The Golden Vanity

by Isabel Paterson

  "Perhaps," she said absently, "that is, next week. I remember when it was considered daring for a lady to drive her own turnout. A phaeton, with a parasol whip; that was when I was a little girl; then there were traps and we sat high up and very straight. My first riding habit had a long skirt and I wore a flowing veil."

  "You must have looked magnificent," Arthur smiled.

  "Chic," she said. "The Comte de Pourtales told me I reminded him of Princess Pauline Metternich." Une jolie laide, with black eyes. Mrs. Siddall deceived herself kindly, as most women do in remembering their girlhood; it is one reason why old women are often indulgent toward youthful escapades; they have a weakness for that other, partly imaginary self, the true self in their belief. And though Mrs. Siddall had been plump and fashionable rather than elegant, she had had the note of her period, as she now had the style of her age and her vast wealth. . . . Pourtales had kissed her wrist gallantly; that too was daring. She had been the leader of the dashing young matrons who broke the rigid ranks of New York society in the Nineties. In spite of the stuffy insolent old dowagers, she reflected reminiscently, still sublimely unaware of the humor of a completed cycle. . . . "But my dear," she exclaimed, "my mind is wandering; I'm getting old. That's what I wished to speak to you about; it would be a great comfort to me to see you married."

  He was silent. Mrs. Siddall pressed the point. "Haven't you ever thought about it?"

  He couldn't lie about Gina; she had only asked him to wait for a propitious occasion; surely this was it.

  He said: "Yes."

  "Someone in particular?" Mrs. Siddall proceeded carefully. "But you would tell me first?"

  "She," he flushed at the pronoun, which had come to have a single meaning to him, "she said I must, as soon as you were quite well. She won't marry me unless you approve. But I'll never marry anyone else."

  Mrs. Siddall had never heard that tone from him. He meant it. Of course, with time and tact—but time was the one thing she could not command. Those sensitive, unassertive people were the most difficult, in their own way. Arthur was like his grandfather, her husband. Without the Senator's adroitness, his political talent such as it was—Mrs. Siddall didn't draw any distinction between the opportunist behind the scenes and the man of genuine public abilities—but she felt in Arthur the same ultimate unreachableness. Even while apparently acquiescent, he would escape. Could she endure it again, to have him so near and yet so remote?

  "Who is she?" Mrs. Siddall asked, since she didn't want Arthur to commit himself further on the point of honor.

  "Gina."

  Though she knew it perfectly, his utterance of the name was a blow to her. She forgot to play out the comedy. She didn't know why she said: "Your grandfather—" and stopped there. Her husband had belonged to one of the oldest New York families. She had never let herself know he married her for her money. And she kept a tight hold on the money. She said heavily: "This is a great surprise. It wants consideration. You can't expect —after all, it is hardly the match one would look for—" Now she was surprised by her own lack of resistance; she would never let herself know either that she was not unwilling to flout the old New York families, and their daughters. The Siddalls could do as they pleased. She had shown them once. Furthermore, Gina could never take Arthur away from her as long as she lived. Afterward, Gina would know how to manage him; the fortune would be safe. If Gina had been a flighty adventuress, she would have run off with Arthur. That was the underlying objection to any other marriage; by an alliance with an important family, Arthur would be detached to some extent from his grandmother, drawn into another circle. Not that Mrs. Siddall defined the situation in such plain terms. She merely felt that she dared not be too absolute; disinheritance would cut her more keenly than it would him; what else should she do with the money? She liked Gina well enough; there was nothing against the girl but her obscurity, and that was a kind of pledge.

  "I think I had better see Gina, alone," she said. "Before you speak to her again—do you mind, my dear?" She had a vague hope of taking Gina unprepared.

  "I'll wait in the library," Arthur said.

  After Gina came Mrs. Siddall remained silent a moment, more from embarrassment than arrogance. "Sit down—never mind the papers now. There is something I am obliged to discuss with you. Perhaps you can guess. Arthur—"

  Gina's lips parted and closed again; whatever happened, she must not allow herself to think of her actual relation to Arthur. It was like possessing a concealed weapon, too dangerous to display. . . . Where was Arthur?

  "Arthur has told me everything," Mrs. Siddall said.

  Oh—he couldn't!

  "He told you that he wants to marry me?"

  Cleverly put, Mrs. Siddall conceded to herself. She nodded. "And that you refused, unless I gave my consent."

  Gina wavered, uncertain if she were walking into a trap. She said in a low voice "I don't want to cause—an estrangement." But she had the power. "Because Arthur cares so much for you. And I should be sorry, on my own account. Because I value your—esteem."

  "I suppose you are aware that Arthur has very little money of his own?"

  "He said he had enough. I shouldn't care about that; you know he doesn't either." Clever of her again, Mrs. Siddall thought; Arthur would never have any conception of the value of money. He might become immensely extravagant without realizing it; he might, on the other hand, fail to realize what he was giving up until long afterward. "But he doesn't believe you'd be offended at him—for long," Gina continued, as if reluctantly. "So I have to consider—it's very difficult—I want him to be happy." She thought, why didn't Arthur warn me? What did he tell her? Has he promised not to see me again? ... She felt the empty pain of the deserted, and a sickness of fear.

  '"Would you release him if it seemed to be for his happiness to do so?"

  She must chance it, since she could count upon nothing but his word. "If he came and asked me himself, I would," she said in a muffled voice.

  "Not for any other consideration?"

  "There couldn't be—any other consideration."

  Mrs. Siddall inclined her head majestically. They had defined their terms. Gina offered allegiance; benevolence on one side, gratitude on the other. Mrs. Siddall offered cash down. But if Arthur was to be the arbiter—no, Mrs. Siddall knew the answer. She said:"You are right; money doesn't bring happiness." She was quite serious, and so was Gina. "You will find Arthur in the library. Kiss me, my dear; it will be very pleasant to have a daughter in the house." She could at least stipulate that they should live with her.

  Arthur was walking up and down impatiently when Gina went to him; yet she perceived he had not been worried. "What did she—"

  Gina said: "She was very kind. Let me sit down a minute." The sudden relaxation of strain was almost too much. And with his arm around her, she felt again that dark resentment of his good fortune, his ingenuousness, his delight.

  * * *

  The next morning, Polly Brant dropped the telephone receiver and upset her breakfast tray. "Bill!"

  Her husband appeared from his dressing room, with a fluff of lather on his chin. He had an admirable physique, a drooping hay-colored mustache, and the mild brainless look of the true sportsman. By incessant effort he had risen to the position of substitute on the leading American polo team; and he took his vacations from this life work by shooting big game and exploring the more uncomfortable portions of the uninhabitable globe. He preserved devoutly complete files of the National Geographic Magazine, in which his photograph appeared occasionally in company with a defunct African koodoo, or Kodiak bear, or Ovis Poli, slain for the ostensible benefit of some museum of natural history.

  " 'Smatter? You nearly made me cut my throat."

  "Aunt Charlotte! I cannot believe my ears!"

  "Believe what?"

  "Arthur is going to marry that Fuller person!"

  "Who?"

  "Gertrude the Governess. The girl who reads to Aunt Charlotte. You've seen her."


  "I thought her name was Janet."

  "I don't deserve this," Polly said in a suffering tone. "Even if I did marry you with my eyes open. I mean the other one. Gina Fuller."

  "You said Gertrude," Bill objected.

  "I know I did," Polly admitted. "Gertrude for short. Let's not go into that; I'd have to teach you the alphabet. It's partly my fault anyhow."

  "What have you got to do with it?" Bill enquired placidly.

  "Patting him on the head, when he was trying to escape from the nursery," Polly explained darkly. "The least I could have done was to break his heart. If it wasn't for you I'd elope with him this minute; it's my plain duty. But I suppose you wouldn't like it."

  "I would not," Bill grunted. "What's wrong with the girl, anyhow? I remember her now; she seemed a sweet little thing. No money, eh?"

  "Sweet," Polly grimaced. "Oh, so sweet!"

  "You women are always down on one another," Bill said, with unbearable masculine fatuity.

  Polly moaned. "I don't see how it is possible to love such an absolute dimwit as you are, Bill. But I do. It's sheer atavism. If I were a Victorian, and you died, I'd feel an irresistible impulse to have you mounted with glass eyes and keep you in a case in the parlor."

  "Quaint notion," Bill agreed. "I wouldn't put it past you. But cut out the elopements. When do they mean to walk up the aisle?"

  "Oh, go away," said Polly. "In June, I suppose. People do."

  * * *

  She supposed correctly. Miss Kirkland sent the announcement to the newspapers, and fended off reporters. She knew she was typing her own sentence. The honeymoon would be spent abroad, and Mrs. Siddall planned to join the young couple later and winter in Egypt or on the Riviera. Mrs. Siddall had not been abroad for twenty years, dreading the sea; but this was a new start. She would engage a courier-secretary for traveling, she explained to Janet; but her old friend, Mrs. Trask, required a companion; Mrs. Siddall recommended Janet to her. Mrs. Trask lived in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and was stone deaf, but very active and cheerful, Mrs. Siddall said encouragingly. The position would be restful for Janet, who looked tired.

  Janet said nothing. ... It was enough to make her abandon virtue altogether, if she had seen any feasible way. Much virtue in an if . . .

  7

  MYSIE was an hour late, and she was in a hurry, and angry, and laughing. Teddy McKee stopped her as she was running down the steps of the theater entrance. She said: "Oh, hello," and waved to a taxi. He said: "I haven't seen you for a long time, Mysie: what are you doing this evening?" She said: "This evening—good heavens!" and sprang into the taxi.

  Jake Van Buren would be waiting at her apartment to take her to dinner. When she arrived she was an hour and fifteen minutes late. She flew up the stairs and burst in; Jake was there. She exclaimed: "Don't bother to say it." She had a job as press-agent for Neale Corrigan, a grouchy little Irish producer with a face like a hickory knot. She rather liked him, in spite of his habit of counting the postage stamps and keeping her overtime. "Wouldn't you think," she said, "that at his age and him a good Catholic with the fear of death on him that he'd mend his manners—but it's unfortunate the Church doesn't tell you that you go to hell for that sort of thing. For you do. And then," she remembered what she had been laughing about, "Sid Walters came in while I was putting on my hat; there was a smudge of carbon across my nose; he clasped me to his manly bosom and said:

  'My little wild rose.' Wild is no word for it, I just exploded laughing, and it hurt his feelings—that's his method, taking 'em by surprise, and he did all right— I had to bolt and leave him looking as if he had stepped on his foot. Blast, it's nearly eight o'clock, go out and get yourself something to eat while I dress."

  "I had some," Jake replied. "I knew you'd be late. What about you?"

  "I don't want any—" She vanished into her bedroom, and there were faint sounds of splashing.

  Jake sat down again patiently, with his habitual air of a well-bred guest, at ease without presuming. Dress clothes became him; he only sighed at the discovery that he was wearing a hair shirt under the armor plate of white starch. He had been to the barber during the afternoon, and a few clippings had clung through a bath and a change, with devilish persistence. Putting on hornrimmed glasses, he took up a book.

  Half an hour later Mysie called to him in muffled tones. He laid down the book exactly where it had been.

  "Yes?" he replied. "Can I what?"

  Mysie came out in a short black evening frock, with an erratic trail of silver lace at one side, and contorted her neck alarmingly, endeavoring to gaze down her spinal column. "Something is caught in the back, can you see what, and put it straight?"

  "How can you tell when a dress like this is straight?" he enquired, making a careful, respectful survey. "Ah," he disentangled a fastener, without touching Mysie's bare shoulder.

  Thea Ludlow appeared from the kitchen, and watched them. What an extraordinary relationship, she thought. She was the only person who knew or even suspected the nature of the relationship.

  Mysie said: "Thanks—one minute," disappearing again. "I ought to have gloves," her voice floated out tragically.

  "I will get you gloves to-morrow," Jake said.

  "To-morrow! What good will that do to-night?"

  "This book I was just reading," Jake said pacifically, "by Eddington Jeans Whitehead, explains that time and space are identical and interchangeable, and that if you work fast enough, you will overtake yesterday and get a million light years ahead of to-morrow, thus meeting yourself coming back for something you forgot, though it is possible that the whole universe is shooting sideways, which would make it harder."

  "Well, then, I'll bet it is shooting sideways," said Mysie bitterly, "just to make it harder. The trouble with me is that I'm two million light years ahead already, so I've got behind again."

  "There is that," Jake agreed. "Good night, Thea." Mysie snatched a green velvet evening cloak, and wrapped it about her as they went downstairs. They caught a taxi at once.

  "If Geraldine is ready we can get to Gina's by ten o'clock," Mysie calculated, "so maybe I can be home at midnight and get some sleep. If only I had time to sit down and think—"

  "What about?" Jake wished to know.

  "Oh, shut up," said Mysie. The taxi stopped suddenly for the lights, jolting them together in a heap. They sorted themselves out politely. "This is known as the mad rush of New York's life, waiting for hours in taxis at crossings. It's five years since Gina was married— I don't know what that has to do with it, though. Only you don't see people for years, and then you gallop to meet them as if it were a fire." Someone had spoken to her on the steps . ..

  Where had those five years gone out of her own life? Just as to-day had gone, running, breathless, accomplishing nothing. She was twenty-nine, would be thirty in six months. She had got nowhere in her profession, hardly was sure she had a profession any more. She was doing publicity as a stop-gap. Neale Corrigan had promised her a part; but his recent productions had nothing suitable for her type, his directors said. She was useful to Corrigan, knew how to get on with him, the feminine touch! . . . I'm one of those competent women, she thought with horror. I can always earn an honest living. So I'll never be kept in luxury. By a kind husband, or whatever. . . . My type! Blast, damn, hell! I can play anything. So they won't let me. There is no acting. Just walk-ons. No, I can't play anything, but if there is brains in it I can. If I'd learn to gurgle and swoop up and down on the lines— such lines, there really isn't anything else to do with them. Broadway comedy—synthetic gin. It makes me sick!

  "There are no plays." She said that aloud.

  Jake gave her his undivided attention and affirmed with passionate conviction that one of America's leading dramatists, whom he named, was a low-grade tomato worm. In Jake's opinion, the drama need not concern itself exclusively with subnormal creatures expressing themselves in a dialect compounded of East Lynne and Way Down East. "Not that I have anything against morons as such," he
qualified, "but does the total absence of a sense of humor in itself constitute genius?"

  "Among the Best People, it does," said Mysie. "I hope I may restrain myself at Gina's, and not dish your laudable ambition to chisel that job out of little Arthur. God knows I've tried hard enough to like the rich, for the sake of their money; but it can't be done. Once is enough to be told that Mussolini made the Italian railways run on time; and that Hoover has the international mind."

  "Listen," said Jake. "I have told you and told you that it will get you nowhere to try verbal first aid on those cases. Why you go so far as to leap from the pedestal upon which I have enshrined you and scutter down to the abysms of such monsters and hold converse with them and put yourself in the way of receiving such surprising whacks over the pituitary I cannot imagine. Leave them alone! Leave them alone! They may serve some inscrutable purpose by saying those things—who are we to judge, after all, whom they were sent here to bore to death? If you start trying to enlighten one, you have to stand at the elbow of the patient forever, through long eternities, doing the same thing without any net results, for the remedy does not reach the real seat of the disease. I've seen you working on them. They finally get so they can't call their souls their own and say even worse things in their efforts to please. You believe in the possibility of ameliorating the condition of the mentally or spiritually submerged. You, a grown woman—"

  "I don't," said Mysie. "All I ask is that they should go away and die somewhere out of my sight. They come up and speak to me. There are times, and plenty of them, when in self-defense you've got to use an ax."

  Jake said: "It does seem the only way to get the sensation to the forebrain. But to-night—"

  "Yes, yes," said Mysie. "I will, really. Besides, Arthur isn't like that himself. Of course he doesn't know the difference; he has never heard anything else in his born days. But he's rather sweet. You can tell. He has such lovely manners, and sees that everybody gets drinks, and looks bewildered because nothing makes sense. Usually only the nouveau riche are tolerable, because at least in early life they got it slapped into them. I've never talked to Arthur to any extent; Gina asked me to lunch a couple of times, but he was at the other end of the table. Then she dropped me because I didn't get my name up in electric lights. She's civil to Geraldine since Geraldine's novel went over. It's lucky I was there when she telephoned to invite Geraldine, so she had to ask me too. It tickled Geraldine to ring me in. Like most respectable married women, Geraldine sticks at nothing."