CHAPTER I

THE HOUSE IN WASHINGTON SQUARE

A rainy night was followed by a rainy morning. Between the looped curtains of the alcove window the ground of the square could be seen soggy and wet. The marble of Washington Arch showed dark streaks of moisture. Rachel leaned an arm on the dining room mantel. The housekeeper had been complaining of a litter of kittens in the basement which she could get no one to destroy.

"Bring them in here, Theresa," Rachel ordered peremptorily; then with a sigh she cast herself in a chair.

The woman disappeared but presently returned bearing in her hands a basket containing three white and grey kittens. The mother cat, a handsome sleek animal with a plume-like tail and round golden eyes, followed at her heels, alternately mewing anxiously and purring contentedly.

"I didn't know that you were fond of cats, ma'am," murmured the housekeeper in an ingratiating tone. "I suppose they are all well enough for those who likes 'em."

Before proceeding to study the kittens, Rachel drew a small flask from the pocket of her morning-gown. "If there isn't any more whiskey in the house, Theresa, send out before breakfast and get some at the nearest drugstore. Then refill this and take it up to Mr. Hart," she added without looking at the other.

The housekeeper, a tall angular woman--whose flat bust and prominent shoulder-blades suggested the awful idea that her head was put on the wrong way--paused on the threshold. The bosom of her gown bristled with needles and bits of embroidery cotton clung to her black silk apron. In spite of her unattractive person there was something smart and pretentious about Theresa. She carried her head, covered with its glossy hair, as if it were decorated with an aigrette.

"Shall I take up his breakfast at the same time?" she asked, and lifted eyes of innocence.

"Mr. Hart will come downstairs for breakfast," Rachel answered shortly; then, sinking on the rug, she began fondling the kittens.

She lifted them out of the basket one at a time, and holding them at a distance, looked at their faces, which, three-cornered and mottled light and dark, suggested pansies; at their paws, soft as velvet and harmless as yet; at their short frisky tails and little red mouths which they opened wide as they mewed straight at her. During this pretty play the mother cat sat by the fender and washed her face. But presently, at an especially distressed mew, she crossed the room and laid a remonstrative paw on Rachel's arm. But the girl held the kitten still higher so that the cat was obliged to rear herself on her hind feet in order to reach it. At that instant Simon Hart entered the room.

"Isn't that rather cruel of you?" he asked, stooping to pat the cat that arched its back under his hand.

"Let her reach it then," Rachel answered.

After several trials, the mother cat succeeded in taking the kitten by the nape of its limp neck, and then hopped nimbly with it into the basket. Rachel looked at her gravely as she began rather roughly to lick the kittens with her little scarlet tongue, covered with tiny cones.

Simon extended his hand, but Rachel made no move to rise. Instead, turning her head which she rested on her palm, she looked at him and across her face flitted a variety of emotions. He would have assisted her to her feet, but she would have none of him. Then another glance and her mood changed completely. Self-contained and enigmatic as he was on ordinary occasions, he showed now an embarrassment that struck to her heart. She put up her hands, and with a sudden violence of emotion, he lifted her in his arms.

A moment later, she had forced him to release her, and, pale and thoughtful, she left the room.

"We'll have breakfast in a moment," she said, reappearing. "I gave Theresa your flask; she is sending out," she added in a lower voice.

Already Simon had assumed his usual equivocal and aloof manner. At these words, he lowered his eyes.

"That was kind of you," he said, "I required merely a drop and I found what I needed. My cold," he continued, "is no worse; on the contrary, I shall go to the shop to-day."

Since the night of the opera, three weeks before, Simon had been confined to the house by his dread enemy, the influenza. During this illness he had consumed a great quantity of liquor. If he went without it for any number of hours, he showed the effect. That morning Rachel had been moved by his pale and wretched look.

During the meal he read to her part of a paper he expected to deliver before the Jewellers' Association. But she crumbled her bread, her thoughts wandering. As he was preparing to leave the house, she lingered about in his vicinity.

"Do you know," she ventured, following him to the door, "I'm not half satisfied with what you did about Mr. St. Ives?" and she gave him a direct, almost accusing glance.

"But I sent him a check, certainly liberal in the circumstances, since he is free to go on and manufacture--" Simon began, and he wrinkled his brow.

Rachel shrugged her shoulders in impatience. "You sent him a check; yes, you even advised him to go on and manufacture that instrument. But he isn't capable of making a practical move. Now if you'd shown any real interest--" She stayed her words, silenced by contrition.

After Simon had gone, she established herself with a bit of sewing in the dining room. It was the only room that did not weigh on her spirits. But she had discovered at once that this house, lonely, silent, forbidding, suited Simon as it was; therefore she had confined herself merely to refitting and converting into a sitting room an unused chamber on the second floor; and to making more comfortable the quarters of old Nicholas Hart. There her efforts had ended. An entire remodelling of the mansion would have been necessary to disperse the atmosphere of depression that, tangible as dampness, emanated from its walls.

It had sheltered in its time, apparently, a goodly number of soft-moving, mirthless people. Its inner doors of dark polished wood, never emitted a squeak; and the occasional sounds that penetrated the plaster of its ceilings, suggested a company of rats that went about their business in hushed, apologetic groups, instead of in scampering hordes. The house had never become reconciled to Simon's pianola, and when he seated himself before the instrument, as he did with conscientious regularity every day after dinner, Rachel often fancied that the house lifted shoulders of aversion.

And the legitimate inmates, she decided, were in keeping with the house. Simon and his housekeeper, Theresa Walker, could have desired nothing different in the way of a dwelling. As for old Nicholas and herself, not to mention the various maids who succeeded one another rapidly (for Theresa was difficult to suit in the matter of assistants) they were merely interlopers.

The housekeeper inspired Rachel with a kind of horror. She had somehow gleaned the knowledge that this woman, with her crafty smile but undeniable capacity for work, when well launched in middle life, had seized upon the idea of marrying her cousin, a certain Jeremiah Foggs, when the cousin's wife, a forlorn, feckless, half-witted creature, should die. As the wife was little more than a troublesome charge on Jeremiah's hands and he feared leaving her to herself in their village home, he always brought her with him on the occasions of his visits to Theresa. During the premature courting of the hard-grained pair, the poor daft thing sat by the cheek of the chimney with frightened eyes and a shaking chin. Rachel had a theory that with kind treatment, her wits might have returned. But no kindness was ever shown her; on the contrary, Jeremiah and Theresa waited impatiently for the creeping disease to make way with her. Meanwhile Theresa employed the time of waiting to good advantage.

Packed away in a chest in her room was a great quantity of hemstitched linen, doilies, spreads, embroidered curtains and what not. Indeed, it was a question whether Theresa's means of attraction did not repose solely in her needle; for these products of her skill, which she displayed on every visit of Jeremiah, certainly had a killing effect upon the fellow, with his bullet head. And Theresa, destitute of every feminine grace, gave herself airs on her handiwork as if it had been beauty of person and feature. They were a right curious pair; each with the same air of eager avidity, as if tormented by a keen desire to gain something, each with the same oily and ingratiating manner. Rachel detested Theresa even more than she had detested Nora Gage, and only consented to retain her because Simon seemed to desire it. In truth, Theresa worked in this house as smoothly and briskly as a shuttle in a well-oiled machine.

For a time Rachel pursued her work, but presently her interest flagged and she dressed herself for the street. She was of two minds. Instead of going out immediately she ascended to the top story to take a peep at Nicholas. At her suggestion the old man's workroom was now on the third floor and it was no longer necessary for him to descend a flight of steps to his chamber. Also, his meals were all served to him in his workroom. Without comprehending the cause of his greater comfort, the old fellow cherished a whimsical and flighty affection for Rachel; while Simon was humbly grateful to her for this interest in his erratic parent. Now the only time Nicholas was obliged to attempt the stairs was when he went for an airing. On certain days of the week, if the weather were fine, a man nurse appeared and conveyed him to the street and remained with him in the Square. From these excursions Nicholas never returned without some token for Rachel. Now it was a cornucopia of popcorn which he had bought from a vender; later, as the spring advanced and grass began to show along the paths, it was a cluster of leaves and buds; not infrequently it happened that he treasured up and presented to her particularly handsome specimens of insects mounted on pins.

If truth were told, little and lithe and still spry, this old reprobate, with his eagerness regarding the habits of the house-fly, his raptures and his rages, came nearer than any other person in the house to being keyed to the same pitch as Rachel herself. If rumour could be trusted, a number of discreditable experiences had made up Nicholas's life. He had gamed and drunk, driven fast horses, followed fast women. He had conducted one thriving business after another, and among them, the car shops that had employed old David. He had made fortunes with ease and lost them with equal facility. Now, in his last years, he was penniless and Simon was engaged in patiently paying the debts Nicholas had contracted; but for this, be it understood, he received scorn rather than gratitude.

As a result of his evil ways Nicholas, in the early years of his marriage, had broken his wife's heart. Her patience had annoyed him, and, had she shown more spirit, her fate might have been a happier one. As it was, she had slipped out of life, mown down with grief as grass is mown with the scythe. And Nicholas had made scant pretence of regretting her, just as he made scant pretence of approving his son. Simon had early betrayed a lack of zest for life--a trait his father could ill tolerate. Therefore, with taunts and gibes, he had made Simon's life miserable through boyhood and early manhood. At first, it may be, he thought by this method to kindle some spirit in the lad, but failing to strike a spark--for Simon remained through all pale and silent, a human riddle to the father,--Nicholas had continued his jeers for sheer malicious joy in the practice. Even now his wit kindled at the thought of Simon, and sure of an appreciative listener, he would make clever satirical remarks about him to his niece, Julia Burgdorf, whenever she put in an appearance. And Julia would match these sallies. To this joking Rachel, in a storm of anger, had endeavoured to put a stop. Now when the pair exchanged their witticisms, it was out of her hearing.

Though this old man bore not the slightest resemblance to old David, his age and animation endeared him to Rachel. Then he had once helped her grandfather, a thing she never forgot.

Now his voice, which leaped constantly to a childish treble, reached her before she gained the stair's head. A stuttering of the words of his ditty, decided her to postpone her call. Owing to his excitable heart and his years, liquor was forbidden the old man. Resolving to take the housemaid sharply to task for giving Nicholas whiskey, Rachel descended the stairs. Through delicacy she never spoke to Simon of his own or his father's failing. When moved to disapproval of her husband, as she had been that morning, her only reproach was a look. A childhood passed among fishermen had taught her tolerance for this particular weakness.

When Simon returned at lunch time, she was nowhere about and he was forced to sit down to the table without her. But she entered before he had finished the first course, and taking her place opposite him, began slowly unfastening her jacket. Wishing to please her, he launched into a description of St. Ives's _pyrometer_.

"We melt up different alloys to get the different colour effects," he concluded, "and the colour and intensity of the light bear certain definite relations--"

Rachel opened her eyes: "Then it's a success, is it?"

Simon avoided her gaze. "Why yes, certainly. In fact," he added, "it's a very ingenious device. A trifling thing, you understand; but it is an instrument for which there is a definite need, and for that reason I should judge he might possibly be able to do something with it."

Rachel nodded. "I see. Now Simon, I'll tell you what I've done; I've just been out and sent notes by messenger to Mr. St. Ives and his wife, and to Emily Short, asking them to come this afternoon and stay to dinner. Tell me, did I do right?"

Without visible effect Simon had tried to shape her to more conventional standards. Rachel exhibited as much independence as before their marriage. Now he replied a little wearily:

"Why of course, though I should have considered that the case scarcely required anything as complimentary, in a social sense, as an invitation to dinner."

"And why not?" she flashed back hotly. "Though when it comes to that, I don't wish to compliment Emil St. Ives; I wish to _help_ him. Heaven knows, he's egotistic enough. But you don't realize," she pursued in a softer tone, "how helpless he is. He needs someone to advise him, or he'll spend himself in a thousand useless ways; someone to take an intelligent interest in him."

"He has a wife, hasn't he?"

"I said _intelligent_ interest."

"But I assure you, my love," he began, "that I'm by no means the proper person--"

However, before he left the house he had promised to return earlier than was his custom in order to further his wife's plan.

In the course of the afternoon Rachel received a note from Emily Short explaining that she could not be present at the dinner. The note concluded: "You may remember Betty Holden. I think you were with me one evening when she came in. Poor child! Fortunately her baby never drew breath. She's to be taken this afternoon to Bellevue and I've promised to go with her. I shan't get away early for she's in a great taking and no wonder. The landlady at the place where she boarded threatened to put her into the street. Poor soft defenceless things, besieged both from within and without, there's small chance for the Betty Holdens." This news at any other time would have stirred Rachel, but now she had no time for reflection.

Emil and his wife arrived promptly at five o'clock. Enlivened by hope, Annie was looking especially pretty. She had arrayed herself in a gown she had so far held in reserve, and had donned her rings which glistened like dew on her thin fingers. But Rachel gave small heed to Annie. She had counted on turning her over to Emily, telling herself that the toy-maker's companionship would benefit the lackadaisical girl. But now this plan was frustrated. Conducting her guests into the chamber which she had converted into a sitting room, Rachel established Annie in a corner and furnished her with several books of engraving. And thereafter, with undisguised eagerness, she gave her own attention to Emil.

She had weathered a tempest.

In youth the blood flows warm, and the unexpected meeting with her former friend when she was off guard, when she was excited by her first opera, had produced a storm. But the storm had passed, the last gleam of lightning and rumble of thunder had ceased and the air was clearer than before. So she was convinced. She denounced herself as an inflammable creature, and turned with renewed allegiance to her husband, dwelling desperately on her gratitude and esteem. Finally, sure of herself and luxuriating in a sense of renewed activity, she fancied she could serve Emil as simply as she would serve another friend. Nor did she see in the attempt Love in one of its multitudinous disguises.

The room, which was long and shadowy, overlooked the Square. She led the way to a divan under a window and motioned Emil to a place at her side.

"Now," she said, "I want to know just where you stand with your work? Tell me what you have done--what you intend doing--all," with an expansive gesture.

He followed it closely; then glued his eyes to her fingers. For some reason he was displeased at this abrupt buckling to a subject that ordinarily would have received his ready endorsement.

"But are there not other things to talk about--first?" he suggested.

"Not of so much importance."

"No?"

"No."

The gentle rebuke only incited his dominating nature: "But I should like to ask-- For one thing, you know you treated me shamefully, Rachel, when I left Pemoquod." He dropped his head to a level with hers. Into his voice had crept the old dangerous and caressing tone.

Amazed at the double temerity of the use of her name and the allusion to the Past, she returned his look, flushing uncontrollably.

"Why did you do that?" he pursued, enjoying her embarrassment.

"I--I do not recall it," she said and flamed yet more to the lie. "And hereafter, please remember I am Mrs. Hart."

She had a grip on the reins and he must heed the sharp tug, though he still chafed under the restraint like a restive horse. "And now we'll speak of another matter--your work;" she continued.

"It's two years since we've seen each other," he remonstrated sulkily.

"It's nearer three," she might have answered, but checked the words. Instead, severely: "You ought to have something to show for that length of time."

"I have something."

"So I supposed. Now tell me."

And gradually with those arts known to woman, she subdued the quondam lover and roused the genius. Yielding to the flattery of her attitude, which was one of keen interest in his work, he was soon discoursing enthusiastically on the subject she had prescribed. A fish in the water or a bird in the air could not have been more at home than was he in her presence.

Thus they talked till twilight fell and the maid came in to light the gas: and they were still deeply absorbed when Simon appeared.

He stood for a space, his face a blur of white in the doorway; then he came forward into the circle of light.

Instantly three heads were raised, Rachel's and Emil's abstractedly, Annie's with a distinct expression of relief. She had soon wearied of the books of engravings with which Rachel had thoughtfully supplied her, and the volumes were piled on the floor beside her chair; all save one, which she still held listlessly in her lap. She was pleased at the interest Mrs. Hart exhibited in her husband's work, for a word which she caught now and then, had convinced her of the topic of their conversation, and her jealousy had not been aroused. But she was weary and she now stood up with a pretty air of welcome for Simon.

He shook hands with her cordially. Then crossing the room, he shook hands with the inventor.

But Emil scarcely waited to answer his few studied words of greeting; instead, he settled himself immediately at Rachel's side, and rumpling his heavy mane with his fingers, he stared dreamily. "The next thing I completed was the _electrometer_," he said, and Simon noticed that Rachel wrote the word "electrometer" on a tablet she held on her knees.

He returned to Annie and until dinner was announced, he talked to her in his low even tones.

Dinner brought the party into no closer harmony. Rachel, with a carnation blazing in her hair and her dark intelligent eyes speaking more swiftly than her lips, still talked to Emil; and Simon, concealing every trace of annoyance if he felt any, devoted himself to Annie. After the meal, he even proposed playing to her on the pianola, and Rachel, knowing that he was very fond of performing on the instrument, allowed him to go through two pieces in his usual faithful uninspired manner. Then she approached him.

"Come Simon," she said, laying hold of his hands. "You know why I asked them here," she added in an urgent whisper as he made no move to rise. "He is the inventor of all these instruments," and she displayed a list. "But he hasn't the remotest idea what steps to take in order to get the right people interested. Now can't you give him letters to different men, Simon? Come--you can think up some plan if you try!"

Simon Hart had not the slightest interest in Alexander Emil St. Ives; moreover, in general, he was ignorant of the matters upon which the other required advice. However, he yielded; subsequently he was influenced to the point of going several times to visit the inventor; later, he organized The St. Ives and Hart Company of which he himself was the president. All this he did because of the imperious, and at the same time, pleading look in a pair of dark clear eyes.

By the end of the year the house in Washington Square had undergone a change. This change had nothing to do with the renewing of bricks or mortar, or the altering of any outward feature; materially the residence remained the same. Never the less, it was now connected with a certain loft in John Street by a subtle, tenuous web. In this web, love,--unacknowledged, innocent, strong as death, thrown out from a woman's heart and returning ever to it,--was the solitary thread.