BOOK I

1

About twenty-five years ago, Pedro Gonzola bought that handsome brown stone residence at the corner of Twelfth Street and Fifth Avenue, and presented it to his bride on their wedding day. As the name implied, they were of Spanish origin, and known as devout Catholics, supporting the Church spiritually and materially.

Shortly before Julie was born, her father died suddenly, stricken down with heart failure. The young widow was stunned by the loss of her handsome adoring husband; her uncontrollable grief nearly cost her the life of her coming child, who suffered from her mother’s anguish--at least that’s what the good Dr. McClaren said.

After her great misfortune Mrs. Gonzola gave up the world and devoted herself to her religion and the care of her little daughter. Julie was sent to the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Seventeenth Street. The Sisters educated her under the personal supervision of her mother; their reports were satisfactory; the child was docile and receptive, but inclined to emotional exaggeration; she would remain in the chapel long after the other children had left, and once they found her prostrate before the Virgin in a state of ecstatic self-oblivion, which ended in a fit of hysteria. There was no cause for worry, as otherwise she was “full of life” and a general favorite. Mrs. Gonzola tried conscientiously to impress her daughter with the dignity of her wealth, social position, and family distinction; but as the girl grew into a woman, there was an ever-present irritating sense of failure.

Julie Gonzola at sixteen, with her brilliant exotic beauty, was a mystery to her friends, her mother, herself. She was acutely conscious of strange emotions, which she instinctively concealed; hers was a nature of unexpected impulses, tragic possibilities, baffling secrets. She came of an old stock on her father’s side, and on her mother’s she could look down a long corridor, where she saw shadowy forms, which frightened her. She was different from her girl friend, who was care-free, bubbling, sparkling, dashing along like a brook which overflows its bounds out of sheer rapture.

Maud Ailsworth lived down the street. There were no complications in _her_ life. She ruled her mother, who was an invalid, and physically her inferior. Maud romped all day long in the street with the boys. Mrs. Gonzola never allowed Julie to do that; she was very indulgent in her way, denying the girl nothing--but freedom. Julie was outwardly submissive; she was sorry for her mother, who sat alone in her room crying, silent iron tears of impotent despair.

There were two boys in the street whom Maud liked; as she grew older she determined to marry one of them, but she found to her great disappointment they were both hot after Julie. Floyd Garrison, a pretty boy of an old American family, was very well brought up; Martin Steele was a mongrel, a brute, a ruffian, but there was something very likable about him. Maud looked on, watched them wrestling for the privilege of carrying Julie’s books when she came from school, with her maid. There were fist fights for her as children, rivalry as youths, and bitterness as men. But Maud wasn’t discouraged; Julie couldn’t marry both of them; there would be always one left for her. Then she had Tom Dillon in reserve; he was common, but she owned him; he was her slave.

Julie was afraid of Martin Steele; he had bad manners and a violent temper. He was always mussing up her hair, and winding her curls around his fingers. Floyd was too polite to do that. There was a party at Maud Ailsworth’s; Tom Dillon, that mischievous imp, put out the lights. The boy next to Julie kissed her, pressing her to him with terrible force; it was Martin. After that, he kissed her whenever he found her alone, and he managed it often. She liked his hot unboyish kisses.

2

The Garrisons had lived four generations in a little wooden house in East Twelfth Street, “a very pretty shanty” Martin called it, set back, with a garden, and a wooden fence to protect the lawn and flowers from passing vandals.

A portrait of the ancestor who founded the family fortune hangs today in our Museum. “Yan Geritsen, baker,” endowed with business sagacity, bought land under water in New Amsterdam for “thirty cents,” left it to his son, with orders not to sell. Succeeding generations drained and developed it. The name smelt of newly baked bread; it gradually evolved itself into Garrison. They were one of the fast disappearing families, who remained as they began--modest and thankful. They brought up their son with a sense of responsibility, as trustee for the coming son. There were no girls as far back as could be remembered; each family branch had one son. Floyd’s father, “Jimmy” Garrison, married a school marm. He became acquainted with her in Boston. She was very poor, but descended from _the_ Aldens. Prudence Alden was a pale silent girl with a hidden fountain of irrepressible love in all its rare purity. Young Garrison’s friends couldn’t see what _he_ saw in her.

Garrison had never been in business; he disliked the everlasting talk about money which was rapidly becoming God under the title of the “Almighty” dollar. He had many acquaintances and one faithful friend, Colonel Garland, a Southern gentleman, who had made a reputation “up North” as a corporation lawyer, when trusts were springing up over night like toadstools. The Colonel retained his sombrero, his soft accent, his passionate devotion to a few friends, and many women. When Jimmy Garrison put the administration of his estate into Colonel Garland’s hands, it was intact, just as his father had left it.

“Let us pull down those old hulks and build up warehouses,” said the Colonel. Garrison refused to consider that.

“The estate was not bought yesterday, for speculation. It has always brought us enough to live on modestly, and something over; if I get four per cent., I’m well satisfied.”

In time, modern buildings were erected on both sides of the Garrison “hulks,” which, although kept clean and in repair, had to be rented below the market value. Conservative policy has its good side; many went under in the frenzy of over-building. In such a young country the cult of silence, material rest, creative thought were as yet unknown; the man who did not create capital was considered an idler; Garrison continued to the end of his peaceful, worryless life, a gentleman.

The first realization of pain was the sudden death of his beloved Prudence; he had to live for his boy and looked about, seeking a sustaining force.

He rigged up a workshop in the top of his house, and took to modeling figures, which were very well done--every-day people he had known, the little Italian shoe boy, the newspaper woman, his friends, idealized of course, his wife in every mood, his boy. He was particularly successful with a smiling old Irishman, a pipe in his mouth, a hod on his shoulder, standing at the foot of a ladder looking upward. He called that figure “the Ancestor,” which title was a secret source of amusement to him, although he was too good-natured to say _whose_ ancestor.

When asked the inevitable question,

“What business are you in, Mr. Garrison?”

Garrison would answer gravely,

“I muddle in clay.”

3

The Steeles lived next door to the Garrisons in an ugly high-stoop, four-story brick mansion, which threw a dark shadow on one side of the little garden, necessitating Garrison to move his flower-beds away.

Martin was five years older than Floyd and twenty years more experienced. He loved Floyd in his way, but love was not an element of his nature. Floyd looked up to him, as a little boy would to an elder one who condescended to be his friend; he was sorry for Martin because Mrs. Steele was only his stepmother, that was what was wrong with him--he never had a “real” mother. Mrs. Steele was born Dolly Winthrop of Boston; she was very tall, very thin, very straight, with small transparent ears lying flat against her head. The only large thing about her was her flow of language--that was tremendous. Mrs. Steele’s “family tree” reposed on the parlor table in a red velvet album--“reposed” is a very inappropriate word, for she never gave the poor thing any rest. She was constantly turning over its pages, adding, multiplying, never subtracting, until it fell quite to pieces, but she convinced the old New Yorkers of her right to be one of them.

The “exclusives” of Massachusetts never forgave Dolly Winthrop’s marriage with “that Steele man” who was fat, florid, wordless, and a widower with a child. There were still spots in the Union where pedigree and culture were of more value than “money”; but Dolly Winthrop had made her calculation and it turned out a good bargain. Her husband and his father devoted all their time to business; they accumulated great wealth, and were not perceptible in her richly woven society tapestry. There was one she couldn’t wipe out--that terrible boy Martin. She tried honestly to make something of him, but he was not to be moulded. She took him to her summer home in Nantucket. The Winthrop Homestead had ship-lamps, a model of the _Mayflower_, clocks that struck “bells”--numbered hours were disdained; there were also stuffed seagulls which Martin set up as skittles, and a tottering old sailor who took care of the garden and gave the necessary atmosphere. Aunt Priscilla, Mrs. Steele’s maiden sister, lived there all the year. In Nantucket, Martin’s capacity of hatred found fertile soil for expansion; he hated the ocean; its unceasing roar fretted him; he thought of a big sea monster in chains, writhing, howling, foaming at the mouth. He hated Aunt Priscilla, who was Calvinist, Puritan, Patriot, anti-everything else. She took unusual pains to enlighten the “little savage” about the distinguished pedigree of his stepmother’s family. One day she read to him for three hours, in her correct English “twang,” the history of those good old Colonial times, when her direct ancestor was a Judge in Salem. The boy’s eyes took on a glitter which meant mischief.

“I’d like to be a Judge in them times.”

“You mean, you’d like to _have_ been a Judge in _those_ times,” corrected Aunt Priscilla.

“Have been,” mumbled the boy.

Aunt Priscilla was delighted; at last she had awakened the pride of ancestry in that little soul.

“Now tell me, dear, what would you _have done_ if you _had been_ a Judge in Salem.”

“I’d burn you.”

4

One day Floyd found out there was a mystery on the top floor of the Steele house; it was Martin’s fourteenth birthday. He invited Floyd to ice-cream and cake. “Julie Gonzola was coming.” There was plenty to eat, but Floyd lost his appetite looking at little Julie sitting up on a high chair with all the best things piled before her. She let Martin pile them, but she didn’t touch them--she couldn’t, in a strange house.

Toward evening the maid came to take her home. The two boys stood at the window as she went past enveloped in white furs, her little feet stepping out firmly, her head erect.

Martin’s eyes snapped.

“I’m going to marry Julie.”

“Not if I know it.”

Martin turned and swept the boy with a cold disdain terrible in one so young. It hurt Floyd; he remembered that look, years after. He said nothing, but turned to go.

Martin stopped him.

“Stay with me; I’m lonesome.”

There was a touch of pathos in his voice.

“Come, I’ll show you some family relics.”

He led the way to the garret, four stories high; it was filled with old furniture, spinning wheels, oil paintings--some wretchedly bad, others fairly good, all with heavy gold frames; every piece was ticketed with a name and date, in the different generations of the family.

Then Martin became confidential.

“I’ll tell you something, but don’t mention it to my mother. These things are all fakes; she haunts the auction sales, she’s a good judge--she knows what fits in, she’s got a whole lot more in storage. We’re going to move away from here.”

Floyd got a chill.

“What! You were born here! You will never leave your home?”

Martin’s mocking laugh rang out.

“Oh, you’re too sentimental. She’s not going to sell the house; that wouldn’t look well. She’s going to fill it with our ‘family’ antiques, and donate it to the city as an ‘Art Museum.’”

Floyd was struck silent as usual by Martin’s terrible lack of heart.

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“Somebody singing.”

Martin looked troubled.

“Nonsense, there’s nobody up here. Let’s go down.”

He drew Floyd into the hall; there was a door opposite.

It _was_ somebody singing--a man’s voice, broken, harsh, rising, and falling in a strange inflection.

Martin, with a look of fear mingled with shame, tried to draw Floyd downstairs. A heavy fist on the door pushed it open. A man of gigantic stature rushed out. At first glance, Floyd saw only a pair of wonderful mocking eyes--Martin’s eyes; there was a strange light in them. The man was mad. Martin sprang at him, tried to push him back into the room. He was too strong for the boy. Then Martin coaxed him. Was that Martin’s voice, so loving, so sweet? He spoke in a foreign tongue, strange to Floyd. The old man looked curiously at Floyd, then said “Grutsie” and bowed respectfully. He learnt afterwards “Grutsie” was Swiss dialect for “I greet you.”

The man had huge hands, knotty, sun-dried; the open flannel shirt revealed a chest covered with thick hair. He had an enormous head, and a thick white mane falling over his eyes. He wore corduroy trousers to the knees and a pair of high deerskin boots with heavy nails in the soles. He paced unceasingly. The floor was covered with indentures. Martin shut the door carefully, took down a harness with bells which hung on the wall, threw it over the old man’s head, cracking a heavy whip, yelling at the top of his voice, lashing him with sharp quick blows. The old man growled like a beaten beast; the whip hurt him; the young devil was strong; in the sensual intoxication of brute force, they forgot the horrified boy looking on.

The door was flung open. Mrs. Steele stood there, deathly pale.

“Stop that noise, you’ll rouse the neighbors; how dare you bring Floyd up here?” She grasped Martin’s hand, pushing him toward the door.

The old man slunk into a corner; he was evidently afraid of her.

“Let me go!” roared Martin.

“I won’t. You’ll be punished for this.” Then a struggle followed; Floyd never forgot it. She held him with her small strong hands; he bit them. She struck him across the mouth; he kicked her. She cried out with pain, but she held him fast. Floyd, with a terrified cry, rushed down the stairs and out of the house.

5

Mr. Garrison was working at his clay figures, thinking how much Floyd was growing like his mother; he had her sensitive, ideal nature. The boy’s love for Julie might be a great blessing; it might be the contrary.... He would like to live long enough to see that beautiful little girl a woman.

Floyd broke into the room, sobbing out what he had seen. Mr. Garrison quieted him, and told him the story of the Steele family, as he had it from his friend, Colonel Garland.

The old man in the garret was Martin’s grandfather, a Swiss peasant, who had come to America in the steerage, with his boy, a child of four. He obtained a position as waiter in a downtown cafe, and the boy grew up in the streets. In ten years the father was head waiter in a Fifth Avenue hotel, frequented by Wall Street men. He never spoke more than a waiter’s English. His boy came out of school with a correct knowledge of grammar, but was silent, uncouth, unfriendly. Waiting for his father one night, in the kitchen of the hotel, he noticed one of the dishwashers, a very young blonde girl, crying bitterly. He questioned her; she told him she was Swiss, like himself, that she had been in America a short time, and was very unhappy. He comforted her. When it became no longer possible to conceal her condition, he married her; this was a bitter blow to the old waiter, who had, in those twenty years of deprivation, saved one hundred thousand dollars, and wanted to make a gentleman out of his son. Fate favored him. The girl died giving birth to a boy. The doctors could not understand the case; she was a very strong, healthy peasant; but Martin in a burst of anguish insisted she had died of homesickness.

Mr. Garrison explained to Floyd the word “nostalgia,” originating with the Swiss, which meant their longing for their native soil when absent; the pain is intolerable, ending often in death. Floyd was very sorry for the poor peasant mother.

“Then what happened?”

“The old man started in the hotel supply business; he rented one of my shanties on the river front. The firm is still there. I used to see old Steele walking up and down before that sign on the door. ‘Martin Steele and Son.’ I could never make friends with young Steele; he was sullen, wordless, and seemed to be out of his element. Then they bought the house next door and lived there a solitary life. Your mother was sorry for lonely little Martin, and had him often in here to play with you. When Dolly Winthrop came from Boston to visit us, we saw she had her eye on the rich widower.”

“And she got him,” said Floyd.

“Yes, unfortunately for him.”

“And what happened then, father?”

“She dominated those poor men with her culture, shamed them with her pedigree, crushed them with her contempt. The old man fell into bad habits, drank to excess. His mind failed; people spoke of an illiterate grandfather in the house, but visitors never saw him.”...

After that episode in the garret, Mrs. Steele’s patience with the boy gave out. She insisted on sending him to a strict military school. He’d come home in the summertime when she was in Nantucket, and prowl about the city during the long evenings. In Twelfth Street, seemingly deserted, he’d run up and down stoops, pulling bells; then the “spring rollers” would fly up, and he’d count the genteel poor who were sweltering in New York; when he grew too old for such pranks, he would spend his evenings in the garret watching his father and grandfather playing a strange game of cards called “Tarac” and listening to their jargon. He learnt the game and the jargon, with great rapidity.

His father, who was always afraid of troubling his wife, died suddenly at his desk; then the old man’s mind bolted.

Mrs. Steele in a burst of confidence said one day to Mr. Garrison:

“It may be very wicked of me, but I pray to God not to let him live long.” Her prayer was answered; unrighteous prayers usually are. After that, Mrs. Steele closed the house and went to live in Boston; later she sent Martin to Harvard. Floyd wrote him several times, but his letters were not answered; it was many years before the two boys met again.

6

Floyd didn’t go to college--his father couldn’t spare him, but he gave him a good classical education, under the best professors. Mr. Garrison wasn’t training his son for business; he wanted him to be a man of culture. They took long walks into the country, with Emerson, Hawthorne, Longfellow for companions. Thoreau was revolutionary, a disjointed mind. The historical novels then in vogue were read and reread, also foreign literature. Realism, Nihilism, and all the other isms were looked into and studied as the result of “unhealthy” European conditions. Mr. Garrison moulded his son in good clay.

Sunday was the happiest day in the week for Floyd. He would slip out of the little Dutch Reform church around the corner, restless when the pastor strung out his sermon fearing he should miss Julie, who went to the Cathedral. Lately, he was fortunate to find her there without her mother.

Good Friday,--the Cathedral draped in black. The sorrow-laden music, the odor of incense gave him a sensuous feeling of emotion. Julie came down the aisle, her prayer book pressed against her heart, her eyes seeking things beyond this world. It seemed to the impressionable youth a desecration to “bring her back.”

He looked at the sad faces and bowed heads.

“It’s wonderful after so many centuries, this sense of personal loss in the people; life would be unbearable without the Easter joy, the lilies, the Resurrection.”

His words sounded poetical to him as he spoke; he was very young. Julie smiled; she seemed less divine out in the sunlight.

“I don’t feel that way, but Mother is ill and insists on my going; an empty pew doesn’t look well.”

Floyd was shocked. He had read in the “great” writers those traditional truisms we repeat mechanically. “The woman’s emotional nature endows her with the gift of Faith; she has held aloft the Banner of Religion in the great struggle against skepticism.”

They walked down Fifth Avenue. There was an expression he had never seen in Julie’s calm face, an indefinable something, as if she had pulled down a veil over her eyes. Before her house, she didn’t give him her hand as usual. She was looking expectantly at the upper windows; he followed her gaze. She waved her hand, smilingly; there was a face looking out; the light made it transparent like yellow wax. In a moment it was gone.

“Who was that?”

“My grandfather.”

“Why haven’t I seen him before?”

“He doesn’t come downstairs.”

“Is he ill?”

“No. I’ve wanted to tell you for some time, but Mother said it was nobody’s business.”

Floyd was hurt.

“Anything that concerns you is of vital interest to me. You know that, don’t you, Julie?”

“Yes, I know it.”

She braced her shoulders, looking him straight in the face; she was very proud. He liked that; most girls held themselves too cheaply.

“My grandfather doesn’t come down because he disapproves of the way we live. He says we have sold our souls.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“We are Jews. You needn’t come here again.” She went quickly up the steps and entered the house without looking back.

Floyd walked down the street towards his house. He was terribly excited; socially, he had never known any Jews. He had seen some dark fellows who were wonders at mathematics and chess; boys of their creed were limited in numbers in the colleges, kept out of social clubs, but somehow they managed to filter through everywhere. What did it mean? How could the Gonzolas be Jews? They were Catholics.

A young man came towards him, of striking appearance, with a touch of something about him not American. He put out his hand laughingly to Floyd. It was Martin.

“You’ve done with me?”

“You deserve it. Why didn’t you answer my letters?”

“Oh! I had no time; they kept my nose to the grindstone. I walked off with the prizes just to spite Aunt Priscilla. Mother is very proud of me; she calls me ‘my son’ now.” There was the old mocking glitter in his eye; he had not changed.

“Don’t be angry with me.” He took Floyd’s arm. Martin could be very winning when he wanted to. “You’ve grown into a fine, handsome fellow, with the unmistakable brand of the aristocrat; strong with the women, eh?”

“I don’t know.”

“As gone as ever on Julie?”

“More than ever.”

Then Floyd shot out a question.

“Do you know the history of the Gonzolas?”

Martin’s answer came back as quickly.

“Yes, they are baptized Jews.”

A red streak flushed Floyd’s forehead.

“Tell me about them.”

Martin leaned against the gate, revelling in Floyd’s agitation.

“The Gonzolas go back to the time when the Church in Spain commenced war on the Jews; thousands of them were baptized, but they still practiced their religion in secret. Romantic, isn’t it?”

“No; terrible.”

“Many of the Catholic Gonzolas became Bishops, Cardinals, and high state officials on account of their wealth and culture, but others, true to their Faith, fled to Amsterdam, where they founded the great banking house which spread its branches all over Europe. Julie’s grandfather was a handsome, dashing fellow. He married in the family--they all do--but he had an affair with an Austrian actress which lasted for years. Their son was brought up in the religion of his mother who became pious with age and as expiation, dedicated him to the Church. She died before he was ordained, and Gonzola, naturally opposed, easily persuaded the boy against it--and sent him to America where he took the family name. The bank he founded here was successful; he became very rich. This bastard was Julie’s father.”

“But they are Catholics, not Jews,” insisted Floyd.

“That’s the joke of it,” laughed Martin. “An ironic witticism, an impish trick of Fate. Pedro came with letters from his father, to an old friend, Joseph Abravanel, an orthodox Jew, a fanatic, of Spanish origin with infernal pride of race. He boasts his ancestors provided money to help Columbus fit out his ship. Pedro fell desperately in love with Ruth Abravanel; those Spanish Jewesses are handsome, but most of them are old maids, because they won’t marry the Germans whom they look down upon.”

“That old man I saw today at the window?”

“Is Joseph Abravanel, Mrs. Gonzola’s father.”

“But how did you know all this?”

“I’ve heard it scores of times from Julie. The crossing of the races interests me; I’ve got my own ideas about that. I’m waiting to see how it comes out.”

“It’s shocking for people to change their religion.”

Martin laughed a bit too loud, Floyd thought.

“What’s the difference? Who believes in it anyhow; do you?”

Floyd evaded a direct answer.

“We practice many things out of respect for our parents and our social position.” He was undeniably well brought up.

“There’s one thing I like about Julie,” said Martin. “In spite of everything, she remains a true daughter of her race. I like in her the sensuousness of the Oriental; oh, I don’t mean sexness--that may also be there latent; I hope it is. I see in her the Shulamite maiden who gets up from her couch at night and goes to seek her lover.”

“What do you know about Julie? You’ve been away so long.”

“I’ve been a week in New York.”

Floyd was angry, injured. “Perhaps you’ve been writing to her all this time.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“I suppose she was very glad to see you.”

“I don’t know. I was mad to see her. I couldn’t wait; I went straight there.”

There was a look of passion in Martin’s face. Floyd hated him. He turned and entered the gate. Martin was at his elbow.

“I’m coming in to see your father.”

At dinner Martin kept up a fire of witty criticisms. Floyd was silent, preoccupied.

“Your house has been shut up for some time. Where is your mother?”

“In Nantucket. She loves the shores where her ancestors landed, in sailing vessels.”

“Your mother’s pride of nationality is quite natural; I also feel it.”

“You don’t parade it. My mother makes capital out of it.”

“But,” insisted Mr. Garrison, “you are an American; you were born here; you know no other home. English is your mother tongue.”

“Yes, but race is stronger than language. My people were Swiss peasants. I may look and speak like a gentleman, but sometimes the lout in me is hard to suppress.”

There was a silence. Mr. Garrison changed the subject.

“Are you going into your father’s business?”

“No--I’d smash it with my mad notions.” Then he flashed a bright look. “I’ve been daubing in oil; it’s the only thing that interests me. I shall go to Paris to study, if I live.”

Mr. Garrison was all animation. “That’s very good news. You will live; you’re young, strong.”

“Who knows--America is going into the wholesale slaughter business. She needs butchers.”

“You mean--”

“I think we’ll be pushed into the War.”

Floyd was all attention. He spoke with a thrill in his voice.

“If it comes, we Americans will not be wanting in patriotism.”

Martin didn’t seem to feel the insinuation.

“Patriotism, bah! Who cares? We’ll have to go; if we don’t, they’ll shoot us.”

Mr. Garrison was sitting with his head in his hands. Floyd arose and went to him. He had been failing for some time, complained of dizziness. Dr. McClaren couldn’t discover any organic trouble. Floyd, who watched every change of expression, saw him grow pale.

“Father--you don’t feel well.”

“Oh yes!--but I think I’ll go and rest awhile.”

He rose from the chair, staggered; Martin caught him, carried him up, and laid him on the bed.

Floyd bent over his father, frantically begging him to speak. The stricken man raised his hand in a mute blessing, then closed his eyes.

To Floyd, the next few weeks were chaotic; time, space, light, darkness lost all meaning. Martin never left him during those black days; always there in the sleepless horror of the night, to read to him, to go out and pace the streets with him, when the walls became insupportable. He would have gone under without Martin.

The funeral over, the will read by Colonel Garland, the sole executor, the few distant relatives from far and near come and gone, Floyd took up again the routine of life. Mr. Garrison had left everything to his son, whom he hoped would marry young and be happy in the old home, leaving it to _his_ son after him. The Garrisons had always lived well, in a modest way, befitting their position. He was sure Floyd would keep up the family tradition. He left money to many philanthropic institutions and to his club where he and his father before him had spent many pleasant hours and where he hoped his boy would sit many years after him.

Colonel Garland, commenting on the will to Martin, said:

“A sane, righteous testament. He was a good man....”

7

In the months that followed, Floyd saw little of Julie. She called several times with her mother, who was very sweet and amiable.

“I hope when you feel more like seeing people you’ll come to us often,” said Mrs. Gonzola.

Floyd looked at Julie, who smiled at him, and returned the pressure of his hand. Martin was a great deal at the Gonzolas’, but he didn’t mention that to Floyd. One Sunday afternoon Mrs. Gonzola came into the parlor, Martin was sitting very close to Julie, reading in rich passionate tones a love poem by Oscar Wilde; Julie started up and Martin left, but all that day she couldn’t meet her mother’s clairvoyant eyes.

“I don’t like him, Julie. He’s no class. He was an unmannerly boy and he’s a dangerous man. I’ve told James to say you’re out, the next time he calls. If you meet him accidentally, avoid him.”

“Yes, Mother,” said Julie. After that she saw him often with the assistance of a sympathetic French teacher, whose room was post-office and rendezvous for the lovers.

Martin gave Julie glimpses of “life.” He took her to all kinds of strange places--a chop suey restaurant, with its unpalatable dishes, soft lights, and insidious Chinamen; a dancing cafe which at that time was not supposed to be a place for young ladies--but best of all was Hippolyte.

Hippolyte’s Parlor flaunted on Fifth Avenue. It had a magnificent plate glass show window, fitted with Circassian walnut, in which was one red feather fan on a cushion of Nile green velvet, one jeweled comb, and a Pierrot costumed in black silk with a large white ruff, his face wonderful in its languid perversity. Up the side street there was a private door which opened halfway to let in ladies heavily veiled. Julie’s ambition was to see what was behind that fascinating door; today it is no longer a mystery. In the Middle Ages, Hippolyte would have been a miracle man summoned to a fair Venetian to deepen the red of her hair, the rose in her cheeks, the marvel of her eyes--selling for a purse of gold, charms to rob a rival of a coveted lover. Times have not changed, nor people; only appearances.

Martin took Julie into the shop one day and introduced her to Hippolyte, who pronounced her “ravissante”; thereupon Martin bought a costly box of perfume. Julie was afraid to take it home.

“I’ll settle that,” laughed Martin, and poured it over her, then they ran around the reservoir to get rid of the odor. Mrs. Gonzola noticed it, but said nothing.

Julie was standing at the window waiting for her mother. Her gloved hands impatiently agitating the curtains.

“Mother, the car is here. I shall be late for my music lesson.”

The voice answering from upstairs was nervous, trembling. “It’s impossible for me to go with you today; I’m not well.”

A flash illumined Julie’s face, but her voice was under perfect control. “I’m sorry.”

From the upper window, her mother watched her, music-roll in hand, stepping into the car. Mrs. Gonzola realized more and more acutely that her lovely child was developing into a beautiful woman; there was no feeling of joyful pride. Horrible, agonizing fear stopped the current of her blood.

Julie, alone in the car, drew a long breath. The pink of her lips turned red, the color slowly overflowing into her cheeks. She pulled the cord, asked the chauffeur in her soft, sensuous voice to stop at the nearest drug store; there she telephoned, then drove to the house of her professor. She was a gifted pianiste; she played with a sure, velvety touch, surmounting with ease all technical difficulties. The professor went into ecstasies about the beautiful child-woman with “Eternal Love in her fingers.”

The car turned into the Park. Martin was walking up and down by the little lake. He hated to wait. She never kept an appointment; if she didn’t come today he was through. His heart leaped when he saw her. The girl had a terrible power over him. She said smilingly:

“We’ll go across town and up Riverside Drive for an hour. Then I’ll drop you at the club.”

They sped along in the car. He pulled down the shades, drew off her gloves, tearing the buttons in his haste, crushed her two hands in his moist hot ones, spoke quickly, panting with excitement:

“I’ve thought it all out. I’m going to your mother tonight.”

“No! No!” gasped Julie. “Write to her first.”

“I have written to her, as politely as I knew how. I told her I loved you and wanted you to be my wife.”

He read the answer, his voice shaking with anger and wounded pride:

I have no words to reply to your impertinent letter. Julie will not marry until she is of age. You are not the man I consider worthy of her. You take it for granted that she is willing. I know her better. She will not consent. I warn you not to molest her with further attentions, and consider the matter closed.

She crouched in the corner, speechless.

“She will blame me. She will say I encouraged you.”

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but marriage! I’m too young yet.”

He pressed her to him with a force that left her helpless. He would show her haughty mother who was the master. With his face pressed against hers, he talked, expostulated, begged, threatened to kill himself, kissing her again and again, until she gave in. She would do anything, everything he asked of her, but he must give her twenty-four hours to win over her mother.

“If you fail?”

“Then, I will go with you.”

“You promise.”

“Yes.”

“Julie! Your mother will influence you against me!”

“No one can do that.”

“You are mine; I will not give you up.” He swore an oath, which made her shudder. With a quiver of terrible joy, she put her arms around his neck. Her lips sought his.

8

Every afternoon, Floyd Garrison occupied a deep chair in the window of his club on upper Fifth Avenue--a privilege inherited by the law of precedence, from his father and grandfather. His great-grandfather was one of the founders of the original club-house which was downtown--an old building with raftered ceilings, wooden models of ships, and a portrait of Peter with the game leg.

In time the “youngsters” of 1850 moved uptown, refurnished in plush, and became very exclusive. They kept people out for lack of pedigree, or difference of religious conviction.

A young scion of the new-rich said enviously to Floyd:

“I spend much more on my tailor than you do; you can afford to wear your old clothes.”

Floyd smiled. He took in the young man--a fighting figure, physically strong, eager, on the alert, with gambler’s eyes.

“You’ve never had to sweat blood for money.”

The expression was coarse, but it threw a mental picture.

“No, I’ve never ‘sweated blood’ for a living.”

“I didn’t say a living, I said money. Any idiot can make a living. A man must have money and lots of it to be anybody; it’s a hot game.”

He wiped his forehead.

Floyd wondered if money could buy his armchair in the club-window. He was sure it couldn’t, but he was a gentlemanly young fellow; he wouldn’t hurt the man’s feelings. Destiny had been more than kind to him. He wasn’t grateful; he took life’s favors as a matter of course. In fact, he never gave it any thought. When his father died, sorrow blunted the keen edge of existence; now after a year he was waking up. His heart’s desire was Julie Gonzola. He had no fear; it was the eve of fulfillment.

Sitting there in the club-window, idly watching the traffic, he saw the Gonzola car. Julie was inside with Martin. They stopped at the entrance. Martin sprang out; Floyd waited for him with a pleasant touch of expectancy. Now there would be a long talk about Julie.

He came swinging in, his dark face quivering with excitement. Floyd didn’t take Martin seriously; his unpleasant emotional nature gave his actions a touch of exaggeration, which repelled Floyd, with his calm, undisturbed nature.

“Well, why all this excitement? What’s happened now?”

He spoke laughingly. Martin was always getting into some transient mix-up.

“I may as well tell you, you’ll have to know it. I’ve asked Julie to marry me.”

Floyd was on his feet, hurt, angry; Martin had listened hours to what he called “love ravings” about Julie, knowing he was waiting only for his year of mourning to expire. It was treachery. They faced each other--Martin had an air of triumph, but he turned away from Floyd’s accusing eyes.

“I’ve given her twenty-four hours to prepare her mother.”

“She’ll not consent.”

“Oh, won’t she? I know the way to make her.” Then he walked away.

9

Julie crouched in the corner of the car, her dark pupils contracting, dilating; she was going home to prepare her mother. The contempt in that letter she had written to Martin was awful, but she had promised and she braced herself for the fight. She was used to battles, bitter, uncompromising; used to the struggle of antagonistic spirits; but she had always been kept out of all that agony, pampered, spoilt, worshipped by her mother, indulged by her grandfather--and now she must fight them both, and she would. If they stood out against Martin, she would keep her word and go away with him; this was her determination. She stepped out of the car and found her mother waiting for her in the hall; she knew what was coming. Mrs. Gonzola led the way upstairs to her bedroom--watched Julie take off her hat and coat, and smooth down her hair.

“How long have you been meeting this man without my knowledge?”

“You mean Martin?”

“Yes.”

“Since you forbade him the house.”

“This is the first time in your life that you have openly disobeyed me. Why did you do it?”

“I love him, Mother, and he loves me, and I am going to marry him.” She had rehearsed it in the car.

Mrs. Gonzola implored her not to marry that “ruffian” who had intrigued to get her affection. No man of honor would have acted like that. He was not the man for her--she was too young to realize it--she would hate him in the end. She begged, entreated her to wait a year. Julie burst into convulsed sobs.

“He won’t wait, Mother--I’ve been through all that with him. Mother! Mother! Don’t stop it, don’t, I _must_ marry him! I _must_!”

Mrs. Gonzola gave a terrible cry.

“What do you mean--tell me! Why must you marry him? Why?”

“Because! because!--he says he’ll kill me if I don’t.”

Then Mrs. Gonzola warned her of the anger of Father Cabello, who would never marry her to an atheist, a heretic--warned her of her grandfather’s curses (and the old Jew could curse); she heard him again, as he stood over her on the day of _her_ marriage, pouring out his anger. His curses had come true in her wretched life, and this disobedient child--she was suffering as he had suffered that day--but now the old man was her only hope; Julie worshipped him. She threatened her with his anger, the wrath of the great Jewish God who does not forgive, who would bring down punishment upon her and her children’s children.

The girl lay flat on the ground, quivering with horror, fear--then she became quite cold and stiff, and fell into a cataleptic trance, which lasted an hour. Mrs. Gonzola undressed her, put her into bed, and lay beside her, holding her close. The girl gradually grew warm, and smiled at her mother. The spasm of obstinacy over, she was again the submissive child. She would sacrifice herself and Martin, it was her duty; she became calm, almost cheerful, as was usual after those spells.

She wanted her mother to dress her as she did when she was a child. Mrs. Gonzola was happy; her life was bound up in this girl.

“You look so beautiful, Julie; go and show grandfather.”

Mrs. Gonzola stood at the bottom of the stairs till Julie went in where Joseph Abravanel sat reading, unconscious of the tragedy which had been enacted below. He blessed her, called her a good child, the hope of his life. Then she and her mother dined in the big room with its dark Spanish tapestry and gold plate; it was a festive occasion. Mrs. Gonzola praised Floyd and his devotion to the memory of his father.

“You always liked him best as a child, didn’t you, Julie?”

“No, Mother--I--I liked them _both_--” Then the fear came again of Martin!

“He will kill me, Mother. I’m afraid of him, afraid.”

“Julie, I have no strength to fight for you. Marry Floyd; he is a simple honest boy. He has always loved you.”

To her mother’s great amazement Julie answered in slow deliberate tones--

“That will be the only way to save myself--but it must be at once. I mustn’t have time to think about it--or I couldn’t do it.”

10

Floyd went home early that afternoon, stopping before the little gate. He had taken great pains with his garden. The lawn was velvety smooth; beds of flowers were banked up against the porch; geraniums bloomed in boxes at the windows. The polished brass knocker, the soft white curtain, gave the little house an atmosphere of purity, cleanliness. Passers stopped to admire it; they felt that “nice” people lived there.

Floyd shook off a sick feeling; anger nauseated him. The knocker gave out a musical call. The door was opened by a bright little Japanese boy--the old servants had gradually left during the lonely year of mourning. There was nothing changed in the house--the wood fire lit, the candles on the table set for two; he saw his father at the head of it. After dinner the boy brought his slippers and velvet house jacket. He stretched himself in a big chair and lit his pipe. He loved his pipe--that was the Knickerbocker strain in him; he smoked it with reverence as the old Dutchmen did--in the days when pipes were longer and tobacco better. He loved to sit before the wood fire, and listen to its hissing, crackling, singing; he thought of his mother’s ancestors, those sturdy Pioneers in their cabins, piling on the logs, bolting their iron shutters against the howling wolves outside, who devoured the bodies and cracked the bones of men. The Puritans are gone, but the wolves are still with us; they eat the soul and sow wolf seed.

Then he thought how his father had planned his life for him, just as he had laid out his garden. It had not occurred to him that his son’s life must be different from his own. His father’s time was far away. Today things change with a flash--there is no more “slow development”--a fire!--a storm, lightning, ruins! He was a fool to be so sure of Julie; she had been very sympathetic in his year of mourning. He took it for love--Martin, that vulgarian, with his family history! He never had the slightest suspicion of what was going on between them. He’d been a blind fool.

He jumped to his feet; the clock struck ten. Twenty-four hours to prepare her mother. Why hadn’t she said “No” at once and put an end to it? She couldn’t want to marry him; it was unthinkable, but he never knew quite what she did think. When he said, “A penny for your thoughts,” she grew very serious.

“My thoughts are only for myself.”

He became impatient. Why make the thing so complicated? It was simple enough; they both wanted her and they’d have to fight for her as they did as boys. They never knew which of them she liked.

The telephone rang. He took up the receiver. It was Mrs. Gonzola’s voice.

“Is it you, Floyd?”

“Yes.”

“Could you come over for a few moments? It’s late, but--”

“I’ll come at once.”

He stood before the mirror in the hall. It reflected a young man, clean-shaven, straight brows, eyes deep blue, almost black, the mouth set with suppressed pain; that was all the image gave out--nothing of the unsounded depths. The narcotic of ease and inherited aloofness had kept the lion of character sleeping.

Passing the Dillon house, Floyd noticed vaguely a sign “For Sale.” Tom Dillon had inherited a large fortune which his father made in whiskey; he had boasted he would drink up the well-stocked cellar before he got rid of the house. It was illuminated tonight; he heard music and loud laughter; Tom was on the job.

In the parlor of the Gonzola mansion the butler pressed a button which lit up the unaccountable glass prisms of the electrified fixture; it was a familiar room. As a boy, its grandeur had awed him; when he grew older, he thought it old-fashioned, but he didn’t want to see it changed. He knew little of the other part of the house, excepting the dining-room which was in old leather, heavy, dark. He had always spoken with superiority of the “charming Spanish atmosphere” of the room. Tonight it struck him differently. “What an ignorant fool he was.” A man who mentally kicks himself for being all kinds of a fool is often awakening to wisdom.

The floor was parquet, smooth and polished. There were Oriental rugs and deep armchairs, upholstered in Turkish, and a broad divan with wonderful silk rugs thrown over it. Fur animals lay about with enormous heads and glassy eyes. The window hangings were of costly lace. He had often looked at that bronze figure in a corner; tonight it spoke to him. It was the Moses of Michael Angelo--a noble head with a rippling, flowing beard. The walls were covered with family portraits in gilt frames, turning old gold with age. He had said with authority “they are Van Dykes.” Now he noticed signed names unknown to him, probably young foreign artists. He stood before a portrait of Pedro Gonzola, Julie’s grandfather, painted in Amsterdam, after a ball costume. A very handsome young cavalier in black velvet with white lace falling over his long, tapering fingers--he thought of Martin’s coarse hands; no, the room was not Spanish.

Mrs. Gonzola came in; she, too, took on a new significance; a woman of fifty, small, sinuous, with pale eyelids, forehead, lips; the process of Time had almost washed out the human face which had been, even at its best, but a soft water-color.

Tonight Floyd seemed to see within that white Image. Past struggles, like smothered flames, flashed up again momentarily. Her English was perfect--so academic it sounded foreign; born in New York, taught by professors, she spoke like one. She had tried to bring Julie up that way, but changed conditions were too strong for her.

“Floyd, I am in a terrible dilemma. Martin has asked Julie to marry him.”

“Yes, I know.”

She tried to draw away her hands, but Floyd held them fast.

“Your decision means everything to me.” Floyd put his arm around her; he had known her all his life. She clung to him; there were tears in her voice, but her eyes were dry.

“Julie told you of our ancestry?”

“Yes.”

“Does it make any difference?”

“Why should it?”

An evasive answer. Why didn’t he make it simple, and say “No”?

“Some people are prejudiced, but you have no family ties, and are not religious. I don’t want Julie to marry Martin, he’s vulgar; they are peasants, common cattle drivers; his grandfather was a waiter--I can’t think of it, it’s too horrible!”

Floyd tried to be fair.

“But if Julie likes him better--”

“She does not; I’m sure of it. She is very impressionable. Martin has a kind of brute force; you know him. He’ll talk her into it. It will be a terrible misfortune for her; it will ruin her life! I must make it impossible; I must!”

Floyd was speechless with excitement. She had her arms around him, clinging to him.

“Julie is a strange girl, at the mercy of inherited instincts--she will be safe with you.”

Why did she say that? What was wrong with Julie? Floyd began to take Julie’s part against her mother.

“Mrs. Gonzola, be calm, I beg of you. You know I have wanted Julie all my life; you know I want her now. If she loves Martin better, what--what--can I do?”

“No, no, she will tell you herself,” Mrs. Gonzola glided out of the room. Floyd wiped his forehead. What did it all mean? Why was she so afraid of Martin? What was he doing there, anyhow? Martin had been open with him, now _he_ was conspiring with her mother. No, he would do nothing underhand. He would give Martin a chance to get his answer as agreed. Julie must be free to choose.

She stood in the doorway. He wanted to tell her what was in his mind, but she didn’t give him time. She came straight to him, put her arms around his neck; her soft body intoxicated him. His heart’s desire realized--Julie his wife; he couldn’t let her go, he kissed her again and again. She laughed and said in her soft, sensuous voice:

“Oh, oh, don’t eat me.”

“It’s forever, Julie, forever?”

He stammered out the words. He was terribly excited, poor lad. She grew very serious.

“Yes--it is forever.” Then she cried and he tried to comfort her.

“I’ve had a great deal of excitement today. Go now.”

She let him kiss her again. He went unsteadily like a soberly inclined man who had rushed violently into an orgy of liquor. It was dawn when he slipped quietly out of his house and dropped a letter to Martin into the post-box, he had written everything, just how it happened.

The only thing that clouds my indescribable happiness is the thought that you may resent my not giving you your chance, but it was out of my hands. When Mrs. Gonzola called me tonight, I had no idea of what was awaiting me. My happiness came to me. I cannot let it go.

He expected no answer to his letter. It came by return mail:

There is nothing to be angry about; I would have done the same in your place. I would take her away from you now, if it were possible, but--don’t be uneasy, she doesn’t care enough for me. I don’t think she’s insane about you, but you are the safer proposition. You won’t see me for some time.

Martin had a way of disappearing when things went against him. Floyd read the letter once more. “The safer proposition.” Of course, she would be safe with him; he was too happy to let the significance of a word worry him. He slowly tore the letter in little pieces, and said nothing to Julie about it.

The next evening, he went over to dine with the Gonzolas. Mrs. Gonzola had asked him quietly not to come during the day.

“Julie needs time to calm down.”

“Calm down?” laughed Floyd. “It’s too early for that.”

“She is quite exhausted. She must get used to the idea.”

It was not exhausting to him to get used to happiness. It came natural to think of Julie as “my dear wife.” He saw many, many years ahead. As they grew old they would get fonder of each other, like his mother and father. A pang shot through him; if they were alive now! He had not “lived” like other men; he had waited for the one woman. The close contact was intoxicating, leaving him incapable of logical reasoning. He waited impatiently for the evening.

Julie stood under the big chandelier; her soft white gown with a touch of red velvet seemed a part of her flexible body; a filet of it was drawn over her forehead. Her full red lips were a splash of color in her pale face. She came quite naturally to him; Floyd’s heart beat furiously. Mrs. Gonzola looked regal in black lace, relieved by a huge diamond brooch set in old silver. She approved of Floyd; he was a gentleman.

“My father lives with us. Julie has probably told you; I want her to take you up to see him. Don’t speak of your engagement yet. Julie will break it to him gradually, but I want him to know you, and I am sure he will love you as we do.”

How gracious she was; it was like the condescension of a Queen.

“Break it to him,” as if it were bad news. Floyd felt uncomfortable.

Julie led the way up to the fourth floor. They entered a very large room with mullion windows; one, at the extreme end, of yellow glass. He was conscious of warmth, a glory of golden sunlight, the odor of a hothouse, many palms. Under a tropical tree with enormous leaves spread out like an umbrella sat a man with a black silk skull cap on his head. He was absorbed in his book. He did not raise his eyes. Floyd at a first glance caught the impression of age, because of a long thick white beard, falling in waves, turning up at the edges in curls, which reminded him of Michael Angelo’s Moses, but _this_ statue lived. Julie spoke very respectfully. She seemed in awe of him.

“Grandfather, I’ve brought Floyd Garrison to see you.”

He arose and came toward Floyd. He wore a long black silk coat reaching to his ankles, with velvet collar, cuffs, and slippers. His feet were very small, his hands like a woman’s; the voice which came from that frail body was clear, penetrating.

“My name is Joseph Abravanel.”

His eyes were young. Floyd felt himself being measured and weighed, but that didn’t disturb him; he had no secrets.

“I know all about you, Floyd. I’ve watched you grow up. That little snowball fight with Martin twelve years ago this winter was fine. You were small; but you buried him.” He laughed like a boy. Floyd sat down beside him, listening intensely; he didn’t want to lose a word. Julie flittered about the room, watching them.

“I like you, Floyd; you’re a good fighter.”

“Oh, no,” laughed Floyd, “I’m a pacifist.”

The old man shook his head.

“Wait, you haven’t found yourself yet. We Jews are fighters, although the world says we are not. We’ve been fighting for thousands of years.”

Then he spoke of the possibilities of America joining the War.

“It will come; we will be forced into it. We Jews will get the worst of it as usual, but that’s good for us; the will to live becomes stronger.”

He continually repeated “we Jews” as if to impress the fact of his race upon Floyd.

“The American aliens will find relatives in every European field of battle; it will be terrible, like the Civil War, brother against brother.”

Floyd had never thought of it that way.

“The Jews are like an old tree--its branches spread all over the world; it roots are in the Bible. The Arian education is Greek, opposite to that of the Hebrew. The Greeks worshipped form, beauty; its idols were in stone. The Hebrews rejected that; they based their religion on the ‘Word.’ You see? the body, the Soul; the Image Greek, the Soul Hebrew.”

After that, Floyd found his way often to the fourth floor. He heard many things foreign to his way of thinking, but of deep interest to him.

“Now,” said Floyd laughingly one evening, “I’ve made myself popular with all the family.”

“No,” answered Julie, “there is one more, Father Cabello.”

11

Father Cabello was an indispensable part of the Gonzola family, from the Celtic help in the kitchen, to the aristocratic old man on the top floor, whose guest he was on Friday evenings, when he shared a simple meal of vegetables and fruit, washed down with a glass of delicious Palestinian wine; after that, a game of chess, and a long theological discussion which lasted many a time until the small hours. The two men, of the same origin but of different creeds, understood each other perfectly. When it came to a burning question, such as the sincerity of Paul--whether his hatred of the High Priests of Judea had not instigated him to dethrone them, by putting another in their place, one he had never seen, or whether it was an inspiration, “a voice out of the wilderness”--then Joseph Abravanel’s eyes took on a fiery gleam. Father Cabello, seeing the danger signal, would evade the question by a witty remark, ending with a laugh. Julie gave Floyd a hint. He invited the good Father to lunch with him at the club.

He sat in the window watching the priest shaking hands with one and the other--a man of Church and World, known to rich and poor, and generally beloved. Floyd had a feeling of embarrassment, but Father Cabello put him at once in smooth waters by a remark about the “exclusive policy” of the club.

“Yes,” answered Floyd. “This distinction against aliens is very reactionary.” He forgot he was on the membership committee before he was engaged; then he ventured to say:

“I--I am very glad you do not oppose my marriage with Julie.”

“Why should I?”

He knew Floyd was not a Catholic; why did he make him emphasize that?

“I was prepared for your opposition on account of my religion.”

The priest smiled.

“The man who fights the inevitable destroys no one but himself. I have had one great battle in that family; I don’t want a second--if--it can be avoided. When Julie was born, her mother and I together fought and conquered Joseph Abravanel; a fine fellow, deeply learned. In the great days of the Church in Spain, he would have been a distinguished Cardinal.” The priest puffed regretfully at his cigar. “His ancestors were foolishly fanatic; they chose the evil of emigration to the glory of power and the Pope.”

Floyd answered eagerly.

It was a question of principle; they should be admired, respected, for such noble self-sacrifice.

The priest liked the boy; there was no complication to fight in him.

“This marriage was a question of you and one other. I chose you.”

Floyd’s face grew hot. It had all been arranged between the mother and the priest.

“Then you considered me the lesser of two evils?”

The priest smiled again.

“You are not an evil, you are a concession; we make them, if they do not bring us future harm; the children will be ours, but don’t let it worry you now.”

“Pedro Gonzola’s marriage with a Jewess was also a concession. Why did you allow _that_?”

“This boy is no fool,” thought the priest; he took pains to answer the question.

“We were mistaken in our calculations, we _are_ sometimes; we remained passive because we were sure Joseph Abravanel would fight it with all his might; and he did. But another power mightier than he and the Church together won out; the strongest combination in the world--youth and love. Ruth was his only child, she threatened to leave him, he worshipped her, he had to give in, but he went to live with the young couple, with a firm resolve to counteract our influence. The inevitable happened; she came to us for consolation. Julie was born in the church.”

They were silent. The priest lived again that interesting conflict. The old man had fought well, he was wonderful with his unanswerable arguments, but reason went down under the great emotional rising of the soul--the need of forgiveness.

Floyd’s voice brought him back.

“Why did he remain in his daughter’s house?”

“Because with the obstinate patience of his race, he had hopes of Julie’s children.” Then he bent nearer, lowering his voice. “There is something else you should know. From the day Julie was baptized, Joseph Abravanel has never seen or spoken to his daughter.”

The atmosphere of tragedy folded itself about Floyd; he felt the clashing of spiritual powers, within the walls of that outwardly peaceful home, now creeping like slow fire into his life.

12

Near Floyd’s house, there was a small stone chapel ornamented with dark wooden beams; it had been built by Mr. Garrison and Mr. Steele. They brought over their pastor from Scotland, a rugged, sincere man.

Floyd still grew chilly, when he thought of the bare whitewashed walls, the stone floor, the hard wooden benches. No choir, no organ, no stained glass windows. The pastor generally took his text from one of those Hebrew “calamity howlers,” and hurled curses at the heads of his unfortunate parishioners. He was a man of mild disposition, but he thought it was his duty to snatch them from the worship of Mammon. The “Idolaters” would listen meekly, rise, sing a hymn, and file out penitently, to pursue on week days, their ungodly practices.

In course of time the pastor went to heaven, his congregation the other way; Martin said it might be the reverse. Other pastors modified their curses or ceased to hurl them; the times demanded blessings, and paid for them. The congregation grew rich and moved uptown. Floyd kept his pew out of respect for his parents.

He told the pastor, a sensible man from the West with a large growing family, of his coming marriage.

“We are not losing you; we lost you when your father died. Of course, you must consider the bride’s family; the women generally arrange those matters, but I would like to come and see you sometimes. Your children may in course of time think differently.”

He, also, had hopes of the next generation.

Now Floyd pushed away all unpleasant thoughts; his youth demanded happiness. He went up the steps of the Gonzola mansion with a light heart, humming to himself. The butler ushered him into the dimly lighted parlor. He waited, but Julie did not come. He heard voices above. He was one of the family now by right of knowing all its secrets. He found Julie crouched at the bottom of the upper stairs; at the door of the old man’s room was Mrs. Gonzola on her knees. Floyd tried to question Julie, but she silenced him with an imperative gesture.

The voices of Father Cabello and Joseph Abravanel, penetrating the closed door, rang throughout the house. Floyd heard his name; it was a question of his marriage with Julie, of the ceremony, and again, those future generations. He heard the deep tones of the priest--threatening, persuasive; the other voice trembling, feeble, rising in a despairing shriek, dying away in sobs. It was terrible; every word seemed to strike that prostrate figure at the door like a whip. Floyd thought of the rack. The priest came out wiping his forehead, he lifted the stricken woman; the Church had won again.

They were married quietly at home, the bride in old lace and priceless family jewels, a vision of Oriental beauty. Martin’s words came back to Floyd. “To me she is not a modern girl, she is the Shulamite maiden who rises from her couch at night and goes out to seek her lover.”

Floyd wanted to bring his wife to the house where he was born; Julie gladly consented. He had been so dear, giving in to everybody, for the sake of peace. At the door of his home, Floyd took Julie up in his arms and carried her over the threshold as his fathers had done before him.

13

The young couple were called home from a brief trip, by the sudden death of Joseph Abravanel.

Julie’s grief was terrible. She stood by the plain deal coffin where he lay in his shroud, looking long at the marble face. Floyd felt her suffering, but he was powerless to console her. He wondered why Mrs. Gonzola kept her room; she surely would want to say good-bye to her father. He turned; she was there; she entered slowly, as if in fear. Julie made a quick step forward.

The voice that came from Mrs. Gonzola’s white lips was red with the blood of her race.

“I must see him.”

“You dare not.”

“Have pity on me.”

“I promised him to keep you away.”

“He will not know.”

“He will know, he must rest in peace.”

They were not mother and daughter; they were enemies.

Mrs. Gonzola turned and went downstairs in silence. She died a few days later without breaking that silence.

Joseph Abravanel had given away what little he possessed during his lifetime; to Julie he left a small Hebrew prayer book, worn with age. Mrs. Gonzola’s will was complicated. She had given generously to the Church for years. Julie was to have the house and contents and the income of what was left, the capital going to the grandchildren on condition of their fidelity to the Church; otherwise it went to support a theological seminary in Rome.

They were standing together in the parlor. The room was icy; her face, pinched, worn.

“I am going to sell the house and everything in it.”

“What! Sell your family portraits?”

“I’ve had enough of them, persecuting me with their angry faces. They despise me; I feel it. I have felt it all my life; as a child I saw them in my dreams coming out of their frames threatening me! I am done with them, done with them!” She broke into convulsive sobs. She took him by the hand, and led him around the room, stopping before each one of her childhood’s inquisitors.

“Do you want to live with them all your life?”

“No, I certainly do not--but--”

“I’ll have them packed up and sent back to the family in Europe who will hang them in their picture galleries. We have none....”

The sight of Julie in lustreless black and a long crêpe veil made Floyd shudder; it was awful. Black obscured her beauty, she spoke in low tones, went around on tip-toe. There was the silence of death in his house.

“I can’t stand this, Julie. We’re living as in a cemetery; it’s getting on my nerves. How long is it going to last?”

“One year.”

Floyd didn’t like to appear heartless, but he had already learnt to use a little diplomacy with his wife.

“Do you realize how unbecoming black is to you?”

She looked at him, startled.

“It is my duty to wear it.”

“It’s gone out of fashion. Only old people wear crêpe nowadays; a black band is quite sufficient. Why should you parade your grief?”

She didn’t answer, but the next morning she came to breakfast in a “royal” purple tea gown.

Floyd kissed her eyes, lips, hands; he had his sweetheart again.

Julie smiled at him. She liked to be worshipped.

“Come, come! I’m hungry. Don’t you want any breakfast?”

“I want nothing but you.”

The Japanese laid the morning paper on the table and discreetly withdrew. Floyd looking over the headings, sprang to his feet.

“War?”

Julie gave a startled cry.

“You won’t go, you won’t leave me alone.”

“I must do my duty.”

He went down to see Colonel Garland. The office was in a whirl of excitement. The Colonel was prancing like an old war horse. Everybody was talking at once. It had to come; the President had put it off too long; some were for, some against it, but the fact was there--the United States had thrown her hat into the ring. Floyd’s face was flushed, his eyes shining.

“I’m going to volunteer.”

The Colonel looked grave.

“Wait, let the single men go first.”

Floyd couldn’t be held back; every man he knew had volunteered. He met Tom Dillon with a little flag stuck in his buttonhole, his hat set jauntily on the side of his head.

“I’m going into camp tomorrow.”

That night there was a scene with Julie; she begged, cried, fainted. Dr. McClaren was sent for, the diagnosis was--Motherhood. Floyd did not volunteer.

All New York crowded the streets to bid Godspeed to the first regiment sailing for France. “Our Boys” with flowers in their caps, flowers stuck in their guns marched proudly. The people went mad.

Floyd, holding Julie tightly, stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue. He had a feeling of depression; for the first time in his life a wish had been thwarted. He looked down at the curly head with its sport-hat pressed close to his arm, noticed the glances of admiration. She was worth the sacrifice. Suddenly with a well-directed aim, she flung a rose at a passing soldier. He caught it, pressed it to his lips with a long glance backward.

“That was Martin,” said Julie.

They walked home in silence. Julie had a headache from the noise and excitement and went to bed early.

Floyd sat up; he tried to think of Julie and the future. He couldn’t; the cheers were still in his ears, the tramping of feet, the clashing of cymbals. He sat there, out of it. Love was cruel....

The boy was christened by Father Cabello, his last service to the Gonzola family. He had been called to Rome, where honors awaited him, for his services to the Church in America.

“What name are you going to give him?” asked the Father.

Julie, lying in her white bed, answered:

“His name will be Joseph Abravanel Gonzola Garrison.”

Floyd thought it too high-sounding for modern times--an American citizen couldn’t carry it, but Julie had her way.

After Father Cabello’s departure, she went seldom to the Cathedral and gradually ceased altogether.

“I’ve lived all my life under the tyranny of two religions. My boy must be free of that; when he is old enough he will choose for himself.” But she still read her grandfather’s little Hebrew book at night when she couldn’t sleep, or when she awoke terrified from the reality of her dreams. She never spoke of it to Floyd, and he didn’t like to intrude.