Mrs. Siddall, being unimaginative, had no specific image of herself; but she had functioned through her wealth. So great a fortune required an heir. If any part of the scheme failed, all might fail; the event she was denying actually occurred before Benjy's death. She had been able to postpone acknowledgment so far; but she was impatient of Julius Dickerson's evasions because she had already exhausted that recourse herself.
She delayed the interview for another month, and came to it at the end of her patience. Listening to him was like fumbling along a blank wall in a fog. "But, my dear Mrs. Siddall, what would have happened if—"
The wrath so long smoldering under her fears rose, bringing the blood to her head. "What did happen?" she retorted. "Can you suggest anything more that might have happened and didn't?" Julius said: "Of course we have all had losses—" "Have you?" She couldn't see that it was any recommendation of a financial adviser that he had had losses. An incidental suspicion sprang from the question. Julius said deprecatingly: "We could not foresee—" "Why couldn't you foresee?" Mrs. Siddall demanded. "If you can't foresee, what are you paid for?" She marched out, an angry old woman, more formidable in that native character than in her customary complacency of privilege. Even if it wasn't any use to speak her mind, it was a satisfaction; and it gave her the impetus to face the worst. She ordered her chauffeur to drive to her estate office.
Mr. Lützen, her manager, braced himself as he caught the tone and import of her request. The information she desired should be obtained; it would take only a few days.
"Weren't those bonds registered?" she demanded. "Yes, Mrs. Siddall, but to examine the records—" "An hour should be time enough," she said. "Meantime, please call Mr. Reynolds for me."
An hour was time enough; Mr. Lützen knew it had better be. And Sam Reynolds obeyed her summons with slightly malicious alacrity.
Mrs. Siddall had never before let Sam look over her investments to such an extent. With an effort, he refrained at first from unsolicited comment, but it was rather staggering. He admired the variety of ways in which Charlotte had been stuck. At that rate, the Siddall fortune was terribly depleted; and if you figured in the building, which wasn't even paying its upkeep—whew! Finally she handed him several memorandum slips. Julius Dickerson had taken some of the Siddall Building bonds, on their first issue, as a private investment for himself. These bonds originally registered as his purchase had been resold to her. They had gone through an intermediate ownership, but if there was no sale for the remainder of the bond issue, how had Julius found a purchaser for his lot? Obviously he had used a dummy to work them back on Mrs. Siddall, while urging her to complete the building. He had taken pains not to show the transaction directly. "Isn't that the record?" Mrs. Siddall asked.
"Absolutely," said Sam. "Is it legal?" she asked. "Perfectly legal," Sam assured her. "You authorized such purchases under your own signature. I don't think you'll catch that sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch outside the law." "But Mr. Dickerson was morally in a position of trust." "Oh, morally—I guess you must be talking about two other fellows. Fact is, the same dodge was worked on quite a few corporations, with promotion stock. After the market blew up, the insiders turned back their stock for cash, cleaned out the last nickel."
"Then there is nothing I can do?"
"I see by the papers that the King of Siam is over here on a visit. You might call him up and make a deal. He specializes in white elephants."
Mrs. Siddall swept the papers together. "Yes, I called you in," she said enigmatically.
"You said a mouthful, Charlotte," Sam agreed. "What the hell—it's rather late in the day. All your life you've had fifty million dollars, and anyone like me who hadn't was a poor sap. Julius handed you thirty million dollars' worth of soft soap, and he was a big man. You didn't get any from me and I didn't get any of the thirty millions, so I don't owe you anything on account. You don't suppose anyone is going to sympathize with a busted millionaire? All there is to being rich is holding onto your money. It gives me a hearty laugh to see Julius and his friends sawing off the limb they're sitting on. Those rotten bonds they sold—what did they care as long as they got their commission? It didn't occur to them that they weren't leaving themselves any safe place to salt down their profits. Now they're in favor of unredeemable paper currency because they think it will prevent any chance of another showdown; and it inflates their book values so they can make their ledgers balance—on paper. Damned if they don't seem determined to cut their own throats by every means that dumbness can devise. They kept passing the buck till there was no one to take it. I'd like to point out that the prime condition of owning anything is that you can lose it. You either own it or you don't. You needn't expect anyone else to wipe your nose for you. Look at Mr. Astor offering to hand over to Uncle Sam his slum properties that are running in the red—he's willing to accept long-term bonds in payment. Ain't that nice of him? Of course he expects to hang onto his good stuff. Who does he think is going to pay the bonds? And what with? Every government bond is a mortgage on whatever you've got left. These birds think they are going to save their incomes—by mortgaging their capital. It's all to be paid out of thin air. They'll find the air getting thinner and thinner. If you want to know what's happened to you, it's simply that they got you on a short circuit. It will come around to Julius in good time. And you and Julius running a Communist magazine; now that's a fancy touch. Honestly, you don't need to do that. Just let nature take her course. God help the rich, the poor can beg."
Mrs. Siddall listened with an expression of detached comprehension. It puzzled Sam, when he stopped for breath. He had seen that expression before—but where, when?
"Oh, Arthur's magazine?" she said, after a long pause. "How can you tell it is a Communist magazine? I didn't know anyone could read it. I tried to, once. They have fifteen hundred subscribers. Does it matter what they call it?" She glanced at her black dress.
"By gum, Charlotte, you've hit it; what does it matter, when we're being run by politicians who've always lived on inherited incomes and intellectual ambulance chasers on endowed salaries out to do us good? They've got ten million voters on the payroll already. . . . You want me to go over this stuff for you?"
"Yes, I'll see you to-morrow, perhaps," she said. "Of course, I can't trust you, Sam—that's an advantage." The gleam of humor was an echo of her father's manner of speech.
Sam thought, Charlotte was the best of the lot. She took it on the chin. Not like most of the hen-brained rich women his wife cultivated so assiduously. He had barged into a bridge party at home last Saturday, and one old cluck was saying we ought to have a Mussolini. He told her that if she needed a dose of castor oil, she could get it at the corner drugstore. His wife said he was a low brute.
Mrs. Siddall wondered remotely at her own tranquillity. The heavy sense of age had lifted; there was a faint singing in her head, not troublesome. ... As the car progressed up Fifth Avenue, she found herself thinking back —the Martins' house used to stand there, on the site of that department store; and the Pearsons' there, where the closed bank stands; even the Public Library was a "new" building to her; it used to be the reservoir. The Union League Club—ladies were not supposed to lift their eyes to the windows as they passed. On Sundays after church one drove up the street in a victoria, bowing right and left to acquaintances. . . . There was one remaining landmark. Mrs. Siddall took up the speaking tube. "Raymond, stop here at the Helders'."
It was a huge but undistinguished house in Italian Renaissance style, with barred lower windows and a bronze door. The footman recognized her, bowed her in. "I think Mrs. Helder is out, madam; I will enquire." "I wish to see Mr. Helder senior; thank you, I know the way." The footman appeared uncertain, as she walked past him; he did not know how to prevent her. The east wing. ... A valet-nurse interposed ineffectually. "Good morning, Morrison; how is Mr. Helder?" "Not so well, ma'am." . . . She advanced; the immovable body gave way to the irresistible force.
Wyman Helder senior sat in
a wheel-chair, with a rug spread across his knees. He had been a stout man, deep-chested and bull-necked, with bushy black eyebrows; but he was stricken in years, shrunken, his broad shoulders bowed, his jowls pendant and the ridge of his nose bleak. The bones showed in the backs of his hands. He shut the sliding drawer of a cabinet beside his chair.
The room was sound-proof as well as burglar-proof. No rumor of the world's traffic and disorder could penetrate. A dozen famous paintings spaced the walls, among them a Holbein, a Rembrandt, a Velasquez, acquired at fabulous prices. There were also a small set of tapestries, Diana at the chase, reputed to be from Chenonceaux; and vitrines containing rare examples of enamel and goldsmith's work: jeweled reliquaries, covered cups of state, a Golden Rose presented to a queen by a pope, a salt cellar credited to Cellini, wrought in an elaborate and rather ugly design representing Venus on a shell, borne by Tritons. It was a private museum, a treasure chest.
"How are you, Wyman?" Mrs. Siddall had a moment's misgiving; the old man glared at her with defensive annoyance, quickly mollified into a formal welcome. But she thought his wits must be wandering; he said to the valet: "Give Dayrolles a chair." He was tolerably well-read; more so than Mrs. Siddall. "Sit down, Charlotte," he added. "Is Evelyn giving a reception?" He referred to his daughter-in-law. "No," Mrs. Siddall explained, "I was passing and it occurred to me—" "Umph," he grunted, and a gleam of distrust came into his sunken eyes. "They keep things from me. The newspapers. Pretend they forget. I don't forget." Mrs. Siddall was uncomfortably conscious of the valet-nurse hovering in the background, obviously wishing her away. And the fleeting changes in Helder's features, almost imperceptible, were like the shiftings of a mask, sly and cunning. "I had a talk with Mr. Dickerson this afternoon," Mrs. Siddall approached tentatively the object of her call.
"Oh, Julius." Helder grunted again. He was fingering a handful of coins on his lap-robe, specimens from his collection, Mrs. Siddall assumed. Silver coins. "They all talked too much," he said. "Got to believing themselves. The New Era. In my time—" His hands twitched, and several coins rolled to the floor. He made a convulsive, ineffectual effort to catch them, and uttered a whimpering noise. He seemed to disintegrate. The valet sprang forward, and Mrs. Siddall instinctively helped to pick up the bits of silver. She noticed, with astonishment, that what she had retrieved was an ordinary quarter dollar. The valet had two dimes. "Give them to him, madam," the valet muttered urgently. "He has an idea . . ." The valet laid the coins on the old man's lap, and he clutched them feebly. "There isn't any more money," Helder said in a hoarse whisper. "There isn't any more money."
Mrs. Siddall fled. In the anteroom, she came to herself; the valet had followed her and was saying: "Excuse me, madam" ... She said: "Thank you, Morrison; by the way, you need not mention my call to anyone else; I think I had better not wait for Mrs. Helder." "Thank you, madam." The valet was more than thankful to avoid any such mention.
The incessant and varied stream of life along the Avenue struck Mrs. Siddall with fresh force as she emerged from the guarded house. People going about their own affairs, busy, anxious, gay, indifferent. She was carried along with them. Energy flowed into her.
At her own door she stepped out of the car firmly. She felt as if she had been away a long time, a great distance. The butler opened the door. She enquired: "Arkright, will you see if Mr. Siddall is at home?" The butler took up the house telephone connecting the two houses. "No, madam; he is expected to return shortly." "Very well, say I should be glad if he would come over when he does return." She hesitated, and then went through the party corridor into the other house, and upstairs. A housemaid, seeing her enter the empty nursery, was touched by a sincere impulse of sympathy. Benjy had been such a darling little boy, laughing and affectionate. The house did seem mournful without him; and Mr. Siddall looked as if he'd never get over it.
The nursery was sunny and still and desolately tidy. Toy cupboards shut, the bed made, rugs spread straight. Only the rag doll, Lucy, sat uprightly limp in a small chair. Benjy's nurse, bringing back his things from the country, had placed it there, a pitiful act of piety. Mrs. Siddall picked it up. Careless of observation, she carried it back to her own house. Her maid, Trudi, was shaken out of a lifetime's training. "Herr je!" she exclaimed. Mrs. Siddall dismissed her: "I shan't need you for awhile, Trudi."
Left alone, Mrs. Siddall sat for awhile holding the calico doll. She shook her head; there were tears in her eyes.
She took up her patience cards, and laid them out. The first game failed. She shuffled, cut, started again. There, it was going very well. That singing in her head . . . But her mind was remarkably clear, and her eyes; she saw the cards through brightness. A knock—that was Arthur. "Come in. One moment, my dear, I believe I have it." Looking down again, she saw her hand moving more slowly, stopping. She said: "Why, what—I can't—"
She never spoke again. The doctor, arriving too late, said that at her age the first stroke was sometimes fatal. She must have had a shock. He said consolingly that she had not suffered. Lying in her coffin, she looked dignified and kind; the last trace of haughtiness was wiped away.
25
AFTER the probate of Mrs. Siddall's will, Arthur spent his days at the estate office with lawyers and managers. At the end of a month he could not determine whether he had inherited a vast fortune or a handsome deficit. He asked the question bluntly and the executors didn't know either. The lowest valuation of the Siddall Building and the two big houses would call for an inheritance tax that would eat up practically all the quick assets; and a sale would involve an equally disastrous sacrifice, assuming that purchasers could be found, which was highly improbable. It would, the executors remarked sagaciously, take some time to arrive at a settlement. They omitted to say where they would be when they arrived.
Thus enlightened, Arthur made an unpremeditated excuse and took leave for the day. He was desperately inclined to drop the whole business, walk away and leave it without a backward glance. The desire to escape was so literal that he dismissed his car and walked uptown. He was tired of possessions. His feeling was sincere, just as one may weary of the confinement of walls and roof after being indoors too much; the more so since he had never experienced the inclemency of the untempered wind to the shorn lamb. ... A cup of coffee, mister. . . . Arthur gave the suppliant the loose change in his pocket hastily, looking guilty and ashamed. Am I my brother's keeper? Like most humane and sensitive souls, he wished vaguely for some impersonal super-power to take over the load of responsibility. It is especially the dream of those who cannot manage even their own affairs, a secret and unconscious excuse. Man is the naked animal, the stepchild of nature. The limit of his freedom is his ability to carry a pack on his back. He envies his fellow animals their fleet-foot grace, their ignorance of yesterday and to-morrow. His gods are winged and timeless.
Arthur's one personal venture had failed. If the money was lost, that let him out. Gina had married him for the money. . . . All, all of a piece throughout; Thy chase had a beast in view; Thy wars brought nothing about; Thy lovers were all untrue. . . .
Gina was in the library with her social secretary, an efficient middle-aged woman, acknowledging messages of condolence. Hundreds had accumulated, a drift of dead leaves, a funeral offering. When they were disposed of, Mrs. Siddall's shade would vanish with them. Gina took up a letter, glanced at the signature, and varied the formula of reply to the importance of the name. She looked up as Arthur entered; she didn't expect him so early but she had just been thinking of plans for the future.
"We can finish these to-morrow," she said; the secretary took the hint and effaced herself. Gina said to Arthur: "I've been wondering, wouldn't it be best to close both the houses as soon as possible and perhaps go abroad? For the winter, at least."
"The houses will have to be sold," Arthur said. "I'm afraid there won't be much left when the estate is settled. Practically nothing—we really haven't any income now. Gina, it's no use going on, is it?"
; "Going on with what?" But she understood.
"You could get a divorce in Paris, or somewhere. I'll meet whatever arrangements you decide on; I expect there'll be enough to—to provide for you. Even if the estate is wiped out, I could sell my library."
"A divorce?" She heard her own voice, flat and thin. "Why?"
Of all things in the world, he could never tell her why. How could he explain the humiliation of a man who has been seduced by a virgin?
"I thought you might prefer a clean break," he said. "Since it's always been—distasteful to you; and there is no reason now why we should—keep up appearances. . . . Anyhow, I can't go on."
"You're not going to leave me? Now—so soon after . . ."
He winced. "No, of course not; we needn't bother each other; and if you want to go abroad you can take your own time and avoid all the—the talk."
What took Gina's breath away was the completeness of the disaster and Arthur's matter-of-fact tone. As if there were nothing else to be said. He hadn't thought out what he was going to say or even meant to say it just then. Simply he had come to the end. After he had left the room she realized that she had apparently acquiesced. She thought she must be mad. Such a conversation could not have occurred. Mrs. Siddall was dead and Benjy was dead. The Siddall fortune had vanished, and Arthur was asking her to divorce him. All that couldn't have happened so suddenly, leaving nothing. . . .
The butler appeared, the door being open; he paused discreetly, and said: "Mr. Van Buren is calling, madam."
"Who?" said Gina.
"Mr. Van Buren, madam. I said I would enquire if you were at home. He is in the drawingroom."
"Oh—yes," Gina said. She moved like a sleepwalker. She had no motive except the necessity for action of some kind.
The Golden Vanity Page 25
