He closed the guidebook and tossed it aside. “The immediate cause was pretty prosaic. It was connected with this little junk business of mine. I went into it when I got out of architecture. A lot of my friends lent me money. When friends who’ve lent you money ask if they’re going to get a dividend pretty soon, it isn’t easy to make light of it, and say that you guess they won’t get a dividend this year anyway, when you know darn well there isn’t the slightest hope for a dividend this year nor next year either, nor God knows when. After a while it gets under your skin if you’ve got any nervous system at all.”
“Why did you get out of architecture?”
“Because grocery bills had to be paid. Isobel has delicate health. Specialists’ bills had to be paid too. I was in by myself, then, you see, and the rent of a first-class architect’s office and all the overhead expenses mount up. Perhaps if there’d been no World War things would have been different. Maybe I’m rationalizing.”
“Were you in the war?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to claim I was actually in the war. But I was in a training camp. Never got across, worse luck. Never got a single glimpse at a French cathedral, tower or spire!” he said flippantly. “Instead, I spent my time outside Ayer, Massachusetts, learning how to salute an officer, and bayonet a dummy, and losing what little headway I’d made in architecture.” He picked up a small pebble and flung it off into space. It disappeared over the low parapet of the retaining wall. “After the fray was over, the architects who’d stuck around were the ones who got the contracts. Oh, I made another stab at it. I tried hard, but it was pretty hard sledding after the war. It was especially hard sledding for Isobel. Isobel never had any faith that I’d ever be a White or a Cram or a Bulfinch, and I guess she was right too.” He paused. “For several years the electrical equipment business wasn’t so bad,” he went on. “Then gradually—But what am I thinking of, running on about myself like this? I guess it was that wine. Do you hear that fountain? Let’s close our eyes and not say a word for a minute or two. Just listen, and be aware. That’s what Tina and I do sometimes.”
Charlotte leaned her head back against one of the bare arms of the grapevine, lifted her chin to the sky and closed her eyes. Trickle of water, splash of birds’ feathers, tinkle of bells, pressure of earth, warmth of sun, warmth of companionship. Thus they sat, both with closed eyes and raised chins, for a minute. Finally Durrance stood up and walked over to the low wall at the outer edge of the garden. Placing his elbows on top of the wall, he looked down at whatever lay below, then turned to Charlotte.
“Come and look,” he called.
She obeyed, leaning on the low wall beside him. It was like looking over the parapet of a high building, she thought. The series of narrow, terraced gardens were like the mounting stories of a New York skyscraper, one set back of the other. There was a grove of olive trees in the valley hundreds of feet below, with some sheep wandering beneath them.
“The sheep look like blobs of yellow foam scattered on the ground,” Charlotte remarked.
“And the olive trees look like a lot of gray-green balloons tethered on the ground,” said Durrance. “One of the balloons has broken its rope, I think, and is sailing away with us in its basket looking down over the edge.” He paused. “Makes me want to spit,” he remarked reminiscently, looking around his shoulder at her impishly to see how she took it. It was the sort of humor he could never indulge in with Isobel.
Charlotte replied prosaically, “Why is the pleasure of spitting from high places supposed to be confined to the male of the species? I always want to.”
This remark of Charlotte’s filled Durrance with such an ecstatic sense of companionship that he remarked, “I don’t really have to get off at Nice tomorrow.”
Charlotte was silent. Could she play her part another day?
“I’m not due in Milan yet. I’d planned to run up to Paris for a few days, but I think I could persuade the purser to let me keep my bunk a little longer, anyway till Genoa, that is, if you—”
Still Charlotte was silent, feeling shy and inadequate.
“Oh, all right! It was just a passing thought I had. How old do you think those olive trees are down there?”
THEY RETURNED TO THE SHIP on the last trip made by the tender. On the dock there was another little old lady in black with a white kerchief, selling flowers. There wasn’t much left in her basket when Durrance made his selection. But there still remained several bunches of freesia—the short-stemmed, lavender-streaked variety. The stems of each bunch were bound closely together by yards of string, compressing the flowers into a solid mass as difficult to carry as a cauliflower. Durrance bought all the freesia that remained and presented them to Charlotte.
On the ocean liner both Mr. Thompson and Miss Demarest were stationed at the top of the hanging steps, checking off the returning cruise passengers, as two sailors hauled them in one by one. Charlotte appeared first in the open space, one of the bunches of freesia clutched under her arm. Durrance followed with the other two bunches, both their topcoats, an umbrella, two guidebooks, and a package containing three jars of jam made by their luncheon hostess.
“Well, well,” exclaimed Miss Demarest, “here are the runaways! At last! Where in the world—”
At that moment somebody behind Miss Demarest leaped forward and grasped Durrance’s free hand, vigorously pumping his arm up and down. He was a tall, tanned, loose-jointed man, wore a loose-woven, amber-colored tweed suit, and a striking plaid tie of bulky homespun.
“Hello. Hello, J.D.,” he grinned.
“Mack!” gasped Durrance, also grinning, also pumping, the two bunches of freesia dropping to the floor, so also the guidebooks and jam. Charlotte leaned and picked them up. “Well, what do you know about this! As I’m alive, Mack!”
“Sure thing! And Deb, too! We’ve been in Majorca for the last four weeks. Saw your name on the passenger list. What in the devil are you doing over here?”
“Business.” He turned to Charlotte. “This is an old friend of mine, Frank McIntyre. Mack, I want you to meet—” For only a second did he hesitate. Miss Demarest was listening in. “I want you to meet Miss Beauchamp. She’s been good enough to take me in for the land trip today.”
“Miss Beauchamp! Wait a minute.” Mack looked puzzled. “I saw her name on the list, too. Are there two Renée Beauchamps?”
“No. Not two Renées. This is Camille. Tell you about it later. Where’s Deb?”
“Waiting for us. Man, it’s good to see you! Let’s go up.”
Deb was also tall, tanned, and loose jointed. Also wore loosewoven tweeds. A rough, faded-looking plaid suit, but smart. Everything about her was smart in a careless, instinctive sort of way. As Charlotte shook hands with her, she blessed Lisa with all her heart. For the first time in her life that swift, appraising first glance of another woman was not followed by discomfort.
Deb also appeared delighted to see J.D. “Been behaving yourself, old dear? How’re Isobel and the girls?”
She had a deep voice, and a loud, frequent laugh, both of which were extremely attractive. Her face presented a similar paradox. No one could call it beautiful, yet it was full of beauty. She had a big nose, and eyes so abnormally far apart that she looked absolutely wall-eyed at times. But when she smiled, which was often, her faced glowed and scintillated, and you no more saw its defects than those of a room when logs in the fireplace are radiating light and warmth. Her two outstanding characteristics were self-confidence and candor. The latter sometimes got her into hot water, Durrance later told Charlotte, but the former kept it from scalding her.
“Let’s meet for a cocktail,” said Deb. “Mack and I did our last lap of tramping today, and need a tub. How is eight o’clock in the bar? And won’t you come too, Miss Beauchamp?” she added.
This unmistakable cordiality was so different from the response to which Charlotte was accustomed when standing beside her formidable mother that again she blessed Lisa. Not only for the clothes sh
e wore, but for the situation in which she found herself—alone, among strangers, making her own impression. She had passed muster, evidently! There had been nothing perfunctory about Deb’s invitation. But of course she must not accept it. These were old friends.
“How lovely of you!” Charlotte replied, with a fulsomeness which surprised her own ears. “But I think I won’t tonight. I’m rather tired.”
“Then I won’t either!” instantly Durrance announced. “The fact is I’ve already asked Camille—Miss Beauchamp—for a cocktail and she has accepted,” he lied smoothly.
She gave him a helpless glance of uncoagulated reproval, pleasure, and panic. Then turned to Deb, “Well, all right,” she acquiesced weakly.
IT WAS AFTER THE FIRST ROUND of Martinis that Mack told J.D. that it was a rotten time of year to be going to Paris. The only reasonable thing for him to do, since he’d had the damned good luck to run across Deb and himself, was to enjoy their charming society as long as possible, play around Nice and Monte Carlo with them tomorrow, and proceed as far as Naples, where Deb and he were to board another liner for home. After their departure, he could take in Rome, Florence, and even Venice, and arrive in Milan on the appointed day, with a little of the tan of Italian sunshine on his pate. “Why, damn it, man, nobody goes to Paris this time of year, and alone!”
“Well, it’s worth considering,” J.D. replied, glancing at Charlotte. But she wouldn’t look up. Her eyes were concentrated upon the important business of fitting together the broken pieces of a potato chip. She wore the same dark crimson dress of last night. He noticed that she had pinned a few freesia at its low V. Their lavender white gave her skin the warm rich cast of thick cream.
During the cocktails Mack announced that he’d fixed it up with the headwaiter for a table for four for dinner. Dinner was followed by coffee, cigarettes, and liqueurs in the Grand Salon. Just when Charlotte had decided that at last she could rise and gracefully excuse herself, Mack inquired, raising one eyebrow drolly, “What about a little—?” and pantomimed dealing a pack of cards. “One rubber before by-by.”
“Great! Let’s take them on!” J.D. exclaimed. “What do you say, Camille?”
To such childlike eagerness, to such urgency in both eyes and voice, what could she say? “Well, all right.”
“All right who?” he had the boldness to pursue. Right before Mack and Deb! He was evidently in very high spirits. Better not cross him. She really knew nothing of him.
“All right, J.D.,” hastily she obliged him, adding, in an aside to Mack, “Isn’t he a perfect infant?” A phrase she’d often heard used by her nieces and nephews.
“Yes! Too damned perfect, some of us think.” Mack too was in high spirits.
“I hope you don’t mind a little profanity, Camille,” remarked Deb. “And by the way, I’m Deb to you hereafter,” she announced, slipping her hand through Charlotte’s arm, as they sat side by side on an upholstered sofa before the low coffee table, the two men opposite in huge armchairs. Charlotte was as unaccustomed to such a friendly gesture as the average kennel dog to a casual pat on the head. She hoped her eyes wouldn’t show a similar gratitude. “Mack’s profanity is as innocent as ‘Fudge’ and ‘Oh, dear,’” Deb went on to explain. “But if you mind it, I can stop him.”
“Oh, no, please don’t stop him.” The fact that Mack had taken it for granted that she was shockproof was as gratifying to her as to a child treated like a grown-up by sophisticated elders. “If you had any idea what my life is, you’d know I simply glory in anything that’s unrepressed—and native!”
Mack pulled a portion of his six-feet-three out of the soft depths of the upholstered armchair and leaned toward her. “So you’re a nature child, too,” he drawled. “Welcome to our city! Shake! Put it there!” And he held out his palm to her. She put her hand in it. “Your name isn’t the only thing I like about you, Camille. I guess we all speak the same language.”
“No, we don’t!” Charlotte denied. “It’s because I’m not a child of nature that I find anything on the raw side refreshing. I’ve been wrapped up in cotton wool ever since I was born! I’ve drunk nothing but water that’s been filtered and milk that’s been pasteurized!” she brought out. “Even the facts of life were all sterilized before being mentioned in my presence. I don’t speak your language at all. So don’t try it.”
Mack stared at her with a perplexed expression. “Are you trying to take me for a ride, Camille?” And he winked at Charlotte. “Damned if I know.”
“No, I’m not. You’ve already been taken for a ride. A terrible ride, too! I’m just trying to put you on your feet. My name isn’t Camille, nor Beauchamp either.” She glanced across at Durrance. “Oh, I’m sorry! But I couldn’t keep it up any longer. Won’t you please tell them about your little joke?”
“On one condition,” Durrance replied sternly, “that if I decide to go on with Mack and Deb, you’ll be one of our crowd.”
Three minutes later Deb was exclaiming, “Vale! Not one of the Boston Vales?”
“Well, I was born and grew up in Boston. I suppose that does make me a Boston Vale, like Oregon apples, or Bermuda potatoes.”
Deb gave one of her short, explosive laughs. “I simply love it!” and she squeezed Charlotte’s arm. “Now be serious and answer yes or no. Have you a sister-in-law by the name of Lisa?”
“Yes. Lisa is the only contribution I ever made to the family. Rupert never would have met her but for me. I met Lisa at boarding school.”
“At boarding school!”
“I know. It does seem incredible! But I was there for less than a year. It didn’t have much effect. I crawled right back into my cotton wool again. The only reason Lisa paid any attention to me was because I’d been assigned to her as one of her Raw Recruits. Each of the Seniors had to take on several of the new girls as her special responsibility. And that’s what we were called.”
“That’s what’s puzzling me. I spent a weekend with Lisa during her last year at boarding school, and met all of her Raw Recruits. One of them was Charlotte Vale. Your sister, perhaps. She wore tortoise-shell glasses, and was a solemn, squareshaped little owl at the time.”
“I’m that owl. Just feathered and plucked.”
“But I spent another weekend with Lisa in Boston only two years ago, and Charlotte came in to tea one afternoon with her mother. You’re not ‘Aunt Charlotte.’”
“I’m under the impression I was called that once.”
“But you don’t even look like Aunt Charlotte!”
“I’m aware of it. But these look like her hands.” And she lifted them, examining first their palms, then their backs. “All but this pink enamel on the nails.”
“You’re priceless!” Deb exclaimed.
THERE WAS A LOW KNOCK on Charlotte’s cabin about a half hour after she had closed and bolted it for the night. She had changed her dinner dress for a black kimono, covered with a chaos of snarling dragons. She was busy at the moment attempting to arrange the freesia, which when unbound revealed stems hardly more than crocus length, in two cylinders better suited to gladioli.
At the sound of the knock Charlotte glanced toward the door. Now what? Couldn’t her inexperience be safe even behind a bolted door? The knock was repeated. She gathered the snarling dragons closer around her and advanced toward the door. Opening it slightly, “Who is it?” she inquired.
9
NOT TO BE HARNESSED
It was ridiculous to have thought that the low knock on the door was cause for accelerated heartbeats. This wasn’t a scene in a novel or a play. Charlotte’s information, as far as knocks were concerned and what goes on afterward behind closed doors, was confined to the stage, the screen, and the written page.
Charlotte had always been an omnivorous reader of fiction. She never let a novel by Hemingway, D. H. Lawrence, Proust, Somerset Maugham, or Aldous Huxley slip by her unread. A lending library supplied her demand for modern literature. The lending library books were all covered with uniform pa
per jackets, and it was not difficult to conceal from her mother all those of which she would disapprove. The books which she could not obtain from a lending library she purchased, and, after reading, hid in the dark tunnels behind her sets of approved literature. The prim white bindings of Jane Austen concealed Boccacio’s Decameron and Flaubert’s Madame Bovary; Thoreau, in dark green cloth and gold, screened Ulysses, and Sons and Lovers; and behind the hand-tooled leather backs of Ralph Waldo Emerson crouched Bertrand Russell and Havelock Ellis. But in spite of a broad book knowledge of life, it is not easy to know whether an author is writing for fact or fancy, realism or comedy, if one has had no personal experience. The low knock was only Deb. She flung the door wide.
“I thought I’d drop in and tell you the plan.” Charlotte had excused herself at the end of the second rubber, leaving the three old friends alone to discuss the next day’s program. “We’ve got it all worked out. We’re going to bring along some evening things when we start tomorrow, so we won’t have to come back to the boat to dress. We plan to have dinner at the dear old Café de Paris and go to the Casino afterward. Antibe in the morning, with lunch at a perfectly heavenly place we know about, a Corniche drive in the afternoon. Can you be ready to start at ten o’clock?”
“I think I’ll stay here on the ship tomorrow and rest.”
Charlotte had made this decision as soon as she had reached the safety of her closed stateroom, and felt the relief of its solitude, like solid ground, beneath her feet.
“But you gave J.D. to understand you’d come!”
“Well, I’ve been over the Corniche drive a good many times.”
“Of course! And Mack and I have too, Heavens knows! But it’s J.D.’s first trip over here. It will spoil everything if you don’t come. J.D. has taken a great fancy to you and you know it! And does it do my heart good! Why, you’re just a godsend! If you knew what that man’s life at home is! Now listen to me. I know all about J.D. I’ve known him ever since he was in college. He’s had a terribly tough deal, and I’ve always felt a little responsible because he met Isobel at our house. Have a cigarette?”
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