Part 16

“Oh, _no_,” said Drew, arching his eyebrows. “Oh, dear no!”

“Just the same,” went on Deane quietly, “although I’ve seen him pretend to have the quality you say he has, I’m a woman, and I would know. I would rebel.” She tapped out her cigarette. “Surely, Drew, you can see that he speculates about himself in order to enjoy his own pursuits.”

“That may be so,” agreed Drew, somewhat sardonically. “But I have something of more immediate importance, Deane. Roberts is not well. I don’t know what the trouble is, but he has changed terribly in the past few months. His reaction to Martin is instantaneous and violent. This may affect you. Please see as little as you can of him.”

“I know,” said Deane with a charming, puzzled frown. “I’ve felt it too, and sometimes it frightens me.”

“Please come to Paris,” suggested Drew impulsively, leaning forward and taking both her hands in his.

“Sweet Drew,” whispered Deane, “how good you are! But I love Martin and I need to be with him, I want to go right away to him. Now. Even now,” She stood up and held Drew’s arm as they strolled to the promenade.

“Let’s say good-by right here,” she said, her full, red lips trembling. “I’m about to cry.”

“It isn’t good-by at all, dearest,” said Drew, smiling gravely. “You know that in spite of anything, we’ll always be together. Go to Martin now, but remember that _we_ have the phone, the cable, the secret bond and love in understanding.” He kissed her on both cheeks and as Deane turned, she saw that his eyes were misty.

After she had gone, Drew went into Tai’s little room. The ship was slipping out of the pier and the child clapped his hands at the movement. Drew lay down on the couch and laid his arms over his eyes. This!—to happen for the second time in his life! It was too severe. There could not be a third. Little Tai approached softly and kissed the tears away. It was all he knew, and suddenly Drew smiled.

Before he went on the promenade he looked out through the darkness and saw the black, rolling water. He gazed at himself in the mirror and drew a warm scarf under his dark overcoat. Then he pulled his dark hat over his forehead, looked steadily at himself once more and went on deck.

He hesitated for a moment by a large ventilator as he saw a young man leaning on the rail, studying the ocean. The boy’s profile was quaint in the dim overhead lights. Drew pulled his own hat lower, turned up the collar of his coat and approached the stranger with unhurried, gentle steps.

_CHAPTER XIX_

The concert hall quieted. Conversation hushed.

The White Peacock,[3] sorrowful and majestic, appeared in the faint light. Winding through deep white reeds, brushing through ghostly ferns, he approached. Wading the moon-puddles, breaking the mist with silver feathers, he looked at Deane. Holding his white throat into the stars, moving the fallen petals, he sang to her—sang a clear, demanding song of his remote, pale island. Deane shivered under the soft notes, loosening her gown. The White Peacock, his snowy tail drifting over the moon-flowers, lifted his scarlet eyes—lifted his eyes through clouds and placed each strong tone against her.... The music changed tempo. The white bird screamed shrilly, his bright whistle falling through glissandi of sound. The exquisite melody rose into the wind, hesitated, and dropped murmuring into the white sea.... The White Peacock faded in the fluid light, became distant—Deane, following with her arms the receding shadow.

The music died. People moved in their chairs and the subdued whispers grew into applause. The mood was broken and Deane touched her eyes. She put on a coat of soft gray fur, adjusted her little tight-fitting blue toque and carelessly pinned back on her collar a small bunch of violets which had fallen to her lap during the concert. As she was rising someone addressed her.

“Then you, too, are fond of modern music?”

Surprised, Deane looked up. Roberts stood before her.

“It was beautiful,” she answered. “Beautiful, and intimate.”

Roberts smiled in appreciation, acutely aware of the faint and lovely perfume of her violets.

“Did you come alone, Deane?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then,” said the adviser, his voice curiously naive and youthful, “let me drive you home. I have my car.”

She stepped into the aisle by his side and as they walked out together the distinguished grace of his movements and the coloring in his cheeks, still flushed by the spell of the music, made Deane conscious of the beauty of a sex that shocked her heart but held her mind; and in this acceptance every light in her hair and eyes acquired luminance until she was betrayed—and Roberts looked, turned blind, and never looked again.

The early darkness of winter had descended and the streets were brightly lit with red and green lights. Snow, falling gently, coated the buildings and walks. The holiday atmosphere—the thought of Christmas, gave them a feeling of friendliness. They drove over to Fifth Avenue.

All down the broad expanse of the great boulevard swept the Yuletide spirit. The thick streams of people, carrying boxes and parcels wrapped in colored paper, seemed compact—a constant mass instead of one of gigantic fluctuation. At the corners they bumped and jostled each other, frantically trying to retrieve dropped packages, laughing all the while. There they were, pouring their laughter and hustle and gay concern over the Avenue—a huge, comforting block of the world, this infinite throng.

As Deane and Roberts passed St. Patrick’s Cathedral they noticed that the doors of the church had been thrown open—a silent welcome to the holiday crowds. There was an impression of austere immensity; and over the kneeling figures which had sought tranquillity within the sacred vault there shone a great soft radiance, whether from electric lights or candles on the altar, Deane and Roberts did not know.

Farther down the Avenue they could hear the muffled sound of chimes; and as they drew near one of the department stores the sound became more brilliant until they noticed that behind the glass of the one window which ran its entire front length there was nothing but an illusion of depth in a green-blue sky and two large gold bells, swinging slowly back and forth.

Deane turned to Roberts and was astonished to find that he was looking at her instead of the lovely window.

“It is as glorious as that other vault we passed,” she said quietly, amazed at his attitude.

“Yes,” he answered, still regarding her gravely, “and although beauty, to me, is but a dream gone by—a vagrant moment—a motion lost before it’s held—oddly, I find it stationary for one evening.” He paused and added, looking at her fixedly, “Even within a superb commercial painting.”

The chiming now covered the air with invisible shadows. There was an icy wind; and as Deane sensing its fury within the well-heated car, pulled her coat more tightly around her shoulders, Roberts again caught the perfume of the flowers she was wearing, and their fragrance seemed to him to become as audible—to have a resonance and vibration quite as definite as the chimes.

They spoke no more but continued down the Avenue until they came upon a children’s shop with such a pretty charm about it that Roberts stopped the car. For the shop’s display there was a miniature snowstorm—a tiny replica of the one outside which was increasing in density each moment. Amidst the artificial snow within the window were artificial children posed in different attitudes. One small boy had his hand raised against a snowman as though building him. A little girl stood by, just watching. And still another boy was stooped as though gathering more snow. The scene was such a dainty one that Roberts looked at it wistfully, with a reserved hunger that seemed to demand release; and Deane, fascinated, clasped her hands together. On the street a ragged boy, walking beside a hulk of a man, stopped for a moment to look quietly, but in silent despair at these happy children who played in the snow and wore such pretty clothes. He stared particularly at the little girl, with her long, blond curls and piquant face and her little dress and coat that were like a dream. But the man, resentful, cuffed the boy’s cheek roughly, pulling him along. The lad cringed. Deane thought she heard him cry out once and turned her face away; while Roberts, who had also witnessed the episode, started the car and drove on swiftly through the storm.

Near the lower part of the Avenue, just before they turned off on Deane’s street, they came upon a Christmas tree which had been set up in the courtyard of a large apartment hotel. The branches of the pine were straight and proud; and instead of the usual strings of many-colored lights which had dressed the other trees along the boulevard, on this, there were dull points of red under the boughs, or brilliant ones of green that stood far out, so awkwardly, that by their very misplacement the tree appeared to be native and uncut. It was without tinsel. There was only the snow. The wind and the shadows did the rest. The unusual reflections dwelt upon Deane’s face and Roberts turned to her impulsively.

“You are beautiful this evening, Deane,” he said.

She looked at him once more and smiled, although she was a bit perplexed. For some time she continued to gaze at him, watching the man, as vivid as the tree itself against the snow. Then abruptly, the notion came to her that his temperament might be flexible, and she lifted her head higher, as though challenging him. Her eyes were sparkling.

Roberts seemed frightened at first at her audacity and turned away in embarrassment. Then, looking back to meet her dancing eyes, he broke into a choppy laugh of singular amusement which Deane echoed. During the rest of the drive they were silent; but there was a tenuous bond of understanding between them; and when they reached Deane’s apartment, Roberts stopped the engine and placed his hand lightly on hers.

“Yes, you are a beautiful and an intricate woman,” he said quietly.

Deane quickly withdrew her hand. She was surprised at the instantaneous feeling of revulsion which came over her. There had been no possessiveness in Roberts’ action—no suggestion of desire or intimacy. It had been the movement of a child. But the contact had chilled her. What was the quality about him that disturbed her now? Could it be a strong jealousy of his interest in Martin? She could see Roberts stiffen in the semi-darkness.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, with hauteur. “My remark was entirely impersonal.”

“I know,” she said gently. Then, annoyed with herself, she added, “I was thinking of Drew. To-night he arrives in France. I wonder if it is snowing there.”

The adviser dropped his shoulders.

“It is snowing everywhere,” he said gravely. And as he assisted Deane out of the car, he repeated, “—everywhere.”

Feeling his wild and plaintive loneliness and his sorrow, Deane stepped quite close to him, resting her gloved hand on his sleeve.

“William!” she murmured softly.

For one moment, their antipodal forces swung into parallel; and, so going, Deane and Roberts smiled together.

* * * * *

When Martin came that evening, Deane said to him at once, “I saw Roberts at the concert and he brought me home in his car. I liked him better than ever before.”

“Well,” Martin was thoughtful, “I can’t say that I like it—oh, you needn’t explain his charm! I’m quite aware of it. But I’m afraid of his mind. I’m afraid of the way it works, and I wish to God he’d get out of the picture. It’s getting a little too uncanny—the way he checks on me.” Martin pulled his chair closer to Deane’s. “I found out that he tried to block my part-time job. Still, with all of it,” he continued, “my attitude toward him remains variable; for underneath his mask lies a real and secret protest. This protest is limitless—and if I’m right, rather beautiful.” Martin laughed shortly. “Odd as it may be, I’m certain that I’m responsible for many of his appearances. His sickness, if he _is_ sick, is now abiding in a perfect culture.”

“And what is that?” asked Deane, looking at him with her large eyes.

“A medium of vicious love engendered by myself.”

Deane laughed without restraint.

“Darling,” she said, taking Martin’s face in her hands, “you want to be so awfully bad, don’t you?”

Martin smiled with her and she was satisfied, promptly forgetting the adviser.

“Drew looked very sad when he left, Martin,” she said. “Tell me—did he go just because of you?”

“Deane,” Martin said quite seriously, “we mustn’t keep on thinking that all these forces are created by me.” Martin was pale in the shadows. “That would be a timeless, horrible thought—a possible eternity. Can anything be more terrible than eternity? All this action is separate from myself. It _must_ be. It’s not possible that my demand has been too much!” He was speaking hoarsely when Deane put her arms around him.

“Darling,” she whispered, “I understand. Won’t you love me a little?” By instinct she had given him that temporary haven where the mind of man retreats after being frightened by its own infinite possibilities. Deane’s gentle whisper and her fascinating implication of certain physical contacts quieted his nerves abruptly and he felt as though a sweet fire were crossing his spine. He closed his eyes, and allowing Deane to lead him into the gray-paneled bedroom, he lay back on the sheets, feeling her soft hands stroke his skin until he shivered.

“Delightful boy—delicious boy,” she said, her voice trembling and growing fainter.

Martin tried to speak to her, but his mouth was dry. He lifted his arms and held on to the rail of the bed, trying to pull away from the searing. Then it overcame him. He rolled and pretended to fight, but in his brain there was only an exultant shouting.

As Deane knelt at the foot of the bed she looked down at Martin and thought of the White Peacock; of the Gargoyle; and of their relation to this man; and she felt the lustful brooding of this trilogy which was dominant in her life. Her breasts rubbed against the fine hair of his knees and each touch made her wilder. Pulling at him, she crawled up beside him, her fingernails scratching the sheets. Then, from her throat came a strange cry, a small cry, like the wail of a new-born child.

* * * * *

The snow kept piling against the windshield. Once, Roberts had to get out and wipe it off from the outside. As he stepped back into the car his foot slipped on something. Deane’s violets! He flung them into the snow. In his imagination he saw Martin and Deane together—saw her laughingly repeat their conversation of the afternoon. He visualized Martin’s shrug, and contemptuous remarks. Roberts’ cheeks burned in the dark and he drove more recklessly. At this very moment the woman was probably in Martin’s arms.... Martin, with his sultry gray eyes and tanned face. Martin, outlined like a flame before him.... Roberts breathed the cold wind and spoke aloud. “He deserves nothing but my hatred. If I could make him suffer as he has made me suffer! His picture before me always!—superior, contemptuous and desirable! The night he sat with me in my apartment, fresh from the sea—wind and salt in his eyes and hair, I thought I had found life. My happiness stretched into the horizon of his understanding. Solemn and patient, he spoke to me and laughed with me. Now, he speaks of me, and laughs _at_ me—with her! I can hear him laughing—” Roberts voice rose more fiercely. “He is saying, ‘What?—tried to hold your hand? What the devil would he want with that?’” The irritating, superior tones rang in Roberts’ imagination. “Yes, I can hear them: ‘Poor old Roberts—what a pity—chap must lead an awful life—imagine going around with that handicap—not that there’s any moral application, just a matter of convenience—continually frustrated.’” Roberts pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “The cattle!” he whispered hoarsely. “As if they could understand—as if _anyone_ could understand. Damn them—their laughter and their insufferable attitude! Damn their happiness.... Drink it, Roberts!—That I should measure my life in terms of one night! One night with Martin, with his young face and old eyes. With his laughter and his understanding. What agony to be born one night and die the same! Better not to be born at all.... Why, Martin, did you swagger through the door with your flapping dungarees and proud head?... Angels dancing in the eyes that hold only devils now. Such insolence! A bright, beautiful distillation of evil. Martin—the god of selfishness, salt to the desire. A blinding picture that grows with absence. A dust that burns the eyes and chokes the appetite.... Delete the image!—step upon it, crush it only to see it rise anew, more beautiful and vicious than before.” Hot tears distorted Roberts’ vision. He drew his hand across his face angrily. In a flashing, intolerable whiteness, he saw himself swinging on the tapestry of his heritage. “God!” he cried into the night. “Predestination—crucified in the womb!” The image grew more hateful in his mind. The cold wind dried his tears. Slowly his mouth narrowed into a fanatical line. “He has made me suffer. Moving relentlessly, superficially, over people and life—eating life and dripping its tantalizing crumbs from an overstuffed mouth—ruthless and immaculate, he has made me suffer.” Roberts’ face was white in the light from the windshield. White, unsmiling and purposeful.

_CHAPTER XX_

Martin met few people; but there was an atmosphere of tension everywhere he walked. It didn’t make any difference what color their eyes were—blue or brown or clay, there was action. Mostly it was antipathy engendered by something the fulcrum of this hate could not understand. Sometimes, however, it was love—a piercing, shrill movement that fell, ageless and sexless, over his shoulders.

He did well with his work at the printing plant and was finally transferred to a night shift where he found, to his relief, that the hours were shorter, thus giving him precious moments that he could spend with Deane or devote to the perfecting of his type design. He liked also the quality of concentrated activity during these working hours at the plant, occasioned in part by the darkness which enveloped the building and grounds. He had no contact with the men around him except at coffeetime; and they, in turn, sensed an indivisible chasm where their thoughts and his whirled in confusion above them.

Once, during the evening, a machine squirted. The operator, swearing loudly, kicked back his chair and was picking the lead from his trousers when Martin glanced up, a phrase from the copy still in his mind. He went to the man at once to help him; but the molten metal, already hardened into splinters, had entered the fleshy part of the operator’s leg, and the man, in considerable discomfort, nodded his thanks to Martin and still swearing, softly now to himself, limped out of the room and down the hall.

It was two o’clock in the morning and time for the men to knock off. In the awkward blue light Martin wiped a smear of oil from his cheek. The mirror was so distorted and the light so penetrating that his face seemed one sided and all the lines about his mouth and eyes were pulling in the wrong directions. He washed his hands and face, glanced again into the crazy mirror, buttoned his pea-jacket and headed for his room in Greenwich Village.

His street was in a dimly lighted section made up of rooming houses occupied chiefly by small tradesmen. He had walked several blocks before he stopped to light a cigarette. It was very quiet and through the shabby elms the night seemed beautiful and lonely. As he started on he heard someone behind him. From the sound of the step, it was a woman. Vaguely, he wondered about her; but he walked on briskly, enjoying this brief, cold freedom, then stopped again, looking with interest straight overhead at the same stars he had watched move in different latitudes and from different ships. For the second time he heard the steps behind him and turned round. At this, they broke off sharply, but not before Martin had caught a distinctive note in them. They had a giddy pitch that was not purely feminine. His curiosity was aroused. He started down the street once more, walking slowly now, with a precise, even stride. Then he stopped abruptly. The feet behind him tapped on for a second, fluttered, hesitated and stopped again. Suddenly, in Martin’s mind, the unmusical gait gathered motif, meaning and form. He remembered a repulsively ardent smile.... “Carol!” he shouted. There was no answer. Again he tried. “Hi! Carol!” This time his follower ran quickly toward him.

“How did you know it was me, Martin?” asked the boy excitedly, all smiles.

Martin, chameleon-like, studied the dregs of his memory for similar situations or, he thought grimly, singular opportunities; for this was not an element to be faced, but one to be absorbed.

“We all have our characteristics, Carol,” he answered evenly.

“Do you like mine, Martin?” Carol’s plaintive tone softened the eager, beseeching import of his question.

Again Martin hesitated. He well knew that the middle path was not as the Romans had worked it out—a smooth highway, without deviation. He knew that the middle path must fluctuate with both extremes to deserve the term—which in this case, he observed to himself further with a certain cynical amusement, was between a bitch and a son-of-a-bitch. He took hold of the young man’s arm and spoke to him in a friendly fashion.

“Let’s go on up to my place, Carol,” he said.

On the dark stairs Carol followed close at his heels. Martin could feel little tugs at his coat as the young man hung on to him in a sort of childish panic and Martin had a distinct impression that Carol was groping for his hand. He could feel the boy’s breath on the back of his neck as they continued to climb; and when they reached the dark landing just outside Martin’s room, Carol was still hanging on to him feverishly. Martin fumbled for the keyhole, succeeded in finding it at last, opened the door and turned on a dim light. Carol followed him into the room, sighed with relief and closed the door quickly behind them.

He stood there, just inside, his hand still on the doorknob, gazing around him with wide eyes and obviously taking notes. There was a pallet on the floor in one corner, an old couch across from it and a writing desk in the center of the room. He could see a T-square, erasers and jumbled pieces of paper on the desk beside a miniature of Deane. He turned his head away suddenly at sight of the picture. In another corner of the room was a washbowl with a screen half around it. There was a general air of carelessness about the place which apparently made him nervous. Martin could see him straightening up things in his mind.

“It’s really more comfortable than it looks, Carol,” he said, trying to put his guest more at ease. “They keep the rooms warm and that bed sleeps better than it appears.” He unbuttoned his pea-jacket and hung it on a nail on the wall. “Take off your coat, Carol, won’t you?—and tell me what it’s all about. Two o’clock’s an odd time to go creeping after people. Why didn’t you call out?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t like it,” answered the boy, biting his lip. He removed his thickly woven plaid overcoat, looked for a moment at the nail where Martin’s jacket hung, then folded his own coat meticulously, gave it a final pat and placed it with the utmost care over the back of the rocker.

“I don’t like it, when it’s handled that way,” said Martin, keeping his voice smooth. “I prefer a ‘hello.’”

Carol spoke softly.

“I had to follow you. Deane told me where you worked.”

“You asked her?” For the first time, Martin was genuinely annoyed.

Carol smiled unhappily.