The Dark Lady

by Louis Auchincloss

  "And to tear up her will?"

  "And to tear up her will. My confidence in Elesina is complete."

  Jacob seemed about to say something and then to restrain himself, but only with the greatest difficulty. When he spoke at last, it was in a dryer tone. "Then you're determined to leave the boys nothing?"

  "I tell you, Jacob, they're rich!"

  "The term is a relative one."

  "And they'll have Clara's trust when she dies."

  "It's still bitter tea to be cut off by a father."

  "Well, suppose I leave them each a painting? How's that? To Lionel the Holbein of Mary Tudor. To Peter the Botticelli. To David the big Tiepolo. Plus fifty thousand apiece?"

  "Has it occurred to you that they may try to upset the will?"

  "Of course it's occurred to me. And Clara, too, may have a good claim. She may even be able to establish that she's my widow."

  "I'm glad you're aware of that."

  "But that's the very beauty of my plan, don't you see, Jacob? Whatever I do for Elesina is bound to be attacked. Lionel and Peter will go after her like tigers the moment I'm under the sod. I'm not blaming them. I know how they are. My brother, Isadore, sued my father's estate. And they'll make their mother go along with them, too. Elesina will have to come to some kind of terms in the suit. Very well. Let's see that she has a strong hand to play. I want to give her as many trumps as I can."

  Jacob shook his head somberly. "I don't know that in good conscience I can draft such a document."

  Irving's tone now became brusque. "You will do what your client wishes! There is nothing unconscionable about a man's leaving his estate to his widow when he has already provided for his children. You know that, Jacob! The only thing that could properly deter you would be a doubt as to my testamentary capacity. Let me submit that to a doctor's examination. Furthermore, let us have two lawyers from your office come out here as witnesses to the will. And let them spend a whole day with me—or more if they need—to satisfy themselves, by asking me every kind of question, no matter how personal, that I am perfectly sane!"

  Jacob sighed. "Oh, you're sane enough, Irving. I have no doubt about that. Your only trouble is that you're in love. And you're too old to be such an ass."

  "That must be a matter of opinion. Now then. Will you do the will as I say?"

  "I'll think about it."

  "And will you defend it? Will you act as my executor? Will you help Elesina in the battle she faces?"

  Jacob's brow was puckered at this, but he seemed moved. "Would you really trust me, Irving? After what I've said?"

  "Perfectly. You're a true lawyer, Jacob. Once you've taken a case, you'll give it all you've got. And now tell me something else. I expected you to make more of a plea for David. How is he doing in your office?"

  "Very well indeed."

  "How does he get on with you?"

  Jacob paused. "Well, I like to keep a certain distance with a client's son."

  "Do you think he'll make a good lawyer?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Irving wondered what was being withheld. "Do you like him?"

  "I don't feel I really know him yet, Irving. No doubt, I shall like him when I do."

  "No doubt?"

  "None."

  "David charms so many people. I wonder that he hasn't charmed you."

  "Perhaps I don't charm that easily."

  "No, you sullen dog, that's so. But has he done anything to offend you?"

  "Of course not. It's just that he seems ... well, preoccupied. Impersonal, you might say. He'll never go out to lunch with any of us."

  "Even you?"

  "Even me. I've asked him two or three times. He's always tied up, which seems odd for a young man."

  "That's the trouble with having your office in midtown. He's probably meeting some chick."

  "I shouldn't be surprised. Some chick he doesn't want anyone to see. Some married chick."

  "Well, Jacob, I suppose even you were young once."

  "Yes, but I grew up—unlike some I know!"

  The will, in due course, was prepared, and two lawyers spent a day and a half at Broadlawns to satisfy themselves that Irving had the requisite testamentary capacity. When it was over, he had a strange sense of having died with the execution of the document and of being a ghostly witness to the administration of his own estate. Elesina, visiting his chamber, seemed now to him more intensely the mistress of Broadlawns; she might have been a kindly queen visiting an old pensioner in a turret of her castle.

  "We're not providing enough social life for you," he protested on a rainy afternoon when she had finished an hour's reading of Our Mutual Friend. "Why don't you give a house party?"

  "Because I don't want one. Society is only a drug, and I've kicked it. I could go on forever, just like this."

  "But you used to love seeing people!"

  "My past has been too crowded. I sometimes think of it as a subway ride in the rush hour. Now I love the peace of Broadlawns. I love to be with you. And with your things." She ran her fingers over the porcelain surface of the commode by her chair, a purple and scarlet theme of flowers. "I reflect that this was made for Madame de Pompadour. It brings her into the room."

  "There's a great emphasis today on the value of getting on with other people," Irving said musingly. "Friendship, love, that's all some people can talk about. And the terror of loneliness. I suppose it's a defense against overpopulation. Turn your greatest liability into your greatest asset. The more people, the more love and friendship. Very smart! For not many can know the joy of living with Madame de Pompadour's commode. So we, the lucky few, fling love to the mob."

  "Let 'em eat love!"

  Irving placed his hand gently on hers. "But we have that, too."

  "Oh, we have everything."

  No, this was too much. He knew that Elesina was a truthful woman, not so much because she loved truth as because she despised falsehood. And this was a false note.

  "If David would only come out here occasionally, I should have everything. Why do you suppose he neglects us so?"

  Her face was at once inscrutable. Why inscrutable? "He works frightfully hard, you know," she replied.

  "Doing Ivy's will?"

  "Oh, that was just a favor. He's in the corporate department now, you know. He works night and day. It's a terrible sweatshop, that law firm of yours."

  "How do you know? Have you seen him?"

  "Oh, yes. We had lunch last week."

  The great white liquid of his peace trembled with the assault of one black drop. Appalled, he saw the cloud of discoloration swell until the whole bowl was a dirty gray. So much for happiness! Everything fell dismally into place: her visits to the city, her willingness to be alone, David's absence, Jacob Schurman's account.

  "You can tell me now, Elesina," he said in a strangled voice. "I can take it, and I'd much rather know. When did your affair with David start?"

  Her countenance was a frozen glass of conflict. But the expression that at last predominated, curiously enough, was one of admiration. Or was she simply glad that he had guessed? "Three months ago. How long have you known?"

  "Since just now."

  "Just because I said I had lunch with him?"

  "Yes. For otherwise you would have told me the same day."

  She paused to take in this simple truth. Then she nodded, ruefully, to accept it. "Is it very painful for you?"

  "Yes. But I may get used to it."

  "Can you still believe that I love you?"

  "I can believe it, yes. I can even admire your courage in telling me the truth. You could have lied your way out, you know."

  "Perhaps if I'd had more time, I should have. The doctors say you mustn't be upset. But now that it's out, I'm glad. You're too big a man to be deceived."

  Ah, she was thinking it was not really so hard for him! She was excusing herself with the facts of his impotence and illness. How could he really care? His lips were dry with exasperation. "There's a little devil i
n you, Elesina, that likes to court disaster. You see that third act where the wife tells all and loses all. Stripped, in a moment, of fortune and reputation!"

  "So you are bitter. After all. Who could blame you?"

  "How could I not be? A man can't be a rational animal at all times. But if I snarl at the actress in you, my dear, I also admire her." Irving stiffened. With stunning force the true pain of his situation had suddenly hit. He clutched the arms of his chair. Not David! "I think you'd better leave me for a bit. I am probably going to have some ugly moments, and it's better to be alone. Later on, we can pick up where we left off. Don't worry. I shan't discuss this again."

  "Irving, dear husband, I..."

  "Elesina! Please go!"

  He sighed in quick relief as she closed the door softly behind her, and gave in almost greedily to the flash flood of his wrath. His own son and Elesina! The clutching, obscene pair, they could not wait for him to die! They had youth, they had beauty, they had health, but was all that enough for them? Never! They had to have his honor, too, his life. Well, they would see, they would find out! He would do such things...

  "Mrs. Stein sent me in, sir. She said you might need one of your pills."

  "Oh, yes, Miss Murphy. I do need one."

  The shattering mood, the black driven thundercloud, passed. He took the pill, sipped the water and closed his eyes in the sudden relief of acceptance. What, after all, did it matter? There was no need to change his will. The cruelest thing he could do to David was to make Elesina rich. Poor David, how he must have been suffering, not to dare to visit his dying father. Poor David, how much more he had still to suffer...

  "Miss Murphy, write out on a piece of paper, that I wish my executor to give each of my nurses a thousand dollars."

  "Why, Judge Stein, that's very handsome of you, I'm sure. But there's no need to think about dying yet..."

  "Write it down, please, and I'll sign it. I'm not feeling quite myself."

  He smiled as he noted that her trip to the desk for paper and pencil was almost a discreet scurry.

  12

  The death of a rich and important man generates so many ceremonies, so many communications and required observances, that the family hardly have time to reflect on what has happened and what changes in their life will be made. Elesina, from the middle of the night when Irving's nurse had awakened her to say that his breathing had stopped, to the moment, five days later, when the last of two hundred luncheon guests who had come out from New York for the funeral had departed, had been too occupied with plans and arrangements and telephone calls to be able to think out for herself whether or not her revelation to Irving might have caused his death.

  The mind, however, needs little time. She would say to herself, as she hung up a receiver or turned to dictate to Irving's secretary: "It was his fault. He surprised me. I didn't have time to think. Anyway, he was doomed." But then, an hour later, she would feel a sudden sick chill of guilt and hastily review the same argument. When Jacob Schurman showed her a copy of the will, she could not restrain a little shriek.

  "Oh, my God, how could he!"

  She did not tell Ivy; she could not abide the prospect of her delight. She immersed herself in work, even more than was necessary. She insisted on speaking to every friend, every relative who called, holding them to longer visits than they had planned. She had no communication with David. At the service she sat with her mother and Ruth. The three Stein sons and two daughters-in-law occupied the bench behind her. She was grateful for her veil.

  The service was held at a reformed temple. It was brief, as Irving had had no faith. The eulogy was read by Jacob Schurman. In the middle of it Elesina said firmly to herself: "Irving doesn't exist now, and I do. Therefore I must forgive myself. It's the only thing he would have wanted himself. It's the only thing that makes sense."

  She felt better during the big lunch that followed the service and talked with animation. When the final guests had departed, and the family were huddled in groups about the house, she turned at last to David.

  "We can go to the rose garden," she said briefly. She walked there, listening to his step on the gravel behind her. She sat on the marble bench and looked up to where he stood before her. He was very grave, so much so that she was suddenly afraid she might giggle.

  "I've heard about the will," he said. "Jacob Schurman told me. It's a great tribute to you, of course. But the family doesn't know yet. I'm afraid they'll fight."

  "And you, David? Will you join them?"

  "Elesina! What do you think of me?"

  All she could think was that he had never looked more beautiful. His black suit made his hair seem like a nimbus. "Darling," she murmured. "I've missed you so!"

  "I don't want any part of Dad's money. I want to marry you. I want to marry you and look after you myself."

  "Marry me? When?"

  He shrugged, as if this were of little importance. "After some decent interval."

  "Could any interval make it decent?"

  "It would only be for the family's sake. We might have to wait a year. But we could still meet at Ivy's!"

  There was a gardener working in the next plot. They had to keep apart. He was talking again. He was saying something about the estate. What was he saying?

  "Give up?" she stammered. "Give up what?"

  "Give up Dad's estate."

  "All of it?"

  "Every penny. Let Mother and Lionel and Peter have it."

  "What about you?"

  "I'd renounce my share. The only way I can take you, after what we've done, is without a cent of his money."

  "David! We'd be paupers!"

  "If only we might be! I could never live with Dad's money. It would soil everything we've done. Everything we've meant to each other. To make love and lie low until it's all over and then rake in the gold ... oh, no, darling, we can't do that to ourselves. Don't be afraid. We won't be paupers. I have enough money. You just won't be rich the way you have been. And, oh, Elesina, we'd be clean. Clean! Think of it!"

  "But I don't need to be clean. I am clean! I'm not ashamed of what we've done. Are you?"

  "I would be, if I profited by it." He clasped his hands in a quaint but persuasive gesture of pleading. His eyes were tired, and she noted now the circles under them. "I've hardly slept since Dad died, trying to think this out. It's the only way, believe me, Elesina! The only way to make our love right and fine and valid."

  "But what about the collection? I have responsibilities to it!"

  "We can take care of that easily enough. If you give up the money, Lionel and Peter will come to terms about the collection."

  "But you don't understand, David. Your father wanted me to play a role in the world. One doesn't walk out on a part!"

  "Elesina! Will you never stop play-acting?"

  She debated for a moment whether she should tell him about her last talk with his father. After all, Irving had known and still not torn up the will. But no. There could be no idea of that. Instinct told her that David would see her as a killer.

  "I suppose I'll have to think it over."

  "Think it over! Darling, don't you love me?"

  "I'm sorry, David. I still must think it over."

  "I swear to you that it's the only way! For you and me. The only way, Elesina!"

  "You mean, for marriage?"

  "I mean for—anything."

  He turned with this and strode away. It was clear that it was an ultimatum and that he had planned it ahead of time. But if he had planned it ahead of time, it must have been because he had feared she might reject it. Elesina sat down dazed to find that her mind was already full of figures. Did he mean that she would have to give up what Irving had already settled on her? How much was in David's trust? Surely she could keep what she already had! Had not the gift preceded their affair? But then she recalled how stern David had looked. He would be impatient at any equivocation. He would sternly brush aside such arguments. But wasn't that precisely his charm? What was al
l of Broadlawns and its treasure compared to a lover like that? But how long would he love her like that?

  She was still dazed an hour later when she consulted her mother in the library. There was no point talking to Ivy, for she knew what Ivy would say.

  "Could you really give up all that money?" Linda asked in surprise.

  "I'm thinking about it." Elesina looked away from her mother as she said this, but hearing no response she looked back. Linda's eyes were taking her in with what struck her as a rather yellow stare. It was fixed, curious, distant.

  "Don't you think you'd be biting off more than you could chew?"

  "What couldn't I chew?"

  "Love! That much love, anyway. You weren't made for it, my dear."

  "How do you know?" Elesina demanded, stung. "You're so smug, Mother. You think that you and Father had all the pearls—that there are none left for David and me."

  "I didn't say there were none left for David."

  "Now you're being horrid! Why should love be a closed door for me? Why should you begrudge me the only worthwhile thing in life? You're jealous, that's what it is. You're envious of what David and I have together. You don't want your own daughter to be as happy as you were!"

  "Elesina, pull yourself together. I don't say you don't love David. All I'm saying is that it's a bit late for you to give up all for love. For you to run off now and live on kisses would be grotesque."

  "Mother!"

  "I know it hurts, dear, but better have it hurt now than kill later. You have chosen to be the woman that Ivy Trask saw in you. Well, be that woman! Only make her into something bigger and better than Ivy Trask could ever visualize!"

  Elesina looked at her mother with an astonishment that was greater than the pain. The woman that Ivy Trask had seen in her! Was that all her own parent could now see? Was it not what the dying Irving had seen? And even the departing, the ultimatum-giving David? How quick the world was to point its finger, to brand her with the mark of heartlessness, exulting all the while in the richness, the fullness, the genuineness of its own queasy soul. Hypocrites! But maybe she would be what Ivy had seen, maybe more!

  She rose now to walk the length of the room. She paused at the end to contemplate, in the big central panel between the two Shakespeare stacks, the Veronese Venus and Adonis. The youth, with his bow and arrow, clad in a leopard skin, two wolfhounds at his heels, seeking to evade the amorous clasping of the ivory-skinned goddess, had always reminded her of David.