The next morning, Thomas, the bell-boy, brought me the _Herald_ and a
bit of news. The church next door had been sold. I thanked Heaven for
it, not that being a Catholic I had any repugnance for the congregation
next door, but because my nerves were shattered by a blatant exhorter,
whose every word echoed through the aisle of the church as if it had
been my own rooms, and who insisted on his r’s with a nasal persistence
which revolted my every instinct. Then, too, there was a fiend in human
shape, an organist, who reeled off some of the grand old hymns with an
interpretation of his own, and I longed for the blood of a creature
who could play the doxology with an amendment of minor chords which
one hears only in a quartet of very young undergraduates. I believe
the minister was a good man, but when he bellowed: “And the Lorrrrd
said unto Moses, the Lorrrd is a man of war; the Lorrrd is his name. My
wrath shall wax hot and I will kill you with the sworrrrd!” I wondered
how many centuries of purgatory it would take to atone for such a sin.
“Who bought the property?” I asked Thomas.
“Nobody that I knows, sir. They do say the gent wot owns this ’ere
’Amilton flats was lookin’ at it. ’E might be a bildin’ more studios.”
I walked to the window. The young man with the unhealthy face stood by
the churchyard gate, and at the mere sight of him the same overwhelming
repugnance took possession of me.
“By the way, Thomas,” I said, “who is that fellow down there?”
Thomas sniffed. “That there worm, sir? ’Es night-watchman of the
church, sir. ’E maikes me tired a-sittin’ out all night on them steps
and lookin’ at you insultin’ like. I’d a punched ’is ’ed, sir—beg
pardon, sir—”
“Go on, Thomas.”
“One night a comin’ ’ome with ’Arry, the other English boy, I sees ’im
a sittin’ there on them steps. We ’ad Molly and Jen with us, sir, the
two girls on the tray service, an’ ’e looks so insultin’ at us that
I up and sez: ‘Wat you looking hat, you fat slug?’—beg pardon, sir,
but that’s ’ow I sez, sir. Then ’e don’t say nothin’ and I sez: ‘Come
out and I’ll punch that puddin’ ’ed.’ Then I hopens the gate an’ goes
in, but ’e don’t say nothin’, only looks insultin’ like. Then I ’its
’im one, but, ugh! ’is ’ed was that cold and mushy it ud sicken you to
touch ’im.”
“What did he do then?” I asked curiously.
“’Im? Nawthin’.”
“And you, Thomas?”
The young fellow flushed with embarrassment and smiled uneasily.
“Mr. Scott, sir, I ain’t no coward, an’ I can’t make it out at all why
I run. I was in the 5th Lawncers, sir, bugler at Tel-el-Kebir, an’ was
shot by the wells.”
“You don’t mean to say you ran away?”
“Yes, sir; I run.”
“Why?”
“That’s just what I want to know, sir. I grabbed Molly an’ run, an’ the
rest was as frightened as I.”
“But what were they frightened at?”
Thomas refused to answer for a while, but now my curiosity was aroused
about the repulsive young man below and I pressed him. Three years’
sojourn in America had not only modified Thomas’ cockney dialect but
had given him the American’s fear of ridicule.
“You won’t believe me, Mr. Scott, sir?”
“Yes, I will.”
“You will lawf at me, sir?”
“Nonsense!”
He hesitated. “Well, sir, it’s Gawd’s truth that when I ’it ’im ’e
grabbed me wrists, sir, and when I twisted ’is soft, mushy fist one of
’is fingers come off in me ’and.”
The utter loathing and horror of Thomas’ face must have been reflected
in my own, for he added:
“It’s orful, an’ now when I see ’im I just go away. ’E maikes me hill.”
When Thomas had gone I went to the window. The man stood beside the
church-railing with both hands on the gate, but I hastily retreated
to my easel again, sickened and horrified, for I saw that the middle
finger of his right hand was missing.
At nine o’clock Tessie appeared and vanished behind the screen with a
merry “Good morning, Mr. Scott.” When she had reappeared and taken her
pose upon the model-stand I started a new canvas, much to her delight.
She remained silent as long as I was on the drawing, but as soon as the
scrape of the charcoal ceased and I took up my fixative she began to
chatter.
“Oh, I had such a lovely time last night. We went to Tony Pastor’s.”
“Who are ‘we’?” I demanded.
“Oh, Maggie, you know, Mr. Whyte’s model, and Pinkie McCormick—we call
her Pinkie because she’s got that beautiful red hair you artists like
so much—and Lizzie Burke.”
I sent a shower of spray from the fixative over the canvas, and said:
“Well, go on.”
“We saw Kelly and Baby Barnes the skirt-dancer and—and all the rest. I
made a mash.”
“Then you have gone back on me, Tessie?”
She laughed and shook her head.
“He’s Lizzie Burke’s brother, Ed. He’s a perfect gen’l’man.”
I felt constrained to give her some parental advice concerning mashing,
which she took with a bright smile.
“Oh, I can take care of a strange mash,” she said, examining her
chewing gum, “but Ed is different. Lizzie is my best friend.”
Then she related how Ed had come back from the stocking mill in
Lowell, Massachusetts, to find her and Lizzie grown up, and what
an accomplished young man he was, and how he thought nothing of
squandering half-a-dollar for ice-cream and oysters to celebrate his
entry as clerk into the woollen department of Macy’s. Before she
finished I began to paint, and she resumed the pose, smiling and
chattering like a sparrow. By noon I had the study fairly well rubbed
in and Tessie came to look at it.
“That’s better,” she said.
I thought so too, and ate my lunch with a satisfied feeling that all
was going well. Tessie spread her lunch on a drawing table opposite me
and we drank our claret from the same bottle and lighted our cigarettes
from the same match. I was very much attached to Tessie. I had watched
her shoot up into a slender but exquisitely formed woman from a frail,
awkward child. She had posed for me during the last three years, and
among all my models she was my favourite. It would have troubled me
very much indeed had she become “tough” or “fly,” as the phrase goes,
but I never noticed any deterioration of her manner, and felt at heart
that she was all right. She and I never discussed morals at all, and
I had no intention of doing so, partly because I had none myself, and
partly because I knew she would do what she liked in spite of me. Still
I did hope she would steer clear of complications, because I wished her
well, and then also I had a selfish desire to retain the best model I
had. I knew that mashing, as she termed it, had no significance with
girls like Tessie, and that such things in America did not resemble
in the least the same things in Paris. Yet, having lived with my eyes
open, I also knew that somebody would take Tessie away some day, in
one manner or another, and though I professed to myself that marriage
was nonsense, I sincerely hoped that, in this case, there would be a
priest at the end of the vista. I am a Catholic. When I listen to high
mass, when I sign myself, I feel that everything, including myself, is
more cheerful, and when I confess, it does me good. A man who lives
as much alone as I do, must confess to somebody. Then, again, Sylvia
was Catholic, and it was reason enough for me. But I was speaking of
Tessie, which is very different. Tessie also was Catholic and much
more devout than I, so, taking it all in all, I had little fear for my
pretty model until she should fall in love. But _then_ I knew that fate
alone would decide her future for her, and I prayed inwardly that fate
would keep her away from men like me and throw into her path nothing
but Ed Burkes and Jimmy McCormicks, bless her sweet face!
Tessie sat blowing rings of smoke up to the ceiling and tinkling the
ice in her tumbler.
“Do you know that I also had a dream last night?” I observed.
“Not about that man,” she laughed.
“Exactly. A dream similar to yours, only much worse.”
It was foolish and thoughtless of me to say this, but you know how
little tact the average painter has. “I must have fallen asleep about
ten o’clock,” I continued, “and after a while I dreamt that I awoke. So
plainly did I hear the midnight bells, the wind in the tree-branches,
and the whistle of steamers from the bay, that even now I can scarcely
believe I was not awake. I seemed to be lying in a box which had a
glass cover. Dimly I saw the street lamps as I passed, for I must tell
you, Tessie, the box in which I reclined appeared to lie in a cushioned
wagon which jolted me over a stony pavement. After a while I became
impatient and tried to move, but the box was too narrow. My hands were
crossed on my breast, so I could not raise them to help myself. I
listened and then tried to call. My voice was gone. I could hear the
trample of the horses attached to the wagon, and even the breathing of
the driver. Then another sound broke upon my ears like the raising of
a window sash. I managed to turn my head a little, and found I could
look, not only through the glass cover of my box, but also through the
glass panes in the side of the covered vehicle. I saw houses, empty and
silent, with neither light nor life about any of them excepting one. In
that house a window was open on the first floor, and a figure all in
white stood looking down into the street. It was you.”
Tessie had turned her face away from me and leaned on the table with
her elbow.
“I could see your face,” I resumed, “and it seemed to me to be very
sorrowful. Then we passed on and turned into a narrow black lane.
Presently the horses stopped. I waited and waited, closing my eyes with
fear and impatience, but all was silent as the grave. After what seemed
to me hours, I began to feel uncomfortable. A sense that somebody was
close to me made me unclose my eyes. Then I saw the white face of the
hearse-driver looking at me through the coffin-lid——”
A sob from Tessie interrupted me. She was trembling like a leaf. I saw
I had made an ass of myself and attempted to repair the damage.
“Why, Tess,” I said, “I only told you this to show you what influence
your story might have on another person’s dreams. You don’t suppose I
really lay in a coffin, do you? What are you trembling for? Don’t you
see that your dream and my unreasonable dislike for that inoffensive
watchman of the church simply set my brain working as soon as I fell
asleep?”
She laid her head between her arms, and sobbed as if her heart would
break. What a precious triple donkey I had made of myself! But I was
about to break my record. I went over and put my arm about her.
“Tessie dear, forgive me,” I said; “I had no business to frighten you
with such nonsense. You are too sensible a girl, too good a Catholic to
believe in dreams.”
Her hand tightened on mine and her head fell back upon my shoulder, but
she still trembled and I petted her and comforted her.
“Come, Tess, open your eyes and smile.”
Her eyes opened with a slow languid movement and met mine, but their
expression was so queer that I hastened to reassure her again.
“It’s all humbug, Tessie; you surely are not afraid that any harm will
come to you because of that.”
“No,” she said, but her scarlet lips quivered.
“Then, what’s the matter? Are you afraid?”
“Yes. Not for myself.”
“For me, then?” I demanded gaily.
“For you,” she murmured in a voice almost inaudible. “I—I care for
you.”
At first I started to laugh, but when I understood her, a shock
passed through me, and I sat like one turned to stone. This was the
crowning bit of idiocy I had committed. During the moment which elapsed
between her reply and my answer I thought of a thousand responses to
that innocent confession. I could pass it by with a laugh, I could
misunderstand her and assure her as to my health, I could simply point
out that it was impossible she could love me. But my reply was quicker
than my thoughts, and I might think and think now when it was too late,
for I had kissed her on the mouth.
That evening I took my usual walk in Washington Park, pondering over
the occurrences of the day. I was thoroughly committed. There was no
back out now, and I stared the future straight in the face. I was not
good, not even scrupulous, but I had no idea of deceiving either myself
or Tessie. The one passion of my life lay buried in the sunlit forests
of Brittany. Was it buried for ever? Hope cried “No!” For three years
I had been listening to the voice of Hope, and for three years I had
waited for a footstep on my threshold. Had Sylvia forgotten? “No!”
cried Hope.
I said that I was no good. That is true, but still I was not exactly a
comic opera villain. I had led an easy-going reckless life, taking what
invited me of pleasure, deploring and sometimes bitterly regretting
consequences. In one thing alone, except my painting, was I serious,
and that was something which lay hidden if not lost in the Breton
forests.
It was too late for me to regret what had occurred during the day.
Whatever it had been, pity, a sudden tenderness for sorrow, or the
more brutal instinct of gratified vanity, it was all the same now, and
unless I wished to bruise an innocent heart, my path lay marked before
me. The fire and strength, the depth of passion of a love which I had
never even suspected, with all my imagined experience in the world,
left me no alternative but to respond or send her away. Whether because
I am so cowardly about giving pain to others, or whether it was that I
have little of the gloomy Puritan in me, I do not know, but I shrank
from disclaiming responsibility for that thoughtless kiss, and in fact
had no time to do so before the gates of her heart opened and the flood
poured forth. Others who habitually do their duty and find a sullen
satisfaction in making themselves and everybody else unhappy, might
have withstood it. I did not. I dared not. After the storm had abated I
did tell her that she might better have loved Ed Burke and worn a plain
gold ring, but she would not hear of it, and I thought perhaps as long
as she had decided to love somebody she could not marry, it had better
be me. I, at least, could treat her with an intelligent affection, and
whenever she became tired of her infatuation she could go none the
worse for it. For I was decided on that point although I knew how hard
it would be. I remembered the usual termination of Platonic liaisons,
and thought how disgusted I had been whenever I heard of one. I knew I
was undertaking a great deal for so unscrupulous a man as I was, and I
dreamed the future, but never for one moment did I doubt that she was
safe with me. Had it been anybody but Tessie I should not have bothered
my head about scruples. For it did not occur to me to sacrifice Tessie
as I would have sacrificed a woman of the world. I looked the future
squarely in the face and saw the several probable endings to the
affair. She would either tire of the whole thing, or become so unhappy
that I should have either to marry her or go away. If I married her we
would be unhappy. I with a wife unsuited to me, and she with a husband
unsuitable for any woman. For my past life could scarcely entitle me
to marry. If I went away she might either fall ill, recover, and marry
some Eddie Burke, or she might recklessly or deliberately go and do
something foolish. On the other hand, if she tired of me, then her
whole life would be before her with beautiful vistas of Eddie Burkes
and marriage rings and twins and Harlem flats and Heaven knows what. As
I strolled along through the trees by the Washington Arch, I decided
that she should find a substantial friend in me, anyway, and the future
could take care of itself. Then I went into the house and put on my
evening dress, for the little faintly-perfumed note on my dresser said,
“Have a cab at the stage door at eleven,” and the note was signed
“Edith Carmichel, Metropolitan Theatre.”
I took supper that night, or rather we took supper, Miss Carmichel and
I, at Solari’s, and the dawn was just beginning to gild the cross on
the Memorial Church as I entered Washington Square after leaving Edith
at the Brunswick. There was not a soul in the park as I passed along
the trees and took the walk which leads from the Garibaldi statue to
the Hamilton Apartment House, but as I passed the churchyard I saw a
figure sitting on the stone steps. In spite of myself a chill crept
over me at the sight of the white puffy face, and I hastened to pass.
Then he said something which might have been addressed to me or might
merely have been a mutter to himself, but a sudden furious anger flamed
up within me that such a creature should address me. For an instant I
felt like wheeling about and smashing my stick over his head, but I
walked on, and entering the Hamilton went to my apartment. For some
time I tossed about the bed trying to get the sound of his voice out
of my ears, but could not. It filled my head, that muttering sound,
like thick oily smoke from a fat-rendering vat or an odour of noisome
decay. And as I lay and tossed about, the voice in my ears seemed more
distinct, and I began to understand the words he had muttered. They
came to me slowly as if I had forgotten them, and at last I could make
some sense out of the sounds. It was this:
“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”
“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”
“Have you found the Yellow Sign?”
I was furious. What did he mean by that? Then with a curse upon him and
his I rolled over and went to sleep, but when I awoke later I looked
pale and haggard, for I had dreamed the dream of the night before, and
it troubled me more than I cared to think.
I dressed and went down into my studio. Tessie sat by the window, but
as I came in she rose and put both arms around my neck for an innocent
kiss. She looked so sweet and dainty that I kissed her again and then
sat down before the easel.
“Hello! Where’s the study I began yesterday?” I asked.
Tessie looked conscious, but did not answer. I began to hunt among the
piles of canvases, saying, “Hurry up, Tess, and get ready; we must take
advantage of the morning light.”
When at last I gave up the search among the other canvases and turned
to look around the room for the missing study I noticed Tessie standing
by the screen with her clothes still on.
“What’s the matter,” I asked, “don’t you feel well?”
“Yes.”
“Then hurry.”
“Do you want me to pose as—as I have always posed?”
Then I understood. Here was a new complication. I had lost, of course,
the best nude model I had ever seen. I looked at Tessie. Her face was
scarlet. Alas! Alas! We had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and Eden
and native innocence were dreams of the past—I mean for her.
I suppose she noticed the disappointment on my face, for she said: “I
will pose if you wish. The study is behind the screen here where I put
it.”
“No,” I said, “we will begin something new;” and I went into my
wardrobe and picked out a Moorish costume which fairly blazed with
tinsel. It was a genuine costume, and Tessie retired to the screen with
it enchanted. When she came forth again I was astonished. Her long
black hair was bound above her forehead with a circlet of turquoises,
and the ends, curled about her glittering girdle. Her feet were encased
in the embroidered pointed slippers and the skirt of her costume,
curiously wrought with arabesques in silver, fell to her ankles. The
deep metallic blue vest embroidered with silver and the short Mauresque
jacket spangled and sewn with turquoises became her wonderfully. She
came up to me and held up her face smiling. I slipped my hand into my
pocket, and drawing out a gold chain with a cross attached, dropped it
over her head.
“It’s yours, Tessie.”
“Mine?” she faltered.
“Yours. Now go and pose,” Then with a radiant smile she ran behind the
screen and presently reappeared with a little box on which was written
my name.
“I had intended to give it to you when I went home to-night,” she said,
“but I can’t wait now.”
I opened the box. On the pink cotton inside lay a clasp of black onyx,
on which was inlaid a curious symbol or letter in gold. It was neither
Arabic nor Chinese, nor, as I found afterwards, did it belong to any
human script.
“It’s all I had to give you for a keepsake,” she said timidly.
I was annoyed, but I told her how much I should prize it, and promised
to wear it always. She fastened it on my coat beneath the lapel.
“How foolish, Tess, to go and buy me such a beautiful thing as this,” I
said.
“I did not buy it,” she laughed.
“Where did you get it?”
Then she told me how she had found it one day while coming from the
Aquarium in the Battery, how she had advertised it and watched the
papers, but at last gave up all hopes of finding the owner.
“That was last winter,” she said, “the very day I had the first horrid
dream about the hearse.”
I remembered my dream of the previous night but said nothing, and
presently my charcoal was flying over a new canvas, and Tessie stood
motionless on the model-stand.