PART II
XIII
WHEN Violet Melrose had said to Susy Branch, the winter before in NewYork: "But why on earth don't you and Nick go to my little place atVersailles for the honeymoon? I'm off to China, and you could have it toyourselves all summer," the offer had been tempting enough to make thelovers waver.
It was such an artless ingenuous little house, so full of thedemoralizing simplicity of great wealth, that it seemed to Susy just thekind of place in which to take the first steps in renunciation. But Nickhad objected that Paris, at that time of year, would be swarming withacquaintances who would hunt them down at all hours; and Susy's ownexperience had led her to remark that there was nothing the very richenjoyed more than taking pot-luck with the very poor. They thereforegave Strefford's villa the preference, with an inward proviso (on Susy'spart) that Violet's house might very conveniently serve their purpose atanother season.
These thoughts were in her mind as she drove up to Mrs. Melrose's dooron a rainy afternoon late in August, her boxes piled high on the roof ofthe cab she had taken at the station. She had travelled straight throughfrom Venice, stopping in Milan just long enough to pick up a replyto the telegram she had despatched to the perfect housekeeper whosepermanent presence enabled Mrs. Melrose to say: "Oh, when I'm sickof everything I just rush off without warning to my little shanty atVersailles, and live there all alone on scrambled eggs."
The perfect house-keeper had replied to Susy's enquiry: "Am sure Mrs.Melrose most happy"; and Susy, without further thought, had jumpedinto a Versailles train, and now stood in the thin rain before thesphinx-guarded threshold of the pavilion.
The revolving year had brought around the season at which Mrs. Melrose'shouse might be convenient: no visitors were to be feared at Versaillesat the end of August, and though Susy's reasons for seeking solitudewere so remote from those she had once prefigured, they were none theless cogent. To be alone--alone! After those first exposed days when,in the persistent presence of Fred Gillow and his satellites, and in themocking radiance of late summer on the lagoons, she had fumed and turnedabout in her agony like a trapped animal in a cramping cage, to be alonehad seemed the only respite, the one craving: to be alone somewhere in asetting as unlike as possible to the sensual splendours of Venice, underskies as unlike its azure roof. If she could have chosen she would havecrawled away into a dingy inn in a rainy northern town, where she hadnever been and no one knew her. Failing that unobtainable luxury, hereshe was on the threshold of an empty house, in a deserted place, underlowering skies. She had shaken off Fred Gillow, sulkily departing forhis moor (where she had half-promised to join him in September); thePrince, young Breckenridge, and the few remaining survivors of theVenetian group, had dispersed in the direction of the Engadine orBiarritz; and now she could at least collect her wits, take stock ofherself, and prepare the countenance with which she was to face the nextstage in her career. Thank God it was raining at Versailles!
The door opened, she heard voices in the drawing-room, and a slenderlanguishing figure appeared on the threshold.
"Darling!" Violet Melrose cried in an embrace, drawing her into thedusky perfumed room.
"But I thought you were in China!" Susy stammered.
"In China... in China," Mrs. Melrose stared with dreamy eyes, and Susyremembered her drifting disorganised life, a life more planless, moreinexplicable than that of any of the other ephemeral beings blown aboutupon the same winds of pleasure.
"Well, Madam, I thought so myself till I got a wire from Mrs. Melroselast evening," remarked the perfect house-keeper, following with Susy'shandbag.
Mrs. Melrose clutched her cavernous temples in her attenuated hands. "Ofcourse, of course! I had meant to go to China--no, India.... But I'vediscovered a genius... and Genius, you know...." Unable to completeher thought, she sank down upon a pillowy divan, stretched out an arm,cried: "Fulmer! Fulmer!" and, while Susy Lansing stood in the middleof the room with widening eyes, a man emerged from the more deeplycushioned and scented twilight of some inner apartment, and she saw withsurprise Nat Fulmer, the good Nat Fulmer of the New Hampshire bungalowand the ubiquitous progeny, standing before her in lordly ease, hishands in his pockets, a cigarette between his lips, his feet solidlyplanted in the insidious depths of one of Violet Melrose's white leopardskins.
"Susy!" he shouted with open arms; and Mrs. Melrose murmured: "Youdidn't know, then? You hadn't heard of his masterpieces?"
In spite of herself, Susy burst into a laugh. "Is Nat your genius?"
Mrs. Melrose looked at her reproachfully.
Fulmer laughed. "No; I'm Grace's. But Mrs. Melrose has been ourProvidence, and...."
"Providence?" his hostess interrupted. "Don't talk as if you were ata prayer-meeting! He had an exhibition in New York... it was the mostfabulous success. He's come abroad to make studies for the decoration ofmy music-room in New York. Ursula Gillow has given him her garden-houseat Roslyn to do. And Mrs. Bockheimer's ball-room--oh, Fulmer, where arethe cartoons?" She sprang up, tossed about some fashion-papers heaped ona lacquer table, and sank back exhausted by the effort. "I'd got as faras Brindisi. I've travelled day and night to be here to meet him," shedeclared. "But, you darling," and she held out a caressing hand to Susy,"I'm forgetting to ask if you've had tea?"
An hour later, over the tea-table, Susy already felt herselfmysteriously reabsorbed into what had so long been her native element.Ellie Vanderlyn had brought a breath of it to Venice; but Susy was thennourished on another air, the air of Nick's presence and personality;now that she was abandoned, left again to her own devices, she feltherself suddenly at the mercy of the influences from which she thoughtshe had escaped.
In the queer social whirligig from which she had so lately fled, itseemed natural enough that a shake of the box should have tossed NatFulmer into celebrity, and sent Violet Melrose chasing back from theends of the earth to bask in his success. Susy knew that Mrs. Melrosebelonged to the class of moral parasites; for in that strange world theparts were sometimes reversed, and the wealthy preyed upon the pauper.Wherever there was a reputation to batten on, there poor Violetappeared, a harmless vampire in pearls who sought only to feed on thenotoriety which all her millions could not create for her. Any one lessversed than Susy in the shallow mysteries of her little world would haveseen in Violet Melrose a baleful enchantress, in Nat Fulmer her helplessvictim. Susy knew better. Violet, poor Violet, was not even that. Theinsignificant Ellie Vanderlyn, with her brief trivial passions, herartless mixture of amorous and social interests, was a woman witha purpose, a creature who fulfilled herself; but Violet was only adrifting interrogation.
And what of Fulmer? Mustering with new eyes his short sturdily-builtfigure, his nondescript bearded face, and the eyes that dreamed andwandered, and then suddenly sank into you like claws, Susy seemed tohave found the key to all his years of dogged toil, his indifferenceto neglect, indifference to poverty, indifference to the needs ofhis growing family.... Yes: for the first time she saw that he lookedcommonplace enough to be a genius--was a genius, perhaps, even thoughit was Violet Melrose who affirmed it! Susy looked steadily at Fulmer,their eyes met, and he smiled at her faintly through his beard.
"Yes, I did discover him--I did," Mrs. Melrose was insisting, from thedepths of the black velvet divan in which she lay sunk like a wan Nereidin a midnight sea. "You mustn't believe a word that Ursula Gillow tellsyou about having pounced on his 'Spring Snow Storm' in a dark corner ofthe American Artists' exhibition--skied, if you please! They skied himless than a year ago! And naturally Ursula never in her life lookedhigher than the first line at a picture-show. And now she actuallypretends... oh, for pity's sake don't say it doesn't matter, Fulmer!Your saying that just encourages her, and makes people think shedid. When, in reality, any one who saw me at the exhibition onvarnishing-day.... Who? Well, Eddy Breckenridge, for instance. He wasin Egypt, you say? Perhaps he was! As if one could remember the peopleabout one, when suddenly one comes upon a great work of art, as St.Paul did--didn't he?
--and the scales fell from his eyes. Well... that'sexactly what happened to me that day... and Ursula, everybody knows, wasdown at Roslyn at the time, and didn't come up for the opening of theexhibition at all. And Fulmer sits there and laughs, and says itdoesn't matter, and that he'll paint another picture any day for me todiscover!"
Susy had rung the door-bell with a hand trembling witheagerness--eagerness to be alone, to be quiet, to stare her situation inthe face, and collect herself before she came out again among her kind.She had stood on the door-step, cowering among her bags, counting theinstants till a step sounded and the door-knob turned, letting her infrom the searching glare of the outer world.... And now she had sat foran hour in Violet's drawing-room, in the very house where her honey-moonmight have been spent; and no one had asked her where she had come from,or why she was alone, or what was the key to the tragedy written on hershrinking face....
That was the way of the world they lived in. Nobody questioned, nobodywondered any more-because nobody had time to remember. The old risk ofprying curiosity, of malicious gossip, was virtually over: one was leftwith one's drama, one's disaster, on one's hands, because there wasnobody to stop and notice the little shrouded object one was carrying.As Susy watched the two people before her, each so frankly unaffectedby her presence, Violet Melrose so engrossed in her feverish pursuit ofnotoriety, Fulmer so plunged in the golden sea of his success, she feltlike a ghost making inaudible and imperceptible appeals to the grossersenses of the living.
"If I wanted to be alone," she thought, "I'm alone enough, in allconscience." There was a deathly chill in such security. She turned toFulmer.
"And Grace?"
He beamed back without sign of embarrassment. "Oh, she's here,naturally--we're in Paris, kids and all. In a pension, where we canpolish up the lingo. But I hardly ever lay eyes on her, because she'sas deep in music as I am in paint; it was as big a chance for her as forme, you see, and she's making the most of it, fiddling and listening tothe fiddlers. Well, it's a considerable change from New Hampshire." Helooked at her dreamily, as if making an intense effort to detach himselffrom his dream, and situate her in the fading past. "Remember thebungalow? And Nick--ah, how's Nick?" he brought out triumphantly.
"Oh, yes--darling Nick?" Mrs. Melrose chimed in; and Susy, her headerect, her cheeks aflame, declared with resonance: "Most awfullywell--splendidly!"
"He's not here, though?" from Fulmer.
"No. He's off travelling--cruising."
Mrs. Melrose's attention was faintly roused. "With anybody interesting?"
"No; you wouldn't know them. People we met...." She did not have tocontinue, for her hostess's gaze had again strayed.
"And you've come for your clothes, I suppose, darling? Don't listento people who say that skirts are to be wider. I've discovered a newwoman--a Genius--and she absolutely swathes you.... Her name's mysecret; but we'll go to her together."
Susy rose from her engulphing armchair. "Do you mind if I go up to myroom? I'm rather tired--coming straight through."
"Of course, dear. I think there are some people coming to dinner... Mrs.Match will tell you. She has such a memory.... Fulmer, where on earthare those cartoons of the music-room?"
Their voices pursued Susy upstairs, as, in Mrs. Match's perpendicularwake, she mounted to the white-panelled room with its gay linen hangingsand the low bed heaped with more cushions.
"If we'd come here," she thought, "everything might have beendifferent." And she shuddered at the sumptuous memories of the PalazzoVanderlyn, and the great painted bedroom where she had met her doom.
Mrs. Match, hoping she would find everything, and mentioning that dinnerwas not till nine, shut her softly in among her terrors.
"Find everything?" Susy echoed the phrase. Oh, yes, she would alwaysfind everything: every time the door shut on her now, and the sound ofvoices ceased, her memories would be there waiting for her, every oneof them, waiting quietly, patiently, obstinately, like poor people in adoctor's office, the people who are always last to be attended to,but whom nothing will discourage or drive away, people to whom time isnothing, fatigue nothing, hunger nothing, other engagements nothing: whojust wait.... Thank heaven, after all, that she had not found thehouse empty, if, whenever she returned to her room, she was to meet hermemories there!
It was just a week since Nick had left her. During that week, crammedwith people, questions, packing, explaining, evading, she had believedthat in solitude lay her salvation. Now she understood that there wasnothing she was so unprepared for, so unfitted for. When, in all herlife, had she ever been alone? And how was she to bear it now, with allthese ravening memories besetting her!
Dinner not till nine? What on earth was she to do till nine o'clock? Sheknelt before her boxes, and feverishly began to unpack.
Gradually, imperceptibly, the subtle influences of her old life werestealing into her. As she pulled out her tossed and crumpled dresses sheremembered Violet's emphatic warning: "Don't believe the people who tellyou that skirts are going to be wider." Were hers, perhaps, too wideas it was? She looked at her limp raiment, piling itself up on bed andsofa, and understood that, according to Violet's standards, and thatof all her set, those dresses, which Nick had thought so original andexquisite, were already commonplace and dowdy, fit only to be passed onto poor relations or given to one's maid. And Susy would have to go onwearing them till they fell to bits-or else.... Well, or else begin theold life again in some new form....
She laughed aloud at the turn of her thoughts. Dresses? How little theyhad mattered a few short weeks ago! And now, perhaps, they would againbe one of the foremost considerations in her life. How could it beotherwise, if she were to return again to her old dependence on EllieVanderlyn, Ursula Gillow, Violet Melrose? And beyond that, only theBockheimers and their kind awaited her....
A knock on the door--what a relief! It was Mrs. Match again, with atelegram. To whom had Susy given her new address? With a throbbing heartshe tore open the envelope and read:
"Shall be in Paris Friday for twenty-four hours where can I see youwrite Nouveau Luxe."
Ah, yes--she remembered now: she had written to Strefford! And this washis answer: he was coming. She dropped into a chair, and tried to think.What on earth had she said in her letter? It had been mainly, of course,one of condolence; but now she remembered having added, in a precipitatepostscript: "I can't give your message to Nick, for he's gone off withthe Hickses-I don't know where, or for how long. It's all right, ofcourse: it was in our bargain."
She had not meant to put in that last phrase; but as she sealed herletter to Strefford her eye had fallen on Nick's missive, which laybeside it. Nothing in her husband's brief lines had embittered her asmuch as the allusion to Strefford. It seemed to imply that Nick's ownplans were made, that his own future was secure, and that he couldtherefore freely and handsomely take thought for hers, and give her apointer in the right direction. Sudden rage had possessed her at thethought: where she had at first read jealousy she now saw only a coldprovidence, and in a blur of tears she had scrawled her postscript toStrefford. She remembered that she had not even asked him to keep hersecret. Well--after all, what would it matter if people should alreadyknow that Nick had left her? Their parting could not long remain amystery, and the fact that it was known might help her to keep up apresence of indifference.
"It was in the bargain--in the bargain," rang through her brain as shere-read Strefford's telegram. She understood that he had snatched thetime for this hasty trip solely in the hope of seeing her, and her eyesfilled. The more bitterly she thought of Nick the more this proof ofStrefford's friendship moved her.
The clock, to her relief, reminded her that it was time to dress fordinner. She would go down presently, chat with Violet and Fulmer, andwith Violet's other guests, who would probably be odd and amusing, andtoo much out of her world to embarrass her by awkward questions. Shewould sit at a softly-lit table, breathe delicate scents, eat exquisitefood (trust Mrs. Match!), and be gradually drawn again unde
r the spellof her old associations. Anything, anything but to be alone....
She dressed with even more than her habitual care, reddened her lipsattentively, brushed the faintest bloom of pink over her drawn cheeks,and went down--to meet Mrs. Match coming up with a tray.
"Oh, Madam, I thought you were too tired.... I was bringing it up to youmyself--just a little morsel of chicken."
Susy, glancing past her, saw, through the open door, that the lamps werenot lit in the drawing-room.
"Oh, no, I'm not tired, thank you. I thought Mrs. Melrose expectedfriends at dinner!"
"Friends at dinner-to-night?" Mrs. Match heaved a despairing sigh.Sometimes, the sigh seemed to say, her mistress put too great a strainupon her. "Why, Mrs. Melrose and Mr. Fulmer were engaged to dine inParis. They left an hour ago. Mrs. Melrose told me she'd told you," thehouse-keeper wailed.
Susy kept her little fixed smile. "I must have misunderstood. In thatcase... well, yes, if it's no trouble, I believe I will have my trayupstairs."
Slowly she turned, and followed the housekeeper up into the dreadsolitude she had just left.
The Glimpses of the Moon Page 13
