though
possibly as able (though somehow this did not matter), but wise and
delicate, a spirit-mate, some such wondrous thing as a great musician
or artist might be, yet to whom in spite of his greatness she was to be
all in all. She could not have told herself then how she was to have
appealed to him, unless somehow surely, because of her great desire
for him, her beauty and his understanding of her need. He was to have
a fineness of mind and body, a breadth, a grasp, a tenderness of soul
such as she had not seen except in pictures and dreams. And such as
would need her.
“_To Thorne and Company’s first, Fred._”
Somewhere she had seen pictures of Lord Byron, of Shelley, Liszt and
Keats, and her soul had yearned over each, the beauty of their faces,
the record of their dreams and seekings, their something above the
common seeking and clayiness (she understood that now). They were of
a world so far above hers. But before Vivian appeared, how long a
journey! Life had never been in any hurry for her. She had gone on
working and seeking and dreaming, the while other men had come and
gone. There had been, for instance, Joyce with whom, had she been
able to tolerate him, she might have found a life of comfort in so
far as material things went. He was, however, too thin or limited
spiritually to interest a stirring mind such as hers, a material man,
and yet he had along with his financial capacity more humanity than
most, a kind of spiritual tenderness and generosity at times towards
some temperaments. But no art, no true romance. He was a plunger in
real estate, a developer of tracts. And he lacked that stability and
worth of temperament which even then she was beginning to sense as
needful to her, whether art was present or not. He was handsomer than
Byram, a gallant of sorts, active and ebullient, and always he seemed
to sense, as might a homing pigeon, the direction in which lay his own
best financial opportunities and to be able to wing in that direction.
But beyond that, what? He was not brilliant mentally, merely a clever
“mixer” and maker of money, and she was a little weary of men who could
think only in terms of money. How thin some clever men really were!
“_I rather like that. I’ll try it on._”
And so it had been with him as it had been with Byram and Newton,
although he sought her eagerly enough! and so it was afterward with
Edward and Young. They were all worthy men in their way. No doubt some
women would be or already had been drawn to them and now thought them
wonderful. Even if she could have married any one of them it would
only have been to have endured a variation of what she had endured
with Byram; with them it would have been of the mind instead of the
purse, which would have been worse. For poor Byram, inefficient and
inexperienced as he was, had had some little imagination and longings
above the commonplace. But these, as contrasted with her new ideal——
“_Yes, the lines of this side are not bad._”
Yes, in those days there had come to her this nameless unrest, this
seeking for something better than anything she had yet known and which
later, without rhyme or reason, had caused her to be so violently drawn
to Vivian. Why had Vivian always grieved so over her earlier affairs?
They were nothing, and she regretted them once she knew him.
“_Yes, you may send me this one, and the little one with the jade
pins._”
And then after Young had come Karel, the son of rich parents and
well-placed socially in Braleigh. He was young, well-informed, a snob
of sorts, although a gentle one. The only world he knew was that in
which his parents had been reared. Their ways had been and always would
be his, conservatism run mad. At thirty the only place to go in summer
was Macomber Beach, and in winter the only place to be was in Braleigh.
There he could meet his equals twenty times a day. They went to the
same homes, the same hotels, the same parties the year round. It was
all the life he wanted, and it was all the life she would have been
expected to want. But by then she was being hopelessly held by this
greater vision and something within had said: “No, no, no!”
“_You were making over my ermine cape. Is it finished?_”
And Loring! He, for a change, was a physician there in Braleigh and
lived with his sister in Lankester Way, near her home, only hers was
in a cheaper street. He was young and good-looking but seemed to think
only of his practice, how it was to make him and achieve her perhaps,
although it had all seemed so commonplace and practical to her. He was
so keen as to his standing with the best people, always so careful of
his ways and appearance, as though his life depended upon it. He might
have married more to his social and financial advantage but he had
wanted her. And she had never been able to endure him—never seriously
tolerate his pursuit.
“_Yes, if you would alter these sleeves I might like it._”
Whenever he saw her he would come hustling up. “My, but it’s nice to
see you again, Ulrica. You are always the same, always charming,
always beautiful—now don’t frown. Have you changed your mind yet,
Ulrica? You don’t want to forget that I’m going to be one of the
successful men here some day. Please do smile a little for me. I’ll be
just as successful as Joyce or any of them.”
“And is it just success you think I want?” she had asked.
“Oh, I know it isn’t just that, but I’ve had a hard time and so have
you. I know it wouldn’t do any good to offer you only success, but what
I mean is that it makes everything so much easier. With you I could do
anything—” and so he would ramble on.
“_To McCafferey’s, the Post Street entrance._”
But the shrewd hard eyes and dapper figure and unvaried attention to
_his interests_ had all bored and after a time alienated her, since
her ideal seemed to dwarf and discolor every one and everything. Was
there not something somewhere much bigger than all this, these various
and unending men, she had asked herself, some man not necessarily so
successful financially but different? She had felt that she would find
him somewhere, must indeed if her life was to mean anything to her.
Always her great asset, her beauty, had been looked upon as the one
thing she must keep for this other. And so it had gone, man after man
and flirtation after flirtation. It had seemed as though it would never
end. Even after she had transferred her life to the great city, to
work, to go upon the stage if need be, there were more of these endless
approaches and recessions; but, like the others, they had come and
gone, leaving only a faint impression. Not until that day at Althea’s
party in the rooming-house in which they both lived had she found the
one who touched her.