“Why, of course you can have a child!” said Lisa brusquely. “Why not? Look at me! If you don’t wait too long, our two belated kiddies will be playing ball together some day.”
21
J.D. AGAIN
When Charlotte reached home, it was late afternoon. Her mother wished to see her immediately in her room. There was a huge vase full of American beauty roses standing beside her chair.
“What do these mean?” her mother demanded. “They arrived at ten o’clock this morning. The card is in that sealed envelope on my bureau. I’ve been answering the telephone today. And you’ve had four calls already from Elliot Livingston.”
“Oh! That’s a shame. I told him I’d be home for lunch.”
“What does it all mean?”
“He’s asked me to marry him, Mother.”
“He has, has he? So your bait worked? You got your fish!”
“But I haven’t given him my answer yet.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I’d like to know how you feel about it.”
“You know as well as I do that it doesn’t make a bit of difference to you how I feel about it. You’ll do exactly as you please, anyway.”
“Well, but what about living arrangements? I don’t think Elliot would like occupying the fourth-floor suite here with me. That’s always been your plan if I should marry.”
“Well, then,” her mother flashed, “you can tell your Elliot I will come and occupy a suite in his house, if he prefers.” The corners of her mouth were twitching uncontrollably, but not with anger.
“Mother, you’re glad! You’re pleased!”
“I’m no such thing! Glad to be deserted by my only daughter, pleased to be left in this great big house all alone with only servants?”
“I’ll come in every day to see you, that is, if I decide to marry Elliot. I’m not sure I shall yet.”
“You’ll be an awful fool if you don’t.”
“Well, then, if you really do approve—Mother, dear—”
“Better save all that soft talk for your Elliot.”
“There’s no one like you, Mother! And all these years I haven’t given you any sort of a game.”
“THE ROSES ARE BEAUTIFUL, Elliot,” said Charlotte, after he had shaken hands with her. The handshake had been brief and formal, but his eyes had a searching intentness that left Charlotte in no doubt as to his earnestness. He had succeeded in reaching her by telephone, finally, and had humbly asked if she would see him for a few minutes before he went home.
The maid had shown him into the reception room at the left of the front door. The white walls had panels of silk brocade with borders of shells and scrolls and cupids. There were long lace curtains at the front windows, and a pair of lingerie lamp-shades trimmed with yellowed Valenciennes lace on the mantel, each side of the gilt and crystal French clock. It was not a room conducive to conversation on any intimate subject.
“Let’s sit down over here.” Charlotte led the way to a silk brocade sofa. She sat down on it.
Elliot picked up a small gilt chair with toothpick-like legs, placed it opposite her and sat down. “I don’t want to hurry you,” he began in a voice that was a little tremulous, “but I’m very anxious to know whether you’re thinking favorably or unfavorably about my suggestion.”
“Favorably,” smiled Charlotte.
He drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “When—when do you think we can tell people?”
“Oh, not until we’re sure ourselves. That’s what I want to talk about. We don’t know yet how we feel about each other.”
“I know how I feel about you! But I can wait. Don’t be afraid, I shan’t hurry you.”
“There are certain things I think you should know about me.”
“I know everything I need to know.”
“Mother is threatening to disinherit me.”
“That doesn’t matter. I have enough. There’s something I want to say to you too. I thought of it in the night. If you prefer a house of your own, there are fifty acres—we can build a new one.”
“I never knew anyone like you, Elliot!” Charlotte exclaimed. He hadn’t touched her yet, but every word he spoke was a fresh declaration of devotion. “There’s something else I want you to know,” she went on. “Yesterday I told you I’d been engaged only once, years ago, for about five days. Literally that’s true, but I’ve cared for somebody since then. He was married. I haven’t seen him since. It’s all over. He belongs to another existence, just as you told me Elaine belongs to another existence. But I wanted you to know about it.”
“I didn’t need to. Do you think—would you prefer to go somewhere else instead of Honolulu? To southern France, or Italy, perhaps? And what about the ring? I want it to be the most beautiful ring there is.”
“Oh, there mustn’t be a ring yet. Nor any plans. I want to get a little more used to the idea. Now you go on home. It’s after six. You’ll be late for dinner.”
He stood up. She did, too. There was a long gilt-framed mirror over a console table in an alcove opposite them, lit by wall candelabra on either side. For a long moment they gazed in silence at their reflection. Elliot was several inches taller—a commanding figure. We certainly look well together, thought Charlotte.
“Look at those two people in there,” she said lightly. “He’s really far too good-looking for her, I think, and too young, too. She’s getting on, you know. A man of his age should choose someone at least ten years younger. And what’s more, he’s far too dark for that woman. That man should marry a blonde.”
“You are the only one I want to marry,” he said.
“But Elliot,” she laughed, “just look at us. If we should have a child he’d look like a regular little dago.”
“A child?”
Oh, dear. I’ve shocked him! thought Charlotte; I’ve touched one of those inherent taboos. “Yes, a child!” she repeated, with a defiant toss of her head. “It’s one of the chief reasons I shall marry you for, if I do.”
“You wouldn’t be afraid to have a child?”
“Of course not!”
“Oh, Charlotte”—he was deeply impressed. He put his arms around her then, leaned and kissed her on the lips—gently, in an awed worshipful way, new and strange to her.
She had now learned, from her limited experience, not to take the initiative. Her lips were quiescent, there was no stiffening of her muscles, from either resentment or desire. Elliot’s arms tightened around her relaxed body, and he kissed her again. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath of fragrant mixture of fresh tobacco, recent soap, and woollen cloth. As definitely as the air which she had sniffed yesterday had been laden with spring, so now this deep breath was impregnated with the peculiar male element so reminiscent of Jerry that it made her suddenly feel tender toward Elliot. Surely, in time she could love him. Wasn’t it possible to love the same qualities which two men might have in common, separated from their individual entities? Or was such a line of reasoning a cowardly attempt to evade the unpleasant evidence that she was made of common clay—carnal clay, her mother would have called it?
CHARLOTTE HAD BEEN ENGAGED to Elliot Livingston several weeks when Elliot’s sister, Gracia, gave a dinner-party followed by the theater. No one present knew of the engagement, though by this time many of the guests invited had their suspicions. George Weston, Gracia’s husband, came from the middle West. “But he’s a very decent chap,” Elliot told Charlotte. He was a manufacturer. Had a factory up toward Lowell somewhere, filled with enormous presses that transformed pieces of sheet metal into all sorts and varieties of articles from steel hubcaps to electric-light fixtures.
The electric-light fixtures stuck in Charlotte’s mind, so when she entered Gracia’s drawing room that night, and saw J.D. talking to a couple of pretty women, she immediately put two and two together. The room was crowded with a dozen guests, a butler with the cocktail tray, and two maids passing hors d’oeuvres. Therefore Charlotte had plenty of time
to say to George Weston, “I think I know that man talking to Hortense and Barbara. I think he crossed on a boat with me once.”
“Who? J.D.? That’s what we called him at college. Durrance is his name. Nice chap. We were in the same fraternity. He lives in New York, but he’s been in several times this winter on business. We sell him goods. Last night when Gracia told me she needed a single man for tonight, I remembered that J.D. had an appointment with me today. I’ve been urging him all winter to come to dinner sometime, so I gave him a ring, told him to put a dinner-coat into his bag, and come tonight. Shall I tell him your name or let him guess?”
“Let him guess.”
“HERE’S SOMEBODY WHO thinks she’s met you before, J.D.,” said George, when there was an opportunity.
When J.D. turned and faced Charlotte, his face was set in a formal smile, his expression as concealing as a mask. It underwent one of those complete changes, portrayed in a close-up at the cinema. But neither his manner nor voice betrayed any of the emotions which Charlotte saw registered on his face.
“Why, yes, of course!” he said, shaking hands. “You do look familiar. Don’t tell me her name, George. I’ve got it. Beauchamp, isn’t it? Camille Beauchamp. Am I right?”
Dear Jerry! How thin he looked! Dear, ingenious, nimble-witted Jerry! And how pale! And not so tall as she remembered him.
“Sorry, J.D.,” laughed George Weston. “That’s the time you didn’t fall on your feet, old chap. This is not the same lady—”
“Vale is my name,” said Charlotte, and their eyes met and clung for three seconds, nobody knowing. “I met you crossing the ocean once.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Vale. I hope you’ll forgive me. I’m sure I—”
“I’ll leave it to you, J.D., to make your own peace,” said George.
They were not alone until after dinner, and then only for a short time with neighbors nearby. Yet J.D. dared interpolate a few sentences, now and then, for Charlotte’s ears alone.
“Yes, I’ve been in Boston several times this winter. (You’re looking simply glorious!) George Weston and I have business dealings. (I’ve wanted horribly to call you up!) Well, yes, I know Boston fairly well. Chiefly from the Cambridge side. (I’ve walked by your house on Marlborough Street.) No, Miss Vale, I’m not an architect. I’m a jobber. (Once I almost rang the bell.) Mack and Deb McIntyre? They’re both in fine feather last time I saw them. Tina? Well, Tina—” His face clouded.
“Tell me about it.”
“She won’t eat. I’m afraid we’ve got to send her away somewhere. The doctor thinks she shouldn’t be with her mother. I took her to talk to Doctor Jaquith. Doctor Jaquith was highly recommended to me by this Camille Beauchamp I mistook you for. (Oh, Camille, Camille! It’s so good to see you! I’m still horribly in love!)”
“Come on, everybody. Time to get ready for the theater,” sang out Gracia.
At the theater Charlotte was seated between Elliot and J.D. J.D. had no idea that she was engaged to be married. There had been no opportunity to tell him. The possibility of sitting beside J.D. at the theater had occurred to Charlotte at dinner (at which he was seated at the opposite end of the table), but the hope was slight. They were a party of twelve.
The instantaneous flash of response that she felt to the first slight touch of his grazing arm startled her. His close proximity caused a recurrence of that flooding sense of elation which she had felt in New York. She sat quietly, not speaking a word, scarcely stirring a muscle, staring straight ahead at the lighted stage. But the performance meant little more than a conglomeration of unintelligible sounds, sights, shapes, and colors.
J.D., too, would have been unable to give an account of events across the footlights. However, he was not tortured by any such revelation as the evening was unfolding to Charlotte. The response that should be flowing toward Elliot was running, unstemmed, in the other direction and with increasing strength.
“I’ve got to see you,” J.D. murmured into her ear at the end of the first act, as he leaned to pick up his program. At the end of the second act: “I’ve got to leave for New York on the morning train. May I come to your house tonight? I won’t stay but ten minutes. I must talk to you.”
“Yes, come,” said Charlotte.
When Elliot let Charlotte into her door at 11:30, he stepped into the hall after her as usual.
“I’m a little tired. Please don’t stay tonight, Elliot.”
“Of course not, dear. Is anything the matter?”
“No, Elliot. Just tired. I’ll be all right in the morning.”
22
AN UGLY WORD
She dropped her evening coat on a chair in the hall and went into the unlighted reception room. She pulled aside the heavy draperies, raised the window shade, and watched for J.D. through the long lace curtains. She let him in at quarter of twelve.
When the crystal clock on the mantel began striking twelve, she said to herself, I must tell him. I must tell him. After its last stroke had died away, she said out loud, “I’ve got something to tell you, Jerry.”
But even to her own ears her voice sounded faint and far away, drowned by the roaring tumult of her feelings. Jerry apparently didn’t hear her at all.
When the crystal clock struck 12:30, she cried out, “Jerry, this must stop!” And too desperate to consider a kinder way to tell the ghastly truth, “I’m engaged to be married to Elliot Livingston.”
They were on the sofa. His arms were around her. They dropped away. “You’re what?”
She repeated it. He moved away from her, so that not even their knees were touching, and the outline of his taut, straightened shoulders was eloquent. “I ought to have told you the minute you opened the door. I meant to, but—. Oh, I was so glad to see you. It was so good to be with you again.”
“Do you love Livingston?”
“Not as we do. Not like us. No! No! I thought in time it might come, or something like it. I thought I was getting over you, Jerry. You were fading a little as you said you would. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. We made our pact, and you were keeping it to the letter. I sent you the picture of the camellia, and when you didn’t reply, I thought—”
“I never got your picture. But never mind about that now. What sort of man is this Livingston?”
“An awfully nice man. Like you in lots of ways. Not your sense of humor, nor sense of beauty, nor sense of play, and I’d never think of telling him, as I did you on one of our first days together, about all those little vices of mine I used to hide behind my books. But he likes to play bridge, and to travel, and has two grown-up sons who seem to like me, and besides I’m not too old to have a child of my own.” J.D. stood up abruptly. “Most every woman wants a child, Jerry.”
“Of course. I know. I understand. I’ll go. I ought never to have come. I didn’t know. I just didn’t know!” He walked over to the chair where he had laid his hat and overcoat.
“Don’t go yet,” said Charlotte. “Don’t leave me this way. This is awful. Let’s separate as friends, anyway.”
He put on his overcoat.
“Are you angry with me, Jerry?”
“No. With myself. I had no business to come here. I’m sorry. I’ve got to go back to Isobel and Tina and stick to my job for the rest of my life. The word ‘cad’ is about the right one for a man who makes a woman like you love him, and then runs off and leaves her to get over it the best she can. It was inexcusable enough of me last spring. But now, when you were well on the way of getting over it, and engaged to be married to a fine fellow like Livingston, well—I liked Livingston. I want you to marry him, and have a child. I want you to,” he repeated as if to convince himself. “Goodnight and goodbye.” He gave her hand a squeeze and left her quickly.
He was staying at the Statler. The next morning at 7:30, Charlotte crept out into the back hall and called Jerry up. His train, he said, left at ten o’clock.
“I’ve got to see you.”
“What for? It’s better that we don�
��t meet again.”
“I shall see you if I have to go to New York on the train with you.”
“No. No. Weston is going to be on the train.”
“Then I’ll come over to your hotel.” She had no false pride, no fear apparently of his opinion of her. Only a firm determination to see him.
She arrived a little before nine o’clock. Their conversation took place in the gallery overlooking the lobby.
Charlotte was now as grim in manner and speech as J.D. had been when he left her last night. “There’s something I want to straighten out before you go.”
As he sat down on the edge of the upholstered armchair opposite, again she was struck with how thin and pale he looked; also, in this light, there were lines on his face which she had never noticed before. The difference between Elliot’s crisp thick hair, smooth ruddy face, and Jerry’s frail appearance was striking. Jerry wore the same gray suit which had traveled over many miles with her, his tie was one of the gay ones he’d bought in Naples, and the Gladstone bag, which he had placed beside the chair, had been her footstool often when seated beside him in the back of an automobile.
“I don’t believe you’ve slept well, Jerry,” she remarked.
“Not so very,” he confessed. “What is it you want to straighten out?”
“A wrong impression you’ve got. I don’t know whether I shall marry Elliot Livingston or not, but in any case—”
“But I want you to! If you don’t I shall never forgive myself.”
“The wrong impression has nothing to do with Elliot. It’s a wrong impression about yourself. Whether I marry Elliot or not, I want you to take back the word ‘cad,’ Jerry.”
“I can’t do that. I’ve been thinking about it all night. We care for each other, don’t we?” She nodded. “Well, I can’t do anything, not a damned thing, about it,” he said brusquely. “Isobel has lost what little money she had, and is even more dependent on me. She’s not strong and has given up most of her church work. And then there’s Tina. She’ll be waiting for me at the end of the train shed in New York. She’s got some sort of phobia that I’m going to die or run off and leave her. No man in my position had any right to get into any such tangle as I did with you.”
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