Part 13

“Decent day for it.... I say, Walling, they weren’t nice to us in the papers.”

Gurdy saw Mark begin to act. The voice deepened to its kindest drawl. Mark said, “Just called up the theatre. Only sold two hundred seats for tonight and its almost three, now. That’s too bad.”

Rand passed the polished nails along the soft moustache. The sun of the door sent true gold into his hair. He murmured, “Shocking bad, eh? We play Baltimore, next week, don’t we?”

“No,” said Mark, easily, “It’s too thin. I’ll close it tonight.--Now, I’m putting on a piece called the ‘Last Warrior.’ English. Start rehearsals after Christmas. Good part for you in that. Marion Hart’s the lead. Know her? Nice to play with and a damned good play.”

“Oh--thanks awfully.--Yes, I know Miss Hart.--Thanks very much, sir.... You shan’t risk bringing ‘Todgers’ to New York?”

“No. I’m sorry. You’ve worked mighty hard and I like your work. You’ll be a lot better off in this other play.... ‘Todgers’ is too thin, Rand. Might have done five or six years back.”

The actor nodded. “Dare say you’re right, sir. Bit of a bubble, really. And awfully good of you to want me for this other thing. Be delighted to try.... Yes, this was rather bubblish:--Anyhow, this lets me out of Baltimore. I do hate that town. Well, thanks ever so. Better luck next time, let’s hope.”

He walked off, grey into the duller grey of the columned lounge. Mark nodded after him. “Took it damned well, Gurdy. He’ll be all right in this other show and Cora can’t say I haven’t been decent to him. Well, hustle along. Got that whiskey for your dad? Give ’em my love.--Look at that pink car, for lordsake! Vulgarity on four wheels, huh?--So long, sonny.”

Gurdy was glad that Rand hadn’t whined. This was a feeble, tame fellow without much attraction beyond his handsome face. Perhaps it was for this mannerly tameness that Margot liked him. Perhaps that fable of women liking the masterly male was faulty. Margot liked to domineer. She had bullied Rand a trifle at the rehearsal in London. Perhaps Cora Boyle liked the tame little creature for some such reason. Gurdy dismissed him and the theatre. There was vexing sadness in the collapse of even so poor a play. Russell and the actors had worked. It came to nothing. Bubble! Expensive, futile, unheroic evanescence. Margot’s fault. He mustn’t let Mark do such a thing again. The girl must confine her restless self to dances and clothes. She had looked very well at the Jannan party. She had smartness, instant magnetism. She was still asleep and would dine with her acquaintance, Mrs. Calder, tonight. Gurdy yawned as Trenton foully spouted its industry toward the sky. Bernamer was waiting with the car at the station, gave him a crushing hug and told him that he looked like hell.

“Danced all night.”

“I see you did in the _Ledger_. Among those present at the Apsley Jannan’s party. Your mamma’s all upset about it. Saw a movie of a millionaire party with naked hussies ridin’ ostriches in the conserv’tory. She thinks Margot’s led you astray. How’s this ‘Tod’ play done?”

“It’s all done, dad. Closes tonight.”

Bernamer sent the car through Trenton and cursed Margot astoundingly. “Ten or twelve thousand dollars! The little skunk! Cure Mark of listening to her. Say, he still wanting you to marry her, bud?”

“Afraid he is, dad.”

“Sure. Next best he could do to marryin’ her himself. Funny boy. Likes her ’cause she’s pretty. Black hair.--This English woman’s blackheaded, ain’t she?... Well, you sic’ some feller onto Margot and get her off Mark’s hands. If you fell in love with her again, your mamma’d puff up and bust.”

“Again?”

Bernamer gave him a blue stare and winked, wrinkling his nose. His weathered face creased into a snort. “Sure, you were losin’ sleep over her ’fore she got back from England.”

“Not now, daddy.” Gurdy wondered about the absolute death of his passion. His father, who so seldom saw him, knew it was done. Mark saw him daily, talked to him of Margot urgently and saw nothing.

“Well,” said Bernamer, “Mark’s awful fond of you. And you ain’t bad, reelly. Don’t you get married until you catch one you can stand for steady diet. Oh, your mamma’s gone on a vegetable diet and lost four pounds in two weeks. Ed’s got a boil on his neck--bad, too, poor pup. Jim done an algebra problem right yesterday and made a touchdown Saturday. He’s got his head swelled a mile.”

The man’s tolerant dealing with his family impressed Gurdy. Here was a controlled and level affection, not Mark’s worship. It was a healthier thing. He watched his father’s amiable scorn while Mrs. Bernamer and the whole household fussed variously over young Edward’s inflamed neck after supper. The boil was central in the talk of the red living room. Grandfather Walling tried to think of some ancient remedy and fell asleep pondering. The two bigger lads hovered and chuckled over the eruption. The sisters neglected some swains who came calling. Mrs. Bernamer sat mending the grey breeches of the military uniform Edward wasn’t wearing. The boil maintained itself over gossip of the village, the Military Academy and female questions about the Jannan dance. At ten Bernamer said, “Go to bed, all of you. Got to talk business to Gurdy.” The family kissed Gurdy and departed. Grandfather Walling’s snore roamed tenderly down into the stillness. Bernamer got out the chessboard and uncorked a bottle of vicious pear cider. They smoked and played the endless game. At twelve the telephone bell shore off his father’s sentences. Gurdy clapped a palm on the jangling at his elbow and picked up the instrument. Olive Ilden spoke in her most artificial, clearest voice.

“We’re in New York, dear. The doctor telephoned about eight and we came up directly. I think you’d best come, Gurdy.”

“Mr. Carlson?”

“Yes. He’ll be gone in a few hours. Mark’s so distressed and--the old man asked for you.”

Bernamer said, “No train until three thirty, son.”

“I’ll get there as fast, as I can,” Gurdy told her, “Margot there?”

“No. She’d gone to dine with her friend--Mrs. Calder--and Mark didn’t want her here. I’ll tell Mark you’re coming, then. Good-bye.”

Gurdy rang off. His father nodded, “Mark’ll miss the old feller. Been mighty good to him. Funny old man. Always liked him. Poor Mark! Well, you say this Englishwoman’s sensible. That’s some help.”

Gurdy was glad of Olive’s sanity, wished that the thought of this death didn’t make his heart thump for a little. His father would drive him into Trenton at two. They played chess again. Bernamer made sandwiches of beef and thick bread. The red walls clouded with cigarette smoke. It was two when the bell again rang.

“Dead, prob’ly,” said Bernamer.

The operator asked for Gurdy. There was a shrill wrangling of women behind which a man spoke loudly and savagely. His impatience cracked through the buzzing. It wasn’t Mark when the man spoke clearly at last.

“This is Russell, Gurdy. Can you hear? You must come here at once.”

“To Philadelphia? What’s happened? Mr. Carlson’s dying and--”

“I know. And I can’t bother Walling. You must come here as fast as you can. Can you speak German?... I’ll try to talk French; then.”

After a moment Gurdy said, “All right. I’ll come as fast as I can. Get hold of the hotel manager. Money--”

“The detective’s got a check. That’s all right. Hurry up, though.”

Gurdy found himself standing and dropped the telephone. It brushed the chessmen in a clattering volley to the floor. His father’s blue eyes bit through the smoke.

“When’s a train to Philadelphia, dad?”

“That damn fool girl gone and got herself into--”

“This actor!... Of course she has! Of course! Oh, hell! In her room! When’s there a train to Philadelphia?”

X

The Idolater

Olive left the telephone table and strolled across the bright library to the fire. The sussuration of dragged silk behind her moving gown gave her a queer discomfort; there had been no time to change in the rush; it seemed improper to attend a death-bed in evening dress. And she was intrusive, here, and helpless. Mark’s pain was calm. He would suffer later, at the end of these hours or minutes. The bored, plump doctor came into the library, closed the door and lit a cigarette, joining Olive at the warm hearth.

“He was asking for Miss Walling, just now.”

“Ah? She’s in Philadelphia. She was dining with some friends at the Ritz, there, so we left her.”

The doctor said, “Very sensible,” and blew a smoke ring. Under its dissolution his eyes admired Olive’s shoulders then, the pastel of Gurdy in a black frame on the mantel.

“Tell me,” Olive asked, “how--how far is he conscious?”

“It would be interesting to know. In these collapses we’re not sure. His conscious mind probably asserts itself, now and then. The unconscious--I really can’t say. Still, before you and Mr. Walling came he spoke in Swedish several times. And that’s the unconscious. He forgot his Swedish years ago. Been in this country ever since eighteen sixty-eight. But he spoke Swedish quite correctly and very fast. I’m a Swede. It surprised me.”

“Indeed,” said Olive and shivered before his science, cool, weary, not much interested.

The doctor looked at his watch, murmured, “Twelve thirty,” and tossed his cigarette in the fire. He observed, “But the old gentleman’s in no pain. The reversion’s very interesting. He was talking to some one about Augustin Daly. Very interesting.” The clipped, brisk voice denied the least interest. The doctor went from the library as Olive heard wheels halt outside. This couldn’t be Gurdy. She looked through a window and recognized her maid paying a taxicab driver. The black and yellow taxicab trembled behind a car entirely black and windowless; the undertaker awaited Carlson’s body. Olive drew the curtains across the glass, shook herself and went down to speak with her maid.

“Margot hadn’t come back from her dinner when you came away, Lane?”

“No, m’lady. Such a noosance getting the luggage to the station, down there.... Might I have some tea in your pantry, Mr. Collins?” the woman asked Mark’s butler as Olive turned away. These two would sit in the butler’s pantry drinking tea and discussing deaths. Olive went up the soft stairs and into Carlson’s bedroom behind the library. She entered an immutable group. The two nurses sat in a corner. The doctor examined one of the framed, old photographs that pallidly gleamed on the walls made brown by the lowered light. Mark stood with his hands clutching the white bedfoot. His black seemed to rise supernatural from the floor. He was taller, thinner. He glared at the stretched length of his patron. To Olive the dying man appeared more like an exhumed Pharaoh than ever. The yellow head was unchanged. She had a dizzy, picturesque fancy that his eyes might open, that he might speak in some unknown, sonorous dialect of the Nile. As she dropped a hand beside Mark’s fingers on the rail the old man spoke without breath in a sound of torn fabric yet with an airy, human amusement. “All right, Mister Caz’nove. Don’t git flustered. I’ll tell Miss Morris.”

Mark writhed. The plastron of his shirt crackled. He gripped Olive’s arm and drew her from the room. In the hall he panted, “Augustin Daly’s prompter--a Frenchman--I guess he meant Clara Morris.” But in the cooler hall, away from the insufferable bed, he was ashamed. This was bad behaviour, unmanly, ridiculous. He smiled timidly at Olive who suddenly put her hands on his face and kissed him.

“I talked to Gurdy. He’ll be here as soon as he can, dear.”

“Thanks. Got to go back.” Mark sighed, “You go to bed, though.”

“No.”

Mark didn’t want her to go to bed. He smiled and went back to his watch. Odious time passed. The smell of cigarettes crept from the walls and the furniture. Carlson had smoked many thousands here. One of the nurses clicked a string of beads. The tiny cross was silver and lustrous as it swung. The beads seemed amethyst. What good did the woman think she was doing? But she had liked Carlson. She was praying for his soul and Carlson thought he had a soul. Let her pray. The amethyst flicker soothed Mark, took his eyes from the bed. The voice surprised him with his name.

“Mark.”

“Yessir.”

“It’s a poor house. Rain....”

Mark’s throat was full of dry fire. He gripped the rail, waiting. But the voice did not come again. After four the doctor nodded. One nurse yawned. The Irishwoman fell gently on her knees under the large, signed photograph of Ada Rehan in the frilled, insolent dress of Lady Teazle. Olive led Mark quickly from the room into the library. He pressed his hands on his eyes. He wouldn’t cry over this. Carlson had too often called him a crybaby, a big calf.

“Dear Mark.”

“Oh ... can’t be helped.--God, I did want him to see the Walling! Won’t be any funeral. Body goes straight to Sweden.... He’s left Gurdy and Margot some money.... Awful kindhearted.... Lot of old down and out actors’d come here. Gave ’em money. Awful kind to me.... No reason.” His husky speech made a chant for his old friend. Olive’s eyes filled. He was childish in his woe, charming. She wished that he’d weep so she could fondle the red hair on her shoulder. This would hurt his pleasure in the new theatre and the splendid play. The butler came in after the heavy, descending motion of men on the stairs was over and the dull wheels had rolled off from the curb. He brought a small, gold capped bottle and two glasses on his tray.

“Doctor Lundquist said to bring this up, sir.”

The champagne whispered delicately in the glasses and washed down the muffling, dry taste from Mark’s tongue. He smiled at Olive and said, “Dunno what I’d have done without you bein’ here.” What a brave woman! Her daughter had died swiftly of pneumonia before Olive could reach her. Her son had been blown to pieces.

“I’m glad Gurdy didn’t get here,” she said, “He’s seen quite enough of death and he was fond of Mr. Carlson.”

“Of course. Fonder than Margot was. Bein’ a man, though, he never showed it so much.”

Olive hoped that Margot would never tell him how she disliked the old man’s coarseness, his manifold derisions. She said, “But go to bed, Mark. You really should. These things strain one.”

“Awful. They packed me off to Aunt Edith’s when mamma died. First time I ever saw any one I liked.... Frohman was drowned. Clyde Fitch died in France. Good night, Olive.”

He wished she would kiss him again and watched her pass up to her rooms. Then he went to bed, without thinking, and slept. He slept soundly and woke slowly into warm, luxurious sun that mottled the blue quilt. He said, “Hello, brother,” to Gurdy who leaned on the dresser between the windows, solemn and grieved in a dark suit, his pale hair ruffled and gay with light. Gurdy must be cheered up. “Well, you missed it. He didn’t have a pain. When did you get here?”

“A while ago. I--dad’s here.”

“Eddie? Well, that’s good of him.”

Bernamer came about the bed and dropped a hand on Mark’s chest. He said nothing, but grinned and sat down. His seemly clothes and cropped head made him amazingly like Gurdy. Mark beamed at both of them. “Had your breakfast?”

“Hell, yes,” said Bernamer, “Had two. Got some coffee in Philadelphia and then Lady Ilden made us eat somethin’ when we got here.”

Mark swung out of bed and ordered Gurdy, “Tell ’em to bring me up some coffee in the library, sonny. Oh, Margot ain’t got here?”

“Yes, she’s here,” said Gurdy and quickly left the room.

The sun filled his showerbath. Mark cheered further, babbled to his brother-in-law while he shaved and wondered what Bernamer had talked about to Olive at breakfast.

“Oh, we just talked,” said the farmer, curtly, “Nice kind of woman.”

He leaned in the door of the bathroom and rolled a cigarette in his big, shapely hands. Now that he had five hired men his hands were softer and not so thick. A fine, quiet man, full of sense.

“Awful good of you to come up, Eddie. I ain’t makin’ a fool of myself. The old man was eighty. It’s a wonder he lasted as long.”

“Better get some coffee in you, bud. You look run down.”

“Been workin’ like a horse, Eddie.”

Mark knotted his tie, took Bernamer’s arm and hugged it a little, walking into the library. Olive dropped a newspaper and told him he looked “gorgeous” in a weary voice, then poured coffee into his cup on the low stand by a large chair close to the fire. She was smoking. The vapour didn’t hide yellowish hollows about her eyes.

“No, I didn’t sleep well, old man. Rather fagged.”

“We waked you up pretty early,” said Bernamer, “Sit down, bud, and drink your coffee.”

Mark lounged in the deep chair. Bernamer asked Olive if she had liked Washington but stood patting Mark’s shoulder and rather troubled the drinking of coffee. Gurdy came down the blue rug with some mail.

“Look and see if there’s anything important, sonny. Probably ain’t.... Hello, sister!”

Margot roamed down the library in a black dress. But she paused yards from his stretched hand and frowned incomprehensibly. Gurdy turned at the desk with a letter against his grey coat. Margot said, “I suppose Gurdy’s told you.”

Gurdy thrust his jaw up toward the ceiling. Olive rose with a flat, rasping “Margot” and Bernamer hissed, his fingers tight on Mark’s shoulder. Mark set down his coffee cup and looked at them all.

“Oh, no one’s said anything?” Margot put a knee on a small chair and stroked the velvet back. “Well, we’d better get it over. I was turned out of the hotel in Philadelphia last--”

“Shut up,” said Bernamer, “Shut your mouth!”

She went on, staring at Mark, “I’m going to marry him as soon as he can get a divorce, dad.... No use trying to lie about it. I belong to Cosmo and--and that’s all.” She passed a hand over her mouth. Then her bright slippers twinkled as she walked out of the room. Mark blinked after her. Something had happened. He looked up at Bernamer whose face was rocky, meaningless. Gurdy ran to Mark and spoke in gasps, beating a fist on his hip.

“Russell called me at the farm about two--Dad went down with me.--We talked to the manager--We bribed him.--Russell gave the hotel detective a check for a thousand dollars--”

“I guess they’ll keep their mouths shut,” said Bernamer, “Told ’em they’d each get another check in six months if we didn’t hear nothin’.--Now it ain’t so bad, bud. Margot says this feller can get a divorce from Cora Boyle--He was gone and we didn’t see him. It might be worse.”

“Stop hittin’ your leg, Gurd. You’ll hurt yourself,” said Mark.

He rose and began to walk up and down the tiles of the hearth. One of his hands patted the front of his coat. His face was empty. He seemed wonderfully thin. Olive watched him in terror of a cry. Gurdy and his father drew off against the shelves of still books. Bernamer commenced rolling a cigarette. After a while Mark said, “It’s the way I was brought up, Olive.”

“Oh, Mark, try to--to see her point of view. She loved him. She sees something we don’t--It’s--”

“Sure. That’s so.--Oh, you’re right.”

He walked on, aware of them watching, helpless. Things passed and turned in his head. He was being silly, old-fashioned. Ought to collect himself. Ought to do something for Gurdy who wouldn’t have her, now. Get the boy something to do. Get his mind off it. “Call the office, sonny. Tell them to close ‘Todgers Intrudes.’ Give the company two weeks’ pay. Have Hamlin write checks--Didn’t try to thrash this Rand, did you?”

“We didn’t see him. He’d gone.”

“That’s good. Call the office.”

The boy went to the telephone, far off on its desk and began to talk evenly. Mark stumbled over to Bernamer and mumbled, “Keep him busy. Awful jolt for him, Eddie. Takes it fine.”

“He ain’t in love with her, bud.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Set down, bud. Better drink--”

“No.--Ain’t been any saint, myself. Girls are different.--Maybe he’s a nice fellow.--Took it nice about the play being closed.--I’m all right, Olive. Sort of a shock.”

He walked on. Then he was too tired to walk and Bernamer made him sit in the chair by the hearth. He stared at the blue rug and it seemed to clear his head. He became immobile, watching a white thread. The world centred on this wriggle of white on the blue down. He lapsed into dullness, knowing that Gurdy stood close to him. He should think of things to say, consolations. The boy must be in tortures. He was dull, empty.

Bernamer beckoned Olive. They went out of the library and the farmer shut the door without jarring the silver handle. Olive found herself dizzy. She said, “You have something to--”

“Let’s get downstairs where I can smoke. You’re sick. This is as bad on you--”

He helped her downstairs into the drawing room and was gone, came back with water in which she tasted brandy. The big man lit his cigarette and spoke in a drawl like Mark’s but heavier.

“I don’t understand this business. The little fool says she’s been in love with this feller a long time--a couple of years. He ain’t made love to her ’til last night. Well?”

“I don’t understand it any more than do you. I’m--horrified. I knew she admired his acting. He’s handsome. Very handsome.”

The man nodded and his blue eyes were gentle on her. He drawled, “Why the hell didn’t he stay and face the music? The manager told him to get out. Mr. Russell says he just packed up and left.--I can’t make this out. Margot had Mr. Russell waked up because she hadn’t any money to come home with.”

“I must talk to her.... Why did we leave her there?”

“You thought she’d got sense enough to know better. It ain’t your fault. I got to go home because I don’t want the family to know about this. But there’s something damn funny in it.--Will you please get it out of Mark’s head that Gurdy’s in love with that girl? Make him feel better.”

“I’ll do all I can.”

He said in scorn, “She ain’t worth fussin’ with,” and held the door open. Olive shivered, passing the library where there was no sound. She climbed to Margot’s room and found the girl sitting on the edge of the sunny bed, still, smiling.

“You must be very tired, darling.”

The red lips a little parted. Margot said, “Oh ... no,” in a soft whisper. The faint noise died in the sun like the passage of a moth. Olive stood fixed before the sleek tranquillity of the black hair and the contented face. The restless stirring was gone. She smiled in beautiful contentment. The gold cord which was the girdle of this velvet gown hung brilliant and rich about the straight body. The sunny room made a shell of colour for the figure. The hair had a dazzling margin against the windows. She was untroubled, happy.

Olive dragged at her own girdle, biting her lips. She asked, “Where is Mr. Rand, dear?”

“He was coming to New York today,” Margot said in the same voice. She lifted an end of the trailing gold, then let it fall. She seemed asleep, lost in a visible dream. But she roused and spoke, “He’s loved me ever so long, Olive. I didn’t know....” and was still again. Olive choked before this happiness, turned and went down the stairs. There was no use in artifice, reasoning. Mark must accept what was done. His good sense would come back, the shock would ease into regret. His convention was outraged, of course. It was dreadful to see him in pain. Olive thrust back her own pain, a vast and weary disappointment. This wasn’t the man for the girl. This was senseless. She entered the library and Mark raised his face from the long stare at the floor, dreading Margot.

“Oh,” he said, “it ain’t your fault, Olive. Don’t cry.--I’m bein’ a fool.”