Two months passed.
Erna Vitek was still living with Jimmy Allen. There was, however, less
and less likelihood that they would ever marry. In fact, the most
probable issue to their affair was that they would separate again, in
the near future and this time for good.
Erna was tired of Jimmy. For some weeks past, her restless nature had
been craving some one else, or better still, some other mode of living,
her present one having reached a state of unbearable monotony. She
recovered from her experience with Eric Nielsen only after several weeks
of struggle. Even such a fine tonic as that supplied her so freely by
her resource of blood found the healing of her wound no ordinary matter,
but she had recovered, except for an occasional memory. Her battle with
her craving for Nielsen did not assist her attachment for Jimmy; on the
contrary, the latter degenerated by contrast. And Jimmy, himself, was
very much to blame as well. He had changed toward her.
It is no doubt true that possession often breeds boredom, and boredom,
carelessness. Erna, before possession and after possession, was not the
same individual, and Jimmy treated her accordingly. He was no longer an
anxious desire-maddened suitor.
Furthermore, he was softening physically. He continued training for his
schedule of fistic contests and carried out that schedule; he defeated
Young Walcott, the man from Chicago and another, but lately, had fought
two very poor draws, in the latter of which he, himself, was on the
point of being knocked out. His manager, the astute Jerry Nolan, was
losing patience with him. He bluntly attributed his protégé's decline to
the fact that he was "livin' with a woman. A man's got to cut out drink
if he wants to succeed as a athlete, but he's got to be _sure_ to cut
out women. They sucks his blood an' strength."
Jimmy did not agree with this sentiment. He continued to live with Erna.
What is more, he had threatened to move out of the Nolan apartment and
"to throw up the sponge"--quit the prize-ring--if his manager persisted
in arguing along these lines. Although Nolan submitted, he found other
grounds upon which to pick quarrels with Jimmy. The truth is, the young
manager was ambitious, and Jimmy's ability to climb the pugilistic
ladder reflected credit upon him. He had always felt and expressed his
faith in his protégé and prophesied that he would be "mixin' it with the
top notchers" not far hence, a prophecy Jimmy substantiated by defeating
"the Kid," Young Walcott and the westerner so decisively. But he was in
danger now, as his recent battles and his late mutiny testified. Should
Jimmy fall from grace a second time, it would be irrevocably. Therefore,
Nolan was using eloquence, persuasion, threats, anything, to save him.
Many of their quarrels took place in Erna's presence. After a while,
Jimmy, much to her growing distaste, formed the habit of bringing Nolan
and "some o' the boys" to the flat. Custom gradually trained them to
believe that she was nothing more than part of the furniture, and they
accepted her attentions, due them as Jimmy's guests, just so. They
stayed well on into the night, amused themselves, played pranks, broke
dishes, quarrelled, made up--and came again. And more and more, they
looked upon Erna with contempt. On her side, she hated and despised
them.
During the day, Jimmy was usually absent, training at the Nolan
headquarters in Fordham. Erna saw him for a moment in the morning, when
she prepared his breakfast, and at evening, when she prepared his
supper, not to see him again, as a rule, until fairly late at night,
except when he brought "the boys." To be sure, she slept with him
and--well, she hated that too. It made her feel herself some dirty,
inferior animal.
Erna's days were still more monotonous. She sewed quite a little,
attended to details of house work, which were few, and otherwise, took
long walks or went to an afternoon vaudeville or moving picture show. As
she was accustomed to a day of constant labor and occupation, she had
never known much idleness; her evenings were spent in resting or in the
search of a little excitement. Moreover, Erna's was purely an emotional
nature; she did not possess the intellect or imagination so requisite
toward making idleness useful. Unfortunately, she had no friends to
visit.
At first, Jimmy gave her money in regular installments. Their house
expenses paid, she would have a sufficient balance with which to indulge
herself--with a new hat, a new dress, a few odds and ends, or her
afternoon amusements. The installments, however, were more and more
irregular and smaller in amount; last week, none had materialized. The
reason was this: Jimmy had returned to drinking. And the climax was
impending. One night, he came home late, pretty well drunk.
Erna opened the door. He swayed and then staggered into the room, a
broad leer on his face. "Howsh--the--girl?" he demanded stupidly.
He tried to embrace her, but Erna stepped back, and he nearly fell. With
an effort, he straightened himself and laughed. "Wha--whash--a--matter?"
Erna's resentment poured over. "You beast!" she said in low tones.
"You--what?" He leaned forward to hear better.
"Beast, I said," and she pelted him with epithets and reproaches.
Jimmy made several ludicrous attempts to apologize, and protested:
"I--I'm not--d-drunk; I--I'm just--ossified." And he laughed more
stupidly and tried to approach.
"Keep away!"
"Wha--whash--a--matter?"
"Keep away!"
"Wheresh--No--Nolan?"
"Nolan's in hell, where he belongs," she cried angrily, and a second
tirade followed, directed this time at the manager and Jimmy's friends.
"Be c-c-careful!" he interrupted, but she added further condemnation.
"Be c-c-careful!" he repeated. "No--Nolan's a frien' o' mine an' so's
P-p-piggy Wallace. Be c-c-careful!"
His defence only succeeded in infuriating her. She concluded with two or
three judgments that included the families of those gentlemen. Jimmy's
good nature stopped. "You ----!" he called her and stumbled toward her.
Erna retreated, her face aflame. Once more, he called her ---- and fell
toward her. She tried to ward him off, for he had driven her against the
couch. But Jimmy pushed himself forward and raising his fist, brought it
down clumsily upon her face. Erna slipped and fell upon the couch, her
mouth bleeding.
Furious, she jumped up and attacked Jimmy. He was in a defenceless
condition, and blows rained upon his shoulders, body and head. He tried
to raise his guard, but it was useless. At length, swearing
incoherently, she struck him full in the face, and he swayed, mumbled
stupidly and toppled over on the couch, unconscious or asleep--more
likely the latter. Handsome Jimmy was a disgusting sight.
Erna, still struggling with herself, looked down at him. He started
snoring, a part painful, part beatific smile wrinkling his face. His
legs were dangling over the side of the couch. She gave them a kick,
lifted them and shoved them onto the couch. She then turned away and
wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Erna had come to a simple
determination.
Without hesitation, she went over to a closet and opened the door. She
likewise pulled open the drawer of a commode. And somewhere, she found
an old suit case and dragged that forth. Her packing did not last more
than twenty minutes. She left a hat, a dress and some odds and ends
behind her.
* * * * *
One pleasant late afternoon about two weeks later, Eric Nielsen was
occupied in writing at his desk. He was engaged on an essay he had
planned and started some time ago. His pencil was moving more rapidly
than usual.
The door was opened gently and Bainbridge Breen came in. "Busy?" he
inquired.
"Come in! I'll be through in a second," Nielsen returned without looking
up.
The painter came forward. The author's pencil scribbled a little faster,
a period was jotted down, and he laid aside the pencil, at the same time
eyeing his work and sighing with satisfaction.
"Finished?"
"Oh no, not for some time. I've got several thousand words more,"
Nielsen explained.
"How's it coming on?"
"Splendidly!" was the optimistic rejoinder. "If I can keep sufficient
enthusiasm in my body, I ought to be able to carry it through
perfectly."
"It'll be your _chef-d'oeuvre_, I suppose," Breen observed with his
customary pleasantry.
"I hope so," Nielsen admitted seriously. "It's stronger than anything
I've done, I feel. It shows maturity, I think, not only maturity of
judgment, but maturity of execution as well."
"In other words, Art," Breen interrupted slyly. "What more do you ask?"
"Nothing," confessed Nielsen, and his warm smile appeared.
"But what's the matter with the story?" the painter demanded.
"How do you mean?" the author retorted.
"I thought _that_ had fulfilled your ambition."
"Not quite, not quite," Nielsen hastened to deny, and was thoughtful. "I
don't know just what it was, but there was something missing in it," he
said gently, and changing the subject, concluded abruptly: "I'm sure I
have that something in this essay."