She put the letter back into the portfolio, and the portfolio back in the drawer. Again she got into bed, again she turned out the light. What a little simpleton she had been! At first she had clung to the hope that her mother had forced Leslie to write that note. She had answered it with passionate indignation.
The first time she was able to elude her mother in London, eagerly she had gotten into a taxicab and driven to The Savoy. But there had been no letter for Miss Charlotte Vale. Again and again she had asked the mail-clerk her futile question. All that summer she had called in vain at General Delivery windows in various post offices. But Leslie never sent her a single line, a single signal. Eight weeks in all were somehow endured before her mother and she had finally sailed for Boston in September.
They had spent the last few days in Old Chester, less than twenty miles from Liverpool. The address Leslie had written in her address book was Rockledge, Forestbrook Vale, Liverpool, Lancashire, England. One afternoon her mother had suggested a drive. It wasn’t until she told the chauffeur to stop, they would walk from here, that Charlotte asked where they were going. “You’ll see!” her mother had replied.
The automobile had left them in the midst of an outcrop of small detached houses, placed close together in long neat rows on parallel streets, suggestive of a market produce garden, planted with rows of vegetables of different varieties. The houses in one patch were all brick, in another all cement, in still another a combination of both brick and cement.
When Charlotte saw the signboard ahead bearing the words Forestbrook Vale, she realized her mother’s objective. It was a short street with a dead end, lined on both sides by small oblong brick houses, flat-roofed, and all exactly alike. A long fence ran in front of them with cement pilasters at each gateway, bearing impressive titles instead of numbers. Rockledge was the fifth house down on the left. It had orange-colored curtains made of theatrical gauze at its pair of front windows, pink petunias and portulacas of all colors in the window-box outside, and a single monkey pine tree in its small front garden. “Well, now you see what I’ve saved you from!” her mother had commented as they paused on the sidewalk opposite. Charlotte had made no reply, choked by an emotion of hatred for her mother and a wave of loyalty to Leslie stronger than ever before.
She had been at home several months before the blow fell that finally destroyed that loyalty. One Sunday morning in December, glancing through the society page of a New York paper she saw the announcement of Leslie’s engagement to the New York girl, and the next June she read a description of the wedding at Glen Cove. The article gave a glowing account of Mr. John Leslie-Trotter (hyphenated), of Rockledge, Lancashire, England, and mentioned with pride his interest in shipping, adding that he was to enter the banking firm of his father-in-law after his marriage.
That had been the way the New York girl’s parents had met the situation, no more welcome to them, at first, probably, than to her mother. That had been the way (it had been borne in upon Charlotte) that Leslie had met the situation! All those weeks and months that she had been calling in vain for letters from him, longing, hoping, refusing to lose faith, he had been consoling himself with another girl! She used to try to get comfort from the thought that at least it had taught her a lesson. Never again would she be so vulnerable. Small comfort! Leslie had been her first and only romance.
SUNLIGHT WAS SHINING THROUGH the flowered-cretonne window hangings over her head when she woke up from three solid hours of deep sleep induced by two turquoise-colored capsules to which she had at last resorted. Doctor Jaquith had not taken the capsules away from her. Instead, he had impressed upon her that one’s own knowledge of how the nervous system works was the most effective way to treat sleeplessness.
At Cascade Charlotte had spent many hours studying nerves and their functions; instincts and emotions, and their differences; and the effect of all these upon one’s mind, body, and behavior. She knew why an evening spent in some form of light amusement prepared the way for peaceful sleep, and why anything emotionally or mentally arousing invited wakefulness. She had also learned at Cascade not to fear sleeplessness—that rest and relaxation even without sleep refreshed the body. To rid oneself of false fears by the intelligent application of one’s own knowledge was one of the fundamental principles of Doctor Jaquith’s philosophy.
At her first conference with Doctor Jaquith he had told her, with that brusque manner of his, but kindly, in spite of the frequent interpolations of blunt humor, that she was a mature and intelligent human being, equipped with all her five senses, and with what was more of an asset still—freewill. Not to make use of her freewill was like putting a blindfold over the eyes and letting somebody else lead her around. He said he’d gladly help her learn how to use her freewill, but she’d got to do the using, and apply it to everything—blue capsules included.
As she gazed at the cretonne curtains, she noticed they were hanging motionless, and at the same moment she became conscious of the exaggerated stillness. There was no murmur, no tremor. The engines were not running. For a moment she lay as still as the ship, like someone waking up free from pain following some physical ordeal, not daring to stir a muscle. For thirty seconds or more she lay inert in a blissful state of half torpor. But she was aware that reality was slowly and surely advancing.
During the peak of her illness waking up in the morning had been like entering the sea when the surf is high on a beach where there is an undertow. Returning consciousness would hit her in a series of waves like breaking combers. After she had managed to pass through those first worst combers of consciousness, the waves did not break often—just rose and fell all day like a sullen sea. But for weeks now she had been spared the choking combers of waking up. Their diminishing size and strength had been one of the indications that proved she would soon be well. But Doctor Jaquith had made a mistake. The combers had returned, and here she was a whole ocean away from Cascade and protection. Oh, she should never have come on this cruise! She must send that man a note that she was ill and unable to take the proposed trip today.
Kneeling on her bed, she pushed back the cretonne curtain and looked out her porthole. The ship was moving! Slipping along as smoothly as a swan. Gulls were rising and falling, stopping in midair without seeming to move their wings, spread out to full capacity, like the petals of some large luxurious flower in full bloom. In the distance she could see a strip of furry land, the blurred gray-green of a mullein leaf.
The land must be one of the Balearic Isles. Majorca probably. As she gazed at the waiting island anchored way out here at sea, for her to take or leave as she chose according to her own freewill, she felt the prick of a sort of obligation, not to that man—but to the slightly known person in herself, using her freewill with no one to say nay, aye, why, or when.
There was, besides, the challenge of Doctor Jaquith’s expectations acting like a spur. That poem of Walt Whitman’s which he had given her was in her billfold now. She reached for her bag and produced it. It was typed on a blue-lined index card. She held it up above her eyes. The poem was entitled The Untold Want. It was only two lines long. It read: The untold want, by life and land ne’er granted, Now, Voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find. Very well! She would! She flung back the bed-clothes and got out of bed.
She had taken the blue capsules so late that she felt drugged, heavy-eyed, and slightly nauseated. Doctor Jaquith’s Spartan exhortations recurred to her: Ignore sensations. Discount emotions. Think, act, feel, in this order. Then thumb your nose at what you feel. By no means did Doctor Jaquith confine himself to poetry! She rang for the stewardess and ordered breakfast sent to her room. She must eat, put food in her mouth, chew, swallow. It was simply a matter of determination. She laid out Lisa’s tweed suit, and Fabia’s thick-soled walking-shoes. Her head was simply splitting. She went into the bathroom, ripped off her nightgown over her head, and took a cold salt shower.
WHEN DURRANCE JOINED CHARLOTTE she was standing on the deck gazing at Palma across the
bay. The pointed pinnacles of the cathedral loomed up above the heterogeneous mass of buildings surrounding it like the pointed tops of spruce above deciduous trees of various varieties. The buildings crowded down to a string of small boats at the water’s edge. The blue bay was full of rippling reflections—sails, roofs, pinnacles, and mountain tops. The air was full of sunshine, breezes, gulls and gulls’ calls. The tenders were already plying between the liner and the shore. Other little boats were chugging here and there, plying through the reflections, trailing long wakes of watered silk.
Charlotte surveyed this scene through clouds of despair and bitterness, continually rising from one source or another in her depths—from the smoldering fires of bitter memories and resentments which she had tried to discard.
“Hello! Here you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for somebody in dark blue and a lot of soft brown fur. You should have told me what you were going to wear, Camille. Hope you slept well?”
“I managed to pass the night, thank you.”
“Thank you who? I rather liked the sound of my initials last night.” He was in excellent spirits. “I rather like Lisa’s tweeds, too,” he went on, stepping back and surveying her critically. “Lisa certainly has quite an eye for color.” The tweeds were dusty green, jacket and skirt, with a pale yellow jersey waist. She wore a yellow felt hat, and over her arm carried a Burberry topcoat which matched the suit. “Only I hope I don’t mistake you for an olive tree today and lean up against you, or a grapefruit and cut you in two.”
“Are you usually so scintillating so early in the morning?”
“No. Not always. Only when I’m about to explore an unknown island with an unknown lady. Guess that extra coat is a good idea. I’ll get mine. Wait for me here.”
She was thankful to be spared the necessity of making a rejoinder. She was in no mood to respond to his good humor, even if she had the skill. She wished she hadn’t worn the green-and-yellow costume. Remarks about her appearance always embarrassed her. That facetious comment about the olive tree and grapefruit was just the kind of arch humor June indulged in frequently at her expense.
June, witty, pretty, and only 18, derived much amusement poking fun at her, and exposing to clearer view her most obvious defect. She would put her head on one side and inquire roguishly, “Isn’t that skirt a little too short, Auntie?” when it was painfully too long, or with mock surprise, looking closely at her pale dry lips, “Have you been putting rouge on your lips, you naughty girl?” What remark would June make now, she wondered, to convey to this stranger what a funny dub Aunt Charlotte was?
If June should as much as catch a glimpse of her in the company of this man, she’d never hear the last of it. It was especially tempting to June’s sense of humor to imply that poor Aunt Charlotte had an admirer. It had been such a taunt of June’s that had snapped Charlotte’s endurance finally, on that horrible Sunday afternoon last October, when she had broken down before the whole family and fled from the phalanx of their shocked, staring faces.
She had not seen any of those faces since, except Lisa’s and her mother’s. But as soon as this cruise was over, she must go home again. Her preordained environment was waiting for her. This cruise was but an interlude, transitory, soon over. It would leave no more trace on her life, once she entered the shadows of the Back Bay Station, than the reflections of Palma on the sea, once the shades of night shut down. The thought of returning to the scene of her ignominious exhibition filled her with revulsion. She felt the physical pressure of rising sobs.
Good Heavens! She must pull herself together. Her companion would be back any moment. She stood up very straight. Think, act, feel. That was the order. Then ignore what you feel. But it was too late now. The tears were already in her eyes. She heard his voice beside her.
“There’s the tender coming back for the next load,” he remarked cheerfully. “Hadn’t we better be going below?”
“I’ve decided not to go,” she managed to quaver.
He looked at her sharply. All he could see was the contour of her averted cheek. “Have I said something? Was I too fresh again?”
She shook her head.
“Yes, I was! I’m sorry.”
“No, no! It isn’t anything to do with you. It’s only—I’ve been ill. I’m not well yet. I—” She might as well tell him the whole truth, and the sooner the better. “I’ve been in a sanatorium for the last three months—a place called Cascade.” At hearing the announcement for the first time from her own lips, tears of self-pity filled her eyes. “Please leave me.”
His answer was to fold his arms upon the deck-railing and move over nearer to her till his shoulder touched hers, then to grasp her wrist with his concealed hand.
“Cascade?” he queried casually. “I couldn’t afford to go to Cascade when I was ill.” Then, in a lower tone, “I know all about it. I understand now.” The firm steadying pressure continued on her arm. There was no suggestion of a caress about it.
She dabbed her eyes with her free hand and blew her nose. “I’m an awful fool!”
“Thank God for that! So was I! Why, it’s like discovering we’ve got a common ancestor, and are cousins or something.”
She felt an insane desire to laugh. She blew her nose again.
“I was thinking,” he went on, “that the first thing we’d better do when we get on shore is to have a little refreshment of some sort. It’s been a long time since I had breakfast, and some good strong black coffee would appeal to me. Then, after a look at the cathedral, I thought we’d get on the road. Of course if you’ve got anything to suggest I’m willing to listen. I thought perhaps—” Still his hand grasped her wrist.
“I’m better now.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” And she gave him a swift glance to prove it.
He let go of her wrist then. “Well, shall we take this tender or wait for the next? Makes no difference to me.”
“We’ll take this one. And thanks a lot.”
Never had she regained her poise so completely after a tailspin like that. Usually when the tears once started, there was no stemming the flood till it had spent its force.
As she followed her companion down the hanging steps attached to the side of the liner, she was filled with one of those waves of elation which frequently mark the last stages of convalescence from an illness such as hers. Perhaps she was going to get well! Perhaps Dr. Jaquith hadn’t made a mistake, after all!
At the end of the steps Durrance leaped lightly down into the bobbing tender, then turned and lifted his arms to her, taking both her hands in his and steadying her down into the boat beside him. Just before he let go of her hands, he gave her fingers a squeeze of encouragement, calling out above the confusion of voices and waves and looking straight at her, “All right?”
She returned the squeeze and called back in a strong bright voice, “All right!”
7
BIOGRAPHICAL DETAILS
A half hour later they were walking up the main aisle of Palma’s cathedral. Their footsteps on the stone floor rose in tiny sound waves side by side, pushing their way through the floating dust motes and disappearing in the great empty space above. Their gazes, also side by side, slowly circled the vista of soaring columns, then climbed one of the shafts, wandering off to the faraway regions of the vaulted roof, leaping to the old stained-glass windows, first one, then another.
“Cram’s right!” Durrance exclaimed softly. “Marvelous! What can Chartres be like?” His tone was as excited as a boy’s.
Later Charlotte looked at him with dawning conviction, as he stood in a shaft of dusty sunlight slanting down through a high open window. One hand was placed on a column in an almost affectionate way. His chin was lifted. On his face there was a rapt expression, not of reverence, but rather of intense interest.
Later, seated on the back seat of the automobile, she remarked, “I think I know what you were doing at M.I.T. Aren’t you an architect?”
“No, I’m not, Mrs.
Sherlock Holmes. Sorry not to oblige you.”
“Weren’t you studying architecture at M.I.T.?”
“Possibly. But there’s a lot of difference between studying architecture and being an architect. Rodrigo!” (Rodrigo was their driver who had eagerly informed them, “I speak English.”) “What is the population of Palma?” And Durrance waved a hand in the direction of the disappearing city.
“Almond trees.”
“No! No! Palma. People. Combien? Nombra populay-siong?”
“Almonds, olives, oil, oranges, lemons, prunes, grapes, wine.”
“Well, if you’re not an architect,” said Charlotte, “do you mind if I ask what you are?”
“Not a bit! It’s just what my daughters ask. And my wife too. She says it’s embarrassing when she has to open a new charge account.” He paused. “I’m a jobber.”
“I’ve heard of stock jobbers. Investments, I suppose.”
“Wrong again! I job brass articles—copper, zinc, tin, some iron, some glass. Just about what the junkman jobs. I’m going to Milan to pick up a little old rubbish there.”
Again the note of flippant self-contempt! Again she had touched his sensitive spot! She changed the subject. “I’m afraid Rodrigo didn’t understand your Majorcan,” she laughed. “Shall I try mine?”
“I used to be an architect,” he acknowledged. “But I’m not now. It always irritates me—to have the girls and Isobel—my wife—refer to me as an architect. So to get their goat I insist I’m a jobber. But there’s no reason in the world to be cantankerous with you. I sell electric light fixtures.”
“Are you going to get electric light fixtures in Milan?”
“Hope to. One of my old friends is an architect, and a successful one too. He is about to place a big order for some fixtures for an Italian villa he is building for a multi-millionaire out in California. When he was in Italy last year he saw just what he wanted for that villa in an old palace not far from Milan. Somebody had to come over personally and see about it. My friend gave me the chance, and is going to get the stuff through our firm.”
Now, Voyager Page 6
